ENTITY (Chapter Sixteen)

From Chapter Fifteen:

Sam laughed. "You need a lesson in humility and I'm going to give it to you."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Really now? And how do you think you are going to do that, mitten boy, you can't even hold the cards."

"I'd still thrash you," Sam shot back. He gestured to Dean's head. "And you shouldn't even be driving. You had brain surgery, Dean. Your head might explode."

"Oh, not you too," Dean groaned. "Missouri has been talking to you, hasn't she?"

"Maybe."

He started the engine. "Word of advice. Shut your cake-hole or you're walking back to Missouri's."

"You wouldn't make me walk."

Dean pursed his lips and considered his brother, waiting until Sam's eyes widened and a shadow of doubt marred the younger man's features. He grinned cheekily. "How's your head?"

"Fine."

"No headache?"

"No."

"Good." He hit the stereo, turned up the volume and leered at his sibling. "You thrashing me at poker. Now that's hilarious."

Chapter Sixteen:

"You know what, Sammy. We're not playing any more poker."

Missouri surreptitiously watched the two boys as Dean gathered up the cards, agitatedly neatened the pack and slid them to the side. The older boy glowered at his brother, clearly incensed by the catastrophic thrashing he had endured during their three hour long session of poker.

"I did not cheat, you just repeatedly fell for my bluff," Sam responded, appearing to be unaffected by his brother's accusation.

"You never win, Sam. Never," Dean exclaimed. "So what the hell was that?" He gestured to the stack of cards, then looked across at Missouri. "Can he read the cards? You know, see through them or psychically astro-read them or something?"

"No," Missouri answered, unable to withhold a smile at Dean's thinly veiled exasperation and Sam's quiet gloating. She knew exactly how Sam had beaten his brother, but was not about to point it out to either boy. Dean had been doomed from the very outset. Facing off against Sam while the younger boy was so visibly suffering had weighted the game toward Sam without either of them realising it. It was predictable and touching, and likewise Dean's cessation of play had had nothing to do with his frustration at the continual losses, but rather in recognition that Sam could not go on. The younger boy could no longer hold the cards, and now he wrapped his right hand firmly around the wrist of his left, squeezing as though cutting the circulation would somehow detach his hurting hand from the rest of his body.

"You're a sore loser," Sam said heavily around a pained grin. "Face it Dean, I thrashed your sorry ass. I just wished we'd been playing for cash. I'd have made a killing."

"Yeah, well, savor sweet victory, kiddo, because it's a one off."

"Maybe."

"Maybe nothing. We will be having a rematch once you're no longer bandage-boy. You watch my words, I will nail your ass to the table."

"Whatever." Sam smiled and shrugged, drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it. His attention drew to the clock on the wall. Missouri regretted not having taken it down as Sam's expression changed, grew darker and more pained. Only eight hours had passed since the poultice had first been applied. It would be hours yet before exhaustion took Sam down, and there was nothing Missouri could do to make it easier for him. He drew his attention back to his hand and began picking at the tightly wound bandages.

"We can stop it at any time," Missouri gently reminded. He shook his head, his mouth pressed into a hard line. She knew he would reject that option because to prematurely remove the poultice would circumvent the healing process. It could not be restarted. They all knew that, but still Missouri reminded Sam of the fact that he could opt out at any time. She hoped that knowing he could choose to end it would help in some way.

He looked up at the clock again, then across at his brother. Dean retrieved the cards and toyed with them, the actions deliberate and restrained. Their eyes met and held. Silent communication that Missouri was not privy to.

"If we leave now," Sam suddenly said, "we could be in Perryton by midday."

Dean's eyes widened, but there was not the degree of surprise there that Missouri herself experienced. She looked between them, holding her breath as Dean cocked his head to the side, his brow creasing into a frown.

"We need to go back to Perryton," Sam pressed. He mirrored his brother's head tilt. "You know it makes sense. That's where the entity had to have originated from. It got into Tara at that house. It has to still be there. Somewhere."

Dean had not yet said a word. He sliced the deck, steepled his fingers and bridged the cards, forcing them to interweave like pages of a book. The muted slap of the cards as they realigned sounded harsh in the otherwise quiet room.

"C'mon, man, you know I'm right."

"Yes," Dean bit out. "But you cannot travel, Sam."

The younger boy flinched and his expression darkened. "It's just my hand, Dean. I can travel." As though to prove his point, Sam reached for the crutches, bringing himself up before Dean could stop him. He teetered, unbalanced and Missouri gasped as one crutch slipped and skidded, landing with a harsh thud on the timber floor. The older boy moved quickly, catching his brother and steadying him.

"Oh, God," Sam gasped, his face twisted in pain. He clutched at Dean, clearly unable to stand unassisted. The other crutch fell away and hit the floor with a loud crash.

Missouri stood, her pulse racing as Sam cried out and tried to twist away from his brother. Dean caught him and pulled him close.

"Sammy, talk to me, what's wrong?"

"Leg," Sam hissed between clenched teeth. "Can't… God… make it stop." He pushed at Dean then, forcing the older boy back and almost off his feet. Dean righted himself and eased Sam into the chair he had just vacated. The younger boy sobbed harshly, curling in on himself as he tried to knead at his left thigh. The heavy immobilizing cast prevented his touch from being effective, and he tried to unlatch the Velcro tabs.

Missouri stopped him. "Don't, Sam, it will make it worse."

"He needs the pain meds."

"I know, but he can't." She edged back as Dean crouched before his brother, catching his hands and stilling them.

"Sam, breathe. Hey, look at me."

"It hurts. Please make it stop."

"I will, Sam, but you have to work with me. Breathe, slow and deep."

Missouri watched helplessly as Dean worked to calm his brother down. The cramping through his thigh was to be expected as the muscles healed, and there was pain medication to manage it, but not while the poultice was on. The degree of drug interaction was impossible to determine. It could do as little as affect the healing of Sam's hand, or it could do as much as shut down his entire system. It was not worth the risk, though as she watched Sam struggle to regain control, she wished there had been some other way.

When eventually Sam's breathing evened out and his expression became less pained, Dean drew him into an embrace and held him as he sobbed. Missouri stepped back further, feeling like an intruder, an outsider. Witness to a moment between the two men that was private and born of a bond between them that tragedy, desperation and pain had magnified.

As Sam softly cried against his brother's shoulder, Missouri caught Dean's eye. The older boy quickly looked away, a flash of guilt, of desperation or another emotion that she could not quite read. She could have easily scanned him, but she did not. Instead she retreated, leaving them alone, knowing that despite the love and security she offered them both, there were moments between them within which she had no place. No right to intervene, or even to witness.

As Missouri sank to her haunches on the stairs to the upper storey of her home, she tried to understand what she had seen in Dean's eyes. The older boy felt responsible for his brother. That much she understood, but there was guilt there, a sense of failure that went beyond all that had happened to them both.

She was still pondering it when Dean later joined her. He met her gaze, the earlier glimpse of whatever emotion he had laid bare was now gone.

"He's calmed down," he said. "I'm going to grab the laptop. He wants to surf for a while. Catch up on emails or something."

"Okay."

Dean nodded, glanced back to the dining room, and then headed off down the hall. Missouri waited until he returned, carrying the portable computer. He hesitated by her side, that look in his eyes again. She resisted the urge to read him, knowing that she had no right, no permission. She had only to wait a moment before he offered her an explanation she had been unable to find for herself.

"Once he crashes, I will leave for Perryton."

She registered his words with a start. She opened her mouth to explain to him that it was not a good idea, but he spoke before she had a chance.

"I have to go, Missouri. He has to know that thing is dead. Once and for all. Until he does, it's not going to get any easier for him."

"Once the poultice is off, he can go back on the pain meds. He doesn't need to go through that again."

"Maybe not, but the drugs won't stop the nightmares."

"He's having nightmares," she said hollowly, unsurprised but disturbed nonetheless. "You hadn't said."

He shrugged. "He needs some peace, Missouri. Some certainty and he's not going to get it until that thing is gone."

She agreed, but was not yet ready to give in. "You're not well enough to travel," she argued. She gestured to the bandages on his right arm. "Give it another week. Your arm will be better healed by then."

"No. I will leave as soon as he crashes. With any luck I'll be back before he wakes, but if not, you have to make sure he does not try to follow me."

"I know how important it is to find that thing, but if you do and something goes wrong—"

"I can manage it."

"Can you?"

He looked up, his eyes darkened, his expression hard. "You need to watch Sam. Do not let him leave here and do not leave him alone. Let me worry about the rest."

This was the point where she ought to put him in his place. Berate him. Threaten him with a wooden spoon as though he were a child. But she did nothing of the sort. Instead she swallowed hard against the dryness in her mouth and nodded stiffly.

"This has to be done," he added. "He cannot go on like this."

"I know." And she did know. It would be weeks before Sam would be well enough to travel and even longer before he could start hunting again. The entity needed to be found and destroyed, to give them all peace of mind, but mostly for Sam. He was gaining ground, healing well, but there was a sadness about him that had not been there before. She had thought it was about his abilities, but now she realised that it was more than that. He was scared, haunted by all that had happened and unable to recover while there was the potential for it to recur. Dean was right. He had to find the origin and finish it.

"Then promise me you will call your father once you're on the road. He can help you find the thing."

"He can't come to Sam. He can't come here."

"I know, honey. But he can help you, and it would ease his mind to see you and to know that Sam's okay. He has to be going out of his mind with worry."

"Yeah, I know."

"So you will call him?" She felt she needed to press a little harder to be sure. Winchester pride manifested itself in so many obscure ways, and she knew that Dean carried a lot of guilt for his brother's suffering. It would be foolish for him to go off alone, but pride and misplaced guilt sometimes corrupted even the smartest of minds.

"I will call him," he said, but he did not quite meet her eyes.

Several hours later, Dean held his brother, Sam's head in his lap and his fingers weaving through the younger boy's sweat soaked hair.

"You won't leave without me?" Sam breathed. His eyes were hooded, blinking lazily and fixed at a point somewhere across the room. He lay on his side on the bed, his left hand propped against Dean's thigh, the fingers of his right banded around the wrist. "Promise."

The older boy looked up at Missouri, his eyes pained. "It'll be okay, Sam. You'll see."

"You didn't promise," Sam said heavily. His hands twitched, but exhaustion and pain prevented him from moving, from turning so he could see his brother's face. Frustration sparked in his eyes, then faded as his wearied system betrayed his will. "Dean," he breathed. "Don't… go."

"Sammy."

"Please."

How Sam had figured it out, Missouri did not know. But he had, and as Sam slipped into a restless sleep that he could no longer fight, she knew she would have a huge battle on her hands once he woke and found his brother had gone.

Dean's fingers trembled as they weaved through Sam's sweat moistened hair. Without raising his head, he said, "Drug him if you need to. Or lock the house, shackle him to the bed, I don't care what it takes, but don't let him leave here. He will try, Missouri. He's a stubborn bastard and he will try to trick you."

"I will not do any of those things to your brother," she said softly, her gaze fixed on Sam. "But I will call you and I expect that you will hand the phone to your father so that Sam can hear his voice. Once Sam knows that you are with your Dad, that you're not arrogantly going after this thing on your own, that should be enough to keep him from leaving here."

He looked up at her, his gaze wary. She raised her eyebrows at him and shifted one hand to her hip. "You were intending to call your father, weren't you honey?"

He shrugged. "Guess I have no choice now, huh?"

"Damned right, boy."

Dean smiled faintly as he stood, moving Sam so that the younger boy's head rested on the pillow. He tucked the blankets around him. "You drive a hard bargain."

"No, I simply know how Winchester stubbornness manifests. And I see a lot of it in you boys. It comes from your father."

"Yeah, well. I'll go take a shower, then I'll head out."

Dean was two hours away from Missouri's home when the first hint of dawn touched the far horizon. He stopped shortly after, his arm aching from the tension he forced through it to keep the car on the road. Missouri was right. He was not up for this, but he could not go back and he was not yet far enough away from Lawrence to risk calling his father.

He pulled the Impala into a roadhouse, nosed up to the twenty four hour café and cut the engine. He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against his left forearm, his right arm tight against his stomach. Queasy sourness tightened his gut and made him swallow hard. He wearily raised his head and blinked back the exhaustion. Stress, lack of sleep and pain were a vicious cycling combination that was dangerous. He had to break it before he ended up as a bloody smear on the highway, or worse, caused someone else to end up that way.

He eyed the roadhouse, then lifted his head to scan around. Apart from a couple of truckies, their rigs parked off to the side and a scruffy middle aged man refuelling his SUV at the pumps, he pretty much had the place to himself. Which meant nothing really, but force of habit made him perform the visual reconnaissance anyway.

Once inside, Dean ordered two steaming cups of coffee and slouched into a chair at one of the chipped laminex tables. He stared dully outside, watching as 'scruffy' checked the tires of his SUV, inflated one then started on washing his windscreen. Travelling salesman, Dean surmised. He took a long sip of the coffee, wincing as the bitter liquid burned his tongue.

His attention drifted, lazily cataloguing as the caffeine leached into his system. By the second cup, his eyes had gained some level of alertness and he seemed to have a better handle on the pain. He ordered a third just in case, and snagged a handful of chocolate bars for the road.

"You eating anything?" the dumpy brunette waitress asked as she deposited his third cup.

"No, just the coffee thanks."

"That's not healthy."

God, she sounded just like Sam. He managed a smile but it seemed to further encourage her.

"I'll get you a plate of bacon, eggs and sausage," she said.

"I'm fine."

"It'll be five-fifty. You broke or something?" She looked at the Chevy. "That stolen?"

"No." He straightened in his seat, wishing he had ordered the coffee to go. Though walking out with the café's crockery would no doubt confirm her assumption that he was a destitute thief.

"Nice car."

"Thanks. I'm really not hungry."

"Too much caffeine will give you heart failure," she said. She gestured to the five bars on the table. "So, you want juice with your breakfast?"

"I don't have time—"

"My husband is a tow truck driver. He gets to keep many of the highway wrecks. Drivers who think they're invincible, they tank up on caffeine then hit the road. He'd like that car of yours, you know."

Dean watched the woman carefully. She smiled, the expression crinkling her eyes.

"So, what about it. Bacon, eggs, tomato, mushrooms… spinach?"

"I'm really not—"

"Hungry. You've said. So you won't be taking these then?" She slid the chocolate bars across the table, lightly scooping them up.

"I paid for those."

"Yes you did and I will deduct them from your breakfast tally."

"Maam, I'm really not hungry." He stood, intending to leave but she stepped into his path.

"You need to know that I clean the blood out of the cars after the police have finished with them, insurance don't want them and the families don't want the wrecks back. We salvage what we can, panel beat the best and sell them. But there's always blood. I never get used to it, and last year I realised I could do something about it. Pete doesn't mind that there aren't so many wrecks to salvage from. He knows why. It's my bacon, eggs and sausage." She smiled gently. "And my persistence. So how about you sit down and I'll bring you out your breakfast."

Dean looked down, unconsciously drawing his broken arm closer to him. It throbbed with a mean intensity that no amount of caffeine could shift. "I really need to be going," he said.

"I don't know why you're travelling, or who for, but you won't make it far on three coffees and chocolate bars. And as much as Pete would love that car, we would both prefer that you kept it. And stayed alive. Blood is hard to get out, even from leather."

"You do this to everyone who passes through here?"

"No, only people like you who are too quiet, order too many coffees and stare at the same thing for minutes on end. Plus, you're hurt. That arm is broken, isn't it?"

"No sausage," Dean said softly, avoiding answering the question. He returned to the chair and sat heavily. "Apple juice and toast on the side."

She nodded, accepting that her part had been played and she would learn no more about him. "Coming right up."

He watched her walk away. She had taken the chocolate bars with her. She returned a moment later with the juice, a newspaper and an unopened packet of over the counter pain pills. Not quite prescription strength and non-drowsy. "They're three-forty. You got that much? I may hate blood, but I'm not a charity."

He smiled faintly. "I'm good for it."

She nodded then disappeared. The plate of hot food took forever to arrive. Well over forty-five minutes, yet it came out steaming hot. Dean knew it was a ploy to keep him off the road for a while longer.

It was just on eight o'clock by the time he finished the meal. The roadhouse was bustling with activity and the waitress paid him little attention as he settled the account. He realised then that in her eyes he was nothing special, just another life, another potential accident waiting for somewhere to happen. She had saved him from that, but without needing any recompense. Her motivations were purely selfish, yet he was thankful nonetheless. And he did feel better.

It was odd, that someone would care so much, take so much effort, yet not really care at all.

"Drive safely," she called to him as he reached the door. He turned and smiled but her attention was already on the next patron, he and his gleaming Chevy Impala already forgotten.

Back at the car, he called Missouri on the cell phone. She picked up after several rings and she sounded breathless.

"Honey, now is not a good time."

Dean's skin prickled. "Sam?"

"No, he's sleeping. It's Tara. She's run away from the Harrison's."

"What? Why?"

"That damned toy. She threw some kind of a hissy fit last night about it. Now she's missing."

"I thought you'd given it back to her."

"No, I gave it to Estelle, a friend in the laundry business. She is trying to get the damned thing clean. I swear, it's like that toy won't let go of the blood. Anyone other than a Winchester and I'd not have a problem."

She was joking, her tone light, but Dean frowned. "Does Estelle think that it should have come clean by now?"

"Yes, but look, don't worry. The Harrison's are looking for Tara. She'll show up. Sam's fine. He's still asleep. Once Tara gets here I'll give her the toy you bought." Another sound came across the line, a second phone ringing. "Dean, honey, don't worry. Everything's under control here. I have to go. Call me when you've gotten in touch with your father."

She hung up, but Dean did not immediately let go of the phone. The child's obsession with the toy did not quite make sense, and the blood. Dean knew Missouri had tried every chemical, everything on the market to get the thing clean. It was possible that her attempts had forced the stain into the fabric, but surely Estelle would know that. She was in the business.

He cast his mind back, trying to work through everything that had happened since finding that child in the attic in Perryton. That toy had been with Tara then and with her ever since. She had had it with her at the warehouse. And then Sam's blood. Missouri had told him that the toy had been near Sam's body, not touching him, but close enough for Sam's blood to reach it. Dean knew Sam had almost bled out and had never questioned how the toy had come to be so heavily stained. But now he wondered. He had no doubt that the origin of the entity had been at Perryton with Tara, but he could no longer dismiss the possibility that it had accompanied her.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck, stretching before he settled the hand back on the wheel. After a moment's hesitation, he retrieved the phone and called Missouri back She came on the line and her tone developed a touch of annoyance as she recognised it was him.

"Honey, I've told you that everything is fine here."

"Where's the toy?"

"It was with Estelle. Why?"

"I think that entity came from it."

"What?"

"Missouri, I don't know for sure," Dean admitted with a sigh. "But I'm worried. Tara's obsession with it, the blood that won't wash out. I know it's a bit of a stretch, but I think we need to take it seriously."

"She's traumatized. It's the only reminder she has of her parents."

"We don't know that for sure. We have just assumed that sentimentality is what is making her pine for it, but what if it's not. What if that thing is still connected to her in some way and it's trying to lure her back."

Missouri fell quiet for a moment, then said. "Estelle could not get the blood out either. I wasn't going to say anything to either of you. I was just going to get rid of the toy once it got back here."

"Does Estelle still have it?"

"No. She on forwarded it onto a friend of hers who tried to get it clean but also failed. He has put it in the post back to me."

"It's in the post," Dean clarified, a tremor of unease drilling through him. "Where is Tara?"

"The Harrison's are looking for her."

"She can't get that toy. If I'm right and the entity is drawing Tara in, then reuniting would enable her to be reinfected." He turned the key in the ignition, then reversed out. "I'm coming back."

"Dean, there's something else."

Dean touched the brake, bringing the Impala to a stop before the exit to the highway. He waited for the traffic to clear, his grip tight around the small phone.

"Tara told the Harrison's that Sam was badly hurt and that he almost died." Dean heard Missouri draw in a breath before she added, "she said she wished that he had. I didn't think it meant anything. You know kids, they like to let off steam sometimes. But now."

Dean found a break in the traffic and punched the accelerator. "I'm two hours away, Missouri. If Tara turns up, keep her away from Sam and from that toy."

An hour later, Missouri called Dean to tell him that Tara had been found. The Harrison's were dropping her over and that she was fine, withdrawn and brooding, but unharmed. The mail service had no record of a parcel having arrived but they agreed to place a block on all incoming mail until further advised.

"And Sam?"

"He's still asleep. Snoring. I never realised he was so loud."

Dean smiled then, but it did not relieve any of the tension that was building within him. He was still an hour away, and Tara was back in that house. Sam was unconscious. And the damned toy was who knows where. Too many unknowns. Too many uncontrolled variables. He did not like it, and the miles were too slow to pass.

Pressure and movement against Sam's bandaged hand slowly brought the young hunter back to consciousness. He struggled to make sense of the sensation as he lay on his back, his eyes closed. He felt it again, able to isolate the sensation from the myriad of hurt that assaulted his battered body. His leg ached the worst, but again his hand drew his attention. He turned his head to the side and opened his eyes.

Tara stood beside his bed, the girl had her head down, her features knitted in concentration as she worked at doing something to his hand. Sam wet his lips, intending to say something, when pain burned across his wrist. He jerked then, grimacing as he pulled his hand away. He felt a brief resistance, then he clutched his throbbing limb to his chest as he pushed himself up. His head spun and bile licked the back of his throat, but he managed to see that she had a knife, the blade stained red. He stared in shock.

She looked scared, wide eyed, her gaze fixed on his forearm. He looked down at the growing patch of red against the white bandage.

"Boris told me to." She said in a rush, then dropped the knife and stepped back. She turned on her heel and fled the room.

Sam stared after her, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. He looked down at his wrist. Tara had unwound the bandages far enough to expose his inner forearm. She had cut him just below his wrist, deep enough to bring a steady stream of blood, but not deep enough to be serious. He had no doubt that if he had not woken, she would have cut deeper.

He shivered, his breath hitching as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He scanned the room, taking in the light from outside, the neatly made bed, the quietness of the house.

"Dean?" he called, but he couldn't put much strength to the name. He tried calling for Missouri next, but similarly received no response. His gaze slid to the cupboard by the door. The spot where Dean always left the Impala's keys. They were missing. He stared blankly for a long moment before he realised that Dean had gone. It did not come as a great shock, he suspected that it was his brother's intention, but the sense of betrayal and anger still shifted in place anyway.

Snagging his crutches, Sam slowly made his way out of the room and down the hall. Tara had disappeared. He reached the kitchen and found it empty. He continued on past it until he reached the rear of the house. He did not find either Tara or Missouri there. He cocked his head as he heard a dull thumping sound from upstairs. He returned to the hall and stopped at the base of the stairs. Panting heavily, he looked up and called the black woman's name.

He heard something in response, but it was muffled and incomplete. He was about to start the slow laborious climb up the stairs when Tara appeared at the head. She looked down at him, a small smile on her lips.

"Boris is coming," she said cryptically. Her smile widened. "He likes you, Sammy. He wants you."

Sam froze, his heart pounding to a sudden stop. A shadow passed before the door. The doorbell rang. Tara giggled and skipped down the stairs.

Sam snagged the back of her jacket as she hit the bottom step. She squirmed and wiggled, but he held firm. The doorbell rang for a second time and the thumping from upstairs increased in intensity. He looked up, regretting his inattention as Tara twisted and launched herself at him. Though only a slight thing, the momentum pushed Sam back. The crutch tips skidded and his support fell away. He hit the wall and slid down, his legs going out from beneath him. The immobilizer on his left leg protected his thigh from the fall, but not from Tara as she jumped on him. He groaned as she targeted his broken leg and she stopped for a moment, her dark eyes scanning his.

"It's Boris," she said knowingly. She leered, her eyes flashing with an unnatural gleam. Somewhere in the house a phone started ringing

He bit back a cry as Tara bounced on his leg. His fingers slipped just a fraction. She wrenched away, using the wall as leverage before twisting back around as she launched a fist-flying attack. He deflected much of it, unable to fully contain her for the damage to his left hand. She got in a few lucky punches that stung, but she did not do enough damage to break free.

The doorbell rang for a third time and the shadow behind the glass moved as though trying to peer in.

He glanced toward it, and looked back in time to see Tara leaning over his lower leg. He was about to haul her back when absolute pain ripped through his broken leg. He choked out a strangled scream, the agony nullifying any control he had over his body or over her. He panted as the girl slipped his grasp and skipped down the hall. He watched with dull eyes as she unlatched the door. She spoke to someone, but Sam could not move and could not get in enough oxygen to call for help.

The phone stopped ringing, then started again moments later. The door swung closed and Tara stood before it, silhouetted by the light that radiated through the glass. She methodically unwrapped a rectangular shaped box, and paid him no attention as he begged her not to.

She similarly ignored him as he began crawling, dragging himself along the floor in an attempt to reach her before she unwrapped the package. He did not make it.

Sam watched in horror as a second figure slipped and twisted then slid in place beside the girl. Tall, black, wispy at the edges but human in shape. It shimmered for a moment, then solidified and as soon as it did, Tara screamed. Gone was the homicidally possessed Carrie-type child. The girl shrieked in terror and tried to run. Sam felt the energy shift, electrify and knew that Tara was about to die. Something in him recognised it and instinctively responded. He stiffened as pulsing energy erupted between he and the shadowy form, bridging and locking them together. Once connected, Sam groaned and adjusted the frequency, shifting the boundaries to a maxim that he could tolerate. He then held it there.

Evil blood-red eyes turned to Sam and fixed on him. The unblinking gaze was the only descriptive feature in a body encased in swirling darkness. It literally seethed with black rage and Sam jolted as it fought to disengage the hold that the younger hunter had over it. But it would not break. At least not yet. As the connection vibrated then settled, Sam knew he had locked it down.

He took advantage of the connection, teasing information from the bridge between them. Across the void came smatterings of data about what the thing was, what it wanted and how it could be destroyed. Sam absorbed it all, analysed it and then formed a strategy. As he sat there, incapable of physically moving, barely able to breathe through the pain from his injuries and the toll that the connection took on him, he knew what had to be done. It was beautifully simplistic, poetic even. The entity had been born from electricity, and it would die in the same way. There was only one small flaw. Killing the entity would kill him. As he pondered that, his resilience gradually being stripped away by the wearing pain, he realised that it was a price he was willing to pay.

The connection fired again as the thing struggled to break free, and Sam whimpered and bit down. He closed his eyes, tears hot against his cheeks as he struggled to breathe. He silently begged his brother to come back. Dean was a necessary component in killing this thing, and Sam needed it dead. The older boy would not know the price Sam was willing to pay, and he recognised the selfishness of keeping that from his brother. But he was beyond being a team player. The thing had plans for him -- plans that Sam could not endure. Beyond the pain, beyond all he had been through, what the future held was far worse. He needed it all to be over. He needed to be safe and staying alive was no longer safe.

End Chapter Sixteen