AN: Some more Sam POV. (Shut up, Dean. We'll get back to you.)
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2:17 am
Sam was comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. His head hurt, his arm really hurt, and there seemed to be aches and pains a lot of places on his body. But he was warm and felt safe. He could hear a heartbeat and someone breathing, and maybe even arms around him. Happy and sad. Comfy and hurting. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, * supplied his brain, and he remembered that was a quote, but it didn't really make sense, did it?
It was very hard to think, but one thought that was simultaneously reassuring and horrifying came through. "Dean? Are you holding me?" Sam asked, his voice coming out as barely more than a whisper. He licked at what felt like a split lip, trying to remember what kind of truck had run him over.
"Sammy?" Dean sounded a whole bunch of things all at the same time. Relieved. Scared. Worried. Young. Young? The house and Philomena and everything came back all at once. Right up to and including catching a flash of movement above him a split second before finding himself rolling down the stairs. That's where his memories abruptly ended.
"You can put me down, Dean," Sam said, though everything in him was screaming that he wanted to stay right where he was.
"Just catch your breath a sec. You took a hell of a fall. Knocked you silly for a while."
Yup. Dean definitely was using his let's pretend I'm not freaking out voice. Sam opened his eyes and relaxed the fist he hadn't realized was clenched in the front of Dean's jacket. Yes, he was huddled against his brother's chest with one of Dean's arms wrapped firmly around him. Sam's mind was still split on the whole thing. The child wanted to burrow into that comfort, using the familiarity and safety as an anchor against the pain. Hell, a little bit of his adult self wanted that too. But the rest of him was utterly humiliated. He'd lived completely on his own, gone to college, and was a grown ass man. Since they'd been hunting together again, he'd consistently pushed back at Dean's every attempt to mother hen him or even protect him.
Yet here he laid.
With a sigh, Sam made to sit up to discover that his left arm was bound against his chest and really didn't want him to move. "B-busted arm?" he asked, hating that he sounded like a member of the Mickey Mouse Club.
"Probably," sighed Dean sadly, not moving in the slightest. "Busted your chin back open too. I saw the blood and…" He sighed again, and Sam thought he could guess what Dean had thought. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Sam worked to get his vision back online again. It was dim, but he could make out Dean's face, and it was definitely younger than it had been, but at least he was still a freaking adult.
So am I, thought Sam defiantly. Even if I don't look like one. The thought was galvanizing. "Help me up."
"Careful. We don't know if you have other injuries. And don't break the salt line." Dean slowly eased his arm away, gently letting Sam slide off his legs to sit on the hard floor.
Sam just breathed for a minute, feeling as if he'd bruised every inch of his body. His arm and head clamored the loudest, but he thought he'd be okay. At very least, he could keep the black spots that kept invading his vision at bay. Sam looked around to distract himself. They were at the foot of the stairs in the northeast corner of the house with a thick line of salt in a crooked circle around them. The moonlight coming in front the windows that lined the stairs made it bright enough that they didn't need a flashlight. The vat of salt Sam had found was inside the circle with them as was – a bellows? There was a flash of movement, causing Sam to duck. He gasped at the pain it caused as a ghost flew right at him, its mouth gaping open.
Dean was there, steadying him. "Careful! Chill. They can't get in."
"Oh yeah." Sam was embarrassed by his overreaction.
"They're the people who went missing," reported Dean, too somber to tease right now. "I recognized a couple of 'em from our research. They look terrified." He added the last very quietly.
Sam watched the four or five swooping ghosts and thought about the piles of clothes in the garret. He swallowed hard, leaning back against Dean. Had he always been this scared as a kid? Because it sucked, and made it even harder to focus.
"We'll get out," said Dean quietly. Sam pulled forward again, more carefully this time, and got up on his knees to face his brother. "We'll get out before you turn into even more of a snot-nosed brat," Dean repeated more confidently. He raised one eyebrow and grinned with almost teenage arrogance. Hell, he wasn't far off from a teenager now.
"We need to talk to Philomena," Sam answered. "I think she could, uh, figure out how to stop all of this."
"Assuming she wants to."
Yeah, Dean didn't like ghosts, witches, or anyone who separated him from his brother, and Philomena was all three. "She wants to. She didn't mean for all of this to happen," Sam insisted. He had no doubts at all on that score. "She was just trying to avenge her mom and keep anyone else from getting hurt." Sam stumbled over the words, very nearly saying mommy, which was a humiliation he wasn't sure he'd ever recover from.
Dean's eyes darkened, but there was an edge of capitulation on his face. If anyone understood being desperate to avenge a loved one…a mother…it was a Winchester.
"Here, Philomena!" Dean called, long and loud. "Oh Philo-MEEEEEE-na! We need to chat!"
Sam rolled his eyes and ignored how it made his stomach roll too. "You're an idiot. Do you think we could, uh, get to the top floor? That's where her favorite place is."
But Dean was shaking his head no. "Out of ammo. The Caspars aren't going to let us past."
Sam thought hard. His eyes fell to the bellows. "Dean! Can you get salt inside that?"
Dean's face lit up as he understood. He closed the bellows, careful not to let it blow away their salt ring, then stuck its nose into the box of salt and let it open. When it was inflated again, he stood and pointed it at a very persistent old lady ghost. He squashed it closed enthusiastically. It was a spectacular success, sending a big cloud of salt that caught not just her but a second ghost as well. Sam couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight of two surprised ghost faces as they dispersed not to mention the way salt went absolutely everywhere, and the funny groan the bellows made.
Even though it hurt, Sam kept laughing. "Do it again!" he demanded.
Dean looked as delighted as Sam felt. "Keep your pants on, short stuff. And don't hurt yourself." He aimed a shot at the seemingly attached teenage ghosts and the brothers laughed together as they disappeared in a poof of salt.
But as their laughter died down, Dean shook his head a little sadly. "It was a great idea, but we still can't get upstairs. You can't work this thing with one arm, or carry the box of salt, and I can't do both."
Sam drooped. He was so useless! How could they…wait. "We know her full name. Could we summon her?" he asked instead. "We need…uh…a cloth, candles…" he was trying to remember. "I might be able to remember the words…and we should be able to find that stuff." Dammit, he should know this.
"And a mixture of white sage and some other stuff I can't remember," said Dean with a little smile that Sam was sure was meant to by sympathetic.
"Dammit." Sam slumped even more, cradling his injured wrist to his chest.
"But…Bobby's coming. He could do it," said Dean excitedly. "The weapons bag is on the porch – I bet it's got all of that shit in it. I wish I knew when he's gonna get here. We'll have to write him a note to explain. He'll set that witch on the straight and narrow. And we can make it to the front door again with your blow gun thingie. As long as you can walk." He looked at Sam carefully. "Hey, leave that alone."
Sam stopped scratching his chin, realizing there was a band-aid on it. "Band-aid?"
Dean grinned. "I had one in my wallet. Guess I never got out of the habit."
Sam couldn't help but smile at that. For a while as a kid, he'd been accident prone, and Dean had taken to keeping a band-aid in his wallet for the inevitable times his little brother skinned a knee. It was nice to know some things hadn't changed.
"So, let's do this," Dean decided. He helped Sam to his feet and Sam didn't even complain about it. He was tired and sore and swayed for a second before gaining his balance. He couldn't help but notice that Dean's jacket was hanging on his shoulders and felt a new frisson of fear. He really, really hoped Bobby got there and could talk Philomena into helping them and she could figure out how to do it before nothing was left of Sam but a pile of clothes and an angry spirit. That was a lot of ifs.
Sam didn't voice his worries. "Yeah, sounds good. I can push the salt box."
Dean grinned. "Let's go blow some ghosts!" He was so proud of that one he probably didn't even hear Sam's groan.
It all went well for the entire hallway. Sam kept a handful of Dean's coat and pushed the box with his feet as they shuffled along. Dean alternated shooting salt in front of and behind them, until they were both liberally dusted with the stuff and the floor crunched under Dean's boots. But when they walked into the foyer, able to see the front door, the bald spirit appeared in front of them. He seemed to be the strongest of the ghosts, and he didn't look afraid. He looked furious.
With a scream, the ghost picked up the little decorative table that had been knocked over when Sam fell into it. The ghost smashed it into the floor hard enough that it exploded into shards. In front of Sam, Dean drew in a sharp, startled breath even as he blasted the ghost away. Dean twitched, half turning back to Sam, revealing a huge splinter longer than Sam's hand. And it was sticking out of Dean's stomach.
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AN again: Oops...so that would be another cliffie...
The quote Sam thinks of is the opening line of Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
Stormy: I can't resist little Sammy either! I love that you said he's like homemade cherry pie. I think maybe one of your questions was answered here...more to come. And no, I couldn't kill off Sam! Merci, mon ami.
sfaulkenberry: I fully admit I'm afraid of Dean! But you calling him a dumbass will never get old. So glad baby bitchface made you laugh! Baby idjit about knocked me off my chair with laughter. This is really fun to write, and the comments are amazing.
Scealai: Oh, how you crack me up! Pointing a Dreamliner at Dean! I hope you enjoyed the chapter as a bedtime story...were you reading with a flashlight under the covers like I did as a kid?
muffinroo: You make an excellent point. I certainly wouldn't mind losing some years and pounds!