13

"You sure did a number on that arm, there. It's gone all punky; gonna have to take it off. Don't worry; we brought in a top man, well recommended, just for you. Dr Angus here has done hundreds of amputations, and some of 'em even survived!"

The grinning surgeon made way for the specialist. A withered old man, dirty and foul-smelling, approached. He wore a ridiculously large headband with a reflector, and he leered over Dean where he lay. His once white gown was stained, sodden with the gore of previous patients. His tobacco-yellowed hands were gnarled and lumpy with arthritis, and he brandished a rusty, red-crusted buck saw. He winked, grinning a snaggle-toothed parody of a smile.

"Told ya, didn't I? Old Angus knows everything. Like I said; all you need is whiskey and a sharp saw!" He gripped Dean's arm at the elbow, poised to begin. "Too bad about the whiskey, though. I used it up when you was gone. Sorry, boy." He cackled and pressed the dirty, jagged tool against Dean's skin-

"Dude, wake up! It's a dream...hey, it's just a dream!"

Dean had sat bolt upright, with a sleep-muzzled cry. He stared at his brother without comprehension, sweating in terror for several moments. Sam talked him back to reality with comforting words, as he gently pressed Dean back down to the pillow.

"Yeah...ok...sorry." Dean mumbled, embarrassed, but still shell-shocked by his nightmare.

"You alright now? Bobby and me are here, Dean. You're doing fine, you just had a nightmare."

Dean turned away and stared hard at his arm, assuring himself that it was still attached. The wildness in his eyes lessened. He took a deep breath and smiled wanly. "Wow. Just a dream, but christ!" He closed his eyes and worked to calm himself, to dispel the ugly imagery that had struck such terror into his heart.

Bobby spoke to him. "Well. Good morning. I guess we came just in time, didn't we?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, guess so. I was just dreaming that it was...they were... Well never-mind. It was just stupid." He chose to redirect the attention of the room. "You guys have a good night?"

Sam and Bobby arranged themselves on the chairs ringing the bed. "Yeah, we were fine." Sam was pleased that his brother had been drugged into some apparently comfortable state during the night, nightmare notwithstanding. "Did you talk to a doctor yet?"

Dean had some better news. "Yeah, he said some stuff. Pretty much what you said, Sam. Four to six weeks in this rig, but as soon as I'm done with the antibiotic I can get out of here. I got some papers, over there, with instructions for dealing with this cage thing at home. Then they want to check on things in a couple of weeks, and maybe even take the thing off at that point." He looked sourly at his left arm. "I can't get this surgeon guy to sit still for more than five minutes, so I still can't get a real picture of this. I don't know yet how far I can push the limits on it." he growled.

"Well you know my limits, boy. They're a week long, so remember them." Bobby reminded.

Dean scowled at the both of them. His mood was combative; it was difficult, but it was nonetheless a good sign. Sam changed the subject. "Well that's a lot better than what we first heard, Dean. At least you can ditch this place soon. I figured you'd be bored miserable already, so we ordered cable for you. It should be on by this afternoon, so at least you can see something other than ceiling tiles."

Dean was mollified somewhat. "Awesome. ..Porn channels?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Wasn't offered."

"Too bad." Dean was interrupted by the arrival of another visitor. Russell Adams walked in, nervously approaching the bedside.

"Morning, Dean." he mumbled. He stared at the external fixation device. "Wow...that's nasty. But at least they didn't cut it off."

Dean had to laugh. Russell was nothing if not brutally direct. "Yeah. Thank god for small blessings. Nice zipper on your head there, Russ."

Russell touched his hand to his stitched hairline. "Yeah, well...not too much of a tragedy. You saw my grandad's shiny dome; that hair was gonna leave eventually." He sat down, relieved that Dean was not a typically sick person. Russ, like many gruff men, had trouble dealing with such things. "How long are you in for?" He made it sound like incarceration.

"Just a week. Then after a few more I lose the metal. How'd it go with the cops..?"

"Fine. They're all excited about the bust. There's a lot of that stuff being grown around here lately, but not on such a scale. They didn't seem like they needed any complications, so I didn't offer none." he grinned. But he sobered for a moment. "Hell, boys. I really need to talk about some things with you, but I'm almost afraid to ask..."

Bobby knew where he was headed. "You mean about the sin-eater."

"Yeah...and what you were saying; about it being the reason you come here in the first place."

Dean met his eyes. "You really sure you want to know? Because this isn't fairytale shit, Russell. You saw a little of what we deal with. It gets worse; it can get real ugly. The less people know about what's really out there, the better they sleep."

Russell frowned. "Well, I'll tell you this; folks around here have a lot of tales. Most of it is bullshit, but certain things stay constant. I know that we're a superstitious lot of hillbillies sometimes, but god-damned if some of it ain't true. My grandad talked about that whole Sin Eater business a few times. He was around when the the story played out, way back. He always told us kids to stay away from that place, and we always did. Hell, everybody did. But you grow up, and those stories start to look like foolish nonsense after a while..."

"Well, some are. And some aren't. Sam and me, and Bobby here; we look for these things. We read about them, research them, and we try to figure out which are just stories and which are dangerous. And when we come across the real deal, we try to fix the problem."

Russell shook his head, trying to absorb the new reality. "Well, ok, but what I don't understand is why? I mean, far as I can see, you don't come out holding the longer straw in the end. And you ain't gettin' rich off it. Why go through that?"

Dean looked to the others for input. He still didn't have a solid answer for that. Bobby tried to explain. "Well, I guess it's a different reason for each one of us. Me; I got into it because I lost some one close to me to something evil. At the time, I didn't know anything about it all. But I knew that what happened wasn't right, and sure as hell wasn't normal. So I started learning. And the more I learned, the less I was comfortable knowing these things were out there, screwing other folks up. And these boys here; well, they learned through their old man, after the family had their own sad experience with the darker side. And of course, Dean here; he's just an obsessive, tunnel-visioned nut-job, and his poor brother is just hanging on by his fingernails, trying to keep him from blowing up on a daily basis." He grinned at Dean, who mouthed something off-colour back.

Russell was quiet for a while. "Huh. Well, I think I'll leave it up to you all, then. I got my hands full with the crap that regular folk do around here. Think I'll just keep my eyes closed to the rest of it, if you don't mind."

"You're better off, Russ. Trust me." Dean snorted.

"Yeah, I see that." Russell got up, readying to leave. "Well, you boys know you're welcome to keep on at my mother's house. I fixed that door, so nobody will be surprising you no more. Dean; hope you heal up quick...and I'll look in on you from time to time." He tossed the new key to Sam, and paused in the doorway. "Oh...one thing I gotta ask you... Now that I know that there's lots of things from the kids' books that might be lurking out there, you gotta tell me this; Santa Claus...real or fake?"

Dean laughed. "Nope. Sorry, I'm not bursting that bubble. But stay away from that tooth fairy bitch. You don't wanna know about that shit."

Russell smiled uncertainly, not quite sure if they were joking, and left.

Bobby leveled his stare at Dean. "You're not horse-shitting us over this one week and you're free thing are you? Cuz we can ask the doc-"

Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "No, I'm not, alright? All they do is send me out with some kind of ointment and my bunch of instructions, and then they see me again in a week. If things are good, they'll pull this off two weeks after that and put it in a regular cast after that. It's nothing."

"Alright. Good." Bobby was satisfied he was telling the truth. "Now listen, boy. We've gotta talk about this Nathaniel Willard. That police investigation sounds pretty cut and dried, so there's a good chance that work will go on on that farm site any day now. From what Sam and me have learned, the widow of Munro hasn't got much choice; if she doesn't stick to that part of the deal, then she stands to lose her sale of that property."

"Ok, and-"

"And.. maybe Sam and I should go do the salt and burn as soon as possible. Nate's a risk, Dean. He could harm the next poor SOB that gets into a tractor expecting a dull day of grading."

Dean shook his head vehemently at that. "No! No way! Look, you two don't get it; he trusts me! And I have something that can convince him...something neither of you can offer-"

"What, Dean? Come on, all we need to do here is what we always do; dig up the bones and deal with them. You know that it's the way it works. You've done it a hundred times."

"NO! Jesus, no!" Dean looked away, distraught at the turn of events. He knew that he was a prisoner in the room for the next six days. The idea that Nate would be, for all intents and purposes, dispatched; felt profoundly wrong. He fought to control his irrational feelings. "Look; we don't have to force him away. He can go willingly, he can see everything he's been missing. He wants to, all he needs is the right encouragement."

Bobby glanced at Sam. "Go on then. What do we need to do to help him go?"

"He needs to believe he's sin-free. Just like all those others, the ones he ate the sins for. Nobody ever did it for him, so he thinks he's carrying around this huge burden of everybody elses' evils, and he'll go to hell. It's bullshit, I know. But he believes it. And the only way he'll go into the light, or whatever the hell he's supposed to do, is if he knows that he's going up instead of down. He knows about my deal, so he knows I'm going to hell no matter what. So that's why I'm the only one who can do this for him. He would never put that on another person, but if he knows it won't make a difference to my end, then maybe he'll let me return the favour."

Bobby sat and said nothing for a while. He could see the burning need in his friend to right this wrong. And knowing that the months to come would be difficult for all of them, he had no choice but to facilitate this thing. If they could bring this boy his peace, then maybe they could bring some to Dean Winchester as well. "Ok, then. We will wait out the week. Sam and I will keep an eye on that property, and Russ can fill us in on the local gossip. If we can keep a lid on the problems, then we can do it your way when you're discharged."

Dean relaxed visibly. "Thanks."

The days passed with an agonizing slowness for Dean. He knew he'd given his word. He also knew that he'd had bad experiences in previous times when he'd jumped the gun on his hospital escapes. But it still took all his willpower to stay put. He thought a lot about Nathaniel, and how he would convince him. He thought of many things, some of which were unwelcome notions that haunted his restless mind at night, as he lay wakeful and anxious. He grated under the attentions of the nurses, who seemed intent on torturing him by fiddling with his metal contraption, checking that the pins remained tight, applying antibiotic gunk. It might have been different if they were hot, but this neck of the woods seemed to breed only capable, practical, homely women. He had sucked all the entertainment value from his mini TV, and it's annoying buzzy little disposable earbuds. And the meals were typical hospital issue...colourless, flavourless, and uniform in texture. He almost looked forward to the sensual extravaganza of tapioca. He had his visitors, of course. Both Sam and Bobby were dutiful in that regard. But they had time and funding constraints; Bobby had people looking after Rumsfeld, the dog, and Sam couldn't afford to stay the whole week in Bradford. Four days in, Bobby came by to say his goodbyes.

"Hey, Dean. Sleep well?" He dragged a plastic chair over and sat, offering a wilted taco in damp wrapper to the captive. Dean devoured it in seconds. When he'd wiped the remainder from his sandy stubble, he nodded.

"Yeah, thanks. Bored to shit, though. What are you up to?"

Bobby sat back. "Well...I've been sight-seeing, of course." he snorted. "And I went out and spoke to the widow of our deal-breaker dead guy. Waste of time, like I figured it would be. She didn't know anything, couldn't offer any names of anyone who might be a connection to it. ..And I spent some time talking to your brother."

Dean was instantly wary. "Talking to Sam. Well...good."

Bobby sighed. "Why the hell you two can't just sit down and talk this whole thing over, I just don't know!"

Dean turned and glared at him. "Talk about what, Bobby? It's done already. Whether anybody appreciates it or not, I made the trade, and it can't be undone. So what do you think we should discuss? Sam... Well Sam's here, now, instead of in the ground. I don't regret anything, no matter how either of you feel, ok? So maybe you all should just shut the hell up about it and quit the freaking analysis! Spend your time figuring my way out of it instead!"

Bobby was taken aback by the aggressiveness of Dean's reaction. "Hey! Take a pill! Nobody's second-guessing you here! And nobody's wishing you never did what you did! But you are so damned wrapped up in how this is affecting you, that you're forgetting how it's affecting your kid brother!"

Dean rose up at that. "How it's affecting him? I'll tell you how! He's freaking breathing! He's alive, instead of frying in hell, or wherever he was headed! He's here, safe!" He threw his plastic water cup across the room, frustrated and furious and hurt. "And I get to lay here, doing my count-down, having nightmares over what'll come next! Don't talk to me about how this is affecting Sam, ok? I already know how he feels about it!"

"NO! No you don't! Dean; for christ's sakes, you need to talk about this with him! Can't you even consider how this sacrifice of yours is screwing him up? Of course he's grateful! Of course he's glad you did this for him! But he's torn up by guilt and terror and grief; to the point where he can't even talk about it without breaking!" Bobby tried to calm his voice now. "You have to see that, boy. He hero-worships you...and the idea that you're giving in and go to Hades on his behalf has him tied in knots. And I know what you think; that only you would ever make that sacrifice, but you're dead wrong!"

Dean stared hard at anything but Bobby. His foot tapped furiously in agitation, as he worked to keep that iron lid clamped down. Several moments ticked by, heavy with emotion. Dean tried to swallow away the bitter tightness that threatened to choke him. "We're done here, Bobby. We're done. I'm done, the deal's done. All this bloody talk is just a waste of time."

Both men wiped angrily at the moisture threatening to spill from the corners of their eyes. Bobby rose, and collected himself. "Dean, all I'm saying...is don't shut him out. You'll both feel better if you can air out some of this shit. I've gotta get back to the garage, the dog's only got a watcher 'til tomorrow. I'm glad to see you're healing up fine, I talked to your docs. ...I wish this whole goddamned trip had turned out to be worth it, but what can you do?"

Dean reigned in his own emotions. "Don't think like that, Bobby. We solved another job; that's always worth it. And I sure as hell appreciate everything you did, never mind what didn't work out. If you and Russell hadn't come after us...well, I guess we'd be haunting that field right alongside Nate." He held his hand out to his old friend. Bobby took it and shook it heartily.

"Take care, Dean. Stay the hell out of trouble, and let your brother look after you some, ok? For his sake, not yours."

Dean smiled wearily. "I will. Give that mutt a kick for me."

Bobby stood for a moment. He had so much more to say, so much more to work out... But he turned toward the door, pausing briefly. "Right. Well, say good-bye to Sam for me. And wish him good luck." With that, he was gone.

When he'd assured himself that he was alone, Dean gave in to angry tears. It was all so f~~ked up. He was gonna fry, and despite his sacrifice, nobody ended up happy. What the hell was the point?

Sam did what he could to help May Adams out while he stayed there. It was as much to occupy his own whirlwind mind as it was to show his appreciation. He fixed some stray clapboards on the side of the house, he cleared her vegetable garden of spent plants, and turned the soil in preparation for next year. And she in turn, fed him as if he were a triumphant returning army. And the bottle of bourbon had mysteriously reappeared on the nightstand, fully intact. Somehow, old Angus's sixth sense must have picked up on it, as he took every opportunity to "visit" with the newcomer, although he was usually sent scurrying by his daughter-in-law. Russell joined them several times for dinner, and he filled them in on the local activities, especially the events at Buell Farm. Sam learned that the official investigation was nearing a close, and that Alice Munro had contracted a construction firm from Bradford. It would commence grading as soon as the police caution tape came down; which would, by Russell's estimation, be in three or four days. Sam now knew their time frame, and he hoped that Dean could fulfil his desire to release Nathaniel Willard from his self-imposed exile before it came down to an emergency salt & burn.

Dean made up his mind. Once he was out of the hospital, he was not going to come back. He was too aware of the tenuous state of their identities and it would make no difference whether he spent the next five weeks in the hospital bed, or came in intermittently as an outpatient. It was the same time-frame, and either scenario would ultimately result in some very difficult questions. He spent the next few days pinning his surgeon down whenever he could, peppering him with questions. What function did the fixation device serve? Was it there only because the wound was open? How were they going to remove it? What kind of cast would he have afterward?

Dean was satisfied with what he'd learned. He'd made a promise to Bobby, but the second his course of antibiotics was finished, he was going to discharge himself, officially or otherwise. Life was too short.

When the final day of his IV came, he breathed a sigh of relief as the tube was removed. He flexed his left hand a little, testing his range. It was limited, to say the least. He could move his fingers a little, as per the design of the metal bracing, but it was certainly painful. The sutures looked typical...the swelling and redness had abated some, and it was on it's way to healing. He rotated one of the pins slightly. -Ow- The twinge was understandable, considering that the stainless steel passed through all the structures of his arm into bone. But he got the idea how to remove them, when it was time.

Finally, Sam came around, ready to take him to May Adam's. He helped Dean change into his regular clothes, and collected all the printed info regarding after-care. He'd already spoken at length to the surgeon, so he had a clear idea of what needed doing. A nurse carefully fitted Dean with a blue sling, pouting at his leaving. He winked at her and blew her a kiss as Sam wheeled him out to the parking lot. As soon as he was allowed, he bolted from the chair and stalked to the car.

While still in town, Dean asked Sam to stop at the nearest department store. He went in, assuring Sam that he could manage by himself, and didn't need to be hovered over. Dean went quickly to what he sought. There was a small section of stationery, and there he picked up a box of crayons. Next he found a pharmacist, inquiring about braces for wrists and arms. She showed him something that would work, and after throwing in some heavy duty tylenol, and some candy bars for good measure, he paid for his items and returned to the car. Sam looked at his plastic bag expectantly, but Dean refused to discuss the contents. He knew Sam would resist his plan to stay clear of Bradford General, and he was tired, he didn't want to argue about it just yet. He reached in and handed a bar to him, saying that was all he was getting. Sam wisely let it drop.

Dean rebuffed any attempts at serious discussion. The drive was long, three hours. Sam tried repeatedly, but eventually gave up. They kept the conversation light, but Dean was still weakened, and he soon succumbed to the warmth and comfort of the car, and the monotony of the wooded miles passing them by. Sam glanced at him frequently, assuring himself that all was reasonably well with his softly snoring brother. As Dean slept, Sam could assay his state without his scowling resistance. Dean was still pale, and had dark circles defining his eyes. He had the metal rod-encumbered left arm sitting on a rolled up sleeping bag, comfortably higher than his heart. Once he was out, he slept like the dead, and Sam let him.

Sam regretted that he couldn't talk with Dean about the conversation in the tunnel. But he knew there would be other opportunities to bring it up. He would just have to figure out how to get him to agree to listen.