Many thanks to everyone reading this and to those of you kind enough to take the time to review. My email went bonkers on Friday, so I was unable to reply to those of you leaving unregistered reviews. I'd like to take a moment to thank you as well, because if you leave your email I typically do respond. Thanks again!!
Chapter 12
As he headed to the first floor, Bobby wondered if he should try to catch up with Dean or take the safer route of calling a cab. Dean was going to be seriously pissed that he left Sam alone in the hospital, but if Dean was right, Sam would not be in any danger. Bobby stopped cold in the middle of the hallway. What if Dean was wrong? Then Sam was a target, not just a sitting duck but a wounded one as well. Damn it. Either way, John Winchester would be haunting his ass.
Slowly, Bobby headed back to Sam's room. He knew Dean was probably in over his head with this one, but that boy had surprised him more than once in the past. Dean had better be all right, he told himself, or he'd kill the boy.
As he rounded the corner to Sam's room, he found Sam stumbling down the hall, jeans pulled on over the hospital gown and barefoot. "Sam!" he snapped, rushing forward to catch the younger Winchester before he fell face first into the tile floor.
Sam tried to shake him off. "I'm going to help Dean, Bobby," Sam insisted. Judging by the look on Sam's face, Bobby knew there was no talking this Winchester out of what he had his mind set to. Yep, he needed to put up some new wards against John.
Bobby forced Sam back into the hospital room. "At least finish dressing first," Bobby said in a low voice, fearing a nurse or doctor would overhear them and send Doc Wayne in running. In a chair he found the plastic bag that once contained Sam's jeans. Inside were also Sam's sneakers and what was left of his shirt. He helped Sam with the shoes, wondering how they could get back to the house.
"Got it," Bobby pulled out the dreaded cell phone and redialed the last number.
"Bobby? Your nephew okay?" Reid asked anxiously before he could say anything.
"He should be just fine," Bobby replied, casting a worried eye over Sam's pale face, "but we're worried about Dean. He's headed back to the house."
"Don't tell me he's going after what hurt his brother by himself?" Reid asked, voice dripping with disbelief. Bobby knew Reid set a lot of store by partners, to the point of becoming something of a busybody in his partner's personal life. It took a great deal of convincing to talk Reid out of signing Mike up for one of those internet dating things on the sly.
"I don't suppose you can give us a hand?" Bobby asked, though he already assumed he knew the answer.
"You know it. Meet you out front?" Reid asked. "Oh, Mike is still with me, if that's all right."
"No problem," Bobby assured him, "I think we're going to need all the help we can get on this one." Sam motioned to him impatiently from the doorway, where the young man desperately clung in an attempt to keep the wall steady.
As they made their way quietly through the halls, Bobby hoped Sam's odd appearance did not clue anyone in to their escape. Sam still wore the hospital gown, though it was tucked into his jeans and covered somewhat by Bobby's own vest. That plus the fact Sam stumbled, hanging on desperately to Bobby's arm with one hand and that damned Batman with the other, was pretty much the equivalent of a the word escape in bright red flashing lights. As they approached the front doors, Bobby noticed Sam straighten up and become steadier on his feet. So, that was a genetic trait and not just a Dean-thing.
"How are we getting to your place?" Sam asked, his hand falling away from Bobby's shoulder.
When Bobby glanced back, Sam appeared perfectly normal. The Batman had even disappeared, though there was a bulge under the vest now. "My friend Reid is going to drive us."
Sam nodded. "Mike with him? He's a good guy."
"Yep." Bobby pointed out the glass doors. "There they are. Let's go before any of the docs spot you."
"Bobby?" Sam was close on his heels through the doors. "How many of the docs do we know?"
"Small town, Sam. They all know you," he explained as they passed out into the clear night air. Bobby took a deep breath, imaging the clean air filling his lungs. Shame. Nobody should have to hunt on a perfect night like this. Then again, he was not a big fan of hunting in bad weather, either, so that made him something of a hypocrite. Ah, well, everyone had a cross to bear. His was, specifically, the Winchesters.
Bobby helped Sam into the back of the squad car, worried about the unfocused look in the boy's eyes. Bobby settled in quickly, slamming the door shut. "Let's go."
Reid nodded to Mike, who was behind the wheel. Mike pulled out slowly, stealing glances in the rearview. "Sam? You all right?"
Bobby did not want to look over, knowing full well how bad Sam really looked. "Fine," Sam said, though he did not sound it, "we just have to get to Dean before he does something stupid."
Bobby watched Mike's face in the mirror. The deputy looked distinctly worried. "How do you know Dean is going to do something stupid?"
"He's my brother," Sam sighed, leaning heavily against the seat. "Trust me, I know. Can we go any faster?"
Mike glanced over at Reid. Reid nodded and Mike flipped on their lights. As Mike sped through the city streets, Bobby noticed something. He nudged Sam, motioning to Mike.
"Yeah, I know," Sam said to his unspoken question, "he and Dean trade driving techniques." One side of Sam's mouth curled up in an attempt to grin. "They had a donut competition last time we were here."
"So that's why the tires went bald so fast," Reid said from the front seat as Mike's ears flushed pink. Bobby dropped that line of questions instantly; he did not want to get Mike in trouble, Dean would not stand for that. He was already living on borrowed time since he helped Sam leave the hospital. Getting Mike in trouble just might be the icing on the cake. Or, more accurately, the last nail in his coffin.
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George watched warily as Dean drove his car back to Singer's. He still did not understand why he couldn't drive his own damn car, but he supposed that was an argument for another time. Dean appeared uncharacteristically angry right now, which reminded George sharply of the first time he met Dean. He and Brad Wayne went to Singer's to relay Sam's test results and Dean met them at the car. At the time he thought Brad's reaction was pretty funny, since unflappable Doctor Wayne was always so calm and cool. Then Singer came to the door with a shotgun and Sam, the one with the amnesia, showed up with a crowbar. Interesting family, to say the least.
Once or twice during the drive to Singer's George could have sworn he heard sirens in the distance, but he could not be sure. He tried to tell Dean, but the man he thought of as a friend before today just snarled. George sat with his arms crossed over his chest, watching. He could do nothing else, trying to talk some sense into Dean was useless, and he could not believe Dean was headed out to the salvage yard with his brother lying in a hospital bed. That just seemed so out of character.
Dean stopped short of actually driving into Singer's Auto Salvage. "I'll get out here," he said, opening the door, "you head back."
"Wait a minute!" George lunged across the seat, nearly receiving a faceful of door for his trouble. "You demand to come all the way out here, and now you're just going to the house by yourself?"
Dean stared at the road ahead, features set in determination that George had never seen before. "It's safer this way, George. Go on, it's not you believe any of this stuff anyway." Dean turned away, heading into Singer's on foot. At night. Alone.
George slid behind the wheel, watching Dean's back disappear into the shadows. Oh, crap. He pulled the driver's door closed and eased slowly onto the winding route through the salvage yard. Dean turned in the glare from his headlights, frowning. With an obscene hand gesture Dean made it pretty clear what he thought of George's intrusion. George honked at him, pulling the car in closer. Dean's head tilted back and George figured his friend's eyes were rolling skyward.
Finally, after several strained moments, Dean shook his head and opened the passenger door. "You're making a mistake," he said, poking his head in.
"Get in," George insisted. "I'll go up to the house with you."
"No." Dean slammed the door, turning to walk away.
George opened his door again, stepping out of the car. "Then I'll walk there with you, Dean. You aren't getting rid of me that easily."
Dean turned slowly to face him, confusion etched on his face. "Why?"
George shrugged. "Because this just isn't like you and I want to know what's going on."
"No, you don't," Dean replied with a finality George hoped the other man did not mean.
"Come on, Dean." George left the car to stand face to face with his friend. "You just left Sam in the hospital. There are a lot of things I might say about you, but I never would have thought you would even think about doing that. Why? What's so important out here?"
Dean glared at him, much the same way as the first time they met. "I told you, an imp and a gremlin. Besides, Bobby is at the hospital with Sam. Look, you think it's crazy, so just head on back home before you get hurt."
Dean turned his back again. George groaned in frustration, grabbing the back of his neck with one hand. He rushed back to the car, shutting off the engine and depositing the keys in his pocket. Following at a distance, George made certain he remained out of Dean's reach. He heard about that bar fight, too. Of course, Dean had not really scared him since that very first encounter, but tonight just might rank pretty close up there. Brad had warned him, a few times, not to take Dean too lightly.
As they came within sight of the house, Dean slowed. George stopped beside the rusting remains of an old Pontiac to watch. Instead of going straight to the house, Dean stopped at his car. A flash of silver in the low lights and the trunk popped open. Dean opened some sort of box inside the trunk. George stepped forward cautiously. He figured Dean knew he was there, but he still did not want to incur any…
His mouth dropped and his feet froze to the ground as he watched. Dean rummaged inside the box, a box full of things. Weapons. There was no other word for it, it was a box of weapons. A sawed-off shotgun held the lid up as Dean pawed through, selecting some items and taking them out, checking others before scowling and putting them back inside.
"Fine," his voice sounded deeper inside the trunk, "if you're coming you'll need a weapon. Can you handle this?"
The sawed-off shotgun was thrust into his hands. George looked it over with trembling fingers. "I, uh, never used one before."
Dean took it back and checked that it was loaded with far too much ease for George's liking. "It's ready to go. If you see anything coming at you, shoot it. It's loaded with consecrated iron shot," Dean handed the shotgun back, "so try not to shoot me."
"Consecrated iron shot?" George asked, looking at the thing in his hand.
"I don't think it'll affect the imp, but it's invisible anyway. I'm hoping it'll at least hurt the gremlin." Dean took another shotgun out of the trunk and checked its load. A few things went into his pockets before slamming the trunk closed. "Stay behind me and keep your eyes open. These things are trying to kill Sam." One hand snapped the shotgun up and down, pumping it in one action. "That's not going to happen."
Dean jerked his head toward the house and George followed, but not too close. This was insane, completely insane. Was that crazy woman psychiatrist after the wrong brother? How could Dean, who always seemed to be so rock-solid stable, be acting like this? George hung back just a little, wondering what Dean could be looking for on the roof. He looked up too and spotted a shadow moving just over the roofline.
"What was that?" he pointed up at the roof.
"Quick, inside," Dean hissed, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him toward the door. As George was forced inside, he managed to twist around. Dean covered their hasty entrance to the house, that determined look on his face. No, it was more than determination, it was intense.
George's heart pounded in his chest and the air suddenly seemed thin, very thin. He waited just inside the door as Dean slammed it shut, locking the various locks Bobby installed on the inside. "Come on," Dean growled, rushing toward a white line on the floor.
George checked out the white line too. What was that? Baby powder? Flour? What-ever-it-was had tiny footprints crossing back and forth over it. The intense look on Dean's face did not alter.
"No telling what room it's in," Dean muttered, running a hand through the white powder. "Damn thing's smart. Figures."
"Dean?" George pointed out a set of the footprints. "Those look like tiny boots."
A quick jerk of the head answered him. "Maybe they are related to leprechauns."
"What?" This was too much. "Did you say leprechauns?"
Dean glared at him. "I'm sure it's an imp." His brow furrowed. "Are leprechauns invisible, too?" He shook his head. "Nevermind. We need to find a way to trap it. Come on." Dean led him into the kitchen where over twenty of Bobby's books laid out on the counter. Dean went to one, flipped through it. "Don't just stand there," he snapped, "see if you can find anything."
George swallowed against the lump lodged in his throat. He opened the nearest book, though he had no idea what he needed to look for. The title of this one should be everything you never wanted to know about werewolves. George practically threw it away from him, the illustrations were particularly stomach-churning. In the next book, the words actually looked like he should be able to read it, but he couldn't. Had he gone suddenly dyslexic?
"Dean? What's wrong with this one?" George held it out.
Dean glanced at it. "Old English." He reached out, flipped through a couple of pages. "It's about witches. We don't need that. Try another one."
George took it back, wondering again about Dean's sanity. Heck, what about Singer's sanity, or his aunt and uncle? He picked up another book and again could not read it. This one was in Latin. Who kept books in Latin? "Does your uncle collect old books, Dean?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," Dean muttered, moving into another book.
George glanced over. The book Dean poured over now was also in Latin. "How do you know what you're looking at there?" he asked.
"Dad." That appeared to be the only answer Dean was willing to give. "Here we go!" One finger jabbed at the page. "All we need now is something it will want to bait it." Dean grinned as he marked the page. He shoved the book into George's arms. "Don't take your eyes off that, or the little sucker will do something to it."
"Little sucker?" George asked weakly as he followed.
"The damn imp!" Dean snapped, headed out of the kitchen.