Against the Clock

by Swanseajill

For summary, author's notes, etc, see Chapter 1.

Chapter 5

Dean woke.

He lay quietly for a moment, slowly registering the ache in his muscles and the throbbing behind his eyes. When he shifted position, the pain in his head deepened, like a band tightening around his skull, making him wonder if his brain was swelling and would explode at any moment.

A spasm shot through his spine, and he bit back a groan. If he'd gone a couple of rounds with a wendigo and then been run over by a passing truck he couldn't have felt worse. He'd had the flu in the past, with the usual pains, chills and weakness, but this was shaping up to be the mother of all viruses, and he needed it like a hole in the head with only hours to go before another victim died.

Without opening his eyes — he wasn't quite ready for that yet — he reached out a hand for the radio clock and only succeeded in knocking it off the table with a crash that only intensified the pounding headache.

He swore quietly under his breath and cracked open an eye, wondering if it was still night. The room was dark, the heavy drapes drawn across the windows. A glance at his watch showed 7:30 a.m. He'd been asleep for eight hours.

He looked across at Sam's bed.

The expected large lump was absent. Moreover, the bed was neatly made, which meant that either Sam had pulled an all-nighter on the research or had got up early.

He listened for the sound of the shower, and then realized that the bathroom door was ajar and the light off.

He felt a touch of unease. "Don't be stupid," he told himself sternly. "Sam's just gone to get breakfast." With an effort, he levered himself up on one arm and turned on the bedside lamp, wincing as the light burned his eyes. Great. Now he was turning into a vampire as well.

He fumbled for the fallen clock and retrieved it, along with a folded piece of paper that must have fallen off the table with it. Squinting against the strong light of the lamp he read, "One a.m. Gone to get some supplies. Back soon. Go back to sleep — you're sick. Sam."

The unease morphed into full-blown panic. One a.m.? That was six hours ago. Where the hell was Sam?

He lurched to his feet, and a wave of vertigo hit him, violent enough to send him crashing back down on the bed.

Shit.

He closed his eyes and waited until the black dots had stopped swirling behind his eyelids. Then he tried again, more slowly this time, and made it to his feet. He snagged his cell from his jacket pocket and hit the speed-dial number for Sam. Voice mail cut in immediately. He left a message, but knew in his heart that it was futile; Sam would have called by now if he could.

He drew back the drapes a few inches, shielding his eyes against the early morning sun. There was no sign of the Impala in the parking lot. That made sense; Sam would have taken it when he went out last night.

He had no choice. He had to go and look for Sam, despite his body screaming it's protest at the idea. Getting dressed took longer than it should have, but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, every muscle groaning. When he bent down to lace up his boots, nausea hit accompanied by an even more severe attack of dizziness, forcing him to sit down quickly, the room whirling in a kaleidoscope of color.

When he was sure there was no danger of passing out or throwing up, he rummaged around in the first-aid kit for some painkillers and came up with only a packet of Advil with one pill remaining. He swallowed it with a mouthful of water, grimacing as the mere act of swallowing awakened the raging pain in his throat, then scribbled a quick note for Sam, in case there was a logical explanation and Sam returned while he was out. He picked up his jacket and let himself out of the room.

The sun was still low as it fought for possession of the early morning sky, and Dean was grateful not to be facing the fierce glare of a noontime sun. Even so, the light seemed to penetrate to the back of his eyeballs, and he wished he hadn't left his shades in the Impala.

He paused in the lot, looking both ways up the highway for a clue as to the direction Sam might have taken.

Think Dean, think. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, as if the action could chase the fog from his mind. The motel was on the very edge of town, so it was unlikely that there were any stores further out. Sam had probably driven toward town. Dean started in that direction, then paused as he passed the motel reception office. He pushed open the door and went up to the desk, where a pimply youth was dozing in front of a TV set.

The kid glanced up. "Help you?"

"Yeah. I was wondering if you saw my partner come past late last night?"

Pimples looked at him quizzically. "Your 'partner' came in around one, asked me where he could find a twenty-four-hour store."

"What did you tell him?"

"There's a Safeway a mile east of here. Just head for town, you can't miss it." He grinned. "You and your 'partner' have a tiff or something?"

Dean had no energy for a smartass comeback, so he just nodded his thanks and left.

He set out in the direction of town, walking along a narrow strip of coarse grass at the side of the highway.

A mile, the clerk had said, but Dean had barely walked a hundred yards at a brisk pace before he had to pause, sweating with exhaustion, hands braced on his knees, limbs heavy and trembling.

Dammit. This virus thing had sapped all his energy. He set his jaw and started off again just as the sound of an engine broke rudely into the morning stillness. Dean looked over his shoulder to see a farm truck bearing down on him. He stuck out a thumb and, to his mild surprise, the truck rattled to a halt beside him.

A grizzled head with a straw hat pushed back on curly gray hair popped out of the half-open window.

"Where you headed, son?"

Dean hesitated, feeling stupid. "I need a ride to Safeway."

Bushy eyebrows shot up. "You know it's just a mile, right?"

"Yeah. I'm, ah, in a real hurry." Dean watched shrewd eyes look him up and down, probably sizing him up as a potential axe murderer. "Please, it's important," he said, and the urgency in his voice wasn't faked.

The old-timer chewed on his lip, then shrugged. "Hop in then."

Dean climbed into the truck, leaned against the window and allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a few moments.

Barely five minutes later the truck turned into the entrance to the store, rattled through the mostly empty parking lot and pulled up just outside the entrance.

"They've got a decent pharmacy," the old guy said unexpectedly. "Best get something for whatever's ailing you."

"Uh… thanks," Dean said, surprised at the man's concerned tone. "'preciate the ride."

He jumped out, gritting his teeth as the impact sent shards of pain shooting though his back and head, and the truck rattled on its way, passing a black Impala parked in one of the slots nearby.

Swallowing his fear, Dean approached it cautiously. He found the keys in the lock of the driver's door, the door itself unlocked. Inside, he could see a bag on the passenger seat. He opened the door, reached across and snagged it, tipping the contents onto the seat. There were three packets of Tylenol Extra Strength, two packets of Advil, six bottles of blue Gatorade, a pack of heat pads and a bag of jelly donuts.

He swallowed. Sam had gone out just to get medicine for him. If he hadn't, if he'd stayed at the motel…

Pushing back the unproductive thought, he checked the rest of the car, then popped the trunk with some trepidation. Nothing seemed out of place.

Sam, where the hell are you?

He stood back from the car, trying to piece together a possible scenario. It looked like Sam had put the bag onto the passenger seat, then walked around to the driver's side and put the key in the door. Then, something had happened.

Fear gripped him again. It was possible that Sam had been overpowered by someone stronger, or by some kind of monster. Or, he might have been taken by surprise by someone who hadn't provoked suspicion. A woman? Someone he'd met in the store? Someone in uniform, like a cop?

He examined the ground around the car. Nothing out of the ordinary — some cigarette butts, a chocolate bar wrapper and a gray mess ground into the tarmac that had probably started life as a piece of gum.

Something a few feet away glinted, and he bent down to pick it up — a thin gold chain, broken at the catch. He stared at it for a moment, trying to read some significance in it, but came up blank. Still, he put it in his pocket. While it might just be a coincidence that he'd found it so close to the place Sam had gone missing, Dean didn't believe in coincidences.

The only glimmer of hope lay in the store, but after a futile twenty minutes questioning the staff, he gained little information of any use, except to confirm that Sam had been inside — a conversation with a talkative assistant at the pharmacy had confirmed that without a shadow of doubt.

It was official. Sam was missing.

Frustrated and near panic, Dean walked back to the Impala and sat down heavily in the driver's seat, leaning forward to rest his aching head on the steering wheel.

His body was nagging him to take some medication, climb back into bed and sleep for a day or two. But he couldn't afford to sleep. His gut told him that Sam was the next victim of the killer they were hunting. He didn't have a scrap of evidence to back it up, but he was sure — as sure as he'd ever been of anything. His stomach lurched. If Sam was the next victim, then he was still alive, but Dean had only twelve hours to find him.

Twelve hours before Sam died with a bullet to the heart.

Dean took a few deep breaths.

First off, he needed to be able to think straight. He reached for the bag and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade and the pack of Tylenol. He took two pills, washing them down with the blue liquid, then reluctantly took a donut out of the bag. The smell of it made him nauseas, but he knew he had to get something inside him. He gritted his teeth and took a small bite.

While he chewed and swallowed, with difficulty, a few bites of dough, he considered his options. He could go to the police. Yeah, right. He couldn't risk giving his real name, not after the business in St. Louis, and reporting a missing person under an assumed name was asking for trouble. If he got himself arrested, Sam was dead. Even if he did report it, it was unlikely the police would take it seriously for 24 hours and even if they did, they'd be looking in all the wrong places.

No, he was on his own, and if Dad was right, and Dean was convinced he was, something supernatural was behind these deaths. There was a reason and a pattern, and it was up to him to find it.

His brother's life depended on it.