I hope everyone is still enjoying the story as it unfolds. Thanks so much for reading, and for all the awesome reviews. They mean so much to me, so hugs to all of you. Ember

Chapter Seven

"Does he seem different to you, Bobby?" I asked as I carefully wove the needle through his skin, looped the stitch around and tied it off. Bobby winced and took another long swallow off the bottle of Jack Daniels he held firmly in his grip.

"Naw, that boy's just feelin' a world of guilt over what happened to that poor girl. He'll come around, Dean," he assured me, but for some reason it made me feel even worse.

"What was he doing out there messing with my car?" The nagging feeling that something was definitely wrong twisted and tore at my gut, and the smirk I saw on Sam's face when he entered the house didn't help matters. "He could've gotten you killed."

With a heavy groan, Bobby pushed my hand away from his face. "No, yer brother saved my life." After taking another healthy pull off the bottle, he went on to add, "I was beneath the car, and then I heard him shout my name . . . next thing I know the Impala's falling and Sam's pulling me back away from it – if he wasn't there, I would've been crushed beneath it. So whatever you're thinking about him, you're wrong."

If that were true as Bobby had said, and I had no doubt he actually believed that's exactly how it happened, why did it ring so false to me? "He's just . . . I dunno what it is, but he didn't seem all that concerned to me." I raked a hand through my hair in utter frustration. I was doubting my brother – my brother who had just saved Bobby's life. "I know you believe what you're saying is true, but all I can see when I close my eyes is the smirk he had on his face when he came back inside. It's like he was challenging me."

"Are you sure you're not just angry with him because of the car?"

The very real possibility of his statement hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. Not only had he been in a car accident with the Impala, but now he'd wrecked it even worse, and maybe that was why I was coming up with reasons to be mad at him. Hell, I couldn't even bring myself to go outside to take a look at the newest damage done to my car, so maybe he's right. Yet, with everything I had in me, I didn't believe that to be the case.

"That's not it, Bobby. Sure I'm pissed about the car, but – " From behind, I heard Sam clear his throat, and the words died abruptly on my lips. "Sammy," I swung around to face him, and wished I hadn't when I saw the sadness in his glistening eyes and the quiver of his lips. "Sam, I didn't mean – "

With a shake of his head, he waved a hand to cut me off. "I'm gonna go outside to get some air. But don't worry, Dean, I'm not gonna go anywhere near your car."

Cringing at the deadened tone of his voice, I offered, "Just let me finish stitching Bobby's head, and I'll go with you," and once again he shook his head.

"We both know what you think of me at the moment, so don't bother." Without another word, he turned his back on me and headed out the front door.

Dumbfounded, I stood and watched him leave, but for as sad as he appeared, I couldn't bring myself to go after him. Heaving a weary sigh, I returned to stitching the last few stitches on Bobby's forehead. The older hunter grumbled under his breath, cursing me out for both the added pain I was causing him and for not going after my brother. When I'd finished, I stood back and admired my work, certain Bobby would be grateful when he realized his scars wouldn't make him look like Frankenstein's monster.

With a lift of his brow, Bobby eyed me for a moment, then bobbed his head toward a plate of sandwiches he'd made for us. "If you're done admirin' your work, why don't ya go get your brother so we can eat." That said, he grabbed a ham sandwich from the pile and took a healthy bite out of it.

Reluctantly I gave a nod, and headed outside. I stopped short at the entranceway, and watched my brother toeing at a small partially covered dog hole with his boot. His back was to me, head lowered, and he looked so lost that my heart clenched painfully within my chest. "Sammy," I called out to him, and he turned, but kept his sights on the ground. "I'm sorry for what I said in there." I hitched a thumb over my shoulder, and then let it drop to my side. God, I hated chick-flick moments, but Sammy, I swear the guy's a true chick sometimes as he lives for these moments.

"Don't worry about it, Dean." He shrugged, and much to my growing aggravation, he still wouldn't look at me. "I get it. I mean, I ruined your car . . . an' I almost killed Bobby, so you have every right to be pissed at me."

"Look, Sam, I don't wanna keep going over this again and again. It was an accident, and Bobby told me what you did, so there's really no reason for you to be standing out here blaming yourself for everything that's happened."

"What did Bobby tell you?" Sam asked, confusion clearly evident in his tone as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

I wanted to question him further, but before I had a chance to say another word, the front door burst open, and I saw Bobby standing there, coughing and gasping for breath, but no sound came from his lips. Staggering toward me, he grasped for his throat, and I instantly realized he was choking on something.

"He's choking, Sammy!" With my heart in my throat, I quickly moved behind him, and wrapped my arms around him. Then fisting my hands together beneath his diaphragm, I exerted pressure as my father had taught me to do. Over and over again, I repeated the life-saving technique as he slumped and grew heavier in my arms. "Come on, Bobby, spit the damn thing out!" I shouted in his ear. My heart pounded furiously within my chest, fearing he would die in my arms if I couldn't dislodge whatever was caught in his throat, but I refused to give up. With several more upward thrusts, he coughed hard and a large soggy piece of sandwich flew from his mouth and landed near Sam's feet.

"You alright, Bobby?" Sam rushed forward and wrapped an arm around his back to help him inside the house. The moment I heard his voice, my skin crawled and I shuddered violently, sickened by the sound of it. To his credit my brother looked absolutely terrified, and he was visibly trembling as he guided Bobby back through the doorway, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't help but feel as if he were only acting the part of a concerned friend.

Two times in one night Bobby had almost died, and that definitely had warning bells thundering like mad inside my head. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't shake the feeling that Bobby's choking wasn't an accident. Yet, it had to be. He was alone in the house, and with all his protective measures, no evil spirit or demon could get to him – not without him knowing it at the very least. But Bobby didn't seem the least bit suspicious, so why couldn't I shake the feeling crawling beneath the surface of my skin so easily?

With one last glance at the dog hole, I pivoted on my heel, and followed them inside. The rest of the night, I kept to myself, but I watched him. Watched and waited. If another so-called accident happened to Bobby, I would know for sure. Yet as the night dragged on, I began to doubt myself as Sam hovered over Bobby, seeing to his every need. I could see the guilt etched in every line and ridge of his face, and in every gesture he made to help our friend. I was wrong. It's was as simple as that. But I still couldn't shake the way I felt inside every time he looked in my direction nor could I stop myself from shuddering at his puppy-dog eyes and lopsided grin.

Thankfully, both of them headed to bed fairly early, and when Sam asked if I was coming to bed, too, I made the excuse of wanting to watch some television to stay awake. The truth was, I really didn't want to be anywhere near my brother at the moment, and needed to figure out why.

He's trying so damn hard to make me forgive him, but I'm not sure what I'm suppose to say or do, and I can't help how I feel. I keep alternating from being pissed as all hell at him and worried at how broken apart he seems. My insides are twisting apart, and the nagging, god awful feeling in the pit of my stomach isn't helping matters in the slightest. Something's wrong, and I'm not sure if it's with him or if it's me, but now whenever I hear him speak or he stands too close it makes me feel violently ill.

Then there's the echoed voice I keep hearing when I know damn well there's no one there. Sam's voice. And the real fucked up crazy thing about it is, I want to hear it again. Although I know it can't be real, and even if I tried, I know I wouldn't be able to fall asleep because I'm afraid he'll speak again and I'll miss it. So how screwed up is that?

Although I'm not one who's much for spilling my guts to others, I really wanted to talk to Bobby about this, but what with nearly choking, a head full of stitches and dosed up on painkillers, he's probably the last person I can talk to. So where does that leave me? I can't just tell Sam the sight of him makes my skin crawl. Yeah, pretty sure that wouldn't go over very well. I can't call dad, and even if I did, it's not like he would answer anyway. So I'm left to figure this out by myself.

With thoughts of Sam gnawing at my brain, I flipped off the television, pushed to my feet and began to pace the length of Bobby's living room. As I strode a back and for path, memories I'd long forgotten flooded my mind, and a lazy smile pulled at the corners of my lips.

"Huh, I'd completely forgotten about that," I muttered to myself, chuckling at the memory as I swayed off balance, and nearly stumbled.

"I'm not gonna let you forget about me, Dean," Sam's disembodied voice echoed through the silence of the room.

"I swear I won't," I vowed in a breathy whisper, and swallowed hard as the strong scent of whiskey nearly overwhelmed me. The room shifted off kilter and in and out of focus as I struggled to remain both upright and walking in a straight line. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and if I hadn't known better, I would've sworn I was drunk, but since I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in several days, I knew it was impossible.

"I was just remembering the time when you fell from that tree and broke your arm, Sammy," I went on to say even though I knew damn well how crazy I sounded talking to myself. Sam was right in the other room, and I should have been talking to him, but the thought of it left me cold inside. But here, in this room with the scent of whiskey wafting through the air, and the voice that could only belong to Sam – my Sammy, my little brother – this is where I wanted to be. "Do you remember asking me why I cut that damn tree down, lil' brother, and what I told you?"

I waited, eyes darting back and forth around the room for any sign that I wasn't alone. But I didn't see him, and he didn't respond. "Come on, Sammy, you know the reason. Just say it – Just say it so I can hear your voice again." With my breath lodged in my throat, I waited, fearing he wouldn't respond, but then out of the silence his voiced echoed in my ears, and I smiled.

"You said you didn't care if it was a monster or some damn tree, you wouldn't let anything hurt me and get away with it cause that's what big brother's do – So where are you, Dean? I need you. So you better damn well keep your promise."

My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I heard the empty, broken desolation in his echoing plea. "I'm right here, Sammy." Tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision as my mind churned over all the possible reasons why I couldn't see Sam but could hear and feel his presence, and only one solution came to mind.

No, he's not dead. More tears filled my eyes and rolled down my cheeks unchecked as I shook my head emphatically. He can't be dead . . . I won't let him. "You know damn well I'd never leave you, lil' brother." Whatever the thing masquerading as Sam was, it wasn't my brother. Yet that didn't matter right now. Right now I needed to find Sam. But the moment I find him – the moment I know he's safe, I'm gonna tear that sonuvabitch apart. "I'm gonna find you . . . you hear me, Sammy? Whatever it takes, I'm gonna find you!"