Vampires Were People Too
Disclaimer: They are not mine, nor do they belong to me. The Winchesters belong to Eric Kripke, who is not me. Which is to say, they do not belong to me, but to someone else. (I may have watched the Power Puff Girls Marathon on MLK Day. I'm not saying I did, but I may have). LOL
Beta'd: By the talented Carocali and Muffy, who somehow fit me around their demanding schedules. Thank you!
I played, tinkered and edited after they beta'd so any and all remaining errors are mine.
Time Line: Set some time between Houses of the Holy and Born Under a Bad Sign.
AN: Well, this is it folks! It took a year (no really, it did) but this story is nearly finished! I wish I could say I learned my lesson about posting WIP's, but 'all signs point to no.'
Thanks to all who have read and especially a couple of you who poked me on occasion for updates. I obviously needed them.
A very special thank you to Lostac for finding copious amounts of data regarding Aztec rituals and Muffy Morrigan for her desert expertise. You ladies were invaluable. Thank you.
AN II: Um, yeah, shoot – well, it was supposed to be the last chapter, but see Dean and then, well, Sam – and well…the real last chapter is almost done. I tried to wait to post this one until it was done, but it was taking too long and I got poked! :D
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The blood and centuries old heart continued to meld and Dean swayed as the blood loss overtook him. He lifted the gold handled knife for the last time and plunged it deep into the vampire's heart.
Dean sank to his knees as the heart slowed its beating and stopped, his head resting against the cool stone. He breathed deeply, holding a hand to his arm to staunch the flow of blood. "Sammy?" He pushed himself to his feet with agonizing slowness and stumbled around the altar to where his brother had collapsed.
Sam lay on the ground, sand pouring from his mouth, his eyes, ears and nose. "Sammy!" He dropped to his knees, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. The sand partially formed a face, wailing, then fell to the earth. The sand was gone, the civatateo with it, but Sam wasn't breathing.
A noise to Dean's left drew his attention. He reached into the weapons bag bringing up the Colt. For a fraction of a second Dean saw a man with a bright blue face framed by green feathers in the sight of the gun. He blinked and the man had disappeared. Father Rodriguez stepped into view, a sympathetic look on his face. A hand squeezed Dean's shoulder.
"No," Dean whispered. "No!" He dropped his arm, his thick fingers clumsily felt for a pulse on Sam's neck. Dean buried his face against Sam's shoulder and wrapped an arm around his little brother's back pulling him into a tight embrace. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. You hear me? You're gonna be okay."
………………….…………………………………….Chapter Eight…………………………………………………….….
For the longest ten seconds in Dean's life, his brother didn't draw a breath. He sighed in relief when Sam's chest muscles rolled and he coughed violently, expelling sand with each bark. He tired quickly, his head lolling against Dean's arm. The first puffs of erratic breaths against Dean's neck caused of rush of relief to run through his veins. Every exhale a gift, helping slow Dean's frantically beating heart.
Sam was alive.
Dean could feel the fine tremors coursing through his brother's body. He shifted until Sam's head rested in the crook of his neck causing sweat to pool there, but Dean didn't care. "Sammy," he said finally, shaking the younger man lightly. "Hey, stay awake." Sam opened his eyes, slits of glazed hazel roved around without focusing and closed again.
"Dean, we need to stop the bleeding," Father Rodriguez said. "Then we must leave before darkness falls. The animals come out when the sun goes down."
He acknowledged the priest with a head nod. Father Rodriguez set the medical kit down in front of Dean. "Pressure bandages, Sam first," Dean instructed. The pair worked quickly and silently, wrapping Sam's arm firmly with the self-adhesive bandage.
The air shimmered around them, but Dean doubted it was the heat distorting his vision. It was accompanied by light-headedness and a sudden nausea that brought bile rushing to the top of his throat. He barely had time to turn his head before the burning line of sick hit the sand. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"Your turn," Father Rodriguez said, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. He didn't resist when the priest grabbed his arm and started wrapping it. Dean pushed sweaty bangs off Sam's forehead with his free hand.
"It's going to take us at least forty-five minutes to get down the mesa," Dean said, shading his eyes. "Do you know a faster way back to town?"
"No, but I do have a faster vehicle on that rough road," Father Rodriguez said.
"Uh-uh, no way," Dean said, pulling out of the priest's grasp. He glanced down at Sam, the younger man's pale face glistened with sweat. When it came down to Sam or the Impala it wasn't a contest, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of his baby sitting out in the remote desert all night. "Fine. You're right. We'll take your car."
"Sheriff Brady and I will come back for your car first thing in the morning," the older man said in a reassuring tone. Father Rodriguez finished bandaging Dean's arm and handed him a bottle of water. "See if you can get him to drink something while I pack the supplies."
Dean scowled at the obvious distraction ploy. He scooted closer to his brother, ignoring the heat radiating off the sand through his jeans. He sat, shading Sam as best he could, bracing the younger man against bent knees. "Come on, Sam, you have to drink a little. Get the taste of sand out of your mouth."
Sam responded, gulping down sloppy mouthfuls of water, a great majority of it ending up on the front of his shirt. Dean pulled the bottle away, afraid his brother would make himself sick. "Thirsty," Sam rasped.
"You can have some more before we head down," Dean assured him. "Don't want you getting sick."
"Too late," Sam said, the corners of his mouth twitched nearly imperceptibly. He blinked hazel eyes open, immediately squeezing them shut tight against the sun.
"Was that a joke?" Dean asked, incredulous. "You're joking?" He slapped Sam lightly on the chest for emphasis.
A part of Dean was proud of his brother, while the other part wanted to strangle him for being a smart ass when they were both dehydrated and bleeding, not to mention Sam had scared him shitless when he'd quit breathing. Dean was never going to admit that, however. Still, he couldn't stop himself from tightening his grip, pulling Sam in to a sideways, awkward embrace.
Sam puffed a small laugh that dissolved into a coughing fit akin to a pack-a-day smoker's hack. It finished with a wheezing inhale, the younger man's fingers twining weakly in Dean's shirt. "Thank you."
"You're okay, I've got ya, Sammy," he crooned. "You're okay."
"No," Sam said, tightening his grip, "thank you for not doing anything stupid."
"Day's not over yet," Dean said with a grin. He knew what Sam meant, but there was no way he was confessing just how close he came to plunging the dagger in his chest before the blood from his wrist started the civatateo's heart beating.
Sam snorted, pulling away. "It's over? She's gone, right?" He coughed several times and it left him panting, breathless.
"Yeah, you did good, Sammy," Dean said, gently rubbing circles on his brother's back. "Think you can walk?"
Sam frowned, his face twisted in concentration as he considered Dean's question. "Yeah," he answered, finally. "Can you give me a minute?"
"Yeah, sure," Dean said. Sam's answer was not terribly reassuring, but he hadn't expected any other response from his brother. Their Dad had raised them to be tough, to ride it out, and to finish the job. It didn't mean much beyond Sam would have to fall on his face before he'd admit he couldn't do it.
A single bird tweeted in a cheerful song from the branches of a mesquite bush. A chorus of cicadas buzzed in a percussive cacophony. Even the rocks and sand themselves seemed to sizzle audibly in the intense heat. Sam's lungs squeaked with each exhale, the sand having irritated his airway. Dean shifted, moving out from behind his brother. He kept one arm wrapped around Sam's back supporting the younger man. "I'm ready," Sam said, his eyes blinking wearily.
"We're waiting for Father Rodriguez," Dean said, patting Sam lightly on the arm. He frowned at the younger man's head nod which seemed to be more uncontrolled bobbing than actual muscle control.
A shadow fell over the brothers. Dean looked up at the priest. "We should hurry," Father Rodriguez said. He bent to help lift Sam to standing, bracing the youngest Winchester and draping a limp arm over one of his shoulders. Dean moved to do the same on the other side. Sam sagged between them, his legs not bearing any weight.
"Hang on, kiddo," Dean coached. "I got ya."
"You're hurt, too," Sam insisted, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. He shuffled his feet on the shifting sand, trying to gain his footing.
"This?" Dean asked, holding up his bandaged arm. He waited until Sam planted his feet and straightened his legs, taking just a little of his own weight. "It's nothing, I'm fine." Dean ignored both the snort from his brother and the odd look from the priest. He reached down, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. "We'll take it slow and easy."
"The path's not wide enough to walk three abreast," Father Rodriguez said, talking over Sam's slumped form to Dean. "Not for the middle steeper portion."
"I've got him," Dean said, his tone firm. "It won't be a problem." The priest opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it, changing to a head nod. Dean considered it a wise decision.
The steep grade proved more challenging than even determined, Winchester pig-headedness could conquer. Jumping cholla reached out to snag Dean's shirt, leaving a burning path of scratches along his side. The blood loss had taken a toll on him, too, and he staggered under Sam's weight. In a wordless gesture, the older man offered to take a turn. Dean signaled his defeat with a small head nod.
Sam mumbled as the change took place. Dean frowned. He had serious doubts about whether there was any real coherency on Sam's part or not. The younger man stumbled as he went through the motions of walking. "It's okay, Sammy, we're almost there," Dean said.
"Liar," Sam accused, lifting his head to glance in Dean's direction. The glassy hazels didn't seem to focus. He doubted Sam could see him at all.
"No, just bullshitting," Dean said with a smirk.
Sam puffed a weak laugh. "Good to know." The effort of talking seemed to exhaust the younger man. He stumbled, losing his balance entirely. The lead weight that was Sam nearly brought the priest to his knees, but he recovered when Dean grabbed Sam's waistband and hauled him to his feet.
"Sorry for the wedgie, Sammy, but if you're not gonna stay on your feet, it forces my hand," Dean said. He sniggered, amused by his own joke. He hoped the attempt at humor would hide how worried he was from his brother.
Sam lifted his head, tendrils of chestnut strands stuck to his sweaty forehead. It didn't hide the deep wrinkles in his forehead. "M'fine, Dean, the curse, the civateo, she's…" Sam's panting explanation was interrupted by another coughing fit. Dean stopped, motioning Father Rodriguez to do the same. They were almost to the bottom, but Sam needed a break.
The coughing didn't stop this time.
Sam's fingers weakly scrabbled at his throat as he tried to catch a breath. Dean took a step closer, wrapped an arm around his brother, bending him slightly forward. The extra gravity seemed to do the trick and moments later a wad of saliva and sand hit the dusty ground. The younger man drew in shallow, wheezing breaths.
Sam'd almost died; his heart had actually stopped, Dean was sure of it. Now, his heart started pumping, the gravity of the situation truly catching up to him. Sam wasn't safe yet, he was weak, sick, and suffering under the desert sun. Frustration bubbled up at Sam's attempt to reassure him. "You're not fine," Dean growled. "And the civatateo may be gone, but that bitch still did a number on you. Until you can walk under your own power, how about we agree I get to call the shots?"
"I just meant," Sam stopped, acquiescing when Dean scowled.
The older hunter put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We need to get down the hill, Sam. You lost a lot of blood up there." Dean jerked his head in the direction of the altar.
"You did as well," Father Rodriguez interjected. He pointed at Dean's arm with his free hand. "You are bleeding through the bandage."
Sam whipped his head up, brow crinkled, eyebrows drawn together in worry. Dean leveled a glare at the priest. "Thanks," Dean said, sarcastically.
"We should wrap more bandages around both your arms," Father Rodriguez suggested. He dropped the duffel to the ground, allowing Dean to take the full burden of his brother. Dean glowered, easing onto a low rock, taking Sam to the ground with him.
The rock was scorching hot, the heat burning through his jeans in record time. Dean was glad he'd guided Sam into sitting on his boots, back resting against Dean's legs. He fidgeted, trying to get comfortable on the hot stone. "What's wrong?" Sam asked, twisting to glance back at him.
"My ass is hot," Dean said. Silence hung heavy in the air for several seconds, then he chuckled.
"Not touching that," Sam mumbled, slumping back against Dean's legs.
Dean noticed the back of the younger man's shirt had lines of salt from evaporating sweat, and his breathing was shallow. Sam needed off the mesa and he needed medical attention. Anxiety rose again, but Dean aggressively tamped it down. He could fall apart later, when Sam wasn't around to see it.
Father Rodriguez handed Dean a bottle of water and at the hunter's nod, set to work on Sam first. Dean took a swig, the tepid water soothing his dry throat. "Sips," Dean commanded, handing the bottle to Sam. "I don't want you getting sick and puking." He caught the scowl on Sam's face, but the younger man did as ordered, taking only small sips of water.
Father Rodriguez made quick work of applying additional layers of bandages, and they were headed down the trail in mere minutes. By the time they reached the priest's SUV, Dean was certain they were being baked alive by the desert sun and Sam seemed barely aware of his surroundings. Father Rodriguez opened the doors and lowered the back seat, spreading two blankets across the interior. "You should get situated first and then I'll help him inside," the priest suggested.
"Yeah, okay," Dean said. He placed the duffel in the corner, using it as a backrest. With a bit of twisting and pulling, they were able to get Sam into the vehicle. Dean fumbled inside his pocket, his fingers finding the warm metal inside. "Hey!" he shouted, garnering the priest's attention, then tossing him the keys. "The extra medical supplies are in the back seat in the cooler. Lock her up when you're done."
"Si, okay," Father Rodriguez agreed.
The air inside the vehicle was oppressive, the heat scorching his lungs on each inhale. It reminded Dean of the winter they'd spent in Minnesota when temperatures had plummeted to 110 below with the wind-chill. It felt similar to the burn of the extremely cold air, that same constrictive, lung collapsing sensation magnified ten-fold. Sam struggled to breathe, gasping like a beached fish. The SUV didn't just feel like an oven, it was one.
Dean quickly pulled Sam's t-shirt off, then removed his boots and socks. Dean's shirt followed, which he folded, placing his brother's on top and tucking it under Sam's head. "Hey, you with me, Sammy?" Dean asked.
Sam groaned, his eyes fluttering open, then closing again. "Yeah," the younger man said, his voice a throaty stage-whisper.
"Listen, I know you don't like IVs and, I can't say I disagree, but I don't see a choice here," Dean said, rubbing a thumb in small circles on Sam's arm as a pre-apology. "We're over an hour from town."
Slits of glassy hazel gazed up at him. "Yeah, okay," Sam conceded softly. The capitulation concerned Dean nearly as much as his brother's hot skin and weak movements. Sam struggled against the current. As much as he had always desired to fit in, Dean's little brother was never content just going with the flow.
Father Rodriguez filled the open passenger door, supplies in hand. "They didn't get too hot?" Dean asked. If the white utility vehicle was hot, the Impala had to be broiling.
"No, you packaged them well," Father Rodriguez replied. He handed Dean the tubing, hanging the saline bag from the clothes hook by the door. He leaned through, depositing the small cooler beside Dean. "There's still a little ice in the packs at the bottom."
Dean nodded, barely acknowledging the priest. Sam's skin pulled tight from dehydration, but Dean started the IV with little difficulty, securing it with tape to his brother's arm. The younger man's face twitched, but otherwise he didn't react. The tape curled and Dean added an additional piece. On a normal day, it might have been annoying, but today, the sweat that caused the curling tape was a reassurance. He didn't even notice Father Rodriguez had shut the door until the engine started and the vehicle lurched to life.
Hot air buffeted Dean as he continued to triage his brother. He placed the partially melted ice packs against Sam's arm pits and neck, and elevated his feet slightly on the duffel bag. Dean's vision swam. He pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes. "Don't get sick, don't pass out," he whispered, coaching himself. He sipped from a bottle of water as soon as he was able to get his roiling stomach under control.
The Ford hit a bump, shaking its occupants. Sam didn't react at all to the jarring, his head bouncing off the shirt pillow, one foot sliding off the duffel. Dean bit back a curse, situating everything properly again. He grimaced, picking up one of his brother's socks expecting to find a sweaty ball of cotton, but it had already dried stiff in the hot, arid air. He swirled it around in the water at the bottom of the cooler, then used it to wipe Sam's torso, arms, and face. He patted it into place on the younger man's forehead. Sam could complain later if he didn't like a sweat sock facial.
Fear spawned another attack of nausea. Dean placed a hand against the back of the driver's seat to steady himself. "Eat some of the pretzels," Father Rodriguez suggested, "and drink water. You need to replenish salt and liquids."
Dean was too sick to respond past glaring at the priest. After he fought back a wave of dizziness, Dean nibbled on pretzels, sipping water between bites. They didn't even taste salty. His eyes widened with realization, they were both very dehydrated. Thankfully, the intravenous fluids would help Sam faster than bottled water and pretzels. He kept a close eye on Sam, periodically bathing him with the water from the cooler. It was now very warm water, but the liquid evaporating from Sam's skin was working to cool him slightly. The air conditioner had finally started blowing cold and when Father Rodriguez rolled up the windows the change in environmental temperature was immediate.
The hour and forty minutes to town passed in a blur of a caring for Sam and keeping himself from getting sick. By the time Father Rodriguez pulled into the one wing hospital, Sam was looking better. His skin was cooler to the touch, still hot, but not alarmingly so and he stirred when the Ford came to a stop.
"D'n?" Hazel cat eyes blinked lazily in the fading sunlight.
"Right here, Sam," Dean said, popping the door open. "We're going to get you taken care of."
Sam frowned, his entire face puckering in confusion. He swallowed hard. "Where?"
"The hospital," Dean said. He heard fast running footsteps behind him.
"Sir, we need you to stand aside," a voice behind Dean instructed. He spared one last look at his brother before stepping to the left. He heard the muffled conversation as a female paramedic leaned into the car, but his brain was having difficulty putting it all together. Before he could get a handle on Sam's condition they were wheeling his brother inside.
"This one as well," Father Rodriguez said, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.
Dean shook his head, the movement upsetting his equilibrium and he listed sideways smacking hard into the side of the SUV. "What's happening to Sam?" he asked, even as he was guided down into a wheelchair. "How's my brother?"
"We're taking care of your brother," a man said, crouching low beside Dean. The hunter scowled, not happy with the blanket response. He attempted to stand, only to have a strong hand on his shoulder push him back down. "Hey, I've got a little sister. I understand. Let me get you inside, and I'll explain what's going on with Sam while they are examining you."
Dean nodded reluctantly. "Fine." He could get the information he needed and then find Sam.
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He was cold, which seemed odd because the last thing he remembered his brain felt like it was frying. Sam licked his chapped lips, shifting on the hard bed.
"Sam?"
Dean? Thank God. Sam turned his head, blinking to clear the grit from his eyes. "Hey," he said, greeting his brother. He'd thought, no, he'd been terrified that after he passed out up on the mesa Dean would do something drastic and reckless. Sam had a vague recollection of stumbling beside his brother down the hill, but the dreams had left him wondering. Sam took a good look at Dean. He had dark circles under his eyes and a day's worth of stubble on his chin. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. They pumped me full of liquids, same as you, and cut me loose," Dean said, scrubbing a hand down his face, scratching at the extra growth. "How do you feel?"
Sam paused, he hadn't really thought about it. "Lighter." He noticed the bandage on Dean's forearm, then belatedly the one on his own.
"Lighter?" Dean asked, pulling his chair closer.
Sam shook his head. "I don't know how else to describe it. I was tired before and it…felt like I was filling up with sand, heavy, exhausted."
"And now you're just exhausted," Dean said, nodding in understanding. He'd obviously picked up on Sam's omission.
"Yeah," Sam admitted with a yawn, "but better than before." He squirmed under the scrutiny feeling like a bug under a microscope. That's when he noticed unlike Dean, he was still connected to tubes, wiring and oxygen. He looked up at the half empty bag of saline. He wondered how long it would take for it to empty. He was already itching to get out of the hospital.
"Don't get any funny ideas, Sam," Dean said, his tone firm. "They said maybe late this afternoon and I don't see any reason to push it."
"This afternoon?" Sam asked, furrowing his brow. When had it become morning?
"It's seven-thirty in the morning," he supplied, apparently reading Sam's mind yet again. He yawned, stretching. Sam smiled faintly. Dean always seemed to enjoy a slow, arching, feline stretch. Sure enough, a tired grin appeared on his older brother's face. "I seriously need to find some coffee."
"You seriously need to catch some sleep and a shower," Sam said, a rough chuckle in his voice. "You look like crap, Dean." The older man had a fine layer of sand covering most of his face and peppering his hair.
"This from the man who's got the worst case of bed head I've ever seen." Dean made a sweeping gesture around his head to illustrate. "Sammy, you really ought to get a haircut."
"You," Sam said, pointing at his brother, "leave my hair alone."
Dean laughed. "One little incident with the Nair…"
"And the haircuts," Sam said, holding up two fingers, "two god-awful haircuts."
"Only one," Dean defended, "and only after Dad blamed your bangs for missing the shot during practice."
"Twice," Sam insisted. "You're forgetting the time when I was in second grade."
Dean frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. The lines smoothed and a smile appeared when he remembered. "Dude, that wasn't a haircut. I was getting the gum out of your hair, Goldilocks."
"Peanut butter works," Sam said, sounding petulant to his own ears.
"Like I'd waste peanut butter on your hair," Dean said.
The curtain was pulled open sparing Sam the retort. "Breakfast," the nurse said, smiling at him.
"Thanks, Carol," Dean said, with a wide grin.
Carol expanded her smile to include Dean. "The oatmeal and juice are for Sam," she said. "Toast, eggs and coffee are for you."
"Aw, you did make me breakfast in bed," Dean said, obviously continuing a conversation Sam had slept through.
"No," Carol said, setting up the tray. "I made breakfast in bed for Sam." She made eye contact with Sam and winked. He grinned broadly, chuckling at the strangled look on Dean's face. Carol checked the readings on the instruments behind him, then removed the nasal canula. "You're doing great, Sam. I'd say there's a good chance the doctor will let you go home today."
"Good," Sam said. "Thanks." The nurse raised the head of his bed and positioned the bedside table before leaving the brothers alone in the room again. He reached for the coffee cup, the hot brown liquid irresistible. Dean slapped his hand away.
"No coffee for you," Dean said, snagging the mug. "Stick with your juice."
"Ah, come on, Dean," Sam said, licking his dry lips. "I need some coffee, man."
"It's a diuretic," Dean said, taking a sip. "No coffee for you until your skin stops looking like Arnold Vosloo's during the regeneration phase."
Sam mouthed Dean's words about no coffee, rolled his eyes, and took a sip of juice instead. He didn't miss the look of concern Dean flashed him. Sam took a bite of oatmeal. When his stomach rumbled, he realized just how hungry he was. It had been two days since he'd been able to keep any food down. They were both finishing the last of their breakfast when Sheriff Brady appeared in the doorway.
Brady tossed Dean the keys to the Impala. "Your car's out in the lot. She's a beaut."
"That she is," Dean said, jerking his head to the window. The older man squeezed past the brothers, taking a seat on the window ledge.
"Father Rodriguez tells me you stopped whatever was taking the kids," Sheriff Brady said.
"I'm not…" Dean started.
"I'll spare you the trouble of lying," Brady said, holding up his hand. "I know what happened on the mesa, what was wrong with your brother." The older man turned his attention to Sam. "How're you doing, Sam?"
"I'm fine," Sam said, pressing his hands against the mattress to push himself higher in the bed. "Have the kids returned?"
A wounded look crossed the older man's face. "No, not yet." He pulled a rumpled map out of his pocket. "I've been checking the places near where they disappeared, but I haven't found any signs."
Dean snagged the map from the Sheriff's loose grip and smoothed it out on Sam's bedside tray. Red lines circled each of the five spots where a child was presumed to have disappeared. Sam ran through the areas trying to find some way to correlate them. "Pen," Dean snapped, holding out a hand.
Brady dug in his pocket, handing Dean a pen. "What is it?"
Sam waved at the sheriff to silence him and watched his brother's face as he poured over the map, drawing lines, connecting sites. The two closest dots formed feet, another a bent triangle, a sloping back and then it came together. "It is," Dean said under his breath.
"It is what?" Brady asked, standing up and walking to the table.
Sam shot Dean an incredulous look; he never would have spotted that pattern, the connecting lines formed a stylized Aztec hummingbird. "It still doesn't tell us where the kids are," Dean growled.
"What doesn't?" Brady asked.
"Here's the church," Sam said, pointing to the bird's eye. "What's here?" He tapped a finger on the map over the spot where the heart would be.
"The old silver mine," Brady supplied. "Why?"
"Because that's where the kids are," Dean said, his voice rough.
"Could they still be alive?" Sam asked.
"If they had water," Sheriff Brady nodded. "Maybe." He was standing, moving out the door, cell phone in hand. Sam could hear the muffled conversation taking place just outside the room.
Dean's face was pinched, concern etched in every line. "Go," Sam said.
"No," Dean said, his mint green eyes deepening to mossy with worry and residual fear. "I'm going back to the motel for clothes for you and to grab a quick shower. The experts have this one, Sam."
"Dean, I know you want to," Sam said. "Just go, I'm fine." His older brother looked torn. "I'm fine," he repeated.
Sheriff Brady stepped back into the room. "I have two deputies and the volunteer search and rescue headed out to the mine. It's only an hour away, Dean, do you want to ride out with me? With any luck, they'll have found the kids by then."
Dean glanced back in his direction and Sam smiled. "Go."
………………………………………………………..Supernatural…………………………………………………………
AN: Sorry guys, RL has interfered with my writing for several weeks now. I'm plugging away at chapter nine and hope to have it finished soon! Thanks for all your support – it means a lot!