Chapter 7

The Impala skidded to a stop in a spray of gravel outside the ramshackle house. It was a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor and surrounded by a lawn overtaken by nature. Sam was already ducking out of the driver's seat, darting to the trunk to grab whatever he might need: salt, holy water, ax, salt shotgun, handgun with iron rounds, matches, lighter fluid, flashlight, and first aid kit. He shoved all the equipment in a duffel bag except the sawed-off, which he stuck in the back of his jeans. He slung the bag over his shoulder and slammed the trunk lid back down simultaneously, already pivoting on his heel to make strides for the house.

Sam circled the decaying house in hurried steps, scanning through the thick grass and weeds and bushes for an old, wooden construction. He wasn't sure if it was a subbasement cellar or just a separate underground cellar, but he'd cover all the bases by searching in a large radius.

Just in case, Sam called out, "Dean!" It wasn't a surprise to him when he didn't receive an answering shout; he still felt his anxiety creep up a little, and he tried to speed up his inspection without missing anything.

He'd made it around the back of the house, not having found any sign of a cellar, when he caught sight of a pair of off-angle wooden doors built into the side of the house, securely closed by a padlocked chain running through the handles.

Bingo. Not wanting to waste time with a lock pick, Sam pulled out the ax mid-stride and was at the doors in a few paces, where he dropped the bag. He aligned the chain just so, then took a step back to give himself some room. He aimed, cocked back his arms, and swung in a sure arc. The blade connected with the chain with a loud clang and a spark, but didn't break it. It was definitely weakened, though, and Sam readied himself for another go.

A cold draft suddenly blew past him, and a second later, a misty form coalesced to his right. Warren.Having expected the spirit to make an appearance at some point—if he was right about Dean being here—he dropped the ax and whipped out the shotgun in a fluid, practiced motion.

As fast as he was, the spirit was faster and had flickered and reconsolidated directly in front of the young hunter.

Sam's finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, and with a sharp crack and a spray of rock salt, the vengeful spirit dispersed.

Letting out a huge breath and taking a quick look around, Sam re-placed the shotgun under the waistband at his lower back, and retrieved the ax once more. He didn't have much time before the ghost would be back, and he had to get to Dean. He was nearly certain that his brother was here now, and his heart pounded in anticipation. Sam hefted the ax again, and struck down precisely onto the chain, this time severing the links.

He hastily tucked the tool back into the duffel, bent to pull the chain through the handles, and tossed it to the side without looking. Sam yanked the doors open, allowing them to fall to either side of the opening he'd exposed. A short set of wooden, dusty steps lay before him, leading into a dark, underground room.

Picking up the duffel bag, Sam whispered in a low voice, "Dean?" more for himself than for his brother's sake. Some dying light from the early-evening sky filtered in to dimly illuminate the small cellar, but Sam couldn't see into the corners, so he dug out the flashlight and clicked it on as he crept downward.

This part of the cellar, merely an entryway to the rest of the basement, was roughly fifteen by fifteen feet and was empty except for a few bare shelves lining the walls between wooden supports. He nearly had to duck in order to stand up. Sam swept the edges of the room with the beam of the flashlight, encountering only dirt floors and the soft glint of cobwebs.

Sam was holding his breath during his examination, doubt niggling at the back of his head. He cursed. Damnit, where are you, De—

That's when the beam fell on an unmoving form, lying supine in a small pool of blood.

"Dean!" Sam stumbled down the last few steps and raced over to his brother's side. Gasping quietly at the sight of the blood-soaked, makeshift compress wrapped around Dean's torso, he went down on one knee and carefully gathered Dean up, propping his shoulders on his leg. "God, Dean, what'd he do to you?" Sam murmured in horror. Dean was pale and clammy, a sheen of sweat glistening on his ashen face. His breaths were shallow and sporadic, and he wasn't even shivering, despite the fact that he was only wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Sam pressed his first two fingers to the artery under Dean's chin; his pulse was weak and fast, but steady for the time being.

The younger brother readjusted his hold on Dean so he could cup the side of Dean's face, brushing against days' worth of stubble. "Come on, bro, time to wake up." He patted Dean's cheek gently but urgently, unable to keep the small tremor out of the words. "Wake up, man. Please." He moved his hand up to stroke Dean's bristly, dusty hair.

His injured brother stirred, eyes pinching in pain before fluttering open. He stiffened before flexing his good arm up to grab hold of Sam's jacket, fisting it with weak fingers. "S'm? S'mmy?" His voice was thready, barely more than a whisper.

Sam slid his hand back down to Dean's cheek and he cinched him closer. "Yeah, it's me. I've got you." He tugged him higher so Dean's head rested against his shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean breathed. The older brother extended an unsteady arm and felt up his brother's chest and the angles of his collarbone until he reached Sam's face, chilly fingers ghosting over his features. Letting his hand slide back down his neck to grip Sam's shirt collar, Dean sagged into his brother in relief. He exhaled against the underside of Sam's jaw, "Kn-new you'd...come." He hissed as a vicious twinge of pain hit. His breath came out in labored pants, his teeth chattering softly and lips tinted blue. "G-got m'self...'nto a real...mess here, S-sammy." He trailed off for a few moments, then, almost inaudibly, "So...c-cold."

Trying not to jostle his brother too much, Sam shrugged out of his coat and gently bundled Dean into it. "Where'd your coat go, Dean?" He didn't see it around at all. The spirit must've taken it, along with his shoes, wanting Dean to suffer as much as possible. He smothered the fresh flicker of anger; he'd deal with Warren later. He had even less time now until the dead man came back, and he still had to patch up Dean before they could go anywhere.

On the same wavelength, Dean jerked in Sam's arms and gasped out, "S'm...s-spir't...i's...Warr'n." He coughed and clenched his fist tighter in the neck of Sam's shirt. He wasn't all there or he would've realized Sam had to have known that to find him. But even freezing and nearly in shock, he was still trying to warn the younger brother.

Not sure if Dean had the presence of mind to understand, Sam tapped out on his arm anyway, "I know. It's ok."

Stretching out to grab the bag, Sam drug it to him so he could unzip it and take out the first aid kit. Having seen the bloody tears in Dean's skin, he knew they'd need stitches. A lot of them; they didn't really have anything heavy-duty enough in the kit to properly clean out the wounds, but he hoped what he had would be enough until he could get Dean to a hotel room. Or a hospital.

He talked to fill the silence—well, his silence. "I know you're cold, bro, but I have to cut your shirt off so I can fix you up." Pushing back the coat with regret, Sam undid the bloody flannel compress and threw it into the corner. He slid a pair of scissors from the kit up Dean's t-shirt, carefully peeling it off the torn skin when he finished.

Exclaiming anew now that Dean's injuries were exposed, he scrounged out some packets of antiseptic wipes and tore one open with his teeth. It didn't seem like nearly enough for these...valleys in Dean's chest and shoulder, but it was all they had. Sam quickly brushed around and over the gashes, wincing at Dean's groans. "Sorry, Dean. Almost done." He chafed his other hand up and down Dean's arm, trying to warm him up a little.

Tossing the empty packages aside, Sam hastily slathered half a tube of antibiotic ointment over the wounds, then dug out some sterile pads and a roll of gauze. He pressed the pads to the wounds easily enough, but it was a bit of a feat to wrap it around Dean's upper ribs and left shoulder, Sam's stiff cast being a hindrance. Nevertheless, he managed to cover the bandages with a couple layers before he cut the gauze with a snick and taped the end down. "There, Dean, good as new." His own hands were smeared with cooled blood now. Massaging Dean's chest below the bandage, he pulled the winter coat back over his brother's arms and zipped it up to Dean's neck.

Despite the death grip that returned to cling to his shirt, Sam could tell Dean was more out of it than in, and worry churned in his gut. He had to get his brother out of here, quick. "Time to go, Dean." After hurriedly wiping his crimson-stained hands off on the fabric of the duffel bag, he cupped his brother's chin. Then he carded his fingers through Dean's hair again to convey silent comfort before maneuvering his arms so he could haul himself and his brother up to their feet.

Tendrils of a sudden, creeping chill tingled down his spine, and that was all the warning he had before Stiles' spirit arrived. Sam curled himself protectively over Dean's body and sprung for the salt. He poured it out around them in a small semicircle, their backs to the wall.

Warren growled in frustration. "He must not escape. He must pay."

All prior sympathy for Warren had dissolved the moment Sam had laid eyes on his brother in that cellar, and he allowed his anger to come forth now. "Stay away from him!" Still hugging Dean to himself and bodily guarding him, he barked out, "Why? Why did he deserve this? Why did any of those people? They've done nothing to you!" He knew reasoning with a vengeful spirit that was so far gone was pointless, but he wanted to keep it away from Dean and stall for time. "The people who hurt you are long gone. Give it a rest." As he was talking, Sam was covertly pulling out the shotgun.

The spirit just tilted his head at Sam, then pointed a ghostly finger at the older brother. "He hurt me. He mocked me. And he will pay."

"I defiled your grave and burned your bones! Why didn't you come after me?" Sam shouted, sliding his grip towards the trigger while keeping an arm secured around Dean.

Stiles shimmered and beamed forward a few feet, but was repelled by the line of salt. "Don't tempt me," he threatened, trying to find a way past the barrier.

With a wordless yell, Sam shielded Dean's face with his arm, brought up the gun, and shot the spirit, once more buying the brothers a few minutes.

Not wasting a second, Sam shoved the firearm and supplies into the duffel bag and slid the strap onto his shoulder. He carefully inched an arm under Dean's shoulders and the other under his knees, preparing to lift up.

Dean roused momentarily and started to protest, "Mmph. Pu' me down, Sam." He feebly pushed at Sam's arms, determined not to be carried out of there, but to no avail.

Sam waited till Dean's strength gave out, then hefted him up, grunting under the weight and the old ache in his broken wrist. "Not a chance, big brother. Not till we're outside. Then we'll talk." But for Dean's benefit he just tapped, "No."

Sam staggered forward a step, then, adjusting Dean so he was higher up on his chest, made for the stairs. He turned sideways so they could fit through the opening and climbed out. Once they were about twenty feet away, Sam lowered his brother down on a grassy patch, easing his head and neck down last. He found and removed the salt, lighter fluid, matches, and holy water from the duffel bag, then slipped it under Dean's feet to elevate them.

He moved back up Dean's body to cradle his head, tilting it up so he could tip the flask of water to Dean's chapped lips. Sam let his brother take a few sputtering sips before retracting the water and twisting the cap back on. He gently set Dean's lolling head back down.

Secretly pleading for Dean to hang on just a few more minutes, Sam pressed a palm to the side of Dean's face one more time, murmuring, "I'll be right back." His heart squeezed at his brother's soft whine when he removed his hand. Before he could change his mind, Sam rose to his feet and turned back towards the house to torch the place, starting with Warren's former prison.

…

Dean was drifting in a lightless abyss of cold and pain and soft touches and warmth, his murky mind mixing up past and present.

Sam. He remembered Sam. He'd come to save Dean. He made him warmer, then cold, then hurt, then warm again. He hated that he couldn't stay alert for very long, and the next thing he knew he felt the disconcerting sensation of being lifted up. He complained to the sasquatch to put him down; he would walk himself out, damn it. But Sam wasn't having any of that, and Dean found that he couldn't resist.

He gave in to unawareness for a while again, but it felt like only seconds later when he sensed a decrease in altitude again. His limp body was nestled down onto what felt like thick grass that tickled his neck, and then there was a jostling of his legs, followed by a hand under his head.

A cool wetness was pressed to his lips, and he drank greedily, disappointed when the water was taken away all too soon. Mild dizziness and nausea struck again, and his ravenous stomach cramped, but he didn't have the strength to hurl, and he instantly felt better when his head was laid down again.

Dean thought he felt a hand on his face again, and he instinctively leaned into the warm contact before it disappeared. He keened softly at the lost touch point to reality, shivered, and his thoughts jumbled confusingly again.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was roused by familiar hands resting lightly on his stomach and hairline. He felt the fingers on his stomach thumping intermittently but was unable to focus on it. Instead, he sluggishly shifted his own hand to nudge against the hand on his midriff. Sam's fingers stilled, and Dean clutched the hand tightly. He mustered a smile when it squeezed back before patting Dean's stomach.

A soft warmth was caressing Dean's skin; across his hands, his neck, his face—the only places that were exposed. Suddenly, the heat in his face intensified to unbearable, searing through his brain and across his skull in fiery trails. He cried out and brought his palms to his burning eyes; he vaguely felt frantic hands grasp him by the shoulders and head, and he begged, Make it stop, Sammy! It hurts, make it stop, makeitstop...

As suddenly as it had emerged, the piercing heat drained away, and Dean, wheezing and starting to cough, let his hands fall. Sam was pushing his hair back in desperate motions, pleading, "What's wrong, Dean? What happened?" His voice sounded like it was underwater. Or maybe he was underwater.

Wait. He could hear Sam. With a gasp, Dean yanked his eyelids open, only to flinch them shut against the brightness that flared in his vision. Just barely cracking them this time, Dean slitted his eyes open to see—see!—splotchy, blurred shapes. They consisted of a building—house—a flickering wall of bright orange—fire, which explained the lingering warmth—and that dredged up old, dreadful recollections of another house in another time, hopelessly ablaze. But he moved his aching eyes again, and a pale face topped with dark hair came into view—Sam. Sammy was here, with him. He'd carried him out this time.

Dean blinked a few times, trying to bring the distraught face into focus. He managed to make out his brother's chin, mouth, nose, eyes, the worried crease in his forehead. Another few seconds of blinking, and he could see Sam clearly enough to notice the glistening moisture in Sam's soft, hazel eyes, a few smudges of dirt across his cheeks, and the fact that Sam was saying something, a look of hopeful disbelief on his face.

"Dean? Are you okay?" He spoke slowly, shaking his brother lightly.

Dean couldn't hold back a shaky grin. "Sammy. Yer hair's even...longer'n I...r'member. We should do somethin'...'bout that." His voice was scratchy and thin and faded in and out, but he could hear it.

Sam returned his grin with a short, husky laugh, his teeth and dimples flashing and eyes threatening to overflow. "Jerk," he uttered without heat in his smooth tenor.

Dean was drawn forward into a warm, flannel shoulder, Sam's arms wrapping around his neck and his cheek grazing against his temple. Dean huffed into Sam's shirt. "Girly bitch." But he hugged him back as best he could, as glad to see his brother as Sam was, before the pain in his torso made itself known again. He grunted when he felt the stinging flesh of his chest press against Sam's through the coat.

"Sorry, man." Sam was just pulling away when a deafening blast erupted at his back, originating from the house. His body was still hovering over Dean's, and the older brother watched in horror as, as if in slow motion, Sam was thrown over and out of sight behind him.

His brother's hold on him gone, Dean slammed jarringly to the ground. He screamed, "SAM!" even before his ears stopped ringing. He struggled to sit up in the blistering heat, ignoring the screaming in his chest and shoulder. He rolled to his side, craning his neck up to see where Sam had landed. "Samm—!"

He broke off in a coughing fit and curled back up, unable to push it down for an infuriatingly long time. When he finally had his lungs under control again, he unfolded his resistant body to return his line of vision to the correct angle again. With watery eyes, he saw that his brother was slumped about ten feet away, not moving, his legs twisted underneath him.

Dean groaned and started to crawl on his side, using handfuls of grass to drag his battered body across the ground. He had to take brief rests between each heave to catch his breath and brace himself, so it seemed like an eternity before he crossed the ten feet to his brother's inert body.

It took Dean a few tries to get his brother's name out, he was panting so hard from exertion and pain. He latched onto Sam's sleeve so he could pull himself up and collapse against Sam's side. Black spots were skulking on the edge of his vision again. "C'mon, Sammy, don' do this." He couldn't get them out of here by himself—couldn't lose Sam so soon after regaining his senses. "Was jus' a li'l e'splosion." How the hell did that happen anyways?

He let out a relieved breath when Sam's ribcage expanded underneath him. He flicked his gaze around them and spotted the rock Sam must've hit his head on. Dismissing it, he returned his attention to Sam, blinking when his vision swam again and half-succeeding in clearing it.

The younger Winchester's expression was less lax than a minute ago. "D'n?" he mumbled into the grass. He was just coming to, eyes cracking open, when another boom, larger than the last, went off to the rear of the brothers.

Dean, conjuring up the last reserves of his strength, lunged to cover Sam's curled frame and ride out the blast wave. Heat enveloped them, and debris littered the ground around their hunched forms, some falling across Dean's back and head.

The last thing the hunter heard was Sam's choked, "Dean!" before even that was lost and blackness swallowed him once more.