A/N: Thanks to everyone who is sticking with this. I hope the balance between the boys works out okay--I worked hard on it, and I'm not sure it worked out. I know I'm partial, so I'm not always the best judge :) And I do dearly love the limp, and I'm pretty sure it's showing by now. There's some hunt development in this chapter, which is never my strength, so here's to hoping it doesn't sound like the load of crap that I'm pretty sure it is! All other notes in disclaimers in chapter one.

Chapter Seven

Sam's research had been good, but Dean quickly found that it was not enough. They'd been so eager to start the job, that they'd both neglected to finish the research. Besides, Dean reminded himself wryly, they were supposed to still be in the research phase, not smack in the middle of the hunt.

He needed more sources. The Internet was good, but it wasn't quite enough. He'd even hacked into a university's website and gotten on EBSCO and searched academic journals. There were hits, but not enough.

The area of China had some interesting history, but nothing was jumping out at him. The jewels were from an age of magic and sorcery, which Dean figured made sense, but there were no other specific details. More annoyingly, some of the jewels came from different locations with different histories. Some were said to be remnants of a royal line. Others were amassed by personal collectors.

He couldn't find anything about one being involved in a violent death. Not that there were many death certificates from centuries earlier.

He muttered a string of curses. He needed something more concrete, something that gave him more insight. At this point, he wasn't even sure what he was looking for. A spirit seemed to be the most likely culprit—if it was cursed, then it probably wouldn't keep attacking. It would be more clear-cut.

Which, this case had been, at least until they'd gotten there.

Whatever they'd done, they'd managed to make it mad, Dean was sure of that much. A curse didn't respond in anger. So again, that brought him back to a spirit—something tied to the object in there.

Maybe one of them was possessed?

It could be demonic, he supposed, or some kind of captured evil entity condemned to some object as punishment. Now it was trying to earn its way back out through the life force of children.

They'd heard of crazier things.

He chewed his lower lip. It was a workable theory, but that still left the problem of figuring out what was possessed and in what aspect of the display. Clicking, he made his way back to the first page Sam had book-marked, which provided a detailed list of the jewels on display, hoping something would stand out to him this time around.

-o-

Sam sat next to Lara, quietly, until he felt her calm next to him. Her shivering stopped and Sam thought she could have been asleep, were the situation more conducive toward it.

He let his eyes linger on Jeremy. Of all the kids, he seemed the least afraid. As it was, he seemed fairly lost in thought, a blank expression on his face as he let his eyes peruse the walls.

"You okay, Jeremy?" he asked, mostly just wanting to gauge the kid's state of mind.

Jeremy looked at him and nodded. "It's not like I'm great or anything, but I'll manage," he said and the boy's eyes flicked around at his classmates.

Sam nodded back. "You sure?"

"You don't need to worry about me," Jeremy replied. It could have been taken as a cocky statement, even a naive one, but Sam recognized it as the self-sacrifice that it was. He could see it in Jeremy's eyes--the boy knew that things were bad. He knew that Sam was hurt, that Liam was hurt, and that the other kids were scared. He didn't want to add to the problems by pitching in with his own fears.

Sam managed a smile, nodding gratefully. That just left Jaclyn.

The Hispanic girl had retreated mostly within herself, her legs folded to her chest. She rocked a little, blinking slowly. She would need more attention than Jeremy.

Haltingly, he pushed himself to stand, trying to minimize his struggles. He finally had Lara calmed, and he was pretty sure that flailing all over the place would only reignite her concern.

Making it to his feet was no easy task, but he found himself standing. With a deep breath, he began to traverse the short distance to Jaclyn's side.

When he got to Jaclyn, he tried to ease himself down beside her, but found it difficult. He flopped hard to the ground, trying not to wince and attract her attention.

He didn't have much luck with the task.

When he managed to get his breathing under control, he found her looking at him. "You're still bleeding," she said.

He smiled, but he was pretty sure it looked like a grimace. "I'm okay," he said, letting his head rest against the wall.

She didn't seem to believe him, but she didn't say anything for a moment. "Are you scared?"

Sam managed a smile at this one. "A little," he admitted. "But let me tell you something."

The hope in her eyes made him hesitate, made him ache.

He refused to let his fear show. "I have a brother out there--Dean."

"The guy you were with?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "And I know he's doing everything he can to figure out a way to get us out of here."

"What if he can't find a way?"

It was an innocent question, a worthwhile question, one Sam may have asked himself if he'd been alone. But he swallowed. "He will," he told her, holding her gaze.

Her forehead crinkled and she cocked her head. "How can you be sure?"

"He's my brother," Sam replied simply. "It's kind of what he does."

She studied him a moment longer, before smiling. "I don't have a brother," she said. "I always wanted one though. My little sister doesn't like me very much."

It was Sam's turn to chuckle, a breathless, painful movement. He cut it off with the sting of tears in his eyes. "Well, they're not always perfect," Sam said. "But they come through when it counts."

Jaclyn's smile was content and peaceful and she scooted closer to Sam, tentatively letting her head rest on his arm.

Sam tensed instinctively; she was so small, seemed so delicate. But she relaxed further and Sam felt her warmth flare through him, covering the coldness of his injuries.

He let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes. He let his mind drift, let himself believe that when he opened his eyes that everything would somehow be better.

-o-

Dean remembered why he hated research. There were too many dead ends. Too many places where the information just dried up. Too many periods of sitting and thinking.

The last thing Dean wanted to do was to sit and think.

He sighed, looking around. The scene was much the same. The guards were still meandering back and forth, somewhere between tense and bored. Some of the employees had even gone home, but the curator was still sitting on a bench near the entrance.

A light bulb went off in Dean's head.

The curator. If anyone would know about the history of the pieces in the museum, the curator would. He would know history, stories, theories, myth.

Dean snapped the laptop shut, not hesitating as he stood and walked over.

Dr. Huber was positively a wreck, gnawing distractedly on a fingernail while he oversaw the ineffectual actions of his employees. He alternated between pacing and standing still, a dilemma which Dean understood well.

He edged toward him carefully, not wanting to spook him. The man seemed distant and security had discouraged all other attempts at people talking to them whatsoever. Dean knew his only in was the fact that he'd been in the museum when it happened.

When he got close enough, the curator looked at him blandly. "Sir, we're going to have to ask you to keep your distance," he said. "Just for the time being."

"Oh, I know," Dean replied easily. "I was inside when it happened."

The man seemed to look at him more carefully. "Yes, yes you were," he said, straightening a little. "You're doing all right, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said quickly. "Never better."

"Good," Dr. Huber said.

"Though I was wondering," Dean interrupted before the man could move away. "I didn't get a chance to read up on all the exhibits before we had to leave."

"We can reimburse you," Dr. Huber said quickly. "Give you a ticket for another day."

Dean forced himself to brighten. "That'd be wonderful," he lied. "I was especially interested in the Jewels of the East exhibit."

At this, Dr. Huber looked up, his face somewhat surprised. "Really?" he asked. "What about it?"

Dean held in his grin. This was going to be too easy. "They're amazing pieces," Dean started.

The smile Dr. Huber gave was reserved and timid. "They are," he agreed. "Some of the finest finds in recent archaeological history."

"I was wondering though, about the history of some of them," Dean ventured. "Pieces like that--of that quality--there has to be some real interesting background on them."

Dr. Huber's eyes were positively shining now. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact," he said. "They do have a fascinating history."

"Really?" Dean asked, feigning surprise. "You think you could tell me about them?"

-o-

Twenty minutes later, Dean had all the information he needed--and then some. Once the man had gotten started, Dean's problem had been to keep him focused. Undoubtedly, the curator could have rambled all day.

But Dean had the information he needed, and now he needed to relay it back to Sam. Ducking away, he pulled himself to the side of the pavilion under the shade of a hedge.

His fingers were trembling with relief and anticipation as he dialed Sam's number. It rang...once...twice...and Dean's heart began to sink.

Sam would be waiting for the call. Sam should answer right away, unless...

It rang three times, four.

On the fifth ring, it connected.

"'lo?" Sam's voice was bleary and tired.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah," came the breathless reply.

"Sammy, you okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, quickly, and his voice was shaky.

"You still bleeding?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam's voice seemed to grow stronger, clearer, though it was clipped. "What'd you find?"

Dean sighed, wishing again that he could be there with his brother. He knew the kid was lying to him, couldn't even blame him for it, but not knowing was driving him crazy. "Well, I think the jewel's possessed."

"Possessed? By a demon?"

"No, a spirit," Dean said, looking at the laptop again. "It seems that centuries ago in ancient China there was this mystic, a very powerful one at that. She was vain though, and selfish. Not the type who used her powers for good altruistic purposes, if you know what I'm saying. Well, apparently she had this thing for jewels--exotic and big ones. She'd kill for them--literally. She crossed one person too many though and legend says she was cursed to be trapped inside the thing."

"So it's a spirit?" Sam repeated, and Dean's concerned spiked. Sam was acting more than a little sluggish on the brainstorming, not making the connections like he usually would. This did not bode well for Sam's state of mind, and he needed his brother completely alert to make it out of there alive.

"A powerful one at that," Dean said. "I figure she was trapped in there and then they buried the jewel--got it as far away from people as possible to make sure she couldn't do any harm. But when the excavations started happening and they stumbled across it--she had access to people again."

"And with people, came power," Sam said, finally following the train of thought. "So what's with the draining of life forces?"

"Well, maybe she's trying to use their life forces to regain her own. Maybe if she has enough power she can get out of the thing."

Sam paused, seemed to be considering it. "Seems to fit with the pattern. The attacks are getting closer and closer together."

"And it shows why she's able to do so much harm now. She must be getting pretty close to having enough power to come back if she can throw things around."

"So pretty much they've unleashed a psychotic spirit hell-bent on destruction and death?"

The resignation in Sam's voice was palpable, Dean would have given anything to be there to joke it away. He'd still try, but the strain of separation weighed heavily on their call. "Seems that way. I can only imagine the grudge she has after being cooped up in a jewel for centuries."

Sam sighed. "So how do we get rid of her?"

The question made Dean wince. Sam sounded hopeful, a bit desperate, and Dean had no answers. "I'm still working on that part."

"How long do you think?" Sam's question was innocent and quiet, but Dean sensed the desperation behind it.

"How are you doing?" Dean asked, changing the subject.

"Never better," Sam quipped. "It's Liam, though. He's getting worse."

"You don't exactly sound up to par yourself there, little brother."

At that, Sam laughed, short and dry. "I'm not exactly ready to run a marathon or anything, but I'm okay."

"Has the bleeding stopped?" Dean persisted.

"Dean--" The exasperation in Sam's voice was clear.

"Sam, has the bleeding stopped?" Dean asked again, leaving no room for argument.

"Almost," Sam admitted. "It's slowed a lot."

"But you're still losing it?" Dean wanted nothing more than to assess his brother himself, to apply his own pressure bandages, or, better yet, bundle Sam up and get him to the hospital as fast as he could.

That wasn't an option.

He could almost see Sam hanging his head. "Yeah."

There were no words. There was nothing to say. Dean's knees felt weak and he swallowed hard. Sam was in trouble. The blood loss had to be affecting his kid brother a lot by now. He couldn't hold out much longer—not without help.

They were running out of time.

And Dean didn't know quite what do to.

-o-

Sam was a good liar, smooth and resolute in his attempts, so earnest that everyone believed him. It was just a matter of making the decision to lie, which he didn't like to do, and when he didn't, he was as transparent as glass.

But when he put his mind to it, when he was decided that lying was his best recourse, not even Dean could tell.

Usually, anyway.

He wanted to lie to his brother now. He didn't want Dean to worry. Dean had enough on his plate with all the research and the burden of figuring a way to get Sam out—Sam didn't want to freak him out by telling him just how hazy things were.

The problem was that things really were hazy. In fact, he was having trouble staying focused at all, and his body was betraying him.

"Dean, I'm...," Sam tried to explain, tried to assure his brother. But his voice was giving out, his awareness fleeting. He just had to stay awake, just to tell Dean, just for the kids.

"Sam? Sammy?"

Dean was calling his name, more frantically Sam could tell, but nothing could keep him there long enough to reply.

-o-

Dean's grip on the phone was nearly crushing, his knuckles white and his stance desperate. He had given up discretion and was yelling in earnest over the cell phone.

Nothingness garbled back at him. The line was still intact—it wasn't static—but there was no voice, no Sam, and Dean felt his control slipping. Sam was hurt—worse than he let on. And Dean was not with him, not there to help him, not there to make it okay.

He needed to get in there--now. He needed to be with Sam, see just how bad off Sam was. But, even if he could get in and trust Grace alone on the outside, the inner-workings of the museum were locked. He'd have no way to get to where Sam was.

Then he heard voices—

"Sam?" he asked, hopeful.

But the voices were distance and small. He listened.

"...Maybe we should," someone was saying.

"You can't just take someone's cell phone!" another answered back. "That's stealing!"

"But what if it's someone important and he doesn't wake up? What if he needs to wake up? I don't know what else to do."

It was the kids. The kids were trying to figure out what to do. "Hey!" he yelled, louder now, hoping to get their attention. "Pick up!"

Whether they heard him or had merely made up their minds, a second later a tentative voice crackled over the line. "Hello?"

"Who is this?" Dean demanded, forgetting that he was dealing with children.

"Jaclyn." Her shaking, timid voice made him bite his tongue.

Dean ducked farther away from the center of activity. A pair of policemen was now patrolling the front, the area roped off. Grace was playing another game with the children, though Dean could see her nervous glances back at him. He needed to focus, and he certainly didn't need any prying eyes or ears. "Jaclyn, my name's Dean."

"Sam's brother?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Can you put Sam back on the phone?"

Her breathing faltered a little. "Sam won't wake up," she said.

Dean forced himself to stay calm, to take easy, even breaths. "It's okay, alright?" he said.

"Why won't he wake up?" She sounded suspiciously near tears.

"Just relax," Dean said, his voice remarkable soothing. He needed to keep it together, he needed this kid to keep it together. It was his only hope—Sam's only hope. "Is everyone else okay?"

"Everyone except Sam and Liam," she said, her voice slower now, a bit steadier.

"But they're both breathing, right?"

"Daniel's watching Liam. He hasn't woken up, but Sam said he'd be okay."

"Good," Dean encouraged, thankful for that much. "Now, Jaclyn, I need you to help me out, okay? Can you help me?"

"I think so."

He nodded to no one. "I need you to look at Sam," he said. "Can you do that for me?"

"I...yeah...I can see him," the girl replied.

Turning back toward the building, Dean looked at it, wishing for some way in, some way to help his brother. "What's wrong with him? Can you see where he's hurt?"

"His head—it's bleeding. And he was holding his side earlier. There's...blood."

Dean's heart clenched, and he turned back toward the street again. "How much?"

"I...," her voice trailed off. "I don't know. There's some...on the floor. And on his hand. He used a shirt to try to stop it, but I can't...I can't tell."

"You're sure he's breathing?" he asked again, knowing it was redundant but not caring. This was a kid, an eight year old, and he hardly trusted trained medical professionals with his kid brother, much less scared little girls who hadn't even gotten past the second grade.

There was a pause. "His chest is moving up and down and stuff but I don't know."

"Can you wake him up?"

"We've tried," the little girl explained, her voice shaky. "We called him and stuff. But he won't wake up. Is he okay?"

"Jaclyn, sweetie, I need you to try to wake him up, okay?" he said, trying to keep his voice even and calm. "I want you to go to the side that's not hurt and I want you to shake him for me. Okay?"

"Okay...," she said, sounding uncertain. There was the sound of movement. "What if I hurt him?"

It was so innocent he might have laughed. To think of this small child harming his 6'4'' Sasquatch of a little brother... "Just don't touch him where he's hurt and he'll be fine," he said, hoping that much was true. Without seeing Sam, he had no way of gauging Sam's injuries, and there was no way to expect a child to be able to assess what was wrong with his brother. "You're not going to hurt him, I promise."

There was a pause then he heard a rustling. "Sam? Sam," the girl's voice called. "Sam, your brother wants to talk to you."

The girl was good, Dean had to give her that. If anything would wake Sam up, that would probably do it. Dean held his breathe, waiting.

"Sam!" her voice called again.

"What if he dies?" another voice said, more shrill. "What if he's already dead and we're going to die too?"

"He's not dead!" Jaclyn said, but Dean noted that she didn't sound very sure of herself. Whatever shape Sam was in, it wasn't good.

"You don't know that!" the other girl accused.

"Dude, his chest is moving," a boy's voice said reasonably. "So I think he's alive."

Dean felt himself relax a little. If the kids could tell Sam was alive, then his breathing couldn't be too impeded. He let himself sit on a bench, perched on the edge, listening, waiting.

"Hello?" Jaclyn said into the phone again, snapping Dean to attention.

He shot to his feet. "Yeah," he said quickly, anxiously.

"He won't wake up."

"It's okay," Dean said gently. "But I need you to try again."

"We've tried--" Jaclyn said.

Dean shook his head. "This is important. I need you to get some water from the sink."

"What for?" The suspicion in her voice was apparent and Dean almost cringed.

"You're going to take some water—some cold water—and you're going to splash it on Sam's face."

"But--"

"Just do it," he said, more harshly than she intended.

"Okay." Her voice was meek, small.

He heard movement, then the sound of running water.

"What are you doing?" another girl's voice asked.

"I just—he said—I don't know," Jaclyn replied and Dean winced at the tremor in her young voice.

There was more movement and Dean found himself pacing. This had to work. He had to talk to Sam. If Sam was out cold then he had no recourse. He had nothing he could do. He needed Sam to get rid of this thing. He needed Sam to get himself out.

Mostly he just needed Sam to be okay, because he didn't know what to do if Sam wasn't.