Chapter 6

A/N: So, when I was writing this chapter I had a different idea for how Dean got the handprint on his shoulder. It just popped into my head and I went along with it. Not crucial to the plot but I kinda like how it played out.... Aside from that this chapter's nice and long and has some pretty h/c :-)

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The first thing Dean was aware of was the sound of Sam's voice, low and whispered. "Yeah, Bobby, we salted and burned the bones. Grave desecration's been on the news already, local rags are blaming some satanic cult." Then near-silence, the whir of a ceiling fan, the muffled sound of a door slamming far away.

Dean was lying on his back on a bed, eyes shut, gentle haze lifting. Sounds slipped softly through, senses began to converge. He felt his legs tangled in the thin motel sheets, his body heat soaking into a damp mattress under him. Then the realization that every inch of him ached, even the hairs on his arms. The sensitive spot between his shoulder blades. He didn't move while Sam carried on talking.

"Yeah, I know. We woulda been out of here ages ago but Dean's pretty sick. He's been in and out of it for about eighteen hours now." Followed by a weary sigh.

Eighteen hours? No wonder he felt like shit. He moved his hand to his stomach and felt the sweat slick on his skin. Fingers trembled against him.

Sam seemed to hesitate before continuing. "There's something else going on with him, Bobby." Voice shaking.

Dean moaned gently then, took a few painful gulps before he managed to whisper, "Sam."

The murmurs and hums of conversation faded away. Phone dropped onto a hard surface somewhere, footsteps padding across the floor. A heavy weight displaced the mattress. Dean's ankle felt a hand gently grasp it.

"Dean?"

"Mmmm," was all he managed at first. He cleared his throat and added, "Hey, Sammy." Eyes still firmly shut.

"Can you open your mouth for me, Dean? I want to take your temperature."

Dean's hand flailed around his forehead, throwing off the damp washcloth whose presence he had just noticed. He parted his lips just enough for the cold metal tip to slide into his mouth. Sam's hand shook his ankle rhythmically while they waited, a kid clumsily rocking a cradle. The thermometer beeped, slid out from under his tongue.

Sam exhaled harshly. "101.4," he said. "Better."

"Better?"

"It was 103 a few hours ago, I thought I might have to take you to the emergency room. Nearly did."

Dean rolled onto his side, regretted the movement when the hand let go. "Bad, huh?"

"Yeah, Dean, pretty bad. You don't remember? You were hallucinating again."

Dean licked his lips. "Pink elephants with purple spots," he whispered, and saw them. But other things were threatening to bleed through from behind, and it was an effort to keep them out.

Images appeared one by one, blurring into each other as his mind swam from one thought to the next, always changing, never still. Butterscotch and candy canes, Ferris wheels and neon lights, a 1972 Chevy Chevelle in Mulsanne blue, white stripes on the hood. Green traffic signals, Sam's favorite hoodie. Anything else he could think of that wasn't among the things he was trying to forget.

The weight lifted itself from the end of the bed.

Hot girl with big hooters, cheap beer, the price of gas, a dirty motel, Dirty Dancing, Back to the Future, popcorn, hot apple pie, a bacon sandwich, Mom, Mom's gentle face, Mom burning. He screwed up his eyes tight. Pink elephants, pink elephants, pink elephants.

He breathed deep, as deep as he could, and the warm air smelt of mould and vapor rub.

"I'm heading out to get supplies." Sam said, the sound of his coat being zipped. "I'm going to get you some Gatorade, Tylenol. You want anything else?"

"I'm not in pain, Sam," Dean lied, the sudden image of a pink elephant slurping Gatorade through its trunk fading into dead faces with open mouths.

"Well, just Gatorade then. I'll be back soon, ok? You want anything else?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

There, said it. Sam must have known he was lying, must have, but when Dean finally had the energy to open his eyes his brother was half-smiling anyway. It looked good on the kid. "You know, I'm kinda hungry," he wheezed. "Why don't you get me that pie?"

Sam really smiled at that.

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When the door closed behind his brother Dean turned onto his stomach and sank deeper into the bed. His head pounded and his gut clenched. The Impala roared into the distance.

It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when heavy wings flapped somewhere in the room, air moving and brushing over Dean's hot skin. He flipped himself over with a groan, pushed himself up onto his elbows, squinting. And there, standing in front of the shabby door that Sam had just locked, was an angel of the lord. His arms were folded, his stare dark and brooding.

"Don't you dare tell me you've got work for me, Castiel," Dean groused. "I'm sick."

He raised himself higher on his pillow and watched the contemplation that washed over the angel's face, wandered his eyes over the tall form while he waited for a reply. The long coat was even grubbier than the last time Dean had seen it, its stained fabric littered with rips and tears. Yeah, definitely not Michael Landon.

"I know, Dean," Castiel spoke. He took two steps forward, kept his arms crossed.

"Know what? That I'm sick?" Well, duh.

Castiel didn't answer straight away. He was looking to one side, his head turned. When Dean followed his gaze there was nothing there except a blank wall.

"I know what you remember, Dean," he said finally, unblinking. A long pause, head slowly turning. His eyes buried themselves into Dean's gut. "Those who have seen hell will fight hardest when the time comes," he stated, matter-of-factly. Dean's whole body shuddered. "Nobody wants to meet Lucifer twice." Shuddered again, shook and kept shaking.

He saw them then, at the very centre of the dark that engulfed his mind. Red eyes piercing him. Shriveled hand burning on his shoulder.

Dean gasped, uncontrollable coughs suddenly racking him. He reached clumsily for a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand and missed, knocked it onto the floor. Chest aching as he shakily sucked air into his lungs. Felt like his gut was burning.

Castiel still loomed, unmoving.

The pain inside Dean grew and twisted. When he realized he was crying, tears wetting his hot cheeks, he didn't care. It was manly enough to cry when everything hurt this fucking much.

"Water," he managed to say, one hand still clenching the nightstand, the other reaching for the glass that lay on the floor, cracked but not broken. His pleading eyes met Castiel's but the damned angel was like stone.

He reached further, slipped, landed hard on his face on the rough carpet. His legs trailed behind him on the bed, knees hanging. He used his arms to drag his whole body onto the floor and lay there, gasping.

"By the way, Dean," god's messenger finally hissed, "this little job you've been working? It's not over."

Then he was gone.

Castiel's words didn't take root straight away, didn't mean anything while Dean was clambering onto his hands and knees, trying to get oxygen into his lungs. His vision grayed around the edges while he commanded himself, Don't pass out, don't pass out. One arm lifted to hold his stomach, the other trembled under the extra weight.

Michael Landon wouldn't have left me like this, he thought, Michael Landon would have brought me a hot nurse. His ears started ringing, dark spots dancing. Don't pass out, don't let Sammy see you like this. Could see red in the darkness encroaching.

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He came to with his cheek pressed into the carpet, saliva pooled at the corner of his mouth.

The blurred shape of a cracked glass sat in the centre of his vision. He stared at it for a few seconds, unable to appreciate the total blankness that had temporarily overcome him. Thinking about nothing else while his eyes followed the thin line that traveled jaggedly around the glass's smooth circumference, like a river on a map or lightening in the sky.

Then a flash: red eyes, glass hitting the floor, water splashing.

Time lurched forwards: Castiel's shadow disappearing while he choked for air. Back again: an angel in front of a locked door. Further back: Sam shutting the door behind him, I'm fine Sam, hand on his ankle. Sam.

Dean was suddenly wide awake, on his side, looking around the room. Reassuring himself that his brother wasn't here, hadn't seen this.

Then the logic in his brain clicked into place: of course Sam wasn't there, because if he had been Dean would be lying on a bed right now, strong hands on his face, relieved voice coaxing him to drink, or breathe, or talk to me.

A car rumbled into the parking lot and he scrambled for the bed, grasping at the bedclothes, hauling himself onto it even as the sound of the engine turned and faded away. Thank god.

Dean just lay there, semi-foetal, breathing hard. Steadier as the minutes passed. Panic receded in favor of coherent thoughts.

Somewhere in the room a clock ticked.

Where's Sam?

His stomach clenched and unclenched, nausea rising and fading. Heat pricked on his neck, the concave of his lower back. When he breathed his sinuses were clear, but a gentle tickle forced him to exhale with a cough.

When an unexpected level of boredom crept up on him he welcomed it gladly, reached for the remote and turned the tv on. Blew his nose on the duvet before wrapping it tightly around him.

The television screen was bright and quick, and Dean didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before. One thing, another, another, always different, always moving. He flicked away from kids building a rocket out of sand to a woman cooking baked alaska. A black and white cowboy movie. Diagnosis Murder. A tanned guy with clean hair selling electric toothbrushes.

He stumbled into a news channel without thinking, mouth open in a wide yawn, and wished he hadn't.

On the screen, flames leapt from a window on grainy CCTV. Kids ran down steps. Words that his watering eyes couldn't make out scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

And Dean knew. Even before the reporter said it, he knew.

"The fire in a science lab at Ingsburg Junior High School seriously injured two students and killed their teacher," the female voice said as the shaky camera zoomed and faltered. Words that jumbled in Dean's head followed by: "Investigators have not commented on reports that this was a case of spontaneous combustion." Live shots peering into a burnt out classroom, smoke still billowing, sirens in the background.

Dean felt the nausea building, the bile rising in his throat and saliva flooding his mouth. He swallowed.

The report flipped to an interview with a weeping girl. Her face and eyes were red, a dark smudge on the side of her cheek. She played with her necklace as she struggled to speak. "It was awful," she cried, "just awful. God, god, I don't know what happened." She shook her head. The camera lost focus briefly, and then sharpened. "It was like he just... he just caught fire all of a sudden."

"Was he near any open flames at the time? Any chemicals?" the reporter asked, off camera. Trying to squeeze out more. If Dean had been there he would have smacked her. Leave the poor girl alone.

"No, no..." the girl tried to carry on, "there was nothing. He just burst into flames for no reason." Then she collapsed into uncontrollable sobs and the view switched to a reporter saying words that Dean couldn't really hear, not over the sound of his own voice echoing in his head.

There's always a reason, he thought, always. He could taste the bile, tried to swallow it again. And then, as he started to retch, Castiel's words: It's not over.

Shit, shit.