What's Dead Should Stay Dead
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I'd be taking time off this summer and going somewhere more exciting than Minnesota to visit my folks.
Thank you: As always to Wysawyg and her infamous beta bat which she used to knock some sense into me. Thanks, I needed that.
A Special Thank you: To Jen for late night discussions over the questionable state of our sanity and the impressive, virtual butt-kicking. Also to Heather03nmg for her research and expertise – you're awesome!
Warning: Very minor season 2 spoilers. If you blink – you'll miss 'em!
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Regaining his composure, Dean reached a decision. He pulled out Sam's cell phone and turned it back on. Dialing a number he now knew by heart, Dean waited through the first two rings before the phone was answered. "Sam's been hurt, he's hurt pretty bad," Dean said speaking quickly, rushing to get through his explanation. "I can't leave him here alone and I need help." Dean's voice cracked slightly and he swallowed hard before continuing. "How long would it take you to get to Flatt Plains, Iowa?"
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Allamakee County Hospital
Pulling his truck to a stop inside the small parking garage at the hospital, the flannel clad man pulled his cap down further over his eyes and stepped out of the dusty cab. He strode towards the stairs at a quick, even clip covering a quarter the length of the garage before the door slammed closed. His boots pounded on the concrete.
It did not take him long to find the post surgical unit or the nurses desk. "Sam Elden," He snapped out.
"Of course," a younger blond nurse muttered not looking up from her charts.
"Room 319," an older, gray-haired nurse replied pointing down the hall. "He's not awake yet, but…" She stopped when the rough-looking man walked away before she finished. She sat down with a huff and muttered, "Well, he's definitely related to those boys."
Dean looked up as the door to Sam's room slowly creaked open. "Come on in, Bobby," Dean called in a hushed voice. "He's still out."
Bobby squeezed into the small room and tried to fit into the corner nook. He managed to essentially fall into the window and took a seat on the sill. "How is he?" He asked gruffly. Bobby seemed to lack the ability to whisper unless he was hunting and Dean frowned.
"They have him on some massive painkillers," Dean informed him. "He hasn't even moved in the two hours he's been out of surgery." Dean paused. "For the second time."
"They had to go back in?" Bobby asked, pushing his cap further up on his forehead. While he always had an easier time relating to Dean because of their shared passion for cars and hunting, he had a soft spot for both of John Winchester's boys. Bobby preferred his mountain of books to Sam's Internet research, but it had always been common ground for them. He remembered many a time, a young Sam had worn him out with his insatiable desire for knowledge. "What happened?"
"That's part of the problem," Dean replied. The absolute exhaustion in Dean's voice registered with Bobby. "The first doctor missed a bleeder," Dean continued rubbing his hand along the stubble on his chin. "Sam was hemorrhaging, but luckily his nurse at the time reacted quickly or I might have lost him, Bobby."
"He's fine now?" Bobby asked. He was not convinced. Sam looked extremely pale.
"So they say," Dean replied softly. "He was attacked in the cemetery by, jeez I can't believe I'm going to say this, by some sort of ghoulish zombie creature."
Bobby frowned, took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair causing it to stick out wildly in all directions. He was tempted to ask Dean if he was kidding, but he knew Dean didn't joke about anything pertaining to his brother's safety. One of these days, Bobby was afraid Dean would do something stupid or incredibly foolhardy to keep his brother safe. "Are you sure?" he asked unable to find another way to voice his doubt. He was tired after covering two hundred miles in less than three hours.
"I'm not sure of anything right now," Dean admitted tiredly. "Sam seemed pretty sure and he told me something was wrong before they took him back to surgery."
"Something was wrong," Bobby stated. "Let me finish," he said at Dean's look of frustration. "Doesn't mean there isn't something weird going on here, just means it may not be as bad as you think."
"It was the way he said it," Dean contradicted. "Sam sounded like he knew something and after everything that's happened I'm inclined to believe his hunches."
Bobby nodded in agreement. "Thing is, ghouls are considered mythical monsters, not real supernatural entities. Course, by definition a monster is born, not a person who's been turned so we should be safe there."
"Safe from a mythical monster that actually does exist and that ate a hunk of Sam's chest?" Dean asked his voice growing in volume. "That doesn't seem like the delightfully paranoid Bobby I've come to know and respect."
"Calm down, Dean," Bobby replied, shoving his cap back on his head. "I mean safe from Sam turning into one of those things. If he really is being affected by it, I'll have to do some research of my own. Everything I've ever read simply says they kill by ripping and devouring. Theoretically, Sam should be safe, but you know I…" Bobby stopped short when he noticed Sam stirring.
"Sam?" Dean asked. "Are you awake?"
"Who could sleep with you two bickering like an old married couple," Sam replied weakly in a raspy whisper. He opened his eyes and flicked them in Dean's direction. "Thirsty."
"Let me grab a nurse," Bobby offered, standing up and squeezing back through the small room. "They'll want to know he's awake."
"Thanks," Dean replied, shooting Bobby a grateful look. The second shift nurse had delivered a cup of ice chips for Sam about half an hour ago and left it with strict instructions not to give Sam more than a couple of small spoonfuls. Any more and Sam might get nauseous and vomit. That was more than enough incentive for Dean to obey her orders.
He grabbed the cup and scooped up a spoonful of ice chips. "How about if I help you with this one?" he asked, relieving Sam of the burden of asking for help.
Sam cast Dean a look of gratitude, but otherwise made no comment. Instead he compliantly opened his mouth and allowed Dean to spoon feed him ice chips. He avoided eye contact with Dean, ashamed of his weakness.
"You're awake," Jean the gray-haired nurse from the desk stated. "How are feeling?" she asked slipping into the room, easily avoiding the major obstacles.
"Still tired," Sam replied. He shifted in the bed and licked his lips. "My throat is sore."
Jean nodded and explained, "They had to intubate you during surgery. Your throat may be a bit sore for awhile." She quickly took his temperature and read the display. "Temp's still at 101.2, but that should start to come back down. Do you have any other pain?"
"No," Sam replied not reassured by that fact. He had been pain-free the first time he woke up.
"Good," Jean said, fussing with Sam's pillows and blankets. "You let me know when that changes. I'm going to bring in an incentive spirometer for you to start breathing exercises. The next time you wake up you should have enough energy to use it. I'll show you how when I bring it in. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed. He waited until the nurse left the room before he relaxed back into the pillows.
"Sam, how are you really feeling?" Dean asked, his eyes probing into Sam's soul seeking out the truth.
"I'm not hurting," Sam evaded in a scratchy voice. He fiddled with canula tubing that ran down beside him avoiding Dean's questioning gaze.
Dean sighed. He hadn't wanted to ask this question. "Do you still feel like something is wrong?"
"I think maybe," Sam began, resting one hand lightly on his stomach. "I don't know. I don't feel much of anything right now except for this pit in my stomach."
"Damn, Sammy," Dean quipped with a slight grin. "Those are some pretty good drugs they have you on."
"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied, closing his eyes. His breathing gradually evened out and slowed and his fingers fell away from the plastic tubing and softly back onto the bed.
Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. He did not believe for a moment that Sam was okay. He didn't even need to recalibrate his Sammy radar to know that. It hung in the air, the heavy weight of apprehension bearing down on him. Dean needed to figure out what was going on with Sam and he was beginning to think the place to start was at the cemetery. Now that Bobby was here to watch over Sam he could leave to complete the salt and burn. While he was there, he was getting back his phone and wrangling the truth from the old caretaker. It was then Dean registered the fact Bobby had not returned.
Dean sighed in frustration. Bobby was supposed to be here to help and he disappeared? That was not like him. Dean rested his head in his hands and contemplated his next move. It was still only late afternoon and too early for a salt and burn. He could start with the caretaker, knock that know-it-all attitude out of him and find out what he thought was wrong with Sam. The more he thought about it, the more he figured it was the best way to start. He must have dozed off for a minute because when he heard a thud near his feet it startled him awake and he jumped in his chair.
"Checked you out of that motel on my way through earlier," Bobby explained. "Figured you boys didn't need any extra attention and besides you might want your gear. What I hadn't counted on, was you."
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, puzzled.
"Don't know why the pretty little ladies around here didn't tell you," Bobby explained. "But you stink. How long has it been since you changed clothes – or showered?"
"I've had other things on my mind," Dean replied with shades of annoyance.
"Yeah, well you need to shower and change," Bobby replied. He continued when he saw Dean was about to protest. "Before your brother is less out of it and catches sight of your clothes."
Dean's expression of confusion changed to understanding as he took a good look at his clothes. His shirt and jeans were both covered in bloodstains. He couldn't leave here with these clothes on, it would draw too much attention to himself. He tossed Bobby a grateful look and picked up his duffel bag, dragging it into Sam's microscopic bathroom.
He was pleasantly surprised to discover a small shower tucked into the corner. He knew it was for patient use, but he could shower, shave and change into clean clothes in less than five minutes when he needed to. Dean would not get caught with his proverbial pants down.
True to his predictions, Dean emerged from the bathroom four and a half minutes later with wet hair, minus the stubble on his chin and wearing a clean set of clothes. "Better?" he asked Bobby opening his arms wide to afford Bobby a full view.
"Well, at least you don't stink anymore," Bobby conceded. He figured Dean had only showered and changed for the practical reasons of blending in to the crowd and not drawing attention to himself, but Bobby was pleased he had done that one small thing to take care of himself. He swore when there was something wrong with Sam, Dean forgot to do anything but fight and defend.
"Hey, I'm adorable," Dean protested with a grin. He took a good look at Sam and his grin faded. He was still very pale and to Dean's practiced eye, his breathing seemed labored despite the oxygen. "I'm going to have to leave," Dean stated tearing his eyes from Sam and towards Bobby. "I need you to stay here with Sam."
"I figured that's why you called me," Bobby asked. "That and my famous bedside manner."
"More like infamous," Dean corrected his grin making a token reappearance. "I don't think, 'what they hell are you doing up?' or 'stay put you're going to bust open all my hard work' count as good bedside manner."
"Never said it was a good bedside manner," Bobby agreed good-naturedly. He tapped a stack of books sitting on the windowsill. "I brought in some resource books on monsters and creatures. I may be able to find out something while you are gone."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean replied. He shouldered his duffel bag and said, "Tell him I'll be back soon."
"And where should I tell him you went?" Bobby asked. He had a feeling he was not going to like the answer.
"Try to avoid answering him," Dean replied. "Let him think I went to the motel to sleep or something. I don't want him worrying and you know he will."
"Right, that'll work on that brother of yours for about ten seconds," Bobby replied sarcastically. "He questions everything and you throw me the unbelievable excuse of you going back to the motel to sleep? Where are you really going?"
"The cemetery," Dean replied simply. "And you're right, he'll never buy anything else. Just, just try to keep him here and focused on getting better. I'll be back soon."
"Saddling me with the impossible task I see," Bobby joked and moved to the folding chair previously occupied by Dean. "His example growing up was never much one for sitting around recovering when there was still a job left to do."
"Dad always was stubborn," Dean agreed. "I'll call you if I find out anything." With a head nod of assent from Bobby, Dean turned on his heel and left.
"Never said I was talking about your daddy," Bobby muttered under his breath.
Flatt Plains Community Cemetery
Dean pulled the Impala to a stop behind the cover of the brush and trees. He pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and slid out of the car. Grabbing his gun out of the trunk and tucking it into his waistband, Dean slammed down the trunk lid and turned to search the cemetery for the caretaker. He had considered simply calling his own phone, but he wasn't sure he wanted to give the old man the advance warning.
"Where's Sam?" the voice of the caretaker chirped behind Dean.
Dean whirled around and pulled out his gun on reflex, his flashlight aimed with his gun. "How do you know who Sam and I are?" he demanded angrily.
"I don't," the caretaker said, blinking against the light in his eyes. "Some of the dead know who the Winchesters are." He took two steps closer to Dean, stood on his toes and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. "They tell me."
Dean jerked his head in surprise and took a good look at the caretaker. The caretaker's blue eyes registered his sincerity. That meant he either really did speak to the dead or he was crazy, Dean wasn't sure which.
"It could be both," the caretaker nodded amiably. "They aren't mutually exclusive possibilities."
Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "So what, now you read minds too?"
"No," the old man replied knowingly, but he did not elaborate further. Instead he stated his oft repeated refrain, "Where is Sam?"
"He's at the hospital. Where he belongs," Dean snapped. He reached out to grab the collar of the caretaker's overcoat, but the caretaker was spryer than he appeared and he evaded Dean's grasp.
"You really should trust me," the caretaker replied, a pout on his lips. "It's starting to hurt my feelings."
Dean stared at him incredulously for a moment. "It's starting to hurt your feelings?" he spluttered. "We're talking about my brother's life and I'm supposed to be concerned about your feelings?"
"You should always be concerned for others' feelings," the man continued. "It's only polite."
Dean scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration. The caretaker's ever-present dog chose that moment to make an appearance and placed its forepaws on Dean's chest, soiling his clean shirt. The scent of wet dog assaulted his nose and Dean sighed. "Let's start over. What do you know about Sam?"
Allamakee County Hospital
"Looks like you're going to have to leave town without me this time."
"Did he say anything to you…about anything?"
"It's a tough gig. I drew the short straw."
"Whatever you do, don't make her angry."
"I'm dying and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Watch me."
The next time Sam gasped awake, his brother's voice did not call to him in reassurance. That alone was enough to make Sam pry his eyelids open and focus his bleary eyes on the room around him. The figure next to his bed took solid form and Sam recognized the smell of oil. "Hey, Bobby," Sam croaked.
Bobby looked up from his book. "Sam, good to see you awake," Bobby said, moving the side table closer to Sam so he could get a drink if wanted one and hitting the call button. He was not the best nursemaid and it was time to call in the pros. He could see the pinched look in Sam's eyes and knew the painkillers were wearing off. They would no doubt be weaning Sam off the really strong stuff that seemed to knock the kid out.
He watched as Sam struggled to lift the water glass. Sam tried three times to lift the mug and in the end opted for pulling the table closer and bending down to sip out of the straw. Bobby noticed the wince when Sam bent over. The drugs must be more worn off than he originally thought.
"Where's Dean?" Sam asked trying to sound casual. Please don't say at the cemetery, Sam chanted in his head several time.
"Uh, he's," Bobby hesitated. He caught the knowing look on Sam's face and the glint in his eye and confirmed the Sam's hunch. "He's at the cemetery."
"He's finishing that salt and burn by himself, isn't he?" Sam asked in a harsh whisper. "Why aren't you with him?"
Bobby sighed. Heaven spare him from the Winchesters. Each one unwilling to acknowledge they needed help, but both willing to sacrifice themselves for the other. "Dean needs his wits about him to finish that salt and burn. The only way he can keep his mind focused on that job is if he knows you are safe and the only way he knows that is if I stay here," Bobby lectured.
Sam opened his mouth to retort, but stopped short when a nurse entered the room. "Good to see you awake again, Sam," Jean said, stepping into the room. "I'm just going to take your vitals and watch you try out the incentive spirometer. We're going to give the anesthesia another two hours or so to work its way out of your system before we have you up and ambulating."
Sam nodded, but Bobby asked, "Come again?"
"Oh, sorry," Jean replied, tucking stray gray hair back into her bun. "I need Sam to work on his breathing exercises, but we won't get him up and moving around until the next time." Jean pulled out the ear thermometer, popped on a sanitary cap and placed it in Sam's ear. When it beeped, Jean looked at the readout and frowned. "Sam, how are you feeling?"
"A little cold," Sam admitted. He shivered and pulled his blanket up tighter with shaky hands. He hated the drugs they were giving him. Between the vivid dreams and the physical side effects he was feeling out of control.
"Not surprising," Jean replied, pocketing the thermometer. "Your temperature is up to 101.8. We'll have to keep an eye on it." Jean picked up the incentive spirometer and held it out for Sam. "Give it a try, Sam. I'd like to see you keep the indicator up here for all three tries," she said, pointing to the target lines.
Sam attempted to hit the target lines all three times and all three times he failed miserably. Jean frowned and checked his O2 levels. Everything checked out normal. "You keep working on it," Jean stated. "It'll improve." She patted Sam on the shoulder and walked out of the room.
Sam and Bobby shared a look of confusion over her abrupt departure. "She was certainly…" Bobby started, but stopped when the door to Sam's room swung open again.
Jean walked in carrying two additional blankets. She shook them open and laid them over the top of Sam. "That should help with the chills," Jean stated, straightening the blankets and tucking them tightly around the foot of Sam's bed. "You're cold because of the fever and the effects of the anesthesia leaving your system. You should start to warm up in a couple of hours."
She turned to Bobby, placed her hands on her hips and said, "He'll probably fall asleep again soon. Call the nurses' desk the next time he wakes up. We need to get him up and walking around soon." Jean left the room again, but this time the door remained closed and she did not reappear.
"She's a bossy one," Bobby remarked once he was certain she was not coming back.
Sam grinned weakly and raised one eyebrow. "You're afraid of her." It was a statement, not a question. He kicked with his feet attempting to liberate them from the cotton prison, but he lacked the strength and the movement caused the staples in his legs to pull skin taut and send ripples of pain from his hips to his toes.
"Damn straight," Bobby replied, pulling the blankets loose. "That woman has ruler-wielding nun written all over her."
Sam chuckled lightly which caused a mild attack of coughing to ensue. The pit in his stomach grew until he heaved in short gasps trying to catch his breath. The recently repaired lacerations on his chest and stomach protested against the punishment and grew hot in intensity. Spots appeared in his vision and Sam recognized the signs of an impending blackout.
He felt the icy rush of medication enter his veins and a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Sam struggled to control his breathing and when he finally succeeded, he flopped back against the pillows. He laid there for several minutes with his eyes closed, simply enjoying a few moments of easy breathing and the relief it brought. The feeling that he could not quite catch his breath and that he was unable to sustain his own life was not one Sam relished. It reminded him too much of being strangled.
When Sam finally opened his eyes he was not surprised to see Bobby leaning forward in his chair keeping a close watch on him. There was more wrong with him than physical injuries, Sam was sure of it now. Although the coughing fit had spurned on a fresh round of pain it only amplified the feeling that something was somehow off, not disguised it. Whatever was going on, he could no longer afford to sit around doing nothing. Dean was risking his life out in the cemetery by himself. The least Sam could do is figure out the riddle of the amulet.
"Bobby, is my laptop in here?" Sam wheezed, the coughing having aggravated his already abused throat.
"Yeah, but don't worry about research right now," Bobby insisted, tapping his stack of books again. "I got it covered."
"I need to check my email," Sam protested, struggling to sit up fully. "I sent a picture of the amulet Dean and I found at the necromancy church to an anthropology professor. I'm hoping he knows the significance of the engravings on it."
Bobby shook his head, muttering something about stubborn mules or fools, Sam was not sure which. Bobby placed the laptop on Sam's side table and positioned the table in front of Sam. He used the buttons on the bed rail and after a test of trial and error managed to elevate the head of Sam's bed. "Don't know how you are going to check your email. I'm betting the hospital's internet connection is password protected," Bobby predicted.
"It is," Sam replied, his eyes searching the monitor screen. His white, shaking fingers still flew over the keyboard. "Or rather, it was. I'm in."
Bobby lifted the brim of his cap and ran a hand across his forehead. He had to hand it to Sam, he was a crackerjack on the computer. "That was fast."
Sam did not move his eyes from the monitor screen, but flashed a small lopsided grin, very reminiscent of his brother in Bobby's direction. "It was easy." Sam opened his email account and was pleased to see a return response from the professor. He popped open the email and skimmed the reply quickly.
Bobby watched as the grin slowly faded from Sam's face only to be replaced by a frown. "What? What did he say?"
Sam looked up at Bobby with a look that conveyed he was almost surprised anyone was in the room. Bobby held back a chuckle at how quickly Sam could lose himself to the thrill of the hunt for information. "It's ancient Hebrew pictographs," Sam stated simply.
Flatt Plains Community Cemetery
"Sam is in danger," the caretaker replied, turning on his heel and walking away from Dean. His old overcoat billowed behind him as the caretaker walked briskly towards the Impala.
When did he get so fast? Dean wondered. "So you've said," Dean called after him and moved to follow. "How about we cover some new ground? How is Sam in danger?"
The old man stopped so abruptly Dean had to side-step quickly to avoid running into him. "Because he was chosen," the caretaker explained patiently.
Dean rubbed his temples and stared at the caretaker through hooded eyes. He was definitely getting a headache talking to the man. "Chosen?" he asked. Of course he was, Dean thought. Supernatural freak magnet, that's my little brother.
"Yes, exactly," the caretaker replied. He picked several leaves out of his wild, white hair and examined one in particular quite closely.
Dean grew frustrated with the old man once again and snapped, "Chosen for what?"
"To help the Necromancer," the caretaker replied with a frown. "That's why we must get Sam and bring him back here. I can help your brother, but we must hurry. According to the wind, we have only a few hours before it is too late."
"According to the…" Dean began in disbelief. He stopped when the caretaker stooped to talk to the dog.
"Bojangles, you stay here. We need to keep an eye on those who attempt to control the dead," the caretaker admonished. Bojangles whipped his tail about and it hit the side of the Impala with several hard whacks.
"Watch the tail," Dean muttered, pushing the dog away from his car.
"Yes, time to go," the caretaker agreed and pointed towards the cemetery. Bojangles ran off in the direction the caretaker pointed and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there he was sure the old guy was planning to take the dog with them. Not that Dean was necessarily allowing the caretaker in the car either.
"We're not going anywhere until you explain exactly what is going on with my brother," Dean stated, stepping between the caretaker and the passenger door to the Impala.
"Oh dear," the caretaker moaned, pointing to something behind Dean. "It appears we won't be going anywhere right away."
Dean spun around quickly and found himself face to face with a ghoul who was crouching on the roof of the Impala. Its claws clicked on the roof as it edged its way closer to Dean. With an inhuman growl the muscles in its haunches bunched and it leapt at Dean, claws extended and teeth bared.
TBC
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AN: I should be earning that cookie soon!
Thanks everyone for reading.
I hope you all had a great Decoration Day weekend!
(That's Memorial Day for all you young whippersnappers out there) BG.
Feedback as always - welcome.