Thanks so much for the reviews! I always look forward to them; all of you are great. :) So here's another chapter for you! Enjoy, and have a great week. :)

Chapter 6

Bobby Singer was not one to worry. He didn't need to—not about the Winchester boys, anyway. They had both long since proved that they could take of themselves. So he didn't worry when they didn't return his call right away. He didn't think anything of it until it had been more than two days, and he had heard nothing back from either. Even then, he wouldn't have worried so soon if he hadn't known they were supposed to meet him the next day.

The last he'd heard, Sam and Dean and been headed for Mississippi to investigate a house haunting before meeting him in Ohio. It should have been a routine case, and at least one of them should have had plenty of time to pick up the phone.

It didn't take long for Bobby to decide that if he hadn't heard from them by morning, he would head south instead.

Dean gave the stake another shove out, and smiled a little when two more nails gave way and began to slide out. He had most of them loose now, but for the ones at the top. Of all the times for Sam and his longer legs to not be healthy enough to help…

Dean pried at the plywood for another moment or two, and then dropped the stake and went back to Sam. He couldn't stay away for long, even across the room. That was why it had taken a few hours just to get that much of the window's covering free…because he really hadn't had much of a chance to work on it. Soft moonlight filtered in from under the wood now, and around the edges.

He settled back against the wall beside his brother, listening to Sam's uneven breaths. It was a channel he was already too well attuned to, because he had to be. He couldn't relax, and he could not let himself sleep.

Sam's life could depend on it.

As he thought it, Sam's breathing stuttered and stopped. Dean tensed, hoping for the faltering start that usually came next.

This time it didn't.

Dean swore and pushed off from the wall. He took Sam by the shoulders and pulled him out flat, down to the floor. He leaned over him, waited another moment, and when he still didn't start breathing again he let out another curse and went hurriedly to work, pushing air into Sam's lungs and doing chest compressions. The last time Sam had been conscious he'd given Dean a refresher course in CPR, just in case—consisting of nothing more than a short explanation in fractured sentences.

He'd needed it too many times since then. It wasn't funny anymore.

It scared the hell out of him every time—all three times since then—and Dean wasn't sure how much more of this either of them could take.

Dean couldn't help but sob once, quietly, when Sam finally took a breath again this time, though it wasn't any different than any time before…

Except that this time Sam gasped and opened his eyes for the first time in hours.

Dean started a little; he hadn't expected that. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked at him uncertainly.

"Hey…long time no see." He slipped an arm under his brother's shoulders and gently pulled him up again. He would have leaned him back into the corner again, but Sam seemed to realize what had almost happened. He clung to Dean's other arm, shivering now, and Dean sighed, settled against the wall himself and pulled Sam back against him instead.

"Dean…" he gasped. "I think…I'm in trouble."

There was no questioning that now. Dean held onto his brother and swallowed. "It'll be okay. I've almost got that window open. You don't even have to climb through it; I'll go around, get Leah out of the way, and then we can just waltz right out the front door, okay? We can get you some help. Just hang on."

Sam nodded weakly. "You should go then…"

"Well I don't have to go right this minute; I can, you know, stick around over here for a while…" He felt Sam push back almost imperceptibly closer at that, though when he heard his brother's answer he supposed the movement must have been subconscious.

"I'll be fine. Just…go. We need to get out of here."

"Amen," Dean sighed. But he didn't want to go. He knew Sam wanted him to stay right where he was, and he knew that he wanted to—wanted to sit right here, holding Sam…feeling him breath, knowing from second to second that he was alive…

Because every minute he wasn't right here was another minute when Sam could stop breathing. When he left to take care of Leah…

But if he didn't take the chance, he would lose Sam anyway.

Better to get it all over with.

Dean broke the lingering silence, carefully pulling Sam away from his chest again to settle him back against the walls. "Okay…but you stay awake for now." When Sam was settled he gave him a stern look in the eyes. "Understand? You'll be fine if you stay awake until I get back."

Sam quirked a weary eyebrow at him. "Dude, I heard you the first time."

Dean let out an uneasy breath and clapped his shoulder lightly. "Right."

He jumped back to his feet, wincing because he'd forgotten his shoulder, and went back to the window. He had to stand on his toes, and at one point get a foot on the window sill behind the edge of the table, but he managed to get at the top of the plywood and pry those nails out of the window frame, too.

"Okay…" he mussed. The nails were all loose, but still sitting in their holes, still holding the board over the window. With the table leaned against the bottom of the window, he couldn't grab both edges of the plywood from either side. In the end he carefully worked all the nails out, pulled from the bottom, and slid the board down the table until it rested against the floor. Then he lugged the piece of plywood out of the way altogether, leaning it against the next wall.

"Got it," he said brightly, rubbing his hands together and glancing over to check on Sam. His brother managed to straighten some and give him a smile.

"Then get going…I can smell Bobby's cooking already."

"Such as it is," Dean smirked.

Sam chuckled once, coughed three or four times, and Dean was afraid he'd done something wrong in making a joke of it. But then he stopped coughing and settled back into the corner against. He was grimacing, but he was okay. He was still breathing.

"Sorry…" he muttered anyway, fiddling with the window latch.

"—t's okay," Sam hissed quietly. "But you're…still a jerk."

Dean felt himself smile and choke up at the same time on that one. He growled low in his throat to clear the lump, and covered it with the creaks of the window as he opened it—only the window made more noise than he wanted it too.

He flinched and froze in place, but after several moments there was still no sound from outside the room. He breathed a sigh of relief and went back to crouch in front of Sam.

"Okay, I'm going," he announced quietly. Dean tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "Listen, if I'm not back in an hour, you…you gotta get out that window, get to the car, and get outta here."

"Dean—"

"Do not stop, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. You get back to town, find a phone, and get an ambulance for yourself. Then call Bobby. You hear me?"

"But I—"

"You can, if you don't have a choice. I know you can. Just promise me you will."

Sam scowled. "Not without you."

"If I'm not back in an hour, there is no me," he snapped bluntly. Sam grimaced and looked away.

Dean smiled reassuringly and rested a hand briefly on his brother's knee. "But hey, that's just a worst-case scenario. Seriously. I'll be right back."

"You'd better," Sam muttered gruffly.

Dean stood from his crouch, tousling Sam's hair on the way up. "I will. Don't worry. Now stay awake, okay?" Sam swatted his hand away, and answered with a tired nod. Dean crossed to the window, and glanced back again. One of Sam's hands was already twisting into his shirt again.

Dean felt a flash of panic. "Don't worry," he repeated, more forcefully—but trying to keep it light, just the same. "No worrying. You don't know what the word worry means."

Sam glanced up at him, and the quirk at the corner of his mouth told Dean he wanted to laugh a little at that, too. He didn't, but both of them knew that was better than if he had. It was enough to know he wanted too. The hand in his shirt released its vice grip on the fabric.

"I feel stupid having to just sit here…" Sam admitted quietly.

"Hey, we've all gotta sit out sometimes," Dean assured him. Granted, he didn't like it, either…but he supposed it was the truth.

Sam shrugged a little. "Good luck…"

Dean gave him a mock salute. "Be right back," he reiterated. With that he swung a leg up on the inclined table, gripped the window frame with the hand on his good arm, and pulled himself up onto the window sill. The grass was only three or four feet or so below, and he dropped easily to the ground. That didn't stop it the impact from jarring his shoulder though, and he was glad Sam couldn't see him double over and catch his breath from the wave of pain he was rewarded with.

When he could see straight again, Dean crept around the side of the house, looking for a side door. He found one that led into the kitchen, unlocked….He supposed that if Leah had them now, she had no reason to keep the doors locked to the outside anymore. There was no more reason to present the illusion of a sealed, abandoned house.

Still, he was wary of the ease of it.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, listening. Through the open door into the hallway he could see the cabinet of shelves that blocked the door that led to the room he'd just come from. To the left would be the door to the basement…so he needed to go right, search the rest of the house.

When he heard nothing, he stepped silently out into the hallway. From there, the stairs were to the right, and to the left farther ahead was the passageway to the living room and, presumably, the front door—the foyer they'd been ambushed in.

There was a closet under the stairs, and it seemed as good a place as any to start looking at least for the things Leah had taken off of them. The closet was locked.

Bingo.

Dean went back to the kitchen to search for something to pick the lock with. Except for the basement and the room he'd left Sam in, the house was still fully furnished and full of belongings, as if it really hadn't been touched since the owner disappeared. Maybe there had been no-one left to come for the stuff.

Rifling through kitchen drawers wasn't an easy thing to do quietly, but after several long minutes of patience he scored an old package of paper clips that might do the job. He snatched a couple and went back to the closet. It was trial and error without the tools he was used to—he hadn't done it old school in a while—but finally he managed to keep the flimsy metal straight long enough to click everything into place.

Dean shoved the paper clips in his pocket and quietly opened the closet

"Jackpot," he whispered, grinning to himself. In a pile on the floor lay his rifle, the EMF meter, th lock pick, and few more of their odds and ends that had been on them yesterday morning when they'd 'arrived' here.

He picked up the rifle, checking to be sure that the rock salt rounds were still in place. They would have to do; he couldn't risk going out to the car. He didn't know where Leah was, and she could see him if he did. Anyway…he didn't need a gun to take her out. Dean retrieved another thing or two from the pile, leaving the rest to bring back to the car later, and went in search of Leah.

The living room and foyer were empty, as were the only downstairs bedroom and…the downstairs bathroom. Dean's stomach turned when he saw the ropes that had been left on the floor.

He got out of there quickly, and crept up the stairs. From what he could see, there wasn't much up there…only a couple of bedrooms and another bathroom. But Leah had to be in one of them.

All of the doors were closed, and Dean stopped silently at the top of the stairs, listening again. It took a few moments, but finally over the sound of the crickets outside he managed to pick out the sound of even breathing in the room to the left. He clicked the safety off on the rifle, held it ready in one hand, and carefully turned the doorknob in the other.

Leah was in there all right, still fully clothed and sprawled on her back on top of the bedspread of full-sized bed against the right wall. Her gun lay a few inches from her hand. Dean swallowed, leveling the rifle at her as he went closer, wishing for a moment that he had real bullets. He could end this now—no fight, no nothing. He felt the anger burning in his gut, and he wanted to. He wanted to kill her right then and there.

In another moment, he might have found a way to do it if she hadn't woken up.

Leah saw him immediately and went for the gun, but he held his own up higher. "Don't even think about it!"

She smirked at him, but she stopped moving for the gun. Instead she only sat up slowly, raising an eyebrow. "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

"My brother is down there fighting for his life thanks you. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your head off right now," he snarled.

"One? You can't. There's nothing in that gun but rock salt."

"Oh really? Willing to bet your life on that?"

Leah answered by grabbing for the gun on the bed.

Dean answered by firing.

Leah shrieked and dropped back onto the bed, rolling onto her side and writhing in pain from the small puncture wounds the rock salt left when it embedded itself in her skin. "Bastard!"

"Takes one to know one."

He expected her to be angry enough to go for the gun again, and he planned to get to it first. What he didn't expect was for her to come at him without it.

She was up and under his guard almost before he'd realized she'd moved. He took a hook to the jaw, and her momentum brought them both to the floor. Then she was going for his gun, and Dean found himself locked in a stalemate over it.

Both of them managed to roll up onto their knees, but they both had both hands on the rifle, and neither of them was going anywhere else just yet. She wasn't quite as strong as him in brute force, but with his sounded shoulder they came down to a nearly even match.

Leah's eyes were all fire, and she sneered to see him sweating. The strain was hurting his shoulder, and she knew it. Already she was trying to put most of her force toward his left side.

"You know what I didn't tell you before, Dean?"

"With no due respect, I really don't care," he growled.

"They weren't just any hunters, the two who killed my parents. One of them was your daddy, Dean. Sorry about him, by the way. And the other one? Maybe you still keep in touch. His name was Bobby Singer."

Not that it bothered him, but the surprise was enough for his injured arm to give way. Leah used the opportunity to slam the butt of the gun into his forehead, but she didn't get enough force behind it to knock him out. Still he landed on his back, but he recovered quickly enough to throw her when she tried to get on top of him. Then Dean had her pinned.

"If it was our dad, and you're so big on revenge, then why haven't we seen you around before?"

"I wanted plenty of practice before I got around to them. Unfortunately, John's already dead, but once you and Sam are taken care of, there's always Bobby."

"You really can't make up your mind, can you? Greater good and revenge, using Sam to further the revenge or taking revenge on him…I really hate it when people can't make up their mind."

"You must hate yourself then," she shot back, almost with delight.

Dean snorted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know what you would do if Sam really did change—if whatever's different about him controlled him someday. You don't know if you would be able to do what would have to be done," Leah taunted.

He pressed a forearm into her throat. "Shut up!"

She choked and coughed, and he found it only fitting considering what she'd done to Sam—but she was fighting too hard. He wouldn't be able to hold her long enough even to knock her out.

Dean shoved off of her with the arm in her throat, choking her enough to keep her disoriented until he could grab the gun from the bed…he hoped. He spun and grabbed for it…but no such luck. Leah came up on her knees and grabbed him around his, tripping him and bringing him down on his face in the carpet.

"Ow!"

By the time he'd groaned and turned over, Leah was standing over him with her gun—the loaded one he'd been trying to reach.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but you're just too much trouble. I'll tell Sam you said goodbye."

Dean snapped his legs out and tripped her in return just as she fired, missing the bullet by inches. He grabbed the dropped gun and staggered to his feet, backing out toward the stairs. She followed him, faster, running him back into the stair rail and grappling for the gun.

It went off.

Dean heard Leah grunt, saw her stumble backward, wide-eyed, and then she dropped back and tumbled down the stairs. He heard a sickening crack between the thumps, and knew that if the bullet hadn't killed her, she was certainly dead now.

He swallowed and went back into bedroom to collect his rifle. He left Leah's gun on the floor. Slowly he descended the stairs, looking for any chance movement. There was none. The unnatural angle her head was tilted at the wide, empty eyes told him all he needed to know.

Dean stood there for a long moment, for some reason unsure of what to do. He hadn't really meant to kill her…exactly...but then again, they hadn't killed Gordon, and look where it had gotten them. He shouldn't have listened to Sam then. This was better. He nodded a few times, to make himself believe it. Sam wouldn't be happy…but it didn't matter. He would be safe.

Sam.

Finally Dean heard the faint cry of his name coming from the other side of the cabinet. "I'm coming, Sammy!" he called. He hurried up to the cabinet and shoved—couldn't shove fast enough. Closer now, he could hear more from inside. He could hear Sam gasping, and with dread knew that his brother hadn't listened to him…hadn't managed to stop worrying.

"Dean…"

There was a heavy thud from the other side of the door.

"Sam!"

He shoved the last inches of the cabinet out of the way and pounced on the doorknob, but something was in his way on the other side, too.

It was Sam.

"Crap, Sam!" He slid through the opening he had and dropped to his knees beside his brother, who was hanging on the doorknob on the other side, gasping, with a fresh sheen of sweat that failed to cover the fact that he seemed to have grown paler even since Dean had seen him last, and his free hand clutching at his chest again.

"Dean," he sobbed weakly.

Dean pulled him into his arms. "I told you not to worry!"

"Heard…heard gunshots. I was…afraid you…"

"Sam, shut up. Save the air. We're getting you out of here."

He calmed down, but it didn't seem to get any easier for him to breathe.

"Dean—" he grated out.

"I know, I know. Shit…"

Somehow he managed to ignore the pain from his left shoulder, get Sam over his good one, and get out to the car in only a minute or two. Dean knew it hurt Sam, too, but right now his only concern was keeping his brother alive. He settled Sam into the passenger's side and ran around, pulling out the only other two thing he'd grabbed from the closet earlier: his keys and his phone.

The phone was off, and he turned it on again as he climbed in and started the Impala. The phone switched on showing half a dozen missed calls from Bobby.

Sam spoke up again as he pulled furiously out of the gravel driveway.

"Leah—"

"Is dead. And don't give me that look; it was an accident, okay? Now be quiet, and just…just keep breathing, okay? I don't know where the nearest hospital is yet; you've gotta stay with me until then."

He nodded once or twice, and curled up against the door.

It was nearly a full ten minutes before they were back in Mize—a town that was really nothing more than a crossroads and the gas station where Sam and bought their breakfast almost 48 hours ago. Dean squealed to a halt in the nearly nonexistent parking lot, and pushed his door open. "I'll be right back."

There were two workers behind the counter, and one customer in the short aisles when he burst through the door. "Where's the nearest hospital?" he demanded immediately.

All three of them stared.

"Where!"

The closest women behind the counter recovered first, and answered in a heavy Mississippi accent. "The one in Laurel'd be better, but if you're lookin' for close, that'd probly be Magee. It's pretty much a straight shot from here. Just keep headin' thataway. It's twenty-five miles 'er so," she said, pointing down the highway in the direction they'd been going.

Dean only nodded in thanks before he was out the door again, back in the Impala, and pulling out onto the road again. He didn't give anyone time to ask question; there wasn't any time for questions.

"About thirty miles," he said, before Sam could ask. "Just hang on."

Sam gagged between gasps of air, and Dean reached back to snatch a water bottle from the back seat and toss it on his lap. "Try to drink some of that."

His hands shook, but he managed to get the cap off and get some of the water down without choking on it all. He tried to hand the bottle back to his brother, but Dean wanted Sam drinking as much of it as he could. He grabbed his own bottle, glad to finally have his tongue unstuck from the roof of his dry mouth.

Having his thirst quenched to some extent seemed to help Sam relax a little more at first, but in the end it didn't help him. His breathing only got worse, and even though Dean yelled at him to keep him awake he lost consciousness again somewhere around ten miles out. Still…as long as he was breathing at all, Dean wasn't going to stop.

His cell phone ringing cut into Dean's pounding head, and he remembered the messages from Bobby. His shoulder was throbbing, and he was barely able to pull it out with that arm, but he got the phone to his ear. It was number he'd hoped to see.

"Bobby?"

"Dean? What's wrong? You sound like shit."

"I feel like shit. We're in some deep shit. Where are you?"

"On my way to Mississippi because I couldn't get a hold of you."

"Thank god. We're on our way to the hospital in, uhm, Magee. Magee, Mississippi. Can you meet us there? What are you doing on the road this late anyway?"

"I was going to wait until morning, but I got a bad feeling. I'll be there in a few hours. Dean, are you sure that a hospital is the smartest idea right now?"

"Sam can't breathe, Bobby! I don't have a choice!"

He heard Bobby swear on the other end of the line. "What happened?"

"Long, long story, but I'm gonna lose him if I don't find this place right now…" He was passing into the town now, looking for signs. He knew his voice had shaken some, on that last sentence, but he didn't have time to worry about it now. Sam was still unconscious, and his breaths were coming farther and farther apart, shallower and shallower.

He pounded on the steering wheel. "Where's the damn hospital!"

"Dean, the first thing you have to do is calm down," Bobby told him firmly.

"I am calm," he growled.

"Not when I can hear you hyperventilating over a few hundred miles of airspace, you're not. Take it easy. You won't be able to find anything like that."

He hadn't realized he was doing it until Bobby pointed it out, and he forced himself to calm down. It wouldn't help if he passed out, too. Finally, a sign pointed him in right direction, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's down here. I gotta go, Bobby. I have to get Sam inside…"

"All right. I'm still on my way. Call me later if you can."

"Yeah." Dean snapped his phone shut and shoved it back into his jacket, only just now remembering that he hadn't picked up their wallets. There were spare credit and insurance cards here in the care somewhere, but he didn't have time to dig them out now. Well…it was an emergency room. They could wait for that stuff.

The parking lot lights of the hospital gave him enough illumination as he pulled in to see that Sam was turning blue.

"No, no, no…" He slammed on the brakes in the very next spot in the nearly deserted lot, and his door couldn't get out of the way fast enough. It seemed to take forever to run around the front of the car, and suddenly the front doors of the emergency room seemed too far away.

Dean pulled open the passenger door, leaned in and slapped Sam's cheek roughly, trying to bring him around enough to make him focus on breathing until they got inside. When Sam's eyes flickered Dean pulled him out of the car, grateful he'd never buckled him in—but he was still heavy.

"Come on, Sam, work with me!" he grunted.

He didn't realize someone inside had noticed them until two young men in scrubs sprinted out the doors and took Sam's weight. Dean didn't know if they were nurses, paramedics, or doctors, but he knew they were there to help. A woman followed them and took his arm.

"H-he can't breath," Dean explained at her questioning look, before she could ask. "Don't ask me what happened; it's a long story. Just help him...he's my brother…"

By the time the nurse had him to the doors, Sam was already on the gurney being ushered through to the back. He went to follow, but the woman held his arm.

"Sir, you would only be in the way back there. Let them do their job. They'll take care of your brother."

Dean ignored her and tried to pull away again, forgetting about his shoulder. He gasped and staggered, clamping a hand over the wound. He didn't know if it was his shoulder, or the lack of food and water and sleep…but suddenly everything was spinning.

"Sir, you're hurt, too," the woman said. He couldn't see her anymore, but she sounded a little alarmed.

"Dsn't matter…" he slurred. "Sam…"

Then Dean was greeting the floor again.