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Sam's heart skipped a beat. "You're kidding," he said flatly. "Tell me you're kidding."
Dean shook his head.
"Dean, I am near the end of my rope, here," Sam said tensely, "Don't play with me."
"Sammy, I'm not. I wouldn't, not when I'm…" he swallowed hard. Not when I'm dying. "Not now," he amended, "Who's Bobby? How do we know him?"
Sam gaped at him, mouth open. "Shit," he breathed.
"Sam," Dean said apprehensively, "You're freaking out. I told you not to freak out."
"Who, me?" Sam said, and laughed loudly, "No, I'm not freaking out. Nope. Why would I do that, you're just having severe memory loss—"
"Sam, stop it," Dean said, "You know if you freak out then I'm going to start freaking out and we both know that never ends well."
"Well you should be freaking out."
"That's comforting. Your bedside manner kinda sucks."
"Damn it Dean, you have to remember Bobby," Sam said, trying to restrain the hysteria in his voice when Dean's baffled expression didn't lift, "Wears an old beat up hat, helps us on hunts, gives us a place to stay sometimes…" he trailed off expectantly.
"Uh…" Dean said.
"Oh my god," Sam said, pacing to the door. He turned back, arms raised at his sides, "Come on, think. Bobby Singer. The guy that kicks our asses when we do something stupid. He's practically a father figure, for Christ's sake, you can't tell me you don't know who he is!"
Dean looked helplessly at him. "Sammy…I've never heard of the guy."
Sam charged back at him. "Phone."
"What?"
"Give me your phone," Sam demanded, practically shouting now.
Dean fished inside his jacket and pulled it out. Sam snatched it from his hand before he could offer it over. "Look," Sam said, scrolling through a menu and thrusting the small screen inches from his nose, "Right here. 'Bobby.' You called him two days ago. Remember?"
"No," Dean said, "Sam, I'm sorry."
"Don't…don't apologize," Sam said, voice strained. He tried to take a few deep breaths, but his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "We knew this might happen, I mean, confusion, memory loss…"
Dean couldn't think of anything to say that would help, so he just nodded.
Thinking furiously, Sam tried to come up with another angle. "Uh…can you remember other people? How about…how about Gordon?"
Dean was dismayed to see that he was drawing another blank, but he wasn't about to say so. "Oh, yeah, I know—"
"Who is he, then?" Sam demanded.
Ah hell, Sam. Cut me some slack here. "He…uh…helps out on hunts."
Sam leaned heavily against the flowery wall. "You have no idea who he is," he said bitterly.
Dean hesitated a moment. "No."
"Do you remember anyone?" Sam asked desperately, "At all? Any names, faces…"
Dean ran a hand down his face. "I can't think of any. It's all blank."
"Not even Dad?" Sam said, his voice a whisper, "Or…or Mom?"
"No," Dean said, the realization hitting him like a sheet of cold water, "I can't remember anyone."
Sam felt as though the ground dropped out from under him. "Oh," he said. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod— "Um. We should go. We need to find out how…we need to figure out how…how to…"
"Fix me?" Dean filled in.
"Yeah," Sam said, "Dean…Dean, I don't know how."
Dean's insides clenched. "Sammy…" he said, gripping his brother's shoulder. "Hey. It's okay."
"You don't remember Dad, Dean," Sam said, "You don't…you're infected, you're blacking out, and if we don't fix this soon you're going to lose your mind and become one of those…things. You don't even remember anyone. How does that make it okay?"
Dean swallowed hard. "I remember you," he said.
"Today," Sam said, "But for how long? You might not even know who I am tomorrow."
"No, Sam," Dean said forcefully, "I'll know. There's no way in hell I'm forgetting my little brother. Look, we'll figure this out—"
A woman's voice, shrill and frantic, shattered through the silence outside and cut Dean off mid-sentence. He hesitated, his feverish mind unable to quickly assess the situation. Sam, on the other hand, was up and out the door in a few seconds flat, leaving him alone in the room. He struggled to his feet and the world spun, causing him to grab onto the wall for support. "Sam," he shouted after him, "Wait!"
Sam didn't listen. The streetlight in the parking lot illuminated two silhouettes struggling on the pavement. The woman shrieked again, pinned beneath a larger figure.
Sam lunged toward the pair and delivered a swift kick to the man's upper back, sending him tumbling to the side and away from the girl. The man turned his face toward Sam and snarled, drawing his gums back from his teeth. His eyes were colorless and wild.
"Hey! What's going on out here?" A rough voice demanded. Sam saw a heavyset man lumbering toward them out of the corner of his eye. More civilians. Fun-freakin-tastic.
Unfortunately weaponless, Sam planted himself firmly between the attacker and his victim. He recognized her; she was the dark haired woman he had nearly stepped on earlier. She was gasping for breath, her hand pressed against her throat. Blood gurgled up between her fingers. "Help," she rasped, reaching for him with the other hand, "Please!"
The zombie lunged at Sam, jaws snapping wildly. Sam kicked it back again, sending it sprawling into a minivan. It howled.
The second civilian had slowed his pace toward them, his face a twist of shock. "What…"
"Call an ambulance," Sam shouted at him, trying to get him to leave the area.
The man didn't move. "That's old Jack Wilson's boy," he said, eyes locked on the zombie. He took a step closer. "Jared?"
"Stay back!" Sam shouted at him.
Too late. The newly zombified Jared spotted the fat guy and made a beeline for him, arms extended.
A shot went off, and then another. The second shot sliced through the zombie's leg, making him stumble. He regained his footing and shrieked, nostrils flaring.
Sam saw his brother standing in the doorway to their room, a handgun clenched in his fingers. He was still shaking badly, and Sam knew there was no way he was going to be able to aim worth shit with the gun. "Stay back Dean," he ordered.
Dean glared right back in a way that screamed 'hell no, little brother,' and stepped out onto the lot.
"Jared," the man whispered, pleading, "What are you doing? It's me. It's Tom."
Jared growled deep in his throat and crouched to spring. Sam jumped him, sending them both tumbling to the pavement. He delivered a punch to Jared's jaw and felt the man's teeth graze his knuckles. Shit.
Sam pulled away, glancing at his hand. The skin wasn't broken. He tried to twist away but Jared tore into him with his fingernails, digging gouges into his side.
Another shot went off. The bullet lodged in the concrete beside them. "Can't get a clear shot," Dean shouted angrily.
"Give it to me," Sam shot back, trying to fight his way out from under Jared's flailing limbs. Pain flared through his side, and as he flinched the zombie lunged down to feed.
Dean grabbed Jared's shoulders and heaved back, managing to yank him away from his brother. He could only manage to hold him for a few seconds before his legs gave out, but that was enough to allow Sam to slip away. "Sam," Dean said, and tossed the gun in his brother's direction.
Sam snatched the gun up off the pavement and aimed it at—the fat civilian. He was standing in front of Jared, arms spread out protectively. "Now you just put that gun down, kid," he said, "No one's shooting anybody."
Dean barreled into the man right before Jared could take a nice bite out of his shoulder. The two men hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop beside the Impala. Dean let out an involuntary yelp of pain and went rigid. Something was worse; his whole body felt like it was on fire.
His path now clear, Sam fired, hitting Jared right between the eyes. The man fell. His body made a dull thumping sound as it finally came to rest on the blacktop.
Silence.
Sam's arm dropped to his side, finger still on the trigger.
"Noo!" the fat man bellowed, "No! You shot him, you bastard! You bastard! Why did you—"
"Sam!" Dean hissed through gritted teeth.
Sam's eyes snapped to his brother. He took in the look of agony on his face and then saw that his eyes were looking right past his shoulder—
Sam turned and, trusting Dean completely, blindly fired a second shot.
A screech like a thousand fingernails raking down a chalkboard projected right at him, inches from his face. He winced and threw a hand out, stepping back involuntarily even as his eyes focused on his target. It was the girl he had tried to save.
He had failed.
She stood before him, a mess of blood and matted black hair. There was a bullet hole in her throat from where he had shot; blood frothed from the hole as she breathed. She shrieked again and lunged, her mouth opening wider as though to swallow him whole and suck him down to hell. Her final words from only a few minutes ago regurgitated from that pit and screamed inside his head. "Help…please…" Sam squeezed his eyes shut and fired.
The screaming cut off abruptly.
Sam let the echo of the shot die away, guilt tearing away at his core. Two dead bodies. Two people they should have been able to save. He opened his eyes.
The fat man crouched on the ground, cussing and threatening him even as he cowered in fear of his life. His words all blurred together in Sam's head, and he didn't try to listen. Nothing he said meant anything. If events continued to unfold unaltered the guy was probably going to be worm food in less than a week, anyway.
It was an absence of words that drew him back to reality. "Dean," Sam said, whirling around. The parking lot came back into full focus; he could feel the night air on his skin and the bruises that were forming from where he had fallen; he could make out the man's profanities and hear the distant rumble of cars on the highway.
He could see his brother on the ground, weakly reaching out toward him, desperate.
"Dean," Sam said, his voice coming out higher than usual. He dashed over beside him and dropped to his knees. "Dean, what's…what's wrong?" He reached out and grabbed his arm, intending to draw him closer.
Dean cried out in pain and pulled back from his brother's touch. He closed his eyes and gasped for air through clenched teeth, his face as white as chalk.
Sam jerked his arm away, horrified. "Sorry," he said, his fingertips hovering inches above Dean's chest, "I'm sorry, I didn't…Dean what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."
"S'm," Dean choked, fists clenched, "Can't bre'th…'n fire…wrong…"
"You little piece of shit!"
Sam's temple exploded with pain. He blinked, ears ringing, and found himself lying flat on his back, black spots flickering in and out of his vision. His hearing faded out and he focused on the fat man's face twisted in fury above him, his plump fingers curled around a brick—
Sam twisted out of the way just as the brick slapped down. He scraped his forehead against the concrete as he pushed himself up and, half blind, swung his arm.
He connected with something solid, felt something snap. Blinking hard to keep the black spots at bay, he found the man on the ground in front of him, clutching his leg and howling. Dean was still beside him, eyes half open, fingers trying to weave their way into Sam's shirt. Sam shifted slightly, careful not to jostle his brother, and pulled his gun back out. Aimed. The man's eyes widened.
"You get…" Sam paused, blinking again and trying to regain more of his hearing, "Away. Now."
The man nearly wet himself. He jumped back and took off toward the lobby, screaming something about the police as he ran. Police. Shit.
"Sam…"
Sam flinched at the way his brother's voice hitched at the end of his name. "I'm here," he said, swallowing hard and tasting blood. Fatty was going to call the police. There were two bodies on the ground, and more in the forest if someone went looking. Not to mention guns in their hotel room. They were destined for death row if they got caught now. He turned his attention back to his brother. "You with me?"
"Course," Dean said, breaths coming out in short pants. His fingers tightened around Sam's shirt. "Not…leavin…"
"Good," Sam said, trying to keep himself from panicking. He reached into Dean's jacket as gently as he could, searching for the keys.
"Ot'er…" Dean said, and swallowed, unable to finish.
Sam got it. Other pocket. "What hurts?" he asked tensely, leaning further over his brother so he could get at the other pocket. The keys were up near the top, thank god.
"Ev'thing," Dean breathed, "On fire."
Sam looked at the Impala. It was a few feet away from them. Might as well have been a mile.
"It hurt when I touched you," Sam said. It wasn't a question.
Dean grunted.
"How badly?" he asked.
Dean met his gaze. If his eyes could talk they would have been screaming.
"Dean," Sam said, trying—and failing—to keep his voice steady, "That guy's gonna call the cops. Probably already has. I…I have to move you."
Dean bit his lip. "Let's…" he gulped in some air and, lungs burning, gave up on a second word. He shot Sam a look instead. Let's go, I'll be fine.
Sam looked back toward the hotel. The guy was looking out the main window, a phone held to his ear. No choice. He looked back at Dean. "Stay conscious, you hear me?" he demanded, holding the keys so tightly he could feel them cutting into his palm, "You can't black out again. You can't. Every time you black out you get worse, and I don't want you to…to…" Wake up and try to kill me? Forget who I am? "Just don't."
"Won't, Sammy," Dean said, making an effort to clearly annunciate the words.
Sam nodded and looked at the Impala. "Okay," he said, "Let's move."
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