Title: Recrudescence

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I don't own the show. If I did, I wouldn't be in this crappy town, working at my crappy job. *is considering hitting the road to hunt evil, surviving on credit card fraud…*

Author's Notes: First, a big thank you to Mikiya, who is my first reader and is brave enough to tell me when things don't work. All remaining mistakes and bad writing are all about me.

Also: a huge HUGE thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. I'm incredibly sorry that I didn't respond personally, but RL has been kicking my ass, and what little free time I had, I used trying to write. My deepest apologies, and please know that each comment meant a great deal to me.

As always: any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are completely welcome.

You know the day destroys the night
Night divides the day
Tried to run
Tried to hide
Break on through to the other side.
~ The Doors - Break on Through

It was a beautiful house. Stately and open, and friendly somehow, with its wide, white façade, and many windows. Granted, the siding could use some help, it needed fresh paint, and the porch had seen better days – but that was all just basic TLC. The house was sound and huge and still sturdy, under the thin veneer of decay and abandonment.

Still, it surprised no one that it had been on the market for so long. No one talked about that place, but everyone knew. As pretty as the old house was, it had a reputation. Stories had built up around the dwelling like dust in the corners, thick and dirty and liable to get stirred up if poked at. A house fire. A family ruined. Another family with an elderly grandmother who had taken a bad fall down the stairs. A third that had packed up and left suddenly. Strange noises. Weird sensations. Lights that flickered through empty windows like flames.

Typical of Midwestern behavior, the neighborhood shook their collective heads over the waste of a perfectly good house, kept their mouths shut around outsiders, and, when the sun went down, made sure to steer well clear of the property line.

Dean didn't need to talk to any of the locals to know the history of the house. He had learned it first hand. He'd seen Hell for the first time, in that house; at least a chunk of it. His life had changed forever that night, the boy he should have been – the family they should have been – razed by the heat and smoke, swirling away on the wind.

For a long time he'd ignored the existence of the house. When Sam had forced them to go back, to help heal the infection that had started that night, he'd been…less than thrilled. But they'd done the job, and cleared the ghosts, and went on their way. Just like always.

But it hadn't been just like always. It was theirs; their home, their history, their haunting. Dean couldn't just let it go like any other job. He had kept tabs this time. He'd logged into Lawrence's only real estate agency just two days after they left town – and was not surprised to find the house listed on the 'Priced-To-Move' page. The gossip was that Jenny had packed her kids up and took off like her ass was on fire and her hair was catching. According to the neighbors, she'd been packed and gone less than a day after he and Sam had hit the road. The place had attacked her, had tried to kill her children. It would have been more shocking if she'd stayed, really. Just because three strangers said the place was safe now? No way.

So he'd posed as a potential buyer, just in case – he was ready to step in if anyone tried to buy the house; he'd outbid them then disappear. Cause enough fuss to foul up the paperwork. Submit complaints about the place to the zoning board. In short, he planned to do anything he could to make damn sure no one ever really got too interested in buying it. He wanted to make damn sure that it didn't eat anymore families.

Much to Dean's relief, the house remained empty. There wasn't so much as a nibble for the next year. Between the rumors about the history of the house, and a price that was out of reach, nobody was interested – but it didn't stop a thin thread of worry from tugging at his gut whenever his thoughts happened on the old place. Ghost-free or not, Dean would never think of that house as a safe place, and something in him knotted up when he thought of children in it again.

Then the housing market had collapsed, and Dean had stopped worrying. Nobody was buying in this market, especially not a slightly rundown old farmhouse with a bad reputation, in a forgettable little town.

A forgettable little town that was only fifteen minutes from Hell's own cemetery. A forgettable little town that Dean drove through with clenched teeth and a mouth that was filled with too much spit.

The old car rumbled through the quiet mid-morning streets, drawing too much attention. Normally, Dean would have secretly preened as people looked their way, as both jealousy and annoyance filled the air – either way, the Impala attracted attention in sleepy little towns like this, and he loved attention.

But not here, not now. As they ambled through the late morning streets of Lawrence, Dean could feel every set of eyes that flicked their way, every weighing gaze. They were strangers here, marked and noted and watched like the unknown variable they were.

It was going to make squatting at the house harder than it needed to be.

But not impossible. The house was in an older section of the town, where the yards were huge and the trees overgrown – and that would provide a level of seclusion between homes. It also helped that the house was rumored to be dangerous. It was one house where people wouldn't go out of their way to worry about strange noises and lights. It was a house that people were afraid of, and that fear afforded a certain privacy, too – which Dean planed to take full advantage of, as he parked the distinctive car in the behind the house and got out to help haul Sam through the backdoor.

"Dean, are you sure about this?" Bobby asked, as he hefted Sam's legs up higher.

"Yep." It came out a little breathless as he struggled to keep Sam as level as possible. It was obvious that Sam had lost quite a bit of weight, but he would never be exactly light. "It's quiet, it's empty, it's more than half-way warded already, and I can almost guarantee that no one is going to come looking for us here." And no, he wasn't happy, he didn't want to be here, and he definitely didn't want to bring Sammy here…but motels were just too open. Too public. And almost impossible to ward fully. They needed to hide, needed to go to ground – and Bobby's place was too far for Sam to survive the drive. It was here, or nowhere.

Dean glanced backward, judging the steps. He almost stumbled. Sam's body wrenched as he caught his footing – and his brother silently shuddered in his arms, obviously feeling the pain of the sudden jolt. Toxic ice pooled in Dean's stomach at that soundless show of agony, and without thinking, Dean absently snapped at Castiel, "Why don't you just airlift him inside?"

The angel graced him with a look that could have cooled the sun. "I'm holding the tattered shreds of his soul together and keeping his heart beating, but if you really want me to stop doing that…"

Dean's eyes fell, and he found himself focusing on the way Castiel's hands clutched at Sam. They were shaking. "Right. Point taken," Dean grunted, and shifted Sam so that he could use a hand to work the doorknob backwards. No matter how much he wanted to save Sam the pain of being manhandled, there would be no easy cheats this time.

They got Sam inside without too much more fuss, and Dean felt better once they were behind walls. The rooms were dusty with disuse, and most of the furniture was gone, but Jenny had apparently moved out so fast that she'd left behind the biggest, least important things; like the oversized, generic dining room table.

A thankfully sturdy, oversized, generic table. Dean and Bobby hefted Sam up, and the table took his weight without protest. As soon as Sam was down, Dean looked to Bobby. "What do you need?"

Bobby was tearing off the remnants of the shirt. It had warmed in the car, and it now smelled like burnt copper and rot. Dean winced at the reek as he helped pull the half decayed fabric apart. It came off easily, leaving Sam's torso bare… and bloody. Gore streaked Sam's still too cool skin, running faster now than it had been. Sam looked… grey, under the blood. Sickly and washed out, like he was loosing not just life, but existence. Like he was fading, somehow. The color under his skin was the shade of grave dirt and fog, and Dean had an absurd moment, wondering seriously if that was what was filling his brother's veins at the moment – cold, misty death replacing the blood that he was loosing.

As he shook the random thought away, Bobby tossed aside the makeshift bandage of Dean's shirt. Dean ignored the damp squelch the garment made as it hit the floor.

What he couldn't ignore was the way Bobby's face looked as he took in the fully exposed wounds for the first time. "Dean… this is bad…"

"I know that," Dean snapped back, trying to push aside his rising panic. The holes in Sam's chest and shoulder were not neat, the edges burned and torn, the flesh around them puffy and raw. And they were not the only injuries. The gunshots were surrounded by other wounds – bruises and deeply torn flesh, as if he'd been ripped into by something long and sharp… like talons, Dean realized suddenly – like he'd been jumped by giant, predatory birds. New, jagged scars puckered his skin, white and puffy and wrong – too fresh to be so thickly welted. It was the look of badly mended flesh. Sam had been healed, and it looked like more then once, but it was done fast and roughly and with no regard to preserving the purity of the body, only its strength.

"I know it's bad," Dean continued, feeling oddly numbed by the sight of his brother's wounds. "But you know injuries, Bobby. You can fix this."

"I know enough to know when something's out of my league." Bobby touched the side of the still weeping chest wound, his fingers trembling as he pressed lightly. "This… it's so close to his heart… or his lungs. I can't just sew something like this up, Dean. He needs a hospital." Bobby's voice had gone soft, sad. It made Dean's fists curl.

"That's not an option, Bobby!"

The older man's eyes went hard. "Well, I'm putting it back on the table." Bobby shed his own shirt, using it to replace Dean's as a bandage. He leaned into it, applying pressure. "This is beyond anything I can do, Dean! If I cut into him… I could puncture a lung, or tear his heart! I won't do that to him too, Dean. And you can't ask me to. If you want your brother alive, he's going to need a real surgeon!"

Dean's brain snagged on the word. Surgeon. Sam needed a surgeon, not a hospital. Hospitals were unsafe – crowded, full of people who couldn't protect themselves, and run by prison-like rules – but surgeons were …portable.

"Fine." Dean heard himself voice the word before he knew he even intended to speak. "Cas? Can you keep him going for awhile?"

The angel looked up. His skin was pale, almost bloodless, and his jaw was working. The obvious effort he was making was less than soothing, considering that the strain was coming from fighting to keep Sam alive, and whole. "I can maintain his physical state for a few more hours, then he will begin to decline, and decline rapidly. Do what ever you intend to do before that point."

"Hurry. Check. Bobby?" Dean caught the other hunter with a glance. "Let Cas handle Sam. You get some angel wards and devil's traps up, asap. Put this place on lockdown." He grabbed his keys.

"Where are you going?" Bobby asked.

Dean shrugged as he opened the door. "To get him a surgeon."