Chapter Eighteen

Note to readers: if you are re-reading this chapter after its initial posting in late August, then you will note that I have made several improvements. I have several people to thank, firstly those who PM'd me to say that something was missing (you know who you are and I am forever grateful), Phil (for giving this a once-over), but mostly Em who guided me through this revision process, gave me scene suggestions when my mind had gone blank and reassured me that I could (and should) do this. I hope you enjoy.

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Fingers, as black as night and colder than the bitterest of winters, skimmed the surface of the water. Reaching and testing for weaknesses within the now eroding connection that Sam had established to hold it off. It could not yet make contact, but soon it would.

Dean's hurriedly devised plan had failed. In desperation, he had pulled his brother into the pool, the cold water shocking him and thrusting Sam into unconsciousness. The entity had followed them into the water, its jet black form seeming to coalesce with the sun sparkled liquid. It should have been over then, but like a shockingly bad horror flick there was no reprieve, no escape from the torturous responsibility Dean now had to save his brother – even if that meant killing him.

And he could. So easily. Hold him under the water, deny him oxygen. With Sam gone, the entity would kill him and probably Missouri, but the reign of horror should end there. Countless lives would be saved. Dean knew he had to do it, but he could not. Not yet. He could give up his own life, but he could not take Sam's.

Tugging at the edges of his consciousness was the realisation that he would have to. Like putting down a family pet when the future held too much suffering, Dean knew that if the entity got Sam, his brother's life would be unsurpassed misery. He could not leave Sam like that. If the roles reversed, Dean would need Sam to do it for him. But stubbornness was a Winchester trait, and Dean still believed he had a chance to make this right. At least that's what he wanted to believe. In actuality, he lacked the courage to take his brother's life. He could put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger, if forced to, but he could not do it for Sam.

Dean's entire world narrowed, became only himself, Sam and that thing. He took deliberate backward steps through the water, making ripples swash and lap against the edge of the pool. Dean held his brother against him and checked again that the hemorrhaging blood had not choked him. That would be another way to kill Sam. Hold his head back and make it impossible for him to breathe against the blood. He would choke to death in minutes.

Dean closed his eyes. Numbed by the chilling cold, the hopelessness, the responsibility. In that moment, he wished for his father. Dad had always protected them and kept them safe in even the more dire of situations. Arguably, he had often led them there in the first place, but he had always led them safely out. Dean longed for their father to launch a miraculous rescue with a need that hurt. He was ready to admit that he had failed. Willingly concede that he needed help. Right here. Right now. He would even beg. Plead. Pray, goddamn it, if it would make any difference. If it would keep Sam alive, unpossessed and safe.

But life did not play by those rules. Bad things happened and good people died. Dean knew that. He accepted it, but he refused to accept that Sam could be one of those unfortunate souls who died before their time. He clenched his jaw and scanned the edge of the pool. Missouri had disappeared into the house right after Sam had collapsed. She had not returned. Maybe she had turned tail and ran, no longer prepared to sacrifice herself to a lost cause. He hoped she had. It would not be cowardice. He hoped she understood that.

Sam moaned softly, caught deep within his own mind. Dean tensed, his gaze shifting to Sam's left hand. It had come loose from Dean's hold and now floated, palm down, a long unwrapped strip of Missouri's bandage extended out flat against the water. He had seen the psychic apply the poultice and wrap the bandage around Sam's hand and forearm. The wrapping had been secure, the fastenings tight. It could not have come undone on its own.

The entity stopped and waited, not yet courageous enough to reach out and claim its prize. Dean again checked Sam's breathing. The younger boy's head rested against his, his face tilted down. The blood from his nose made no noise as it hit the water, and for the most part, Sam stayed just as silent. Dean tightened his hold on his brother, both arms clutched around Sam's chest, keeping his head safely above water. He reached out, forced to rely on his injured arm to keep Sam against him. The resultant pain wired through him, but what he saw when he took Sam's left wrist and turned the limb over, had a far greater effect.

Across Sam's inner wrist was a long thin cut. He had not noticed it before, but he knew that it was not self inflicted. Tara must have done it while controlled by the entity. Though Missouri had not said as much, he had assumed that's how it had gone down. Dean looked up into the orange eyed monster and he knew that the fresh injury to his brother's arm was its preferred entry point. It had employed the child to do its handy work.

Bile licked the back of Dean's throat as he folded his brother's arm against his chest then wrapped both arms around him. Sam moaned again, his breath hitching on the torturous sound, but he was too weak to regain consciousness. The pitiful sound forced Dean to start moving again, gradually shifting back, one shuffled step at a time. Once he got to the end of the pool he would try to get Sam out and hope that the entity stayed in. If it did, maybe he could still taser the thing and hope that Sam was so weakened that the initial shock would sever the connection before the electricity killed him.

Dean's back nudged up against something hard. He twisted his neck, shocked that he had reached the end of the pool so soon. Breathing hard, he took in the concrete lip, the gently lapping water. He reached out, his splayed fingers searching for purchase, some way to get out of the pool without letting go of Sam.

An expanding envelope of cold made Dean shudder, and his teeth clattered loudly in his head. He looked back, startled as he came face to face with the fiery eyed entity. The movement jostled Sam, made his head fall back against Dean's shoulder.

Dean reacted immediately, his left arm rising to realign Sam's neck, straighten it so that he could breathe – so that the blood would not choke him. Then he stopped. Just stopped. His gaze locked on the shadowy black figure that now towered over them both. Dean's hand poised in mid air, then lilted and dropped. It settled just over Sam's heart.

A sense of dulled detachment came over him – a blanket of emotional disconnection so heavy that he barely recognised what he had just done. Or not done. The decision had been conscious, the action within his control. Deny assistance to his injured sibling and death was inevitable. His action, once taken was irreversible. He knew that, but he could not feel it. It had no meaning now, no reality.

He stared at the shimmering void that had caused them both so much pain. His last defiant act would be to deny it that which it truly desired. That which it needed to survive, to procreate. It would never have Sam. He wanted to take some pleasure from stealing its prize out from beneath it, but there was no joy to be found when his little brother stopped breathing.

His own pulse slowed as Sam's sped up, the younger man's body jerked as it instinctively recognised its impending demise. Dean knew that he could still change fate, could still raise Sam's head, allow him to take a breath, but he did not. Instead he stared dumbly, neutered by the clawing hand of shock, of acceptance… of defeat. As his brother slowly suffocated in his arms, Dean's eyes closed and a weight so devastating, so all consuming, smothered his own will to go on.

For him, in the end there were no tears, not even much pain, just crushing emptiness. Death would be a welcome antidote. And death is what the entity planned for him. He knew that, but still his heart raced with unwanted fight induced adrenalin as he found himself out of the pool, flat on his back, coughing up blood and mucus from a blow that he had never even felt. It should not have surprised him. The entity could move fast, but still his muddled synapses struggled to comprehend how things had changed so rapidly. He had been holding Sam….

His thoughts splintered as he found himself airborne. Gravity reasserted itself and Dean went down hard. Pain exploded through his mind. Oblivion consumed him a heartbeat later.

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Missouri could not stop shaking. The violent tremor came from within, a cold aching spasm that had its epicentre deep inside and no amount of warmth would erase its effects.

She knelt at the edge of the pool beside Dean, the older boy barely conscious, bleeding from a head wound that no doubt had been sustained after hitting the edge of the pool. She had been there for less than a minute, having returned to find a scene of abject horror. After Sam's collapse, she had rushed into the house, determined to find a solution to the safety switch problem that Sam had raised. And she had, or more correctly the Brookes' contracted electrician had unwittingly done the job for her – the home undergoing partial renovations that had left one power switch unconnected to the safety circuit. Undoubtedly a violation of several building codes, but it had been a stroke of good luck. She had returned to the pool feeling vaguely triumphant, even though she had not done a thing. The sense of achievement had not lasted long.

She had managed to rouse Dean from the unconscious state she had found him in, but was making little progress beyond that. He was badly hurt, his pupils unevenly dilated, the gash to his head leaking blood to weave garishly down the side of his face.

"Honey, please, look at me." She ducked into his field of view, her chest tightening as he blinked dully. He seemed a touch more aware than he had a few seconds previously, but it was not yet enough.

She twisted to look at Sam. The younger boy was unconscious, laying stomach down, his legs in the water, one arm splayed above his head the other resting on the concrete lip. His back rose and fell as he breathed, but other than that he appeared lifeless. The entity waited behind him and Missouri suspected that it had a physical hold on the young hunter, had somehow weighted his body so that she could not pull him from the water. She also knew that the entity was responsible for the state that both boys were now in. It had thrown them from the water, knocking Dean out and leaving Sam, face down and unconscious at the edge -- still partially in the water. It was a perverse blessing, Sam would have drowned if it had left him in the pool. But she suspected that it knew that. What it had underestimated was Sam's psychic fortitude and his courage. But that was fading fast.

Her eyes stung as she turned back to Dean. "I can't get Sam out of the pool," she admitted brokenly. "I can't get him out of the water and I won't… I won't electrocute him. I won't."

"Sam?"

She sniffed, managed a haunted smile. "Yes, honey, I need you to help me get Sam out of the water."

Dean quietly absorbed the words then his eyes slid closed. He exhaled and seemed to melt against the concrete.

"Dean, no!" She shook him roughly, forcing his eyes open. He stared at her, a sudden, gnawing grief darkening the hazel-green depths.

"Sam's dead," he said tonelessly.

"What? No." She looked back at the younger boy and her breath caught. His face was turned her way, his features slack and pale. He did look dead. He really did, but his back rose and she knew he was still breathing.

She jerked as she felt a cold hand on her arm. Dean had pushed himself up. He swayed, one arm braced against the concrete, the other he had used to reach out to touch her. He slowly brought his knees up and blanched even further. One hand went to his head and the long fingers gingerly probed at the long gash. "I killed Sammy," he said woodenly, his eyes glazed.

Missouri's blood ran cold. Dean brought his tortured gaze across to meet hers. His lips drew apart and tears filled his eyes.

"Honey, no. Sam's alive. Trust me, he is, but he needs our help. You have to help me get him out of the water."

Dean's hand dropped to his lap and both arms drew around his knees. He leaned forward, groaning softly.

"Look at me." She tilted his head up with a finger under his chin. "You listen here and you listen good. Your brother is alive and he needs you."

Hope and disbelief warred for precedence in the injured man's eyes. She grasped his shoulders and gently shook him.

"Sam's alive, Dean. You have to believe me."

"Sammy's alive?"

"Yes."

Dean grimaced and squinted, then his eyes widened as he looked past Missouri. He did not say a word, just shoved past her and scrambled on all fours to his brother. He listed as he reached Sam, the rushed movement wreaking havoc with his injury compromised consciousness. She reached his side and braced him.

"Breathe, honey. Nice and slow."

He groaned then retched, gagging as he leaned against her. She felt him shaking, felt the anguish pour off him as he fought to stay awake. The fiery eyed entity in the pool watched them and trembled with an unearthly impatience.

"Safety switch?" Dean asked. He pulled away from her.

"It's been cut."

"You get the heater. I'll get Sam."

"Can you—"

"I'm fine. Go."

She did and only looked back once she had the heater held over the pool. Dean was on his knees, his brother cradled against his chest. The younger boy was clear of the water. Dean held the taser in one hand, his arm shaking violently. He looked across, his bloodied features set into a pained, but determined mask.

"Do it."

She did not need to be told twice.

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Sam languished in a featureless plain that had no end. Blackness on all sides save for a single amorphous sphere of pure white light: his psychic centre, the powerhouse of his abilities and the very thing that the entity so wantonly desired. It hung in suspension and left nothing else in existence. Sam sensed that once there had been more, but the darkness had taken it. Devoured his self identity, ripped asunder his reason for being and left him as sole protector of that pulsing iridescent globe. The brilliant ball that the darkness pushed in on with a seething, murderous intent. Sam shouldered it out, kept it at bay, because he knew nothing else.

Until another sensation emerged and reminded him of different world in which he played a bigger role – in which he had more purpose than just to be the defender of the spherical ball. The feeling intensified, became unavoidable and Sam recognised it as pain. He struggled against it and sought purchase within the safety of his mind, but his abused physical self had other plans.

Sam came fully awake to a body that he longed to escape from. Sharp jagged edges of static drove needle-like pain through his muscles, firing his nerve endings with a vicious repetitiveness that made him moan and writhe. Another's embrace restrained his movement, made him still and pant, his face twisted into a grimace. He squinted, aware of an arm across his chest and something firm against his back. Dean, his pain addled mind provided, which explained the leather clad arm that extended beside him and the taser held in a shaking grasp. He blinked, his vision blackening as pain burned and twisted, lighting a path of fire through his weakened body and forcing his heart into a palpatory rhythm.

"Sam, cut the connection. Let go. You have to let go."

The deep timbre of his brother's voice, cauterized with fear, drummed against one ear. He understood the words, but not the significance. As his vision cleared, he gaped at the orange eyed entity that shimmered in the water less than six feet away from them. He jerked back in panic, stilled both by his brother's embrace and the thready hum of the electrified psychic connection. He panted and scanned the pool, his gaze locking on a thick white cord that led from somewhere behind and laced into the water. Comprehension tickled at the back of his mind and he forced his attention back to the humanoid form.

His muscles cramped, a tight nauseating pinch that made him arch back against his brother. Tears fell as his heart pounded wildly.

"Sam, let go. This will stop, you have to let go."

Sam believed his brother. Trusted him. So he unclamped the psychic hold he had on the entity. The pain fell away and motion erupted in a cataclysmic rush of compressed air. Dean screamed and Sam fell, pushed to the side, his face pressed hard against the cold wet concrete. He snatched the darkness back with a psychic shift so fast that his consciousness comprehended nothing other than the return of the intense tingling pain. His stomach twisted and he retched where he lay.

"Sam, oh God, Sam."

He twisted his neck and looked up as a shadow passed over him. Missouri crouched, pushed his hair back and touched his forehead. Her hand shook as her horror filled gaze centred on something over Sam's head. Sam knew he did not want to look, but he did anyway. He pushed himself up and leaned on one elbow as his vision spiralled in and out. It took a couple of wildly erratic heartbeats before he had a sense of his surroundings. Pain twisted through his chest as he took in his brother's crumpled and unmoving form at the opposite side of the pool.

"Dean," he said, his voice a strangled whisper. He pushed himself up until he sat, legs extended and his left arm behind him as a brace. He could go no further, his broken leg and the overwhelming weakness made it impossible to stand. He wet his lips and called to his brother again. His voice had slightly more strength but still the older man did not respond and Sam knew he could not. Dean had lost consciousness when he had hit the ground. Thrown by the entity in a vicious replay of the incident in the warehouse. Sam struggled with the desperation and panic that snaked through him. He had cut the connection for a fraction of a heartbeat. The electricity should have slowed the entity down.

His gaze shifted and his mouth went dry as he regarded the entity with horrified awe. The vaporous form stood in the pool, the water gently lapping and seeming to meld into its torso. It had been going to Dean, to finish him off when Sam had locked it down. Now it slowly turned and faced Sam, its orange eyes challenging. The barest edge of a victorious thrum pulsed through the connection and Sam flinched as he felt the heady emotion emanating from the shimmering darkness. It thought it could win and the evidence suggested that it could. Sam stared at the bastard and hatred so raw and vivid burned his blood and darkened his soul.

"Missouri, get back," he said, his voice treacherously low.

"Honey?"

"Now." Sam retrieved the taser that Dean had dropped. He raised it, his arm shaking. Eight feet separated him from his target. The thing cocked its head and Sam imagined it smirking. He clenched his jaw, his vision untrustworthy as his pulse rocketed against the strain of the electrified connection. He blinked sweat from his eyes and panted roughly, unable to withhold an agonised moan as his body violently objected to the pain and exhaustion.

He tightened his finger on the trigger. Movement to his right distracted him, made him lose focus. He squinted and hissed as his muscles contracted painfully. With a force of will alone, he kept his arm aloft as his gaze shifted to his brother.

Dean had regained consciousness. Tears filled Sam's eyes as he watched his brother painfully move. The older man drew his legs under him and shifted into a crouch before rocking back on his heels. He kept his eyes tightly closed, his features drawn into a tight grimace. His arm had been re-broken, Sam realised as he took in Dean's suffering. The way the older man hunched forward, his left arm cradling his right, told the young hunter all he needed to know. Sam flicked his attention back to the entity, his resolve strengthened.

"Sammy," Dean said softly, his voice taut with desperation and fear. "Don't. Please, don't."

Sam ignored his brother, steeled his jaw, checked his aim and fired. Streamer thin rails of light arced from the muzzle of the taser to the entity. The exact moment that they locked on, Sam cut the psychic connection. The electricity from the house held for the fraction of a second that Sam needed to break free. He felt a sharp sting as the taser's charge grazed his mind, then it retracted without having hurt him. The force of release ricocheted though and Sam slumped, the extinguishment of pain like an immediate anaesthetic. He fell to his side, unable to move or respond as his abused system sought equilibrium. His heart rate levelled out and his breathing eased as he heard Dean scream his name. He longed to reassure his brother, but he could not gather his addled wits well enough to communicate. He felt someone touch him and then a moment later he was pulled into a warm muscular embrace. He melted against his brother and his eyes slid closed.

"Sammy, no. Sam, please… no."

Sam felt his brother sobbing, felt Dean's embrace tighten and his body shudder convulsively. Sam forced his eyes to open. He could not see Dean's face from where his chin rested on the older boy's shoulder, but he saw Missouri. She crouched beside them and her eyes locked with his. Though he could not speak, she touched his forehead and nodded, relief lighting her eyes. She smiled and he gave in to the exhaustion again and let his eyes slip closed.

"Dean," he heard Missouri say. "Sam's fine. He's sleeping, honey, just sleeping."

As Dean's sobs eased and Sam's consciousness faded, he knew Dean understood.

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Dean sat beside his brother's bed, his fingers locked around Sam's wrist and his forefinger on the younger man's pulse point. He had not moved from Sam's side ever since they had gotten the younger man back into Missouri's home after he and Missouri had half carried and half dragged him the short distance from the Brookes' house. Missouri had reapplied the poultice to Sam's hand, confident that the brief dip in the pool had not interfered with the healing. It would remain on for another five hours, after which time Sam could go to the hospital to have his leg checked. She assured Dean that the younger boy had not suffered any injuries that would necessitate immediate transport, but she held a different opinion about Dean's present state of health.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said for the third time as she sat beside him and gently wiped the blood from his face. "Your arm is broken and this head wound is serious."

He did not need reminding. The entity had re-broken his arm, the pain a sharp deep ache as though some freakin' bone-eating chipmunk had crawled in there with a dozen of its buddies and had commenced a furry feeding frenzy. Dean's breathing shuddered. He steadied it with an effort, and said, "I'm fine. My head has stopped bleeding."

"It needs suturing and you need a CT scan."

"I'll pass on that thanks."

"Dean, this isn't a joke."

"I'm not leaving without Sam."

"He'll be here for another four hours. You can't stay like this for four hours."

"Watch me," Dean said, a cocky grin on his lips but it twisted into a grimace as his vision blurred and sourness stung the back of his throat. He bowed his head, breathing heavily. He tensed to stand, to move, to do anything that might alleviate the pain, or at least distract him, but that meant letting go of Sam's wrist – of giving up the sensation against his fingertips. So he did not move and instead fought to stay upright and lucid, but those damned chipmunks and a rock hammering chain-gang in his head, worked against all his best efforts.

"Oh honey, please don't do this."

Dean stiffened as he recognised the pitying condemnation in her voice.

"Missouri," he said, his tone deliberately even. "I'm not leaving without him. While that poultice stays on his hand, I stay here. With him."

"You have a serious head injury."

She nudged a finger under his chin and forced him to face her. Her eyes darkened as she studied him and he pulled away, his wavering vision struggling to lock onto Sam's face. His nostrils flared as nausea surged and Dean dropped his head, closing his eyes as one foot began a desperate tapping against the carpeted floor.

"Dean, this is ridiculous. Pig-headed and arrogant, and you know it. You are so afraid of letting him down, yet this is exactly how you will do it. You know how quickly someone can die from a burst blood vessel? Is that what you want? For him to have fought so hard for you only to lose you to an aneurysm."

"Head injuries don't cause aneurysms." Dean said thickly, his brother's own words sour against his lips. Tears stung his eyes and he heard her cluck her tongue.

"No, but a second head injury in less than a month can."

"I'll take my chances."

He felt the bed rise as she stood, then he heard the keypad on the portable phone. She dialled in three numbers.

"I won't go," Dean said. "You can't make me."

"Once they see you, you won't have a choice."

"I won't consent."

"Sam will make you. By the time they get here, he'll be due to be woken again."

"Missouri," he said as he lifted his head with an effort. "Do not push me."

She glowered at him, her dark gaze burning with equal measure of fear and anger. She dipped her head to the mouthpiece and requested an ambulance.

"You just wasted your time," he ground out after she had completed the call.

"Dean, I've had about enough of this. You need to know some home truths about your condition and about Sam's."

She stalked from the room and returned a moment later with a thick hardcover book. She sat heavily beside him and Dean regarded her warily, his vision wavering. He shivered against a cold that came from deep within. Missouri glanced at him, her forehead deeply creased. He grinned and she scowled. Returning her attention to the book, she hurriedly flipped pages then sharply angled it so he could see.

"That is the maxillary artery. One branch feeds into the back of the nose."

She stabbed at a medical diagram and Dean glanced down. It took a moment for his swimming vision to focus and when it did, he swallowed hard and looked away. His stomach churned as she continued.

"The intracranial pressure that Sam endured while fighting that thing caused damage to that artery. Stopping that bleeding is damned near impossible without medical intervention. Sam's bleeding stopped. By itself. As soon as he broke the connection. The entity is dead and Sam is safe. His bleeding will not restart."

"But the blood loss."

"John really didn't teach you boys much about real medicine, did he?" She continued without allowing him to respond. "An adult can lose two pints of blood and suffer no more than weakness, dizziness and exhaustion. It is serious, but not fatal. If Sam had lost any more than that, we would know about it and he would be at hospital right now. You, however, have a serious head injury and they compound. Your pupils are unevenly dilated. You are dizzy and nauseated. I'll bet you are cold, have a monstrous headache and are struggling against double vision as well. Am I close?"

"I'm fine," Dean said unconvincingly.

"Rubbish. You are bleeding into your brain. Right now. By the time you show signs of serious trauma, I'll have minutes to get help before you are gone. Is that what you want for him? For him to wake up and find that he went through all of that only to lose you to pig-headed arrogance."

Dean's mouth went dry. He stared across at his brother, shocked to find the younger boy awake. Sam looked between them, then fixed on Dean. Puppy dog eyes, made immeasurably more powerful by exhaustion, pinned him and silently begged for him to see reason. Missouri's reason. Obviously Sam had heard enough of the conversation to take her side. Dean swore that the chipmunks in his arm and the chain-gang in his head had been hired by her as well. He had no will to fight against them all. His shoulders slumped as he gave in.

Six hours later, bedded down in a quiet hospital room, his arm re-set and bandaged and his head wound sutured, Dean struggled with panicked thoughts and mental images that he could not dispel. Staying with Sam had protected him from the memories of his brother's oxygen deprived gasps. Now being alone brought them back, made them stronger, and he had no new experiences to scour out the hideous recollections. He also fought to believe that Sam really had been okay. He had trusted Missouri and had believed her shocking display of medical knowledge, but now he was not so sure.

He twisted his free hand in the sheet, his breathing ragged. He stared at the door through which Sam would appear. He had been staring at the damned empty doorway for close on thirty minutes and he could take it no more. He clutched at the IV that fed into his arm. Sweat beaded on his skin and his heart pounded hard against his ribs. He pulled the canula and clamped down on the resultant blood. He sat up, dizzied and nauseated. He slipped his legs over the edge of the bed and groaned as his vision blackened. He managed to hold on to consciousness, just barely, but moving from the bed presented a whole other dilemma.

He braced his hands against the bed, blood smearing the sheets. He panted, his thoughts scurried and muddied, his eyes squeezed closed. This was not going to plan. Story of his freakin' life, he thought miserably.

He started when he felt a hand on his arm. "Shit, back off."

"Dean?"

"Sam?" He opened his eyes with a start, his breath catching. He blinked, wide eyed, disbelieving.

"Dude, you don't look so good."

"Glass houses," Dean murmured. He grinned then, reached out and snagged his brother's hoodie. He folded his fingers into the soft fabric. "Man," he breathed, his emotions tumultuous. He tried to pull his brother closer but he lacked the strength, and Sam seemed unwilling to be unbalanced off his crutches. Dean's fingers bunched tighter and his grin widened.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Dean, are you okay?"

"There's two of you," he announced. And there were. Two Sam's. Two pale faced, exhausted, panda-eyed Sammy's. And they both looked so good. He clung to the pair of them with his two sets of hands. His single stomach though was not quite so appreciative of the little brother twins.

"Dude," Dean breathed. "I'm gonna puke."

If he did, he didn't remember it because he blacked out.

He came to back in the bed, a nurse hovering over him, her pretty face drawn into a frown. He peered at her name tag. "Pammy," he drawled.

"Pamela," she corrected.

"Yeah." He grinned and frowned as his head hurt. Worse than it had before. And his hand stung. He peered down at it, surprised to see the IV canula had been replaced, the wound from the last one taped. He must have been out for a while.

He turned his head to the side and found Sam beside him. "Hey," he said throatily, a smirk on his face.

Sam ignored him, his focus on the nurse. "I know the doctor said he's okay, but shouldn't he be assessed again now that he's awake?"

"Mr Packenfrack, your brother is fine, if he had followed my orders he would not have passed out at all."

"Dude," Dean said. "I'm here. Quit talking about me as though I'm three."

Sam glanced at him and huffed. "Then stop behaving as though you are. She told you to stay in bed."

"Yeah, I know that."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Got bored," Dean lied. He waggled his eyebrows, wincing as the movement pulled at the gash on the side of his face. He eyed his brother then his nose twitched against an acrid odor. "Sam, you stink."

"Really."

"Yeah. I mean, no offence, but you are rank. Did you sit in something bad?"

"You puked on me."

"Oh." He raised himself up on one elbow as he surveyed his brother. He saw that the immobilizing cast had developed a strange mottled texture. "Oh gross."

"Yeah, Dean. Gross. What the hell did you last eat?"

"Eggs, bacon and sausages." He leaned back against the pillow.

The nurse hovered for another few moments then left the room. Dean regarded her with renewed appreciation then brought his attention back to Sam.

"You seen the Doc yet?"

"No."

Dean did not ask why not. It was the same reason that the back of his hand stung and his brother reeked of regurgitated bacon, eggs and sausages. He impetuously reached out and snagged one of his brother's hands. Sam tensed and Dean stopped with his fingers partially around Sam's. He did not say a word and neither did Sam.

"Where's Missouri?" Dean finally asked after the silence had stretched for a little too long.

"Waiting down the hall."

"Why?"

"She has Tara with her."

"Oh."

"We weren't sure if you wanted to see her."

"It'd be okay," Dean lied.

Sam sighed and looked away. "Yeah, maybe."

Silence fell between them again, and still neither made a move to break apart.

"Tara's got Brigit with her," Sam eventually said.

"Who's that?"

"The pink rabbit that you bought her."

The memory made something twinge in Dean's chest. "That's good," he said, his tone deliberately neutral.

"She likes it. After the entity… well, Boris survived but all love was lost."

Dean swallowed hard. "Where is that thing now?"

"Boris?"

Dean nodded.

"Missouri burned it," Sam said.

"Salted."

"A whole packet."

"Did you see her do it?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded his approval. Silence stretched again, the air thickening with unspoken emotion. When it had stretched for too long, Dean broke it.

"I thought we could stay with Missouri for a while longer. Maybe have more of a shot at that apple pie life you talk so much about."

"Yeah, that'd be good." Sam straightened and a crooked smile teased his lips. "But she needs a cookbook. Those muffins, man. Ought to be a federal offence."

"You volunteering to launch a civil case against her cooking?"

"Someone should."

"You could always give it a go yourself."

"So could you."

"I think not."

"Why, I think it'd do you good to get in touch with your feminine side."

"Yeah… not," Dean retorted.

"I'm just saying that maybe it'd do you good to broaden your culinary skills."

"I do just fine."

"Chocolate does not fit into the nutritional pyramid, Dean."

"The what?"

Sam chuckled. He looked up at the television, the smile widening. "There, you could do that."

Dean tracked his gaze, scowling at the portly television chef. "You want to turn me into a tubby-assed, poofy-hatted pastry-boy that bakes princess cakes for a living. You're telling me that you'd be proud to have that guy as your brother?"

Sam looked back at Dean, his emotions suddenly laid bare. Dean flinched, knowing he had just walked right into an emotional encounter with his brother that he was not prepared for. Everything was too still too raw, but there was no going back and there was no way he would cut Sam off.

"That guy would have given up on me," Sam said, his voice breathy and deep. "You didn't give up, Dean. You never give up."

Dean could not look away, trapped by the intensity of gratitude in his little brother's eyes. His chest tightened, the pain so sharp, so hard, that he could not breathe. Sam seemed not to notice.

"Thanks for getting me through," Sam said with a heartfelt gravity that whittled through Dean.

I gave up on you. He pressed his lips hard together, the despised admission trapped between his tongue and upper palate. He forced his eyes to widen, the burn of tears to ebb and a smile to stay plastered on his face. Sam could never know what Dean had done. Never.

Fortunately, Sam seemed equally overwhelmed and his attention drew back to the television screen, his eyes wet. He sniffed, wiped at his eyes the momentarily distraction giving Dean a chance to gain some composure. He pulled in a ragged breath and fought to steady his breathing. His fingers instinctively slipped down Sam's wrist, found the pulse point and locked on. Sam frowned, glanced at his wrist then at Dean. His lips parted in question.

"So you're not going to try to turn me into a pastry-boy?" Dean hurriedly said.

Sam's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him, but once again fortune played in Dean's favor. Sam's spidey senses did not include mind-reading.

"It wouldn't kill you to bake a cake," Sam said.

"No, but it might kill you if you had to eat it."

"Yeah, probably." Sam shifted awkwardly, frowned then sighed. "I could sleep a month, man."

"And you can, but not before you get that leg fixed up."

"Nag, nag."

Dean shrugged, some of the tension easing away. "What are you planning on telling Archibald about what happened to the immobilizer, aside from me having puked on it?"

"I tried swimming lessons."

"Think of something smarter than that."

"Any suggestions?"

"You were in the bath. Rubber ducky attacked and made you fall."

"I was in the bath, fully clothed… with a rubber ducky?"

"You have unresolved childhood issues."

"You know what, I'll think of something."

Movement in the hallway caught Dean's attention. "Think fast Smelly Joe. Archibald has picked up your scent."

"What?"

"Samuel Packenfrack," the doctor announced as he stepped into the room. "Just what have you done to yourself this time?"

Sam's head swivelled and his jaw dropped. "Uh, ah, I—"

Dean cut in. "We had some plumbing issues at the house. A blocked drain under the bath flooded the bathroom with an inch of water. Sam, on his crutches, slipped into the tub and the mangy cat from next door flew in there with him. Kid has a thing for animals. They're attracted to him or something. Anyway, those things really do hate water, huh?"

The doctor stared and Sam blushed an interesting shade of pink.

Dean flashed a toothy grin at his sibling and continued. "As if that wasn't bad enough. The mangy feline figured out that Sam really isn't the human equivalent of kitty-Romeo and tipped the hair dryer into the tub in its rush to get out. Kitty's fine, the safety circuit cut the power, but you'll need to check out Doctor Dolittle here in case he got shocked."

Doctor Archibald raised an eyebrow, studying his now considerably quiet patient with a closer eye. "Did you lose consciousness, Sam?"

"Uh—"

"Yes," Dean answered. "That's how I ended up like this, trying to save his soggy ass. Hit my skull on the edge of the bath."

"That was going to be my next question."

"Oh, and that's my… ah… breakfast." He gestured to Sam's broken leg. "Bit of a chunder accident, sorry."

Sam, now stonily silent and his face a nice shade of red, retrieved his crutches, glowered at Dean and started to stand.

"Stay right there, I'll arrange for an orderly to bring a wheelchair down for you," the doctor said. He deftly confiscated Sam's crutches.

"I don't need a wheelchair," Sam retorted. He reached for them, stopping as Dean snagged the back of his hoodie and pulled him down onto the chair.

"Dude, enough," Sam snapped.

Dean raised an eyebrow then smiled innocently at the doctor. The man eyed them both, nodded at the nurse then left. Dean knew he would not be gone long. He leaned toward his brother, waiting until the nurse also left the room.

"Check out the nurse in Radiology, she is so your type."

"Dean."

"I'm serious. She's got that whole bookish thing going on, she will so dig you."

"No."

"C'mon, we're going to be stuck in this town for a few weeks, the least you can do is get some action. Even if you don't go the whole—"

"Dean, no. If you want to get laid, pick yourself up someone and go do whatever it is that you do, but leave me out of it. Not everything revolves around sex, you know."

"Uh, actually, the whole procreation deal is pretty much what makes the world turn."

"You don't want to procreate, you just want to have fun." He paled suddenly, his eyes wide. "You do use protection, right? There's not some little Dean Junior out there somewhere, I mean, is there? I'm not an Uncle am I?"

"Geez, Sammy, just where were you when Dad gave us the birds and bees talk? I do know what I'm doing."

"You gave me the birds and the bees talk, not Dad. You told me that—" He bit off and smiled as a nurse returned to the room, nodded at them then left again.

Dean grinned, knowing where this was going.

"You said that honey would make it… you know… bigger."

Dean snorted, his eyes watering as Sam reached out to smack at him. "I didn't expect you to believe it."

"I was eleven, you asshole."

"Oh, God, that was hilarious. Remember Dad's face when he found out."

"He did not find out, Dean. You told him after you had promised you wouldn't."

"He asked where all the honey had gone. I wasn't about to lie to him."

"You are such a jerk."

Dean wiped at his eyes. "Oh yeah, happy memories."

"Laugh it up, I got you back."

"Clear wrap under the lip of the toilet seat and over the bowl. Real smart. I figured it out in time."

"You did not."

Dean arched his eyebrows. "Really now?"

Sam smirked then his mood grew somber. "I know how the entity got into the toy."

Dean floundered for a second before he caught up with the change of subject. "Boris?"

"Yeah, lightning strike. Of all the screwed up implausible things to happen, I got singled out by a crispy critter undergoing warp-speed evolution as a consequence of a billion to one event."

"Uh, back up the truck, you're losing me."

"Shadow Person plus lightening plus Tara and that damned toy."

"Huh?"

"I sensed that electricity created the entity, right. And I also sensed that it would kill it, but I didn't know how. So I talked to Tara on the way in here. She remembered Boris being struck by lightening when she was out in a park with her parents, about a week before they were killed. She walked off on her own and a shadow person snatched the toy."

"Then a storm came over and it and the toy was struck by lightening," Dean filled in. His brother nodded. "But how, that thing was all stuffing and filling, there was nothing that could have grounded the lightening. Plus, wouldn't the force have toasted it?"

"It had a voice box. You know, one of those toys that you squeeze and it makes a noise."

Dean nodded knowingly. "Oh yeah, they're evil. I've told you Sam, kid's toys—"

"Possessed, yes, I know your theories."

"Well, am I right or am I right?"

"Maybe. As for why it wasn't torched? I don't know, but I guess there's one good thing. There's no way that could ever happen again. Like, what are the chances of that even happening in the first place?"

"Gazillion to one," Dean said. He smiled, his brother watching him, seeking reassurance that what he had been through could never happen again. Dean gave him what he needed to hear.

"It is over, Sammy. The entity is gone. Forever."

Sam absorbed that, then slowly nodded. "Gazzillion to one."

"Yeah."

Sam smiled faintly and drew his attention to the television screen. He watched with a blank stare then seemed to gain focus as the television chef proceeded to stuff and slather a hapless chicken with a thick pasty goo.

"That doesn't look so hard, you know," he said after a moment.

Dean frowned. He flicked his gaze between the screen and his brother, suddenly unnerved by the interest the younger man had taken in the rotund chef.

"Sam, you can't cook," he said suddenly.

"I can."

"No, seriously, you can't."

"You're not going to bring up that Thanksgiving incident again?"

"Me, no. I didn't say a word."

Sam huffed. "Dad blew that out of proportion and you didn't help with all that whining and moaning that you did."

Dean shuddered, his stomach cramping in recollection. "You nearly killed me, man."

"You got food poisoning, it's hardly fatal. And it was not my fault."

"You cooked the goddamn thing, just whose fault was it?"

Sam scowled. He looked back at the television, his eyes narrowing. "This'll be different." he said. "You'll see."

"Famous last words," Dean murmured, his stomach fluttering anxiously. Pepto Bismol, he mentally noted. Bottles and bottles of Pepto Bismol.

Three hours later, Dean lay awake in his hospital bed, his brother sleeping in the room beside him. Sam lay on his back, lightly snoring, hooked up to monitors and IV's. His leg had been attended to, his wrist bandaged and he had been given a healthy dose of pain medication that put him out. Dean watched the younger man's chest rise and fall, the natural rhythm of breath – breath that Dean had denied him.

An uneasy sensation leeched through Dean, invaded his cells, the very molecular structure that was uniquely him. He did not even feel sick, just… changed. He had never imagined the sound of his brother dying, but now he knew it intimately. His little brother's tortured oxygen-deprived gasps had been permanently wired into his auditory nerve. No escaping the memory or the horror of it, but he vowed he would never hear that sound again. Whatever it took, he would keep his little brother safe.

End Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue coming soon.