First off, THANK YOU so much for all the wonderful reviews. You guys made me so happy!
a/n – Okay, so I'm a humanities girl, and this chapter includes a little scientific information I kind of made up on the fly. For those science geeks out there (and I say that in the most loving way), if you feel the need to roll your eyes (and laugh hysterically) please do so in the most loving way. :-)
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He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
Chapter Two
Dean wrapped his arms tightly around his body, a futile attempt to stop the shaking. Oh God, he shuddered, please don't let me have the flu. Sam would be hard enough to deal with, but mama bear he knew he couldn't cope with.
Vaguely aware that time was passing, that if he stayed there long enough someone would come looking for him, Dean forced himself forward, hands on the toilet. In one swift motion he pushed himself up, his body dead against the door as he waited for the room to stop spinning.
"Come on, dude," he whispered, hazily aware of his own voice. "Get it together." Dean shook his head to clear it, regretting the action instantly. His head felt like it was in a vice, ready to explode. With superhuman resolve he let himself out of the stall and made his way to the sink, frantically splashing cold water on his face.
When he allowed himself to look in the mirror, he couldn't believe what he saw. His eyes were glassy, dull, feverish. Did he have a fever? He felt his neck, his face. He couldn't tell. He splashed more water on his face, until his skin burned from the cold.
Someone was in the bar. Were they looking for him? How long had he been in there? Dean straightened up, wiped his face dry and didn't look in the mirror again as he made his way back to the bar. If he could forget how he looked, maybe he could forget how he felt.
"Hey." It was Ellen. Dean was hoping she would be easier to fool than his brother. "Did you find the papers?"
"No," he said, surprised at the smoothness of his voice. "Nature called."
"They're right here," Ellen said, taking them off the counter behind the bar.
Dean took them, again unable to make eye contact.
"Sorry about earlier," she offered, hoping he would look at her.
"We're the ones, we should be apologizing." He was taught to look at people when he spoke to them. He had to. It was rude. She had just fed them. Not that he was thankful for that.
"We're the ones that barged in." He looked her in the eyes for a fraction of a second, almost daring her to find something. To see beyond the surface.
"You didn't barge in," Ellen offered. "An invitation from Ash is as good as one from me. I was just worried. You two have been through a lot lately."
Dean nodded. What could he say to that?
"I'll leave you to your reading," she said, making her way back to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. You're probably stuck here for at least a day or two."
"Thanks." Dean headed to one of the tables in the corner, not pleased with Ellen's prediction. The last thing he needed was to be cooped up in this place. Sam would have a field day with him the minute he was bored. No doubt wanting to bond over their shared loss and his inability to feel. If he only knew all he could do was feel.
With his back to her, Ellen hesitated at the doorway. Why couldn't she shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right? Her intuition had always served her well. Why was she questioning it now? She knew why, she just didn't like admitting it, not even to herself.
Besides her late husband, John Winchester was the only one that had ever gotten past her protective façade. When it came to him, and obviously now his boys, she couldn't trust her better judgment.
She looked at Dean in the corner of the bar. Elbows on the table, shoulders hunched, deep in thought. Or was he really reading? She pushed down the feelings of dread, ignoring them for the time being. If something was wrong she would find out soon enough. She always did.
Dean could sense Ellen was still around, lurking somewhere, watching him. He pretended to read and tried to ignore her. He was actually feeling a little better. The nausea was gone, and so was the dizziness. Only the stubborn headache remained. Maybe it was a mild case of the flu. Mild was good. Mild might even go unnoticed from watchful eyes. He would have to keep his distance, avoid contact as much as possible, and he might just get through it without all the fuss.
"Dean?"
Now what?
"I'm in here."
Sam walked into the bar followed by Ash, who was carrying his laptop. In spite of himself, Dean immediately perked up. He had to be sick, how else could he have forgotten why they were there. Ash had gotten a signal from the demon.
"What do you have?" He was pleased with how steady his voice sounded, betraying nothing from the previous 20 minutes. Maybe it wasn't the flu after all, just some weird bug that had already passed through his system.
"Well," Ash began, joining Sam and Dean at the table. "According to the components I installed, based on your father's calculations, of course."
Dean nodded, "Of course."
"The demon is present when this graph over here," Ash pointed to a diagram on the top left hand corner of the screen, "reaches a vibration of 2500 hertz. Which it did at exactly 3:12 this morning."
"So when it gets to that frequency does it also lead you to a location?" Sam asked.
"Not by itself, but that's where your father's genius comes in. And mine, of course," Ash added.
"Of course."
"The vibrational component is triggered by the demon's sulfuric residue, which in turn sends a signal to the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates, based on the mass of the particles calculated."
"The mass of particles? We're talking weightless, microscopic components." Sam was working the variables in his head.
"It's why this system kicks ass, dude." Ash could barely contain himself. "What is being measured for detection is so minute, so inconsequential, the demon isn't even aware someone is tracking it, providing the hunter, you," he said, exaggerating the effect by pointing at both brothers, "with the element of surprise."
"Let me get this straight," Dean said, his hand absently rubbing his forehead. "You're saying that with this system the minute he shows up anywhere you know?"
"Damn straight."
"Then why couldn't our dad do this?"
Ash pondered the question for a moment. "He hadn't met me," he finally said, no sarcasm or irony in his voice. "He had all the components, but hadn't figured out a way to link them together. He knew one switch would flip the next, almost in a domino effect, but he hadn't quite figured out how to line up all the pieces. He was relying on weather patterns, crop circles, all good shit, but by the time those showed up the demon had already been stirring up trouble for a while."
"So when the vibration reached 2500 hertz this morning, it sent coordinates?" Sam asked.
"Yep."
"Is it still sending them?"
"Yep."
"Where is it?"
"Palo Alto."
"What?" Sam was glad he was sitting.
"According to your dad's notes," Ash continued, "the demon has spent quite a bit of time in the area during the last couple of years."
Dean glanced at Sam, who refused to look at him.
"That mean anything?" Ash was sorry he asked the minute he did.
"Yes," Dean answered, at the same time Sam was shaking his head.
"It doesn't mean anything," Sam argued. "Not now. Not anymore."
Dean didn't know what to make of Sam's response. Did that mean that Stanford was so far behind him, so far removed from his life that it had lost all meaning? He suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness for his brother.
"I'm not following it to California," Sam said, his jaw set.
"It may be our only chance."
"I don't care." Sam couldn't believe his own ears, but he couldn't keep from blurting out the words. As much as he wanted to avenge his father's death, his mother's, his girlfriend's, he didn't think he could go back to Palo Alto and be an unbiased hunter. Not now. He knew his emotions would get the best of him, probably getting his brother killed in the process.
"We kill it, you go back to school." Dean couldn't possibly see beyond his brother's words. Beyond the mask of self assurance.
Sam looked at his brother. The hurt was palpable, almost unbearable. "Until the next one comes looking for me? For you? For…" He couldn't finish the thought. He didn't think he'd ever have another girlfriend anyway, so why pretend.
"What happened to avenging Mom's death, and Dad's and Jess'? Wasn't that all you could think of? Isn't that the only reason you've put up with me for the last year?"
The words shocked Sam, but the look he gave his brother betrayed none of the hurt, only the contempt.
"Come on, Sam," Dean couldn't stop himself, even though he knew better. "Now's not the time to pretend you enjoy spending time with me."
"Why are you doing this? Why do you insist on pushing me away at every opportunity?"
Ash kept glancing from one brother to the next, unable to break away, to afford them the privacy he knew he should.
"This is not about you, Sam. This is about getting that yellow eyed son of a bitch. It's about getting you to admit that we need to go to Palo Alto."
"And why can't you see that I can't do that. Why can't you see me as more than the cardboard cutout of your little brother?" Sam was beyond telling Dean the truth, the argument no longer in his control.
"What are you talking about?"
"I mean, that there is more than one side to me. Just like there is to you, but you're too twisted and stubborn to acknowledge it."
Dean stared at him, unable to see where his brother was headed.
Cardboard cutout of Dean," Sam continued, his words exaggerated. "I am a fierce hunter. I kill bad things. I take no prisoners. I down a few beers at the end of the day and I go to sleep. I get up and do it again. I feel nothing. I love nothing, because if I did, and I lost it, I couldn't live with myself."
"Fuck you." Dean had heard enough. The conversation was over. He was damned if he was going to listen to another lecture from his brother about how he wasn't handling his father's death. How he wasn't facing his feelings. He stood up to leave just as there was a loud crash behind the bar.
Ash was on his feet and out of the room instantly, the two brothers close behind.
"Ellen?" Ash was genuinely concerned as he searched the house, running from room to room.
"I'm in Jo's room," she shouted.
Sam and Dean followed Ash to Jo's room, where they found Ellen sitting in the middle of a downpour atop Jo's bed, plaster from the ceiling all around her.
"Are you okay?" Dean was the first one by her side.
"I'm fine. I wasn't in here when it happened." She was looking at the massive hole in the roof, mesmerized, unable to get out from under it.
Dean took her arm and guided her out of the way.
"There's no telling how secure the area around the hole is," he said. "You really shouldn't be anywhere near it."
Ellen nodded, looking up in dismay, then back down to Jo's bed. The water was coming down in torrents and the two foot hole was causing damage by the minute.
"Do you have any plastic tarps?" Sam asked. "We could go up there and cover the hole for the time being, otherwise the room is going to be flooded."
"No," Ellen answered. "It's too dangerous. The roof is bound to be slippery right now."
Dean surveyed the room. "Sam's right," he said. "If we don't do something you're going to have to replace the carpet, the baseboards, the drywall. Depending on how much longer the rain continues, you may even be dealing with mold."
"There are tarps in the garage," Ash offered. "I'll go get them."
"Do you have a ladder?" Sam asked.
"It's in the garage too," Ellen said, in spite of her better judgment. "Please be careful up there. The nearest hospital is 20 miles away, and we have no way of getting there if we need to. Jo has my car."
"Don't worry," Dean said. "We'll be fine. In the meantime, you should put some buckets in here to try and stop some of the damage until we've had a chance to secure something." He felt so much better when he had a purpose, a mission. If only the headache would go away.
Sam and Ash were already in the garage, pulling out tarps that had seen better days, a rickety ladder that was close to seeing its last days, and various other tools from a dilapidated tool chest.
It was obvious instantly that Ash, the computer genius, was tool shed illiterate, and didn't know one end of a hammer from the other, or what the purpose of a screwdriver was. By default he was assigned to hold the ladder while the brothers made their way onto the roof.
A strong wind had picked up, making the rain appear to be falling horizontally, assaulting them with a nasty sting every time they moved. By the time they were on the roof they were drenched, their shoes sinking into the soft shingles with every step. Dean was surprised more of the ceiling hadn't already come down.
"Be careful," he shouted to Sam. "The wood is soggy, and really old. You don't want to go through it and land on Ellen."
Sam nodded, shading his face so he could see in front of him.
The roof was angled, and the only way to avoid slipping was to climb on their hands and knees in search of the hole.
"I found it," Sam shouted, further up and to the right of Dean.
Dean followed, the tarp under one arm, Sam carrying the hammer and nails.
Sure enough, just as Dean had predicted, the area around the hole was precarious at best, and several more shingles fell into Jo's room while they were trying to position the tarp.
A quick glance into the room and Dean noticed Ellen standing in a corner, looking up at them.
"Ellen," he shouted. "Get out of there."
"I'm okay."
"No," Sam backed him up. "It's really loose up here. You're not safe in there. Go."
Ellen heeded the advice and did as she was told, not happy with the situation.
Dean had finished covering the hole with the tarp when Sam began to nail down the first side. It was impossible to see what he was doing and the second swing of the hammer came down on his thumb.
"Son of a bitch." Without thinking, Sam let go of the hammer and grabbed his thumb. By the time Dean realized what was happening, the hammer had skidded halfway down the roof.
"You okay?" Dean shouted.
Sam nodded, still nursing his thumb. "The hammer."
"I see it. Hang on to the tarp." Sam held the tarp with his good hand and watched as Dean began to slide down the roof, towards the wayward hammer.
Moving backwards, on all fours, Dean ended up about five feet to the left of the hammer. He was inching his way sideways, reaching with his right hand, when he felt a twinge through his stomach that didn't feel right.
Not now, he thought, wondering what could possibly be left inside of him to throw up. He ignored the pain and continued on his way, the hammer inches away when a wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, almost making him lose his balance. He was flat on his stomach, his face against the roof, when he realized what had happened. He swallowed hard, ignoring the pelting rain on his cheek as he tried to regain control.
"Dean!"
He looked up to see Sam looking down at him, face barely visible. But Dean didn't have to see his face to know what it looked like. Nor did he have to hear what he was saying to know he was asking him if he was all right.
Dean held up a hand, hoping the gesture would suffice. Get your shit together, he told himself, once again reaching for the hammer. This time he succeeded, wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle as he made his way back up to his brother.
"What happened?"
"I slipped." Not entirely a lie. He wanted to offer to do the hammering, but honestly didn't think he could handle it. What the hell was wrong with him?
"How's the thumb?" he asked, handing Sam the hammer.
"I'll live."
They worked in silence for the next 10 minutes, Sam hammering slowly, fiercely protective of his thumb, Dean holding onto the tarp, keeping the wind from claiming it.
And there it was again, another spasm across his stomach. Except this time, it felt more like a stabbing pain, more insidious than before. Dean sucked in his breath, incapable of stopping it.
Sam looked up at him. "Did you say something?"
Dean shook his head, not trusting his voice, or what might come out of his mouth if he dared open it.
"I'm almost done."
Dean nodded, and quickly looked down, hiding his face as another jolt ripped into him.
"Dean! Dean!" Sam had his hand on his shoulder when Dean managed to look up at him. "You're sitting on the last piece I need to seal."
Sam hadn't noticed anything was wrong and Dean was suddenly thankful for the torrential downpour.
With the last of the nails in place, Dean let Sam take the lead as they headed back down. He could see Sam had reached the top of the ladder, was only a few feet away from him, when the most excruciating pain he had ever felt kicked him from the inside out. Instinctively, forgetting where he was or what he was doing, he grabbed his stomach and doubled over, collapsing on his side.
What the hell? Dean was scrambling for answers, for an explanation. He was frozen in place, unable to breathe, to move, scared of attempting either one. Stomach flu? Was his body lashing out because of all the torture he put it through? Because he hadn't fed it in two days? It's not like he hadn't tried. His feeble attempt at breakfast had failed miserably. Whose fault was that? He was certain he was delirious. Why else would he be having this conversation with himself? On a roof, in the middle of a downpour.
"Dean?"
Damn it.
"Dean, what's wrong?"
Fuck.
"Dean?"
He could hear Sam coming back up the ladder. Can't let him see me like this. He's got enough on his plate. Quick, do something. Say something.
"I'm okay," he shouted with all his strength. "My sleeve got caught on a shingle." Luckily, he had his back to Sam.
"You need some help?"
"No, I got it."
Dean got back up on all fours, slower than he wanted to, faster than he should have, and waved towards his brother. Sam, satisfied, climbed back down.
The pain was gone, almost as quickly as it had appeared, but the movement made his head spin, and he was suddenly so dizzy he wasn't sure which way was up, or down. He tried to lie flat, against the shingles, when he swayed too far in one direction and lost his balance.
The slide down the roof was so quick he didn't realize what was happening until his feet were dangling twenty feet in the air, the fall halted by a razor sharp loose edge of the rain gutter that sliced though his jacket and his arm before becoming embedded in his sleeve.
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