Chapter 10

The bone-snapping crack resounded in Dean's ears, sending ice shivers down his spine as he jumped. Turning in midair, Dean spun to face his brother. Sam's eyes rolled back in his head as Sasquatch sank toward the floor. Dean rushed forward, catching his brother before he could hit the floor. The kid had to eat three hotdogs at dinner, didn't he?

Dean struggled under Sam's weight, muscling him toward the couch. By the time they arrived, Dean figured they could both use medical attention. Gasping with the exertion and the flaming pain in his side, Dean dropped his little brother onto the sofa. He pulled the pill bottle from his pocket and popped his next pain pill dry, two hours early.

Knowing if he sat down he would not be getting back up any time soon, Dean investigated the source of the bone-cracking sound. In the middle of the floor was a chunk of two-by-four lumber. Where the hell did that wood come from? The pain gone from his mind, Dean stooped down to pick it up. When he turned it over in his hands, one edge was coated in slick red. His stomach flipping over, Dean ran a thumb over that edge. It was wet and fresh and still warm. It was Sam's blood. The freaking imp set a trap, and they walked right into it.

Wasting no time, Dean ran full out up the stairs, grabbed two washcloths and soaked one before racing back down. Not knowing or caring how his cracked ribs felt, Dean rolled Sam gently to one side to inspect the back of his skull. A nasty gash was there, blood pouring onto Bobby's furniture. Head wounds always bled a lot, but that never eased his mind when the bleeder was his brother. He pressed the wet washcloth to the wound, trying to staunch the flow. As it turned red, Dean realized he would need a way to rinse it. Dry washcloth in its place, he rushed to the kitchen, flinging open all the cabinets until he spied a large bowl. He grabbed it and filled it with cold water.

Having to walk now instead of run, he returned to his brother's side with the bowl. He rinsed out the washcloth and pressed it back against Sam's wound. Should he try stitching it up himself or get Sam to a doctor? And could he get Sam past the gremlin to a doctor? As their odds of them and his car getting past a gremlin to the hospital in one piece ran through his mind, his cell went off upstairs. Oh, great. Perfect timing. He heard it ring over to voicemail. If it was anyone he really wanted to talk to, they'd leave a message. It started ringing again. Could it be Bobby? Not answering Bobby was not an option. Dean raced upstairs, snagging his cell off the bedside table where it was charging. Not bothering to check who was calling, he answered, "Better be good."

"Dean?" It was George. "I was in the area and thought I might stop by. Everything okay?"

"George, this isn't really a good…time…George!" He slapped himself in the forehead. "You're a doctor! Get your ass over here. Now!"

As George tried to ask what was wrong, Dean just hung up. He figured after the amount of fuss he made last time with Sam's freaky amnesia - no, his brother couldn't go get regular amnesia, could he? – that George would come straight here. At least, he hoped George would come straight away. Dean rushed downstairs to tend to his brother, slipping his cell in a pocket and hoping the imp wouldn't mess with it again. As Sam's headwound refused to stop bleeding, Dean realized he needed George to come right away. He hit the redial on his phone.

"I'm pulling up now, Dean. Relax," George told him before Dean had a chance to say anything. "How bad is it?"

"It's his head. I can't get the bleeding to stop," Dean replied, cradling the phone against his shoulder while wringing out the washcloth again. Now both washcloths were dripping wet and the bowl looked like an hors d'oeuvres at a vampire party. Not doing that again, either.

"How is Sam feeling?" He heard a car pull up outside.

"Still out," Dean replied sharply.

The front door opened and George burst through, a small red bag in one hand. Dean did not have time to ask about it as George rushed over to Sam. "How long?" he asked, as though part of the conversation had not been on the phone.

"I'm not sure. At least five minutes." Dean watched as George opened the bag to reveal all kinds of first aide equipment. He breathed a sigh of relief. Their stuff was out in the Impala, unless something already got to it. With steady hands, George cleaned Sam up pretty well and got the bleeding stopped. It was not easy with all of Sam's hair in the way, but George managed not to cut too much of it out of the way.

"I'd prefer to take him in, get it cleaned up right," George said as he poured out Dean's bloody bowl in the sink. "Not to mention some scans, especially with his history. Brad Wayne will kick my ass if he finds out Sam took one to the head and I didn't get him to the hospital." Dean did not answer, thinking it over. "Well? Don't tell me you're thinking about it!"

Dean scowled. "There's something outside and it's after Sam," he finally admitted. "I'm not sure we can get him to the hospital in one piece."

"Some-thing?" George sagged back against the kitchen counter. He pointed out one of the illustrations in Bobby's books. "Don't tell me you believe in the same crap as my aunt and uncle?"

Dean replied with a shrug. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He couldn't decide if George sounded angry or just upset.

"Well, there are things out there," Dean said, "and in here." He pointed out the line of flour dividing the kitchen from the den. There were tiny white footprints leading into the kitchen.

"What is that?" George bent down to inspect Dean's handiwork. "Flour?"

"I'm pretty sure there's an imp loose in the house. I'm trying to use the flour to track it." When George stared at him with a blank expression, Dean explained, "They're invisible."

"Oh. Of course." George appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "You know, maybe we should call Doctor Wayne." He cleared his throat. "He might know a good way to get Sam to the hospital."

Dean looked at George as a memory returned, sharp and distinct, of Doc Wayne saying he owed Bobby for taking care of a special problem. "Now that's a good idea." He slipped his cell out and located Doc Wayne's cell number. Even after Sam was better he could never quite bring himself to delete it, just in case. It rang in his ear.

"Dean? Is that you?"

"Hey, Doc. Miss us?" Dean asked grimly, his eyes locked on his unconscious brother.

"Something wrong?" The alarm in Doc Wayne's voice was clear.

"A chunk of wood just knocked Sam out. We're at Bobby Singer's place and I'm not sure I can get him to the hospital." Dean paced back and forth beside his brother.

"Should I send an ambulance?" Doc Wayne asked.

"There's something outside," Dean replied. "It's after Sam. It let George in, but I don't know if anyone can get out."

Doc's sigh in his ear was not the most welcome sound. "I didn't know you were in the same line of work as Bobby. Well, with Sam's history, I'd prefer to get him in here and run some tests. Has he woken up yet?"

Dean glared at his brother. "No, not yet." Stubborn bastard couldn't do anything the easy way, could he?

"Dean, I'm calling the ambulance and Reid. Between the two I suspect we can get Sam to the hospital safely." Dean wondered how Doc Wayne knew Reid, the sheriff. "It was Reid who first put me in touch with your uncle, he'll know what to do. Where is your uncle, anyway?" When the hell did Doc Wayne turn into a freaking mind reader?

"Bobby? He's out on a job and had some engine trouble. I'm not sure when he'll make it back." Dean's pacing ramped up and his side issued a fresh protest against the way he was not taking it easy.

"Okay, we'll talk more at the hospital." Doc Wayne cut out. Dean checked the charge on his phone again. Almost dead, even though it had been on the charger long enough for a full charge. "I hate imps."

"I thought you were talking to Doctor Wayne?" George's voice brought him crashing back to the moment.

Dean's eyes jumped back to the still form of his brother. "An ambulance is coming and so is Reid."

"Good. Maybe Mike can talk some sense into you," George mumbled from Sam's side, checking his brother's pulse again.

"How is he?" Dean asked, wondering if he dared leave the room long enough to grab his charger. He decided against it, it wasn't like he was supposed to use it in the hospital anyway. He grabbed his shotgun instead, ramming the cleaning cloth through the barrel.

"The same. The sooner that ambulance arrives the better I'll feel," George said. Dean noticed his friend seemed a little nervous, watching him clean the shotgun while his brother was laying unconscious on the couch.

"Relax," Dean snapped, loading his now clean shotgun with fresh consecrated-iron shot shells. "This is in case the gremlin shows up again."

"I thought the culprit was a fairy?" George asked, stepping closer to Sam.

"Imp." Dean rolled his eyes. Now one of the only friends he had outside of hunting was scared of him. This day just got better and better the longer it ddddrrrraaaggggeeeeddddd on. He sighed. "It's an invisible critter that likes nasty jokes. The gremlin outside is trying to kill my brother." He pumped the shotgun. Everything appeared to be in working order.

George cleared his throat. "Are you talking about the same gremlins that used to take down planes in World War Two?"

Dean shrugged. The hospital was twenty minutes away by Impala, driving at about ten over the speed limit. He talked to Doc Wayne about ten minutes ago. Assuming the ambulance had its lights and sirens on, shouldn't it be arriving now? He checked out the window. Honestly, he hated giving the 'truth is out there' speech, mainly because nobody ever believed him. Sam said it and it was gold, but of course his brother rarely did that these days. Sam went so far into 'protecting the innocent' he was convinced fewer people would be hurt if they were shielded from the truth. Dean still believed that the best defense was a damned good offense, and how could anyone defend themselves if they didn't know there was danger in the first place?

Was that a siren he heard off in the distance? Dean maintained his doorside vigil, one eye on George and Sam, until Reid's squad car squealed up in a cloud of dust. By the manner it slid to a stop, Dean knew Mike had to be driving. Last time Dean gave Mike a few tips on how to handle a full sized car at high speeds, they wound up practicing that very stop in the Impala.

Mike jumped out, gun in hand. Reid was slower and carried a shotgun, but the expertise was evident. Reid was like Bobby, careful and deliberate. "Ambulance?" Dean shouted through the cracked door.

Reid turned slowly, searching the rooftop as he moved closer to the house. "Almost here, Dean. Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Sam's out cold," he stepped out the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him. His eyes scanned the shadows for movement.

"Same thing as last time?" Reid asked, his face severe.

"Nope. Definitely a different thing," Dean replied as the ambulance sirens began their echo off Bobby's graveyard of cars. Tonight the description seemed uncannily accurate. A shadow to the left caught his attention. Dean swung the shotgun around in almost a lazy fashion, covering that spot. He tried to make it casual while still alerting Reid with his eyes. Reid picked up his cue pretty quick, moving to the other side of the house door where he could also cover that spot. Together they advanced slowly toward the shadow, Dean's heartrate picking up with each step. He knew when he was hunting too early, not allowing time to recover from the last hunt, because it made him feel like he did now: heart pounding, palms sweaty, eyes strained, and every nerve in his body jangling with anticipation like he was fifteen years old.

They approached the shadow, but as they drew closer Dean had the feeling it was a false alarm. The shadow appeared normal, no odd dark spots. Reid's flashlight flared suddenly, bathing the dark corner in bright white light. Nothing. With a snarl, Dean spun around, turning his back on the dark corner. The paramedics headed into the house. Dean raced for the door, intent to cover Sam's escape. When he stepped inside just behind the paramedics, Reid and Mike came up on each side of the door. Dean exchanged a nod with Reid before going inside. Would this actually work?

Dean waited impatiently as the paramedics loaded Sam on the gurney. He bounced on the balls of his feet, anxious for Sam to get help. All it took for Sam to get weirdo amnesia was a knock to the head. Well, okay, a car did the knocking last time not a chunk of wood, but still it made Dean worry. Sam looked so vulnerable, and young, laid out on that gurney. Dean followed it outside, ignoring the worried looks from the paramedics that he was hovering over them with a shotgun.

With Reid and Mike's help, they made it to the ambulance without any problems. Mike shouted at him that they'd talk at the hospital as Dean climbed into the back of the ambulance. Dean demanded to know why the siren was off and was told that since Sam was in no immediate danger, there was no reason to speed and endanger others. With a huff he sat back, caressing his shotgun. The paramedics exchanged worried looks, which Dean continued to ignore. A couple of times he thought he heard something from under his feet, or the top of the ambulance, but nothing happened. His heart did not stop racing until they arrived safely at the emergency room.

Dean rounded the ambulance as they wheeled Sam inside, stopping short as his eyes ran over the far side. Five long gashes through the metal ran diagonally down the side, starting from just above the passenger door and ending at the back rear wheelwell. The driver walked up behind him.

"Damn. What the hell did I run into in that salvage yard?" she asked, gently touching a fingertip to a gash.

Dean shook his head. "You really don't want to know." He handed over his shotgun. "Here, give this to the cops when they show up. I have to check on my brother."