SUMMARY: A vengeful spirit's attack leaves Dean hypothermic and fighting for life, while a concussed Sam, lost and alone, battles to get back to his brother. Story takes place mid-to-late Season 2, but before the events of All Hell Breaks Loose.

DISCLAIMER: Nope. Don't own Supernatural. Still playing in Kripke's sandbox. Will happily vacate premises when strike is over and Kripke & Co. are allowed to play here again.

A/N: Once again, many thanks, cookies and margaritas to Heather, my medical muse and fact-checker. No cure yet for my chronic tweaking so any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

BRIDGING TWO SOLITUDES

CHAPTER 9:

"Good to see ya back with us, Dean."

The elder Winchester lay slumped back against the pillows, staring off into space. At the sound of Bobby's familiar voice, Dean turned quickly to face him. "Any news on Sam?"

Bobby scratched his forehead under the peak of his ball cap. It was classic Dean. It was the first time he had been fully conscious since Bobby arrived in town, but pleasantries be damned when Sam was in trouble.

"No. No sign of him." Bobby shook his head as he walked into the room. "So far," he qualified as he saw Dean visibly deflate. "But I talked with some of the Search & Rescue guys. If he …..

Dean cut him off, shaking his head. "He's not in the water."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean's statement. It wasn't said hopefully. It was offered matter-of-factly. Dean clenched his jaw before turning again to Bobby, raw emotion painted clearly across his face. "I saw him, Bobby."

Bobby thought back to the words the barely-conscious Dean had muttered earlier in the ICU. 'Stay with me, Sammy. You're not dying out here alone.' "You saw him?'"

"I…" Dean swallowed, Adam's apple lurching in response. There had been no judgment from Doc when Dean had told her earlier. Now there was none from Bobby but Dean was still struggling with the meaning of the images that had suddenly tumbled through his head. "Sam, he's lying on the ground. He's not moving ….but he's not dead. And there's someone, something, with him."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, his confidence in what he had seen, what he wanted so much to believe, dissipating quickly. "How can I…I mean…. what the hell, Bobby?" Dean turned to the older hunter, seeking answers, seeking reassurance.

Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets as he studied Dean, the elder Winchester clearly rattled. "So, what you're seein', it's more than a memory?"

"Yeah, Bobby," Dean snapped, impatiently. "I know what a memory is. This is…I don't know what the hell it is but it's Sam and he's in trouble and we need to get to him."

"Where is he?"

"What?"

Bobby folded his arms across his chest. "Describe for me what you see. Where is he?"

Dean's eyes darted back and forth as he focused on the images. "I don't know. It's, um, he's outside, lying on the ground next to a….a campfire."

Bobby nodded. "Concentrate on that image. Look around. What else is there?"

Dean frowned, but closed his eyes. "There was something there, or someone. It was like he was talking to someone, but they're gone now. Now there's nothing - except trees." His brow furrowed further as he opened his eyes and looked up at Bobby. "You buyin' into this? You think there's something to it?"

Bobby shrugged. "You've been lookin' out for Sam all your life. Hell, there are times when you know what Sam's thinking before he does. Maybe this is all just part of that, um, connection."

Dean fisted the bed covers. "Yeah, well that connection, as you call it, has never come with streaming video before." He looked up at Bobby, the image of Sam lying on the ground in pain playing repeatedly through his mind. "What's messin' with my head most, Bobby, is it doesn't feel like I'm watching it. It feels like I'm there. How can I…."

Bobby's gaze was steady. "Maybe it's not just you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bobby weighed his words carefully. "Sam's visions, they could be the tip of the iceberg as far as psychic abilities go. If he's in trouble, maybe he's reaching out for help. Makes sense that you'd be the one he'd reach out to."

Dean frowned. "Sam can't do that – can he?"

Bobby shoved his hands in his pockets. "He might not be aware he's doing it. If he's hurt, or his defences are down, he might be able to tap into abilities his logical, conscious mind doesn't know how to work or has prevented him from reaching."

Dean thought back to Sam's admission after Max Miller killed himself. When Sam's vision had shown Max shooting Dean, his brother had been able to telekinetically move the cabinet blocking the closet doors. The incident had scared both brothers, not just for what it was but for what it suggested. Was this latest 'connection' another example of latent powers Sam had unconsciously tapped into?

Dean banged his fist on the bed. "If that's the case, I wish he'd channel his inner compass and pass along proper directions so we can haul his sorry ass back here. I mean, trees? How the hell are we supposed to find him when all he gives us are trees?"

"He might not know where he is, Dean. If that's the case, it'd be pretty hard for him to tell us, no matter what means he had."

For a brief moment Dean's cocky demeanor and well-honed bravado disappeared, revealing the vulnerability beneath. "We have to find him, Bobby?"

"We will." There was a simple determination in Bobby's words that Dean clung to. "In fact, you may have given us just what we need." Bobby smiled down at Dean. "Just hang in there, okay? I need to make a phone call, then we'll see about tracking down that brother of yours."

"Bobby…"

Bobby was already half-way out the door. "Give me five minutes Dean. I'll be right back."

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, pulling off the nasal canula in frustration. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam lying on the ground, arm clutched around his head like he was in pain. He needed to be out there looking for him, not stuck in a damn hospital bed.

Earlier, after Doc had left to find Bobby, Dr. Elton had shown up and put Dean through the barrage of tests Doc had warned him he was in for after sending the heart monitor haywire. He hated every moment of it but, when the testing was done, he was disconnected from most of the monitors tracking his condition. Only the oxygen canula and the IV drip remained.

Dr. Elton had also given him the okay to get out of bed three times a day, as long as it was under the supervision of a nurse or doctor. Patience not being one of Dean's strong suits, he had taken him up on that offer immediately. Terri, the nurse, had lowered the safety rail on the side of the bed and offered a steadying hand as he moved to climb out. Dean had gently but firmly batted it away, determined to do it under his own steam – not to mention grab his clothes and get the hell out of the hospital the minute they left him alone again. His body, however, had different ideas.

His hip had protested the movement from the moment he slid out of bed, but the first few steps had gone relatively well. He was shuffling along like an old man, and forced to use the IV pole for balance, but he was moving independently. Dean had turned to give Dr. Elton a smug grin and a cocky "See, no problem," when the doctor's face had started to blur and twist until, as Dean would later put it, he looked like "that dude in the weird-ass stolen painting Sam once told me about. You know - The Scream."

The thought barely had time to register before he felt two strong arms, one slender, one muscular, wrap around his waist. Dr. Elton was on his right, Terri on his left, each offering the support his legs suddenly refused to provide. So much for a quick getaway.

Dr. Elton studied Dean's face, assessing his condition, and Dean could feel the man's fingers press firmly against his wrist, checking his pulse. "Just breathe through it, Dean. You've been lying down a long time, your body's just protesting the change in elevation. Close your eyes, that might help."

For once, Dean did as he was told. When he opened his eyes again, the doctor and nurse still flanked him, each with one arm around his waist and one arm supporting each elbow, but the room was no longer spinning.

He exhaled slowly and turned to face Dr. Elton, who thankfully no longer resembled modern art. "Well that sucked."

The doctor nodded. "I'll bet. Still dizzy?"

Dean carefully shook his head. "No. I'm good. Could use a little personal space, maybe a cheeseburger, extra onions, but, otherwise, I'm good."

Dr. Elton smiled at his patient. "No can do on the cheeseburger. You're a cardiac patient, remember? But if you can manage a few more steps with our help, we might be able to do something about your space issues."

It took way more effort than Dean cared to admit, but this time he managed to cross the room without the world tilting on its axis. On the way back toward the bed, he felt Dr. Elton and Terri each relax their hold on him.

"Let go of me. I can do this," Dean ground out, trying to convince himself as much as his doctor. He weakly pushed them away and continued his slow shuffle-step across the room unassisted, limping heavily to keep the weight off his injured hip.

Reaching the bed, he flashed a cocky grin back at his doctor. "See? Good to go. Where are my walking papers?"

Dr. Elton smiled again, shaking his head. "Your act might be a little more convincing if you didn't have a death grip on the bed there."

Busted, Dean's smile did little to mask his annoyance.

Dr. Elton moved in toward Dean and gently but firmly maneuvered him back into bed. "How 'bout you get a good night's sleep and then we'll try this again in the morning. See how you do."

"Whatever," Dean yawned, as he slumped back onto his pillows. He wasn't waiting for a doctor's permission to check himself out of the hospital. He'd just catch his breath, play possum until the doc left, then get the hell out of there. Once clear of the hospital, he'd hook up with Bobby and start looking for Sam.

Dr. Elton finished making a few notations on Dean's chart and nodded at his patient. "Good work, Dean. I know it's hard being stuck in the bed. You don't strike me as a guy who sits still for long, but rest is the best thing for you right now."

Dean shook his head. "I'll rest better if you let me outta here."

Dr. Elton's expression said he had fully expected a battle with his patient. "I know you're starting to feel better but push yourself too soon and you're going to relapse. That's the last thing we want." He walked to the side of the bed and clicked the safety rails of Dean's bed back in place. "Just cut yourself some slack, OK?"

Dean's glare over the rails going back up, an obvious attempt to keep his ass in bed, was the equivalent of a few four-letter words best not uttered in polite company.

Dr. Elton grinned. He'd seen, and heard, far worse. "Get some sleep, Dean. I think you'll be amazed how much better you feel in the morning. You're over the worst now. We just need to take it slow."

Dean nodded curtly. Slow wasn't in his vocabulary. He'd stick with his plan to check himself out the minute the doctor left the room. The plan's main flaw was he was sound asleep before Dr. Elton and Terri were even out the door.

He'd woken hours later, momentarily confused about where he was. As the events of the past several hours and days came back to him as a collection of disjointed images, he frowned trying to figure out what time it was and cursing himself for falling asleep in the first place.

A young night nurse was in the room when he woke up. Telling her he needed to use the bathroom, he'd thrown off the blankets and moved to slide out of bed. The nurse lowered the safety rail and slid one arm around his waist and the other under his elbow as he made his way across the room. Dean was pissed he still needed the help, but took some solace from the fact the room didn't twist and spin this time. Suddenly, his planned escape seemed a lot more doable.

By the time he got back to the bed, however, he felt like he'd just run a marathon. His choice of language to express his frustration had both shocked and impressed his nurse. He muttered an apology as he hauled himself stiffly into bed, where he lay recharging his batteries when Bobby arrived.

It seemed like Bobby had only just left the room to make his phone call when he suddenly reappeared, startling Dean. The fuzziness in his head told Dean he'd likely fallen asleep again. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to reclaim focus, frowning at Bobby. "Who were you calling?"

Bobby walked over to his bedside. "You remember an old Marine buddy of your Daddy's by the name of Joe Patterson?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "Vaguely. Big guy….chopper pilot, right?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. He lives about 50 miles up the coast. Runs his own chopper business now. Hauls tourists around mostly but does some work with Search & Rescue. Also works with hunters on a fairly regular basis. I talked to him earlier tonight. When I told him Sam was missing, he volunteered one of his birds.

"Based on what you just told me and the information I've dug up, I think Sam's in the woods southwest of the river. Now we've got a place to start, I just called Joe back, took him up on his offer. He'll be here in a couple of hours."

"Where do we meet him?" Dean reached for the safety rail, trying to find the release mechanism that would lower it and allow him to climb out of bed.

"Just cool your jets, Dean." Bobby placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, meeting resistance when he tried to press him back on his pillows. He noted that Dean's breathing rate had quickened as impatience mixed equally with annoyance. But there was something else too. Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You okay with this plan? I know how you feel about flying. I could always…."

"I'll handle it. It'll be fine." Dean swallowed hard, trying to buy into the outright lie."Besides, it'll be the second time this week I've been up in a chopper. Third time this year."

"First time conscious," Bobby muttered.

"Not helping," Dean snapped back.

Bobby bit back a smile. "Fine. But for now, just relax. Like I said, Joe won't be here for a couple of hours. We need to use that time to go over what we know. Try and narrow down where Sam might be."

"We can figure it out on the way to wherever he's landing his chopper." Dean threw back the covers. "I hope you brought me some damn clothes."

"Dean, you sure you're up for this? Why don' t you let me…..."

"No way, Bobby. I'm not sitting on the sidelines here." Dean finally found the release mechanism for the safety rail and pushed it down. "Now let's go.'

"Go where?" Both men turned to face the doorway where Doc now stood.

"I don't need a lecture, Doc," Dean growled. "I just need to get outta here. We've got a way to check out what I, um, saw."

Doc's concerned expression turned hopeful as she walked into the room, looking from Dean to Bobby. "Catch me up."

Bobby frowned as he took in Dean's still-too-pale face, the dark circles that underscored his eyes and his constant wheezing. He turned to face Doc. "First things first." He tilted his head toward Dean. "How's he doing?"

"I'm right here, Bobby," Dean growled, "and I'm fine."

"Yeah," Bobby growled back. "Says the guy in the hospital bed. That's why I'm asking Doc."

Doc shook her head as she walked over to the foot of Dean's bed. The two men's words may have been spoken harshly but the mutual affection was obvious. She pulled Dean's chart from the holder attached to the bed frame and scanned through the notations. Both men waited impatiently as she flipped through the numerous colour-coded sheets of paper and checked the results of his latest battery of tests.

She looked up to find Dean staring at her intently, almost daring her to find something, anything, that would stop him from going after Sam,

She snapped the chart shut and turned to Bobby. "He's doing well….."

Dean's green eyes flashed at Bobby. "See. Told you."

Doc frowned at Dean. "He's doing well – when you consider that two days ago his heart stopped - three times - his core body temperature was 87 degrees and he took a blow to the head hard enough to scramble his memories from the few days prior to the accident. …."

"Yeah, but I'm a quick healer," Dean mumbled, not liking the turn the conversation was taking.

Doc moved round to the far side of the bed, to Dean's left. Her brow furrowed in annoyance at the oxygen canula lying discarded on the blankets. 'You've been out of bed?"

"Yeah, went for jog," Dean snarked. "

"Dean." Bobby's voice was a low growl. "Don't be a smartass. We're on your side here."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine.' Dean's version of contrite told Doc he was anything but. "Crocodile Doc Elton came by earlier, gave me the okay to walk across the room. First time was a little shaky. Second time better."

"Any dizziness? Blurred vision?"

Dean shook his head. "Second time, nah," he answered truthfully.

"Shortness of breath?"

The hesitation before Dean's answer, combined with his audible wheezing, told Doc all she needed about his emphatic "No."

"No? So you're just working on your Darth Vader impression, huh? Doc ignored Dean's glare. "How's your headache?"

"It's okay." When her eyes didn't waver, he sighed. "Still there, but better."

Doc pulled a penlight from her pocket and shone it in Dean's eyes. "How bad? On a scale of 1 to 10."

"Dammit, Doc. Give a dude some warning." He batted the light away and scrunched his eyes closed. "It was a 2 or a 3 – at least until you did that."

"Sorry." Doc dropped the penlight back in her pocket. "Okay, the good news: you're doing well, especially considering what you've been through. The bad news, and it's my responsibility as a doctor to tell you this, is you're in no shape to go running off in search of Sam." Dean started to interrupt but she cut him off. "No, Dean. As much as you like to think you're invincible, you're not. I know you're starting to feel better but there's still fluid in your lungs and without the oxygen and those antibiotics we're pumping into you, you're leaving yourself wide open for pneumonia to take hold. Your body needs to rest, you need…."

"I'll rest when we get Sam back," Dean snapped, more harshly than he intended. He shuffled guiltily when he saw Doc recoil. "Sorry."

Doc smiled, shaking her head. "No apologies necessary. I know you're worried about Sam but I'm worried about both of you."

Dean gestured to the mass of medical equipment surrounding his bed. "I'm good. You and your fellow whitecoats made sure of that. Now it's Sam we need to focus on."

Doc exhaled as she took in the stubborn set of Dean's jaw. This was one argument she wasn't going to win. There was no way Dean would lie idly in a hospital bed when Sam was in trouble. With or without her, he was going to go after Sam. She crossed her arms and fixed Dean with an equally stubborn stare. "Okay. If, against my better judgment, I go along with this, we need to set some ground rules."

Dean started to object but Bobby cut him off. "You set the rules, Doc. I'll make sure Dean here plays by them."

Dean fought back the instinct to protest. He was outnumbered and, if he was being completely honest, still felt like crap. As long as he got to join the search for Sam, he'd worry about 'rules' later. "Fine."

Doc nodded. "First rule, the oxygen canula goes back on until we're ready to leave. Trust me, you'll thank me later."

Dean glowered but didn't protest as Doc replaced the canula under his nose. His brow furrowed at her latest statement. "You said 'we.' You coming along too?"

Doc nodded. "When we find Sam, he's going to need my help. He's been out there for more than two days now." She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze when she caught the flash of fear in his eyes. "Hey, you're the one who told us Sam's okay. He's strong, he's smart, he's resourceful. Once we find him, with a little TLC, he'll be good as new."

Dean nodded turning to Bobby. "Doc said you were at the library earlier today. Is that where you figured out where we should start looking for Sam?"

Bobby nodded, pulling a sheaf of papers from inside his vest. "Yeah. I know who our bridge spirit is – and I think she's making Sam relive history."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam had come to the bitter realization there was no way he was walking himself out of the woods.

His knee, even splinted, refused to hold his weight for more than a few steps at a time and, fuelled by exhaustion, dehydration and a concussion, his headache was constant and clouding his thinking.

It was a tough pill to swallow, but he had no choice but to stay where he was. All he could do was keep himself alive as long as possible and hope, and pray, he would be found. And that the imaginary version of his brother had been right – Dean was okay and would be leading the charge to find him.

Sam huddled by his meager fire, thinking back to a threat Dean had made after Sam had gone missing when he was possessed by Meg. Driving away from Bobby's after they'd finally exorcised the demon, Dean had eyed his brother worriedly. "I swear to God, Sam, you go missing one more time, I'm gonna lojack your ass."

Sam smiled tiredly at the memory. "Get me out of this mess, Dean, and I'll lojack myself."

But if Sam couldn't save his own ass, the least he could do was try and figure out what had happened. Who was the spirit who had attacked Dean? Why had she attacked Sam and how had she dumped him here in the middle of nowhere? And how were the three spirits he'd run into connected? Sam didn't believe in coincidence; there was a common thread that tied them all together; and finding that thread was the key to getting rid of the bridge spirit and Mary's tormentor, and helping Mary find peace – not to mention making sure what happened to him and Dean never happened to anyone else.

Mary had agreed to show him where her remains lay but, with the small flashlight Sam usually carried on a hunt still in the pocket of the coat he'd lost at the bridge, he was forced to wait until morning. Mary might not need daylight to see where she was going but Sam did.

That meant another night outside after another day without food and very little water. The signs of dehydration were already present. No matter how long he lay by the fire, Sam couldn't shake the chills that racked his body yet his skin felt warm to the touch; his breathing was labored, shallow and rapid, keeping time with the too-fast beating of his heart; his arms and legs tingled and his mouth felt like it was lined with cotton batting.

In the shadow of the evergreens that dotted the forest around the clearing, a few patches of snow lingered. Sam knew eating snow would speed up the onset of hypothermia but, in a move even MacGyver would be impressed with, he'd rigged up a means to melt the snow. With his pocket knife, he'd cut in half the leather pouch that held the lock pick tools. Taking one of the halves, he'd opened the pouch and scored a small hole in the top of each side. Through those, from the inside out, he'd threaded the prongs of a Y-shaped branch to hold the pouch open. Filling the pouch with snow he was then able to hold it over his fire until the snow melted. The leather of the pouch was getting damp but remained watertight at least long enough for him to drink the contents. It was a slow, laborious process, and god know what kind of crap he was ingesting with the water, but, so far, it had kept him alive and mostly functional.

Mostly. Sam knew the head injury and dehydration were taking a toll, his lucid moments increasingly further apart. He shivered and huddled closer to the fire, frustrated by his inability to think clearly. When he wasn't simply unconscious, his thoughts were muddled and it required intense effort simply to focus. If he was on his game, he was sure he would have already figured things out, a fact that frustrated him even more. He was still trying to fit the pieces together when exhaustion once again won out over stubbornness and he fell into a fitful sleep.

When Sam awakened the sun was already high in the sky, meaning it was around mid-morning. His fire was out, thin tendrils of smoke rising from the ashes. He was stiff and cold, his teeth chattering as he slowly pushed himself up. His vision swam in and out of focus, like someone playing with a camera lens, before finally clearing.

He was trying to decide whether it was worth re-starting the fire when Mary appeared suddenly at the edge of the clearing, running breathlessly to his side.

Sam frowned at her wild-eyed expression and rapid breathing. "Mary?"

She dropped to her knees beside him, shaking her head. "I am alright, Sam Winchester."

Sam's eyes widened at the irony of that statement. "Did something happen? I mean, something other than, well……"

She shook her head, an almost perverse pride in her smile. "No, it is always the same. He is too slow, too loud – I always hear him coming. I was a little careless, perhaps; allowed him to get too close, but he never catches me."

Sam studied Mary's face intently. "He never caught you while you were alive, did he?"

Mary froze, then shook her head slowly. "No. Each time he came close, I was able to run away or hide. The only time he almost caught me was the time I hit him with a tree branch." She reached over, tracing a ghostly finger gently down the side of Sam's face, following the bruising that blackened his eye, cheek and jaw.

He winced at the icy feel of her touch, causing Mary to quickly pull her hand away. She smiled apologetically.

Sam shuffled uncomfortably, rubbing his own arms in an attempt to generate some heat. He studied the spirit now kneeling beside him, "Mary, who is he? The man chasing you…"

She tilted her head quizzically before shaking it softly. "I do not know. I had never once laid eyes on him before he and his partner came into my home."

"What happened?"

Mary sat back on her heels, smoothing her long skirt over her legs. "I was at home with my mother. The door flew open and these two men barged in. They told us they needed a place to hide for a while, then they would go. One of them, the smaller man of the two, grabbed my mother by the arm and I told him to let her go. That's when the big man, the one who still chases me, hit me. I fell, hit my head on the stove…. After that, my memories are unclear until I woke up here in the woods and the two men were arguing. Since then I have been running. Trying to get away from him, trying trying to find my way home but, no matter which way I run, I always end up here."

Sam mentally kicked himself when he realized there was a something he should have asked Mary the first time they talked. "Mary, is there a bridge around here? The one that crosses the Crooked Arm River?"

Mary shook her head. "I know the bridge you speak of. It is not far from my home. But it is not around here – at least not that I have been able to find. If I could get back to that bridge, I could find my way home. But it is almost as if I am trapped here, like the forest will not let me leave."

Sam knew it wasn't the forest trapping Mary; it was her remains. If he had any hope of helping her move on, he'd have to find a way to salt and burn them.

Mary's revelation about the bridge, however, threatened to eat up what little hope Sam had left. If he was nowhere near the bridge, his chances of being found ranged from slim to non-existent.

His breathing, shallow and rapid, kept tempo with the pounding in his head. For the first time since he woke up after the attack on the bridge, he felt very, very alone.

"Sam?"

He turned to see Mary watching him intently, worry painted across her face. He cleared his throat, swallowed, then, despite everything, smiled. "That's the first time you haven't used both my names," he offered in answer to her puzzled frown. Sam wasn't sure why that struck him funny but it did.

Mary shifted uncomfortably. "Did I offend you?"

Now it was Sam's turn to look puzzled. "No. Why would I be offended?"

Mary shrugged. "I was always taught it was rude to use someone's Christian name until invited to do so, and then only in the presence of a chaperone."

It suddenly clicked in Sam's foggy brain he was dealing with someone who lived over 100 years ago, in a time when rules of etiquette, especially between unmarried men and women, were far stricter. In his mind's eye he could see Dean rolling his eyes.

He smiled. "Please, call me Sam. When you use both my names, it makes me feel like I'm in trouble."

Mary smiled softly at the battered man before her. "I think, perhaps, Sam Winchester, you are in trouble."

Sam snorted. "A ghost with a sense of humour; now I've seen everything."

Mary's smile widened. "If I am being honest, I have never held much regard for the strict rules of etiquette." Her smile turned into a grin. "And my instincts tell me you are no slave to convention, either."

Sam returned her grin, nodding. "That's one way of putting it. But if you think I don't follow rules, wait 'til you meet my brother, Dean."

Mary looked around expectantly. "He is coming here."

Sam sighed, his smile slipping. "I sure as hell hope so." He cleared his throat. "But until he finds us, I need to figure some things out." His voice softened. "Can you take me to where you, um, where you found your…" Staring at the young woman in front of him, who seemed so vibrant, even in her ghostly form, it was hard for him to say such crass words as 'body' or 'remains' out loud.

Mary saved him the difficulty. She nodded, pushing herself to her feet. "I will show you."

Her brow furrowed as she looked down at Sam. "How is it you are not afraid of me? I would have been terrified had a ghost, if that is what I am, appeared before me when I was alive."

Sam pushed himself along the ground until he was next to a sturdy tree, using it to haul himself up. "Spirits," he said, with a grunt, as he fought to find his balance, "it's kinda what we do, my brother and I. We help people."

Mary nodded. "You are a priest?"

Sam snorted. "Uh, no. We just know that sometimes things don't follow the natural order as they should. And people, or the spirits they become, need a little help to move on."

"You can help me move on….end this?"

"I hope so, Mary. I really do."

Sam suddenly remembered something his imaginary brother had said. "Mary. The man chasing you. I don't think you killed him."

Mary's eyes widened. "How could you know that?"

Sam coughed and took a moment to reclaim his breath. "Next time he shows up, look at his face. There's no bruising. If he died from that blow to the head, his ghost should still have that injury."

Mary's eyes darted back and forth as she processed this new information. "But if that is the case, why am I still here?"

Sam closed his eyes, fighting against a wave of dizziness that suddenly washed over him. "I don't know, Mary. It's just one more part of the puzzle I'm still trying to figure out."

Mary began walking across the clearing, digesting this latest information. Sam followed slowly behind. Only a few unsteady steps later he stumbled, crashing heavily to the ground. The fall winded him. As he refilled his lungs, the cold air set off another fit of coughing.

When the coughing stopped, Sam's chest was heaving with the exertion of simply trying to breathe. Mary appeared suddenly at his side, looking on worriedly. "Sam?"

"It's okay. " He offered her a tired smile. "Look, this isn't going to be pretty. Walking just doesn't seem to be in my repertoire at the moment. I'm going to have to drag my ass over there – literally." He looked in the direction Mary had pointed earlier, to the spot where she had discovered the remains of her own body. "It's not far, right?"

She shook her head. "No. It's just beyond the clearing."

"Okay." Sam nodded, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He looked up at Mary. "Lead the way."

He used a combination of army crawling and dragging himself backwards to haul himself along the ground. A half-hour later he was exhausted. The exertion has raised his body temperature further but, given his dehydrated state, he was sweating little.

When Mary stopped, Sam looked from her to the small hollow she was staring at.. With a groan he used the closest tree to haul himself up to a sitting position, then fell back exhausted against the same tree. He waved his arm weakly in the direction of the hollow. "There?"

Mary nodded, but said nothing.

Sam blew out a breath, then belly-crawled over to the hollow. At first there was nothing to see other than the desiccated leaves, broken branches and tiny saplings that littered the forest floor everywhere. A short time later, after digging through the dirt and leaves his hand soon hit something hard. It was a bone. Time and weather had long since broken down flesh and fabric and bones were all that were left. Gently, respectfully, Sam brushed away the dirt.

He turned to see Mary standing silently beside him. Her eyes glistened with tears. "At first you could see me, when the winds would come and blow away the leaves. Most times though, I stayed hidden. The same wind that uncovered me would return and hide me again. I have been hidden for a long time now." She turned to face Sam, pain etched clearly across her pretty face. "Is that why I was never found?"

Sam swallowed hard. Right now Mary's fear hit all too close to home. "I'm sure they looked for you, Mary. But hidden here, unconscious or……well, you would have been very hard to find. If you hadn't shown me where you were, I never would have known."

Mary nodded.

As Sam cleared more leaves from Mary's bones, he noticed something tangled in the skeleton's hand. Brushing aside more dirt revealed a gold chain, the gold dulled by age and exposure. Carefully, Sam extricated the necklace from the skeleton's fingers. Pulling it loose revealed the broken chain was attached to a large, oval locket.

A delicate 'G' was engraved in the locket's face. Sam turned to see Mary staring at the necklace in his hands. "It is my mother's locket," she said. "She tried to stop that man from taking me. I reached for her and, as the man pulled me away, the locket snapped off in my hand. I still had it clenched in my fist when I awoke here."

Clumsily, Sam tried to open the locket, fumbling until a fingernail slid between the two halves and he was able to pop it open. Inside, protected from the elements, were two well-preserved tin-type photographs – one of three children and the other of a man and a woman.

Sam froze when he took in the woman's face.

Turning to face Mary, he held open the locket. "This is your family?"

Mary smiled sadly. "Yes, my brothers and me when we were little, and my parents."

Sam's heart pounded against his chest as he stared again at the woman in the locket. Her face was kinder than he remembered but there was no mistaking it.

Mary's mother was the spirit from the bridge.

To Be Continued…….

A/N: Another piece of the puzzle revealed. More to come. Thanks again to everyone reading; I hope you're having as much fun as I am. I love hearing your comments so please, send more!! They generate smiles and story ideas – how can that be a bad thing?