A/N: As always, my apologies if I haven't responded yet to private messages or reviews and, most importantly, for the delayed update. I've had this chapter ready to post for several months, but I wanted to get the next one ready to go so you all wouldn't kill me for leaving you on a cliffy. Actually, my friend, Gaelicspirit (who I want to thank for looking at this chapter long, long ago) was the one who warned me I'd better not leave you all to suffer from a big delay between these two chapters. :) Also, I want to thank Sodakey for beta reading it for me and helping me to improve it in many, many ways. I'm ever so grateful for her edits and her advice. All mistakes are mine as I do go over it again before posting.
The chapter after this one has been beta read by the amazing Sodakey, but I'm still working on the edits I received this week. It should be up before too much longer, depending on what life hits me with over the next several days. If you wonder what my delays and issues are, please wander over to my livejournal to read on that-I don't want to bore you with a page of writer woes here.
Just know I really, really do appreciate each and every person reading this and, especially, each and every review and message left for me. In fact, I want you to know that the main reason this story is continuing despite the marathon of writerly torture its become is because of those of you who leave reviews and send me private messages encouraging me to keep going. Part of it is my determination to finish the thing, but even that gets bogged down in despair at times. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart for lifting me up with your kind words. I hope you enjoy this latest installment.
The title of this chapter is a reference to the song of the same name by The National. While the lyrics really have nothing to do with the chapter, it did seem appropriate in some ways and it was also a song I listened to a lot while editing this chapter. And to sum up my feelings on posting this, I leave you with these lyrics:
"The fear has gripped me, but here I go
My heart sinks as I jump up
Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut."
~Alt-J (Breezeblocks)
8: Fireproof
The rumble of the Impala solid beneath him, Dean tipped his face into the wind rushing in from the window and breathed. The cool air and steady, familiar vibrations helped clear the cobwebs clinging to his mind. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, alarmed at the weakness consuming him, bone and marrow. The encounter with Jessica had hit him hard.
He turned up the volume of the music playing through the Impala's speakers—purposely loud enough to prevent conversation. He really wasn't interested in anything Chris had to say anyway. Truth be told, Chris likely felt the same given the current verbal cease fire. Maybe acting like an ass had finally used up all his energy.
Dean was just grateful for the stillness the music provided his overtaxed brain.
When the apartment building appeared in front of them, it was too soon. Dean thumbed the corner of his mouth as he parked and climbed out, gesturing for Chris to join him at the back of the car. Lifting the trunk lid, he grabbed his green duffel and began holding things up, explaining as he packed.
"See these shells?"
"I know, salt-loaded. You said that already."
"Yes, but what I didn't say, we don't have many left—so go easy on them." Dean dug out an iron rod stashed beneath Sam's duffle. "Use this if you run out of shells. Iron works as good as salt in a pinch."
Chris nodded as he took it.
"And take this." Dean held out a wicked looking silver knife. "I'm not completely convinced this is a ghost problem. A few things we can try if it isn't—silver and holy water." Dean threw a bottle of what looked like ordinary water into the bag. Reaching deep into the back, he pulled out an old sawed-off and tossed it to Chris. "This is Sam's. It's old and he doesn't use it much, but if you damage it, he will be pissed—at both of us."
He grabbed his own shotgun, shouldered the duffel and slammed the lid shut, hand lingering on the warm metal a few precious seconds. Pocketing the keys, he turned and said, "You sure you want to do this? Not too late to change your mind."
Chris met Dean's gaze. "I'm no coward. Whatever you can take, so can I."
Dean snorted as he shook his head. "Alright then, let's go." He walked away without checking to see if Chris followed—sometimes, fake confidence was better than nothing, the rest he'd borrow with interest.
They made it halfway up the staircase before the first wave of disorientation washed through him. He paused mid-step. Gripping the banister, he waited for his equilibrium to return, eyes fixed resolutely ahead. Uncharacteristically, Chris said nothing—didn't even sigh—just waited quietly until Dean was able to go on.
A cold sweat covered Dean from head to toe by the time they reached the floor of the apartment. His temples were damp with it and he had to work hard to control the tremors in his hands. This close to the apartment, he felt a subtle difference between here and the hospital. Much of it the same—but the resonance in his bones told him it was somehow different too.
The feeling grew as he entered the room, increasing with every step toward ground zero. He stopped once he reached the bedroom doorway, one hand firmly fixed on the frame, head bent against the wash of manic energy zipping through him. Felt like a euphoric buzz, except dissonant and frenzied, an unpleasant itch crawling under his skin. He shivered.
Dropping his duffel to the inside-right of the room, he bent to rummage through it until he found the flashlight and clicked it on. Yellowed light cut through the dimness, revealing all was the same as when they'd left—no sign there had been any fire at all, old or new. Over his shoulder, he said, "Cover me, but stay close to the doorway. Don't come into the room if you can help it."
Chris nodded, raising the gun in both hands—if his grip was a little white-knuckled, well, Dean wouldn't begrudge the guy that much. Maybe there was some sense under the bravado after all.
Flashlight roving over the room, Dean searched for anything out of place. The nearby dresser was devoid of all but a thin layer of dust, but it was a good place to start. He pulled each drawer open swiftly. Each one was empty, nothing but lint and more dust inside.
Moving toward the closet, Dean faltered. His stomach clenched. Something wrong, a vague tingling of his senses, shivered through him. Forcefully, he twisted the knob and jerked the door wide open. Nothing.
Giving it a thorough once-over, he pushed aside the empty hangers and searched the corners of the floor. Still nothing. He grabbed the chair in the nook next to the closet and used it to climb up, shining his light along the top shelf. Yahtzee!
Snugged up along the far left corner was a small, blackened locket. Dean stretched on his tip-toes and made a lunge for it, barely snagging the end of the chain. He quickly stuffed it in his coat pocket, needing both hands to ease down from the chair, head ringing as fresh dizziness swept through him in a whirl.
His feet had just touched the floor when Chris warned, "Dean."
Dean followed the direction of Chris's pointed gun. Familiar pressure ballooned against the backs of his eyes forcing him to grimace and squint at the light gathering in the center of the room. Keeping his legs stiff against the sudden jelly sensation, Dean stepped closer to Chris and dropped the flashlight, letting it bounce soundlessly on the carpet. Reaching a hand out to Chris, he waited for the cold confidence of his shotgun to settle against his palm. Before Chris had finished digging for the weapon, Jessica had fully formed in front of them. Chris froze as he stared up in astonishment. Here, in this place, she was strong enough to make her presence seen by anyone.
"Chris!" Dean hissed. "Shotgun!"
"Wait, you're not gonna shoot her!?" It was half demand and half question, as Chris stood with Dean's weapon clutched tight.
"If she tries anything, damn right I will!"
"I won't let you hurt her!"
Dean's eyes snapped to glare at Chris. "She's already dead and I like my hide intact," he growled, trying to snatch the weapon away from Chris.
Chris glared back, keeping a firm grip and yanking back. "Doesn't mean—"
"Dean," Jessica said, the syllables not all quite there, but clear enough to be understood. "Please."
Giving up the fight over the weapon, Dean turned to Jessica, swallowing against the unbearable sadness she pushed into him.
"You're not the one who's been hurting people. Am I right?" Always go with your gut, son, echoed in his ears.
Jess shook her head from side to side. "It's… me…"
Which, okay, that wasn't altogether clear. "Jessica, I want to help you, but I don't—ahh!" Dean doubled over when she suddenly appeared two feet in front of him. Pressing an arm against an aching throb in his stomach, Dean struggled to keep his feet. "Please. I want to help," he grit out. Groaning, Dean ducked his head when another bolt of pressure lanced his skull.
"Look!" she whispered.
"Wh-what should I do?!" Chris stammered from beside him.
"Shoot her!" Dean pushed between his lips, trying not to pass out. "Oh, God," he moaned even as he turned his head to where Jessica was pointing. Behind Chris, a black shadow appeared, one long arm stretching toward him. The interior space was too dark to make out much more than a flash of yellow eyes and filthy claws.
"Chris!" Dean cried, "Behind you!"
Chris twisted to look behind him, lifting the gun seconds too late. The weapon ripped from his hands and flew out of the room. The duffel followed, sliding across the floor until it came to rest somewhere in the living room. The bedroom window behind them banged open, wind tossing the curtains in gales that whipped at their clothes and hair. Dean yanked Chris out of the way just as the creature's arm slashed down, claws raking across Dean's chest in deep furrows. He cried out, the burning shock barely settling in before Jessica threw one hand out toward the shadow and one hand toward Dean. The room motion-blurred around him, pain exploding as his back crashed against the wall, his head bouncing hard against the plaster.
Dean felt himself slide up the wall, out of reach of whatever was still inside the doorway. The shadow was also stuck fast in its tracks.
"Jessica!" Dean yelled. But she paid him no attention and his body continued to slide up until he was pinned to the ceiling—just like Jess had been when he'd saved Sam a second time from fire.
Just like his mom before that.
Below him, Chris cowered in the corner by the dresser, whipping his wide, disbelieving eyes between Dean and the thing in the doorway and Jessica. The boy looked ready to keel over if someone so much as yelled boo at him. Obviously no help coming from that direction. A gust of unnaturally cold wind blew the shadow out of the room as the door slammed shut and shook on its hinges. The door continued to rattle and bang and the wind grew in angry intensity.
Jessica turned, then winked out mid-motion. "Listen!" she demanded, re-materializing beneath him, with the ceiling against his back and Jessica floating parallel to his front. She placed both hands on his head, her eyes bore into his even as his body burst into flame. Blood dripped from his wounds, falling straight through her to the bed below. Fire engulfed them both, and, though it hurt, and he could hear himself cry out, he had enough presence of mind to know it wasn't physical. His clothes did not melt, his hair did not singe.
Jessica caressed his cheek, then spoke, "It's not me. But I am bound. They will all die if you don't stop it."
Black haze blurred Dean's vision, but he widened his eyes, forcing himself to stay awake. Forcing his lips to move, he asked, "What is it?"
Jessica shook her head. "Very angry and very old. It feeds on them. You must break the bond, Dean. Let me rest, save my friends."
A single tear washed down her cheek and she flickered. Then, like a switch being thrown, she was gone and he was falling. His body bounced roughly on the bed below, the haze taking over his vision completely. The next thing he knew, Chris was turning him onto his back and leaning over him.
"Oh God, you're bleeding!" Chris was panicking. Dean could hear it in his voice—could see it in the kid's white face. He was punching at his cell phone with a thumb, saying, "Hang on, just hang on."
Dean grabbed the arm that held the phone, grunting when his wounds pulled. "No," he whispered through his teeth. "No. Please."
Shocked, Chris stuttered, "Y-you need a hospital—your chest is ripped open! You passed out—"
"I'm… okay," he managed to say. "Just need stitches."
"Dude, your color is completely wrong—you were on fire!"
"A hospital can't fix it… not real…"
"How can you know that? Look at you!"
Dean felt his eyes roll and knew he didn't have long. "Not as bad as…as it looks, just need some sleep s'all. Lori. She'll know wh..." Dean swallowed against his parched throat and drew in enough air to whisper, "what to do."
Dean could see the doubt rippling across Chris's face. Reaching up, he gathered a handful of Chris's shirt and yanked him closer.
"Promise me. No hospitals. S-sam—you said you wanted to protect him. Then do it. Has enough on his mind."
Something settled in Chris's eyes at the mention of Sam. He nodded and then pressed a single number on his phone.
"Lori? It's Chris. You home right now?"
Dean sighed in relief and let his hand drop to rest atop his bloody chest. Finally, he could close his eyes. He was so tired. Snatches of Chris's voice faded in and out—but not much penetrated the buzzing in his head.
"…he said you'd know…."
"…be ready…ten tops…"
"Man, you're heavy…"
"...keys, keys, where are the damn keys?"
"Almost there, keep your eyes open…Dean!"
He tried to obey the words, he really did—but the pull of unconsciousness felt too right. Surrender was easy.
WCAWCAWCA
Pacing the waiting room, Sam pushed handfuls of hair away from his face, giving it a tug before letting his hands rest on his neck. A nurse had come and taken Becky and Nathan back to see Aaron, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. His mind replayed events from earlier in a loop, his brain sorting through all that had happened. He tried not to worry, but Dean was scaring him. Sam couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but there was something going on he felt like he should be seeing but didn't. It was a nagging feeling that left him irritated – an itch he couldn't scratch.
Tired of pacing the same fifteen feet, he slumped into the chair across from the doorway. Families shuffled by, some looking worn out and others relieved and still others bored. People clad in different colored scrubs walked by discussing their day and laughing together. Sometimes someone would speed by in a white coat. Inside the waiting room, time was frozen—but out there, life went on. People went to work and took lunch breaks. Others left for their homes and some were just arriving. People moved. People breathed. Life moved forward.
Sam sighed, rubbing the pads of his fingers in circles at his temples. He thought about calling Dean—just to make sure he'd made it back to their room okay. But every time he reached for his phone, the thought of Dean actually getting some sleep would stop him from carrying it through.
"Hey, you okay?" Nathan's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Letting his hands slip down to rub his thighs, Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm good. Just been a really long day, ya know?"
"Tell me about it." Nathan took a seat across from him and leaned back with a yawn. "It has been a long day. I think hospitals are caught in some weird time lag. Becky said you could come back, just give it a few minutes—the nurses were changing his sheets and she didn't think you or Aaron would enjoy that awkward moment."
Sam laughed lightly. "No, not so much. How was he?"
Nathan's face sobered and he shrugged. "He looks like he's sleeping. Actually, he looks pretty good for someone who coded. It's… I don't know… hard to believe, I guess."
Sam nodded, thinking about what Dean had said earlier. Dean hadn't been around when Aaron slipped into the coma, but it did seem that he was better now that Dean was gone. Sam didn't know what to make of that.
"So," Nathan began, "you really saw Jess? She was here?"
Inwardly, Sam groaned. This really wasn't something he was keen on discussing. "Yeah, she was… and I did."
Nathan nodded, pulling a lip in under his teeth. "I don't get it, Sam. Why is she hurting Dean? It doesn't make any sense."
Shrugging, Sam said, "I don't think it's intentional—just a side effect of the whole thing."
"But why him? None of us even knew Dean. Why not haunt someone she was closer to?"
"I honestly don't know." Sam hesitated, wondering how deep to get into this. "It's a long story, but it's our best guess that Dean is attracting that kind of attention right now. Remember the nightmares I told you about? Well, it's all a part of it."
"And she hasn't told you what she wants?" Nathan whispered as a couple walked into the room.
"No. She's trying—but sometimes spirits have a hard time communicating. Plus, it takes a lot of energy for a spirit to communicate from distances—I don't think she's strong enough outside the apartment."
"But if she's attached to Dean, how are you able to see her? We didn't see anything."
"I don't know if direct body contact would work for anyone or if it's just me… but I can see her when I'm touching Dean."
Nathan rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Wow. No wonder you seem distracted. What are you guys gonna do?"
Sam shook his head. "Man, I don't know. I mean, we don't even know how any of this is possible."
"Maybe you guys should just get as far away from here as you can? Maybe with distance, it would break whatever this is?"
"Only problem is," Sam said, "distance doesn't seem to stop the nightmares. Plus, something is killing people. Dean's not gonna walk away from that. He thinks it's his personal duty to save everyone in the world."
Sam felt Nathan's gaze sharpen on him as he asked, "And you don't?"
Slouching back in his chair, Sam confessed, "In this case, it strikes a little too close to home—but, otherwise? Not really. I mean, why does it have to be us all the time? And you can't save everyone… no matter what we do, people die."
Nathan's jaw clenched. "But you have to try, Sam. People—people don't know about all the darkness in the world. They don't know monsters are real… but you do. I mean, for every person you save, someone else doesn't have to grieve for them. Doesn't that make it worth it?"
It hit Sam where Nathan was coming from and the guilt that rose up twisted his stomach sour. "I'm sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry about Rachel. If I could have saved her…."
"So, you do know something." Nathan shook his head and looked down as he took a breath. "With all you know, why didn't you help her? She was my sister, my whole world."
And there was the question Sam had been hoping to avoid since meeting back up with Nathan. Again, the guilt bubbled up thick and inescapable.
"It's complicated. But the short of it is, I wasn't in a good place when all that was going on—I was still so angry with my dad, with our way of life. Maybe I got too comfortable being normal. But, I swear, I didn't know what was happening until it was too late or I would've tried."
Nathan smiled bitterly. "Do you know what I would have given to talk about it with someone? I thought I was going crazy, Sam… and I couldn't talk about any of it because who would've believed me? If only I had believed in her—but I didn't. I pretended not to see, pretended not to notice the weird things happening."
"You can't blame yourself. You weren't prepared for something like that. I should've known, but even I didn't figure it out. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you like I should've been. I was too scared to tell anyone about myself—I just wanted to get as far away from that life as I could, especially after Jess and I got together."
Nathan sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, I get fear, I do. I understand all too well about being scared. But you could've trusted me. I would've kept your secret, I would've believed you."
Sam swallowed and stared at the space between their feet. "I'm sorry. I wish I could go back, do a lot of things different."
"Well," Nathan shrugged, "hindsight is 20/20 as they say. I just don't want anyone else I care about to get hurt—I'm glad you and your brother are here." Nathan smiled tentatively, his eyes still shiny.
"Yeah," Sam whispered. "I promise, we'll figure this out. Dean and I will stop whatever this is."
Nathan looked at him a little sadly. "Good."
"Sam?" Becky said from the doorway. She waited until Sam looked up and then said, "You can come see him now."
WCAWCAWCA
Lori heard the rumble of Dean's car outside and stopped mid-pace to hurry to the backdoor. Her apartment was really an old, two-story house with outside access to each level, the kitchen being shared with the people upstairs who never seemed to be around. Her living area took up most of the bottom floor and had a small space for parking around the back of the house where the familiar black car was currently rolling to a stop. This was a good thing since they'd be able to come and go from the house without disturbing or being disturbed.
It felt like hours since Chris had called, but it hadn't been but a matter of minutes. Chris hadn't given a lot of detail, so she wasn't sure what to expect, but she knew Dean wouldn't seek her out unless it was serious. She'd never heard Chris sound so freaked. That alone was enough to put her on alert. He was the calm one that always knew how to command a situation. She admired him for that as much as she resented his pessimism and loud mouth.
When she pulled her door open, Chris was already climbing out of the car and moving to the backseat. Running out to meet them, she felt her heart thud when she realized Dean wasn't conscious.
"Why didn't you take him to the hospital?!" she asked as Chris lifted Dean onto his shoulders with a grunt.
"Can we talk about it after we get him inside? He's heavier than he looks." Chris didn't wait for an answer before plodding toward the house.
"What happened? Is that blood?!" She realized her voice was shrill, but she couldn't grasp the calm professionalism that she normally possessed in emergency situations.
"Just get the door," Chris snapped, staggering onto the back porch.
Lori yanked the door open, trying to press her body out of the way as Chris pushed past.
"Where'm I taking him?" he asked, moving inside.
"Bedroom."
She ran around him into her room, flipping the light on as she went. Chris came through behind her and gently eased Dean down onto her bed. When he straightened back up, his shoulder was stained with Dean's blood—it blackened the front of his shirt and dried streaks smeared his jeans. Immediately, her eyes flew over Dean's body, evaluating the seriousness of the blood loss.
Crawling onto the bed next to him, she began stripping his coat and outer shirt off as she called, "Dean. Wake up." When he didn't respond, she shook him gently and called to him again. Still nothing. She raked her knuckles up and down his sternum to see if he'd respond to pain and was relieved when he grimaced a little.
"Okay, can we talk about why he's not at a hospital right now?" She questioned as she peeled back his t-shirt to check the wounds on his chest. She quickly bunched up the shirt she had removed and pressed it into the lacerations, bearing down. Wondering why she wasn't getting an answer, she shot a look over her shoulder at Chris and faltered at the expression on his face. His eyes dragged from Dean to her and then back again.
"He made me promise I wouldn't. He said it wasn't that bad, that he just needed rest—mumbled something about it not being real. He made me promise I wouldn't," he repeated, helplessly. His soiled shirt hung forgotten in his limp fingers where he'd stripped it off.
Lori shifted the bloody compress aside. The oozing blood looked to be slowing enough to begin stitching, which was a good sign. She pressed the wadded up shirt back in place, ran a shaky hand under her nose and stood part way up to lend more weight to the compression. "He's unconscious, Chris—isn't responding to anything but more pain and his breathing is too fast. How bad does it need to be?!"
Chris's face contorted and he growled, "I did what he asked. He was adamant about not going to the hospital. Now, are you just gonna stand there and freak out or are you gonna help him?"
Her open mouth snapped shut and she balled her hands into fists as she released the saturated cloth. With a glower, she strode into the bathroom and yanked towels from her cupboard, then pushed them roughly into Chris's chest.
"Use these to clear away as much blood as you can and then keep the pressure on until I get back. I've gotta go see what kind of supplies I've got with me." By the time her arms were loaded with everything she thought she might need, Chris had already discarded a soaked towel and was bearing down on the remaining towels covering Dean's wounds.
"Lucky for us, I have some supplies," she said, throwing everything onto the bed. "First thing we need to do is clean the wounds and get them stitched. Start talking while we work. Tell me everything that happened so I'll know what we're dealing with. I need to know how long he's been out, how he got his injuries, things like that."
Chris nodded once, sharply. "Just tell me what to do and I'll help."
And that was the part of Chris she loved. He could be counted on in a pinch. Leaving him to keep the pressure on a little longer, she drew a big bowl of warm water and cleared a spot for it on her nightstand, knocking her alarm clock to the floor. Setting up her supplies and sterilizing what she'd need, she worked quickly and efficiently, letting instinct take over as she cut Dean's shredded t-shirt from his body. The bare skin was burned pink—nothing life threatening—but she wasn't sure if it was new or leftover from last time. Carefully, she removed his necklace and set it aside.
As she cleaned away the blood, she noticed Chris had become too quiet again. Turning her head to check that he wasn't about to pass out or, worse, get sick, she caught his wide-eyed stare as he gaped at Dean.
"You're not gonna pass out on me are you?" The grooves across Dean's chest were nasty looking, but not life threatening if properly treated—but she guessed it might be alarming to someone unused to so much blood.
"Uh, no, I'm okay," Chris finally spoke. "Are all those white lines scars?"
Things clicked into place, she finally understood. She remembered her own shock when she'd first seen them herself. "He's got a lot of them, doesn't he? Considering what he does, it's not really a surprise, is it?"
"I guess I hadn't really thought about it," Chris said weakly.
"I don't imagine this life's easy. It's no wonder Sam wanted out. Can't really fault him for that." She shook her head. "Okay, I'm going to start stitching these up. I need you to take that extra gauze," she pointed to the plastic wrapped bandages, "and help keep the area clear for me. Use this saline solution to keep it clean. And, Chris, you need to stay focused—talk to me, tell me what happened."
Chris climbed onto the bed and did as she asked. His hands shook a little, but at least his color seemed to be coming back. "We went back to Jess's apartment."
Her eyebrows climbed. "After what happened last time?!" Then with barely a hesitation, she said, "Sam doesn't know about this, does he?"
Chris winced. "No, Sam doesn't know—Dean promised him he'd go back to their room and sleep."
"Where exactly is Sam?"
"He's at the hospital." At her puzzled look, he asked, "Didn't you get the messages? Aaron took a turn for the worse. He's in a coma."
Lori's eyes widened and she shook her head slowly. "M-my phone died—it's probably charged now, but I haven't checked my messages yet."
"Well, you might want to get on that," Chris bit out, squeezing too hard on the bottle in his hand, squirting saline solution all over.
Guilt stung sharp and Lori chewed her lip as she watched him curse and try to clean up the mess he'd made. She blinked to clear her vision so she could keep working. A warm hand squeezed her wrist where it had paused mid-motion, needle in hand.
"Sorry. Just feeling a little tense right now." Chris gave her arm a pat. "You didn't do anything wrong… I'm just…." He shook his head, let the sentence fall incomplete as he stared at the neat row of thread she'd laid down in Dean's pale skin.
Lori resumed working, worry and questions mixing together. "Okay, so Sam's at the hospital. Aaron's in a coma… and you and Dean decided to take a stroll over to the very same apartment where Aaron was hurt?"
Chris shrugged, strained humor filling his voice as he said, "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Lori scoffed. "You don't believe in any of this. Why would you go? We all know Dean's not your favorite person." She glanced at him briefly.
"Look, after what I just saw? I don't know what I believe." He tossed aside a saturated piece of gauze and reached for a fresh one, running it along the saline washed skin below her needle. "You should've seen it, Lori. Jess was there, I saw her. And there was something else there too—God, I don't even know. But… he saved me," he nodded at Dean. "That's how he got hurt, pulled me out of the way and, whatever that thing was, it did this to him. Would've been me." Chris shook his head again, like it was just too much to process.
"Okay. Okay," she soothed—who she was soothing, him or her, she wasn't sure. She shook her attention away from Chris. "Does he have any other injuries besides this?"
"I-I don't know. Jess threw him against the wall pretty hard when that thing showed up. Judging by the dent in the wall, he hit his head pretty hard."
Lori nodded, eager to keep him focused on what they were doing. "Okay, I'll check as soon as we finish this. What else?"
"Um," a funny look crossed Chris's face, "this is gonna sound completely insane."
Rolling her eyes, she said, "Just tell me. I'll believe you, okay?"
"Well, like I said, Jess—she threw him against the wall and then did something to banish whatever the other thing was. Then the door slammed shut. Next thing I know, Dean's sliding up the wall and onto the ceiling."
Lori looked at him incredulously, but urged him to continue.
"Then, uh, she was there with him… and, and they were both on fire. But it wasn't a normal fire. I didn't feel any heat—nothing around them burned, not even his clothes. And Dean, he kept making these terrible noises… but he also talked to her. I don't know if she understood him, but after a while she disappeared and he fell to the bed."
Lori scanned Dean's skin. "Well, that explains the burns. Then you came directly here?"
Chris looked at her like she was the crazy one for being so calm and accepting, but nodded slowly. Finally finished with the stitches, she spread antibiotic salve on top and dressed them.
"Okay, let's check his head," she said, running her fingers through his hair, feeling his scalp for bumps. Dead center in the back was a good-sized lump. She grabbed her penlight, lifting each eyelid, then ran through the rest of his vitals.
"Well?" Chris said when she sat back.
"His heart rate and respiration are elevated, but nothing dangerous—only thing that concerns me is he isn't responding to stimuli like he should. It doesn't make sense because his concussion is mild—his pupils reacted to the light like they should. Of course, there is the blood loss and head injuries are sometimes tricky no matter how mild. I'd feel a lot better with him at a hospital."
"I promised we wouldn't. It seemed important to him." Chris didn't meet her eyes—she knew he didn't care about what Dean wanted—but she knew he was telling the truth about Dean being adamant. He pulled a hand across the back of his neck. "I mean, he's not—it's not a coma like Aaron?"
Lori laid a hand on Dean's arm, just resting her fingers lightly on his skin for the contact. "Any person who doesn't respond normally to stimuli for a prolonged period can be considered in a coma—but, no, probably not like Aaron. But, I don't really know anything about Aaron's condition."
"Well, what do we do now?"
Lori watched him fidgeting on the bed across from her, giving her pleading eyes, and then looked at Dean lying silent and pale beside her. Finally she nodded her head, reaching a decision. "Keep an eye on him. Monitor his vitals at intervals and wait. If he gets worse or if he doesn't wake up in a few hours, then I don't care what he wants, he goes to the hospital. Got it?"
Chris nodded. "Yeah, okay."
"Think we should call Sam?" She asked.
"No!" Chris exclaimed. Looking apologetic, he continued, "Let's wait —if we have to take Dean to the hospital, then definitely—but until then, let's not give the kid more to go gray over."
Ah, there we go, she thought. Chris's weakness seemed to be Sam and she had her suspicions about that.
"I don't know, Chris. Sam seems awfully protective of his brother. He finds out we didn't tell him about this, he's gonna be royally pissed."
"Better pissed than having a stroke over something he has no control over. And Becky needs someone with her; I feel better about it being Sam rather than Nathan. Besides, I promised and you know I keep my promises."
"Well, you know Sam better than I do, so your call." Lori leaned over Dean and ran a hand over his hair. "C'mon, Dean. You've gotta wake up so Sam doesn't beat Chris's face in. That'd be ugly."
Chris scowled at her. "Nice, Lori, real nice."
She shrugged, "I just know how I'd feel if this were my brother."
Chris's brow wrinkled and his gaze fell to Dean. "Yeah. I guess I just keep forgetting he's Sam's brother. It's so… weird."
"That Sam has a brother?" She said, moving to clear the mess they'd made from the bed. Even after everything, she still had a hard time wrapping her mind around all the dynamics between these brothers and her friends.
"That he and Sam are even related."
"Why's that so hard to believe? Not all siblings favor each other in looks."
"I know, but it's just… Sam's a big puppy with his heart in his eyes. Smart, genius smart, with a bright future. This guy. I don't even know what it is I see in his eyes, but he's more like a junkyard dog than a puppy. He's… not like Sam, at all."
Lori frowned. "I think you're letting your baggage color your perceptions, my friend. I get the impression there's more to Sam than that. Besides, I may not know Dean well, but even I can see he's a good guy—he cares about people. And he loves Sam. More than anything."
"Yeah?" Chris looked doubtful, anger obviously lingering. "Then why does he keep dragging Sam down? If he loves him so much, why doesn't he cut him loose, send him back to school where he belongs instead of letting him waste his life like this? It's not safe, obviously. It's reckless and irresponsible."
Defensiveness curdled in her gut and she clipped, "Oh, and now you're an expert about where Sam belongs and how best to keep him safe? Did it ever occur to you that Sam is an adult capable of making his own decisions? Maybe this is where Sam belongs. What could possibly be more worthwhile than fighting evil no one else knows about? They keep other people safe. I'd say it's downright heroic what they do."
Chris jumped up and walked over to the window, turning his back. "Well, I don't like it. He's my friend. He deserves better. He deserves to be happy…safe."
"And Dean doesn't?" she countered. "I don't get what your deal with him is. He saved your life. What is it about him that gets you so wound up?"
"Because," Chris turned, bitterness glimmering in his eyes, "I know guys like him. I know how they tear down the people they love. Selfish and conceited."
Lori crossed her arms and stared Chris right in the eyes. "Are we talking about Dean… or you?"
His face paled, then red crept up his neck and infused his ears and cheeks. Chris clenched his jaw and stared back for a tense moment. "I think I need some air," he finally said, turning on his heel to storm out the door, backdoor slamming behind him a few seconds later.
Feeling bad for what she'd said, Lori's anger cooled instantly. The adrenaline hadn't had time to recede, though, and left her jittery and anxious. She dropped weakly next to Dean, her hand automatically sifting through his hair.
"I really shouldn't have gone there. But he's so quick to judge. He has issues, you know." Dean didn't respond to anything she'd said and she let her eyes roam over his face, wondering what was happening behind his closed eyes. "C'mon, Dean. Come back from wherever you are. Please. No matter what that idiot thinks, I know Sam needs you, even if it doesn't always show. And I've made my own promises. You have to be okay. Okay?"
As she watched him, his eyes moved rapidly under his closed lids. She shook her head and frowned. If Dean was actively dreaming, this was no common unconsciousness. She brushed a thumb over the freckles littering his eyelid. "What are you seeing? Why won't you wake up?"
Freckles, like mushrooms, seemed to pop up in the oddest places across his face. She smiled to herself. "How can someone so bullheaded have so many freckles? I'm sorry to bring it to your attention, buddy, but it really puts a dent in your tough-guy image." At the lack of response, she muttered. "Well, guess I'd better get comfy. Looks like you're gonna be stubborn."
With a final pat to his cheek, she said, "You be good while I go make coffee." Then she got up and, with one last look, left him to rest while she made her way into the kitchen.
WCAWCAWCA
Cold, it's all Dean knew. He exhaled, fully expecting to see a cloud of frozen vapor appear—but it didn't. Instead, the coldness was deep in the center of him—his insides frozen. Confusion at finding himself still stuck to the ceiling made him reevaluate what he remembered happening. He thought it was over, he thought she'd let him go—but here he was, pinned like a butterfly. Only now, he was alone in pitch black—bizarre given how the room was always gray-washed by some kind of ambient light source. Searching the inky darkness below, he tried to pick out the bed that should be right under him—but there wasn't even enough light to do that.
A sickening burn sliced through the layers of his abdomen and it throbbed the moment air hit it. His skin tingled, pinched all over with a growing intensity that transitioned into agony. As it began to torment, he began to ignite. His incandescence illuminated the bed below and the person stretched across it. Dean's chest panged as panic tripped through him. Sam. It was Sam lying beneath him, red drops of blood dotting his forehead. Sam's eyes opened to look up and Dean's body burst into flames.
A desperate "No!" ripped from Dean's throat, his eyes locked on the horror twisting his little brother's face. How was it possible to hear Sam's cries over sizzling skin and the roaring fire consuming him? The wretched stench of burning hair, the sharp smell of ash floating all around him, filled his nostrils—the pain indescribable. Below him, Sam was catching fire from the sloughing of Dean's clothing and skin, his screams joining Dean's though he made no move to get away. There was no one to rescue him this time.
Sam shouted, "No! No! Please, no!" Over and over again until Dean ached with please, no. His brother was dying horrifically beneath him as he burned without end and he just couldn't pass out, could not escape. He wished for it to be over quick, for Sam and then for himself. He prayed that if God was listening, he'd give them that mercy. And then Jessica materialized beneath him. She whispered, "You see, Dean? Do you see?"
He wanted to ask, "See what?" but was unable to stretch his lips around the words. Her sad eyes plead with him to understand, but he could only scream hoarsely from the back of his throat.
To be continued...