CHAPTER THREE:

THE DANGER

The rumble of the Impala as it drove along the street of suburbia calmed Dean's nerves. The latest news his father gave tore out a chunk of his heart and all he wanted to do was scream. John ordered Dean not to tell his brother until he had spoken with Dr. Reuben and Dr. Singh. He had disappeared for most of the afternoon. Upon his return, Dean could tell from the look in his face, his body language, that the answer was still the same. There wasn't much else to do for Sam, other than continue with the radiation treatment and later start Chemo. It was their current and only hope.

The following afternoon, he picked Sam up from the clinic after his treatment session. Tossing the kid a Pedialyte, instructing him to drink at least half of it, he opted for the long way home. Long drives soothed his anxiety, especially regarding the current horrible subject.

Though Dean protested on Sam returning to school after his last seizure, Sam persisted in going. He wanted that normalcy back in his life. Dean understood and empathized with his kid brothers' wants. He loved school, always the bookworm; eager to learn something new each day. However, Sam's declining health had him on edge; all he wanted to do is keep him close by, as if he were the only one who could protect and save him. Sam straightened his beanie and wrapped his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The poor kid was consistently cold.

"Any news on the test results? Did they come in?" Sam asked quietly.

"Not that I've heard," Dean quickly lied. "Maybe we'll find out later today?"

"Okay," Sam nodded, looking out the window.

"Or maybe…we can take a long drive while we wait?" Dean shrugged, turning the car onto the next street towards their little cottage. "Let's get out of here and stretch our legs. Maybe go to the beach? Get some Mai Tais with the little umbrellas. Take up surfing. Sounds great, right?"

Sam stared inquisitively at him. "Okay, random."

"I'm just saying we don't really get a vacation and I think we should. We're not that far. Let's go to the Grand Canyon. We hadn't been there since we were kids."

"Uh huh…" Sam nodded his head, biting his lower lip. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"What?" Dean exclaimed. "No. What makes you say that?"

"Anytime something is wrong Dean, you talk about going away for a while…," Sam paused, looking back out the window. "Pull over."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Sam insisted, opening the door. The car barely rolled past the curb before Sam had exited, hopping onto the sidewalk. Dean turned off the engine and joined him.

"The results came in, right? They gave me an expiration date, didn't they?" Sam's eyes swelled with tears, his voice on edge. "What is it? A year? Months? Weeks?" he whispered painfully.

"No…"

"Don't lie to me! I can tell when you lie."

Dean couldn't look at him. "It's just…the tumor grew a little bit. The radiation – "

"Isn't working," Sam interrupted. "It's too aggressive. I get it."

"Sam?"

"It's okay Dean. It's okay…"

It was very far from "okay". Dean didn't know what to do or say. The small tremors in Sam's hands, the squirrely eyes, and the labored breathing of someone trying to keep it together hardly escaped his notice. This feeling of helplessness angered him. How he wanted to just wave a magic hand and make it all go away!

Sam regained his composure. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Dean, I'm scared. I know you're scared too…but I need both you and Dad to be honest with me. Honest with what my chances are. Give me some time to prepare."

"Sammy…" he sighed.

A few houses down, an elderly woman cursed dropping a large cardboard box. The box fell on its side with a loud clang capturing their attention. In need of a distraction, Sam headed towards the sunflower yellow house. "We'll talk about this later," he said in passing. Dean immediately followed after him.

"Ma'am, do you need any help?" Sam offered, stepping up to the white lattice fence.

The woman straightened up, ran a hand through her pixie salt and pepper hair, and looked at the box. "Oh my, well, yes. The postal service just dropped it off and it's heavier than I thought it was. I can use some help, but only if you don't mind."

"We don't mind," Sam replied sweetly, opening the gate. "We'll carry it inside the house for you."

"You're so sweet," the woman said. "Just inside the door will be fine." At the sight of Dean, she suddenly seemed slightly alarmed, backing away. Dean quickly noticed she stowed a ruby pendent under her black sweater. It struck him as odd.

"Come on Dean, help me." Sam asked, stirring him from his reverie.

"Sam, you relax. I'll get it."

"We'll both get it." He gave him that bullheaded look of "I dare you to stop me" as he stooped down and picked up an end. Though sick and possibly dying, Sam's stubborn streak never waned.

Shaking his head in disagreement, finally succumbing to Sam's request, he picked up the other end, and together they carried the heavy box into the front door of the house. It had a quaint foyer, much like that of a house in a Home and Garden magazine, with a small, round table, a stairwell leading upstairs, and a living room set to their right. On the foyer table sat several pots full of different herbs such as Patchouli, Wolf's Bane, and Belladonna. His instincts sang a tune, his stomach suddenly in a knot. This was no ordinary home, he thought. The homeowner quickly ushered them out before Dean could garner another look.

"Thank you again for your help, boys." She gave Dean a hard look, "Get this one home. He looks a bit peaky."

"No problem," Dean curled an arm around Sam's shoulders and walked him out. Quietly, he said in Sam's ear, "Keep walking. Don't turn around."

"What's wrong?"

"She's a witch."

"What? How do you know?"

"Did you not see the variety of witch's brew ingredients on her table? Or the heavy talisman she kept trying to hide?"

"No," Sam replied. "That doesn't mean anything. She could be a regular spinster into gardening."

"Oh Sammy, you'll get there," he softly patted his shoulder. "Maybe I'll get Dad to pay her a visit a little later?"

"What, no!" Sam stepped out in front of him. "No, you're going to leave her alone. We don't know if she's a witch, and if she is, she hasn't done anything to us. She didn't ask us for help. We offered to help her."

"She could be dangerous Sam."

"Could being the right word, not is. Dean, there's no case in town. No dead bodies. No weird freak-show. She probably wants to be left alone."

"So what, we leave it be?"

Sam nodded, covering his mouth. His pallor paled and he ran for the bushes, spitting out a glob of saliva. Regaining his breath, he told his brother, "Yes. We shouldn't kill these things for who they are…only if they hurt other people. Okay?"

Reluctantly, Dean agreed with his brother, mostly because the kid's face developed another shade of green heralding another puke-fest. "Alright fine, we'll leave it alone for now. Let's get you home. You don't look so good and I don't want you redecorating Baby's leather."

Holding his mouth, Sam replied, "You're probably right. Forewarning, this is going to get bad."

The angry shouts of his competitors faded away as John exited into Rosito's Bar parking lot, stashing the 568 dollars he had won at pool in his back pocket. The Motorola phone buzzed alerting he had a voicemail. A local hunter must have called during his latest hustle. Only the few cohorts he placed little trust in had this number. Pressing in the code, he listened to a hasty message sent by Bobby Singer:

"John, it's Singer. Listen to me carefully…"

John stilled, holding his breath.

"I'm still in Lisbon. This thing isn't a Momo as we thought. Hell, we don't know what it is. We figured out it follows a certain scent. That's why we couldn't make the connection. Whatever it is, it's not here anymore. It left. Understand me. It's gone! John, watch your back. Call me when you get this."

His heart hammered against his sternum. He had the truck when on hunt with Singer for the creature that had feasted on several family farms up north. One of the creature's latest kills, a half-masticated horse, lay in his truck bed – the idea to use it as bait. He and Singer were in the process of setting up a trap when he received the call from Dean.

If this monstrous thing scurried from town to town based on smell…then what if it followed the scent of the horse in the truck? Could it track that far? The truck was back at the cottage with a flat tire... with the boys! He raced to the Impala and sped out of the parking lot.

The door to Sam's room opened and Dean came out with the sick bucket, holding his breath. The stench made his eyes water forcing him to shuffle quickly to the bathroom to unload the contents in the toilet. Sam's vomit session had begun, like clockwork, several hours after the last radiation dose. There wasn't much left in the kid's stomach, but the smell alone was enough to irritate Sam's gag reflex. Dean returned the bucket to the bedside and gently pushed him onto his back. Sam grimaced, sweating, the pain from retching more acute.

"Hang on man. I'll getcha a cold cloth," Dean whispered tiredly. "Just hang tight."

"Okay." He heard the soft whisper.

It was one o'clock in the morning. Though this was becoming routine, Dean was tired. He wasn't sure when was the last time he had a full night's sleep since the diagnosis. Sam was far more fatigued now. Coupled with the nausea and vomiting, his body exhausted from the drugs and the internal fight, he could barely stand at this hour, let alone move to the bathroom to unload. The heating pad wasn't alleviating the pain, nor were the over-the-counter pain pills as he kept throwing them up.

In the kitchen, he turned on the light, and grabbed a cloth off the dish rack. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath clutching the sink. This was so hard and he needed a second to curtail his emotions in check. It took all of Dean's reserve to trudge on with his mission, his purpose. The phone began to ring …probably Dad checking in. He decided against answering it, wanting to get back to Sam. Forcing back on the brave face, he soaked the cloth in cold water.

Someone padded into the kitchen behind him.

"Sam," he called out irritably, "I told ya I've got this. Just go back to bed." He turned around…

It. Wasn't. Sam.

It was a monstrous thing that towered over him: hairy from top to bottom with a large snout of razor sharp teeth, long-clawed hands, and yellow, cat-like eyes. It released a mighty roar and swiped a heavy paw at his head that he ducked under. Hopping over to the stove, he picked up the iron-cast skillet and slapped it over the ugly face three times. On the last swing, the creature caught the skillet. It swung its other paw, slicing into his upper arm. Dean yelped, committing a combat roll and leaping up across the space to the flatware drawer. Pulling out a steak knife, he thrust it into the hairy shoulder and fled out the door.

He ran into Sam's room, slamming the door shut and locking it. The door bounced forward from the creature's weight, its powerful thuds rattling the hinges. Dean pushed against the wood panel, holding the doorknob. Sam sat up, ashen faced, and alarmed.

"We're in trouble Sammy!"

"What is it?" Sam cried.

"It's Chewbacca's killer cousin! We need to MOVE – "

The door exploded, showering Dean in wooden shards, pelting him to the floor. He rolled backwards and climbed to his feet. The creature ambled forward with outstretched claws towards Dean, who jumped out of the way last second, trapping it into Sam's closet.

Sam was too worn out to move quickly. Dean pulled him from the bed, lifting an arm around his shoulder and waist, half-carrying him out of the room. Sam's feet were not coordinated and it stunted his movement down the hallway.

"What is it, Dean?" Sam sputtered, cringing from the pain in his side.

"I don't know!" Dean gasped. "But it's hungry."

They made their way into the living room, Dean stopping shortly to find the Remington pump-gun. It was laying upright against the couch. Placing Sam down on the coffee table, Dean scooped up the gun, ran to the fireplace, and placed in two shells, cocking it. He then trained the gun at the hallway, watching for the slightest sign of the creature's emergence.

Sam achingly waited with bated breath. Strange scratching caught his attention. It sounded from the left…then to the right. The phone from the kitchen wall began to ring again. Both brothers glanced at the phone, then at each other.

"We need to get out of here now!" Dean rushed back over to Sam and pulled him to his feet.

The scratching noise then sounded from above. Sam slowly turned his head towards the ceiling and screamed. The creature clung overhead, smiling at him with a bloody snout. "DEAN!"

Sam fell to the floor with a loud yelp as Dean fired at the fiend multiple times. The creature sidled away along the plaster, avoiding each blast, before dropping down to his front. Dean suddenly sailed across the room and slid along the kitchen table, ramming into the dining room corner. The hairy beast then leapt on top of Sam, its knees on his legs, its claws piercing into his shoulders. He shouted his brother's name, throwing his hands into the creature's neck, trying with all his remaining strength to keep its snapping jaws from discovering his neck. His strength waned fast, his cries torturous as the fiend's long claws dragged across his shoulder to his chest.

The creature widened its snout to take a bite when Dean leapt onto its back and pulled the shotgun beneath its throat. Rearing up, it flipped him over to the ground, the gun dropping next to Sam. Next it picked Dean up by the shirt and hurled him into the kitchen fridge. The pulsing power of fear coursed through Sam's body and he crab-walked back towards the house's small fireplace, to the box of buckshot pellets.

Before Dean could counteract, the creature pounced on top of him, impaled his side with its long claws, and bit into his collarbone, tearing out a chunk of flesh. A strangled cry of anguish erupted from his throat and he slugged it across its snout with his fist. Angrily it whirled its large, ape-like arms and sliced Dean's abdomen and chest resulting in large gashes opening and spurting red.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, throwing to him the fireplace poker.

Dean caught the poker and swung the iron across the creature's face. It snarled, clutching its hairy cheekbone. It gave him the second he needed to ram the sharp end into the top part of its chest. The fiend crawled off of him, whimpering, grasping at the embedded rod.

Blood bubbling over his lips, Dean, with all the strength he had left, crawled over to Sam who held the gun with trembling hands. Shakily, he draped himself over his little brother, still in full protection mode. His eyes closed and he went limp, unresponsive to Sam's calls.

The beast screeched as it finally pulled out the iron poker, tossing the metal out the window. Following the trail of blood to the fireplace, the fiend slowly stalked towards the two brothers, flashing its bloody, serrated teeth.

Determined, Sam raised the gun up from under his brother and let off a shot. It struck the beast in the chest causing it to stumble back. A torrent of pain erupted from Sam's throat as his hands twisted in torment from the buck of the gun. He dropped the gun. The monster recovered from the initial blast and continued its original trajectory. Hissing, Sam grabbed the gun once more, cocked it, and waited until the monster lowered its face to bite.

The shot went off, a full round of buckshot embedding into its face. The monster bucked back, squalling in pain, clutching its face with two full hands…until it fell onto its back, motionless.

The gun fell from his trembling hands once more and Sam breathed. "Dean?" he called to his brother.

There was no answer. No movement. Blood spilled from his brother's mouth onto his shirt.

"Dean, please!" he pleaded. "Talk to me. Wake up."

His pleas were met with silence. With nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing, Sam lowered his head to the ground, resigned to the fact his brother may be dead. His thoughts became fuzzy, his body parched from the stress of the last few moments. The light in the house began to darken.

Soon the room was full of his father's shouts. "Dean! Sam!"

John ran inside, halting in terror at the sight that befell him. Sam slowly blinked at him and called softly, "Dad." The eldest Winchester ran to his two sons, pulling the unconscious Dean off his youngest.

"Dean?" he palmed Dean's face, looking for a response. When he didn't receive one, he bent over Sam, pulling him into his lap. "Sammy?" he patted his cheek. "Sammy, you with me?"

"Help…Dean," Sam whispered.

"I will, son. I'm getting you both out of here." With surprising strength, John lifted Sam off the ground and brought him to the backseat of the Impala. A minute later, John returned carrying Dean, with a towel on his front to soak up the blood, placing him in the back with Sam.

"Sam, buddy. I need your help," John asked with desperate eyes. "Hold this. Press down as much as you can, for as long as you can."

Shakily, he nodded placing a weak hand on top of the towel. "That's good son!" John said, hopping into the car, turning the engine, and steering out onto the road at breakneck speed.

"Hold on boys."

Sam's eyes became heavy, his breathing slow. "I'm glad you're here Dad," he said, barely above a whisper.

His father wiped his face, concealing his fear and worry. "I'm not going anywhere son. You and Dean are going to be just fine."

A small smile stretched over his lips. His strength failed and he began to fall headfast into darkness, his head falling onto Dean's shoulder. The last he saw before everything went dark was cradling Dean's limp, bloody hand.

The vestiges of oblivion began to dissipate, opening the door to a realm of noise, overwhelming sensation, and dulled pain. Dean slowly opened his eyes, blinking through the heaviness. John sat in a chair next to his hospital bed. Of course, he was in a hospital. Dad was good at patching up small jobs, but his skills were no match for this latest thrill. He was far more surprised at being alive than learning about his current whereabouts. John straightened up, grasping his arm for assurance he was waking up.

"Dean, come on back son."

"Dad…" he slurred. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls, his voice slowed by the morphine.

"It's me. You're safe."

"Sam?"

"He's right here beside me," John replied, swallowing a hard lump. "He hasn't woken up yet."

As the minutes dragged on, the realm of lucidity became defined. Dean needed water pronto. He grimaced where the dull ache in his chest intensified, the bandages blanketing his chest reddened.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" John asked.

He shook his head, and then answered in a course whisper, idly scratching the gauze on his left pectoral, "more itchy than anything. Nothing I can't handle."

"They patched you up good. You'll be fine as long as you relax."

His dad's tone was curt, forced. Dean recognized this behavior. It was his stall tactic. Something was on the man's mind and he was working around on how to say it. In his muddled mind, Dean thought back to what he remembered last: his fight with the monstrous Cousin It, him crawling over on top of Sam, passing out and waking up here in a place that was too quiet and smelled of antiseptic.

"What was that thing Dad?"

"I don't know," John answered.

Dean read his facial expression was full of regret, shame. It didn't take him long to put two and two together. "It was what you were hunting before I called you home, wasn't it? It followed you here."

"Yeah, we think so. I left Bobby on the case. He never found it in Lisbon. We think it followed the scent of the truck."

"Is it dead?"

"Yeah, Sam shot it down." John's voice wavered a bit with a twinge of sadness.

"That's my boy," Dean smiled, chuckling softly. "How is he? Was he hurt? Did he at least stop vomiting? I know he was in a lot of pain before that thing showed up."

John then turned away, chiseling his jaw. "We, um…we don't know the full extent yet on Sam."

The small smile faded away, his heart starting to beat faster. "What d'ya mean? We need to wake him up. He needs to know I'm okay." He made to roll out of bed, his movement stunted by the wires and wrapped bandages.

His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, gently forcing him to remain in bed. "Dean, stop. You won't be able to help."

The panic began to rise up in his throat and he looked to his father with steely eyes, working hard to suppress the torrent of emotion. "Where is he?"

John released a long, regretful sigh, stood, and stepped out of the way …revealing Sam on the other side, comatose, non-moving, and hooked to a ventilator. Dean's hands shook as he stared, non-blinking, fearing the worst.

"The doctor says his vitals are dropping every hour," John said, disheartened. "He's not going to wake up Dean…"

TBC