A/N: Goodness gracious. I am dead from the premiere, just as I expected. It's taken me days to recover. I'm nervously posting this without having the next bit finished, which is rare for me to do. I like a buffer. Even if the next chapter will be the last (it could be, or it could go on for one beyond it...), I don't like not being done. Blame Kripke for any delays. I know I will.


Before:
The wind cut off his words, howling an inhuman cry. Before Dean could make it to his brother, Sam flew backward through the air with a startled cry, disappearing into the swirling snow.

Sweet Caroline
Chapter 18

One second he was on the verge of punching Dean, and the next he was airborne.

For all Sam knew, a giant hand had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him into eddying whiteness. He was a mess of confusion, uncertain which way was up and which down. Limbs pinwheeling, he lost his grip on the sawed-off. He was thrown so fast it felt like he'd left his stomach behind. His flight came to an abrupt halt, his midsection crashing into something immoveable and hard. That proved his stomach hadn't actually left him, at least. The breath rushed out of his lungs, diaphragm in spasm and refusing to allow any air back in. He heaved, sliding off the rounded stone monument. His arms and legs wouldn't cooperate. He landed in a heap.

"Sam!" Dean's cry came from far away.

Black blotches crept across his vision. The wind gusted around him. Tucking his face down nearly into snow, all Sam could do was try to regain his breath. He forced himself to relax, knowing if he didn't he'd be in an all-out panic in a second. Time wasn't on his side. Before he had even sucked in one full inhalation, infinite coldness enveloped him, carrying him further still from Dean. His back collided with a tree trunk, agony flaring from his bruised shoulder both outward and inward, hot and a second later ice cold. He gurgled, slumping down into a semi-conscious haze. The noise in his ears crescendoed, sounding oddly like pitiable sobs. He felt something tugging at him, pulling his arms. Still half out of it, Sam put up what fight he could, more than he'd mustered so far.

"Easy. Easy, Sammy. It's me." Dean was so close it startled Sam into compliance. His brother slapped him on the face gently. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. "Let's get out of here before that bitch comes back. Can you move?"

Sam's eyes must have crossed, because there were two worried Deans in front of him. Everything looped in pairs. Retching, he turned away. Dean guided him, held him up and out of it while he puked half-digested Sunkist and Fritos all over the place. Gross. He groaned, trying to get his body under control. Heavy coldness settled on his chest, pressing.

"Sorry," he said.

Double worried Deans frowned. "I can't carry you, man. You're going to have to help me a little."

Somehow he was on his feet, no time to talk. Every sliding step made a different part of his body hurt, but it was all really the same thing. Warm wetness trailed down his ribcage, under his shirt. Not snow. Definitely not snow. His left leg gave out. Dean grunted, struggling to compensate. His left leg started functioning again, and then his right leg went out. Dean bodily hauled him along. Sam was sorry. He didn't know what had happened. His right shoulder felt wrong. Numb and sharp. Breathing hurt, and the weight in his chest grew. The world went upside-down, and then snow fell in his face, up his nose.

"Oh my god, is he okay?" Graham asked. "He needs a doctor."

"He's fine. I need you to keep digging," Dean said, looking away from Sam. "No matter what happens around you, keep digging. We've got to end this fast."

Now that his world was at rest, Sam started to come back. He saw Dean peering down at him, thankfully back in the singular. It was impossible for much damage to have been inflicted in the matter of a minute, so the expression on his brother's face was confusing and scary. He shivered, teeth chattering. The coldness seemed to come from within, taking him over.

Dean brushed the hair out of Sam's eyes, which was so bizarre he could only blink.

"You back with me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Not really. God, it was cold. "What happened?"

"The spirit just played Graveyard Pinball with you. She got you when you stepped outside the circle."

Sam didn't remember crossing the salt line. He made to sit up, deciding he wasn't ready for that. Swallowing a moan, he clenched his teeth as pain ratcheted higher. Oh, something was not right with his shoulder, but he had to do what Dad had always tried to make him do his whole life – be stronger than he actually was.

They couldn't finish this with Dean preoccupied about him. Sam cleared his throat. He could do it. He could sit. He could keep the protective circle intact. If he failed at that, he could aim and he could pull a trigger. He'd have to. Now that they knew she was there, he'd be better prepared in an attack. Doubt and baffling sadness festered, threatening to pull him down.

"That deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball," Sam said thickly.

Dean snorted.

This time when Sam moved to sit up, he succeeded. He'd only been stunned for a second. Adrenaline fueled him, some internal strength he was amazed he had. "Give me my shotgun. I'm okay, just had the wind knocked out of me."

Dean didn't look for a second like he believed a word of it, but he stood and stepped away, coming back with the requested weapon.

Sam nodded, willing his arm not to shake from the solidity of it. Iciness seeped into the seat of his pants, curling through him like tendrils. He wanted nothing more than to give it another minute, but he struggled to his feet, using the sawed-off as a crutch. Dean stood near him, watching. Sam waved him off, stumbling only slightly when he was upright.

The deputy gave Sam an anxious look he ignored as he paced very, very slowly in an attempt to convince his body to do what his brain needed it to; there was a reason Sam always balked about what Dad thought he could do versus what he actually could. He shook all over, legs threatening to abandon him. He blinked away the falling snow, trying to clear his vision. It happened fast. Seemingly from nowhere, power set his muscles, the feeling unnatural. The pain that robbed him of breath subsided to a distant throb. It was almost as if he weren't really experiencing it. The wind shrieked and spun, picking up again. He understood the coldcoldcold within him half a second before he realized that while Dean had gone after him, no one had watched the salt.

"Dean, she's…" he garbled out. His vocal chords were tight and wrong and wouldn't work.

Dean took a step toward him, expression alarmed. Then all hell broke loose.

The snow turned into a thick, intense tornado within their protective circle. Everything was white. Sam could see clearly, though he knew he shouldn't be able to, as if physical sight was irrelevant. He felt his arm lift, brandishing the shotgun with more energy than he had. He took several halting steps toward Graham, who cowed down in the hole completely unaware Sam was pointing a gun at his head. He fought. Sam battled with all he had to stop it, but his hands and fingers were not his own. He was so cold.

Inside him somehow, Caroline was pain, old and deep, rotting with horror and so much anger. She made him pull the trigger, but as he did something crashed into him, knocking him back several steps. The shot went into the air. Smoke, a loud boom, a shout of his name all rained down. Fire exploded in his shoulder, and the pain was a catalyst for control. Sam was the owner of his body again. He let go of the weapon, shaking and weak.

Dean stood in front of him, only a couple of arm lengths away, chest heaving.

Through the snow, Sam could see his brother's eyes were fraught with concern but his face was hard with determination. Sam nodded, switching his gaze to the gun in his brother's hands.

"Dean," he said, feeling Caroline coming back already. "You have to. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched, evidence he was waging his own inner skirmish. Sam watched Dean aim at him, but turn his head slightly to speak to Graham, uttering words he could not hear.

Sam knew what he had to do. He took a fumbling step back, but stopped himself. If he crossed the line, she could pull out of him and be an even bigger danger to Dean and Graham. In him, she was limited to his physical capability but he was also protection. The pain faded; she was coming back. Sam never thought he'd want agony to continue, but he did. He needed the pain to stay himself.

He didn't get his wishes. Numbness seeped through him, control lost. She was using him like a puppet. Sam frantically wondered if this was what possession was like, if he'd remember any of it later. If he lived. His body took a step toward Dean, pulling the Taurus from his waistband.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, trying to reach through to him.

It didn't matter. Sam could hear Dean, but he couldn't change anything. His arm aimed. Inside himself, he was pain, fresh and new, blooming with horror and so much fear.

But then Dean moved with extraordinary speed. Wrestling with Sam for the weapon, he succeeded in knocking it to the ground. They shuffled around, skirting the edges of salt. Now Sam wondered if he should try to throw himself out. The thought was academic. He could only go where the spirit moved him, and it moved him to fight his brother. A left hook snapped Sam's head back, but didn't knock him down. The blows Dean landed were incidental, careful; his goal was clearly to not cause real damage.

The spirit controlling Sam was not so hampered. He witnessed every blow to Dean's face. He couldn't stop the kick to his brother's already injured ribcage. He heard the crack as at least one rib gave way to the brutality. Saw the blood flowing from Dean's nose, and the reopened gash on his cheekbone. The Taurus wasn't the only handgun he had been armed with. The thing in him grabbed for it, and Sam could only watch the alarm on Dean's face when the Colt revolver was in his hand.

No. Sam would not let this happen. Focusing all of his mental energy, he forced his aim to be bad, pulling his arm back. It was the only victory he had, and it was too small. He couldn't keep the Colt from firing, the bullet from hitting. He could only watch as Dean cried out and crumpled scarily fast. The exertion from his internal battle left Sam unable to even try to go to his brother, who just lay there unmoving.

A tremendous blow from behind smashed into his bad shoulder, sending him reeling in overwhelming pain. Sam jerked back into control yet again. Flopping to his knees, he fought now against the black spots filling his vision instead of the malevolent spirit. Graham was standing above him with a shovel raised, mouth moving as if he were saying something. Sam held up a hand to ward off another blow.

Oh god, Dean. He scrambled, half-crawling to his brother's side. He saw Dean moving finally, sitting up with a hand to his right side. The blood looked black and slick and there was so much of it. Sam felt the spirit again. Damnit, this had to end. He shifted, eyes lighting on a gap in the salt line. Giving Dean a regretful glance, he took the opportunity while he could, dragging himself out.

"Seal it," he said when he'd crossed over, hoping like hell Graham or Dean had the wherewithal to lock him and the spirit on the other side. "Seal it off."

Sam had a feeble grip on consciousness. His whole world was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and horrible, whole-body misery. Cold snow was quickly deadening the worst of his pain, and cold anguish from the spirit strongly clawed for dominance. He choked and coughed, as if he could expel it from him. Oh god, he'd shot Dean. Again. Dry heaving left him even weaker. He trembled like a leaf.

"Dean." Sam hadn't meant to say it, knowing Dean had to stay inside the circle to be safe but would come at his call, bullet wound or not.

"Jesus, Sammy." And there was Dean, laying down the salt like he should, then hobbling across it like he shouldn't, blood running down his side. "I don't know how else to get it out of you."

Gazing up with a squint, Sam saw the shotgun aimed at him and Dean backing away with interminable anguish on his face, putting space between them. Sam understood why. Hunched in pain both physical and emotional, Dean looked half-broken in the snow-filled, dim light.

"Don't." Sam knew if they waited, if Dean just dug and burned the corpse it was only a matter of time until he was free. He could hold out that long. "Wait."

Dean's face only twisted more, and Sam realized his brother had no way of knowing what he meant, or that he was even the one speaking. He nodded, getting his left hand under him to push himself up. It might not work. It might only make matters worse, but he understood Dean had to try. Closing his eyes, he felt the shot before he heard it. Flying back to the ground, salt pellets abraded his face, his arm and it felt like his chest had been kicked in. A mix of hot, fiery pain burned, encompassing every inch of his body. He grayed out, prevented from passing out only by a firm, but gentle, hand on his face.

He opened his eyes, seeing nothing. He wasn't sure; he couldn't tell if she was gone or not. Dean was there, leaning close to him, his lips moving but for a moment Sam couldn't decipher the words.

"Shit," was the first word Sam heard. "God, I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't know what it would do to you before we could light her up. Is it gone?"

Sam had shot his brother with an actual bullet, and Dean was apologizing to him. It was so ridiculous he could only groan in pain. Dean's hand was on his face, and he struggled. Assessing himself, he felt…like absolute crap. But he also felt alone.

"Dean, I shot you," he said weakly, when all he meant to say was the spirit wasn't in him anymore.

"It wasn't you this time either, Sam." Dean winced, though, involuntarily reaching to press on the hole in his side. His face screwed up in pain. "It's through-and-through. Barely grazed me. We've gotta work on your aim."

Sam choked back a strained laugh, knowing his aim was just fine. There was no way a shot at that close range could be a simple through-and-through, even if Sam had managed to alter the trajectory. Dean was lying to him, but Sam let him. They had to move, fast, get back to safety and neither of them could. The night was momentarily calm, eerily quiet except for the sound of Graham digging and muttering to himself in hysterical, high tones. At least the guy was smart enough to keep going. Sam shivered, unable to feel much except pervasive cold. This time he was aware of shock. The sky was falling, a familiar sensation.

"Stay with me," Dean ordered. He coughed, turning away to spit on the ground. When he turned back to Sam, there was a dark spot at the corner of his lips. "This is like friggin' déjà vu. We've got to get back in there."

"Okay," Sam said, but instead of moving he worriedly reached for Dean's jacket and pushed it back. There was so much blood Sam couldn't tell where the actual bullet hole was. "Oh, Dean, damnit."

 

"Leave it." Dean shoved Sam's hand away, scowling. He pulled Sam up, gasping in pain before he snarled it into submission. "We don't have time for this."

If Dean could work past a gaping hole in his side and substantial blood loss, Sam could push away his pain and weakness. Sam saw he'd only made it two steps out of the protective circle, so it wasn't like they had far to go. He made his legs bear his weight, not wanting to burden his brother any more than he had to. They leaned on each other almost equally. Together they could reach the safety of the circle and help Graham finish this.

Instead, together their legs were cut out from under them by a force that felt physical, but wasn't. Losing his grip on Dean, Sam cried out in shocked pain as he hit the ground. But he couldn't hear himself. All he could hear was the angry screech of Caroline Sellke and his brother screaming.

"Dean," he gasped, prostrate in the snow for the millionth time that night.

Flipping onto his back, Sam searched for his brother but saw only bursts of red and black and white. He heard enough to know Dean was being thrown around somewhere to his left. He heard the sickening thuds. His own injuries not forgotten but deemed unimportant, Sam got to his hands and knees, moving slowly for the weapons cache. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't know if he could arm himself fast enough to save his brother.

The world spun, making his journey much more difficult than it should have been. Through the hum that seemed to be permanent in his ears, he heard the distinctive sound of metal against old wood. Sam couldn't hear Dean's shouts anymore, and that frightened him terribly.

"What should I do?" Graham asked when Sam got close to the grave. "Tell me what to do!"

"Break it open and get out of there," Sam panted, grabbing the can of lighter fluid instead of a weapon. He got to his knees, wavering on the edge of the grave. His arms wouldn't work. He couldn't hear Dean. "Douse the body with salt and accelerant. Burn it."

Graham looked at him wildly, apparently about four seconds away from a meltdown. Sweaty and covered in dirt from head to toe. But he did what was asked with shaky hands and without question. His eyes were huge with disbelief and trauma.

Sam could empathize. If the situation were different, he'd take the time to be grateful, or to feel sorry for the emotional distress. Graham was hardly a blip on his concern radar. He couldn't hear Dean. All around them, the snow swirled unnaturally. Caroline had given up beating the crap out of Dean to make one last-ditch effort to stop her demise, seemingly trying to break through the salt line.

She failed. Caroline Sellke's spirit was forced into rest as her body had been forced into death. The second Graham tossed a match into the grave, it whooshed into a ball of flames. The spirit screamed out of existence, leaving the night quiet except for the crackle of fire.

It always seemed so anticlimactic. The atmosphere was quickly filled with nothing but the thick smell of fuel, char and smoke. Everything glowed orange. The fucking snow even stopped. Sam breathed with difficulty; sharp hurt pierced him with every inhalation. He struggled to get to his feet. With the illumination to help him, Sam lurched forward to find his brother. A pit in his stomach grew, the fear he'd find Dean dead. He heard Graham call out.

"Dean," he said, spotting his brother's motionless form only a few feet away. They'd both spent too much time in this damned cemetery. "Dean!"

Sam collapsed to his knees next to Dean, feeling like he'd done this all before. He had. The end result had to be the same. Dean had to be alive. His right arm wouldn't function, uselessly hanging at his side. It was so heavy Sam tilted to the side as he reached for Dean's neck with his left hand. If he could will it, there would be a pulse. He felt proof that his brother's heart still beat.

"Oh god," Graham said. "Just hold on. It's okay, it's okay. Damnit. I'm calling it in."

Vaguely, Sam thought he should object. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He didn't know how it happened, but he was on the ground facing Dean. Wet and cold everywhere. The hum in his ears turned into static, white noise making it impossible to hear anything. As if it were sentient, the static crept from his ears to the edges of his vision. It swallowed him whole.