Against the Clock
by Swanseajill

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

Chapter 11

When Dean collapsed at her feet Rachel hesitated, clearly torn between checking on him and setting Sam free.

"Rachel," Sam called urgently. "Check on Dean."

Rachel knelt beside Dean, her bent back obscuring Sam's view. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder with a worried expression. "He's out cold."

Perfect. Sam swallowed his anxiety and said calmly, "All right. Come and untie me. Then we can get him some help."

Giving Miller's body a wide berth, Rachel crossed the room to where Sam lay, knelt down and cut through the ropes binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. Sam wriggled away from the chair and stretched his body, relieved to be free after so long stuck in the same position. He rolled over and sat up, grimacing as pain lanced through cramped muscles, then flexed his fingers to get the circulation going. When he was sure his legs would hold him, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and staggered across the room, dropping to his knees beside his brother.

He reached out and checked the pulse in Dean's neck. Alarm at both at the erratic beat of his brother's pulse and the heat radiating from his body quickly replaced Sam's momentary relief that Dean was alive.

He looked up at Rachel, who was hovering over them. "He's burning up."

She nodded, worry evident in her features. "I know. He's really sick. I don't know how he's kept on his feet so long."

"I do," Sam said softly.

He examined Dean quickly but gently, mindful of the times Dean had been slammed against the wall and Miller's vicious attack with the poker. As he'd half-expected, Dean's left shoulder was dislocated and he was sure his brother had some severely bruised if not cracked ribs. Three of the fingers on his left hand were definitely broken. Sam observed a canvass of miscellaneous bruises, probably made by the poker and Miller's fists, and a bird's egg-sized lump on the back of Dean's head.

Dean stirred and mumbled something incomprehensible.

Sam leaned in. "Dean? Come on, dude, time to wake up," he said lightly, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "You really gonna make me carry your dead weight out of here?"

Dean muttered something else; his eyes fluttered open for a moment and then shut again.

Sam sighed. Dean was really out of it, and there was no time to wait for him to come around. They needed to get out of there. There were no words to explain adequately why the three of them were in the cabin with a dead man.

He glanced at Rachel. "Where is this place?" he asked.

"It's a holiday cabin, at Lower Emerald Lake. It's around ten miles from town."

"Are there people in other cabins?"

"I don't think so. Not many come here any more, and we didn't spot any other cars."

Sam nodded. "That's good. There's a good chance no one heard the shots." He hesitated. Obviously, Dean had made a decision to bring Rachel with him, but he wasn't sure how much Dean had told her or if she'd seen Karen's spirit. Their rule was to let as few people know what was really going on as possible – it was safer for everyone that way.

He glanced at Dean, but he'd be getting no help from that source. "Look, Rachel… how much did Dean tell you about what's going on here?"

She cocked her head. "You mean, did he tell me he thought Karen Miller's spirit was the serial killer, and Randall brought you here to be her next victim?"

Looked like Dean hadn't chosen the safe route. "Yeah, something like that."

"Was it? Karen, I mean. I heard a terrible scream. Kind of unearthly. Did she… did it…"

Sam nodded. "Karen was about to kill me. Dean got here just in time, blasted her with the shotgun."

Rachel frowned. "Can a bullet kill a spirit?"

"No, but it didn't kill her. The bullets were made of rock salt. It dissipated her long enough for Dean to get the locket from Miller and burn the lock of hair."

"Because her hair was keeping her here?"

"Pretty much."

"So… she's gone for good?"

"Yes."

Rachel glanced down at Dean, her expression unreadable. "Dean was right about everything. He was pretty convincing, but still, it was hard to believe."

"It gets easier," Sam said dryly. He turned his attention back to Dean, noting his brother's pallor relieved only by the red flush of fever on his cheeks, and his lips tightened. "Look, we can talk later. We need to get out of here and get Dean some help. Where's the car?"

"About two hundred yards back up the track."

"Do you think you can find it and drive it down here?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Of course I can. I'm not stupid."

Sam raised an eyebrow at the prickly response. "I didn't say you are. I just thought you must be a bit shaken up, with the body and everything."

She nodded, her face softening. "I guess I am. Sorry, I didn't mean to snap." She squatted beside him and reached out a hand to touch Dean's cheek. "I'll be right back," she said softly, and Sam wasn't sure which one of them she was talking to.

Sam fished in Dean's pocket for the key and handed it to Rachel. "Be careful. Dean will kill both of us if he knows I'm letting you drive his baby."

She snorted. "Tell me about it. He wouldn't let me drive, even though he was weaving all over the road."

Sam allowed himself a tight smile. "That's my brother."

Rachel gave him a half-smile. "Stubborn as a mule, huh?" She turned abruptly and called over her shoulder, "I'll be quick," as she let herself out of the cabin.

As soon as Rachel shut the door behind her, Sam did a quick tour of the cabin. He grabbed a pillow and a bed sheet from the bedroom, a wash cloth from the bathroom and a couple of bottles of water from the bag Miller had left on the counter, and went back to Dean. He knelt down and slid the pillow carefully under Dean's head then paused to study his brother for a moment.

Dean was still well out of it so Sam took the opportunity to immobilize his shoulder by improvising a sling with the bed sheet. He bound the broken fingers together and finally used some of the bottled water to wipe Dean's flushed face with the face cloth. Leaving the damp cloth draped over Dean's forehead, he drank down the remainder of the water and followed it with another bottle. In the heat of the action he'd forgotten how thirsty he was.

Satisfied that he'd done all he could for now to help Dean, he stood up and took a careful look around the room.

It was unlikely that anyone would read foul play into this scenario. Sam was pretty sure that the cops would buy the implication that Miller, still grieving from his wife's death, would choose the anniversary of her murder to end it all. Still, better safe than sorry. He quickly wiped down any surfaces he thought he or Dean had touched, straightened a couple of items of furniture, then took the gun from Miller's hand, wiped it clean of prints, and carefully replaced it.

With nothing left to do he returned to Dean. Resting a hand on his brother's arm, he winced at the heat he could feel even through the fabric of Dean's shirt. He took the washcloth, now warm from fever-heat, and ran it under tepid water from the kitchen tap. Then, fatigue beginning to set in, he slumped down beside his brother. He began to run the cloth over Dean's face and neck and allowed his mind to replay recent events.

Less than five minutes had passed from the moment Dean burst in through the door until the moment he did a face dive onto the floor.

Five minutes of helpless frustration for Sam as, bound and useless, he could do nothing but watch as his brother, clearly weak and on the point of collapse, had fought and beaten the human and supernatural combination of Randall and Karen Miller.

He saw again Dean's shaking hand set light to the lock of hair and felt the simultaneous heat of Karen's touch. He looked down at the small, neat hole in his T-shirt. Pulling up the shirt revealed a circle of red flesh where Karen's power had begun to burn through his skin, seeking his heart. He shivered as he realized just how close he'd come to dying.

But he was still alive, thanks to Dean. Dean had come through, just like always. Sam tightened his grip on his brother's arm. Somehow, despite the illness raging through his body, Dean had done it. In around fifteen hours, he'd solved the case and rescued Sam. "When I was a kid, I always thought my big brother was a superhero," he murmured softly to Dean. "Looks like I was right."

Dean stirred, and Sam snapped alert as his brother's eyes opened slowly and he looked around in confusion. Then Dean grunted and tried to push himself up. Sam put a hand lightly on his chest to restrain him and was frightened at how easy that was.

"Dean, relax. You're okay. It's all over."

"Sammy?" Dean frowned as he tried to focus on his brother.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam soothed. "I'm fine. You saved me, Dean. It's over."

Dean's eyes flitted from Sam to Miller's body beyond. He frowned. "Karen?"

"You burned the lock of hair, remember? She isn't coming back."

Dean took another good look at Sam and Sam felt tense muscles relax under his hand. Sam was relieved that he seemed to know where he was. Then Dean's brow creased with pain. "Feel like crap, Sam," he mumbled.

"I know. We'll get you fixed up soon."

"Mhmm." Dean barely seemed to take in the words. The effort of talking had sapped all his strength, and his eyes drifted shut. A moment later, they snapped back open. "Rachel?"

"Rachel's fine. She's gone—" Sam bit his tongue before he said "to pick up the car," knowing that would only agitate Dean. "She'll be back soon, then we'll get out of here."

Fortunately, Dean was too out of it to question him, and his eyes shut again.

A moment later, the door opened and Rachel hurried into the room. Her attention went straight to Dean. "We're all set. How is he?"

"In and out; mostly out. I'll have to carry him to the car."

"Not in this lifetime," Dean said weakly, eyes open again. "I can walk."

"No, you can't," Sam said firmly. "You're sick, and your shoulder's dislocated."

"So?" Dean's glare was a weak parody of its usual self but there was determination along with fever-brightness in his eyes. "Help me up, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes, but chose not to argue. Dean would probably pass out halfway to the car, but at least that way Sam wouldn't have to carry him so far, and Dean wouldn't be conscious and complaining while he did it.

Rachel went ahead to open the door, flicking a quick glance at Randall Miller's body. "Are you just going to leave him here?"

Sam nodded. "I've cleaned up our prints as best I can. One of us can make an anonymous call to the police later, tell them we heard a shot. When they investigate, it'll look like a suicide."

She paused for a moment, then shrugged. "That makes sense. Let's go then."

With Sam supporting most of his weight, Dean made it more than halfway to the car before his eyes rolled back in his head. Sam was ready and braced to take the whole of his weight. He shifted his grip and pulled Dean into a firefighter's carry, trying not to jostle the damaged shoulder. He bit his lip, wincing in sympathy at Dean's unconscious whimper of pain, and murmured an apology he knew his brother couldn't hear.

He staggered the final few feet to the Impala. He looked at Rachel. "Can you ride in the back with Dean, try and keep him still so he doesn't bump that shoulder?"

Rachel nodded and got in, and Sam maneuvered Dean in after her until he was lying on his side with his head resting in her lap. Then Sam walked quickly round to the driver's side and got in.

"Hospital?" Rachel asked as the engine started with a low growl.

Sam shook his head and began driving slowly up the track. "We can't take him to the hospital."

Her brow furrowed. "Why not? He's really sick, Sam, and he's hurt. Someone should take a look at him."

Sam shot a quick glance at Dean in the mirror, his resolve wavering. Rachel was right. What if Dean was even sicker than he looked? What if he had internal injuries that Sam had missed? It was the same decision they always had to make whenever one of them was hurt, and he hated it, hated having to balance the inevitable round of difficult questions the hospital staff would ask against the possibility that Dean might die of unseen injuries.

He was pondering his choices when Rachel spoke again.

"I get it. Dean told me all about your … 'job.' I guess hospitals come under the same category as cops, right?"

"Something like that," Sam admitted guardedly, wondering exactly how much Dean had told her. Sure, she'd been a great help but she was also a reporter and he didn't want to involve her more than he had to.

She must have noticed his hesitation.

"It's okay," she said. "I know your job is hunting ghosts and monsters and… things. And that sometimes you have to do things that the police might frown upon. I'm cool with it."

Sam cleared his throat. Looked like Dean had spilled more than a few beans. "Well... good. That's… good."

"So," Rachel went on, "I think we should take Dean to Grandpa's clinic. At the very least he can check Dean out and let you know how bad he is."

Sam hesitated. "It's pretty late. Won't he ask questions?"

"Sure he will. But better him than the police, right?"

She had a point.

Rachel gave an exasperated sigh. "Sam, you can trust Grandpa. He's very open-minded, and he trusts my judgment. It'll be fine, I promise."

Sam remembered yesterday's meeting with Dr. Jackson. Was it only yesterday? It seemed like a month had gone by. Still, it was all fresh in his mind, and he easily recalled liking the doctor.

He glanced at Dean, shivering and unconscious in the back seat, and nodded. "Okay. Call him."