A/N: Thank you to my betas Catsluver and skzb. You guys are superb.

Thanks to those of you who reviewed as guests and to everyone who is reading this story. I am writing this for you. (Okay. For me, too...but mostly for you!)

Chapter 21

TJ sat frozen for a moment, not sure she'd heard correctly. Was Sam kidding? He didn't look like he was, but what he'd said was nuts. "Did you say a poltergeist?"

"Yes," he answered, still watching her closely.

"You mean like the ghost kind of poltergeist?"

He smirked wanly, no mirth in his eyes. "I don't know of any other kind."

Not knowing how else to react, she laughed nervously and stood up. "Riiight," she drawled slowly, patting the section of comforter covering his chest. "And I think that's my cue to leave because you need to rest. I think Fern definitely gave you too much NyQuil, or else you're delirious."

He continued to watch her and seemed lucid enough, although his lids were getting heavy. It was clear he was trying to fight sleep. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me." His voice was gravelly and barely audible.

Rocket stirred next to him, circling and sniffing, trying to find a better position. He found the perfect spot next to Sam's side and curled up there.

Sam was blinking slowly, his lids getting droopier by the second. TJ wanted so badly to know the truth, but he was in no condition to have a conversation of that magnitude right now. "You need to rest," she said. "We can talk about it later."

He closed his eyes and nodded, then coughed faintly with his mouth closed.

She backed away and could see his chest begin to expand and contract with the even breathing of sleep before she walked out the door.

XXXXXXXX

Thirty minutes or so later, she peeked into Sam's room to check on him. He was sound asleep, sawing logs with a soft, congested snore, and Rocket was sleeping right alongside him. She saw the Dixie cup on the nightstand and scrunched up her nose. She needed to throw it away and get Sam a clean one.

She tiptoed over near his bed and picked up the cup, pausing to look at him. His cheeks were a little flushed with fever, but no more than they were before. Her mother had given her an ear thermometer, and TJ was contemplating whether she could take his temperature without waking him. She was startled when the sound of the cell phone he'd placed on his nightstand earlier started ringing.

She threw the cup in the trashcan by his bed and quickly grabbed his phone, pushing the talk button after the first ring. "Hello?" she whispered quietly, already heading for the door.

"Who is this?" barked a wary male voice on the line.

"Just a sec," TJ whispered, voice hardly audible, glancing at Sam to see if he was still asleep.

He'd moved his head, and his soft snoring was interrupted briefly but then resumed. He was still tucked under the covers up to his chin, and his eyes were closed. He looked boyish and innocent, his face relaxed. Rocket had awakened and lifted his head, but seeing no immediate danger, he laid his head back down on his paws.

TJ shut the door, careful to hold the knob as she pulled the door shut so that it wouldn't make any noise.

"TJ? Is that you?" the impatient voice demanded on the other end of the line. "Why are you whispering? Where's Sam?"

"Yes, this is TJ," she hissed in a hushed tone, still afraid she might wake Sam if she spoke too loudly in the hallway. She made her way to her room and shut the door. "Who's this?" she said in a more normal voice, sitting down on her bed.

There was a beat of silence. "Uh, hi, TJ. This is Dean. Sam's brother."

Oh, this was awkward. Another Winchester she should know but didn't—her brother-in-law, whose voice mails she'd ignored when she was in the hospital until he'd finally given up. She cleared her own throat. "Um, hi."

"It's been awhile."

His voice was masculine and sounded nice, and she tried to pair it with the pictures she'd seen of him. He was good-looking like Sam, from what she remembered, although the brothers didn't resemble each other that much. She wished she had her cell phone handy so she could look at the photos again.

"So, how are you?"

"Fine, I guess, all things considered." She hesitated. "And you?" she asked out of polite obligation.

"I'm good. Why are you answering Sam's phone?"

"He's taking a nap. He's got a bad cold and—"

"Dammit. I knew he was getting sick. How bad?" Dean's tone was sharp with instant concern.

She was surprised Dean knew Sam was getting sick and wondered how often Dean and Sam talked. How much did Dean know about her? She found the uncertainty of that disconcerting.

"TJ, you still there? How bad is Sam's cold?"

"Oh. Sorry. It's just a summer cold that's been going around. My dad had it a week ago and it got him down for a couple of days, but he's okay now. Sam's probably got the same thing. I don't think it's that serious. It just has to run its course."

"Has Sam been coughing? Is he congested?"

"Yes."

There was an exhale of breath. "TJ, listen carefully to me. A cold can be dangerous for Sam. He...he doesn't have the use of his abdominal muscles below his navel."

It suddenly clicked with her why Sam always held onto a wheel when he leaned over to pick something up off the floor and the difficulty she'd noticed earlier when he was getting himself into a sitting position. Something that she took for granted, like sitting up, would be pretty damn hard to do with half your abdominal muscles paralyzed. It made the yoga session she'd witnessed him doing take on a whole new level of meaning. It wasn't just a graceful display of strength. It was extraordinary.

"He can't cough as good as you or I can," Dean continued. "He has to do assisted coughing to help him get everything out. If he doesn't, germs can get trapped in his lungs and cause an infection."

She was alarmed by this but then remembered the way Sam had braced himself and leaned forward while coughing. "I think he's been doing that. I mean, I saw him lean forward, and it seemed like he was able to cough better that way.

"Good." Dean sounded slightly less on edge. "Make sure he keeps doing that. You can help him with it, too—probably more effectively. It's the same as the Heimlich Maneuver."

"Um, I'm not sure I know what you mean." She knew what the Heimlich Maneuver was, but she'd certainly never had to perform it on anyone—that she remembered.

"If he's sitting in his chair, you can get behind him and put your arms around his waist. Make a fist with one hand and hold it with your other, then place it on his abdomen just above his navel and below his rib cage. Have him take a deep breath, and when he exhales, press your fist into his abdomen and thrust upward with force. Does that make sense?"

She felt a bit of trepidation at the thought of doing it, but she understood. "Yeah. I think I can do it."

"Good. You can do it if he's lying down, too. It's the same thing, but you put your hands on his lower ribs and push with the heels of your hands instead of doing the fist."

"Okay."

"Make sure either you help him or he does it himself often."

"Okay. I will."

"Is he sleeping on his back or stomach?"

"His back."

"Did he explain to you about pressure sores?"

"Um, no." She knew what they were because of her research, but she hadn't heard it from Sam.

Dean muttered something under his breath. "Okay. He shouldn't lie in one position for more than two hours, especially if he hasn't used pillows to relieve stress on certain pressure points of his body, like, to put it bluntly, his ass. His hips, heels, and ankles are other areas that are susceptible to pressure sores. If he sleeps on his back or side, make him show you how to use pillows to prevent the sores. It's better if he can sleep on his stomach, unless he's really congested."

"He is."

"Then make sure he uses the pillows to sleep on his back. Don't let him act like it's not a big deal. If he gets a pressure sore, it could take months to heal. Make sure he puts lotion on, too, so his skin doesn't dry out."

She imagined herself talking about these things with Sam and felt her ears grow warm.

"It's important, TJ." Dean sounded urgent, like he was worried TJ wouldn't take him seriously.

"I'll do it," she assured. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."

"Thanks. I know you will." Dean sounded more confident in her, and she instinctively knew it was a big deal that he was trusting her with his brother's care.

Lord, this was so weird. She'd never taken care of anyone before in her entire life—that she remembered—especially not a man. And Sam definitely fell into the man category. There was nothing boyish about him. Well, except for maybe when he was asleep.

"Have Sam call me when he wakes up."

"I will."

"Call me if you have any questions or if he gets worse, day or night. It doesn't matter when."

"Okay."

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Dean spoke. "So, I guess I'll let you go for now."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Her pulse quickened. "Um, Sam told me he got stabbed in the back by a poltergeist."

No response.

"I think it was the NyQuil or the fever talking."

Still silence.

"That's crazy, right?" she said hopefully, with a jittery little laugh. "I mean, that's not really what happened to him—you know, why he, um, uses the wheelchair?"

This time she got a sigh in response.

Why was she even bringing this up? Of course it wasn't what happened. There were no such things as poltergeists. Nevertheless, the thought made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and Dean's silence was even more unsettling.

"Dean? You still there?"

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me what really happened? Why is Sam paralyzed? Why does he have so many scars? Was he in an accident?"

Dean's voice sounded solemn. "That's something you need to ask him about, TJ."

"I did!" She was getting so tired of people telling her that. "He told me he got stabbed by a damn poltergeist!" she repeated.

"Ask him when he's feeling better. It's something the two of you should talk about. It's not my place."

She felt chastened, embarrassed, and angry. What was the big secret? First her mom and dad refused to tell her, then Sam himself, and now Dean.

"I'm sorry," said Dean. He sounded sincere.

"I'll have Sam call you," she said stiffly, and then she ended the call.

XXXXXXXX

Almost two hours had passed since Sam had fallen asleep, and Dean's warning about the pressure sores echoed in TJ's head. "He shouldn't lie in one position for more than two hours."

TJ stood in the hallway by Sam's door listening, but she couldn't hear anything. She glanced at the time on his cell phone, which she intended to put back on his bedside table. Should she wake him? He needed the rest, but she didn't want him to get a pressure sore. Maybe she could help him get resettled properly with pillows like Dean said and then he would just go back to sleep.

She cracked the door open, peering in, and was surprised to see Sam sitting in his wheelchair wearing his jeans and plaid shirt. His feet were bare, resting neatly on the footplate of his chair. The sleeves of his shirt were unrolled, the cuffs unbuttoned and loosely open, and his long, dark-brown hair reached just below his collar and brushed against it. He looked ruggedly casual and sexy, and TJ had to unglue her eyes from him.

She was perplexed when she saw the flowery comforter on the floor, realizing he had stripped the top sheet off the bed and was about to take off the bottom sheet. She opened the door wider. "Sam, what are you doing?"

His broad shoulders tensed and he ceased his movements, not looking at her. His jaw was in a rigid, hard line.

She walked into the room and impulsively felt of his forehead. It was hot, but no hotter than it had been earlier. "What are you doing?" she asked again.

He pulled his head away, clearly not wanting to be touched. Rocket sat on the floor, his head tilted in a confused doggy way, watching the whole scene.

Sam shifted his shoulders like he was uneasy, and he still wouldn't look at her. "Just—I don't need any help," he rasped. "Please. Just leave." He coughed, putting his fist to his mouth.

She frowned. She couldn't let him do this when he felt so bad. "Did—are your sheets wet? Did you get them sweaty?"

He closed his eyes slowly, like something pained him.

"It's okay," she said. "I'll take care of them and put fresh ones on." She turned to the bed and pulled the corner of the fitted sheet off the mattress.

"Don't!" he croaked. He sounded almost frantic.

But he was too late. She saw it then, the wetness where he'd been lying, the large, round spot that was much too wet to be from sweat. She smelled the faint odor of urine and her cheeks burned. Her back was to him, and she took in a deep breath, praying that he wouldn't notice how red her ears must look and wishing that her hair was down to hide her blush instead of in a ponytail.

She continued what she was doing, pulling the sheet all the way off and throwing it in a large ball on the floor, still hiding her face. There was a large absorbent pad—also damp—stuck with adhesive to the mattress, and she unpeeled it from the mattress and wadded it up, as if it was no big deal.

She pasted what she hoped was a nonchalant, impassive expression on her face and scooped up the discarded sheet, finally looking at Sam. The top sheet that he'd pulled off was still in a ball in his lap, and she could see a bit of the navy blue boxers he'd been wearing earlier mixed in with it. He was staring at a point on the bed.

Gently, she tugged on the sheet in his lap and said softly, "I'll take this."

He let her, and she balled the two sheets and underwear together under one arm, still holding the wadded up pad in her other hand. When she was almost to the door, she stole another look at him. He hadn't moved. "It's okay," she told him. She knew it was lame, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He said nothing, just sat there as stiff and unmoving as a stone statue. She slipped out the door and headed toward the laundry room at the other end of the house. She threw away the pad, quickly started the washer, and threw in his sheets and boxers. Then she washed her hands and grabbed fresh sheets from the linen closet in the hallway on her way back to his room. When she was at his door, she knocked first.

There was no answer.

"Sam, can I come in?"

Still no answer.

She was debating whether she should open the door without his permission, given his mood from before, but then she noticed Rocket sitting outside the bathroom door and a sliver of light glowing beneath it in the dim hallway.

Rocket looked at her with woeful eyes and tentatively wagged his tail, and she couldn't resist. She walked over and crouched down, fresh sheets still clutched in one arm, and scratched him between his ears. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom and knew that Sam must be taking a shower.

"Let's go make your master's bed," she said to Rocket, scratching him under his beard. He looked like he was in heaven, and she smiled. "You're a good boy, aren't you, Rocket? Yes, you are." She still missed Elliott, but it wasn't Rocket's fault that Elliott had died. She hadn't been very fair to Sam's dog, and she felt bad about it.

Rocket followed her to Sam's room, and she started making the bed with the fresh sheets. Once she got the sheets on, she saw that the comforter was still on the floor. She picked it up, checked it over, and realized it had been soiled a little bit, too. She took it to the laundry room and left it on the floor to be washed after the first load was done.

Rocket still shadowing her every step, TJ went in her parents' room and found an old bedspread at the top of her mother's closet. It was a thick, colorful quilt in a wedding-ring pattern that had been made by TJ's great grandmother. Fern had always kept it in the top of her closet for as long as TJ could remember.

After procuring the bedspread, TJ was once again standing outside Sam's door. The bathroom was dark and the door to it had been left open, so she knew he was finished with his shower. The smell of his shampoo and soap wafted out into the hallway, and she felt a fluttery feeling in her stomach that she tried to squelch.

Tentatively, she knocked on his door.

If he answered, she couldn't hear it. She knew he was in there, though, by the excited way Rocket's tail wagged and the way he stood at attention at the door.

"Sam? It's me. I have Rocket with me. Can I come in?"

She thought he wasn't going to answer, but then the door opened. He backed his chair up a little, pushing a wheel with one hand and pulling the doorknob with the other so that he could open the door partway. He had on a plain, white, V-neck T-shirt and gray sweatpants like the ones he had on the night they'd fought. He ran a hand through his wet hair and then coughed, covering his mouth with his fist.

She thought of what Dean said about the assisted coughing, but judging by the dark, brooding look on Sam's features, now wasn't the time to bring it up. She lifted the bedspread in her arms, showing it to him. "Um, I'm just going to put this on your bed." Her heart was beating fast, but she tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"Give it to me," he rasped, eyeing the bedspread. "I'll do it."

He was tense, and she got the feeling he was angry, maybe even angry at her, although she wasn't sure why. "It won't take me but a second," she said.

He clenched his jaw. "I can do it."

"I know you can, but just let me. You're sick."

He cocked his head to one side, and there was bitterness in his tone. "And I'm a cripple, right?"

Her stomach knotted with guilt. "I apologized for that."

"So you did." Again, that tick in his jaw, and then he seemed to change gears, deflating a bit. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

"I don't."

He looked skeptical.

"I don't feel sorry for you—not for that—I mean, not for what happened." She could feel heat rising up her neck and cleared her throat. "But you're sick." She studied him, taking in his flushed face, the sound of his congested breathing, and his stopped up nose. "It's obvious you feel horrible, so let me help you."

He arched his head back slightly and slowly closed his eyes—the closest she figured he would come to admitting she was right—and then he seemed to give in, backing his chair away from the door and making room for her to enter.

She walked over and quickly spread the quilt over the bed, then turned it and the top sheet down so the bed would be ready for Sam. When she was done, she faced him and sat on the edge of the mattress. Rocket jumped up with her and sat beside her. She gave a little laugh. "You're persistent. I'll give you that." She scratched him between the ears, and Rocket sighed with contentment.

Sam didn't say anything, just watched until he started coughing again.

TJ cleared her throat, a bit apprehensive. "Would you—can I help you with that?"

He frowned. "With what?" he said between hacks.

"Dean called when you were napping. He said I should help you cough sometimes."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not an invalid. I can do it myself."

It was TJ's turn to roll her eyes. "I know you're not an invalid. But I don't mind helping."

He looked at her for a long moment, and then she could swear something mischievous flashed in his eyes. "Okay."

She remembered she had thrown away his cup. "I'll be right back." She hurried into the bathroom and returned with a clean Dixie cup, handing it to him. "You'll probably need this."

He took it and nodded.

She got behind him and bent down, putting her arms around him and making a fist like Dean had instructed. She held her fist in her other hand and placed it under Sam's ribs, above his navel.

His stomach muscles flinched at her touch and his broad shoulders tightened.

Her cheek was near his, her chest against his warm back. Have mercy. Did the man always have to smell so good? The scent of him in such close proximity caused her blood to heat. He had been right. Her brain didn't know him, but her body sure as hell did. Did Jeremy have this effect on her? Maybe, but it wasn't this intense.

Rocket was still on the bed, and he lifted his head and tilted it, like he was wondering what crazy thing the humans were up to now.

"So—" She stopped and cleared her throat. "So, is this okay?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice was low and very husky, and she didn't think it was entirely due to the congestion. She remembered the flash of mischief she'd seen in his eyes and realized he'd probably known the effect having her arms around him might have on her.

It was so annoying, the way he knew her so intimately. She could deny it all she wanted, but maybe there was some of Other TJ left in her after all, that girl—that young woman—who'd looked so in love in the pictures with Sam.

Well, he was hot. There was no doubt about it. She was a girl and he was a guy, and they lived in the same house. It was only natural that, in her constant state of confusion, she might have lustful feelings toward him. It didn't mean she was in love with him.

She got down to business. "So, I push up when you exhale, right?"

"Right," he croaked.

"Okay. I'm ready when you are."

He nodded and drew in a deep breath, which immediately resulted in a cough on his exhale. She pushed up, exerting pressure on his abdomen, and it intensified the cough. He hacked up a glob of phlegm, and it sounded like he was gagging. She immediately let up, wondering if she'd done something wrong.

He spit into the cup and then gasped, "It's okay."

She frowned. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head, coughing weakly. "No. Do it again."

They repeated the process a few more times, and when they were done, his lungs didn't rattle and crackle so much. He threw away the cup, and she went to the bathroom to get him another clean one while he transferred himself onto the bed. When she came back, he was sitting up, legs hanging over the side of the bed and bare feet touching the floor. He looked exhausted and feverish but was still managing to give Rocket a good petting.

Remembering the thermometer in her pocket, she took it out and waved it. "I should take your temperature."

He nodded wearily. His long hair was halfway dry now, and she envied the texture and color of it. It was so dark and rich. She brushed a few strands back to insert the thermometer into his ear. His hair was soft to her touch. Lord, what she wouldn't give to have hair like his.

The thermometer beeped, and she read the digital display. "102.9. It's official. You're sick sick."

He gave a hoarse huff.

She frowned. "Maybe we should take you to the med clinic in Colleyville. It's open on the weekends."

"No," he said with a stubborn set to his jaw. "No doctors."

Dean's warning that Sam could get a serious infection worried her. "Sam—"

"No." His brow was wrinkled in a stormy, obstinate look.

She didn't blame him, having no love for doctors herself. Sighing, she said, "Okay. We'll hold off, but if you get worse, we'll have to take you. For now, back to bed." She pointed at his pillows for emphasis.

He eyed the spot where he'd wet the bed and flushed even more than he already was because of the fever.

She didn't know what to say to make his embarrassment go away, and an awkward silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke in a subdued voice. "In your research on SCI, did you read about the different types of injuries, complete versus incomplete, that sort of thing?"

"Yeah." She sat down next to him and reached across him to scratch Rocket under the chin.

"My injury is complete," Sam stated bluntly.

She tried not to react—tried not to show how that made her heart hurt. She knew what a complete injury meant, and she didn't want it to be that way for Sam. Slowly, she pulled back from petting Rocket and met Sam's steady, serious gaze.

He went on. "I have no sensation or muscle function below the level of my navel."

She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat.

"I...have no bladder or bowel control. Because of that, I have to stay on a pretty strict schedule so I can predict when I will need to go. I have to monitor what, when, and how much I eat and drink."

Well, that explained why he was so particular about what he ate and why he ate so healthy.

"If any of that gets out of whack..." He paused, and the muscles in his jaw clenched briefly. Then he seemed to steel himself and looked her in the eye. "...I sometimes have accidents."

She took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. His skin was too warm from the fever, but he felt so alive. "It's okay," she said, and she meant it. Now that she knew for certain how bad Sam's injury was, it all of a sudden didn't matter. He was still Sam.

He stared at his hand in hers. It made her feel self-conscious, but she didn't let go.

"I guess because I was sick, I wasn't paying attention. I got off my schedule. I haven't—it really hasn't happened in a long time."

He was so stoic as he spoke about it, so strong about a subject that would be hard for anyone to talk about, especially a guy. She squeezed his hand again, and his gaze traveled back to her.

"It's okay," she said. "Really."

"Did you—" He stopped abruptly and exhaled, which made him cough a little. "I...have to use a catheter. Did you read about all that stuff in your research?"

She nodded and shrugged. "Everyone has to go somehow. It's just science."

He regarded her sharply, and then, to her surprise, he grinned.

God, he was gorgeous. His dimples disarmed her every time he smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "Even the Queen of England has to go somehow, right?"

She smiled back, a little incredulous that he'd said that. "That's what my mamaw always used to say."

He was still grinning. "I know."

"Oh." She got a sinking feeling. "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

His smile turned apologetic. "Yeah, we have."

She let out a long breath. "That must get old, having to rehash everything and have the same conversations with me. I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I don't mind, even..." He hesitated and looked down. "...even when it's talking about some of the more difficult aspects of my disability."

She gave his hand another squeeze. "Don't be embarrassed, Sam."

"I'm not. I mean, not like I used to be. It's stuff I've come to terms with." He looked at her with intensity. "I just..."

She was so drawn to him. She couldn't have taken her eyes off him if she'd wanted to. "You just what?"

"I just don't want you to be turned off by it. I don't wanna do anything that'll make you like me less than you already do. We keep arguing, and I know how hard all this is for you. And then, to top it all off," he said, looking away and running a hand through his hair, "I wet the friggin' bed. It's not exactly the smoothest thing a guy can do to impress a girl."

Her heart swelled with an emotion she couldn't name, and she fought the urge to put her arms around him. She was still holding his hand, and she gripped it even tighter. "That's not gonna make me like you less. Your disability isn't the problem."

He eyed her. "You've already said my disability makes you uncomfortable."

"I never should have said that." She felt herself flush. "It's not—I mean, yeah. I was afraid to be around you at first, afraid of saying the wrong thing, but it's not the wheelchair or your disability that makes me uneasy around you."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

Why was she doing this, being so open with him? Because he was being so honest with her? "It's—I don't know. Every time I'm around you, I get antsy."

"Antsy how?"

She shrugged. "It's hard to describe."

"Good antsy or bad antsy?"

She poked her cheek with her tongue. "Um, both, maybe?"

He croaked out a chuckle and then traced her jawline with his thumb, gazing at her intently. "I can work with antsy," he rasped softly.

She felt something inside her ignite, a smoldering burn deep in her lower region. Oh, he was good. So very good. She wanted him to kiss her, and that was scary because she wasn't ready. She was still confused. Wasn't she?

She schooled her voice into what she hoped was a semblance of normalcy, trying not to let on that her hormones were raging. "We should probably get you back in bed. And we need to take precautions this time so you don't get a pressure sore on your ass."

He grinned. "Such a way with words, TJ."

She snorted. "That's me—a regular Shakespeare." She remembered about the lotion. "Should we put lotion on your legs first?"

"Dean told you about that?"

"Yeah."

He gave a halfhearted eye roll. "My big brother is sometimes overprotective. I can take care of myself. I already put lotion on after I showered."

"Oh."

"Thanks for asking though."

She was lost in his eyes for a second but then remembered to answer. "Um, you're welcome."

He leaned toward her and brushed his nose against hers, and she could feel the heat of his skin and his regretful smile. "If we're gonna start out as friends," he husked softly, "I probably shouldn't kiss you right now the way I want to—and I don't want to get you sick." Instead, he chastely kissed her forehead.

It only served to stoke the fire inside her more, and she wondered: How did they have sex if he couldn't feel it at all? What had it been like for her? She was intrigued and curious and was about to work up the nerve to ask him when he went into a fit of coughing, reminding her of how sick he was.

Once the attack was over, she got him settled in bed—pillows protecting his more vulnerable parts this time—and he was asleep by the time she was done with her ministrations. As she was quietly closing the door to his room, she glanced at his sleeping face one more time—and then it hit her. She bit her lip to keep a groan of frustration from escaping, angry with herself for letting him turn her brain to mush.

She'd forgotten to ask him about the poltergeist.

XXXXXXXX

TJ's eyes popped open, her heart racing. Something had woken her. There was a thunderstorm raging outside, but those usually didn't bother her. She normally slept right through them. She glanced at the digital clock glowing a muted red on her nightstand. 2:53 a.m.

She lay there for a second, ears straining. And then she heard it: Sam crying out followed by a bark and a whimper from Rocket.

She jumped out of bed, no longer shocked as she'd been those first few days after she'd come home by the cold hardwood under her feet. Not bothering to put any slippers on, she raced out of her bedroom and down the hallway to Sam's room, passing her disheveled parents just opening their door. Her mother's usually neat blond hair was sticking up crazily in all directions, and she was hastily throwing on her mint-green robe, the sash hanging down loosely. Vern was wearing faded jeans and pulling on a denim shirt.

When TJ opened Sam's door, Rocket was beside himself, pacing the distance from Sam's bed to the door and back again. When he saw her, he whimpered and wagged his tail furiously, urging her to Sam's bedside.

TJ switched on the bedside lamp and saw that Sam was sweating profusely. The covers were pushed down to his waist, exposing his bare torso. He was panting, his breathing congested, and his head was thrashing from side to side. He was obviously in the throes of a nightmare.

"No!" he croaked. "They're gone! Dean!" His face crumpled into a ragged grimace and he slurred something incoherent. "Please. No. No!"

TJ gave his shoulders a shake and was shocked by how hot his skin was. He was like a furnace. "Sam! Sam, wake up!"

He was oblivious to her presence, lost in the terror of his dream. To her horror, blood began to trickle from his nose onto his upper lip.

"Oh, God. Please, Sam, wake up!" His hair was soaked, and she gently smoothed it back from his forehead. She took his face in her hands and stilled the motion of his head. "Sam, listen to me. It's TJ. Wake up."

His eyes finally opened, wild and full of fear. He was still panting and began to cough.

"Shh," she soothed. She sat down on the side of the bed next to him and grabbed a tissue, wiping away the blood from his upper lip. "It's okay. It's just a bad dream. Everything's okay."

He shut his eyes tightly, grimacing like he was in terrible pain, and pinched the bridge of his nose. She glanced at her parents, uncertain what she should do next. Her mother gave a short nod, the expression on her face reassuring, telling TJ that she was doing the right thing, to keep doing what she was doing.

TJ wrapped her arms around Sam, supporting his shoulders, and helped him sit up. He buried his head in the curve of her neck, his hot forehead searing her skin. He was shaking.

She cast another look at Fern. "Mama, he's burnin' up."

Fern grabbed the thermometer off the nightstand and gently placed it in Sam's ear. He hadn't moved and was still resting his head in the curve of TJ's shoulder. She instinctively rubbed his back, trying to calm him. His skin was slick with sweat. "Shh," she soothed. "It was just a nightmare. Everything's okay."

The thermometer beeped, and Fern read it with a frown. "103.4."

Worry rippled through TJ. "It's up from this afternoon. Should we take him to the emergency room? The nosebleed—"

"No," Sam croaked, and then he started to cough.

"Do you want me to help you cough?" TJ asked.

He raised his head and shook it. "No. No." He fisted her T-shirt. "The twins." His eyes still had the wild, frantic look to them. "Where are they?"

Fern spoke up in a smooth, calming voice. "They're fine, hon. I put them to bed. I've got the monitor in my room and haven't heard a peep from 'em."

That seemed to alarm Sam even more, and he started breathing rapidly again. He turned his eyes to TJ, and she was astonished by the intensity of his fear. He suddenly gripped her shoulders. "We have to go check on them."

"Okay, okay." She pulled back the covers and started removing the pillows from under his legs. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, and his wheelchair cushion was under his hips. He leaned to one side and pulled it out from under him.

"I'll go check on the babies, hon," offered Fern.

"No," he rasped. "The salt. Do you have the bags of salt?" His gaze was filled with meaning when he looked at her parents.

To TJ's surprise, Fern and Vern glanced at each other and then back to Sam, a new level of concern on their faces, like Sam's question made perfect sense. Vern nodded. "We'll get started."

TJ got out of Sam's way, and he quickly placed his cushion in the seat of his chair and transferred himself. Once his bare feet were hastily settled on the footplate, he wheeled out the door, pushing himself with urgent purpose. Rocket trotted behind him, alert and agitated. Both of them seemed to have forgotten TJ's existence.

She stood there in the sudden, eerie quiet of Sam's room and stared at the empty doorway, wondering what on earth salt had to do with Sam's nightmare and the twins.

TBC