The Aspen Spirit
Chapter Five
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"There's something moving. Up there."
As they came out into the open on the pale rocks of a small ridge, Sam's sharp eyes picked out a flicker of movement in the light foliage of the bushes among the tall aspen trunks. He pointed up the mountain.
John nodded, his face grim and tired in the weak sunlight, shadows blooming under his dark eyes.
"Keep movin'. And while you're at it, tell me more about this injury your brother has."
Sam kept close by his side, his legs easily long enough to match his father's stride, but falling instead into a child's rhythm of a half-jog, the muscle memory of years of being unable to match John's pace taking over common sense. John raised an eyebrow.
"Take longer strides, son."
Flushing, Sam complied, suddenly finding he'd enough breath left to speak in smooth sentences.
"Dean got in a fight, a couple of weeks back."
"I know it." John frowned. "We had to split town. That goddamned counsellor at your school was already poking around when he saw those bruises on your arm. If he'd got wind of your brother being arrested, he'd have called CPS for sure."
"Dean got hurt more than he let on." Sam's mouth pulled tight, remembering the boot prints still visible on his brother's back. "He took some kicks to the kidneys."
"You knew about this?" There was a sharp note in his father's voice.
"No! Course not." Sam sent him a glare, pushing his boundaries but not finding it in himself to care. "Guess you didn't check him out too well either."
John kept his voice even, making allowance for the stress showing on the young face. "Your brother knows to say if he's injured. You both do. Important rule Sam, you get an injury, you get it treated. Both you boys know that."
"Yeah, right." Sam's tone was belligerent, earning him a hard look from his father.
"What d'you mean by that? And mind your tone."
"Dean's not gonna tell you if he's hurt."
John pulled up short, staring at him in amazement. "Why the hell not?"
"First thing you'd do, you'd take him off the hunt…"
John nodded, frowning. "If he was hurt, I'd pull him off the hunt, yeah."
His youngest son's voice went up a notch in exasperation. It was so obvious; why couldn't John see. "He doesn't want to let you down, Dad!"
"Getting proper treatment isn't letting anyone down. I don't want either of you out here injured or sick. This is a dangerous gig son."
John set off again at a fast pace, his mind analyzing the available information. "Sounds like bruised kidneys?"
"That's what he said, yeah." Sam admitted. "Then when we were hanging around up here in this crappy weather, it got worse, fast. He was tired, running a fever, puking, then that woman…spirit, she hit him in the back and he, he just went down."
Sam's voice broke a little, remembering the way his brother had screamed. John bit down on his fear and lengthened his stride. There was a pattern developing in his mind and it was an ugly one.
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The old man was much stronger than he looked, the wiry strength of his muscles easy to feel through his jacket as he pulled Dean's arm over his shoulders and half-carried, half-steered him down the mountain.
Dean went along willingly enough, only vaguely interested in the running argument between the man and the spirit trailing behind them. He gathered she wanted to take him but the man wouldn't let her. For some reason, although her voice alternated between sorrowful and angry, she made no attempt to actually physically wrest him away.
After a while Dean lost interest altogether in the argument and concentrated all his energy on putting one foot in front of the other, his tenuous grip on consciousness coming and going.
One moment his head was lolling forwards, one boot and then the other appearing in front of his dazed eyes as he stumbled forwards over the rounded rocks and pale greens of the damp ground. Then there'd be a brief moment of clarity; he'd pull himself upright to focus on the grey beard next to his face as his head tilted sideways into the old man's neck. The man kept up a mumble of encouragement, the startling white teeth visible through his beard as his breath blew in and out.
They broke cover into the comparative warmth of a sunlit clearing and then suddenly John was right there, his eyes intense as he reached out steadying hands.
Sam's relieved face and damp lashes swam briefly in front of Dean's eyes, bringing a pang of guilt. "My fault," he whispered miserably. "'M sorry, Sammy."
John's mouth was moving, the shape of his words drawn out and the words themselves arriving later in a brief burst of unintelligible noise. Dean stared at him, bewildered, sagging weakly against the old man. Then John was easing him down to lie on his side. Dean blinked up at him, confused, having no recollection of leaving an upright position.
"Dad?" he whispered softly.
"Yeah son?"
But Dean didn't answer, the question already lost in a spiral of pain that had him clawing at his father's arm.
The higher tone of Sam's voice penetrated the roaring in his ears as a soothing hand rubbed light circles on his shoulder. Dean leaned into it for a while, breathing through the pain as he'd been taught.
"Dad has help coming; hang in there okay? We'll get you out of here soon."
Sam's voice. Dean nodded weakly. He would hang in there for Sammy.
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Sam's hands seemed to move of their own accord, executing soothing circles on his brother's shoulder, rubbing up and down his upper arm, wiping the greasy sweat from his forehead. He rambled on about running up the mountain, finding Dad, anything to keep Dean's dazed green eyes fixed on his own.
The deeper growl entering John's words caught his attention. He raised his head. John looked pissed.
"You knew about this? What the hell were you thinkin'!"
"Didn't know you had kids or I'd never have let you have the cabin." The old man was not backing down before John's obvious wrath. "It's dangerous up here this time of year, especially for that one." He dropped his chin in Dean's direction, then turned indignant eyes back to John.
"Your kid is real sick. Shouldn't have been up here in the first place."
Dean proved the point by letting out a little gasp, his body tensing under Sam's hands as his face went even paler.
"Dad!" The urgency in Sam's voice cut through the argument like a hot knife through butter and John thrust his cell phone into the old man's hands and dropped down at his son's side.
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When the pain started building again, Dean began to count in his head, trying to remember to breathe. Just as he thought he'd reached the peak, there was a clench in his abdomen, then a vicious pulse of his kidneys that sent hot lightning arcing into his groin and ripped a helpless cry out of him. He twisted sideways in blind panic, trying to get away from the agony, turning away from the light touch of his little brother's hands and grabbing frantically at the solid strength that was John Winchester.
"I gotcha son..." John gathered him into his arms, his breath warm whiskey on Dean's head.
Dean cried out again, the sound a sharp note of terror as he drove his face into John's chest; air whistled out through his clenched teeth, dragged back into his lungs in sharp gasps of sweat…whiskey…leather…soap…Dad.
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Sam scuttled forwards on his knees, the rounded stones grinding into his kneecaps through his ragged jeans, keeping his hand against his brother's back as John folded Dean against his chest.
He knelt there, crying soundlessly, his long bangs sticking to the snot on his face as a succession of emotions chased through his eyes… fear for his brother, then huge relief that John was there, followed by an unexpected twinge of resentment, then guilt at being just a little bit jealous when Dean so clearly needed their Dad right then.
A look of determination settled on his young face. If ever the day came that John was… gone… then he'd be big enough, strong enough, to save his brother if that was needed. The determination trickled away again, as he remembered with a sick slide of guilt that he had no intention of actually being around the disaster that was the Winchester family any longer than was absolutely necessary.
John broke into his thoughts.
"Keep talkin' to your brother, Sam. Let him know you're there."
Sam opened his mouth to agree but swallowed the words as Dean arched violently backwards, his fingers clawing down John's chest. John caught the back of his head, looking directly into Dean's staring eyes.
"Dean! Hold on kiddo, I've gotcha. Breathe, just breathe…"
Sam watched, horrified, his gaze shunting from the taut shock on his brother's face to the twisted anguish on his father's. At last Dean shuddered and relaxed, falling against John, gasping, dark lashes dropping like shadows onto his pale cheeks. John wrapped him tight, shushing him and rocking slightly as though it was a small child in his arms rather than a young man.
"Dad!"
Something in Sam's voice made his father look up. Sam pointed wordlessly at the dark stain of blood and urine soaking the front of Dean's pants.
John paled, his fingers shaking against Dean's back and the shine of unshod tears in his eyes as he reached out a hand to squeeze Sam's forearm.
"Might help with the pain, son."
Sam's frozen helplessness was interrupted by the whumping noise of a helicopter. He pulled himself free, running to wave frantically with the old man.
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