As always, thank you for the reviews! Here's another chapter…it's also long. You're welcome. Oh, and when Brandon says things in this chapter, the others can't hear him. Because he's a ghost. Just thought I'd point that out, cause I didn't want to have to put "but no one could hear him" after everything he said. :)
"There's too much blood in here, man. It smells like a slaughter house. It looks like someone was gutted and bled dry. This is sick."
"Don't even remind me," Sam said, grimacing, "Dean's gonna kill me."
Chris adjusted his sleeves again so that they were covering his hands completely as he gripped the wheel. The steering wheel looked like it had been painted a crusty brown. He groaned as another fleck of blood peeled off onto his jacket. He still had a couple miles to go before reaching Nick's house, and he couldn't get there fast enough. "You don't have AIDS, do you?"
Sam glared at him. He kept his hands squarely in his lap to avoid touching any of the blood. He knew it was all his, and somehow that just made it all the more creepy. "No."
A pause. "Have you been tested?"
"Have you?" Sam questioned him tensely.
"No…" Chris said, sticking his head half out the broken window just so he could get some fresh air, "But I didn't bathe a car in my blood."
"It's not that much blood," Sam protested as Chris turned down Nick's street. "You're just squeamish."
"No, he's right," Brandon broke in—unheard—from the backseat. "There's blood sprayed back here too. It's disgusting."
"It's caked down in the vents," Chris complained.
Sam made a face. "I know, I know."
"Remember when the guy got his head shot off in Pulp Fiction? Well, the car looks like that, only…like…ten times worse. That's just sad."
"Agreed," Brandon said.
"Okay Chris, I get it, I'm screwed," Sam giving in, "Dean's going to murder me. I know. Just hurry up and get to Nick's house—there. Turn here, this is the house."
Chris obediently turned the wheel, trying to ignore how much dried blood was sticking to his sleeves. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew—"
"For god's sake, man," Sam erupted, "You're a doctor. You deal with blood all the time."
"Ew," Chris said again, louder and with emphasis, "Ew, ew, shit, ew—" he trailed off, throwing the Impala into park and raising his hands high into the air.
Brandon couldn't help it. He started laughing, hard.
"Okay," Chris said slowly, "I'm going to try to open the door. The handle looks like it's been oozing blood for a few days, so I don't know if I'll survive the encounter."
And just like that, Sam realized what Chris was doing. He glanced in the rearview mirror to the backseat—where he knew Brandon was sitting—and smiled. "I'm sure you'll be fine," he said to Chris.
"Don't let yourself be lulled into false security, Sam," Chris said, eyeing the handle like it was a live snake, "I think we might have to burn the Impala too. It's probably haunted."
"Haunted?" Brandon snorted, so wrapped up in the show his brother was putting on that he forgot to keep worrying about whether he was dying and how he was supposed to wake up from his coma. "You're a real nutcase."
"Haunted by what, exactly?" Sam said, opening his door, "It's my blood."
"And by the look of it, half of you is dead and buried in this old piece of junk," Chris continued, getting out. He kicked the door shut and made a show of rubbing his sneaker in the dirt to get all the blood off before walking around to the trunk. He unlocked it and started unloading the gas cans.
"I wouldn't let Dean hear you say that."
"Oh?"
"The car's his baby. They're in a very serious relationship," Sam said, going around the back and watching him unload.
"Has he proposed?"
"Not yet, no," Sam said, seriously.
"Well damn, no wonder the poor gal's started bathing in the blood of virgins. Doesn't he know that every kiss begins with Kay?"
Brandon snorted. "Nah, bro, it's every kiss begins with a couple shots of tequila," he said, and sighed heavily, "Man I could use a good makeout session."
Chris got the last of the cans out of the trunk and shut the hatch. He looked up at the house, and the mirth in his eyes faded slightly.
Sam noticed. "Ready to play with fire?" he said, keeping his tone light.
Chris snapped out of it. "Absolutely," he said, picking up two of the cans. As he walked, he brainstormed new topics that might keep his brother distracted from...life. Because life pretty much sucked at the moment. "You know, speaking of jewelry commercials—"
"Random much?" Sam interjected, following him to the porch.
"You have no idea, Sam," Brandon said, "You should hear him on poker nights."
"No, it applies," Chris said defensively, "I mean, I've got a girlfriend. We're pretty serious. And all the damn jewelry commercials are about fluffy shit like kissing in front of Christmas trees and football players talking about diamonds and girls saying 'hold me, I'm scared, it's thundering outside.' You know what? That's unrealistic bullshit, that is."
"Too true," Sam said, grinning. He pointed to the bottom of the staircase. "Just start dousing everything, will you?"
"No problem," Chris said. He began pouring gas on the stairs, the carpet, under the table. "You know what would make a realistic jewelry commercial?"
"What?" Brandon said.
"No idea," Sam said.
"Proposing in front of a burning house," Chris said.
"Uhh…I don't think that'll be good for marketing."
"No, hear me out," Chris said, going out for more cans, "Picture it. The guy brings the girl to the site of the burning building and gets down on one knee and says—"
"Ah come off it," Sam laughed.
"Don't interrupt!" Chris said, heaving more cans back to the house, "He says, Sugar Pie, I love you. I love you so much that, to prove the depths of my devotion, I burned your idiot boss's house down just for you. When we make love, our passion will burn hotter than these flames. Will you marry me?"
"Wow," Brandon said.
"That's how I plan to propose," Chris said to Sam, dumping more gas, "You know, in five or so years. It'll be super romantic."
"Oh, I bet," Sam replied. He paused. "We should probably pour some in the basement."
"No problem."
Sam walked to the open basement door and flipped the switch. The naked bulb at the base of the steps flickered twice and then stayed on, and he trudged his way down. "I'm going to find some dream root, you go crazy with the gasoline…" he paused. A girl was standing in the middle of the floor, staring at him.
Half of her face was ripped off. He could see her teeth jutting out from bleeding gums.
The trapdoor was open.
Shit.
How many zombies had Nick said were down underneath the floor? Had he revealed that? It couldn't be just one girl, that was for sure.
Chris spotted her and jerked to a stop, halfway down. Very, very slowly, he picked his foot back up and placed it on the previous step up. And the next. And the next. Eventually he reached the top of the stairs and looked around, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. The house—which had seemed harmless enough a few moments ago—now appeared darker and more sinister. The trapdoor was open. The basement door had been open. The damn things could be anywhere in the house.
Brandon stood halfway down the staircase, wide eyed as he watched Sam. The younger Winchester hadn't yet made a decision on what action to take. He had his pistol in hand, but firing would alert every walking freak to their position. Sam inched his way closer to the shelf. Brandon knew what he was going for. He wanted the dream root.
The girl's eyes tracked his every movement.
Brandon looked back up at his brother. Chris hadn't moved; he was just staring around like the darkness was going to jump out at him. It just might, after all.
This was exactly what he had been worried about in the first place. They should never have walked back inside the house. It was a stupid idea. So, so stupid.
Sam reached the shelf and stretched out a hand, silently grabbing a bottle of dream root. The glass made a clinking sound as he picked it up, and he slowly—slowly—slid it into his jacket pocket.
Against all the luck that Sam didn't have, she still didn't move.
His pocket full, Sam lowered his hand and stepped back. One step, then two, then three, until he was at the base of the staircase. Then, holding his breath, he stepped back onto the bottom step.
It creaked.
The girl shrieked. Her mouth widened, splitting open to amplify the sound, and she ran.
Sam fired, catching her right between the eyes. She dropped.
"Run!" Chris shouted at him.
Sam did run, but not before he heard additional screams chorusing from beneath the open trapdoor. He made it to the top and slammed the heavy wooden door shut. "We have to go," he said, grabbing Chris's arm. Something snarled into his ear, and he turned just in time to see the bulk of a man rounding the corner, fingernails flashing in the light. He fired, and the guy fell. "Come on!"
Chris dropped the gas can and bolted with Sam still holding onto his arm. They made it through the living room and into the dining room when Chris stopped suddenly. "Wait," he said suddenly, "Where's Brandon? He's—"
"I'm fine," Brandon snapped, "Come on!"
Sam paused to catch his breath. He could feel his stitches throbbing from the mistreatment."Brandon doesn't have a body," he wheezed, stepping ahead toward the door, "You're the one in trouble, now move."
Chris swallowed hard, then turned to follow Sam—but something snatched his ankle. Thrown off-balance, he fell, and when he hit the hardwood floor he came eye to eye with…something. It was a zombie, but it had decayed so much that he couldn't tell what kind of person it had been. There was barely enough skin to stretch over its skull, and it pulled his ankle closer to its teeth with long, bony fingers.
"No!" Brandon cried, "Chris, no!"
"Shit shit shit shit!" Chris kicked out, trying to knock it back.
Sam was several yards away when he heard Chris fall. He pulled his gun up…and hesitated. There was too much gasoline everywhere; it puddled on the floor and soaked into the zombie's tattered clothes. All it would take was a little spark… "I can't fire—knock it back!" he shouted at him. As he watched, another figure staggered into the dining room. It caught sight of Chris.
Frantic, Chris kicked out again and again, knocking the zombie's head back. Its neck snapped, but that didn't seem to matter. The thing was unnaturally strong, and it kept its iron grip on his ankle and pulled his skin closer, closer—
"No!" Brandon shouted. Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed for his brother's shoulders, and (for the first time in days) he could feel his brother's cotton jacket, could feel his fingernails digging into Chris's shoulders—
He didn't question it, just yanked back as hard as he could. The force, combined with another kick from Chris, was enough to tug him away from the zombie and back against the hideous wallpaper with a smack.
Sam watched as Chris was—seemingly—flung backward across the room, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He was already moving past him, and he slashed through the second zombie's neck with a clean swoop of his knife. The body fell to the floor, twitching. He bent over, pain from numerous wounds making themselves known again, and peered into the hall. Eyes glinted from the shadows, and he could make out zombies crawling toward them. "Come on," he boomed, grabbing for Chris's arm.
Brandon was already pulling him up, straining to get him to the door.
Chris tried to keep his footing. He didn't have a clue what was happening, but he knew he needed to get out. He stayed beside Sam as they ran from the house and out into the afternoon air. "Burn it!" he cried, pushing Sam off of him and pointing toward the house, "Do it now!"
Sam was already digging through his pocket, eyes narrowed. "Come on…come on…"
"Where are the damn matches?" Chris moaned, watching the first figure stumble from the house.
"I have them," Sam snapped back. He could feel blood dripping down his hand; he had torn his stitches. Shit. He switched hands, trying to feel for the little box. Which pocket had it been in? Had he dropped it? As the third zombie crawled its way across the threshold, his fingers closed around the small cube.
"Come on!" Chris yelled.
Sam tore it out of his pocket. "Here, I can't feel my fingers, you do it—" he said, pressing the now bloody box into Chris's hands.
Chris shook his head furiously. "I'm covered with gasoline," he shot back, holding up his drenched coat sleeve as proof.
Brandon swore. Testing his luck, he reached for the box in his brother's hand. He could feel it. Thank you Jesus, he could feel it. He snatched the box from his startled brother and darted forward away from them toward the house, fumbling with the matches as he ran.
"Wait!" Chris yelled, stepping forward.
Sam grabbed onto his sleeve with his good hand and held on. "Don't! You light those matches now and you'll be a human torch—"
Still walking, Brandon swiped a match across the box and, as it flamed, tossed it forward onto the gasoline slicked porch. Flames erupted, spraying back across the wood and into the house. His mouth fell open. Zombies squealed, hands flailing as they darted forward. One of them stumbled right through him—he flinched and dropped the rest of the matches.
"Brandon!" Chris screamed, struggling against Sam's hold, "Let me go damn it, let me go! It was him, I know it was!"
Sam's injuries screamed one final time and gave out; he couldn't hold him. All at once he lost his grip and fell backward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He watched as Chris darted toward the house.
Chris didn't make it there. Before he could take five strides he ran headlong into something solid—and invisible. The blow knocked him off his feet, and he landed on the grass, stunned. "What…"
"Idiot," Brandon snapped at him (still unheard). He grabbed the back of his brother's jacket and hauled him upright. He half pulled him back to Sam, who was already climbing into the passenger side seat in the Impala.
Something inside the house exploded, and all the windows shattered outward.
"Go!" Brandon said, shoving his brother into the car door and darting inside himself.
Chris glanced up. The house was a flaming inferno, pouring black smoke into the sky. Hay strewn outside the barn was already smoldering, and it was only a matter of time before the barn caught as well.
"Come on!" Sam yelled.
Chris opened the door and slammed the key into the ignition. Then, hitting the gas so hard that the wheels spun and smoked, he drove the Impala out of the driveway and onto the road at total disregard for the speed limit. "What…what just…"
"I don't know," Sam said, looking back. He could still see the flames.
"But he just…" Chris sputtered, and then abruptly turned his head to search the backseat, "Brandon—"
"Watch the damn road!" Sam roared, grabbing the steering wheel and turning it sharply so that they didn't crash into a pole.
"What?" Chris said, looking out the front windshield again.
Brandon reached forward, grabbing his brother's arm tightly. "I'm here, bro. Calm down," he said helplessly.
"Stop the car," Sam demanded.
Chris felt his brother squeeze his arm and, instead of calming down, panicked. "Why the hell can he touch things now? Is that normal? He shouldn't be using that much energy, it'll kill him—"
"I'm fine, please stop," Brandon said, watching the speedometer climb.
"Chris you're going to kill us," Sam yelled over the engine, "Stop!"
"But he—he had the matches, and the zombies—the fire—"
"Stop the car, Chris."
"What if he's dying? You don't know!"
"Stop the car!"
"But—"
"Stop the car NOW!"
Chris screamed and slammed his foot down on the break. The Impala screeched to a long halt, leaving black tire marks stretched across the pavement, until it came to a stop in the middle of the road.
They jerked back in their seats and went silent, gasping for air.
Sam's hands were up on the dashboard, bracing him. He lowered them, very slowly. "Okay," he said, sounding strangled, "Okay. That was good."
Chris, unable to bring himself to say anything, nodded.
Brandon still had one hand latched around his brother's arm. "Chris?" he whispered, staring at him wide-eyed, "Chris, it's alright. You…you need to calm down." As he spoke he moved his second arm so that it was also clasped onto Chris's shoulder, beyond confused as to what had happened. He could feel the seat beneath him, could smell the blood. It was like he was in the world again, not just observing it. The change was freaky, yeah, but it didn't scare him as much as confuse the hell out of him.
Chris didn't calm. He turned abruptly in his seat and reached out until his fingertips hit Brandon's arms and chest. "Oh god. What the hell did you do?"
"Me?" Brandon shot back, aware that he was only talking for himself, "Why's it always have to be my fault?"
Still wincing and bleeding on the seat (again) Sam reached back as well. He gripped Brandon's arm for a moment and then let go, turning back around. "He's fine," he said.
"Bullshit," Chris said, his fingers moving up to rustle his brother's short hair, "He can't be fine. He could barely move a small triangle of plastic yesterday without passing out."
"So what?" Brandon said. He grabbed Chris's wrist and squeezed, stopping him from moving further. "Stop freaking."
Sam grunted in pain and opened his door.
"What are you doing?" Chris demanded, momentarily distracted as he watched Sam get out of the car. "You…" he paused, "Damn you look awful."
Sam made his way around the car to the driver's side. He opened Chris's door and leaned heavily on it. "Get out," he said wearily.
Chris blinked. "What?"
"Get in the back with Brandon," Sam said, "We need to get as far away from that fire as possible before the cops show."
Chris stared at him, his brain hurrying to catch up. "But…I'm driving."
"No, you just lost that privilege," Sam said lightly, "When I die, I want it to be for doing something notable, like saving all the children in an orphanage from demons or shapeshifters or a pack of werewolves. What I don't want to do is die in a fiery car crash. Especially not in the Impala."
"Oh…" Chris said, wincing, "Sorry. I guess I just…sorry."
"It's fine. Just get in the back."
"Okay," Chris said. He started to move but stopped when he felt Brandon's grip loosen. "No."
Sam frowned, but when he looked at Chris, it didn't even take a second to recognize what was wrong. His expression softened. "Brandon's fine," he said slowly, "He's going to wait in the backseat for you. Now move back."
He moved. Quickly.
After they were all safely buckled in, Sam eased the Impala back into drive and—feeling his muscles groan and pull with every movement—maneuvered her down the deserted road at a pace that did not imply that they were attempting light speed.
"Sam?" Chris said after a moment.
Sam sighed. He glanced back in the mirror. "What?" he said shortly.
"You're bleeding on the car again."
SNSNSN
Two weeks later…
"He's doing much, much better. It's a damn near miracle, kid."
Sam nodded at his doctor. He tapped his fingers on his arm and peered past her into Dean's hospital room, where his brother was currently sitting up and eating his less than desirable lunch of a soggy apple and some wheat bread. "I know," he said.
The ugly woman shook her head. Her wig moved from side to side with the motion. "No, boy, you do not hear me," she said with emphasis, "It is a miracle."
"Yeah," Sam said, looking away from his brother, "I get that. I really do."
"His hearing is okay. The boy can see shapes, no? I give him a little longer till he's good as new. What did you say he does for a living? "
"I didn't. Look, he still can't talk," Sam added, lowering his voice, "Is that normal? Shouldn't he be talking by now?"
She shrugged, and the fat on her neck jiggled. "I thought he'd be dead by now."
Sam shut his eyes. "Thank you for that."
"Yes, you're welcome, boy," she continued, impervious to his sarcasm, "When he came in to the ER, I took one look and nearly pronounced the time of death. But he did not die."
"No," Sam said, running a hand over his face, "He didn't."
"He's stubborn. So I said to Tina, the receptionist, 'I give dead looking kid three days, tops.'"
"How kind of you."
"Not kind, observant. Anyway, she disagreed."
"Did she?"
"Yes. She said he'd only last an hour or two more. We bet on it. Fifty dollars."
"Well good for you," Sam said, opening his eyes back up and making his voice overly cheery, "You won that one, didn't you? Listen, I need to be going."
"Alright," she said, already turning away, "I need to check on coma kid, anyway. Even though he's never going to wake up, if you ask me."
"I didn't," Sam said.
"I thought you did."
"No."
"I really think you did—"
"I didn't!" Sam said, unable to supress his anger any longer. Then, before she could say anything else, he threw Dean's door open and strode inside. "Hey, bro," he said lightly.
Dean was already looking in his direction, eyes open, eyebrow raised.
"The witch is being…witchy again," Sam said brightly in explanation of his mood swings, "I hope she gets hit by a meteor and dies."
Dean motioned for him to sit down.
Sam sat. He twisted a bit in the plastic chair until he could pretend he was comfortable and then folded his hands. "So…" he said.
Dean tossed his apple core right into the metal can at the base of his bed. He shook his head.
Damn. Still no talking, then. Sam smiled, trying not to show how worried he was. "Oh. Look man, it doesn't matter. I'm sure you will…you know…soon."
Dean's expression soured.
"Besides," Sam continued, "Your sight's getting clearer, right? And…and I don't have to shout anymore for you to hear me. I'm just talking normally. That's a good sign."
If looks could kill, Dean's would have had Sam bleeding out on the floor.
Sam sighed. "Right," he said helplessly, "I'm shutting up. Sorry."
Dean's expression softened. He opened his mouth (out of habit, really) and then shut it quickly. He looked away. Sorry Sam…
SNSNSN
"No," Chris spat through his teeth at his brother's doctor, "Absolutely not."
"Honey…this is always hard for folks. You have to understand there's no brain activity—"
"Yes. There. Is," Chris said firmly, staring down the same hideous, nearly toothless woman that Sam had to deal with every day.
She looked up at the monitor. "No…o…o…o…" she said slowly, "I'm pretty sure there isn't."
"Yeah, well, there will be soon, okay?" he spat back at her. He could feel Brandon's hand wrapped tightly around his elbow, and that was the only thing stopping him from leaping forward and pounding her into the floor.
She smiled. "Young man…I'm sorry. You have been so wonderful, staying here with him, even without any sort of previous ties. It just breaks my heart."
"I bet it does."
"But all I'm saying is that you're not his family. We still haven't been able to locate them, after all. We don't even know his name."
"So what? He'll tell you when he wakes up."
"The only thing keeping his body alive is the machine."
Chris flinched and stepped forward. "No, man," Brandon hissed, clinging to him, "Don't hit her; you'll get thrown out."
Unable to hear his brother, Chris could only guess at what he was saying. His ironclad grip was a good indication, though, and he managed to stop before slugging her. Barely. "What are you saying?" he hissed at her.
"I'm saying…" she began, and stopped. She scratched at a large boil on her face. "He's brain dead and doesn't have a family," she said flatly, apparently deciding not to dodge the issue any longer, "The higher-ups have been considering pulling the plug."
Chris stared. "What?"
Brandon pulled back on him. "No, no, no, don't attack her—"
She saw the look in his eye and began backing up to the door. "I'm sorry. That's a lot to take in, I imagine, I'll just go. You know, leave you to think things over."
"You want to let him die?" Chris demanded.
"Bye now," she said hurriedly, and ducked out the door.
They stared after her.
Chris was about to throw up. His brother's heart monitor made his throat tighten with every beep, and he clenched his teeth together. "Closet. Now," he said, and strode from the room.
Brandon jogged to keep up with his brother as he made his way to the closet he had basically been living in for the last few weeks. When they were inside Chris plucked his laptop off a shelf and turned it on, all the while muttering a plethora of swear words directed toward the doctor.
As soon as the laptop was open to Microsoft Word, Brandon leaned over the keyboard and typed, "It's not that bad."
"Don't you even try that!" Chris exploded, his fingers balled up into fists at his sides, "Don't calm me down. I'm not going to calm down. Not now. And what the hell do you mean, this isn't bad? If this isn't bad, what is? This is...this is so far beyond bad, it's...it's...that bitch wants to kill you!"
"I know, okay, I heard. But at least talk quieter, someone's gonna hear you."
"Quieter? Quieter?" Chris said, laughing helplessly, "You want me to be…okay. Fine. How's this? Huh? How 'bout this?"
Brandon wondered if his brother was finally having a breakdown. "Breathe," he typed.
"Oh, I'm breathing. I am. You're the one that isn't!"
Frowning, Brandon reached up and grabbed onto his brother's arm. He tugged on it, forcing Chris to stop pacing and sit beside him on the floor.
Chris shivered.
Brandon pulled back his arm. "Sorry. Where's your jacket?"
"I left it back in your room," Chris muttered, his voice finally lowered, "It's okay. You're not that cold."
Even so, Brandon sat back farther away from him. He paused, the keyboard on his lap, unsure of what to say.
"Brand…you have to wake up," Chris said pleadingly, "You have to."
"I keep trying. I can't," he typed back, pounding the keys harder than necessary out of frustration.
"Try harder."
"I don't know what you want me to do. I've tried everything I can think of. I've tried everything Sam could think of. Nothing works."
"Brandon, they are going to kill you," Chris said, staring in his direction, "I can't damn well tell them that I know you've got brain activity because you're a ghost and you've been communicating with me. And I can't…I can't tell them not to do it because to them I'm…I'm nobody. I've been posing as a complete stranger for over two weeks; I can't exactly jump out now and say that I'm really your little brother."
"I know."
"Well what the hell are we supposed to do, then?"
"I DON'T KNOW," Brandon pounded out, frowning. He sat back, glaring at Chris when his expression didn't change. "I said I don't know!" he said out loud, glaring at him, "What do you want me to say? I don't know everything. You think you're the only one that's upset? I'm freaking out too, you know! Freaking. Out."
Chris (unaware that his brother was yelling at him) read the short sentence he had written and groaned. "Great," he snapped, "Just…just great." He took another look at the page and paused. "Do the all caps mean you're shouting now?"
Brandon hesitated. "Maybe," he typed.
"Oh," Chris said, "Look…I know you're just as clueless as me about this."
"I've never been in a coma before."
Chris looked up at where he thought his brother was. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry I keep freaking out at you. I don't…I don't mean to, but this is bad and I don't know what to do. I don't like not knowing. We need a plan."
Brandon watched his brother's crestfallen expression and hesitated before typing anything else. Getting an idea, he hit the caps lock key again. "I KNOW WE DO. I GUESS I FORGIVE YOU THIS TIME."
Chris's eyebrows narrowed. "You're…still shouting?" he asked, looking confused.
Brandon smirked. "MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. EVERYTHING I TYPE SOUNDS MORE EPIC THIS WAY THOUGH, DOESN'T IT?"
Chris almost laughed. "I don't know about that."
"TO BE, OR NOT TO BE, THAT IS THE QUESTION."
"You've got to be kidding me…"
"I DO NOT KID, IDIOT MORTAL."
"You're the idiot mortal," he shot back, rolling his eyes.
"SHUT IT. NOW LISTEN. YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES…..YOU CAN EITHER TAKE THE RED PILL, OR THE BLUE PILL."
Chris leaned back against a shelf and smiled, finally calm and breathing levelly. "How 'bout a headache pill? You got one of those?"
"NO. HEADACHES ARE FOR THE WEAK."
"Really? Cause I seem to remember you getting headaches allllll the time, man."
"YOU ARE MISTAKEN. I AM TOO AWESOME TO GET HEADACHES."
"Doubt it," Chris said. He hesitated before saying anything else, and his expression fell back to his normal worried look.
Brandon groaned. So much for that idea. He turned off the caps lock. "You started thinking again, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Chris said, "I did."
"You need to stop that."
"You need to stop distracting me."
Brandon shook his head. "It's my job to distract you…otherwise you'd get super high blood pressure and explode."
"Well, at least we'd be in a hospital," he said. He thought for a moment, "We need to figure out what to do. They can't kill you…I won't let them pull the plug."
"I know that."
"I know you know," Chris snapped, "But how the hell are we—damn it. I'm yelling at you again—sorry," he said.
"That's okay."
Chris reached up and pulled a bottle of Tylenol off the shelf. He popped a couple in his mouth and swallowed them dry. "We need to talk to Sam," he said.
SNSNSN
Sam woke up in Dean's dream to find that he was at Nick's house, again. Nick was busy cooking something up in the kitchen and Dean was, of course, not there.
"Hi," Sam told him simply, more out of routine than anything else.
"Hey there, Sammy," Nick said enthusiastically, turning around. He had a bright pink oven mitt on one hand and was holding a long bloody butcher knife in the other, "Haven't seen you here in a while."
"Yeah," Sam said, "I know. Where's Dean?"
"Sam?"
He turned to see Dean walking into the kitchen, confused eyes locked on him.
"Hey," he said.
"What are you…" Dean said, and stopped. "You said you were out of dream root a while ago."
"I know. I saved a little bit…for later."
"Later? You mean now?" Nick spoke up, turning back around and stabbing at something on the counter. "Ohhhh you mean cause Dean's freaking out—"
"No one's freaking out. We're leaving now," Sam spoke out, striding from the room as he spoke.
"Aw, but you'll miss the special meal…I make one hell of a grilled heart. It's delicious—"
The door swung shut behind them, cutting the delusion off before he could say anything else.
Please Review! Thanks. :)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sadly, this story is coming to an end pretty soon. :( Probably only a few chapters are left, especially if I keep making them so long. I've got an idea for my next story (I wanted to try something new and interactive) but would appreciate knowing if any of you are interested, so I've made a POLL on my profile page. If you could take a few seconds to answer it, that would be great. Thanks a bunch!