WAY OUT WEST
Chapter 6
Sam ponders the brothers' predicament; but nothing is ever as it seems.
xxxxx
Sam leaned despondently into the bars separating him from Dean. His arm threaded through the bars enabling him to keep a hand resting on Dean's head, long fingers carding absently through the sweat soaked hair.
Feeling the fevered tremors racking Dean's body through the palm of his hand, Sam's heart ached for his brother. Dean had fallen almost silent, scared his pained moans would earn Sam another battering with Sheriff Walton's rifle butt, and no amount of coaxing and reassuring could elicit a word out of the suffering man. Only Sam in his close proximity could hear the constant breathy groans which rumbled quietly in the back of his throat, as he curled tighter and tighter in on himself, desperate to find some respite from his suffering.
Sam swallowed back his hatred for Walton and reflected with relief that he hadn't seen or heard him for a couple of hours. Not that he missed him; the man was a card-carrying sadist with all the charm and sympathy of an epidemic. He'd heard him moving around the office on the other side of the cells earlier; his chair scraping backwards across the hollow wooden floor, the creak as he lowered his substantial bulk into it, followed by the rustling of papers and irritable mutterings, some revoltingly animated eating noises and finally, a loud and nauseating belch was the last sound the brothers had heard from their jailor.
The meals that Walton had grudgingly pushed under the bars for the two prisoners sat on the floor on grubby wooden plates. A hunk of rustic, slightly mouldy bread and cheese which smelt like feet. Sam hadn't touched his; his fear and worry had chased away his appetite and Walton's offering had done nothing to tempt it.
Dean hadn't even noticed his was there.
xxxxx
Bobby had been keeping an eye on his guest all morning. Castiel looked shifty and pale; Bobby couldn't be sure but he would have been prepared to swear there was a sheen of sweat across the angel's furrowed brow.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, out with it; What the hell's wrong with ya?"
Castiel glanced up from a long, faded parchment to look at at Bobby's stern face. "There is nothing wrong; I am recovering well," he responded nervously.
"I'm not talkin' about ya puncture" Bobby snorted, standing up over his desk; "you've been jumpin' like a cat on hot bricks ever since I woke up." His eyes narrowed suspiciously, "now, what's up?"
Castiel cocked his head in confusion, then pointed hesitantly at the ceiling.
"Bobby rolled his eyes; "God preserve us - that's not what I mean ya moron," he sighed. "Something's wrong; now, are ya gonna tell me what's the matter or do I hafta beat it out of ya?"
Castiel took a deep breath; "I am - um - uncomfortable. " He made a point of rubbing the site of his healing wound to illustrate the point.
"Yer also a friggin' bad liar;" Bobby's eyes bored menacingly into the angel, making him squirm. "Have you found something?"
Castiel wilted under Bobby's grim gaze; "I - uh - have a question." he asked earnestly; "if you knew something that you also knew would hurt or worry someone you cared about, would you tell it to them?"
Bobby thought for a moment, unsure of where this was heading. "If it was something that was important to them, then yes I would," he answered eventually.
Castiel looked down to the ground with intense sadness in his eyes; "very well then; I am beginning to recover Bobby."
Bobby shrugged; "well that's good, ain't it?"
The angel's response was inscrutable; "as I grow stronger, I have started to feel them."
Bobby's face crumpled into something between puzzlement and suspicion; "what, you mean …?" He held out his hand making grabbing motions with his fingers.
Castiel shook his head; "no, I only feel their minds."
"Oh;" Bobby nodded to confirm his understanding, and folded his arms, gesturing for Castiel to continue.
"I have been starting to pick up their - uh - feelings," Castiel hesitated before continuing; "Bobby, they are in trouble."
Bobby winced, slowly sinking back down into his chair; "what sort of trouble?" he muttered weakly.
"I do not know, but it is bad. Very bad."
"Well, get them back then." Bobby's voice sunk into a desperate growl.
"I cannot;" Castiel shrugged miserably, "I am simply not strong enough yet."
Bobby spluttered, waving his arms helplessly at the angel; "well, try harder … do whatever it takes; y'can rest here as long as ya need to recover," he pleaded, "please, Castiel, please try again."
The angel's pale face looked mournfully up at Bobby, as he pulled open his trench coat revealing a swathe of crimson across his crumpled shirt; a sign that the steady healing of his wound had been catastrophically reversed.
Bobby paled as Castiel whispered; "I tried this morning."
xxxxx
Sam knew his brother was dying and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. As Dean's condition progressed, he wanted nothing more than to gather his shivering, pain-crazed brother into his arms and nurse him tightly through his last terrible hours, but even that small comfort was denied him. He had to take what comfort he could from the minimal contact he was able to maintain as he softly threaded his fingertips through Dean's damp hair. To make sure Dean, in his delirious confusion, knew he was still there he softly sung some of Dean's favourite songs that he could remember the words to, half expecting Walton to appear with his rifle butt any time.
Allowing his eyes to drift out of focus; Sam chanted a soothing mantra of nonsense as Dean squirmed weakly beneath his hand, desperate to find some relief from his suffering; arching his back and drawing his knees up to his chest, shuddering breaths accompanying each pained and ultimately futile shift.
Sam sighed, swallowing down the intense throb from his broken hand as he watched his little spider cell-mate navigate the edges of his cell; closing his eyes he allowed his head to drop back against the wall.
When his eyes flickered open, he thought he might have dozed off for a few minutes. He felt woozy, disoriented. Maybe he was still asleep; that would explain the extremely old American Indian lady that stood in front of him where he had last seen the spider.
He blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes; she was still there. Not a dream then.
xxxxx
Sam instinctively glanced across to Dean, tightening his grip on his brother's burning scalp; Dean's glassy eyes blinked slowly as he stared up out of a pain-knotted face through the bars at Sam; that familiar low gasping grunt of pain still sounding with each laboured breath.
The woman who stood before him was old, so very old; generations-worth of deep wrinkles latticing her leathery face which was framed by a cascade of poker straight, matted grey hair. A pained stoop and a heavy gown of leather which completely engulfed her made her tiny frame look even smaller than it actually was.
Sam squinted as he noticed a disproportionately large wooden pendant hanging around her thin neck. It bore the image of a spider.
She regarded Sam with tiny sunken eyes, black as jet, which nevertheless sparkled from within her weatherbeaten face.
"W-who are you?" Sam whispered, nonplussed.
His visitor smiled benignly; "I am Subbeka'she; my people call me 'Grandmother'."
Sam stood up, relinguishing his grip on Dean's head and scraped his uninjured hand through his hair; he glanced sideways nervously. Although he hadn't seen or heard from Walton for a couple of hours now, he could have been anywhere and Sam didn't imagine him to be the tolerant or sympathetic type where native Americans were concerned. "What are you doing in here?" he whispered.
"I am my people and my people are me. I move back and forth through the intricate web of their lives, taking care of them and their forebears. I have been watching over them since the beginning of their time," was the old woman's cryptic response.
Completely perplexed, Sam opened his mouth to speak but she continued before he had a chance; "I have been with you since you came to this dangerous time."
Sam leaned towards the old woman; "my brother, he's really sick, he's going to die if we stay here; please ma'am, please can you help him?"
She shuffled toward him and placed a tiny arthritis riddled hand on his chest.
"Touch your brother, child."
Reaching back through the bars, Sam laid his hand on Dean's head again, and looked down at the tiny old lady. "I don't understand, why are you helping us?" he asked
"It is necessary to look to you past as well as your future to truly know yourself."
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but recoiled as a blinding light filled the cell
xxxxx
When he opened his eyes again, blinking back shimmering points of light which crackled and swirled in front of his teary vision, it took a few seconds for Sam to realise he was kneeling on the floor of Bobby's kitchen; a startled Bobby and Castiel staring in open mouthed disbelief down at the dishevelled, filthy figures in front of them.
His awareness snapped back into him bringing with it a brief moment of panic until he looked behind him to see Dean lying on the floor next to him; grey faced, drenched in his own sweat and convulsing in pain; Sam scrambled across the floor and desperately gathered his stricken brother into his arms.
"Bobby," he croaked desperately, burying his face into Dean's dirty, sweat soaked hair. "We need to get him to a hospital right now."
xxxxx
tbc
Next update will be in about ten days as I am taking my tent (and my husband) to a very beautiful and remote part of western England and opting out of the human race for a few days ... :)