Chapter 9

A/N: I'm sure most of you missed Dean in the last chapter, I did too ;-) Don't worry, he's back now in all his sick and angsty glory.

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Sam was crouching on the floor, red spray canister in his hand. His black tie was loose around his neck, jacket crumpled by the wall. Red smudges on the dark fabric. He'd only got back to the motel ten minutes ago and already the grubby carpet looked like one of Bobby's weekend projects.

"What are we doing, Sam?" Dean asked wearily, his face half buried in the mattress. He was lying on his side, both arms gripped around his stomach, watching his brother with one open eye. Trying not to notice the blue box of matches that sat glaringly on the floor by Sam's feet. What are we going to do? Feeling the first pricks of cold sweat at the base of his skull.

He watched as Sam paused for a second to look at a scribbled piece of paper, shook the spray canister like a teenage graffiti expert, slowly marked out a large circle with two smaller ones inside. When he bent low, down to the intricate detail, Dean was too tired to lift his head high enough to see what it was. Listened instead to the alternating hiss and rattle of Sam's work.

He had slept for the two hours that Sam had been gone. Or had tried to, tossing and kicking while the words grave desecration had whirled around in his head. The TV left silent, because no way did he want to stumble across something unexpected again. Flame and bones had pounded his vision. He had given up trying to remember which of the fires in his life he wanted to forget. All of them.

Now he kicked off the bedclothes as a bead of sweat lingered above his eyebrow. An agonized scream echoed in his head as it rolled teasingly into his eye. Flame and bones. A flash of red. His heart started racing, then a sudden palpitation when Sam answered the question he'd forgotten he'd asked.

"It's like a séance, but more controlled. Bobby says it will let us talk to Tim better." Sam looked up at Dean. "Safer."

Dean felt heat rising into his cheeks, contrasting cold sweat at the back of his neck. He buried his face further into the mattress, not even watching Sam any more. Remembering the burn in his chest when fire boy had attacked him. His pulse fluttered in his throat.

"Why are we doing it here?" he croaked, squeezing his eyes tight as though that could combat the thud thud thud that was pounding behind his ribcage. Why hadn't Sam noticed he was panicking here? No, not panicking, because what was there to panic about? Nothing. Nothing. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tasted the copper on his tongue. Savored the taste.

"We can do it anywhere, as long as we know his name and where he is." Sam said casually, lightly. Too lightly. Then Dean heard nothing for a second, a gentle cough as Sam cleared his throat. "I need your help, and I don't think you're up to going out anywhere right now."

It wasn't a challenge and Dean knew it wasn't. But it was at least enough to make him want to seem stronger for his brother, even if all that meant was hauling himself up on shaky arms so that he was sitting, back against the head board.

Trying to calm his rapid breathing.

"You okay, Dean?" Sam had stopped what he was doing. "Dean?"

Dean managed to nod, then Sam's hand was on his ankle again. The touch was gentle. Human. It calmed him slightly, though he could still feel his chest heaving. Trying desperately to slow it down, to make Sam stop looking like he was about to cry. He almost gasped when Sam's other hand picked up his and felt for the pulse in his wrist.

"Sam-" he whispered.

"What's going on Dean? Tell me, because your pulse is so fast right now I'm this close to calling an ambulance." Sam's voice was calm, measured, but Dean could tell it was on the verge of breaking.

"Feeling..." Feeling what? Anxious? Afraid? What are you afraid of, Dean? He took a sudden gulp of air and held it, like trying to cure the hiccups.

"Are you having a panic attack, Dean? Dean, that isn't going to help." Hand tight on his wrist. "Breathe Dean, just breathe out."

And he obeyed, just, a shuddering breath leaving him before another was hauled back in, in and out, slower, slower. Focusing on Sam, on the points of contact between them. Eyes locked together.

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Are you going to tell me now, Dean? That's what Sam's eyes said when it was over, glistening. Dean shook his head so slightly that he didn't even know if Sam had seen it. But his brother looked away, let go of Dean and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

"I've got to finish this," Sam choked out. "We've, uh, go to finish this before anyone else gets hurt."

The canister rattled, hard.

Dean breathed in and out steadily, put two fingers to his own jugular. Measured, regular thuds. When he looked at Sam, at Sam's crouched back, his brother's shoulders were shaking. Bleeding Sam he could deal with, but crying? You couldn't fix that with gauze pads and a needle and thread.

So he watched, watched as Sam put the spray can down and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Watched as he stared into space, teetering on his haunches. Imagined his hand on Sam's shoulder saying I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up little bro, forgive me? Watched Sam carry on, alone.

No, not alone. He didn't have to do this by himself, not any more.

Dean swung his shaking legs over the edge the bed, let his feet dangle. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of Gatorade that was on the nightstand and swigged it all, gulping loudly. Sam's head half turned towards him, then back again.

"What can I do?" Dean asked, voice sounding gruff. "I'm feeling better."

Sam rose to his feet, leaving the spray can abandoned on the floor. "Finished," he said, with his back to Dean, hands on his hips. Can gently kicked into the heap of his jacket.

He turned from his waist to face Dean. "You can help me put the candles out. Here." A paper bag landed on the bed. "Every circle needs four candles, North, South, East, West."

"Okay."

"North is that way." Sam pointed towards the bathroom, but he was looking at Dean, eyebrows raised.

"Got it," Dean coughed.

Dean tried his hardest not to stumble, not to fall, as he maneuvered around the room setting candles on the floor, clasping his knee tightly with one hand as he bent to the ground. Sam followed him with the box of matches, lighting the candles one by one. The smell of burning sulphur circled around them and rose lazily toward the ceiling. What, no safety matches, Sammy?

When the last candle was lit they stood side by side and watched the flames flicker. Sam stepped over them to turn off the light and orange patterns danced on the walls. Dean sucked air between his teeth and counted the flames.

"You good, Dean? How are you feeling?"

"Better," was the answer, and though it was the truth, the truth was relative. "Really," he reiterated when Sam stared at him a little too long. "My, uh, stomach is feeling less queasy, head's clearer, not great, but clearer, I can sit up without thinking I'm gonna puke. How's that?"

"What about the-" Sam hesitated, "-the other thing?"

"I'm good, Sam. What do you need me to do?" Not answering the question but pretending he had. Sam let it go with a lip bitten so hard that Dean wondered how he hadn't drawn blood.

"We need to sit in this circle," Sam gestured to the largest shape, " and, uh, hold hands." Any anger in his voice faded with those final two words.

A year ago, hell, maybe even a week ago, Dean would have had a snarky comment to make about hand-holding, something about chick-flicks or sissies or what are you, gay? Even Sam looked at him expectantly like the old Dean might slip something out any second. But Dean just couldn't think of the right joke, not when he'd reached thirty seven flames and was still counting.

"You sit there," Sam pointed, finally turning his eyes away from Dean. He lowered himself into a crossed legged position on the opposite side of the circle and held out both hands. Waiting.

Dean sat down slowly, afraid his legs might give out and send him sprawling into the candles. Felt hot flame on his skin just thinking about it. And thud, thud, thud went his heart. When Sam reached over and grabbed his hands out of nowhere, he realized he'd been somewhere else, just for a second. Gripped Sam tight to focus on something concrete, on something now.

"Ready?"

Dean nodded.

Sam adjusted his sitting position and began speaking in Latin. Let the spirit world create a passage from there to here, the incantation began, his voice firm, pronunciation perfect. Dean let the words surround him. Flames flickered as the words tripped from Sam's tongue.

When he spoke Tim's name Dean felt a shudder, not sure if it came from Sam, or him, or somewhere else. Someone else.

"Tim?" Sam asked. The shudder again, everything shaking. "We know you're angry, Tim. Let us help you."

Then Dean could feel it, could feel him. Overwhelmed by an anger that he knew wasn't his own. Because of all the things he'd been feeling recently, anger wasn't one of them. The foreign rage ran through his veins and lingered in his grinding jaw.

A trembling passed up and down their linked arms, and that was Sam. When Dean looked up, away from the flames, his brother was rocking backwards and forwards. Not gently, like a crazy person. Jerkily.

"We know why you're angry, Tim," Sam said, and Dean's heart clenched because he sounded like he was in pain. "We know people have been mean to you."

The dead teacher's face flashed into Dean's mind, then laughing kids he'd never seen before. Someone else's memories, he realized, and for a stupid second felt relieved.

A young voice startled him. I want to kill them all. The sudden tightening of Sam's grasp on his told him that Sam had heard it too. That this was still real. But how was he going to know when it wasn't?

Then two kids were laughing at him, faces jeering in his. Football jackets, expensive sneakers impacting his stomach. Dean felt it all, really felt it. He grunted. Handcuffs on his wrists, face pressed into a tree. The overwhelming feeling of humiliation.

He knew their names. Trey, Scott. Then they blurred together. A car was at his heels, fender hard on his thigh, and he was looking down at the ground, heading towards it. An explosion of pain in his head that had Sam digging his finger nails into Dean's palm. God, he's feeling this too.

"Which one killed you, Tim? Who was it?" Dean shouted over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. "We'll make sure he's punished."

But Tim didn't know. I'll kill them both. I'll kill them all, but they're next. And Dean could see a dead boy lying in the road. Eyes wide and open, pool of blood under his head.

When the body burst into flames he jerked out of Sam's grasp, threw himself backwards, right arm flailing. His hand impacted a candle, knocked it over. In an instant he had grabbed it, burnt his palm, but not before the carpet scorched and blackened. The circle broken.

"No!" Sam shouted, as if that was important.

A sudden explosion of flame, and a child-shaped shadow was in the room with them. Just standing, staring. White tears flowing down his cheeks.

"What's he doing here, Sam?" Dean hissed, holding his hand to his chest. "I thought you said he couldn't leave the school."

"He couldn't," Sam replied in hushed tones. "He can now."

"What? Why?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes off the spirit. Pain lanced through his burnt palm.

Sam crawled across the floor to crouch by his brother, fingertips reaching for Dean's knee. "When we were talking to him," he whispered, "the spell created a channel from here to the school." He waved one hand towards the door. "We needed to create the channel to communicate with him. This symbol," he pointed with exasperation to the broken circle, "was to prevent him using the channel to leave the school."

Dean's mouth gaped open. Before he could respond, the remaining candle flames rose and Tim's spirit began to flicker. He reached slowly around his back to feel the handgun in his waistband. Knew it was useless without iron rounds.

Sam rose slowly to his feet and stood in front of his brother, hands splayed to the sides showing wide and empty palms. Through the gap between Sam's parted legs, Dean saw that Tim's head was turning, looking from one brother to the other.

A child's voice sounded around the room. "You're not the ones I want, are you?"

And then he was gone.