Chapter 4

A/N: I didn't really like the last chapter of this story despite spending days fiddling with it. But what kind reviews I've had anyway! Thanks again guys :-) Anyhoo, here's a chapter I do like, hope you do too.

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When Sam arrived back at the school parking lot with a scrawled piece of paper folded neatly in his pocket, Dean was nowhere to be found. Not asleep in the Impala, not sitting nonchalantly on its hood, not sat on the school steps chatting up a pretty senior. Not in any of the nearby places Sam might have expected to find his drunk brother.

Drunk. Shit.

Dean's probably wasted, he thought. Probably still nursing his fourth Jack Daniels in whatever dodgy bar he's managed to find in this dull, dull town. Sam leant against the car door, took out his cell, speed dial number two. Pulled his jacket tight around him.

The noise in the background when Dean picked up was not what Sam was expecting. No clink of glasses or low drunken murmurs, bartender asking if his brother wanted another one, buddy. Just, nothing. Dean breathing. The same cold wind that circled around Sam magnified ten times over in his ear.

It seemed an age before Dean spoke. "I'm sorry, Sam," he croaked, his voice wavering and cracking. Bad reception?

"Where are you? You're half an hour late, man." Trying not to sound concerned.

"Uh, just... uh." Sam could hear his brother moving around, mumbling. "Huh. I'll be there in a minute, okay?"

"Okay." Phone flipped shut. Heart beating a little faster.

Sam got in the driver's seat and waited, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Glanced at his watch and realized only five minutes had passed.

Dusk gave way to night.

When he came, at last, his wavering figure lingered at the driver's door for a few seconds, deliberating. Slowly moved around the back, hand skirting the edge of the car. He opened the passenger door and got in, slumped back against the seat.

Sam scanned his brother up and down. His jacket was crumpled, tie nowhere to be seen. Face pale and drawn, eyes closing and opening slowly, red-rimmed. And god, what was that smell? Puke?

"Dean? You okay?" He leaned in close to his brother, hoping to catch a smell of alcohol on his breath. Felt it in the pit of his stomach when he couldn't detect any. "God, Dean, you're pretty sick."

Dean shook his head. "I can do this, okay, Sammy?" Voice slowly breaking. "Just let me do this." But not I'm fine, Sam. Hadn't said that for a while. Dean's hands clenched tightly at his sides, his shoulders trembling.

Sam started the engine. "Dean, you're shivering. I'm taking you back to the motel." Dean reached over and fumbled at his door, swung it wide open so that Sam wouldn't drive away. Neat trick. "Close the door Dean, before I have to come round there and put the child lock on." Half tempted to put his foot on the accelerator and rev the engine.

"Child lock? Don't insult my car, dude." Dean turned to face Sam, eyes dark and earnest. "It was cold out. I was just walking, Sammy. Didn't even go to a bar."

That's what scares me, thought Sam.

Dean tried to disguise his raspy voice by talking louder, deeper: "Just tell me what you found."

When Sam reached his hand over to Dean's forehead, it got swatted away by faster reflexes than he figured his brother had right now. That eased the feeling in his stomach a little. Still kept the engine running.

"Tim Wilkins, hit by a car outside the school on September 17th. Died instantly of blunt force trauma to the head. Hit the road hard, I guess."

"Okay." Dean wheezed. "Anything else?"

"Not really." A pause while Sam wondered whether to say it. "He's, uh, he's buried in the municipal cemetery on the edge of town."

Dean didn't answer. Sam saw him nod almost imperceptibly.

Deep breath before Dean nodded towards the looming school building and said, "Let's go in then."

Sam shook his head. "No way, Dean. I can do this alone." Without my sick brother beside me, looking as weak as he does now. Pale, dead.

"I don't want you to do it alone." Dean exhaled hard. "I want us to do it together. I want us to save people, Sammy. Like we used to."

"We can do it together another time, Dean."

God, is Dean crying?

"I have to save someone, Sammy." Lips pursed tight together, tear glistening on his chin. "This kid," he half-sobbed, "this kid is going to go to hell if we don't do something now." Said hell in the same hard but half-whispered way another person might say cancer, rape, grief.

Like that, a switch flipped. Hell . Sam couldn't argue with hell, couldn't pretend to even know how his brother felt any more. Couldn't know how to help someone who had been through that except to trust that his brother knew what he needed.

Sam reached into his footwell and grabbed a bottle of Coke, threw it at Dean. "We can wait an hour."

Dean shut the door. "Half an hour." He attempted to down the Coke in one and had to give up half way through. Belched loudly, breathed hard. Turned the radio on and sipped the rest.

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Dean had a shotgun loaded with rock salt in one hand, homemade EMF meter in the other. Even when he was sick, hands trembling, he knew he could fire that gun with one hand if he needed to.

The flashlight in Sam's grip swept the dark corridors as they went, brought sudden illuminated snatches of doorways, skirting boards, fire extinguishers. Sliced across a bright mural of birds and butterflies.

Dean kept his eye on the green and red lights of the EMF meter, listened to its quiet drone. Nothing so far.

Sam was ahead around a corner when he whispered, "Dean." Murky light wavering out of sight. When he came into view he was standing in front of a window, flashlight pointed to the floor, then flicked off. His face was illuminated orange in the darkness. Dean grasped his gun tighter, switched off the whining EMF meter and tucked it into the back of his pants. Light-footed on his way to Sam's side.

The window overlooked a central yard. In the middle of the yard a tall tree burned. Really burned. Flames licked up its trunk, branches spat and flickered. Under its boughs a small shadow, a boy.

"Call the fire department?" Dean whispered.

"No, not close enough. Not yet."

Suddenly, a door next to the window swung open, letting in a blast of smoky air. The smell of wood burning, the loud roar of flames. Made a change from all those doors that usually slammed in their faces.

Sam took a side step so he was right in front of the opening. He paused to put the flashlight away, then stepped out into the yard. Dean went after him, watching his back. Smoke made him cough, hard.

They moved forward slowly, Dean taking a few steps at double-time so that he was at his brother's side. The fire crackled and rose, the air around it hot and moving. Everything burned. Dean looked at his hands, half-expecting to see them blistering, skin bubbling. Almost could.

The boy was sobbing, louder and sharper as they neared, a child's unbounded cries that ebbed and flowed.

But Dean realized he could hear screams too, loud then quiet, raging then soft. When they were loud and clear, shrieking, he could tell they weren't real, weren't now, because he remembered when they were. He tried to shut them out, focused on the white tears that poured down the dead boy's face.

They stopped about three meters away from Tim's hazy form, as close as the heat from the raging fire would allow. Dean felt the first beads of sweat forming on his forehead, on the back of his neck, under his lip.

"What's wrong, Tim?" Sam's voice was gentle, coaxing.

But Tim just kept on crying. Tears sparkled in the umber light. Then Dean could see a bruise on the kid's face, dark and purple. Fist-shaped.

"Who hit you?" he asked, suddenly angry.

The spirit paused for a moment, stopped crying, flickered. Stern-voiced: "Everyone."

The dark eye-sockets expanded, pupils glowed. Jaw opened, forehead pulsated in pure rage. The childish shape burst into flames, rushed at Dean in a misshapen fireball, and knocked him winded to the ground. On his back, gun clattering out of his hand.

He gasped for air, his chest burning. A gunshot sounded above him. He felt hands on him, groping him. Pain leapt from his shoulder to his fingertips.

For a second he saw his brother's face looming over him, and then the face was bloody and skinless, and his. Loud screams echoed in his ears. Then Sam again, shaking him.

"Dean, are you ok? Shit Dean, you're sweating like a pig."

Dean rolled onto his side, wiped sweat and tears away with his sleeve. Couldn't speak.

"You were really out of it for a second there, Dean." Sam's turn to sound shaky. "God, you looked terrified, like you were hallucinating or something. What did you see?"

Dean wiped a hand roughly over his face and carefully avoided the question. "Musta hit my head."

"No, I don't think so, Dean." Sam's curled fingers hovered at Dean's cheek for a second, not quite touching. "Dean, what-"

The question stopped dead, and all Dean could hear was the creak of burning branches and his brother breathing hard. When he looked into Sam's eyes they were sparkling, wet.

Sam's adam's apple bobbed a few times before he spoke again. "I think you have a fever," he murmured. Dean had no strength to swat away the hand this time as it landed gently on his forehead. The hand lingered, rested, then slowly lifted away. A loud sigh. "Come on, let's get out of here before he comes back."

Dean grunted as Sam manhandled him to his feet, strong hands not letting him go. "You ok? Need a hand getting to the car?"

Dean nodded reluctantly, pulling at the threads of his burnt shirt. Let Sam take his weight as they staggered through empty halls.

In the safety of the Impala he finally managed to ask, "What now, Sam?"

But Sam didn't answer, just looked at Dean for a long, silent time, then started the engine and drove.