A/N: PLEASE READ: First of all, let me apologize for this lengthy author's note ahead of time—I really want to thank all of you for your extreme patience and give you an explanation. I did not lie to you when I said I was having this chapter beta read as I was posting the last chapter so you wouldn't have to wait (April 2015). In fact, this chapter has been sitting on my laptop for over a year now waiting for me to complete those corrections I received. I am so sorry for the huge delay.
May of 2015, my dad went into the hospital for some serious health related issues. Between winding down the school year, packing up my entire classroom, moving all my things into my new room, and spending time in the hospital with Dad, I didn't get around to getting those corrections done.
Then, just when I thought I'd have a moment to relax, we found out my dad had terminal lung cancer—and I just stopped everything fandom related. Nothing really mattered from that point forward. I really don't know how I would have made it through that summer if not for my husband. He loaded me up in the car and took me for long drives in the country-nature eases my anxiety and it was the thing that brought me some peace.
I basically spent my summer either at my parents (when not at the hospital), in nature (stopping to collect things I found interesting—lots of moss), revamping my new classroom (to put me at ease with my new position), playing a mindless game so I couldn't dwell, or sleeping.
My dad passed away on November 11th, 2015—my life will never be the same without him and I still miss him dearly. It's only been as recent as the last few months or so that I've started listening to music again and finding a desire to get back to writing—it's like coming out of a long fugue (and it's a work in progress, much like this fiction).
I've done the best I can to make the corrections given to me and to make this into something worth posting, but I honestly can't promise anything because I change it every time I read it (several, several times). I'm certain there are many mistakes due to all the changes I've made since the beta read and I've likely broken a lot of good writing rules. My apologies there, too.
Again, thank you for your patience and my sincerest apologies for never responding to any of the reviews, comments or notes sent to me. For this entire year, I've been mostly mute online and I haven't been checking my e-mail much. I can't explain it and I can't promise it will completely change (though I'm trying), but I am still here, still enjoying every word you guys send me and wishing each and every one of you the very best. Your encouragement keeps me going. God's blessings to you all.
A/N#2: My everlasting thanks and gratitude to Sodakey for encouraging me and being so kind as to beta read this story—much to the improvement of each and every chapter. Thank you.
Chapter 9: Way Down We Go
"…I no longer know my way home." ~ Andre Söderlund
Lori poured steaming coffee into the largest mug she owned. Needing the boost, she'd dug out her dark roast batch, chocolate notes and earthy tones—as strong as tolerable. She powered through late-night study sessions with it and knew it would keep her alert if anything would. Cradling the hot cup in her hands, she inhaled the rich, bitter fragrance. The smell always made her think of home.
The house was quiet—no movement or sound from the upstairs neighbors—making it easy to imagine herself alone in the house. She didn't realize her eyes had closed until a pained cry had her blinking them open. She hurried toward the sound, heart tripping over the awful little noises. Entering the room, her eyes fell on Dean's fingers scrabbling at his sides, the rasping of fabric and his pants loud in her ears. She abandoned her mug and settled next to Dean's waist, automatically rubbing comfort up and down his exposed arm.
"Dean? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"
Dean inhaled sharply, brows drawing inward. Rapid eye movements beneath his eyelids spoke of an active brain spinning unconscious tales—dreams, nightmares.
"Hey, c'mon, wake up." Lori patted his shoulder. "You're dreaming, Dean. Open your eyes. Open your eyes for me."
At the front of the house, a door opened and then snicked shut. But she didn't have time to worry about Chris. Dean's movements strengthened, grew frantic, his head thrashing around while his legs and arms wildly fought the blankets.
Lori shook Dean's shoulders, hard. "Dean, snap out of it. Wake up now!"
Dean's fists clenched in the bedding and his body bowed. Movement behind her vaguely registered as she worked to wake him up.
"Dean!" Lori called, pinching the muscle at the base of his neck and twisting sharply. Not satisfied with his pained grunt, she vigorously rubbed her knuckles up and down his sternum. Dean responded by blinding flailing, trying to knock away the source of the pain, but he did not wake up.
"What the hell?!" Chris asked, coming to a halt behind her. "Lori?"
"He's having some kind of nightmare and I can't wake him."
Chris hovered at her right shoulder. "Are you—it's-it's not a seizure?"
Lori spared him a glance. "I know seizures and this ain't it."
"Sam!" Dean's voice boomed, making them both jump. "Sam!" Despair and grief broke his voice, dragging the name out into double syllables. Lori felt her stomach clench—she knew that kind of ache. The raw pain of helplessness and grief.
"Sam's fine," she tried. Louder this time, she enunciated, "Dean, Sam's okay. Wake up, this—it's only a dream."
Dean only fought harder, breath coming in strained huffs as his face twisted; completely unresponsive to outside stimulus. Lori frowned, staring at where her hands braced against his shoulders to keep him still. Dean's skin, previously cool and clammy, warmed beneath her palms, grew hot and dry, and then warmer still, until he suddenly burned with fever. A small line of blood trickled out of his nose and when Lori fumbled for his pulse, it thundered impossibly against her fingertips.
"This isn't good. Chris, help me!"
Chris shifted, his fists twitching at his sides. "I don't know what to do!"
"Me, either!" This was way outside her expertise. Her instincts warned this was more about the dream than any physical injury—but the physical manifestation was the only part she knew how to treat.
"Um," her eyes swept the place, not seeing the room as her mind spun in circles. "Get the bowl I used earlier. Empty it, fill it with fresh water and ice, and then bring a hand towel. Maybe we can shock him awake."
After Chris nodded and left the room, Lori slapped Dean's cheek, hard enough to leave red marks on the skin. "Wake up! You hear me, Dean Winchester? Wake up! Now!"
Dean's body jerked and he whimpered in his throat. Sweat beaded along his brow and neckline, his skin flushing with fever.
~~WCA~~
"S'rry. So s'rry," he slurred.
"You need to see," Jessica's voice called, urgent and loud. But only Sam mattered and all that existed was fire and ash—searing heat scorching his body. Dean whimpered low, closed his eyes against the sight of his little brother burning up. His own pain did not matter. Jessica slammed him against the ceiling, her face fierce when he opened his eyes.
"No!" she said. "You must. Must see."
Dean drew on all his strength, everything he had, and forced himself to whisper, "See. What?"
"See, Dean. See guilt."
She pointed down at Sam's remains—nothing but burning bones. Dean shut his eyes and turned away. She blamed him too. If he hadn't come for Sam, this wouldn't be happening. If he'd manned up—withstood the lonely need to have his family back—none of this would've happened. It was his fault—he led the demon straight to Sam and Jessica's doorstep. Sam's pain and loss were on him. And now, his death. Chris had been right about everything.
"Sorry. So sorry," he whispered.
~~WCA~~
Lori screamed in his face, "Dean Winchester, you wake up and fight this! You fight, you hear me? You fight this!"
In the short time Chris took to do as she asked, Dean's thrashing had abated—but not because he was better. His body was failing; he was giving up.
She pressed a hand to her galloping heart, trying to breathe through her panic. This wasn't happening. This never happens in real life. People don't die from nightmares or from being haunted. They don't. She had no idea how to stop this.
A tear leaked from Dean's left eye as he choked on a gulped snuffle and her breath dragged, skipped in her chest, her own tears building. She ached to see him in so much pain.
She grabbed his heated cheeks between her palms, gentle this time. "Dean, please. Please. If you don't wake up right now, I'm calling an ambulance. I don't care about your stubborn pride, I don't care if it makes Sam instantly old—I will call them, I swear."
~~WCA~~
The weight of his burden crippled Dean's ability to think, to breathe. He wanted to die. He welcomed it. Sammy was gone because he'd failed. Giving up was the easiest thing in the world to do.
This time when Jessica slammed him against the ceiling, he accepted her anger. He deserved it. Every blow a redemption. He wanted the pain. He needed the pain. It was purifying, absolute, and so much easier than guilt and heartbreak. Wetness cooled his cheek and he choked on a sob.
"NO!" Jessica wailed. "No, no, no," she punctuated each word with a teeth-rattling slam into the ceiling. Her blows knocked the breath from his lungs and his eyes sprang open. The next blow forced him to inhale. Flames licked his nostrils and burned the air from his lungs.
"See, see, see," she cried. "Help."
Dean stared into her face, distorted and ugly where it had been serene and beautiful.
"Why, why, why," she chanted, "Guilty, guilty. So guilty. See. SEE!"
With surprise, Dean sensed she was weakening. Not only was her strength giving out, but she was becoming less solid. Even the flames were receding. Awareness of another time and place squirmed through his mind. Faint whispers crowded into his head and beckoned to him. But he didn't want to leave Sam behind. He wanted to die with him.
He reached for Jessica, his right arm breaking free from the ceiling and swiping through her, leaving cool mist in its wake.
"Nooo!"
~~WCA~~
"Okay, here!" Chris said, rushing in, water sloshing over the sides of the bowl. Lori grabbed it from him, turned, and nearly dropped it. Dean's skin glowed from within—became luminous.
"What the—?" Chris gaped.
She didn't have time to question it, she shoved the bowl onto the nightstand with shaking fingers. Lori grabbed the cloth out of the ice bath, folded it in half and pressed it against Dean's face, drawing it down his neck and across his chest. He flinched away, face wrinkled in distress. She repeated the motion and his arm thrust out to bat the cold away, missing her face by centimeters. Chris scrambled next to Dean and pinned his arms to the bed.
Shock filled Chris's voice. "Damn, he's burning up!"
"That's it, Dean," Lori encouraged, ignoring Chris altogether. "Wake up, wake up for me."
The third time she dipped the rag into the bowl and drew it across his skin, his eyes slammed open, flames echoing in their reflection like mirrored glass. Lori's gasp mixed with Chris's strangled choke. Dean's mouth opened on a gulping inhalation, like a drowning man sucking in oxygen. His face twisted into torment, a loud groan rumbling from his throat.
Lori whispered, "Dean?"
The fire dancing in his irises faded and he blinked, another tear slipping down his temple. His head rolled toward her, but his distant eyes scanned the room beyond, searching. He blinked again and coughed roughly.
"S'm," he rasped. "S'mmy?" His searching became frenzied and he fought against the grip Chris had on him.
"Easy, Dean," Lori soothed. "Take it easy, you're safe now."
"S'm," he croaked, brittle and weak.
The pungent tang of char carried on his breath, rising from his hair and skin even though there were no visible signs of a cause.
"Sam's at the hospital. Remember?" Chris said.
Dean's movements became more frantic immediately and Lori realized what he must think. "No-no-no, he's fine! Sam's fine, he's okay." She grabbed his face again and held him still, waiting for his gaze to focus on hers. Once she had his attention and he quietened, she said, "Sam is okay. He's visiting Aaron. Remember? Aaron at the hospital?"
"Aaron?" Dean seemed confused, but nodded and relaxed a little. He whispered, "Sam's okay?"
She nodded. "Sam's okay."
Dean squeezed his eyelids shut and he sighed, body sagging into the bed. Lori pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, surprised to find his skin rapidly cooling. Just like that. Chris released his hold on Dean, bewilderment coloring his face. He turned to sit facing away from them, running a shaky hand through his hair. She couldn't blame him; that had been terrifying.
Her eyes drifted down to Dean's chest and she deflated at the blood seeping through his bandages. He'd pulled some stitches and she'd have to redo them. When she looked up, a sliver of green peered back at her.
"You scared us. I was this," she held up her fingers to show a tiny space between them, "close to hauling you off to the hospital. Still not sure that's not where you belong."
"M'fine," he rasped. His eyes wandered to the ceiling and he swallowed, wincing.
"Yeah, because you sound it, and pallid is the new tan." When he refused to acknowledge her attempt to lighten things, she continued, "You look terrible, so I'll wait to play twenty questions about what just happened. But, I do need to check your stitches. Okay?"
"Yeah, s'fine," he muttered.
"Great. I'm gonna go grab the kit and we'll get started. I need to get your vitals again while I'm at it." Lori stared at Chris leaning forward on his elbows, head tucked into one hand. "You boys be good."
~~WCA~~
Lori left, leaving him alone with Chris sitting hunched on the side of the bed next to his hips, one detail away from becoming a real-life presentation of one of Rodin's Thinkers.
Dean lay still, preoccupied with trying to separate dream from reality. The dream—or whatever it was—had seemed too real. More so than the reality before him; the reality that paled in comparison. The smell of smoke lingered in his nostrils, his skin stinging where he'd been on fire. His back throbbed where Jessica had been slamming him against the ceiling. He concentrated on accepting that it wasn't real—any of it—and that helped dim the pain to a degree. He forced himself to take each breath in slowly and hold it before letting it out, concentrating on every physical stimulus around him, hoping to ground himself to here and now.
"The things you dream about," Chris began, not turning around or changing position, "do they come true?"
Dean tried to answer but coughed against the dryness of his raw throat. He swallowed and tried again. "No." The word scraped out, making him grimace at the sound.
Chris turned to him, eyes haunted. "So Sam's not really in danger? It's some screwed up nightmare?"
"Yeah, he's-he's safe."
The next question came after long hesitation, the struggle clear on Chris's face. "Then what was that? The fire in your eyes—your skin glowing. How's that possible?"
Dean didn't have the words to explain it—it shook him a little to know whatever was happening to him had some basis in reality. With gravity sucking at his leaden body and the shock of this revelation—answering Chris's question was beyond him.
When it became obvious no answer was forthcoming, Chris scrutinized his face and asked, "Is it Jessica? Did she do this?"
"Partly, but… don't think that's all there is—don't think she wants to hurt me. She wants help—not her fault. The fault belongs to whoever summoned her."
Chris's eyes widened. "Someone summoned her? How do you know that?"
Dean thought about the locket tucked away in his pocket. "Just do. Know what to look for."
Chris shook his head, lips pinching together. "Who would do such a thing? And why?"
"Dunno. Had to be someone—" Dean swallowed, then took a breath to finish, "someone close to her."
Chris's eyes narrowed. "You think it's one of us, don't you?"
"Yeah, I do."
"No, man. Just, no. We all cared about her—about Sam. That doesn't make sense," Chris's voice rose in agitation and he stood, leaning over Dean. "No, no. This is your way of turning Sam against us. You're afraid now he's back where he belongs, he'll want to stay. Maybe you even believe it because it's what you want to believe—that he's better off with you—when the truth is, you know he's not."
Dean's heart thumped-lurched in his chest. His hand pressed against the pain there as his eyes slid shut. Chris wasn't all wrong. He was afraid that Sam would want to stay. He was afraid Sam was better off here. But the evidence pointed to someone close to Jessica. He wasn't ready to lay his cards out, though. Not yet. But he'd never want to see Sam hurt—would never want one of his brother's friends to be responsible for this.
"You selfish ba—"
"Chris!" Lori hissed, appalled voice drawing their immediate attention. "What is wrong with you!? He's hurt, he's exhausted, and he doesn't need you yelling at him." When Chris appeared undeterred, she added, "You said yourself that he saved your life. This how you repay him?"
Dean frowned at the rising anger in her voice. He hated being the center of conflict—had been there often enough —and it always made his skin crawl with unease, even when it happened between strangers. A warm hand covered his where it lay forgotten, still pressing into his chest.
"You okay?"
He let the breath he'd been holding escape through his nose and nodded, letting his hand slip from under hers to lie at his side. He glanced at Chris whose eyes were averted to the floor.
"I'm sorry," Dean offered, understanding why Chris felt upset. "I know it's not what you want to hear… but I have proof. Something personal used to summon her."
Lori paled. "Someone she knew brought her back on purpose?"
Dean nodded, humming against the pain the movement brought.
"I don't… that's—" She stammered to a stop. "Chris?"
Chris shook his head with a hard jerk, cutting her off. A whirl of emotion swam across his face, but at least he seemed to be thinking it over.
"Okay, alright," Lori breathed after the silence became awkward, "we can talk about this later. We need to take care of you."
Lori pulled the covers to Dean's waist, revealing he was dressed in nothing but his boxer briefs.
"Where are my—" he began, "—ah, dammit!" he finished when she ripped the tape from the bandages covering his chest with quick efficient movements. "Easy, nurse Ratchet," he croaked.
"Sorry, but there's no painless way to remove this stuff. It's got extra stick—it's all I have here at the house."
Bandages removed, she wiped away beads of blood and checked which stitches needed to be redone. Dean studied the grooves scrawled into his stomach and chest. They weren't the worst he'd ever had, but they hurt enough and they would be slow to heal.
"You've ripped some of them out. Some of your skin tore too, which will be a pain to re-stitch. I'm sorry, Dean." She met his gaze, sincerity heavy in her words, "I don't have anything to numb you. I'll have to do it without it—I've got pain meds?"
He was already shaking his head before she finished the sentence. "Naw, s'alright. Not my first rodeo." He smiled at her, hoping it would make her feel better. He really didn't want to be dosed and at the mercy of strangers.
Nodding, Lori turned to Chris. "Think you can help?"
Chris sighed, shoulders drooping. "What do you need me to do?"
She handed him tweezers and a pair of tiny scissors and Dean's heart sank. The current situation felt compromising enough—but to be vulnerable beneath Chris's hands? Dean couldn't help a little flutter of trapped panic.
"You're going to clip the knots along here," Lori continued, oblivious to Dean's discomfort, "here and here. Use the tweezers to lift the knot away from the skin enough you can cut right below the knot, then pull the thread out. I'm gonna sterilize the needle and see if I have more gauze stashed somewhere. You can handle this?"
Dean caught the expression on her face—more concern than anything else. Chris visibly softened under her care and nodded once.
"Good," she said, digging the needle from the suture kit and leaving the room.
Sitting down, Chris's glance bounced from the stitches to Dean's face and then back. He didn't seem to sense Dean's nervousness as he leaned in and moved the tweezers toward the first stitch. Small trembles in his hands made Dean cringe, but also helped to relieve Dean's sense of vulnerability—that small weakness gave Dean a better place to work from. Chris lifted the knot enough to slide the scissors in and snip the knot off the top. With that accomplished, he eased the thread from the skin, his face blanching as if it was his own flesh he was working on. By the time he finished the first line, he'd broken out in a sweat and had turned green.
"You want me to do it?" Dean asked, a wheeze whistling with the words. And, man, right now was not the time for that. He wasn't even sure what had happened to his inhaler.
Chris held his gaze a minute before shaking his head. "I've got it."
He lifted his hands again and the trembling was so severe Dean grabbed him by the wrist. "S'ok, let me."
Gratefulness and uncertainty warred across Chris's face before he finally gave in and handed the tools over. As soon as his shaking hands were empty, Chris gripped them together, a pink tinge coloring his cheeks. Dean could sympathize—pride was a hard thing to swallow no matter who you were.
Dean lifted his head, folding his chin into his chest, and pulled the knots up one by one. "The first time I ever had to stitch up my ol'man, my hands shook so hard I kept dropping the tools and jerking the string too tight. Learned a few new words and ended up not being able to swallow a bite of dinner that night. Truth is, it's still easier to do on myself than someone else."
Talking while working wasn't ideal, but Dean knew they both needed the distraction. Having to hold his arms up and curve himself forward sent jolts through his back and all the way to his fingertips, but he tried to keep his voice steady and the words confident.
"First time Sammy had to do it for me, he didn't even get finished before he hurled all over the floor." Dean chuckled. "Didn't even make it off the damn bed."
He could see Chris listening, so Dean kept lifting, snipping, and talking between catching each breath. He finished most of the third, longest line before his arms fell to the bed with an involuntary grunt. Closing his eyes for a minute, he ground his teeth together, readying himself for a repeat. Without warning, he felt the instruments being lifted from his fingers. His eyes flew open to meet Chris's with surprise.
"I can do it. You should rest," Chris said with a resolve he hadn't had before.
Dean had to admire the kid's grit—he hadn't been lying about his and Sam's first time, though he didn't mention their tender ages. His earlier trepidation had eased and the relief rushing through his muscles was heaven. He blew out a breath and forced himself to relax completely. For a short spell, he wondered if it would seem weird if he fell asleep while Chris worked. It was more than simple exhaustion coursing through him, it was an encompassing weakness so intense he felt insubstantial—washed out and thinned. Everything ached and sometimes the room pitched and spun, making nausea roll through his stomach. Sleep seemed like an awesome option despite knowing he wouldn't allow himself that escape until this was done. He focused on the pain in his body instead, assessing.
Part of it, he knew, came from his earlier skull-cracking, wall hug at the apartment—but a large part came from the intense throb in his back, not due to anything that had happened in this world. If the dream had been just a dream, then why wasn't the pain fading like the burns had? And why did this—here, now—feel so artificial? It scared him to realize that even the colors around him seemed false.
Before he could puzzle that out, Lori came into the room apologizing. "I'm so sorry, a friend called and would not take a hint." Noticing Chris finishing up, she said, "Wow, you're already done. That's great!"
Chris exchanged glances with Dean, then pulled the last thread out. He set the tools aside. "Anything else?"
"Here." She slapped a square piece of saline-wetted gauze into his hand, wasting no time making him her assistant. "Wipe when I tell you. Start with this one. Dean?"
He realized she was waiting on his okay. With a nod, he said, "Yeah. I'm good."
Chris did his part, cleaning the blood from the skin so Lori could sew precise little sutures. They worked in tandem with few words. Occasionally, Dean felt Chris's eyes on him as the needle worked in and out of his skin—Dean wasn't sure what the kid expected to happen. Not like Dean was gonna pass out from a few stitches. He flinched when Lori hit a particularly sore spot and tried to focus on breathing deep and slow. He imagined each inhale gathered up all the pain and each exhale expelled it from his body. In, out, in out—slow and steady.
"You okay?" She'd paused sewing.
He opened his eyes and nodded. "Peachy." When she pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, he relented a little. "S'tired."
"Yeah, I bet. This won't take much longer and then you can sleep."
Pain controlled, it was surprisingly soothing to feel the rhythm of her working—felt familiar. By the time she finished the last stitch, fatigue was heavy in his bones and he'd forgotten all of his earlier hesitation. A cold chill shivered through him when her fingers smoothed salve over the wounds, along with more gauze and tape. Goosebumps popped up like spring mushrooms up and down his body.
"Done," she said, jarring him out of his hard-earned stupor.
Dean caught her arm as she stood, needing to say the words out loud. "Thank you. Really."
Every word was heartfelt and he hoped she knew how much this meant to him. Trust was a hard thing to give, but once won, came with a deep, lasting gratitude.
Lori smiled. "Of course. Couldn't let you bleed all over the place." She turned her arm in his grip and squeezed his hand, her expression becoming serious. "I know we don't know each other well, but I mean it—you need anything, you let me know."
Dean pulled his lips against his teeth and nodded. It wasn't often people were so accepting and generous. In his experience, it rarely happened. He had nothing to offer Lori but his friendship and his loyalty. "It goes both ways," he told her. "You ever need anything…"
Patting his arm, she grinned. "I know it does."
Her earnestness reflected in her eyes and he felt their bond solidify into something lasting.
"Since you're awake, we need to change the bedding."
Realizing the sheets beneath him felt damp, he apologized. "Yeah, m'sorry about that. Didn't mean to ruin your bed."
"Don't worry about it. These were pretty ratty anyway. Gives me an excuse to buy something new."
She rolled down the blankets. "Think you can stand up with a little help? We can move you to the chair while I change everything." She indicated a Palladian blue, stuffed chair next to the bedroom window.
"Yeah, I'm good," Dean said, but his whole body jerked against sharp spasms the minute he struggled to sit up.
"Easy, don't make things worse by rushing." Lori's hand pushed him to be still.
Chris, who had been quietly watching, placed himself at Dean's shoulder.
"Support his back and help me ease him up." She waited until Chris nodded, then said, "Okay, let's go slow."
They took Dean's weight and helped him sit upright in the bed. Even with the help, he hissed through his teeth, surprised by the acuteness of the pain.
"Oh, damn," Chris breathed.
Tensing, Dean looked up at him. Disbelief lined his face as he gawked at Dean's back.
"What—?" Dean asked at the same time as Lori.
Lori shifted to see what Chris was eyeballing. "Oh, wow."
"What!?" Dean tried again.
"Dude, your back—" Chris let the sentence hang unfinished as he motioned toward Dean's back.
"It's covered in bruising and welts," Lori provided. "How did this happen?"
Dean twisted his neck to see, but a biting twinge stopped him short.
"No, don't try to look at it." Lori moved around Chris to sit behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, fingers smoothing across the skin. "What happened?" she repeated.
"That can't be from Jessica throwing you into the wall—it wasn't there earlier," Chris said.
Dean shook his head. "No, not from that."
"Then, what?" Lori pressed.
"The dream. It's like with the burns. Didn't really happen, but somehow, it's manifesting physically anyway."
"Dude, that's-that's science fiction." Chris stared at him, fear bleeding through despite his denial.
Dean really hoped this wasn't the part where the dude completely freaked out. His patience was in short supply right about then.
"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Lori asked. "There's not a lot I can do for it, but I can give you some pain meds at least."
Dean shrugged, but his shoulders protested. He grunted and closed his eyes. "I gotta stop doing that," he muttered.
"Yeah, you should definitely try to keep still. Are you sure you can stand?"
"Yeah, I'm good," Dean insisted.
"Right," she said, brows quirked in doubt. "Okay, then."
Lori freed his legs from the covers and helped him ease them to the floor one at a time, settling him on the edge of the bed. Chris bent and fixed a hand under Dean's bicep and waited.
"You might get dizzy, so let us help you. Okay?"
Dean nodded and braced himself.
"Okay," Lori signaled Chris, "now."
Together, they took most of his weight, keeping him upright when his knees quaked and the room spun in loops and circles. Weak didn't begin to cover it. He felt newly born, with akimbo legs and head too big. His whole body shook with the effort of standing. He hoped time and sleep would take the edge off by morning—before he'd have to face Sam.
Sam. He had to get back before his emo little brother realized Dean was missing. He didn't want Sammy to worry about him. He still had a little time, though, and really needed a short nap to gather himself for what he knew would be another big blow up between them.
"No hurry," Lori said, interrupting his thoughts. Her brows pulled together over a frown and he wondered what his face telegraphed to cause that reaction. "When you're ready, we'll go together."
The room swam before his blurry eyes, but he nodded and stepped, urging them to move with him. Slowly, step by step, they made it the few feet to the chair. Dean failed to keep his facade getting into it if the worried looks flying between Chris and Lori were any indication, but he made it all the same and nodded that he was okay.
In quick time, Lori stripped the sweat-soaked, blood-marred bedding away, tucking and smoothing fresh linens in its place. Nearby, she threw down a large, fluffy comforter.
Throughout the process, Chris kept close, ready to catch Dean should he nose-dive out of the chair—a distinct possibility. Dean caught him staring at his back, fascination and aversion playing in his expression. Clearly not envious of Dean's Technicolor dreams, but awestruck by the possibilities.
Finally, they got him settled back in bed with the same care they had gotten him out of it. He yearned to be wrapped in the downy duvet Lori had abandoned next to the bed, hoping it'd help ward off the chill burrowing into his bones. Antarctica would be warmer than his insides.
"Okay, about your back," Lori was saying, flipping the covers over his legs. "I have a few Norcos left over from having my wisdom teeth removed—I'll bring you one. Your throat sounds terrible too—I'm not even gonna ask—but I'm not taking no for an answer. Chris, grab a water bottle from the fridge, I'll get the meds."
"I'm fine, I don't need—" Lori pressed a finger to his mouth, the salt from her skin stung his chapped lips.
"Shhhh. You'll take it and be happy you're not in a hospital bed, got it?"
Dean glowered, but nodded once, curling his lips away from her finger.
When it came, the cold water cooled his raw throat and helped wash away the lingering taste of death in his mouth. And, it didn't take the pain med long to take effect. Stubborn to the end, Dean fought to keep his eyes open, though everything in him wished for oblivion. The ingrained need to find Sam drummed in his skull even though he knew—he knew—if Sam were here they'd only argue. Damn, if he wasn't sick of fighting with his brother. Imagining it was enough to sour his stomach, so he forced himself to let it go. His instincts said Sam was safe and he needed to trust in that. The rest would keep.
He listened to the others talking, both intent on keeping watch over him. Which, Lori he got, it was her nature to nurture, a born healer, but nothing explained Chris's motivation. Maybe he thought he needed to stay and keep Lori safe from the big bad Dean Winchester, or maybe it was a misplaced sense of debt—Dean didn't know. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something had changed between them. He wasn't sure if it was a good something or a bad something—but definitely something. Too tired to contemplate it, he added it to his ever-expanding list of things to think about later.
Gentle fingers sifted through his hair and he startled at the realization that he'd fallen into a light slumber unaware. When he tried to lift his eyelids, all he got was a quick blink before both fell stubbornly closed.
"Shhh," he heard, "its okay. Rest."
A few seconds passed—or was it minutes?—and he heard, "Is he supposed to be that color?"
"Better than the gray from earlier, don't you think?"
Dean felt blankets pulled higher on his shoulders and, for one crazy minute, he wondered if they could see the cold building inside him.
"He's not out of the woods, yet. None of this is normal—his body has been through a lot and is stressed. Not solely the actual physical injuries, but whatever these dreams—visions or whatever—are doing to him."
A small silence passed, or maybe he drifted, and he heard, "You think he's gonna be okay?"
"I think so. We'll keep watch tonight and by morning I think maybe he'll be better. Last time, the burns were nearly gone in a day's time. Of course, his concussion and those gashes aren't going anywhere."
Dean continued bobbing in and out of awareness, unable to sink fully or surface completely, catching snippets of hushed conversation over an indeterminable amount of time.
"Never seen so many scars…"
"Tells quite a story…"
"…then what happened…"
"Thing was wicked—all claws, yellow eyes..."
"Do you have any idea who would…?"
"…I saw her and I still can't believe …Jessica was…"
"So you saw it too? His eyes…"
"…Why'd he do that? He could've been killed."
Dean roused in time to catch Chris's last words and debated whether or not he should let them know he was awake. Being talked about made him want to squirm—but he didn't really want their attention, either. In the end, he held still and hoped sleep would rescue him from the awkward he knew was coming.
"You think yours is the first life he's saved?" Lori responded. "You saw his scars and you have a pretty good idea how they got there. I get that you don't like him much, but from what I understand, he and Sam make it their business to keep people safe—at great personal risk. I don't know about you, but I gotta respect the hell out of that."
Chris sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"I'm always right," she joked around a pronounced yawn.
"Hey, why don't you get some sleep, I'll take first shift."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. You've been working hard all night. Go, sleep—I'll wake you if anything happens. Anything special I should keep an eye out for?"
Light fingers rested on Dean's forearm and he peered through his lashes.
"His breathing is a concern… I think his inhaler is in here somewhere—you might check his pockets." Yawning again, she shook her head and shrugged. "Wake him up if he starts actively dreaming. Especially if he's having another nightmare."
"Can do, boss. Go on, now, before I change my mind."
"If you get hungry, you know where everything is, okay?"
"You may regret that—you know my appetite."
"Knock yourself out," Lori chuckled, "I'm way too tired to care about it."
The bed jiggled, leaving a cold spot where Lori had been. Dean shivered as the constant coldness settled in deeper. The warmth of comforter he'd been longing for finally settled over him, and it helped a little—it was enough he could sleep.
~~WCA~~
It was late by the time Sam stood in the hospital lobby. Nathan had been right; Aaron simply seemed asleep. It reminded Sam of those kids in Wisconsin whose life force was stolen by the Shtriga. This whole case was weird. Jessica couldn't be a coincidence, but simple spirits weren't known to cause comas.
Sam drew his phone out to call Dean to come pick him up. Nathan had left long ago and Becky was staying the night. When Dean's voicemail picked up after several rings, Sam ended the call and dialed again. Still, no answer. Unease warred with irritation as Sam called a cab instead.
Dean always answered his phone—always. Unless he couldn't, and there was never a good reason for that.
When Sam got to the motel, there was no Impala in sight. On a hunch, he gave the cabby the apartment's address, hoping he was wrong and Dean wasn't doing something stupid. Not knowing where his brother might've parked, Sam had the cab drop him off in the front. He had kept the key, had hoped it'd help slow Dean down, but he knew something like that wouldn't stop his stubborn brother if he was determined.
Standing outside the main entrance, he noticed several drops of blood on the concrete. His jaw muscle clenched. He found another small drop at the bottom of the stairs inside. Climbing upwards, he kept a vigilant eye out for more… and kept finding it. Enough that he half-expected to come across someone passed out in the stairwell, and God help him if that someone turned out to be Dean.
Reaching the end of the hallway, and, subsequently, the end of the blood trail, the doorknob itself was smeared in dark streaks, several dots covering the floor below it. Sam used a tissue in his pocket to open the door—unlocked, unsurprisingly. He tried not to shiver as he entered the room and hesitated. Even setting aside his issues with this apartment, he didn't get good vibes from the place. His hunter's instinct buzzed a shiver along his spine.
He cautiously entered the wide open bedroom and found it in shambles. The window was open, curtains askew and puffing in the breeze, and there were bits of things strewn all over the room. The whole place looked like a storm had blown through and wreaked havoc. That could've been from the disastrous visit from before except… Sam squinted and walked up to the disheveled bed. Here, blood covered the mattress in grisly splashes, enough to make someone pass out.
Blowing out a nervous breath, Sam pulled out his phone and dialed Dean's number. Again. Immediately, Dean's ringtone played in the same room with him. Turning in a circle, he spotted it lying on the floor next to the dresser. On the wall above it was a large, head-shaped dent punctuated in the color of the day—red-red-red.
"Dammit, Dean!" Sam hissed picking up the phone and pocketing it along with his own. He shoved a hand roughly through his hair. He had no idea what to do next. His brother had definitely been here, but wasn't now. Someone had been injured, but the extent was uncertain.
Abandoning the apartment with a growl, Sam ran down the stairs and checked up and down the streets for any place Dean might have parked. No sign of him. So whatever had happened, he'd been well enough to drive away… so why wasn't he at the motel?
In a hopeful jolt, it occurred to Sam that maybe he'd missed him in passing. Dean could be there by now for all he knew. Calling for another cab, his fingers gripped the phone in a stranglehold when a wave of unexpected anger hit so strong it gave him a headache. He might have wondered why the emotion was so intense had his brain not been too busy chanting, Be there, Dean. Dammit, be there, to process much beyond that.
Back at the hotel, there was no sign of the Impala and more frustration piled on top of the building fear. Sam decided to give his brother thirty minutes to show up while he decided on his next move. Going in, he sat on the bed and put his head in his hands, planning all the ways in which he was going to murder his stupid brother for going back on a promise, and for giving Sam a heart attack... again.
Weary from the intense emotions of the long day, he flopped back, his phone and Dean's lying beside him, his eyes focusing purely on them until sleep overcame him.
When a door slamming somewhere outside finally roused him, it was already the next morning. Peering blearily around and finding the room empty, Sam jerked upright and cursed, his heart instantly hammering. Fumbling at the phones and finding no missed calls, he barely stopped himself from hurling both into the wall. Breathing through his nose, he forced himself to think through the haze of emotion.
Okay, Dean had been hurt, but had left. He wouldn't go to a hospital willingly, so where could he be?
About the time he'd convinced himself he was desperate enough to call the hospital to at least check, his phone rang. An unknown number popped up and he frowned down at it.
"Yeah, this's Sam." His teeth clenched when the voice on the other end began talking. "Hey, Lori, what can I do for ya?" He listened as she explained Dean was with her and had lost his phone, but he wanted Sam to know where he was and that he was safe. Lori went on to tell him she was keeping Dean a few extra minutes to make sure he ate breakfast and, did he want her to pack him breakfast to go? Anger, like a poisonous viper, slithered through his heart with the same intensity as before. He tried to clamp down on the unreasonably strong emotion and keep his voice steady.
"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."
"No problem," the voice sing-songed in his ear. "He should be there within a couple of hours then."
"Sure, okay."
They said their goodbyes, but Sam had no intention of sitting around simmering for another hour or more. At the rate his ire was doubling, he'd be a real-life case for spontaneous combustion soon. Maybe this is what going postal felt like. Grabbing his wallet, he flipped open his phone and called another cab.
~~WCA~~
Chris had finally nodded off in the bedroom chair sometime around 4 AM. Lori had died on the living room couch and he'd never woke her. The morning light filtering through the window had been teasing him awake for about an hour now, but the early hour kept him in place. Exhaustion won over his grumbling stomach and his full bladder. It wasn't every day one of your friends went into a coma, you got to see the ghost of a friend, and then help give stitches to a friend's brother who'd been beaten up by said ghost while saving your life from a black shadow thing. Yeah, long day. But for the last few seconds, he'd become aware of not only light playing across his eyelids, but rustling sounds and soft grunts interspersed with the silence.
Cracking an eyelid, he caught Dean struggling to get his pants on, his impressively bruised back set toward Chris as he gripped the end table with one hand. Staring at Dean's back, he wondered how Dean could be moving, much less bending over to maneuver his jeans on—though, admittedly, Dean wasn't making much progress getting his feet into the leg holes.
"Need help?" Chris asked.
Dean jumped-wobbled, grunted, and sprawled across the bed in an oddly graceful attempt to keep from kissing the floor face first. The man had serious reflexes to go along with his remarkable pain tolerance.
"Dammit," Dean hissed sharply.
Chris pushed up from the chair, asking, "You okay? Didn't mean to scare you."
Dean focused his keen gaze on him and Chris felt that familiar urge to squirm. After a minute, Dean seemed to sense he was being sincere and his face relaxed into resigned weariness. "I'm awesome," came the cheeky answer. "Can't find my phone or my shirt, though. Got any idea what Lori might've done with 'em?"
His hand scratching across his stomach, Chris muttered through a yawn. "Well, the shirt was a goner—she threw it out. As for your phone, I have no idea."
"No idea about what?" Lori asked from the doorway.
"Dean's phone?"
"You threw away my favorite Zep shirt?!"
They spoke at the same time and Lori cocked an eyebrow.
Grinning, she answered, "Your shirt was soaked in blood where it wasn't in tatters—of course I threw it out. As for your phone, I have no idea. You didn't have it on you when you got here."
"Sam's going to kill me," he muttered under his breath, pinching his nose. Standing carefully and holding his stained jeans in front of him like a shield, he spoke between winces, "I gotta get outta here. Sam's probably going nuts. I have extra clothes in the Impala if someone could grab them for me?"
Dude's less scary first thing in the morning, Chris thought. Standing in his underwear, his hair going all directions—body beat to hell and exhaustion heavy in his movements—and clearly more fearful of his kid brother than of any ghost or monster. Chris felt bad for the guy; he got the impression Dean's life was comprised of cleaning up one mess after another.
"Chris can get your clothes—but before you go, I insist on cooking breakfast."
Dean tried to protest, but Lori was as talented at shutting him up as she always had been with the rest of them.
"Dean, not a word. You're staying. The fact that you're on your feet is nothing short of a miracle."
And boy, did she have that right.
"You are not leaving here without a good meal in you. Do you even remember the last time you ate?"
Dean looked bewildered and shook his head. "But Sam—"
"I'll call Sam, explain where you are and let him know you'll be home shortly—guess we should've called him last night... I didn't even think… I'll fix extra food to take to Sam, okay?"
Dean fidgeted with the material in his hands before finally giving in with a tiny shrug and nodding. "Yeah, okay."
Lori clapped her hands together. "Great. I'm gonna go call Sam, then freshen up. When I'm done, I'll get breakfast started. You fellas are in charge of coffee and getting Dean dressed."
Dean's right hand rubbed lightly across one set of bandages before settling protectively over his nipples. He lifted his eyebrows with a smirk. "Well, that's not gonna be awkward or anything."
"Right, okay," Chris cut in, squashing the urge to laugh. "So, your extra clothes? Where…?"
"Backseat floorboard should have an extra duffel. Bring the whole thing." Dean eased further onto the edge of the bed, scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and over his spikey hair. Just before Chris made it out the door, Dean said, "Thanks, uh, you know. For getting me here yesterday. I don't think I've said that yet."
Feeling awkward for getting thanked for something that should go without saying, Chris worked up a nervous reply, "Of course. Couldn't leave you there bleeding all over the place. I don't think Sam would like that."
Dean snorted. "Yeah. Guess not."
Something about the way Dean said it made Chris pause. It sounded… off, so he looked again. The regret and uncertainty on Dean's face left him confused. Ever since he'd laid eyes on Sam's brother, he'd been making judgments about him and trying to fit the man into a nice comfortable box of predictability—he'd assumed a lot of things. Considering him now, he didn't seem to fit those assumptions. The minute Dean became aware of the scrutiny, his posture relaxed and the odd emotions fell away.
Chris dropped his gaze, slapped the side of the door. "Uh, be right back." He left before anything more could pass between them. This new ground with Dean was weird and uncomfortable.
Chris didn't know what to make of the man—didn't know how to reconcile what he thought he knew and what he'd seen. It wasn't something he was used to and it wasn't something he wanted to make into a habit. He didn't do complicated. Things for him were pretty simple, everything black and white and neatly placed into categories of expectations. Dean was this confusing jumble of gray, a tangled mystery. Messy.
Even when Dean was in the hospital, he'd not reacted to Chris's words the way he'd expected. If anyone had poked their nose in his personal business, he'd have knocked their lights out. Instead, Dean had quietly listened, a weariness a guy their age shouldn't have hanging on him like old rags. Sure, Dean had used fierce words and growls to back Chris off in the end, but Dean's face had betrayed him. Chris had caught the fear, the sadness and doubt. He'd assumed at the time that it was proof that he'd been right about Dean. Now he wasn't so sure.
The man Chris had judged Dean to be wouldn't have risked his life without hesitation—especially for someone actively aggressive toward them. Cowards didn't throw themselves into repeated danger without a moment's thought. Or remove their own stitches from raw skin with a steady hand like it was merely another day. Dean had taken over when Chris had freaked, despite the pain lifting his arms had caused—going so far as to offer conciliatory words when Chris had been mortified by his own reaction.
Yesterday, Dean had been more worried about scaring Sam than about getting the help he needed. And now, he was more worried about getting himself back to Sam rather than give merit to his own discomfort. Chris wouldn't have blamed him if he'd stayed curled up in bed for a week. Everything he'd witnessed in the last few days showed a Dean who put his brother first in everything he did—a man who did dangerous things without thought for himself. That's not what selfish people did. But, he also knew people were experts at deceit.
Opening the door to the Impala, Chris shook his head, conflicted. He found the duffel easily and when he got back to the room, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed where he'd left him—obviously in pain but fighting it. He remained pale as a sheet, but as Lori had said, it was a damned miracle compared to where he'd started.
Last night, Chris hadn't been able to stop eyeing Dean's chest—constantly checking for the rhythmic up and down motion that meant the man wasn't dead or dying—and had hoped Lori would give in and call an ambulance, let them deal with it. He felt ashamed about it now, but in the dark of night, his fears had seemed reasonable. Chris sat the duffel on the bed so Dean wouldn't have to stoop to get his things.
"Think you can manage on your own?"
"Dude," Dean said, "does it matter? We may have this weird truce thing going on, but no way I'm letting you help me put my pants on."
Holding up his hands and shuffling back, Chris agreed, "Hey, you'll get no argument from me. I'll be in the kitchen getting the coffee going."
He pulled the door shut behind him to give Dean privacy. He chuckled to himself and began whistling as he strode toward the kitchen.
~~WCA~~
By the time Lori cleaned up and dressed, the smell of coffee filled the house. She smiled to herself, associating coffee with greeting the day. When she got to the kitchen, Chris was slumped at the table nursing a cup. She heard movement behind her and saw Dean shuffling in, dressed in clean clothes, and looking like he needed the whole pot all to himself. She poured herself a large mug and one for Dean, handing it to him. When he took it, he winced and she had to grip the handle to keep him from dropping it.
"Sit," She indicated the table behind them. "I'll put it on the table for you."
Dean arched an eyebrow at her commanding tone, but wandered over and eased into a chair without complaint.
Setting the mug in front of him, she noticed the tightness around his eyes. "Still hurting pretty good, I see."
He glanced at her, not confirming or denying—but the shiver that rippled through him caught her off guard. The house was plenty warm and he had a jacket on despite that. Walking over, she laid her hand against his forehead and then his cheek. He tried to duck away, but she persisted. "You feel warm. Maybe we should take your temp?"
"I'm fine," he said, using both hands to lift the mug to his lips.
Concentrating on the pulse in his neck, she tried to count without him noticing. His heartbeat seemed steady, if fast.
Putting her hands on her hips, she pressed him, "I'm taking your temperature and you're going to let me."
He tried to stare her down, but after a minute, he tilted his head and said, "You're bossy, you know that?" Shrugging, he continued before she could respond, "Whatever floats your boat, I guess. But I ain't going to a doctor."
"What is it with you and doctors? They're there to help you, ya know… and we don't bite… much."
Before Dean could respond, someone pounded on the door.
Lori raised her eyebrows. "Who could that be so early?"
Walking over to the front window, she pressed her face against the glass and searched to the left. "It's Sam," she said, turning to the others. Then shrugged.
Dean stood and walked halfway across the room, pausing uncertainly as she opened the door, revealing a ruffled Sam Winchester looking more than a little unhinged.
Sam nodded his greeting, "Lori."
He shoved passed her, stony-faced with eyes that blistered up and down his brother's body. With a glance at her then back to Dean, Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. Dean remained where he was, shoulders immediately stiff and curved protectively forward. Lori didn't have to know either of them to know this wasn't going to be good.
"I know you went back there, Dean. I know, so don't even try to deny it." Sam held up Dean's cell phone with a wiggle, then threw it at him. The phone hit Dean in the chest before it fell to the floor.
Dean grunted at the impact but didn't even attempt to stop its decent. "Alright. I went back, you got me. But, Sammy, I had to." When Sam's face reddened, Dean dropped his shoulders, held up a hand and said, "Thanks for finding my phone, man. I'm sorry I didn't call."
Sam pointed a finger. "You lied to me." He loomed over Dean, but Dean didn't flinch or react to the aggression in any way—just stood there passively. "You made a promise. Does that mean anything to you? Do you even care that I had no idea what had happened to you or why you wouldn't answer your damn phone?!"
Behind them, Lori could see Chris tensing, half rising from his chair. "Sam," she tried, "Calm down. It was totally my fault, I should've call—"
He swung around, yelling, "Don't tell me to calm down! This is none of your business!"
"Sam!" Dean warned, stepping forward to tug Sam's shirt cuff.
"Don't Sam me!" Sam shook his brother off, planted both hands in the middle of Dean's chest and shoved hard, forcing Dean to stumble backward toward the wall. Dean drew both arms into his chest, chuffing in pain.
"Sam, careful!" Lori snapped. Before she had a chance to get between them, Sam grabbed Dean by his shirtfront and slammed him against the wall.
"I told you—I begged you—not to," he growled in Dean's face, giving him another slam. "But you're either too stupid or too stubborn to listen. You had no business going there at all, much less alone!"
Dean's face crumpled on the third slam and turned the same sickly white from the night before, a moan low in his throat. His fingers curled in Sam's shirt at the shoulders, more to hang on than push away. In his rage, Sam didn't seem aware of his brother's increasing distress.
"He wasn't alone," Chris barked, shouldering between them, one hand pushing Sam away until Dean was behind him. "Easy, Sam, what's wrong with you?"
Sam pushed Chris off him, his breath coming in huffs. "Stay out of it, Chris. This is between me and him."
Chris held up a defensive hand, palm out. "Man, you gotta get a hold of yourself. This isn't you. You're gonna pop a vein!"
"Move or I'll move you," Sam said, trying to get around him.
"Sorry, buddy, no can do." Chris's face flushed with the effort of blockading Sam from his goal. "This is me keeping you from doing something you'll regret later."
Lori approached from the side, her hands placating. "Let's sit down and talk it out, okay? I was about to make breakfast. You hungry, Sam?"
"Batting your eyelashes won't work on me," Sam sneered at her, then he glared at Dean. "I'm not the one who spent the night getting into your pants."
At that, Dean did flinch.
"Alright, that's it," Chris said, grabbing Sam by the arms and dragging him toward the door. He gave him a final shove, ordering, "Leave, Sam. Out, now! Don't come back until you've cooled off!"
When Sam made no attempt to move, Chris clipped, "Lori, open the door, Sam's gonna take a walk."
Lori kept wary eyes on Sam as she opened the door and stood back. He shook his head once, his face oddly confused but still furious.
"Do I need to help you out the door?" Chris asked, starting toward his friend.
"Screw you, Chris," Sam spat and, with fists white-knuckled, stormed out the open door.
Lori shut and locked the door, her heart racing and weak-kneed. As her Winchester luck seemed to go, her relief was short-lived. Off to the side, Dean coughed and kept on coughing, his body curling in on itself.
"You okay?" Chris grabbed Dean's elbow as he slid to the floor, slowing his decent. The gasping coughs turned into crackling rattles and Dean's eyes widened as he pawed at his chest.
Lori kneeled beside him. "It's okay, try to stay calm." Her fingers fumbled through his pockets, jacket and jeans, hoping to find his inhaler. She came up empty and met Chris's rounded eyes. She could see his grip on Dean's arm tighten and knew he was as scared as she was.
"Bedroom, maybe?" he asked.
Dean's lips tinged purple, heading into blue, and her mind raced trying to remember. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
Chris fled to the bedroom, leaving her helpless to do anything but keep a steady stream of calming words flowing. When Chris still hadn't returned and Dean turned gray, she lost her composure and stammered into silence.
Dean's head pressed into the wall and his fingers continued to scrabble at his chest in desperation, no air forthcoming. Digging her phone out of her pocket, she started pressing numbers, a prayer leaving her lips as she dialed—but then, like an instant answer to that prayer, Chris was there, inhaler in hand. Lori dropped her phone and put the inhaler to Dean's mouth, depressed it, counted, then depressed it a second time before putting it aside to take his hands in hers.
"It's okay, it's okay," she said, squeezing firmly. "The medicine is already working even if it doesn't feel like it. Try to focus on slow, easy breaths. You can do this, I know you can."
Dean gasped in short pants, his head drooping, already drowsy from the attack. All that kept him upright was Chris's palm at his shoulder. Finally, he drew a full, whistling breath and the rattle lessened. He took another unsteady breath, then another, until the color returned to his lips and his breathing evened out. His grasp on her hands loosened, but their violent trembling vibrated straight into her. Fine hairs lay in sweaty wisps along his temples.
"Better?" she asked.
Dean nodded. "Yeah. M'kay."
"Okay, good, good," she said. Then, to Chris. "Help me get him up."
Working together, they got Dean on his feet, but his body wilted limply between them and his jerky gait swayed unevenly. Chris shot her a questioning look and she nodded toward the couch a few steps away.
Dean didn't protest at first, still disoriented, but once he realized he was lying on the couch—pillows tucked under his shoulders—he struggled to get up.
"Gotta go find Sam," he mumbled.
"You're not going anywhere." Lori pressed on his arms rather than his chest to keep him in place. Dean resisted, but fatigue made his eyes roll and his body compliant.
"Hey, man, she's right. You are in no condition to go anywhere. Besides, Sam needs to cool off," Chris said. "I've never seen him that angry."
"Yeah, well," Dean said, his words coming in stops and starts, "I s-seem. To have that...that effect...on him."
"Really?" Lori asked. "That seemed pretty extreme."
Dean's eyelids fluttered shut and he swallowed. "Need to find him."
"I think Chris is right. You should let him calm down a little. I don't think you'd get far like this anyway. I'll fix breakfast. You still need to eat. After that, we'll see what happens, okay?"
Dean sighed, head stilling on the pillow—he was already asleep.
Next to her Chris blew out a breath. "That was…"
"Yeah," she agreed.
"Well, he looks like crap again," Chris said.
The disappointed way he said it nearly elicited an inappropriate giggle—or maybe it was just her nerves presenting in odd ways. She squashed it and brushed sweat-stuck hair away from Dean's forehead and let her hand linger. "I don't like how warm he feels."
"What do you think is causing it?"
"Honestly? I don't know." Pushing up his shirt, she scrutinized his bandages. Sam had caused no real damage, no more bleeding than the normal oozing she'd expect. Peeling back one of the bandages, she inspected the wound. No redness, no warmth or discolored seepage. Nothing like infection.
"Well?" Chris asked.
"Looks fine… as well as can be expected." She focused on Dean's breaths. "Sounds a little wheezy, but the medicine is doing its job and the attack was likely from the stress of the situation. I don't know, there are so many reasons why he might run a fever. If he were at a clinic, I could run some tests—but, as it is…." She shrugged. "I wish he'd let me give him another pain med. He needs it." She sighed. "He'll probably sleep for a while anyway."
"Can't believe he thought he was going anywhere like this." Chris snorted, then said, "Sam's right about one thing, he's a stubborn SOB."
"Well, that's the pot calling the kettle black. Seems to be a lot of that going around," Lori said, one eyebrow arched. "Sam always such a hot-head?"
She searched Chris's troubled face, his concern and confusion plain. "No, never. Not like that—I don't know what that was."
"Anxiety, maybe?" Lori shook her head and stood from her seat next to Dean. "Should you go after him? Make sure he doesn't get into trouble going off on his own?"
Chris moved with her and they turned back to the kitchen. "Naw, I don't think he would appreciate my company right now." Chris snagged Dean's phone from the floor and lay it on the table. "C'mon, let's work on that breakfast you keep promising. Nothing else we can do for now. If Sam doesn't show up in a little while, I'll go look for him."
With one last glance through to the couch, she picked up her coffee. Her eyes caught on Dean's cooling mug sitting innocuously next to his phone and sadness gripped her. She half-heartedly teased, "Are you offering to be my sous chef?"
"Sure. So long as you know what you're getting yourself into."
TBC...and thank you all so much.