Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks for all your kind reviews again :-)

I know a few reviewers were a little unsure about my portrayal of Castiel in the last chapter. I had a few reasons for writing him like that.

Don't forget that is set (and was largely written) immediately after AYTG, in which Castiel was a hardass bastard who threatened to send Dean back to hell (and I was a bit shocked by that, because he'd seemed a *bit* fluffier in Lazarus Rising). If this had been set later in the season, maybe I would have made Castiel a bit nicer… Also, crucially, I just don't think that at this early stage Cas had the social skills to help Dean in this situation. Human frailty would have been a new one on him, and I don't think he would have known how to deal with it.

I actually really like Castiel but he is kind of an ambivalent character for me. I guess that's part of why I like him. Yeah, I could have written him nicer, but then there would have been less Dean angst. What can I say, I love making Dean miserable :-)))) There is an epilogue to this story in which Castiel reappears for a bit of a chat and that's kinda unfinished, so maybe he will redeem himself...

SnSnSnSnSnSnSnSnSnS

Sam fumbled the key for a few seconds, the lock clicked, the door swung slowly open. He followed it into the darkened room, fingers light on the handle. A blast of warmth hit him as he entered, the air thick and heavy.

In the dim light he could see that Dean's shape was absent from the bed, and a pang of familiarity hit him. Emptiness. The walls flickered white and grey as the pictures on the battered television changed for no one.

But in the corner, a chink of light shone where the bathroom door was semi-open, and Sam shuddered at the sudden, irrational relief that crept over him. As he shut the front door and ventured quietly into the room, he heard Dean's voice above the sound of running water.

"Sam?" it said, quiet, half-coughed. Whispered, "Shit."

Sam dropped the paper bag he was clutching onto the nearest bed and swore when he realized he'd forgotten the pie. Again. He reached over with a long arm to turn both bedside lamps on.

Noticed then, in the yellow light, that Dean's bed had been stripped, the sheets piled on the floor in the corner. Suddenly recognized the smell of vomit in the room. Sickly, clinging.

He strode over to the bathroom and pushed the door wide open, mouth drying a little when Dean didn't object to the intrusion.

"Dean?"

His brother stood, shirtless, hunched over the sink. One hand firmly gripped the porcelain while the other held a sopping washcloth, squeezed it out and rubbed it clumsily over his chest, up his neck. Dropped it into the water and stooped to spit.

Sam saw the vomit soaked t-shirt draped over the side of the bath.

"Was, uh, just gonna wash that," Dean choked, breathing weakly, "when I'm finished cleaning up."

Sam put one hand on Dean's bare back. He could feel his brother breathing under his palm, the occasional tremble. Skin clammy with sweat. When Dean stopped moving, doing anything except heaving air in and out, Sam reached in front of him to turn the tap off.

"You look like shit, Dean."

"That ain't half as bad as I feel," he panted. "I sure hope you didn't get that pie, 'cause the last sip of water I had didn't stay where it's meant to for too long."

Sam handed his brother a towel. Chose not to mention the slice of sugary pecan goodness that was still sitting in the shop window. "You gotta drink, Dean."

Dean straightened to dry his face and chest, all the time Sam's hand floating an inch from his elbow. When he was done the towel dropped to the floor. He turned to face his brother and Sam was startled by the translucent appearance of his face, the bruised circles around his eyes.

"It's not over, Sam," he whispered, then staggered past his brother and lowered himself into a sitting position on the end of his bed.

"What?" Sam asked, following close behind. Certain he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Check out the tv." Dean gestured with the remote control before dropping it into his lap.

Sam sat down next to him, close to him. Could feel the heat radiating where their arms touched.

On the screen, a reporter stood in the centre of the shot, a smoking building behind her. The sound had been muted and Dean was not making any attempt to turn it back on again. Sam processed the silent images for a second and realized it looked like a school. Long wide steps leading up to it.

"Is that-" he started to ask.

"Ingsburg Junior High, yeah," Dean croaked in reply. "There was a fire in a science lab. Teacher just burst into flames." He gestured an explosion with his hands.

"Is he-"

"Dead? Yeah. Toast." Dean turned off the tv and collapsed backwards onto the bed, coughing. The remote still in his hand.

Sam was left staring at nothing. When he turned to look at Dean his brother's eyes were closed, face screwed up. He reached over to grab the bag from the other bed and rooted around in it, found the pain relief Dean had sworn he didn't need.

"Here." He nudged Dean's arm with a hand holding an open bottle of Gatorade. The weary eyes opened, blinked. Dean struggled to roll himself onto one elbow and took it, spilling some onto the uncovered bed as his hand shook.

"I don't know if I can manage it, Sam."

"Not even if it comes with pills?" Sam opened his other hand to reveal two white tablets.

Dean shook his head. "God-" he gasped, then bit down hard on his lip while he fought the convulsions in his throat. Water began to run from his eyes.

"Try and drink something at least, Dean. You're gonna get dehydrated."

Dean was breathing through his nose in long inhalations. Finally he swallowed. "I think we've got more important things to worry about here than my liquid intake, Sam." He raised his free hand awkwardly from the bed, palm turned up, and Sam dropped the pills into it, watched while Dean bent his head down to scoop them up with his mouth. Didn't see Dean swallow again. "We salted and burned that poor kid for nothing." Small white circles on his tongue.

Dean hadn't meant to cause the pang of guilt that suddenly assaulted Sam's sternum, he knew that. From the tone of his voice Sam knew his brother felt guilty too. Struggling under the weight of the world for both of them, as usual.

He reached to steady the bottle as Dean raised it shakily to his lips. "The spirit must be attached to something else," he suggested, raising the intonation of his voice. "We've seen it before."

No sound for a second, then Dean gulping loudly. He exhaled. "Like an object," he rasped. Playing the game like a pro, even though just swallowing some painkillers had left him gasping.

Sam took the bottle from Dean's hand and placed it on the nightstand. "More like a building." He saw Dean's eyes widen in understanding, and shrugged his shoulders. "It would explain why all the fires have been at the school." Scrunched the bedsheets up in his hand as he recalled memories, scribbled pages. "Spirits that are attached to a building can't usually leave it. It's usually-" he paused, remembering the phrase he'd seen in their Dad's journal, "-usually a place full of emotion for them." With his own psychoanalysis thrown in: "Full of anger, maybe."

Dean was sucking on his palette and clenching his teeth. When he spoke it was barely audible. "So, what? We burn down the whole school?" The sentence ended with a half-laugh, a cough. Sam didn't respond straight away, just kept looking at the floor, then over to the pile of vomit-stinking laundry. "We can't burn down a school, Sam!" Dean croaked. "That's like burning down a, a church or something."

"We've done that before."

"Not on purpose!" Dean tried to shout, but his vocal chords betrayed him and his words faded into a hoarse whisper.

"It'll be fine, Dean," Sam responded, already calculating how much gasoline he would need, how much he could buy without looking suspicious. Smelling the burn, blood beginning to pump harder. "By night, no one gets hurt," he added, watching Dean's pale face and the grimaces of pain that flashed across it. When this is done, he's so going to see a doctor.

He took Dean's bicep in his hands, almost flinched at how hot it felt. "Come on," he whispered, dragging his brother fully onto the bed while Dean grunted and scrabbled with his feet. He didn't think Dean could even stand up right now, let alone stay standing while they burnt down a school. As Sam rearranged the pillows under his head his brother's eyes were already closing.

But then Dean suddenly flinched, eyeballs flitted under the lids, quickly snapped open. Confusion, and then alarm in his features. "No, Sam," he growled, a surprising level of assertiveness in his raspy voice. Only his eyes gave away that it was fear masquerading. "We can talk to that boy, the one who saw-" he paused, gaze falling to the side, "-Tim, in the canteen. Kid was going to tell us something, I know he was, something about how ghost boy died." He paused to breathe a little, then continued quietly. "Maybe we can find out what's bugging him, give us some brownie-points when we go and talk to him again."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, no. This is the only sure fire way to stop the spirit. Tim's a killer now, remember? We've got to end this before someone else gets hurt." Four gallons, that ought to do it.

Dean began to push himself into a sitting position, knuckles white as he grasped the edge of the bed. His breath was coming hard but there was a sudden bright determination in his eyes. "You're wrong, Sam."

The words took Sam by surprise, and for a second he couldn't respond. Mouth open, just trying to think. He felt like he'd stepped back in time, big brother giving the commands, leading the way. He would have smiled, a hidden half-smile, if only Dean didn't look like he'd fall over if he tried to stand up. If only Sam didn't think the effectiveness of the operation wasn't the only reason Dean couldn't stomach the thought of burning down a school. There was a question on his lips that never made it before Dean spoke again.

"Look, it's Sunday, Sam. No one's there now. You just said he can't leave the school, so we're safe until morning, right? It's-" He looked at his watch and screwed up his red-rimmed eyes. "What's the time?"

"Two pm."

"Then we've got, what, sixteen hours until the janitor starts work? Let's talk to Mike again." His arms reached together to fold across his stomach in a gesture of finality, but Sam saw the trembling that still wracked them. "No burning required," Dean added weakly, eyes somewhere else.

Sam's shoulders collapsed forwards as a dull emptiness in the pit of his stomach grew. No burning required? They'd spent their whole damn lives burning things. He got to his feet and stood there, hovering, face down, hair in his eyes. He wanted to ask now, had been wanting to ask for days. The words were there, waiting, tingling on the ends of his lips.

He could feel Dean watching him, knew his brother could see the open mouth, the gently shaking head. How hard would it be to ask? What's wrong, Dean? What can you see when you close your eyes? But did he want to know the answer? Almost laughed out loud because he knew he already did. Not the details, though, because who could imagine those?

When he looked to his brother, he saw the pleading in his eyes. Don't ask me Sam, please don't. Not sure anymore what kind of pain caused the tinge of tears that reddened them.

He reached into his hair and stroked his fingers back through it, staring back at the floor. "Okay, Dean. But on one condition."

"What?"

"You," Sam said sternly, "you are going to stay here."