Disclaimer: I do not own the CW or SPN. Oh, why must we recant our dreams every single chapter?!
Author's Note: I appreciate all you taking the time to go on this adventure with me.
Okay, so… you don't really get a good look at the fuglies this time around, it just didn't work out. Sorry! Next chapter is nearly done so you'll get a looksee then! Many thanks to Winjennster for finding mistakes, clearing up the hell stuff, and for making Dean's escape simple, yet fantastic.
Fort Eustis, Newport News, Virginia
Bobby dozed in the armchair next to the couch while Marty changed the gauze on Sam's shoulder. It was late in the evening and Marty was starting to regret not having stopped at the small grocery store on his way in. The bottle of whiskey was still half full but it wasn't enough to go around if everyone woke up. Besides, liquid dinner wasn't really on the menu for Sam or Dean. He glanced at the clock and shook his head. Sam should have woken up already…Gloria too…Hell, even Dean hadn't so much as twitched on the couch where he laid.
He grabbed a flashlight and peeled one of Sam's eyelids back, flashing the light over his exposed eye. He frowned as Sam's pupil slowly narrowed, and yet Sam didn't move or wake up. He grabbed another duffel bag and upended it on the counter before grabbing the blood pressure cuff from the pile of equipment. It was automatic but it was better than nothing.
The loud sound of Velcro being ripped apart made Bobby's eyes slide open. He ran a tired hand over his face and adjusted his hat before asking the obvious question.
"What the hell are you doing now, Marty?"
"Sam's blood pressure is low," Marty said. "And he should have woken up by now."
"Marty, the kid lost a lot of blood today, course his blood pressure is going to be low," Bobby said as he climbed out of the chair, intent on checking Sam's blood pressure himself.
"I know that," Marty said, feigning annoyance. "He's going to need some serious down time or a transfusion."
"Can't get any blood for him so it's down time," Bobby said with a shake of his head. "Least until that bullet wound has healed. He's not going to want to answer any questions about that at a hospital."
"What about Dean's? Surely one brother has given the other blood at some point, especially with their bad luck," Marty said as he handed Bobby the blood pressure cuff.
Bobby tossed the cuff next to Sam on the table. "Can't risk it. We don't know what Dean's been poisoned with…"
"Poisoned? I thought something was taking him…"
"Something is, but one of those same things broke in here and forced something down his throat. Gloria said that just as soon as he swallowed it Dean was back to muttering nonsense, a high fever, and just plain being off his rocker," Bobby explained. "I'm not going to transfuse the two of them and end up with two out of control Winchesters. Maybe once Dean is back to normal…"
"Bobby Singer," a voice suddenly asked from the doorway. "Are you…Bobby?"
Marty and Bobby both swiveled on their feet and froze at the sight of Gloria standing in the hallway. Bobby knew she was still exhausted by the way she continued to sway on her feet. He took a slow step towards her and held out his hand. "Gloria, you need to get back in that bed and get some sleep."
She glanced fearfully at Marty before leaning to look past the two men. "Where is Dean?"
"He's fine," Bobby said, pointing to where Dean lay on the couch.
Gloria pushed past Bobby and headed across the room. She paused momentarily before laying a hand over Dean's forehead. "He's still running a fever? … Unbelievable."
"Tends to happen that way," Bobby said as he motioned for Marty to give them a little space. "You get any look at what was in here earlier? Any idea what is was?"
Gloria didn't take her eyes off of Dean as she shook her head. "No. Wish I knew so I could go find it and kill it, but no; I've never seen one before."
Bobby sighed deeply before motioned at Marty. "This is Marty, same man who helped me get in contact with you. He ran a carload of medical equipment out here for me."
"The first aid kit…"
"Wasn't enough," Bobby said as he motioned over his shoulder at Sam. "He needed some other things, so did Dean. We've got antibiotics and fluids running on both of them."
Gloria moved closer to Sam, frowning at the sight of the gauze on his shoulder. "What happened to him?"
Marty looked at Bobby, his eyes wide as he slowly shook his head side to side. Now wasn't the time to get into hysterics over something she wasn't remembering through the exhaustion and drug haze.
"Nothing we couldn't handle," Bobby said firmly. "We've got these two for now, you need to get some more sleep. We'll need to talk later…."
Gloria nodded slowly, her bleary eyes settling on Sam once more. "Wake me up if you need me…," she muttered as she walked down the hallway. Bobby followed a step behind her wobbling figure, making sure she managed to get back into the bed before she fell over. He paused at the doorway and waited.
She watched him cautiously from her place on the bed, blankets pulled up to her chin. "Are they going to be okay?"
Bobby nodded slowly. "You will be too."
42°26′05″N 83°59′06″W
Crowley set the folder down with a frown. The young man sitting across the table from him shifted uncomfortably. Crowley picked up his glass and swirled the amber liquid inside. "I watched Noah calculate the number of animals going onto the ark with nothing but a pointed stick on a rough dirt floor… This is deplorable. And you call yourself an accountant?"
"Crowley—"
"Sir," Crowley said slowly, his eyebrow raised just slightly, the correction hanging in the air between them.
The young man shifted in his chair, his face red. "Sir, these numbers are accurate. The numbers of due deals and souls collected have been tallied. The figures look good."
"But they haven't paid yet, now have they," Crowley asked. He hated talking business over lunch, certainly here in his favorite restaurant, with such a lesser demon, but time wasn't to be wasted.
"No, sir, they haven't," the man replied as he laid a worn scroll on the table between them, glancing around the restaurant. "According to their original agreement with Lucifer, their tribute comes due—"
"I know when their tithe is due. I know all about the deal Azazel brokered at Lucifer's behest," Crowley snapped angrily as he pushed the file back across the table. "Send word that I want my payment inspected in three days' time; I want to see what all the fuss is about. Why it should take this long to cull a few hundred souls for delivery is beyond reason."
"Sir, their tithe is considered one of the greatest payments received unto Hell," the young man expressed. "They take their time, selecting every candidate personally; each payment of a thousand men takes seven years to assemble. It's all here in the fine print."
Crowley frowned over his glass once more. "Enough about the bloody tribute."
"Shall I leave you then," the man said as he rose from the table.
"Of course….but Gerald," Crowley said, amusement in his voice as his eyes flashed red for a moment. "You'll pick up my suits at the cleaners, won't you?"
Gerald's eyes flickered black, anger on his face as he grabbed the folders. "Of course, my King."
Fort Eustis, Newport News, Virginia
Sam woke with a pounding headache. Panic rose in his chest as he tried to roll onto his side and found that he couldn't move. His eyes flew open before he shut them almost immediately. He was spinning…or rather the room was. "Bobby…"
He knew the second Bobby was standing over him, his eyes burning holes into him with worry. "Sam, come on, kid. Can you open your eyes up? You've been out for a while."
"I can't move…," Sam slurred worriedly as he fought to open his bloodshot eyes. He felt like shit warmed over and was still fevered to boot.
"I left you tied to the table…didn't want you trying to get up on your own," Bobby explained. "You think you're ready to get off this table?"
Sam slowly nodded. "Dizzy."
"Yeah, I figured that much from the green look you've got," Bobby said with a chuckle. "You're down some blood, Sam. Gonna have to take it slow, alright?"
Bobby worked quickly to remove the sheet that still held Sam to the table. Sam allowed Bobby to swing his legs off the table while maneuvering him into a sitting position. Sam hissed in pain as the movement jostled his shoulder.
"We're gonna have to put that in a sling," Bobby murmured as Sam clung to the edge of the table with his good hand.
Sam nodded his agreement, regretting it as nausea overtook him. "Dean?"
"He's in the tub again. Marty's got him," Bobby explained as Sam attempted to get his feet under him and stand from the low table.
"I want to see him," Sam slurred as the pain flared in his shoulder. He felt kind of fuzzy around the edges… he knew this feeling, like his head wasn't properly screwed on right. "Morphine?"
Bobby nodded. "Had to, Sam. It's not like you're going to be driving anytime soon anyhow. Trust me, you need it."
Sam stared at the IV line dangling from his hand, trying to follow Bobby's words. "And this?"
"Just some fluids and antibiotics. We can remove it and do either pills or injections. We wanted to get you hydrated and the antibiotics moving as soon as possible. It was the easiest way," Bobby explained as he pulled the bag free from the light fixture. "Marty will have Dean back out here in a few minutes. Come on, we'll get you into the armchair."
The walk was slow going, Sam holding tightly to Bobby to keep from falling over. He hated morphine, Dean too. It was wonderful when you needed it, but the price you paid was balance and a clear head. Not really the prime things to give up when you're on a case.
Bobby wrestled Sam into the low armchair before removing the IV and tossing the jumbled mess into a pile on the table. "I'll go check Dean and Marty. You stay put."
He headed down the hallway and quietly walked past the bed where Gloria was sleeping to check on Dean's progress. Marty was kneeling on the floor, holding Dean's head out of the water. He was shivering in the warm water, his hands curled in fists. The whiteness of his eyes had begun to fade slightly, the green beginning to return.
"How we doing in here," Bobby asked worriedly.
"The fever seems to have finally settled at one high temp now, rather than just going up and down," Marty exclaimed impatiently. "If this really is due to whatever they forced him to eat, how long can it possibly last?"
Bobby stood in the doorway and stared down at Dean, considering Marty's question. "He didn't eat it all…Gloria managed to get him to throw most of it up…if he ingested it…wouldn't it just be a matter of him metabolizing it?"
Marty nodded slowly. "Sounds about right, if he doesn't die first… I'd guess from his eyes changing back that its effects are already starting to lessen. Hopefully the fever will begin to abate next. What if this isn't even an infection…just some sort of side effect of whatever they gave him… We could stop the antibiotics for a little while. Give his liver and kidneys a chance to deal with just the poison without overloading him with antibiotics. Try to just flush out his system and see what happens."
"Think it's worth a shot?"
"Might as well give it a go. Be better if we could get him awake and eating though," Marty said as he pulled Dean from the water. He carried Dean through the house as Bobby followed behind with the last dry towel.
Sam sat silently as Bobby and Marty dried and re-wrapped Dean. He frowned as Marty removed the plastic bag of fluids and tossed it on the table.
"What's wrong?"
"We're switching him to just fluids. Gonna give him a rest from the antibiotics," Marty explained as he grabbed another clear bag from the duffel.
"But didn't you just start them a few hours ago," Sam asked worriedly.
"Yeah, but we have a theory we want to test out," Bobby said. "Marty's thinking this isn't a real infection, just some side effect from what Dean was forced to eat. Don't worry, Sam. Marty's been doing this for years."
Sam silently watched as Marty rehung a clear bag over Dean, worry on his face.
"Sam, I've been dealing with mysterious maladies for a few decades, as well as the usual gambit of hunting injuries. Most of the time, this kind of stuff isn't meant to kill someone—Hell, if those things wanted him dead, he'd be dead by now—No, this kind of thing usually just makes the victim sick, maybe as a means to keep him from escaping, or just cause they're a sick and twisted bunch," Marty explained with a shrug.
"So you've seen this before," Sam asked, hope in his voice.
"Not quite like this, but similar," Marty said with a shake of his head. "Similar enough that I think it's worth a shot to take away the antibiotics. You've gotta remember, Sam, sometimes cursed and hexed conditions just don't mix with modern medicine…"
Sam nodded his understanding. "Has he said anything yet?"
Marty and Bobby exchanged a quick glance before Bobby spoke. "Not a peep yet. But he'll come around, Sam. Just give him some time."
"Bobby….," Marty said, his voice trailing off as he picked up the garbage can in the kitchen.
"What," Bobby asked as he tucked another wet sheet around Dean.
"You said Gloria made Dean throw up most of whatever they tried to force him to eat, right," Marty asked as he dumped the trash can upside down, rummaging through the contents.
"Yeah, what of it?"
Marty glanced up at Bobby with a smile. "If we can find the rest of it, maybe we can figure out what it is...and that could help us determine what's taking him. Maybe it's something so specific only a few beasties are using it. It might narrow the list down a little."
Bobby's face moved from curious to stern. "We need to check the bedroom. Sam, watch Dean."
Sam watched anxiously as Marty and Bobby all but ran from the room and disappeared down the hallway. He reached out and laid a hand on Dean's forehead, it was still warm but he was sweating again at least. He sighed in frustration of not being able to help Bobby. He wasn't about to let Dean disappear again either, he'd handcuff Dean to his good arm for the next few weeks if necessary.
In the bedroom, Bobby grabbed the garbage can from the bathroom while Marty quietly grabbed all of the grocery bags lingering on the dresser. They quietly exited the room, leaving Gloria to sleep off her drug induced nap. Marty began to upend the bags on the table while Bobby dumped the garbage can next to the pile. Quietly, they dug through the odd collection of bloody wash clothes, discarded gauze, and food wrappers.
Bobby slowly and carefully opened a wadded up wash cloth and found the mostly intact pastry. The stench of bile mixed with the aromatic sweetness from the pastry and made his stomach roll. As the smell filled the room, Dean whimpered from his position on the couch and rolled away from Bobby.
Bobby glanced from Sam to Marty before walking towards Dean, the pastry held out in front of him. They watched as Dean pressed further into the couch cushions and whimpered again.
"Dean," Sam asked as he laid a hand on Dean's arm. "It's okay, man. You're safe. Bobby… come on, man. Don't torture him."
"I know, Sam. I'm not trying to scare him, just curious about how badly this thing has screwed him over." Bobby moved away from Dean and held the washcloth out for Sam to see. "Any thoughts, Sam?"
Sam stared at the pastry. Aside from the traces of bile that clung to the washcloth, its flaky texture reminded Sam of some sort of artisan pastry. It was coated in something shiny and clear.
"Cut it open, let's see what's inside," Sam said.
Bobby slowly cut the pastry open, Marty and Sam watching with baited breathe.
"It's a pastry, not a bomb," Bobby chuckled. "I don't think it's going to explode."
Sam pulled Bobby's hand down, bringing the item into view. He squinted at in the dim lamp light.
"Looks harmless enough," Marty muttered. "Wonder what all it does?"
Without a word, Sam pinched off a section of the dry insides and popped it into his mouth.
"Sam! You idjit," Bobby exclaimed as he grabbed at Sam.
"Bobby! Bobby, look," Sam said, trying to calm the older man down. "Listen to me! We need to know what this is, what it's doing to Dean. I took a pinch, Dean had at least a thumb sized piece… Let's see what happens… I can tell you if anything begins to happen and maybe the effects will give us a clue. Okay?"
Bobby sat on the coffee table with a thud. "Sam, you and your brother are going to be the death of me yet."
Sam watched Bobby and Marty as they moved to the table, scrutinizing the remains of the pastry. Bobby grabbed a notepad from the counter and turned to Sam.
"Start talking."
"Bobby, seriously, nothing is happening yet."
Bobby looked irritated as he replied, "Taste. Smell. Texture. You never know what might help us figure this thing out. So I'll say it again, start talking."
Sam yawned tiredly, trying to think through the morphine fog. "Definitely sweet, like the sweetest thing I've ever eaten. The texture seemed light enough when I tasted it…but it kind of feels like there's a heavy weight in my gut."
Bobby frowned as he wrote down Sam's remarks. "Anything else? You seeing anything? Hearing anything weird?"
Sam shook his head as he felt a wave of dizziness hit him. Damn blood loss. He rubbed his eyes tired, before Bobby called his name. "Sam, you alright?"
Sam nodded and looked at Bobby. "I'm—"
Bobby was on his feet instantly. "Sam?"
Sam stared around the room. Everything was laced in light, the slightest motion setting of a new barrage of the silvery stuff. It seems to be seeping in through the floorboards, around the edges of the walls and furniture. It was impossibly beautiful and yet, painful to stare at.
Sam closed his eyes, rubbing them as he tried to clear his vision.
"Sam? Talk to me, son."
"There's light…it's everywhere," Sam muttered as he continued to rub his eyes.
"Anything else, Sam," Bobby asked.
"Not yet," Sam said as he rubbed his eyes again.
Bobby stepped in front of him and tipped Sam's head toward the light, scrutinizing his eyes. "No traces of the white coloring, maybe you didn't get enough for that to happen. From what Gloria was describing, you might be in for delusions at some point. Before we get that far, anything else you've noticed? Any pain?"
"Other than my shoulder being on fire, no."
Bobby glanced at Marty. "Might be time for some more morphine."
"Bobby, don't we have anything else," Sam asked. "I'm just starting to feel like my brain is starting to work on all cylinders again."
"We haven't got anything else for pain except whiskey. It's morphine until we get off Fort Eustis and can get to a pharmacy or clinic," Bobby said as he watched Marty administer the shot. "Maybe we should separate you and Dean, just in case something—"
"No," Sam said firmly as he shook his head slowly. "Bobby…is it getting hot in here?"
Bobby laid a hand over his forehead before turning to Marty. "Fever spike is right on schedule too."
Marty took Dean's sheet and carried it the kitchen sink. "Think we'll end up trying to stuff them both into the tub," he asked with a chuckle.
"Be more likely to drag them both out into the rain," Bobby replied. "Couch and all. Sam, look at Dean and see if he looks different to you. We need to make use of this little situation before you lose all sensibilities."
Marty and Bobby removed the wet sheet from Dean while Sam scrutinized his brother. "He looks like everything else in the cabin, like light is just trickling in around him. The hand print on his face is bright, it's the only solid, bright thing on him so far…Roll him over, let's check his back."
Bobby waited patiently while Sam looked over Dean. "Sam, look at his burn and see if the mark is still visible to you," Bobby explained as he pulled the gauze and tape loose.
Sam frowned and rubbed at his eyes as sweat trickled into them. "Nothing there."
"Good," Bobby exclaimed. "Maybe whatever it was, Gloria got it all then."
After getting Dean covered back up, Bobby pushed glass after glass of water into Sam's hand until Sam finally waved him away. "We need to get that poison out of your system as fast as we can, Sam."
"I know, Bobby. But one more glass and I'm gonna hurl," Sam muttered as he tried to rub at his eyes again. Without a word, Bobby swatted his hand away from his face.
"Just close them for a little while, Sam. No sense in rubbing them raw."
The cabin grew quiet except for an occasional murmur from Dean, Bobby watching the boys with concern. He knew Gloria had seen changes in Dean fairly rapidly and he hoped that Sam's delayed reaction meant he didn't ingest enough to experience the severe combativeness and fear that Dean had. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what Sam's paranoia would be like; the kid has dark spots in his past…not unlike his dad and brother.
Restless, Bobby moved and checked Sam's forehead, convinced that Sam had fallen asleep. Sam pulled away, startled by the sudden touch of someone. His heart sped up in his chest. "Don't touch me…"
"Look at me," the voice demanded. Something about the voice was familiar.
Sam refused to open his eyes. "Dean?"
"You know I'm not Dean," the voice said, changing altogether. "Look at me."
Sam looked up hesitantly and came face to face with Jess. He felt his heart skip a beat.
"You can't be here…"
"Sam, what's going on?"
"You're dead…," he mumbled as he tried to move back from her touch, looking around the room for someone to help him. "You can't be here."
"Sam," the voice said. This time, it was stern, harsh. He looked up, hoping that wasn't him. It couldn't be him.
John Winchester's face was inches from Sam's, a look of pure hate on his face and anger burning in his eyes. "SAM! Are you listening to me? Your brother—"
"STOP! Just stop, Dad," Sam yelled out as he tried to push himself to his feet. His shoulder pounded as hands suddenly pushed him back into the chair. "I'm not…I'm not some soldier for you to boss around!"
"Sit down, Sam! Close your eyes…whatever you're seeing, it's not real," the voice said.
Sam ran a hand over his eyes and kept them closed, not trusting the voice, but scared of who might crop up next. Something was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be here. Sweat trickled down his back and beaded over his forehead. He tugged at the collar of his shirt as stifling heat seemed to suffocate him.
As a hand touched his forehead, Sam pulled away from it. He opened his eyes and was once again overwhelmed with the bright lights that seemed to slide in and out of sight. He screwed his eyes shut and fought back his rolling stomach.
Bobby frowned down at Sam before motioning at Marty. They stepped away from Sam before Bobby broke the silence. "This was a bad idea," he muttered to Marty. "Something's wrong."
"Of course it is, Bobby," Marty said with a shrug. "The kid did something stupid in the heat of the moment…but this does give us an opportunity to observe how it's going to run its course."
"Observe…what we need is a certain clue about where the hell that damned pastry came from," Bobby snapped as he watched Sam rub his eyes again. "We need to get us on the road as soon as possible as well. I want Dean trussed up in the panic room while we figure this thing out."
Marty nodded his understanding as he hefted the whiskey bottle from the table. "Good way to do it. As for getting him in the car for a long drive, that's going to be a problem."
Bobby watched as Sam's head began rolling from side to side, his brows furrowed tightly; a light motion that conveyed his discomfort. "Let's get him cooled down before his brain boils out of his ears."
Marty and Bobby grabbed Sam and hoisted him to his feet, an angry threat slipping from him as they maneuvered him to the bathroom.
"Just not our day, is it Singer," Marty quipped.
"Shut up, you idjit," Bobby muttered as they disappeared into the hallway, leaving Dean behind on the couch.
The sound of water filling the tub and men talking was lost as a loud clap of thunder shook the cabin. Dean bolted upright on the sofa and looked around the room. He didn't recognize anything.
Dean leapt his feet, wobbling slightly as he made his way towards a door. He had to get free; he had to find Sam. He could hear rain pounding on the roof, making him shudder as he remembered the rain pelting him through the thatch roof of the shack. He jumped as another clap of thunder filled his sensitive ears. Unnatural light filled his vision, making it hard for him to see his surroundings.
He got a few steps from the door when something dug into his hand. He frowned and squinted at the IV line trailing behind him. He grabbed it and yanked it out, throwing it on the floor, trying to recall if there had been one in his arm the last time he had woken in the shack. Confusion ate at him. Something didn't make sense…The last time he had woken up in a strange place with a needle buried in his flesh, it had been a D'jinn. He hated D'jinn.
Without a glance back, Dean stepped out into the storm. He rubbed his eyes, every raindrop a beacon of light that blinded him. A sound behind him startled him, sending him running out into the rain, his lungs burning as he went. He didn't know where he was, but he knew this wasn't where he wanted to be.
As Bobby rounded the corner into the kitchen, he irritably rang water out of his shirt. "Damn kids," he muttered as he began opening and closing kitchen drawers hoping to find a remaining dry towel. He distractedly glanced over to check on Dean and stopped cold.
The front door was open, rain blowing in across the narrow porch. Dean was nowhere in sight.
Bobby raced out the door and onto the steps, trying to see through the storm. "DEAN!"
Alright! So this completes this chapter…well, to be honest it was an 8000 word chapter that got split up…so good news! The next chapter should be tweeked and ready soon. Thanks for bearing with me. Any clue what Crowley's up to?
If you liked it, please leave a review! Thanks!