Chapter 2
The horizon stretched forever behind golden wheat fields. Sunlight bleached the sky pale blue and set the road shimmering. It wavered in the distance like a desert mirage, the glare so bright it burned the eyes.
Dean pulled a pair of shades from the glove box and slipped them on. The world became a more tolerable color - and he looked cool. Now all he needed was some tunes. He turned up the radio.
Sam reached for the dial, but Dean slapped his hand away without looking.
"Dude, I'm sick of Metallica," Sam said.
"My car, my rules," Dean said. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Why don't you wake me up when it's my turn to drive?"
Sam rolled his eyes. He'd been driving since they left the motel over twenty hours ago. Sam's back ached and his ass was cramping from so long in the driver's seat, and Dean hadn't let him turn down the '80s metal once. Still, they were close. After so long on the road he was just glad Dean had enough energy to be a smartass.
Sam felt relieved when he finally saw the scrap yard surrounding Bobby's home. He leaned over and smacked Dean's shoulder as they pulled into the lot. His brother grunted and flicked him off.
After the car bounced through the first pothole, Dean pulled himself upright and looked around. Bobby's bone yard of broken cars had grown since he'd seen his surrogate uncle last. Rusted stacks of half-crushed cars rose almost as tall as the house in spots.
"Look, he found a Comet!" Dean tapped his brother's arm for attention, his neck craning as they passed its rusting hulk. The rust bucket had lost its paint and most of its wheels, but Dean could see the muscle car beneath.
Sam managed an impressed noise as his brother spotted another car. He smiled. He'd forgotten how much Dean loved Bobby's house, but he should have remembered that his older brother was a kid at heart. Dean could go from kicking demonic ass to marveling over rusty cars within the blink of an eye.
Bobby ambled out of the garage when they pulled up. Sam hopped out of the car and greeted him with a hug. The older man pulled away with a gruff protest and a smile, which slid off his features as he leaned over the passenger's side window and glared at Dean.
"You too lazy to greet me?" Bobby said.
Dean chuckled, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Good to see ya, Bobby." He slid out of the car slowly, but his heart still fluttered at the exertion. Dean grabbed the door for support.
Bobby's expression faded into uncertainty. "You look like crap," he said in a matter-of-fact drawl Dean had missed. The older man turned to Sam. "Don't you feed him?"
Sam opened his mouth in self defense but closed it. Bobby, like Dean, had a way of making lighthearted jabs at serious situations. He ought to know by now, but he'd be damned if he didn't fall for it every time. Sam sighed then shrugged and put Dean's arm over his shoulder. He helped his brother inside.
Once they were in the foyer, Dean pushed his brother away and fell behind. He put a hand to the wall to steady himself, following the other men to the kitchen, and took a seat. He kicked his feet up on Sam's legs.
Bobby removed a six pack of beer from the refrigerator. "You boys thirsty?"
Dean's eyes blinked open. He grinned when Bobby handed him a bottle. "Sweet momma, I thought you'd never ask."
Sam frowned. "Dean-"
Dean unscrewed the bottle and tossed the cap at his brother's face. Sam flinched. Dean took a swig of the beer then let out a moan of appreciation. "I feel better already."
They sat around bullshitting, sharing adventures and hunter news until the beer was gone. Demonic activity was up across the board. Some sap had run across a vampire nest in Wisconsin. Three vengeful spirits had turned up in one town in South Carolina; it had taken a whole mess of hunters to take them out.
It was typical news, the kind that didn't matter now. "Damn, I'm glad I decided to retire," Dean said.
"Yeah," Sam said but didn't laugh. His expression flattened. A moment later he excused himself to get the bags out of the car.
As soon as the front door closed Bobby crossed his arms and gave Dean a pointed look. "What's gotten into you?" he said at last, shaking his head. "This isn't the Dean Winchester your daddy raised."
"I'm tired, Bobby." Dean shrugged and played with the beer label. "And I hope you're not making me sleep upstairs. I'm not in shape to work on my glutes today."
Bobby finished his drink and set the bottle down. He sighed. "I'll clean off a couch."
"Thanks, man." Dean closed his eyes. "Oh, and Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"Make sure it's close to the kitchen. I might need to make some decent food after Sammy falls asleep."
Bobby snorted. "Get your own house."
Dean smiled. "Thanks, Bobby."
/A.H.O.F.\
Sam sat on the edge of his creaky bed and ran his fingers through his hair. After so many months living on the road, sleeping in the same room as his brother and bickering over the shared television, Bobby's guest room felt empty. Wind made the house groan, a disturbing sound that cut through an otherwise silent night.
He stood and paced the small room, unable to get used to the idea of leaving Dean downstairs. Every time Sam tried to close his eyes he saw his brother's pale face, eyes open in death. Even awake, Sam couldn't escape Dean's raspy breathing. He felt exposed without his big brother and a good salt line around the windows.
But Sam also understood that if he walked downstairs while Dean was still awake his brother would be angry at Sam's mistrust. If Dean was asleep, Sam would just feel like an idiot. And if he wasn't either… well, Sam didn't know what to do if that day came. He supposed he might summon a reaper.
He dropped to his knees. God, I'm begging you, don't let my brother die. I know you're there, so you know I need him. He's my family. He's all I've got after… after everything else.
Tears welled in his eyes when he thought of Jess's death and how Dean pulled him from the fire. Sam didn't care. He'd always been the sentimental brother, the one who considered and hurt. Dean was the strong one, the soldier who did whatever it took for the family without looking back. Sam looked back, and what he saw hurt. He needed his brother. Couldn't God see that?
Finally, exhausted, Sam threw himself into bed and pulled the covers over himself. He slept.
And he dreamed.
The hospital room beeped and hissed with artificial life. Dean lay in the bed, eyes closed. Tubes emerged from his mouth and snaked to the machines. His lips were blue.
A stranger stood in shadow by the bed, head bowed. His back was turned, but Sam could see light streaming from between the man's folded hands, a brilliant white that made Sam wince. He closed his eyes against the pain -
- and found himself standing on sidewalk in broad daylight. A businessman pleaded with him, his hands spread before him in self defense. But the vision was already changing with a pain that split Sam's head.
It flashed back to the hospital room for a split second before he was driving the Impala past a crowned stadium. 428 on a white mailbox with a green The Pontiac Gazette paper box beneath it. He saw a cathedral, its elaborate stained glass aglow in the setting sun. Sam thought the pain might give him a cerebral hemorrhage. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the pain –
Sam sat bolt upright in bed, hands on his temples. Pain lanced through his eyes. He could hear distant voices, but the murmuring made his head swim and Sam thought he might hurl. His entire body, damp with sweat, felt both cold and hot. The smell of breakfast wafting up the stairs made his stomach churn worse.
He stumbled out of bed, tripping over the tangled sheets, and dug through his backpack for a notebook. 428, he thought as he sketched the house. He drew every detail he could remember from the cracks in the sidewalk to the statue in the rain garden. When he was done, he flipped the page and drew the stadium.
His headache didn't begin to fade until he'd finished drawing. Sam dressed, splashed cold water on his face and padded downstairs barefoot. He followed the smell of bacon frying and found Bobby and Dean in the kitchen. Bobby had pulled an overstuffed chair into the room so Dean could lounge comfortably.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Dean called. He grinned cheekily, a thick slice of bacon between his teeth.
Sam grunted. He poured himself a handful of painkillers from the bottle on top of Bobby's refrigerator. Before either man could ask, Sam grabbed Dean's glass of orange juice and downed the medicine. Dean gave Sam an injured look.
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "That must be one hell of a hangover."
Sam shrugged, poured his brother a fresh glass of juice and sat down. Dean smiled as he accepted the cup back, but once Bobby turned back to the stove he shot Sam a questioning look.
"Dream?" he mouthed.
Sam nodded, a motion that made his head spin. He groaned. "Tell you later," he said, not intending to tell Dean anything until he understood it himself. White light… burning, healing hands – but what made him sure the man was healing Dean when his dreams were usually death omens?
Dean watched Sam intently for a long moment before breaking into a childlike smile. "Bobby's making waffles and bacon," he said, his voice gleeful. "And eggs. He's been cooking for an hour."
Dean loved the road, but one of his biggest gripes was the cheap food that came along with it. He'd been longing for something other than gas station sandwiches and weak coffee for months. The only food Dean loved more than pie was breakfast. And Bobby was a home-body at heart. The man knew how to cook.
He knew Sam had one of his freaky dreams again, the ones that always meant trouble. Every time Sam woke up pale and looking like he'd downed a bottle of tequila during the night, Dean knew there was a hunt in the near future. It made his stomach clench. He wanted to pull his brother aside and ask him about it, but he knew Sam didn't want to involve Bobby.
Hell, he didn't want to tell Bobby. With demonic activity goes up by 300 percent, the last thing he wanted to do was tell the country's most connected hunter that his kid brother was a psychic boy wonder. Monster hunting was one thing, but demons and psychic powers lived in a whole new realm of crazy. No sensible person would leave Sammy alone if they knew what he could do.
He didn't get the chance to ask after breakfast, though. Once Sammy stopped massaging his temples, he downed his food in record time and excused himself to Bobby's study.
Bobby washed breakfast dishes at the sink. When the plates were stacked in the drainer, he dried his hands on a hand towel. He fixed a hard glare on Dean.
"What's wrong with your brother?"
Dean opened an eye. His heart thumped harder, leaving him lightheaded. He made a rude noise and waved off Bobby's concern. "Sam's always been a lightweight. You should see him after a round of purple nurples."
"Don't bullshit me, Dean Winchester," Bobby said. He slammed his hand onto the counter. "You look like you had a rough night with a reaper and Sam's eating half my medicine cabinet for breakfast. I ain't stupid, you know. Somethin's up."
Dean thought Bobby's quip about reapers might be funny if it weren't so close to accurate. He swallowed hard. "It's nothing, Bobby. I swear," he amended, his voice apologetic. He almost felt bad that the lie came to him so easily.
Later, Bobby brought up an old wheelchair from the basement. When Dean protested, arguing that Sam would make fun of him, Bobby told him to shut up and sit in the damned chair already. He pushed Dean around the yard showing him new cars and talking shop. He even cracked open the engine of one of the cars and showed it to Dean, who promptly called dibs.
Talking shop felt like old times when John and Dean visited. John, never restful, went out scouting for days. While he was gone, Dean changed. He left his gun on the nightstand and helped Bobby fix up jalopies in the garage. He told Bobby about one night stands or about kids who reminded him of Sammy while they drank beer on the porch. He kicked his feet up and smiled. Sometimes he even laughed at Bobby's gruff attitude.
It was easy for Bobby to forget Dean was sick until the kid's face drained of color mid-afternoon. Dean tried to smile, but it looked ghostly. Bobby thought he might drop any minute. He helped Dean inside, half-carrying him by the time they reached the couch. Dean dropped with a barely audible groan, closed his eyes and didn't wake up for hours.
Bobby was momentarily certain he'd killed the boy. When John heard about this… He held his hand inches from Dean's face and waited. After an uncomfortably long silence, he heard uneven breathing. Bobby released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Still, he crouched by Dean's head, waiting, until he felt confident enough to leave the room.
Dean kept breathing, and that evening he sat up long enough to ask whether they were eating burgers for dinner. Bobby rolled his eyes and asked if the kid had any other demands, but he was smiling inside. He ran to the store for supplies. When he returned with groceries and beer, Dean was sleeping again as though he'd never moved.
/A.H.O.F.\
By the end of the week, Dean had only seen his little brother a handful of times. After that first day Sammy had holed up in Bobby's library reading volume after volume of lore. At first he emerged at meals, ate quietly and excused himself quickly. When Rufus called in to report Reapers in Nebraska, Sam lost his appetite and retreated upstairs with a stack of books. Dean just didn't have the energy to follow.
When Sammy didn't come downstairs for breakfast the fourth morning, Dean got concerned. Sammy had always been obsessive when he was studying, geeking out over the etymology of exorcisms or purifying rituals. He took things too seriously - well, as far as you could take life-and-death too seriously - and would pour over every book in Bobby's mess of a library if given the time. He didn't sleep when he got like this.
Even worse, Dean knew Sammy was still having those weird dreams. That was never good. They were always jumbled and gruesome, and they left his brother in enough pain to make a vodka hangover look good by comparison.
Since Sammy hadn't said anything, Dean could only assume his brother was ignoring the dreams. The thought sat uneasy in Dean's stomach. Usually the dreams ate at Sam until he acted on them, cutting a job short or trying to take off on his own. If Sam ignored the dreams, Dean didn't think they would stop until whatever they were about came to pass.
An unsettling thought struck him. He straightened at the breakfast table and looked upstairs, frowning. What if Sam wasn't ignoring the dreams? What if he was working the case without Dean?
Bobby followed Dean's glare. "What?"
Dean shook his head and pushed himself up from the table. He staggered, grabbed the wall for support and forced himself forward. "I gotta talk to Sammy," he said, teeth gritted.
It was embarrassing how long it took Dean to climb the stairs to the guestroom. He remembered taking them two at a time the last time he'd visited Bobby. Now each step made his heart flutter and his breath tighten. When he finally got there he threw the door open without knocking.
Sammy jumped in surprise, ripping the page from a 100-year-old spell book. "What the hell, Dean?" he said, looking between Dean and the damaged book. Bobby was going to kill him - if his brother didn't do it first.
Dean surveyed the books stacked around the room. In less than a week, Sammy had turned his guest bedroom into a miniature library. On top of the injury and Dean's crippling uselessness, this felt like a slap in the face. "You're working a case without me," he said.
"You told me to leave and keep hunting," Sam reminded him, trying hard to keep his voice level. He crossed his arms, hoping an argument would keep his brother from reading the spine on any of these books.
Dean scoffed. "Obviously I didn't mean it. I'm sitting downstairs on my ass watchin' courtroom dramas like Joe Shmoe and you didn't ask for help once."
Sam knew Dean was just being belligerent for its own sake, but he wanted to shout back anyway. His brother could be so damned frustrating when he stuck his nose where it didn't belong. Sam closed his eyes and forced a deep breath, reminding himself that Dean didn't know about the vision; he didn't know there was hope.
"C'mon and sit down," he said finally. He cleared his notes and books from the bed. "You look terrible."
"Just because I had to hike up here to talk to you," Dean said moodily. He picked his way through Sam's scattered research and sat down heavily, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Black dots swam at the edges of his vision. For a moment he thought he might hurl. He forced down the impulse and rubbed hard at his eyes instead.
Sam watched, kneading his hands worriedly. Dean was getting weaker while he searched for meaning in his latest dream. It made him sick to watch Dean fake a cheerful smile, his green eyes tired and bruised. Sam could sense the liveliness seeping out of his brother's eyes. A sense of hopelessness had always hidden behind Dean's carefree attitude, rushing to the surface whenever a hunt went wrong and someone died. Now, Sam thought it might be here until the end.
It was as if Dean had resigned himself to a slow death that wore him down like an old rag. Sam knew better. Hunting was Dean's life. He'd been doing it for years, had admitted he didn't want to live the Brady Bunch life. So when Dean told Sam to go on without him, Sam knew just how to make his big brother eat those words.
"You're right," Sam said with a lengthy sigh. "I've been looking and looking but still don't know what I'm dealing with… I've never seen anything like it before."
In a way it was true. Sam really hadn't seen anything in person that caused glowing light, but by now he'd seen it enough nights in a row to sense it was ethereal. Maybe even angelic. That brilliant, blinding light burned with such pure fire it left him with an ache behind his eyes for hours after he woke. Holy fire. He always thought his eyes might bleed if he stared too long.
Dean wouldn't believe if Sam told him the truth: that the person in his vision was a faith healer, that all the books in this room backed up his theory. Dean had become a hunter too young to have a sense of the angelic. So Sam shrugged, told Dean his plan to track down the stranger and left out the details. He hoped his brother wouldn't see the scattered books and put his research together.
"So… you saw this thing gank someone?" Dean said carefully, "but you don't know what it is?"
Sam had a habit of giving himself away when pressed that Dean picked up on effortlessly. His brother had always read him too easily. Sam pressed his lips together and waited for Dean to take the bait.
"But you know where it is?" Dean continued, studying his little brother for tells. Sam stayed silent. It might as well have been an admission of guilt. Dean's voice hardened. "And you won't tell me. Is that it?"
Sam forced himself to keep silent.
Predictably, Dean bristled. How many times had he saved Sammy's skin? How many times had he been there for his little brother? He couldn't believe Sammy would decide to kick him out of the club like that, not after everything they'd been through. Not after all the times he'd saved his kid brother's sorry ass within the last couple months. How could Sammy even think he was prepared for this alone?
Dean's heart pounded uncomfortably, but he grit his teeth and kept going. "You're not chasing this thing down without me," he said. He hoped it came out more forceful than it felt.
"Dean-" Sam began, knowing the other man would cut him off. He did.
Sam let him shout until Bobby stuck his head through the door asking if someone needed a First-Aid kit. Dean looked like he might, but he ignored Bobby.
"When are you leaving?" he demanded, his eyes alight with righteous anger now. "Tell me – and it had better not be tonight."
Sam massaged his temples. Another tell.
Dean made a rude sound, discarding the answer that hadn't been spoken aloud. "I can't believe you, Sammy."
He always reverted back to calling him Sammy when they were arguing, Sam thought, as though the nickname gave Dean the upper hand. And if Dean hadn't been playing right into his hand, Sam might have stopped to bicker on that point alone. He hated the nickname.
"I hate to say it, Sam, but Dean's right," Bobby said. He'd removed his faded ball cap and now stood in the doorway twisting it unrecognizable. "You can't just take off like – not now." He looked at Dean, his eyes saying what his words wouldn't.
Sam heard the insinuation in the sentence Bobby hadn't finished. His jaw tightened. He was not like his father. His dad had disappeared without a note. He hadn't responded when Jessica died, and he hadn't showed up even now that Dean was knocking at Death's door. Sam wasn't planning on abandoning Dean any time soon – had never thought of it, in fact.
He didn't know how to say that without giving away his plan, though. He shot Bobby a nervous smile. "I found a job, and I can take it by myself."
"Like hell you can," Dean shouted. His vision blurred. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to Bobby, expression pleading. "He can't."
Bobby looked between the brothers. Sam sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. He wouldn't meet Bobby's eyes, as sure a sign as any that the boy wasn't going on an ordinary hunt. Whatever that meant.
Something was up. Bobby didn't know where Sam was slinking off to, but judging by Dean's reaction Bobby thought his brother might – or at least he knew enough to be worried. Dean always said his little brother was capable enough, but right now he looked two shakes away from grounding the kid.
He almost got it right.
"I'm coming with you," Dean said, breaking the silence.
Bobby and Sam spoke at once. "You can't do that," Bobby protested.
"I can't let you do that," Sam said, shaking his head.
"Bullshit," Dean said. He jerked his thumb at the door. "I'm comin' or Bobby's chaining you in the basement."
Bobby's eyes widened. "I am?"
"Yes," Dean said at the same time that Sam said, "No." Dean turned to his brother. "Damnit, Sam! I swear to God I'll-"
"Can we just talk about this over breakfast?" Bobby interrupted. He gave Sam a warning look. The younger Winchester nodded, no doubt glad to put off the argument.
They ate in stony silence. Sam didn't have much appetite and Dean seemed no better. Both boys picked at their food without looking at each another. Bobby ate his plate of cold bacon and watched, unable to pinpoint the source of the tension – well, besides Sam being an idjit. Something had Dean tense, too, and that made Bobby nervous. Dean rarely showed nerves about a hunt.
Sam pushed his plate away first. He leaned back, his long fingers tapping on the tabletop. After a moment he looked at Dean, his expression defeated. "If you come with me you have to stay in the car."
Dean's face lit up. "Where else would I be?" He grinned, an ear-to-ear smile Sam hadn't seen in weeks.
"I'm serious, Dean." Sam stood from the table and carried his plate to the sink. He scrubbed it and set it in the drainer. "No impersonating officers, no chasing monsters. No demon hunting."
Dean nodded after a moment's consideration. "Got it."
"You let me take care of things," Sam said.
"Sure thing, boss." Dean snagged the bacon off Bobby's plate and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed merrily, ignoring Bobby's undisguised disappointment until Sam went upstairs to pack.
He waited until he heard the door shut upstairs then leaned across the table, all trace of humor gone from his face. His gaze flicked to the hallway momentarily before he spoke. "I need you to call my dad and get him down here right now, Bobby," he said.
The urgency in his voice surprised Bobby. "Dean, your daddy's off the grid in a major way," he said. It pained him to say it. "Don't you think I tried as soon as I heard what happened?"
"Please, Bobby," Dean said. He paused, weighing his next words against the worry that had been eating at him for days. "Bobby, I'm scared. For Sammy."
Bobby's eyes narrowed. He agreed that Sam was acting strangely but couldn't see why Dean was so damn nervous about it. It could be anything. Sam could be in denial or acting out in anger. With the way Dean walked around pretending he was already dead, sometimes Bobby thought about acting out a little, too. He could hardly blame Sam for that.
"You've seen him, talkin' crazy!" Dean gestured upstairs where his brother was packing to go on a dream-addled demon hunt single-handed. "I can't rein that in, Bobby. I can't stop him."
Bobby frowned. "Is there somethin' I should know about?"
Dean groaned. He couldn't tell Bobby the family business no matter how badly he wanted to. Some things were just too personal to share. So he chose the diet Coke version. "We both know I'm not long for this world, but Sammy… he needs family."
Dean thought of his kid brother's nightmares, how they ripped at his mind. They were always connected to serious mojo, and Sam didn't have enough expertise to go up against that kind of stuff. A lump built in his throat, making his eyes water as he spoke around it. "Someone's gotta protect Sammy, or one day real soon something bad's gonna get him."
Bobby thought Sam was a little more capable than Dean gave him credit for, but he didn't say so. Dean was past him limit. "What, you want me to lock him in the panic room?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Dean didn't pick up on the tone. "Nah, he'll just break out." He closed his eyes and thought for so long that Bobby worried he'd fallen asleep. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "I'm going with him, Bobby. Just tell my dad we need him."
Sam came down mid-morning while Dean slept. He folded his brother's clothes and layered them neatly in his rucksack then hauled the luggage back to the Impala, keeping his distance from Bobby. Sam was sure the man had questions for him that he couldn't answer.
Why was he chasing monsters while his brother was dying?
Oh, he had visions that compelled him to. No big deal.
Where was he heading off without warning?
Illinois … maybe.
What was he hunting?
A terrified businessman at 428 Something-Street in Illinois – maybe – who still reads the newspaper.
Sam knew he wouldn't answer honestly to Bobby's questions; the truth was too strange to believe. Normal people didn't have death visions. Then again, normal people didn't hunt monsters or track down people whose hands glowed, either.
/A.H.O.F.\
Sam helped Dean to the car the next morning. The sun still hung low in the sky, streaming through the tree line in bursts of copper and gold flame. Beneath its promise of warmth, a chill moved in with the breeze. It cooled the shadows and metal surfaces, chilling the water settled into the potholes in Bobby's junkyard.
Dean shivered despite his layers of clothing. He'd been cold for days. It was as if the temperature dropped wherever he went. Now that he had a case to work on, Dean wanted to blame the chills on something supernatural. But he knew it was just his blood circulation slowing.
Sam tossed him a folded blanket as he walked around the side of the car. Sam slid into the driver's seat without saying anything, but his green eyes were darker than normal. Dean glanced toward the house where Bobby ought to be waving them off, but his uncle had either gone inside or refused to come out. They'd argued. Strange.
"Wanna tell me what that was about?" Dean asked.
Sam popped his jaw without looking to his brother. He started the car. The Impala roared to life, and Sam spun the car around toward the exit with enough force to kick up gravel. Dean grabbed the door handle and held on.
When Sam spoke up half an hour later his explanation just left Dean confused. "We haven't talked about … about you in a week."
"That's 'cause there's nothing to talk about," Dean said. "It's a tough deal. End of story."
His voice was tired, worn rough around the edges, and he spoke slowly as if two short sentences had been too much. Sam glanced over. Dean's face was pale, his eyes sunken into his skull. A hand clutched the cloth of his jacket covering his heart.
Sam continued but kept his voice calm. "The thing is, I've been reading up on healers-"
"What, like the one in Nebraska?" Dean said, voice tense. He finally understood where Sammy was going with this. Again. "Man, Bobby sent Rufus up there and do you know what he found?"
Sam sighed. Of course he knew. "Reapers," he said.
"Reapers!" Dean finished, his tone scandalized. "You thank your higher power I slapped you upside the head on that one, because I couldn't live with myself if-" he stopped abruptly and groaned, the hand on his chest tightening.
"Dean?" Sam checked the review mirror to make sure no one was behind them before he slammed on the brakes and swerved off the road. He parked the old car and leaned over his big brother, angry there was nothing to do.
Sam put a hand over his chest and immediately felt the problem. Bu…. dum, bud-dum, budum-budum… budum. When Dean was in the hospital, Sam had read up on heart disease and committed it all to memory. With heart palpitations like this, he should be taking Dean to a hospital instead of telling him to take deep breaths.
"Dean, you need to relax, okay?" Sam said. He waited a hand's span of breaths, unable to remember what he'd been thinking taking his sick brother on the road based on a vision and a prayer. "Do you want to turn around?"
"Yeah, I'm thinking of unicorns," Dean snapped through gritted teeth. He inhaled sharply and exhaled again with a wince. Sam couldn't get rid of him so easily. "Nice try. Keep driving."
Sam hesitated a long moment before he nodded and turned back to the road. He nudged the car out of park and pulled back onto the highway, picking up speed easily. The engine roared.
He smiled. His plan would go a lot smoother with Dean riding shotgun.
E.N. I owe special thanks to those lovely individuals who followed, favorited and reviewed after reading my first chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed Chapter 2 as much as you did the first!