Cry In The Night

Summary: Dean and Sam hunt an Utburd. I'm bored and I just wanted to post something, even something bad. Slight Dean torment, of course, it is me after all. Little swearing, the usual… (actually I like this story but there's no accounting for taste). Obviously this turned into something else.

A/N: Following is purely informational:

An utburd is the spirit of a child that was left to die of exposure by it's parents. It is part of Norse legend. If a child was born that was defective in some way or simply a child they could not afford to take care of it would be taken outside and left to die in the elements. Exposing children was a not uncommon practice throughout history for families living in harsh times and climates. It's still going on in a few places for various reasons. It was also used in some cultures to control the number of male to female babies that were born. An utburd would seek out it's mother, blind her by gouging her eyes out and kill her. Once created, an utburd, even after taking revenge on its mother, becomes more powerful with rage and will continue hunt down and kill innocent wayfarers. Only water and iron could stop it. I always found the image creepy as hell. (You should see the painting) This is just so you know, the rest of the story has nothing to do with it but knowledge is power.

Chapter One:  Fallen Angels

Despite the cold evening air, sweat greased Dean's face as he raced to the edge of the clearing. Branches whipped his face and clothing as he ran through the brush. He staggered to a halt, chest heaving and waited for Sam to appear on the other side. The pack on his shoulder weighed heavily but he didn't dare put it down. The moonlight was so filtered by the trees he couldn't see a damned thing among the black and white shadows. He could feel the vibration in the ground as the utburd approached, feel the very air growing colder as it came closer, yet he could see nothing.

Come on come on come on! His mind screamed at Sam.

Dean's shotgun was loaded with blessed iron buckshot and he knew exactly how far away the stream was. He mopped the sweat off his face with an arm and bit his lip, eyes casting about for Sam's form in the darkness. Sam, Goddammit, get in position!

The thunderous footfalls sounded as though they were all around him, going through him. He couldn't turn to look behind him, he knew what would happen to him if he did. The utburd had been responsible for a string of deaths over several years, plus the two victims it hadn't killed that now called Valley View Sanatorium home.

"Dean!" Sam's welcome voice cried out from across the clearing. "It's right behind you!"

Dean needed no second warning and took off hell-for-leather across the clearing toward the stream. He felt the sudden rush of air as he was swiped at by the unseen presence so close behind him, almost knocking him off his feet. The air filled with a roaring wind. He heard Sam's shotgun blast twice in rapid succession. A wailing screech filled the air as Dean splashed blindly into the cold stream, losing his footing on the slimy rocks. His body slammed into a smooth rock jutting out of the water, taking what little breath the shock of the water hadn't already knocked out of him. He managed to keep the shotgun out of the wet, rolling in the icy water to pump the gun repeatedly as a black shadow swooped low over him, wind screaming in its wake.

Sam suddenly sprinted out of the darkness, sailing over the stream like a gazelle. He hit the opposite bank, but turned back to Dean.

"Go! Sam, Go! I'm fine!" Dean croaked, coughing. Sam hesitated, then took off after the screeching sounds.

If they didn't track the damn thing back to it's grave they'd never be able to stop it. Dean writhed in the freezing water, trying to get his breath back. He dragged himself to the side of the stream and crawled out, grimacing, pushing to his feet and taking off after Sam, wet boots slipping in the grass.

Sam tore after the shadow, dodging the tree branches and undergrowth, following the wailing as it shot through the trees. He halted, gasping for breath, as the shrieking suddenly ceased. Moonlight shafted a small clearing before him and he hung back in the protective darkness of the trees, wiped the sweat out of his eyes and held the shotgun at ready.

The black shadow had stopped moving and was now hovering in a shifting mass above the silvery ground. As he watched, it slowly began to spiral downward, growing smaller with each passing second. Sam made a face as a choking whimper began to come from the swirling cloud. He watched, repelled, but fascinated as it gradually transformed in a small, twisted, gray form that dragged itself about with its arms, head rolling erratically, mouth and eyes gaping black holes. It whimpered and snorted as it felt its way across the ground, clawing in the dirt. Sam cautiously stepped closer, shouldering his gun. The creature was sobbing openly now, almost hysterically. The sound made Sam's skin crawl. He knew what an utburd was, but had never encountered one before. Only knew what little Dean had been able to tell him. Listening to it cry as it snuffled, searching frantically over the ground was almost….pathetic. Without realizing it, he slowly lowered his gun to his side, lost in morbid fascination.

The instant the gun dropped, the utburd's head snapped up and it launched itself at Sam faster than he could react, its mouth agape, taloned fingers clawing for his face. Sam threw his arms up to protect his eyes just as a shotgun blast tore through the clearing, hitting the utburd dead on. It vanished with a greasy pop. Bits of rock saIt pelted Sam's jacket and stung his face. Sam straightened unsteadily and twisted around to see behind him.

Dean stumbled up to him, clothing drenched, gun smoking. He grabbed Sam's arm. "Did it get you?" He grabbed Sam's chin examining his face in the weak light for injury. Dean was gasping for breath.

Sam tried to shake his head but Dean's hand gripped like iron, colder than ice. "No, I'm fine, I'm fine." He made a face as Dean released him, satisfied. "I'm sorry, I was watching it and-" he couldn't imagine anything stupider than what he had done by letting his guard down.

Dean dropped the soaked pack on the ground and bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath, shivering in his soaked clothing. "I know, man, but you gotta be more careful," he wheezed. "It's hard to keep from getting caught up in it. Damned things would be pitiful if they weren't so friggin' dangerous." Grunting, he squatted down to dig through the carryall. He tossed Sam a foxhole shovel. "Start digging, Sam. Right where it was laying before it jumped you." Sam did as he was told while Dean dug out the bag of iron filings, the gasoline, salt and matches, hands shaking.

Sam knelt in the dirt, digging quickly but carefully as he knew the grave would be fairly shallow. They would never know who had left the child here to die, why or when but they could at least give it rest and keep it from hurting anyone else. A half a dozen turns of the shovel in the soft ground and small dirty bones started to turn up. He grimaced at the sight of them. He had to use his hands to pull away the rest of the dirt, trying to be gentle despite himself.

Dean came up beside him, waiting. Sam brushed the dirt off of the tiny skull, exposing the rest of the frail skeleton to the air. Dean was right, it was pitiful. He moved back a few steps as Dean poured salt over the bones and then gasoline. Sam felt the tiny heat as Dean flicked the match into life, hesitated, then dropped it into the unmarked grave. There was a small whoosh as the bones ignited.

They both jerked back as wind suddenly roared around them, the fire consuming the tiny frame, wailing filling the air again as it burned, slowly dropping to a baby's frightened choking cry. Dean knelt beside the dying fire and solemnly poured the iron filings over the ashes. The cries died away, as did the wind and then the night was still again. They both knelt there unmoving for a moment.

Dean sat back on his haunches with a deep sigh, hugging himself. "Sometimes, I really hate this shit." he murmured. He had hunted utburd's twice before, he found then disturbing on a level he rarely encountered. The sight of their twisted little bodies, whining and scratching in the dirt, totally creeped him out. Shifting uncomfortably on his knees, he wondered if he had cracked a rib or something against that rock. That'd be his luck.

Sam, staring at the smoking remains, couldn't help his eyes watering. How could someone just leave a child out to die, no matter what the circumstances, to create such evil from such innocence. He hoped to never come across anotherutburd as long as he lived. It was almost as if the concept that had created it was more horrendous than the creature itself. The whole thing was depressing. He sighed himself and rubbed his forehead, glancing over at Dean who was holding a hand against the right side of his ribcage, wincing.

"You all right?" Sam asked, frowning.

Dean started guiltily and dropped his hand. "Yeah," He growled. "When I fell back at the stream I landed on some rocks. Knocked the wind out of me." He was so cold his teeth were starting to chatter, a fact which Sam noticed. Sam also noticed something else.

"You're bleeding, Dean."

Dean glanced down at his shirt, surprised to see a small amount of red soaking into the grey shirtfront. Since his clothes were already wet he hadn't noticed. "Well, shit…" he groused, pulling up his t-shirt. There was a large, fairly deep scrape across his sternum and lower ribs on the right side, it wasn't bleeding much but it hurt like hell. You could already see the bruising.

"Let me take a look." Sam shifted closer to Dean, reaching out.

"It's ok, Sam, it's nothing." Dean protested, jerking his shirt down. He tried to push Sam's hands away. "We need to finish up here. I want some dry clothes. I'm freezing my ass off!""

Sam slapped Dean's hand down. "Well, I can't make it worse by looking, can I?" He crossed his arms and gave Dean that look, the one Dean hated. The I'll stand here until you do what I want look. Beat the hell out of the puppy eyes look every time because Dean had yet to discover an effective way to defeat it.

Finally, Dean held out his hands. "Can this at least wait until later? At least 'til we get back to the car? I promise you can feel me up all you want then, okay?"

Sam looked disgusted, then glanced at his watch. Grabbing the shovel he started filling in the grave. "You're right. You need some dry clothes. We got a long walk back to the car."

"You got that right," Dean growled, relieved, anything to avoid Sam's ministrations. He slowly started gathering up the rest of the equipment and stuffed it back in the carryall trying to keep his hands under control.

It was a long walk back to the car as far as Dean was concerned. The waterlogged pack weighed a freaking ton. His wet clothes were glued to him, making him even colder, the dragging wet weight making the effort of walking worse. It would be days before his boots dried out. Every movement accentuated the ache in his ribs and stomach muscles from the fall. He swallowed with an effort and hugged his arms across himself, shivering uncontrollably.

Sam followed along in silence, a few paces behind Dean. He couldn't get his mind off the tiny skeleton.

"Hey, Dean?" he finally ventured, hurrying his steps a little to catch up even though Dean was walking rather slowly.

A tired sounding, "Mmhhmm?" floated back over Dean's shoulder.

"Do you ever think about having kids?" Sam's voice was thoughtful.

Dean stopped dead and turned around, squinting at Sam, who almost blundered into him. "Do I what?" he demanded incredulously. Honestly, sometimes Sam absolutely floored him. Where in the holy hell left field had that come from?

Sam's hazel eyes regarded Dean seriously. "I mean it. Would you ever want to have kids? Jess and I-" his voice cut off suddenly and his eyes flicked to the ground. Sometimes he forgot. Anything that included Jess was not an option anymore.

Dean sighed, Jesus Christ… "I don't know, Sam." His voice betrayed his irritation. "Maybe…sometime. I dunno…" He shrugged helplessly. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I could handle it. Bunch of little smart ass brats running around." He made a face and pulled his arms tighter.

Sam glanced back up at him, cocking his head. "I've seen you around kids, Dean. I think you'd make a great dad." He gave Dean a shy smile. "You did."

Dean made a disgusted sound and threw the wet pack at him. Sam's arms closed on it automatically as it hit his chest. "You carry that for a while! And you have a dad!" He started walking again, his back radiating 'pissed off'. Of all the…

Sam broadened his stride to catch back up with his brother. "I'm serious, Dean! You and I both know who pretty much raised me. Dad was there but…not like that." Sam didn't want to fight with Dean but he really wanted to know the answer to his question. There were so many things about Dean he just didn't know. Sam's bad timing for this kind of stuff was legendary but when he wanted to know something he wanted to know right then.

"Dad loves you, Sam, whether you believe it or not!" Dean snarled at Sam. Nothing made him madder than Sam's constant inferences that their father wasn't all he could have been.

"I know that, Dean." Sam snapped back. "And that's not what I'm asking you." He halted as Dean spun around and glared at him again.

"Well, what the hell are you asking me?" Dean demanded impatiently. He was cold, tired, wet, sore, and just wanted to go back to the motel and sleep. He scratched through his short, rumpled hair. His breath shuddered in and out through his teeth.

"If you ever found the right girl, would you want to have kids?" Sam truly didn't know if he wanted children himself. He only knew he didn't not want them.

Dean clutched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "Sam," he finally replied, as honestly as he could, "there isn't going to be any right girl for me." He went on, ignoring Sam's look of surprised disappointment. "Not with the kind of life I'm leading." He deliberately did not say 'we'. Sam was going his own way eventually, he had made that abundantly clear on numerous occasions. Dean jerked his hand outward. "So it kinda stands to reason there won't be any right kids either, doesn't it? At least, none that I might know of. So what the hell is this all about?" He crossed his arms again, visibly shaking in the cold.

Sam eyed Dean sadly, "I…I just keep thinking about the utburd. It was someone's baby and they just threw it out like it didn't matter…how could someone do that?" The look on Sam's face was so despondent it hurt Dean to look at him.

Sam had Dean there. Dean shook his head, the utburd was obviously bothering Sam a great deal. Dean couldn't speculate on something he didn't understand. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe they thought it was kinder than trying to hang on to it at all costs. Less suffering. The need of the many outweighs the one." He tossed his head in a shrug. "Crap, who knows what goes through people's minds when they're desperate." He paused, holding out his hand. "Can we please go now? I'm freezing, dude, my chest really hurts, and I just wanta go back to the motel and go to sleep." It was a low blow, but Dean knew Sam would freak if he actually admitted to being in pain. If manipulating Sam would get him back to the motel faster without a lot of asinine, pointless questions then he was gonna play it for all it was worth.

"God, Dean, I'm sorry!" Sam cried, right on cue. Jesus, he was so easy. "Why don't you ever say anything! I swear to God, you could have blood spraying out of your eyes and you wouldn't say a damn word!" He grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him forward. "C'mon, the car's not that much further. And I still want to check out where you fell!"

"Sam, I can walk on my own…."

Chapter Two: Memory Rush

Summary: This is the Utburd story continued (without anymore Utburds) I warn you there will probably be nothing redeeming literary wise as far as I know. This is pure Hurt/sick Dean 

A/N: There is nothing medically sound about any of this, I take no responsibility for any accuracies but total responsibility for all inaccuracies, so don't even waste your time telling what is and isn't possible. I don't care. This is for people who just want to see Dean suffer and Sam have fits over him.

Even with the car heater on full blast Dean couldn't stop shivering in his wet clothes. Sam finally stopped and grabbed the semi-clean blanket they kept in the backseat and Dean clutched it around himself gratefully. By the time they got back to the motel, Sam was down to his t-shirt, sweating gracelessy as Dean shook beside him on the seat.

"Man, are you okay?" Sam finally asked, watching Dean with a worried frown.

Dean swallowed. "Yeah, I'm just…cold. I'll be okay once…once I get warm." He was grateful when the motel came into view. The ache under his ribs had sharpened and he was feeling queasy. The thought that he might have really, stupidly, injured himself annoyed the hell out of him.

Sam pulled the car to a halt and got out. His sweat soaked clothes chilled him in the sudden change of air and he grabbed his jacket. Opening the door to their room, he immediately threw the heater on high. He stepped into the bathroom and turned the hot water on full blast, closing the door behind him so the room would heat up.

"I got the shower on." Sam said as Dean moved stiffly into the room. Sam closed the door behind him, "I'll get our stuff while you shower."

Dean nodded, he shuffled over to the heater and hung over it as it blasted hot air, holding his shaking hands out. "Yeah, thanks," With aching difficulty, he peeled off his freezing, wet clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed to try and drag his waterlogged boots off. The touch of his own hands on his skin was like ice. By the time he had tjhem off, Sam was finished carting in their bags.

He accepted the dry pile of clothes Sam held out to him with a soft grunt, rising slowly to his feet. Sam's watched to make sure Dean had his balance, his eyes falling on the scrape across Dean's chest. "After you get out of the shower I want to see where you fell."

"Yeah…whatever," Dean murmured, hugging the clothes to him and heading into the bathroom where the steamy warmth welcomed him.

Closing the door, he flipped on the light, dropping his clothes on the floor. Teeth grit to still their need to chatter, he reached into the shower and tried to get the temperature of the water to a level that wouldn't parboil him but he was so cold he was having trouble judging the heat.

The boxers finally peeled off with difficulty and he got under the shower, letting the hot water slow the cold shaking in his body, mind a dull blank, staying under the hot deluge until the scrapes stopped stinging, his skin was red and his fingers had started to pucker.

When he finally turned off the water and stepped back out into the bathroom, his breathing had slowed and the trembling had at least lessened to occasional sudden shivers.

He couldn't figure out why he felt so off. He'd slipped and fallen on a stupid rock. Disgustedly toweling himself off, he dragged on the sweat pants he'd left on the floor. He started to pull on his t-shirt, grimacing at the sudden wrench the movement gave him. Shit! He bit back a groan, clapping a hand to his ribs.

Grabbing the discarded towel he dried off the fogged mirror. He caught his lower lip in his teeth as he as he got a good look at his stomach. The scrapes were actually more like deep gouges but they had pretty much stopped bleeding. The flesh over the right side of his ribs and just below his sternum was painful to touch, an area about the size of his palm. It looked like he'd been punched. The purple bruise stood out as a blotch among the various marks and scars covering his chest and belly, some flat and white with age, some, not so old, still raised and pinkish. He brushed his fingers lightly over them, he could catalog the circumstances behind most of them.

Frowning, he carefully traced the darkened flesh, pressing gently along the right edge of his ribcage, just below his sternum, where a raised ridge of scar tissue several inches long traced over his skin. The obvious result of crude and hurried stitching. The pain he was feeling radiated from there, a sharp ache. He pressed his fingers gently into the muscle next to the ribs on the right side of his stomach, wincing as he moved his fingertips over the area. Long practice told him there were no broken or cracked ribs, maybe he'd torn a muscle, that hurt worse than a cracked rib.

He stopped examining the area when he realized the probing was actually making him feel more queasy. Swallowing uneasily, he sat down on the closed toilet, one hand still resting lightly on his stomach, as an unexpected rush of memories poured into his mind.

He knew he had somehow gotten turned around, in the darkness, the wind and rain all combining to screw with his sense of direction. Dad and Caleb had told him to go east but he'd be damned if he could figure out where east was. Lightning crackled through the air so close he could feel the electric thrill of it on his skin and thunder roared in it's aftermath.

Shit! He tried to wipe the rain from his eyes and stumbled on toward a thinner looking area of trees. The rain was diminishing and dimly he thought he heard shouting.

He whirled to face behind him, absolutely certain he had heard a coughing roar. He barely dodged the claws that swiped at him, catching the edge of his jacket, spinning him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the muddy ground. He rolled frantically, crabbing backwards, still trying to hang onto his gun but avoid those slashing claws. He managed to get off one shot which struck the werewolf in the shoulder, causing it to rear back with an agonized scream.

Dean took his chance and scrabbled to his feet, running hell for leather for the clearing he had spotted, gun forgotten in the mud.

He broke into the small clearing as the rain stopped, slipping on the wet undergrowth, the werewolf hot on his heels, panting and growling. Stupidly, he turned to look behind him again and felt himself crash into a virtual fur mountain. The collision knocked the air from his lungs. The claws of the other werewolf tore into his belly before he ever saw it. Jesus Christ! The god damned thing had a mate! He was enveloped in a stinking mass of tangled fur, retaining just enough presence of mind to draw the silver bladed knife and strike blindly with it.

"Dad!" He screamed. "Caleb!"

Then the werewolf from the woods was on him, too. In the absence of the rain he was vaguely aware of someone yelling his name, the repeated blasts of gunfire and something hotter than the flames that were already burning him from the claws ripping his flesh blasted through him and he was blessedly gone…

Dean rocked forward, doubling over.

John, I have to close up these wounds! Someone's voice yelling. He'll bleed to death if we waste time looking for it! Choking as someone poured whiskey down his throat…the dim sound of screams…

Christ Almighty, he'd actually forgotten-

Sam banged on the door. "Dean, are you okay?"

The memories of that night rolled over him like a wave. For a moment so real he could feel the rip of his flesh under those claws, smell the rank odor, taste the blood, feel the fire…

Why remember all that now?

He heard the door bang open, felt Sam's hands, strong and warm wrap around his upper arms. "Dean! Dean, c'mon man, you're okay…it's okay." Sam's voice managed to convey concern and urgency at the same time as Dean felt himself pulled to his feet.

"What…?"

"Dude, I thought you were gonna pass out!." Sam exclaimed, putting an arm around Dean's waist. Dean wanted to stop him, say he was fine and to back off but he was so dizzy and disoriented he went along helplessly.

Dean allowed Sam to settle him on the bed, still shivering slightly, despite the hot shower. He lay back with a groan, sliding his legs under the covers. He covered his face with his hands.

Sam eased down on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers up slightly. "You okay? You want some aspirin?" Dean nodded without looking at him. Sam got up and returned with a cup of water and some aspirin which Dean took, even though he wasn't totally sure they'd stay down once he swallowed them. Sam, ever cautious, surreptitiously pulled the trash can closer, just in case. He reached a hand out feel Dean's forehead. "Do you feel sick? I don't think you have a fever-"

Dean knocked his hand away. "I'm fine, I just got dizzy for a minute. Don 't make a big deal. It's probably just cause we didn't eat dinner."

"Dean, maybe you really got hurt when you fell-" Sam objected.

"Sam…"

"Dean, something's wrong with you! You passed out!" Sam inadvertently shook the bed and Dean's hand clamped down on Sam's thigh to make him stop.

"I got a little dizzy, Sam, don't make a big deal-"

"A big DEAL! You could have internal bleeding for all you know!"

"Sam, I fell on a stupid rock, for God's sake, not a stake! I'm all right, it's just a really deep bruise or something." And yelling wasn't making it any better, Dean said to himself.. His arms dropped to the bed and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Can I at least check out where you got hit?"

Dean sighed. "If it'll unkink your ass, go for it." Eyes closed, he felt Sam pull up his T-shirt and allowed Sam to examine the area, flinching back as Sam moved his fingertips carefully over his scraped, goose pimpled skin. His touch was gentle but thorough.

"That hurt?" Sam asked, glancing up at him.

Dean gasped and jerked forward, knocking Sam's hands away as his fingers hit that spot. "Yes, it hurts!" he yelped. "Satisfied now? Jesus!"

Sam made a face. "I need to put a dressing on that, keep it from getting infected." He rose to get the first aid kit.

Dean's eyes followed Sam as he crossed the room to where the bags lay and rummaged for the kit. He sighed, rolling his head against the pillow. The events of that hunt, eight months after Sam had walked away into the cold rain, leaving Dean and John behind, played across his mind, the sharp ache under his ribs a not so subtle reminder of forgotten souvenirs.

"He should be fine, John." Caleb's voice, soft, drifting through Dean's fogged mind. "Chances are he'll never even feel it…"

Chapter Three: It didn't stop turning

Sam carried the kit back over to Dean, sitting down next to him. He paused at the look on Dean's face. "What?"

Dean blinked, coming back to himself. "Nothing," he said vaguely, unconsciously brushing a hand over the raw skin of the scrapes, grimacing. "Nothing, I'm just tired."

"Let me get this taken care of and you can go to sleep. It won't take long," Sam said, pulling out some antibiotic ointment. Dean nodded and closed his eyes, covering them with his arm, forcing himself to relax as Sam spread the ointment gently over the scrapes, tensing again as Sam's fingers moved over that spot. Sam worked as quickly and gently as he could, still eliciting a few jerks and hisses from Dean.

"Sorry," Sam murmured as he taped some thin gauze over the cuts to protect them from the sheets. "There, that oughta do it." He pulled the covers up slightly. "You need anything else?"

Dean rolled his head in a small negative. His "Thanks," was so soft Sam almost didn't hear him.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam said after a moment.

Dean grunted.

"There anything you wanta talk about?" Sam finally asked, taking a shot in the dark.

"I don't want to talk about babies anymore, Sam." Dean intoned, unmoving.

Sam made an irritated noise. "I mean about other stuff."

He was surprised when Dean raised his arm from his eyes and his mouth quirked in a half smile, eyebrows lifting.

"You mean like the movie I saw on the Hotz Channel the other night?" he said in a drowsy voice.

Sam made a face. "No, that is not what I mean," he snapped, gathering the tape and bandages and getting up in disgust. "Honestly, Dean, sometimes I really wonder about you!"

Sam could hear Dean chuckle sleepily.

"And what would happen if you really knew?" Dean's voice was drifting away and when Sam looked back, Dean's face was turned to the side and his eyes were closed, his arm lying on the pillows above his head.

Crossing his arms and resting a hip against the counter, Sam leaned back, dark brows drawing together, eyeing Dean as he slept. What indeed? he speculated.

"Dean! Dean, can you hear me?" The frantic voice was yelling in his ear and while, yes, Dean could fucking well hear it, he felt no real inclination to respond, he was too occupied trying to suck in air and cough out the blood that was pooling in his throat.

"Jesus, son, I'm so sorry…"

That caught Dean's wandering interest.

"John, roll him on his side, he's choking!"

Dean knew that voice. He wanted to protest the sudden movement to one side but as much as it hurt, he could feel the blood clogging his throat dribble from the corner of his mouth and air sawed into his lungs. A groan came out along with the blood and he coughed, feeling pain rip at his belly. More agony burned through him as he was rolled onto his back again and unbearable pressure crushed into his abdomen. He couldn't help himself, crying out and feebly trying to push the offending weight away.

"Lay still, Dean! Christ, Caleb…" Dad again. What the hell had happened? He blinked his eyes open to see Dad's face over his, a rough hand cupped against his cheek. Dean opened his mouth to speak but the only sound that came out was another low cry as Caleb pressed down on whatever he was holding on Dean.

"Jesus…God! Stop it!" Dean gasped, trying again to push Caleb away again.

"Can't do it, kid, you're bleedin' all over the place." Caleb's teeth glittered briefly in desperate grin, then in a lower, intense hiss to John, "We gotta get him outta here, stop this bleeding!"

"Hang on, Dean." John's voice was gentler than Dean was accustomed to and it actually scared him. How bad was this if John used a tone like that with him?

He groaned as his legs and shoulders were lifted from the cold, wet ground. His own arms clutched his middle against the pain as he was carried over the rough ground, back to the truck, every step causing him a new burst of agony, wishing that he would just pass out, begging for it by the time he was placed in the truck, legs over Caleb's, upper body across John. He coughed more blood as he felt John raise him a little higher, arms tightening around Dean as he struggled to breathe. The sudden jerk of the truck gunning forward sending him blessedly into the longed for blackness…

"It'll be okay, son." John breathed against Dean's ear, as much a kiss as a promise. "It'll be okay."

Dean floundered out of sleep, gasping for breath, heart thudding, hands brushing over his stomach, feeling for blood. Shocked when he found none. The sudden movement pulled on the gouges from earlier making him grimace.

Trying to smother his agitated breaths to keep from waking Sam, he fell back on the pillows, one hand over his mouth, the other spread over his eyes, feeling the slickness of sweat on his forehead.

"Shit…" he whispered, shuddering, still tasting dream blood, throat working.

"Hey, how you feelin'?"

Dean jerked, couldn't stop the sudden intake of breath "Hellfire, Sam! I hate it when you do that!"

"Sorry," Sam replied, sitting on the opposite bed. "I thought you heard me." He was shirtless with a towel around his neck, wet hair everywhere.

"What time is it?" Dean croaked, glancing around. His throat felt raw.

" 'Bout 11:30" Sam turned the clock so Dean could see it.

Dean groaned. "Man, why'd you let me sleep so late?" He could see bright streaks of light coming in around the edges of the cheap motel curtains, grateful the rest was being blocked.

"'Cause I wanted to, you needed it." Sam shrugged sheepishly. "And I didn't wake up until 10:45." He laughed and rubbed at his nose.

Dean snorted a soft laugh in return. "What time's checkout in this dump?" he asked, rolling stiffly onto his side.

Holding his breath to still any possible sounds of discomfort which he could tell Sam was alert for, he dragged his legs to the edge of the bed and pushed himself upright, biting his lip. It hurt, but wasn't as bad as he expected.

"Checkout's at 12:00, I figured we have time. I already kinda packed most of it." Sam replied once Dean was sitting up. Some of the watchfulness left his face when Dean betrayed no real distress.

Dean slowly got to his feet, holding one hand against his ribs, straightening his spine to a musical assortment of pops and crackles.

"Okay?" Sam continued to watch attentively. "Cause we can stay another night, if you want."

Dean frowned at him. "Nah, I'm good. Just a little stiff. Gimme a few minutes and I'll be ready."

He angled toward the bathroom to take care of his morning needs.

Sam's eyes followed him until the door closed and then he got up to finish packing.

Dean splashed water on his face and let it trickle unheeded down his chest, propping himself with a hand on either side of the sink. He breathed slowly, watching himself in the mirror. The ache from last night had faded but he could still feel it as he rubbed a hand over his bare stomach, deciding finally, to ignore it. He'd felt worse after eating too many tacos. He'd hit in just the wrong way in just the wrong place. End of story.

He had no explanation for why that particular hunt had come back to him, the memories so violent it was as if he was living them again.

He made a disgusted sound and grabbed a towel, roughly drying the water off his face and chest. It was just another stupid hunt gone wrong and it had been almost five friggin' years ago.

Angrily brushing his teeth, he gathered up his personal kit, stomping back out to the main room and jamming it into his bag. He was jerking a t-shirt on when Sam came back in from the car.

Sam noted Dean's irritated motions and scowl. "Something wrong? You okay?" he slowly picked up their few remaining items as Dean yanked the zipper closed on his duffel and sat down to put on his boots which were still soaked and each weighed a ton.

"My fucking boots are still waterlogged!" Dean growled. He ripped open his bag again and started throwing things back out looking for his worn sneakers.

"Calm down, Dean. They'll dry out." Sam walked around the bed retrieving the items Dean was throwing on the floor. "If they don't, we'll get you some new ones."

"And pay for them how?" Dean grumbled, fighting the too long laces, grimacing as he bent forward.

"Why are you so mad?" Sam demanded.

Dean paused, looking at Sam's puzzled face. Sighing, he pressed his fingers to his forehead. "I'm not mad, Sam." His eyes dropped back to the sneakers. "At least not at you."

Sam cocked his head. "Then who are you mad at?"

"Nothing, Sam. Leave it alone. It's got nothing to do with you." Dean went back to tying his sneakers in a clumsy knot. He had taught himself to tie his own shoes watching others as a child and had learned to do it backwards. It was too much trouble to learn to do it correctly, but had made sure Sam had been taught to do it the right way.

Sam knew better than to comment on Dean's efforts, especially when he was in one of his moods. He quietly replaced the tossed items in Dean's bag. "I got everything in the car when you're ready. We're checked out."

"I'm ready," Dean replied. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his duffel and stalked out the door.

Dean paused as he stuck the keys in the ignition. He glanced at Sam who staring out the window. Dean felt bad for taking his anger at himself out on Sam and made the only peace offering he could think of. "You hungry? We can get something to eat…"

Sam looked over at him and shrugged. "Sure, whatever you want," his voice indifferent, eyes back out the window.

"Fine," Dean started the engine and drove off in search of someplace to eat.

The Mom and Pop Truck Stop Diner appeared after about twenty minutes of driving and Dean turned the car into the gravel parking lot. There were about half a dozen other cars and a few rigs parked around the building.

They ambled in and sat down at an empty booth. A juke box in the corner was playing Buck Owens of all things. The food smelled edible, anyway, Sam felt hunger rumbling and was glad when the waitress, a harried looking older woman with frizzy hair handed them menus and spilled coffee into their cups. Sam was pleased to see that breakfast was served all day He was starving and ordered the special, eggs, toast, hash browns and sausage.

Dean, obviously preoccupied, disinterestedly ordered scrambled eggs and toast, pouring some sugar in his coffee as the waitress bustled away.

"Dean, something's bothering you. I wish you'd tell me what." Sam glared at Dean. "Have I done something? 'Cause I've wracked my brain and other than asking you some questions last night that I guess were dumb, I can't think of anything!" Sam leaned sideways in the booth and thumped his fingertips on the tabletop.

Dean looked up at Sam from under his eyelashes. "I told you, Sam, it's got nothing to do with you." Dean blew his breath out slowly and massaged his eyes. "And, yeah, they were dumb questions, by the way."

"Well, what does it have to do with then?" Sam demanded, frustrated. "If it's bothering you this much, maybe talking about it would help."

"Nothing's bothering me, Sam. I just remembered something that happened a long time ago last night, that's all. Just surprised me." Dean sat back, sipping his coffee.

"What did you remember?" Sam asked, curious. "What brought it back?" Getting Dean to talk about anything meaningful was always a trick. The fact that he had even alluded to the problem was amazing.

Den shrugged, shifting restlessly. "I dunno. Just a hunt." His hand rose and fell. "Long time ago. You were at Stanford, maybe seven, eight months after you left." At least Dean could say the words now without hesitating. Could occasionally think about that first year without feeling gutted. He had spent much of that time in silence, speaking when spoken too, when circumstances required it or when John had demanded he do so. There really hadn't been much to say besides "Yes, sir, and no, sir."

"What happened?" Sam asked gently.

Dean's eyes flicked and he shook his head slightly. "Nothing worth telling. It was a bad hunt. I got hurt, it was my own fault. Dad—" Dean stopped, shaking his head again, relieved, as the waitress came with their food. "I don't want to talk about it, Sam, really, forget about it." he finished as she put the plates down. He caught his fork and started pushing the eggs around, escaping Sam's eyes by the pretense of eating.

"How bad were you hurt?" Sam asked, watching Dean with a frown, his own food ignored

"Sam, please," Dean said through his teeth, closing his eyes.

"Dean, I don't know anything about what happened to you while I was gone-"

Dean hit the table with his fist, rattling the plates and glasses and drawing a few curious glances from other diners. "Sam, a lot of shit happened while you were gone, some of it was even nice, but most of it sucked. I got hurt, Dad got hurt, sometimes the hunt went our way and sometimes it didn't. That night it didn't. It's no big deal. I guess, the point is, the world didn't stop turning. Okay?" Dean tossed his fork on the plate and shoved it away. He hadn't really been hungry anyway and the few bites he'd taken trying to ignore Sam were spawning some serious acid action in his stomach.

"Sure," Sam replied stiffly. "No problem. Sorry I asked."

Dean could hear the angry click of Sam's teeth on the fork as he took a bite of eggs, immediately busying himself with his breakfast and removing his attention from Dean.

"Shit," Dean thought, sighing roughly, fingertips digging into his stomach, under the table where Sam couldn't see.

Chapter Four: A few wrong words

AN: The inhaler mentioned in this next chapter refers back to Chipping Away.

Sam finished his breakfast in silence, casting an occasional glance up at Dean, but Dean never looked back, occupied with shredding his napkin into tiny pieces and rolling the pieces into tiny balls. His plate sat where he'd shoved it and his coffee had been abandoned to cool after two sips.

"Aren't you gonna finish you're breakfast?" Sam finally asked, drinking the last of his orange juice. Dean might have a thorny stick up his ass but Sam was damned if he was gonna let the fact ruin his breakfast.

Dean shook his head. "Not hungry." He eyed Sam's now empty plate. "You ready?"

"I guess." Sam replied.

Dean sighed and signaled the waitress for their check. He looked back at Sam and opened his mouth. "Sam, I-"

"It's okay, Dean." Sam slid out of the booth. "I know it was hard for you when I left. I get that. I've asked you about it before. You don't want to tell me what happened then, that's your call. I don't need to know what it was like for you any more than you need to know it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine for me either!" Sam tossed his balled napkin on the table and walked toward the door.

Dean groaned and dropped his head on the table with an audible thud. Wherever they were heading from here, it was gonna be one long damn drive.

Sam was leaning against the car, arms crossed, staring out at the open field behind the diner. Several fat cows drifted aimlessly across the bare field, still finding something to stretch their necks out to and crop with their teeth. The grass was winter dead and it seemed to him the task of finding something to eat was hopeless but they just kept plodding along, rewarded now and again with a small return on their efforts. They seemed…content.

Sam wished heartily he was a cow. Satisfied so easily and expecting nothing more. The more he thought about it, for all intents and purposes he was a cow. Drifting aimlessly, in search of something very hard to find, receiving every now and then a small reward for his efforts.

He heard gravel crunch behind him just as he realized how desperately ridiculous this inner conversation was. Turning he saw his personal field of winter dead grass coming up behind him. He sighed, watching Dean come closer, walking slowly, eyes down, rubbing a hand over the front of his shirt. Sam made a face and shook his head. He knew he would keep hunting for that tiny reward, ignoring the Dean nettles and long expanses of nothing in search of those tiny rewards that made it worthwhile.

A cold blast of wind hit him, causing him to hug his coat closer.

Dean settled against the car next to him, hands stuffed in his pockets, holding the coat closed.

"Hey," he said softly, looking ahead.

Sam glanced at him. "Hey," he answered stiffly, after a moment.

After another extended silence which Sam refused to break, Dean finally spoke again. "So," he began, taking a deep breath, "do you really want to know what happened that night?" Dean's eyes rolled to Sam. He didn't look happy, but he did look willing.

Sam tried to hide his surprise with a shrug. "Not if you don't want to tell me." Meaning it this time.

"I don't want to tell you." Dean replied honestly. "I'm not even sure how much I remember…it was five years ago, Sam." Dean shook his head. "I can't believe I forgot about it." He snorted. "I don't know why I'd remember it now, and it's still kinda unfocused. Like trying to remember a dream." He laughed shortly. "Or maybe a nightmare you don't want to remember."

"Maybe it's that post traumatic stress thing," Sam offered. "Maybe your mind just couldn't deal with it and made it go away."

Dean stared at him. You are so dumb, clearly written on his face. "It was just a hunt for a coupla werewolves, Sam. Not some end of the world thing. Traumatic stress…" Dean gave him another dirty look, shaking his head, then stared out across the field at Sam's cows.

After another protracted silence, Dean closed his eyes, trying to mentally reach into the fog. "I wasn't where I was supposed to be," he said. "I got turned around somehow. It was raining, getting dark and we were in the woods."

Dean blinked, seeing it in his head, fuzzy around the edges, as his mind faded into remembrance. "We'd been hunting almost 36 hours straight. We were gonna lose the moon and then it woulda been another month. I was tired, hell we were all tired, and-" He pressed the side of his hand against his eyebrow and rubbed slowly, sighing.

"Sometimes when it rained-" Dean started reluctantly, staring at the ground. He shifted uncomfortably and tried again. "I had trouble breathing when it rained sometimes, for awhile, after you left." His words came out in a flurry, as if saying them quickly would keep them from tasting so bad. He blew out a breath. "I had to carry that stupid inhaler around with me for almost a damned year. Don't think Dad wasn't pissed off about that, never knowin' when I was gonna choke up."

Sam went cold all over, knowing why Dean had the inhaler in the first place. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

Dean waved his hand, cutting Sam off. "Dude, it's done. That was five years ago, too. Leave it be. It doesn't matter anymore." He cleared his throat and tightened his grip on his jacket. He was freezing.

After a moment, when Dean didn't resume his story Sam prodded him gently. "So what happened after you got turned around?"

Dean glanced up at him, moving his finger along his upper lip. "Uh…well, the one after me damn near got me. I slipped in the mud and fell. I got off a shot, but just hit it in the shoulder." He laughed ruefully. "I mostly just pissed it off. The rain'd stopped and I heard Dad and Caleb yelling." Dean pushed away from the car and started walking a short track the length of the car and back.

"What happened?" Sam spoke softly, enough to be heard over the wind and occasional traffic. Dean was becoming visibly more agitated, holding his hand against his stomach as he walked back and forth.

He cocked an eyebrow at Sam, his smile twisted. "I got up and ran like hell." He scuffed at the gravel under their feet. Sam noticed one shoe was coming untied. "I ran into the clearing and straight into the other one." He made a sound of disgust. "We didn't know there were two. I never saw it. Hell, I didn't look. I don't know where my brain was." He raked a hand through his hair, cupping the back of his neck, face tightening into a grimace. "God, I just fuckin' lost it."

"I had that silver knife I'd gotten a coupla years before, for my birthday. I got it once with that but it clawed me across the belly before Caleb and Dad-" Dean broke off, frowning. He could hear the gunfire, feel the phantom pain of that rip into his flesh…

Sam shifted around to face Dean more, watching his face intently . "Before Caleb and Dad what?"

Dean swallowed and licked his lips, a puzzled look replacing the frown. His breathing quickened slightly and one hand crept back to his ribs. "I can't…I can't remember anymore than that,"

Just screaming.

"John! What are you doing?"

Then gunfire…

Dean stood for so long with his eyes closed, Sam finally nudged him. "Dean…?"

Dean jerked, shaking his head. He sucked in a deep breath. "Um…I, uh…I guess I must have passed out then." He abruptly snagged the keys out of his pocket. "I don't remember anything after that." He moved quickly to the driver's side of the car, leaving Sam gaping after him.

"I'm freezing my ass off, let's get outta here. He looked Sam over the roof of the car, "It's your turn now, bore me with something geeky from your college life for a while." The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that never touched his eyes and he slipped into the car.

Sam stared after him, a feeling of foreboding settling over him. He rolled his eyes and sighed opening his side of the car and climbing in.

Shit.

"See anything in the paper?" Dean asked, biting back a yawn. They had driven most of the day and he was tired and ready to sleep for a while. "There's gotta be somethin' goin' on somewhere." He took a bite of the grilled cheese sandwich he had ordered and chased it with some water. His stomach had been upset all afternoon from the soda and half a cheeseburger he had played with at lunch and he'd decided to take it easy.

Sam rattled the paper, scanning the articles on the back pages. "Man, there is nothing happening here. Or anywhere around here from the look of it." He laid the paper on the table, tapping one article. "Some guys chicken laid a pink egg and that's about the most out of the ordinary thing I can find." He dragged the paper onto the booth beside him. "The fact that it made the paper outta tell you something." He over spun a forkful of spaghetti and stuffed it in his mouth. He gestured at Dean's half eaten sandwich.

"If that's not cold enough yet, I'll bet the waitress'd put it in the cooler for you." He wiped spaghetti sauce off the corner of his mouth and took a bite of crunchy French bread.

Just the sound of Sam eating was making Dean nauseous. He glanced at the sandwich as though he'd just seen it. "You're a friggin' riot, you know that? You oughta go on stage."

"I'm not kidding, Dean. I can tell you don't feel good-" Sam could have chewed his tongue off even as the words left his mouth.

Closing his eyes, Dean said, predictably, "I'm fine, Sam." He glanced around, leaning closer to Sam, voice lowered and hissed through his teeth. "In fact, I'm gonna have, "I'm fine, Sam," fuckin' tattooed on my forehead to save me havin' to say all the time! I'll just point!" He made a one fingered gesture at his own forehead.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine, far be it from me to argue with that logic. So whatta you wanta do?" Sam sipped his tea, ignoring Dean's continuing dirty look, refusing to lose his temper. "We can stay here tonight, take off in the morning and then check out the pink egg." He bounced his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean laughed despite himself, breaking off with a sudden grimace, swallowing hard. The side of his hand snapped against his mouth.

Sam watched him, but said nothing, brows drawing together, prepared to dodge to one side or the other.

Dean rested the palm of hand on the table, eyes closed until he got his gag reflex under control. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his eyes to meet Sam's accusing glare.

"Okay," he grunted, dragging his fingers over his lips. "So, maybe my stomach's-" he swallowed again. "- off a little."

"Let's get a room," Sam said. "Maybe you'll feel better after some sleep." He didn't sound convinced but was relieved when Dean nodded and pushed out of the booth.

A little unsteady on his feet he quickly covered it by leaning a hip against the booth and digging out his wallet. He threw some bills on the table and jerked his head at Sam. "Let's get out of here."

Dean twisted in the bed, hot and uncomfortable, desperately trying to find a position to lie in that didn't hurt. He drifted in and out of restless slumber, unable to fall completely asleep or come fully awake. He moaned softly, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the sweaty pillow.

Dean paused as he started to open the door to their room, hearing Caleb's voice in a soft growl from the main room.

"John, are you sure Dean's up for this? He looks exhausted. We can finish this ourselves."

"We're all tired, Caleb. We can't let this chance go by, and we can't hang around another month waiting until it comes around again if we miss it. Dean'll be fine."

"John, for God's sake -" Caleb's voice took on an edge.

Dean heard something slam down and John's impatient reply. "He's gotta get past this, Caleb! It's been months!. He was sick, I know. He's got that damned inhaler if he needs it." John he would have said the words to Dean's face just as easily as behind his back. Pulling punches wasn't his style. "He needs to be on this hunt, we need a third man. He has to get his focus back. I can't do this if I have to keep worrying that my back up's not good enough-"

John stopped as Caleb's suddenly straightened in the chair he was slouching in, his eyes darted past John to the door. John turned to see Dean standing in the doorway, a look of hurt betrayal on his face. John shot a look at Caleb, then back at Dean as Dean stared at John before walking to the table and carefully setting the bag he carried on it. He stood there for a moment, staring at the table.

Dean's throat worked as he tried to think of what he could say that would begin to express how deeply his father's words had wounded him. Shocked him. They wouldn't come and if they had, Dean would not have been able to say them.

…not good enough.

He glanced at Caleb and then turned his eyes to John, who had the grace to look uncomfortable. John's hand moved slightly.

Looking away again, Dean said quietly, "I'll start loading the car."


Chapter Five: Pointing doesn't make it true

Dean woke with a low groan. His eyelids were matted together and he had to pry them apart to open them. He swallowed uneasily, pushing himself upright, regretting the movement instantly as his stomach threatened to climb up his throat. He clapped his hand over his mouth automatically but other than a couple of unpleasantly strong hiccups that left a bad taste in the back of his throat, nothing happened.

The bathroom door was closed and the thought of kicking it open and puking in Sam's lap so did not appeal to him, Sam's opinion of it not withstanding.

He sank back, grateful for small favors. His unwelcome dream had left him angry and depressed. He needed to get his act together because he knew Sam would ignore the anger, water off a ducks back, but he could scent and zero in on depression like a shark scenting a drop of blood from a mile away. And like a shark, he wouldn't give up until he'd stalked it, ripped it's cause from Dean's unwilling lips and done his damnedest to eradicate it.

Driving Dean to the brink of insanity while he was doing it.

Just thinking about it sent a fresh wash of acid through his stomach. He grimaced and dug his fist in, swearing. What the hell was going on in there? Was he getting a freakin' ulcer? God knew, he was due one.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean jumped a guilty foot. "God dammit, Sam!" he yelled. "Are tryin' to give me heart failure?!"

"No," Sam replied. He threw the towel he was carrying back into the bathroom and sat down at the table to stare at Dean.

Dean glared back at him, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. After a few minutes under that steely gaze, Dean growled, moving his head slowly back and forth.

"Christ, Sam, don't do this…" His breath rolled out in a deep sigh and he wiped his hand over his face.

"Fine," Sam replied, lounging back in the chair. "You tell me what the hell is going on with you and I'll back off." He crossed his arms and took up the dreaded 'forever' position.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about." He desperately wanted to get up and flee to the relative safety of the bathroom, but Sam's position effectively barred the way.

Sam tilted his head, cocked an eyebrow and scratched at his ear. "You don't?" he said in mock surprise. "Well, let me enlighten you."

Dean groaned again, dropped his head in his hands and prayed for death.

"Let's see…" Sam began to tick off points on his fingers. "One, after a disturbing but fairly simple hunt, during which you…oh, yeah, two, you fell, causing a fairly minor injury that's been, three, tying you in knots since it happened, and,four, I might add, apparently brought a memory back to you that you conveniently filed away in that steel trap you keep stuff in you don't want to deal with." Sam re-crossed his arms and kicked the bed Dean was sitting on.

"Sam…" Dean warned in a low voice.

"Yeah, Dean? I'm listening." Sam leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, causing Dean to lean away from him. "Point to your forehead!" Sam duplicated Dean's one fingered salute. "Tell me you're fine. You can't eat, you can't even sit up straight, I know you're in pain." Sam lowered his voice. "Guess what else, Dean-"

"Sam, I swear to God-"

"You talk in your sleep. Any of your playmates ever tell you that?" Sam unconsciously moved back slightly. Dean was unpredictable, but definitely a hit first, ask questions later kind of guy.

Dean looked like he'd been stabbed.

"I know something bad happened that night," Sam went on relentlessly. "You may not be able to remember all of it, but I'll guarandamntee you, whatever the hell it was musta been so bad you blanked it out because you couldn't handle it."

Dean tried to stand, to get away from Sam, but rocked forward suddenly as his stomach clenched and he gagged.

Sam jumped up and grabbed the trash can. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—take it easy!" There was almost nothing in Dean's stomach to throw up but that didn't stop it from trying. Every spasm shot pain through him, making the nausea worse and vice versa. Sam held his shoulders as Dean convulsed helplessly.

"It's okay, Dean. Relax, you're making it worse. Calm down…" He kneaded Deans shoulder, feeling the muscles slowly ease up as his body finally regained control of itself to some extent.

"You happy now?" Dean rasped, clearing his throat and spitting into the trash can Sam still held for him. He groaned and slumped to his side on the bed, arms hugging his middle.

Sam stared at the splatters and swirls of red that tinged the contents of the trash can he held and felt his muscles tighten.

He took a slow breath. "Dean, I think maybe you need a doctor."

And then Dean scared the crap out Sam.

He agreed.

Sam got the name and address of the only doctor in the area from the desk clerk, who informed him said doctor was closing up shop and moving to the bigger town some fifty miles east and that he wasn't sure there was even anyone still there.

Sam had called the number, relieved when it was picked up after ten rings. Despite the reluctance of the doctor who explained most of his office was already packed up and gone, he finally agreed to take a look at Dean when it became obvious Sam wasn't going to take no for an answer.

It was good 20 minute drive to the house he worked out of, but it only seemed to take forever. To make it worse a storm had come in during the night adding cold rain to the already unpleasant weather conditions. Sam had paid no attention to it as he had not planned on going out in it. Now it was just another obstacle in his path of trying to get Dean some help.

They were both drenched by the time he got Dean in the back seat. The passenger seat was out of the question. Any form of being upright sent Dean into spasms of retching, so lying down in the back was the only option. The movement of the car was almost more than he could stand.

Sam drove as fast as he dared in the driving rain, huge rooster tails of water shooting up on either side of the car as it moved down the streets. He glanced in the back.

Dean lay quietly, grimacing slightly, eyes closed. The pain had faded to a tolerable level and as long as he stayed down the nausea remained at bay.

"You doin' okay back there?" Sam asked, eyes jumping from Dean to the road. "How's the pain?"

"Jesus, Sammy, I'm not in fucking labor here. " Dean groaned. "Just drive."

Sam eventually came to the small, yellow, two story house on the edge of town.. Lightning illuminated the shingle hanging from the mailbox. Dr. Stephen Mercer. Sam pulled into the small parking area and helped Dean out of the car. Predictably he started dry heaving again, so Sam basically pulled him along to the entrance, kicking open the door with his foot.

The small waiting room was virtually empty save for a small, battered couch and a few boxes. Sam aided Dean over to the couch and lowered him onto it, he straightened and looked around.

"Hello!" he called out. "Dr. Mercer? It's Sam Weston. I called a few minutes ago about my- " He stopped as footsteps clattered down the stairs.

"Sorry!" The youngish looking man said as he came into view. His hair was rather long and wet. He didn't look much older than Dean. "I jumped in the shower after you called . I had paint all over me." He reached out to shake Sam's hand. "Stephen Mercer. Sorry about the way the place looks, but like I said, I'm moving. You only caught me by dumb luck. Fifteen more minutes and I'd have been gone."

Sam smiled nervously. "We appreciate you seeing us."

Mercer returned the smile. "No problem. Hippocratic oath and all that. What seems to be the trouble?" He looked past Sam at Dean sprawled, in obvious discomfort, on the couch.

Sam stepped back. "This is my brother, Dean. He's been feeling sick since yesterday. Vomiting, stomach pains. There was blood when he threw up a little while ago."

Dr. Mercer squatted down by Dean and took his pulse, felt his forehead. Dean stiffened slightly under his touch. "Hey Dean, I'm Dr. Mercer. Do you think you can make it to the exam room? It's just down the hall."

"Yeah, but every time I stand up I puke," Dean warned him.

Mercer motioned for Sam to help and took Dean's arm. "Well, I'll take my chances. Up you go."

Between the two of them they managed to get Dean situated on the table in the exam room, which was almost as bare as the waiting room, with a minimum of upset. Mercer rummaged in a box sitting on them counter and pulled out a package which he carefully unwrapped, including a stethoscope which he draped around his neck. He rummaged some more, speaking to Sam over his shoulder.

"Get his jacket off would you? And the t-shirt." Sam obeyed, helping Dean off with the requested clothing, although it was trick with Dean trying to stay prone.

Mercer turned, "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, taking in the full glory of Dean's battle scars, bared for all the world to see. "What the hell did you do? Throw yourself on a land mine?" He stepped over to the table and unconscious ran his fingers over the tapestry of bitter experience that embroidered Dean's skin. He suddenly seemed to realize what he was doing when neither brother could think of a reply to explain Dean's condition and the silence dragged on.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I did my residency in Hell's Kitchen and I haven't seen anything like this since then." Embarrassed, he put a thermometer in Dean's ear. It beeped after a few seconds and he frowned at it. "100.6" he popped the cover into the trash.

"Look at me please." He swiftly checked Dean's blood pressure, eyes, ears, nose and throat. He ran his fingers lightly over the bruise on Dean ribs. "This looks fresh. When did you say this started?"

"Yesterday morning." Sam replied.

Mercer glanced at Sam then back at Dean with a tiny smile, giving Dean a slight nudge. "That's amazing," he said to Dean. "You did that without moving your lips."

Dean laughed, grimacing.

Sam blushed, "Sorry."

"So Dean? What's the story? "

"Sam and I were walking in the woods and I slipped crossing a stream. I landed on some rocks. Shit!"" Dean gasped as Mercer probed the area, grabbing his hand to stop him without thinking.

"Sorry," Mercer murmured. "I don't think you broke anything. The fact that you have a fever tells me you have an infection of some kind, which isn't normally associated with a fall. When did you start feeling ill?"

Dean rolled his eyes to Sam. "Pretty much right after I fell."

Sam straightened up from the counter he was leaning against. "Dean! You told me you were fine!"

"The pain is right here?" Mercer touched Dean, just below the sternum.

Dean grunted and nodded tightly. "Feels like I've been eating hot, broken glass."

"Well, that's certainly descriptive." Mercer said with a smirk. "Lot of nausea, obviously. You had anything weird to eat?"

Dean shook his head. "I was friggin' fine 'til I fell, it's just gotten worse."

"The fever concerns me, I might think appendicitis, a fall can cause a rupture but the pain is too localized in the wrong place." Mercer leaned against the table and crossed his arms. "Do you have a history of this kind of thing. Stomach pain? Vomiting blood?"

Dean shook his head. "I think I would have noticed."

"I'll be honest with you. If I were at a clinic, I'd request x-rays and maybe an endoscopy so I could take a look around inside." Mercer spread his hands. "I can't do any of that here. Based on what your telling me, I'm guessing you've got gastritis."

Both Sam and Dean frowned.

"What is that?" Sam asked when Dean didn't.

"It's an inflammation of the stomach lining, can cause bleeding, vomiting, pain. It can be mild and sporadic to very severe." Mercer glanced at Sam. "It's symptomatic of something else though, meaning you get it because of another underlying condition. Illness, injury of some kind, even stress."

At the word stress, both Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"You could have an ulcer starting." Mercer continued, walking over to the sink and rinsing his hands, drying them on a towel lying on the counter. "I'll be right back." He moved out of the room and Sam could hear him digging in another box in a different room.

"Why are you so pissed looking?" Dean finally asked, wearily. He threw an arm over his eyes. He was exhausted. "I'm the ones who's sick."

"I'm pissed because you lied to me AGAIN when I asked you if you were all right." Sam slapped the countertop with his hand. "Are you just incapable of telling the truth or is this your subtle way of guaranteeing I lose my mind?!"

Dean had lifted his arm to watch Sam. "Listen to yourself and then tell me you don't understand why I don't spill my guts to you every time I get a twinge." He dropped his arm back down.

"A twinge!" Sam pushed away from the counter. "Dean, look at you-" He stopped as Dr. Mercer came back into the room.

Mercer paused, glanced at the both of them, sensing the tension in the air. "I interrupt anything?"

Sam shot Dean a dirty look. "No."

"Okay," He studied Dean for a moment. "My advice to you both is, go to an equipped clinic or a hospital and get some tests run. This may clear up on it's own but the onset is so sudden I wouldn't recommend waiting around to see. Better to find out it's nothing than to wait until it really becomes something."

He looked over at Sam. "You fellows don't live around here, do you?"

"Just passing through," Sam admitted.

Mercer nodded his head at Dean. "He needs to rest, try and stay as unstressed as possible and stick to plain food, that's easy on the stomach. I'll give you a prescription for an anti-emetic-" at their twin puzzled looks, he added, "something to help with the nausea. And get checked out at a real clinic. I'm not kidding."

Sam nodded, shooting fire through his eyes at Dean, who ignored him..

Mercer turned back to Dean. He held out two hypos, uncapping one of them and plunging a small amount out of it.

Dean eyed them nervously. "What are those?"

Mercer winked at him. "Pain killer. The good stuff I might add. Help you sleep. And an antibiotic." He waved the other hypo.

The words 'pain killer' had Dean reaching for his sleeve.

Mercer shook his head. "Sorry, sport." He bounced his eyebrows

Dean stared at him for a second then rolled his eyes, reaching instead for his belt buckle. He frankly didn't give a damn if he got it in the eyeball if it would stop that acidy ache. Dean had always heard that doctors were lousy at giving shots.

It was true. Both times.

Chapter Six: Stumbling to the light


Sam glanced at Dean who was staring sleepily out the passenger window. Whatever the hell had been in that shot had worked fast. They had managed to make it back to the car, through the incessant rain and get Dean resettled, wet, but no more uncontrollable retching.

The lines on Dean's face had eased some and he was at least able to sit up without too much discomfort. Sam doubted he'd be awake by the time they made it back to the motel, especially since Sam had a couple of errands to run to get the prescription filled that Mercer had given him and some supplies to keep them going for a day or two.

Dean sighed finally. "I'm glad that's over," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. His voice sounded thick. He resettled himself against the door, grimacing slightly. It hurt to cross his arms over his stomach so he kept them in his lap.

Sam gave a surprised laugh. "Whadaya mean, over? You heard what he said."

Dean blinked at him unsteadily. "Yeah. Rest, no stress and plain food for a while and this'll clear up on its own." Dean yawned slowly, widening his eyes, trying to pay attention to whatever Sam was on about now.

Disbelief swept Sam's face. "You just proved something I've always suspected about you," he declared.

"What?" Dean said, frowning.

"You really do have an intermittent hearing problem."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean growled, getting irritated. He wanted to go to sleep and Sam's nattering was making him cranky.

"You listen to what people say, but you only hear the parts you want to." Sam shook his head. "This is being caused by something else, Dean. That's what he said. Probably from that fall the other night among other things. We have to find out what's causing it. Dude, you are so going to the closest clinic we can find tomorrow and get some tests run."

"I am so not." Dean replied, automatically crossing his arms defiantly. He moved them away immediately, finding the weight intolerable.

The shot had taken the edge off the pain and left him in a somewhat fuzzy state of mind. He still felt nauseous but at the moment, also thanks to the shot, he didn't much care. He wanted to go back to sleep. He'd be a lot better after that. Maybe he could eat something then and they could get back on the road…

"Dean, are you listening to me?" Sam's plaintive tone cut through Dean's wandering thoughts.

"What?" Dean yelped. "Christ, Sam, are you saying anything I need to hear?" He twisted uncomfortably. "And I might point out this conversation is not helping with the no stress thing!" he gave Sam as dirty a look as he could make the muscles in his face form and then turned away, closing his eyes.

Sam rolled his own eyes, praying to who or whatever for guidance. You could lead a horse to water but if the bastard was too stubborn to admit he was thirsty…

He opened his mouth to express that thought but realized as he looked over that Dean was out cold. Sighing, he shook his head, knowing this conversation would repeat itself tomorrow. Dean never made anything easy.

"He didn't mean what you heard the way it sounded, Dean." Caleb accepted the shotgun that Dean held out to him, trying to get Dean to look at him. The ride out, Dean had been virtually mute, crammed between John and Caleb in the cab of Caleb's old truck. He answered direct questions regarding their hunt plans but other than that, stared silently at a spot between his boots.

Caleb's comment was rewarded with a brief view of the green of Dean's eye's and then they moved away. The air was thick with moisture, sticky and hot, despite the coming of night and even though he was trying to hide it, Caleb could hear Dean's breath moving in and out with an effort. Dean was his father's son and stubborn as hell, he would choke to death before he would use that damned inhaler now.

Caleb knew how much Dean hated this weakness he couldn't seem to shake. He was trying so hard to meet John's expectations and sometimes John was just an ass, plain and simple.

"Dean…"

"Caleb." Dean's voice was hoarse. He checked the load on his gun and cocked it Thunder echoed the crack as the barrel snapped into place. "He has to be able to depend on me. I'm letting him down. He's right." Dean turned away and walked into the deepening gloom as rain started to patter at the leaves around them.

Dean moaned softly, rolling his head against the window. Sam glanced over at him, unconsciously slowing the car. The motel was only a couple more miles. He decided to get Dean settled then would return for the prescription. The bed would be more comfortable than the car.

Feeling the claws tear into him, Dean knew there was no way in hell Caleb and his dad could get to him in time. For the split second he had to think clearly, he wished he could get to the knife he had buried to the hilt in this things chest. He would have turned it on himself in a heartbeat. Better that, than to be ripped to pieces or worse, bitten and survive, only to face a worse nightmare.

He couldn't stop the cry that was wrung from him as the creature lifted him bodily from the ground. He could feel the rake of claws against his leg as the other beast tried to grab him, feeling like some kind of bizarre play toy in a horrendous game of cat and mouse.

John's bellow came to him even above the snarling and he caught a quick, hazy view of his father running forward, raising his gun as the werewolf swung him around, raising him, claws digging in even more deeply, wrenching another hoarse cry out of him..

Caleb's voice rang out. "John, what are you doing!"

"-KILL HIM!" John's voice rang out with a clarity that made all the other sounds die away just before everything was lost in deafening blasts of thunder and gunfire, screaming and blood and Dean felt his body slam into the cold, wet ground, every beat of his heart spilling scarlet onto the muddy grass.

Whiskey seared his throat, choking him as the bottle was tipped into his mouth. John's rough hands holding him up enough to swallow and his rough voice ordering him . "Drink it, Dean!"

He tried, mostly because he didn't have much choice, drenching them both in whiskey and blood as he coughed.

"Hold him, John, for God's sake! This is gonna hurt!."

Someone screamed then.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Dean screamed. He flailed away from Sam so roughly for a moment Sam thought he was having a convulsion.

"Get…get off me…" Dean gagged, shoving at Sam, who hastily obeyed, allowing Dean to stumble into the bathroom, his coughing punctuated by pained groans and spitting.

Sam hung in the doorway until Dean slumped to the side, exhausted, ribs rising and falling along his spine as he fought for air. He was shivering and dizzy, wishing someone would just. PLEASE. GOD. pull the flaming spike out of his belly.Couldn't Sam see it? One hand lifted from the floor but fell back limply. The other arm curled across his stomach and he groaned softly.

Sam crouched down next to Dean, lifting his upper body into a sitting position as gently as he could. Dean's head rolled back against Sam, his hand raising again to pluck at Sam's shirt.

"Don't…" he murmured. "Hurts…"

"I know it hurts, Dean. I can't leave you on the floor. Your shivering. Let's get you up." Sam lifted with his legs, moving carefully as Dean tried to get his feet under him. Dean's skin was sweat slick and he felt very warm to the touch even though he was shaking with chills.

Sam eased him onto the bed, Dean's lower lip clamped firmly between his teeth, his only sounds soft grunts.

"Donwanna lie down," he said, resisting Sam's gently push.

"Okay." Sam grabbed the pillows off his bed and piled them up behind Dean to leave him in a semi-sitting position. He pulled the blankets up Dean's legs and draped the one from his bed around his upper body. Dean's arms moved across his abdomen under the blanket.

"Wasn't I… in the car?" He blinked slowly and one hand crept out to rub at his eyes dazedly. He shivered again, grimacing and pulled it back under the blanket.

Sam got some water and came back to the bed with two bottles of pills. "I don't know what was in that shot the doctor gave you but, dude, you've been asleep for hours. I thought I'd never get you back in the room." He held out the pills and the water. "You need to take these."

Dean eyed the offerings with distaste. He opened his mouth to speak but belched instead, looking surprised and unhappy and eliciting another soft groan from him, eyes closing briefly.

Any other time Sam might have laughed but Dean looked to miserable and Sam was too worried about him.

"My stomach feels weird." Dean said, moving his head in a negative. "I don't think-"

"Try one, with a little water. If it stays down you can take the other in fifteen or twenty minutes. You need the water, Dean. You need to eat." Sam held the water out again, more insistently.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't want to hear that word, God forbid, think about doing it." He took the water and one pill and reluctantly forced it down with a small gulp of water. The water felt surprisingly nice, spreading a cool spot through his stomach and he took another tiny sip before setting it on the table. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

"You had another nightmare…" Sam began.

Dean's eyes shot open and rolled to Sam. "I don't wanta talk about it," Dean growled low in this throat. God, his stomach hurt.

Clumsy fingers, trying to be gentle but failing as agony tore through him, pulling his insides apart…

Dean's hands clamped over his eyes, his breathing becoming smothered and strained.

"Dean-"

"NO!" Dean yelled. Sam jerked back.

Dean stared at him for second, but left Sam feeling that Dean wasn't seeing him at all.

Dean suddenly turned away, pulled one of the pillows from behind him, sliding down in the bed and shifting uncomfortably to his side, staring at the wall.

"I wanna sleep, Sam." He ground out, pulling the covers over his shoulder.

Sam opened and closed his mouth, a dozen comments dying on his lips as they came to him. He finally sighed, snugged the covers a little tighter around Dean and turned off the bed side lamp.

"Let me know if you want anything," he got to his feet, nudging the trash can closer to the bed. "I'll check back in a little while about the other pill." Dean gave a slight nod and closed his eyes.

Sam opened the motel room door and stepped out into the cool evening. The rain had stopped but the air was colder. He wondered if it might be snowing by morning. The air had that feel to it. He checked the time so he could keep up with Dean's next pill, assuming he didn't throw up the first one.

Slumping down on the bench next to their room door he pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off an impending headache. It was only 11:00 pm but he felt as though he had been awake for days. He stared out at the broken moonlight glinting in the puddles of half frozen water dotting the thinly graveled parking lot. Dimly, he could hear twangy country music in the distance.

Sam sighed again and fished his phone out of his pocket, wearily dialing the number he knew no one would pick up on, hanging up after the voice mail came on. His head thumped back against the wall as he rolled his head from side to side, eyes closed.

His eyes snapped open again suddenly and he dialed the phone again, with more energy this time, holding it to his ear in anticipation, jumping upright when a gravelly voice burst out of the speaker.

"This better be fuckin' good!"

Sam couldn't stop the grin or the sense of relief at the sound of that voice.

"Caleb?"

Chapter Seven: A product of experience


"Who is this?" Caleb's gravelly tones were almost a physical blow.

Sam grimaced, closing his eyes. "It's Sam, Sam Winchester-"

"Sam Win-?" Caleb snarled in surprise, there was a pause, then, "What the fuck, Sam? Do you know what time it is?"

Sam could make out another voice in the background, asking who it was. Female. Heat warmed Sam face as he realized he had no idea where the gruff hunter might be, let alone what time zone.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" he stammered. "I can call back…" Disappointment flooded him as he considered when he might get this chance again.

There was a lot of grunting and shuffling over the phone. "Christ, boy. I'm up now." Caleb hissed away from the phone, "Not funny, Gracie!" More straining noises and then a muffled thud. "What's goin' on?" Caleb's voice sharpened. "John okay? You guys?"

Sam could almost see Caleb rubbing his unshaven face, the sound like fingers over a hairbrush as he pulled his mind together. "No...I mean, yeah...I guess Dad's all right." Sam, ducked his head and eased himself back down on the bench. "I mean, we haven't heard from him for a while, you know…" Sam's voice faded slightly. "Just coordinates."

Caleb's heavy sigh was so loud Sam held the phone further away. Dimly, Sam could hear Caleb murmur some words, the only one he could identify being "hole". Sam smirked despite himself.

The sound of swallowing came through the line, glass hitting a tabletop. "So what's up, Sam? I figure, if it's not your jackass father it's gotta be Dean. He kill someone that matters?"

Sam did laugh at that. "No," he replied, "It's nothing like that." Sam hesitated, pulling a hand through his hair.

"What is it like, then?" Caleb's voice softened slightly, as if he sensed Sam's tension through the phone. "You got me, boy, don't waste me."

"Dean's…having some problems." Sam had never warmed to Caleb as much as he might have, just too different, but Caleb had always had a real fondness for Dean, who shared many of Caleb's…interests. But he was a trusted friend, one of their few.

Sam twisted his head to the side. God, Dean would kill him if he knew what Sam was doing. "I need to ask you about a hunt," Sam began hesitantly. Now that he was in a position to know the details, he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to.

Caleb snorted. "Gonna have to be a little more specific there, Sam." A small note of impatience crept into the words.

"Werewolves," Sam replied instantly. "Mates, with Dad and Dean, about 8 months after I—left." Why did that always taste like betrayal when he said that?

Silence for a beat. "Whadaya mean problems?" Caleb asked casually.

Sam swallowed. "He fell the other night, on a hunt, no big deal, but ever since he's been having these nightmares and he's been sick, I think it's getting worse. He was telling me about this hunt. He said he'd actually forgotten it." Sam didn't realize he was leaning forward, toward the phone in his hand.

"Sick? Sick how?"

"Stomach pain, he's running a fever…Caleb, he's throwing up blood!" Sam exclaimed in hushed intensity.

There was another brief silence and no other requests for clarification. "Sam, listen to me-" Caleb finally said.

"What are you doin', Sam?"

Sam jerked like he'd been electrocuted at Dean's hoarsely spoken words, the cell phone sailed into the parking lot.

Gulping guilty breaths, Sam yelped. "Dean, you scared the crap outta me!" He got up and retrieved his phone, closing it, cutting off the buzz coming from it. He felt cold mist falling and ice was starting to crust the edges of the little water filled potholes.

Dean was standing in the doorway, being supported by it, actually, barefoot, holding himself against the door frame. Shivering in the cold air as it caressed his sweating body with an icy kiss. His eyes were accusing, sparkling too brightly, jaw muscles working angrily.

"What were you…doing?" Dean repeated as Sam came back, looking as guilty as he was.

"Dean, you need to go back in, you're running a fever, it's too cold for you out here." Sam tried to take Dean's arm but Dean resisted. Sam could feel how warm Dean was.

"Were you calling Dad?" Dean snapped angrily. "Sam, I swear…"

"No," Sam replied, honestly. Pushing gently, but more insistently. Feeling Dean give ground slightly. "Please, Dean…go back in. I thought you wanted to sleep."

Dean pulled loose, grimacing at the movement. "My mouth's dry." He had wanted some more water but Sam had moved the glass. Dragging himself off the bed to get it, it hadn't take long for Dean to realize Sam was outside, phone to his ear, speaking in a low voice.

"You need to take the other pill," Sam said, urging Dean back toward the bed.

"Stop pushing me!" Dean complained, sinking down on the edge of the bed. Bracing himself with one hand, the other splayed over his belly. "I don't want it." He cocked his head, eyes opening and closing slowly. "Sam, who were you talking to?" he demanded, voice catching in a sharp hiccup that twisted his face.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine, Dean. I was calling Caleb." He jerked as the phone in his pocket began to vibrate against his chest like an angry bug. He ignored it and braced himself for Dean's reaction.

Surprisingly, Dean just sighed. "What the hell for?" he groaned tiredly. Pulling his body back along the bed he sank against the headboard. He guessed the shot he'd been given was wearing off cause the sharp pain seemed to be getting more intense or he was just getting more tired and it seemed worse. He didn't protest when Sam pulled the covers back over his legs, he was freezing even though his t-shirt was sweat soaked.

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed with the water and another pill.

Dean shook his head slowly. "Dude, I'm this far away from puking on your shoes." Dean held his hand out, finger and thumb a papers thickness apart. He hiccupped again, trying to ignore the taste in the back of his throat as he did. The sharp flex of muscles was like the twist of a knife.

"You said you were thirsty." Sam's mouth tightened. "Dean you're gonna get dehydrated and you haven't eaten. This one is for the nausea."

Dean glared at him. "Why the hell didn't you give me that one first?"

Sam shrugged and offered the water and pill again. "Sorry."

Very reluctantly, Dean accepted them. Closing his eyes he dropped the pill as far back on his tongue as he could and quickly chased it with a little water, sitting up as his body shuddered through the effort of swallowing. He thrust the glass back at Sam, still leaning forward, eyes clenched, hand against his mouth until he was fairly sure the pill would stay down. His stomach didn't seem to appreciate the water as it had earlier and he remained watchful, throat muscles bunching.

"You okay?" Sam asked, alert for disaster.

Dean's eyes fluttered, but he nodded slightly. "Yeah…" He swallowed again and cleared his throat, slowly straightening. His face was pale and more sweat had sprung out on his upper lip and forehead. He dragged a hand across his face.

"Sam?" So soft it was almost a thought.

Sam, rising to put the pills away, sat back down. "Yeah, Dean?"

"Why did you call Caleb?" Dean didn't lift his head but cut his eyes to the side to gaze at Sam.

Fuck, Sam thought, then shrugged mentally, in for a penny….

"I was gonna ask him what happened that night, Dean. I wanta know. Whatever the hell it was…" Sam gestured helplessly at Dean.

Dean did raise his head then, eyes half closed, teeth worrying his lower lip. His shoulders rose and fell in a long slow breath, hand brushing across his stomach as the movement accentuated the ache there. "Why? What possible difference does it make now?" His other hand flopped on the bed. "I'm so tired…" he murmured, his eyelids drooping. Lethargy was stealing over him, the mere act of drawing breath almost not worth the effort it took. It felt like something was boiling in his stomach, sharp and heavy, like drinking too much cold water after a hard workout on a hot summer day

"Tell me what happened, Dean." Sam said gently. Dean's eyes popped open again, although he appeared to be having trouble focusing. "Whatever it was, maybe telling me will help. Can't you just once, let me help?"

Dean rolled his head to look at Sam, he coughed slightly, clearing his throat again. "You wanta know?" He finally asked. His voice tired, out of the strength to say no again. Sam's suddenly uncertain silence spurred him on. "Dad shot me, Sam. That's what happened."

The flat statement turned Sam blood colder than the knowledge the words conveyed. He couldn't stop the startled laugh of disbelief. "Wh- what?"

"We had a fight before the hunt," Dean went on, looking away as though Sam hadn't spoken. "We had a lot of fights that year after you left. I couldn't breathe half the time time, I was screwing stuff up. I just…couldn't seem to do anything right." Dean's eyes fell and his voice dropped to a whisper Sam wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear. He swallowed uneasily.

"He said I wasn't good enough…"

If Dean had struck him, Sam couldn't have been more shocked. Righteous fury boiled up in him with no outlet to release it, making him shake. "Dean…"

Dean cut him off, "He was mad when he said it. I know that!" Knowing that didn't heal the ragged wound the words had left behind. "You wanted to know, Sam. Be careful what you wish for." He slid further down on the bed, groaning softy, trying to find a comfortable position. It was a mistake, lying down only made the nausea worse.

"Dean, Dad would not shoot you because he thought you screwed up! He's got being an asshole to down to an art form, but I don't care what you might have done. Or not done. he wouldn't!" Sam spoke with conviction, couldn't take this seriously. How in the hell such an idea had taken root in Dean's maze of a mind Sam couldn't imagine.

Every new facet of Dean's personality that was occasionally vouchsafed to Sam left him reeling at just how badly damaged his brother actually was. The fact that he still managed to function with his psyche constantly at war with the man he had become and the lonely, frightened child, desperate for approval, that lurked just under the surface gave Sam with a hollow ache and filled him with fear on Dean's behalf.

"I didn't say he put a gun to my head!" Dean spat. He grunted, moving restlessly, rubbing his finger along his ribcage. "I said he shot me. Hell, I was being torn apart, I know why he did it…" Dean trailed off, looking away again, fingers plucking at the blanket. He pulled them closer, shivering again. He rubbed sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand, sighing.

Sam stared at him. "Jesus, he really shot you?" Sam was instantly furious again, instantly guilty. "Dean, my God…" His hand crept up to his mouth.

….not good enough…

His vision narrowing, knowing he was going to die, seeing only his father, too far away to get to him in time, John's face as he'd raised the gun, screaming something at Caleb. Agony worse than the blunt claws ripping into his body blowing through him…

Knowing he'd failed again.

Sam jerked back as Dean's eyes widened and he suddenly pushed upright. He swallowed again.. "I don't feel so good..." He coughed thickly, hands instinctively flying up to cover his mouth.

Sam gaped as Dean choked, blood spraying through his fingers to drip and splatter on the flowered comforter. Sam, stunned, forced himself out of his horrified trance and grabbed the trash can, shoving it under Dean's face and holding it with shaking hands as Dean gagged, convulsing helplessly, watching the blood pooling in the bottom of the container.

In his pocket his phone began it's angry vibration once again.

Chapter Eight: In a stranger's hands

It seemed to go on forever, even though Sam knew it lasted less than a couple of minutes from start to finish.Dean gagged, blood, tears and saliva dripping off of his face as he coughed, trying desperately to stay upright to keep from choking.

Sam kept a firm grip on his arm to steady him as the convulsions slowly waned and Dean was spitting, trying to clear his throat and nose. Blood already stained the spread so he decided to take a chance and move the trash can as Dean swiped shakily at his face, succeeding only in smearing the blood. His breath came in ragged gasps and Sam could feel him sagging to one side.

"Jesus, Dean-" Sam gasped, his own voice shaking as he reached back and snatched the pillow off the floor Dean had thrown there earlier, shoving it behind his back and carefully settling him against the headboard in a semi-sitting position.

"Can you stay like that for a minute?"

Dean, holding his bloody hands away from his body, grimaced but nodded.

Sam hurried into the bathroom and grabbed some towels. Filling the empty ice bucket and a glass with cool water he returned to Dean, who lay with his eyes closed, his arms now crossed loosely over his stomach, hands out.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, putting the water on the floor. He cupped a hand behind Dean's head. Dean jerked, gasping, then coughing again.

"Here, Dean, rinse your mouth out, you'll be able to breathe better." Three efforts and the water Dean spit out wasn't red anymore. "Can you drink a little? Just a couple sips?"

Dean's throat was on fire, but he tried. "God…Sam…" He coughed once more, trying to clear his throat and ease his breathing.

"It's okay, Dean. Just lie still." Sam gently eased Dean back and wetting one of the towels, carefully began washing the blood from his face and hands. He tried to still his own shaking hands and concentrate on what he was doing. "How you feelin' there, bro'?" he said as lightly as he could, trying to smile.

Dean swallowed, his eyes closing again, then snapping open. The skin around his eyes and mouth was white, his freckles stark spots scattered across his nose and cheeks. "I think I've been better," he rasped, blinking, trying to get his eyes to focus. Sam could feel him trembling, his heart beating too fast.

"Dean, I need to get you to a hospital-" Sam spoke quietly, in a steady voice, patting Dean's arm dry. There was no suggestion of a question in the statement. "You're bleeding inside." He stood, waiting for the refusal but it didn't come. "Dean?" He leaned down and shook Dean lightly.

Dean's eyes fluttered open. "What?" he said weakly, confused. He rolled slowly to his side, curling his arm across his stomach. "Man, that hurts…like a bitch…" His eyes clenched in a wince. If he admitted it hurt, Sam knew Dean was in genuine pain

Sam ground his teeth, fingers digging into the skin of his forehead. He finally snatched Dean's keys off the table and shrugged into his jacket, going outside. The fine mist had turned into sleet and the car was covered in a thin layer of ice. He unlocked the Impala and started the engine, pushing the old heater up to full blast to try and get the interior as warm as he could.

Exiting the car he jogged to the office and pushed inside. The desk clerk looked up from the magazine he was reading sideways, closing it quickly and lowering it out of sight.

"Where's the nearest hospital?" Sam barked.

"What?"

"I need to get my brother to a hospital. Now. Where's the closest one?" Sam came up to the desk and towered over the scrawny clerk.

"Uh…there isn't one here. Like I said before, dude. Rats leavin' a sinikin' ship." He gestured vaguely south. "Closest is in Merrisville. F-fifty miles from here." He shrank back slightly under Sam's obvious displeasure.

"Shit!" Sam snapped, rubbing his hand over his mouth. He jerked up a piece of paper and a pen. "Tell me how to get there!"

Hazy directions in hand, Sam hurried back to their room, eyes going to Dean as soon as he stepped in the room."Aw, shit, Dean!"

Dean was slumped, half sitting, supported shakily on one elbow, fresh blood soaking the spread in front of him, his other hand, chest and chin splattered with it. He glanced at Sam.

Dean choked, "Where…were you? I couldn't…"

Sam grabbed Dean's arm, gently pulling him up. "It's okay, it's okay…God…I'm sorry. " He'd only been gone a minute. It was getting harder to keep the panic out of his words. His grip tightened on Dean's arm. "Can you make it to the other bed if I help you?"

Dean ground his teeth. "I can do it…without your help-" he growled. Sam ignored him

In truth, it was all Dean could do to move his legs off the bed, every shift of muscle turned the burning ache in his stomach into a torrent of fire, nausea rolling over him waves. He was getting more lightheaded with every passing moment as his heart raced to pump lessening amounts of blood through his veins.

It was more of a swinging stumble to the other bed, even with Sam's assistance, than an actual planned movement, but he got there, grunting and groaning, falling limply to his side, writhing. "Shit…" he moaned.

Sam grabbed one of the towels and again, started cleaning the blood off of Dean.

Dean jerked it away. "I can do it," he huffed, wiping off his mouth.

Sam left him to it, jerking up Dean's duffle and pulling out a clean shirt, tossing it at him.

"See if you can get that on, then."

Sam swept through the bathroom and the rest of the room, gathering up their scattered meager belongings and stuffing them into whatever bag was available, he snatched two pillows off Dean's bed and took them along, dumping them in the front seat. He threw everything else in the back.

His foot slipped on an icy patch by the car and he yelped in surprise, catching himself on the doorframe to keep from falling.

"Great!" He snarled, as sleet pelted his face. "Just fuckin' great!" Heart racing, he went back in the room to get Dean.

Dean had managed to get his bloody t-shirt off but was now lying on his side, curled up, arms over his belly, shirt twisted in his hands. If anything he looked more pale than before, his trembling visible.

"Dean? C'mon, man, we gotta go. I'm takin' you to the hospital." Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to pull Dean upright, get his shirt on.

"No…" Dean groaned, eyes blinking slowly. He tried to pull away, lie back down. "Le' me 'lone." Voice starting to slur. "I don't…feel good…"

"I know, Dean. You'll feel better soon, I promise" Dean didn't have the strength to fight and Sam swiftly drew the shirt on him, supporting him with one arm. The jacket was a little harder, but he managed. He carefully let Dean back down on the bed. Dean's sneakers were kicked halfway under the bed. Sam caught them up and crammed them on Dean's feet, swiftly tying the laces.

That done, he reached down and gently hauled Dean to his feet. Dizziness washed over Dean and he clutched at Sam's shirt, knees buckling. Sam wrapped an arm around his waist.

"What…where we goin?" Dean mumbled.

"Hospital, Dean," Sam replied flatly. He groped the blanket off the bed and gathered it up as best he could, guiding Dean to the door.

Sam groaned, as predictably, even vomiting blood like a frigging fountain, Dean resisted.

"Hosp'al?" Dean said, drunkenly. "No!" he pushed at Sam, causing Sam to grasp him more tightly.

"Don't argue with me, Dean!" Sam said shortly, using his extra height and weight to muscle Dean through the door. "Careful," he warned. "It's icy." He maneuvered Dean to the passenger door, jerking it open, "I want you in the front seat with me." Welcome heat wafted out at them. Dean groaned again and tried to curl in on himself, doubling over against the car.

"No, c'mon, just get in the car and we can get outta here and get you some help." Sam's voice took on a ragged edge. "Please, Dean…"

Dean finally looked at him and nodded, shivering in the cold. He allowed Sam to assist him into the car, lying across the bench seat, head on the pillows Sam had left there. Sam lifted Dean's feet and placed them on the floorboards, grateful the Impala had such a large front seat. He draped the blanket over Dean and snugged it around him. He pushed the extra towels into Dean's hands and backed out closing the door.

Sliding into the driver's side he started the engine.

Dean shifted suddenly, grunting. "Sam-" He raised up slightly on one arm.

"What, Dean? Please lay back down."

"I'm gonna be sick again. Don't wanta puke in the car…"

"Oh, sorry." Sam reached back and snagged the trash can he had tossed in back, settling it on the floorboards. "Don't worry about the car, Dean. I'll take care of it."

As much as Sam wanted to offer Dean comfort as he gagged into the trashcan, he had to get them out of there. He slowly backed up testing the traction, trying to ignore Dean. Not to bad, yet.

The wipers groaned slightly against the windshield as they brushed at the sleet, reminding Sam they needed to be replaced. The tires slid as he stopped at the entrance to the parking lot to let another car go by.

He felt the weight of Dean's head as he finally stopped coughing, every breath becoming a soft groan and dropped it down on the pillows pressed against Sam's legs.

Without thinking, Sam reached out a rested his fingertips lightly on the pulse point of Dean's throat. It was slower now, something that gave Sam a greater sense of urgency than he already had. Dean's skin was very warm under Sam's fingers.

Dean made a soft sound at Sam's touch, but didn't attempt to brush his hand away so Sam left it there.

"It'll be okay, Dean." He murmured softly as he pulled out onto the shiny road. "We'll be there soon."

He tapped the gas, feeling the big car fishtail slightly before he got it moving forward, pointed toward Merrisville, fifty long, icy miles away.

"Put him there!"The harsh voice fell on Dean's ears like tearing metal as the last remnants of blessed unconsciousness faded after an all too brief interval. Dean had come to, long before the rough trip in the truck had ended and way too soon to make his movement from the truck, up a short flight of stairs and into a too hot, garishly lighted room tolerable.

He tried to bite down on the need to cry out as he arms lifted him with as much care as the need for speed would allow, jostling him unbearably until he was laid on a hard surface, a scratchy throw pillow under his head. There was a humming in his head and he could feel every jerk of his heart as it worked at a stumbling beat.

A rough hand dragged through his hair, resting briefly against his cheek. He leaned toward it but it was withdrawn. His eyes fluttered as they rolled across the room, the bright yellow of the lights swimming through his vision.

"Dad…." His voice was a thin croak. He could feel something wet rolling from his eyes.

"Christ on a cross, Caleb, what the fuck happened to this kid?" The same harsh voice again, plainly shocked. "What do you think I am? A miracle worker? I can't deal with this! "

Even in dazed blood loss and pain he couldn't have found the words to describe, Dean recognized the sound of a pistol being cocked close to his head.

He made out a rush of movement that stepped in front of his wavering line of sight.

"No!" Caleb barked, holding up his hand behind him. He reached out and dragged a sweating, heavy set man with a weeks worth of dirty beard into view, pulling him close to Dean..

"Nobody's asking for a miracle, Stony." Caleb shot a look over his shoulder. "But you better at least try or this boy isn't the only one who's gonna need a miracle to stay alive."

Dean moaned, couldn't help it. Rolling his head against the lump beneath it, temples pounding in a slow thump. Something thudded to the table next to his head.

He jerked, a guttural noise pulled from him, eyes snapping open as he felt rough movements pull across his torn belly, he tried weakly to push them away but his hands were seized and held in a warm, calloused grip.

"Lie still, Dean!" John's voice was a choked whisper rasped into his ear.

"Dad…?" Dean tried to see him.

"Lie still, son…" Both his hands were taken in by one large one and another hand pressed down lightly on his chest. "Lie still."

Dean arched up suddenly, a scream ripped from his lips as blunt fingers dug into him producing an agonizing and nauseous sensation of something crawling through his insides. His boots thudded against the table top, strong hands gripping his ankles as he writhed helplessly against the invasive hands groping inside him.

"Hold him, for Chrissakes!"


Chapter nine: One more time, with feeling

Merrisville 10 miles

Relief washed over Sam as the sign popped up in the ragged glow of the headlights.

Thank God.

The old, narrow, winding two lane road would have been less than a joy to traverse on a good weather day. Icy and becoming snow covered just added to the difficulty of maneuvering the huge car around at as fast a speed as Sam dared.

Grateful that there were no other cars on the road, straining to see through the sleet and snow falling, desperate to drive faster than the forty-five he was doing, feeling the rear end of the big car begin to slew if he tried to. God help them if he had to slam on the brakes, 'cause there was no way in hell he'd be able to stop, not really sure what he would even be willing to stop for under the circumstances.

Circumstances not withstanding, Sam had no doubts that if anything happened to the Impala, even if he was drawing his last breath, Dean would manage to find enough strength to kick Sam's ass.

He was so tense from the panic adrenaline pumping into him, he was sure his grip on the steering wheel would leave permanent indentations if he ever got his fingers uncurled from it.

He had increased the pressure on the pulse in Dean's throat, feeling it grow softer and slower under his frantic touch. Dean lay, head against Sam's leg, one hand curled against Sam's thigh, the other dangling limply over the edge of the seat. The bloody towel was tucked under his face, Dean's now infrequent cough's slowly adding more red to the blossoming stain.

Dean moved his head slightly. "Don't…." His hand thumped against Sam's leg, fingers opening and closing.

"Dean?" Sam moved his fingers to tap lightly on Dean's cold cheek. "Wake up Dean. Open your eyes." Hating himself when he got no response, he dug his thumbnail into the cartilage in the back of Dean's ear.

To his relief, Dean jerked his head away, "Ow…whayudoin?" he mumbled in tired annoyance.

"I'm lonely, man," Sam replied, with a laugh so fake he could taste it. "Talk to me. Keep me company."

"Tired…" Dean murmured, eyes fluttering closed again. He groaned softly, nuzzling into the pillows. "…hurts…too much…"

Sam tapped his face again. "You've slept enough. You gotta help me stay awake, Dean. Otherwise, I might fall asleep and wreck the car."

When this drew no response from Dean, Sam's heart raced even faster if that was possible.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam ordered shaking Dean roughly. The wordless noise Dean made in response was almost too soft to qualify as a sound. "Dean! I'm not kidding here! Wake the fuck up!"

Nothing.

Fishtail be damned, Sam thought, hitting the gas and fighting the car for control as it slipped sideways.

He was oblivious to the lights of town and the few other vehicles he passed, beginning to work the brakes the instant he spotted the dull glow of the sign for St. Agnes Hospital. He managed to slow the big car enough to make a dive for the entrance to the emergency room, sliding to a graceless stop halfway on the sidewalk, causing two orderlies sneaking a cigarette to stumble backwards out of the way.

"I need help!" Sam yelled as he leaped out of the car, running to the passenger side and jerking open the door. He glanced up to see the two young men gaping at him. "Now, Goddammit!"

That broke them from their stupor, one running back inside to get a gurney, the other going to help Sam pull Dean's limp, blood soaked form from the car.

Blinking as he stumbled into the bright lights, Sam tried to answer the questions being barked at him as it seemed like every person in the hospital suddenly appeared, galvanized into action. Apparently it was a slow night.

It was confusing and frightening. Dean was swept away to a curtained area, voices calling out instructions and orders. Sam tried to follow but found himself inexplicably staggering backwards into the wall as vertigo suddenly robbed him of his balance. Back against the wall, he slid unceremoniously to the floor, long legs akimbo, before he realized what had happened, the sounds around him suddenly muffled, lights dancing at the edge of his vision, hands crushed against his eyes, weak and shaking.

"Shit!" A voice yelped somewhere in the distance surrounding Sam. Strong hands gripped his arms, holding him steady as he slumped to the side, helping him lie down.

"Lie still. Someone get me another gurney! Are you hurt? There's blood on you." Hands plucked at his shirt.

Sam blinked at the face wavering over his. Why was he on the floor?

"No, my…my brother's. I'm okay. Please…I need to-" Sam tried to rise but the man over him kept him down with a surprisingly small amount of effort.

A hand held his head, opening his eye and flashing an unwelcome light in it. "Do you feel sick? Dizzy?"

"I'm just a little shaky. Please…"

"Just lay here for a minute. People faint for a—" There was a pause. "Sam? Sam Weston?" The voice suddenly said in startled recognition.

Who? Sam forced his eyes to focus on the youngish face leaning over him. Recognition hit him also. "Dr. Mercer?" He asked, stunned. "What are you doing here?" He was having trouble pulling his thoughts together.

"I could ask you the same thing, but now I know why I thought that guy that came in looked familiar. Here," Mercer offered Sam a hand, helping him lever himself up and into a chair. He pushed Sam's head down. "Stay like that for a minute. I don't think we need that after all, Gina, thanks." Mercer said to the nurse who had appeared with the requested gurney. She glanced at Sam and nodded, pushing it away.

Mercer sat down beside Sam. "This is where I'm working now. Remember? I was moving. You okay?"

Sam wiped at his eyes. "Yeah," he said faintly, clearing his throat. "Just kinda dizzy. I need to see, Dean-" He started to rise but Mercer, who was surprisingly strong, held him in place.

"He's in good hands, Sam. There's nothing you can do for him right now. What the hell happened?" Mercer sat back a little, still watching Sam closely.

"He uh…he kept getting worse. I was gonna make him go to a clinic-" Sam made a face. "Here, I guess. But he started throwing up blood all over the place, and the pain was getting worse. I couldn't wait any longer…" His voice rose as he thought about the last few hours, his breathing quickening.

Mercer's hand fell on Sam's arm again. "Take it easy, Sam. Calm down." He kept his voice soft and level.

Sam stared at him then dropped his head back in his hands. "You said it was gastritis." An accusation.

"No, Sam," Mercer replied. "I said I thought it was gastritis, but even then that it was being caused by something else. I guess whatever happened is it. I'm sorry I couldn't be more specific, but I didn't have anything to work with." Mercer managed to keep from sounding defensive.

Sam nodded. "I'm sorry. I know. I'm just…there was so much blood." His hands were shaking so badly he clasped then together to try to make them stop.

"You had anything to eat today?' Mercer asked softly.

Sam shook his head, looking past Mercer to the curtained area where Dean lay. "No. I'm not hungry anyway. What's going on in there?" he tried to rise again.

Mercer kept Sam in his seat by clasping his shoulder and using it to push himself up. "Sit here for a minute and I'll go check on Dean, okay?' He squeezed Sam's shoulder slightly. "I'll be right back."

Mercer paused to speak to the nurse at the desk, nodding at Sam, then moved down to the curtained area, slipping inside.

Sam sat with his head down, still shaky and lightheaded. He wanted desperately to follow Mercer but wasn't sure he could even get to his feet, let alone walk the short distance. He started when the nurse from the desk suddenly appeared in front of him holding out a large cup of orange liquid with a straw in it.

He pulled back, stared at her. "No, thanks. I'm not-"

She smiled and shook her head. "Doctor's orders. It's orange juice. It'll make you feel better. You aren't gonna be helping your brother if you pass out cold. And I guarantee you, Dr. Mercer's response to that won't be nearly as pleasant as a cup of orange juice."

Sam frowned but reached for the cup, forced to hold it with both hands to keep from spilling it.

"Thanks."

She smiled again and patted his knee. "Everything'll be okay, sweetie."

He took a sip of the juice, watching her walk back to her desk. The cold sweetness felt good going down and before he knew it he had finished most of it, already feeling a little better.

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, not sure how much more of this he could take. Still not understanding what had caused this. How it could have gotten so bad so fast. He sighed and rubbed a thumb across his forehead.

The sound of a flurry of activity at the end of the hall jerked him upright. He stood as the curtains were shoved aside and several people exited, pushing the gurney Dean was lying on past him without pausing. There was an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and if anything he looked even more pale. Two IV's hung on the bed. The attendants moved with a studied speed down the hall.

Sam opened his mouth to call after them, stopped as fingers gripped his arm.

"Let 'em go, Sam. They're taking him to surgery." Mercer gave him a tight smile.

"Surgery? How bad is it?" Sam felt himself fall back into the chair. He had known deep down it would be this way, but hearing it out loud made it a no-coming-back-from-this situation.

Mercer sat next to him, still holding Sam's arm. "He is bleeding internally, he's already lost a lot of blood. We need to find out from where and get it stopped. He's very dehydrated, his physical state is very weak, Sam."

Sam swallowed, eyes going from Mercer to the floor. "So…what…what are…?"

"I'm not gonna lie to you. It's very serious, but they'll do their best, Sam. I promise." Mercer kneaded Sam's forearm. "You can wait in the surgery waiting room. It's more comfortable than here." He got to his feet, gently pulling Sam up. "You can get some sleep, it's liable to be a while."

Shaking his head, Sam allowed himself to be led. "No, I can't."

"Fine," Mercer nodded. "I'm gonna have one of the nurses bring you something to eat. Eat it. There's nothing you can do for Dean besides wait and you need to keep your strength for him when he gets out of surgery. Will you do that?" He guided Sam into the elevator, pushing the button for the surgical floor.

Sam nodded, lost in worry and exhausted by it. "Thanks," he said softly. "I appreciate it."

He faced forward, leaning back against the elevator walls, watching as another set of hospital doors closed on him yet again.

Chapter Ten: The Hunt, Part One: Eyewitness Accounts 

Sam leaned his head down on the edge of Dean's bed, weary but relieved. Dean was still sleeping off the anesthesia but Sam had been assured that barring complications, he was going to be all right. The bleeding had been found and stopped and now it was a matter of controlling infection, allowing him to heal and building his strength back up. Sam hadn't asked for details. At the time he hadn't given a damn about the how of it, only the results. Once Dean was settled, Sam had taken up watch next to his bed, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of Dean's limp hand, and would not be moved.

Dean, at the moment, was a collection of IV bags, tubes, tape, bandages and whirring beeping machinery with a body attached to them but he was alive and was apparently going to stay that way.

His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, the telltale dark circles under his eyes, the stigmata that appeared every time he was sick or injured, even if he was only suffering a cold, face rough with two days worth of stubble. He seemed thin and fragile. It would be days before he improved enough to be compared favorably with shit. His chest rose and fell gently. Sam thought he was beautiful.

The ICU was empty except for them and one very old man who appeared to already be dead from what Sam had been able to see. He was attended by a frail looking old woman, who never moved from her position beside his bed, her hand over his, head down, her position almost mirroring Sam's exactly. Sam couldn't help but wonder if she had perhaps died also and simply had yet to be discovered by the staff.

He wasn't aware he was asleep until his cell phone suddenly came to life in his pocket. He started spastically, eyes flying open at the sudden buzz against his chest. He fumbled for the offending instrument, angry at himself for falling asleep, finally getting it open and up to his ear.

"Yeah? Hello?" He said in a harsh, impatient whisper, turning reluctantly away from Dean.

He jerked the phone away again as Caleb's voice rang out loudly and angrily.

"Sam! What the hell, boy! I been trying to call you back since yesterday!"

Sam glanced back at Dean, cringing, shoulders hunching to hide the fact that he was on the cell from any wandering nurse. "Caleb…I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't pick up, Dean got worse and I had to get him to the hospital." Sam stood up and insinuated himself as far into the corner as he could, standing enough to the side that he could still see Dean easily.

There was a brief silence and then Caleb finally spoke again. "Aw, Christ, Sam. What happened? How is he?" On the other end of the connection Caleb raked his hand over his head, walking back and forth in front of the dirty window that faced the equally dirty front yard of his tiny house.

"He just got out of surgery a little while ago, he's in ICU-"

"Surgery?" Caleb cut in, swearing.

Sam nodded, even though Caleb wasn't there to see. He traced a finger along a tiny crack in the wall. "Yeah, he was bleeding internally. They had to go in and stop it." He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. God, he was so tired…

Caleb swore again. "Shit, Sam. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

Sam shrugged, rolling his forehead back and forth against the cool wall. "There's some other stuff, I think. But they said he'll be okay, just out of action for a while. Give it time to heal."

"Have you gotten hold of your dad?"

Sam snorted. "Voicemail. I left a message. You have any idea where he is? I'd really like to talk to him. tell him what's going on...at least."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Caleb said again, sounding like he was. "I haven't talked to John for a couple months."

"Sam?"

Sam was past startling and merely turned at the voice behind him. A nurse stood in the door trying to look stern. "I'm sorry, Sam but you need to go outside if you want to talk on your phone." She smiled at him apologetically.

"Hang on," Sam said into the phone, dropping it to his side. "I need to talk to this guy. I don't want to leave Dean alone. I don't want him to wake up alone."

She touched his arm. "Take your call, Dean's going to be asleep for a while. I promise if he even moves while you're gone I'll come out and get you."

He glanced over at Dean, chewing his lip, then back at the nurse.

She smiled again. "I swear, honey. He so much as twitches."

Sam finally nodded and walked to the door, casting one more look back and then stepping out, walking past the stooped old woman, seated silently by her unmoving companion.

He took two steps outside the door and leaned against the wall where he could stare back through the window. He couldn't see Dean but he would be able to see the nurse if she came to the door. He lifted the phone.

"Sorry, Caleb." He sighed. "I had to go in the hall to talk."

"It's okay, Sam. You holdin'up?"

Sam nodded to the air again. "Yeah, I think so. Just tired. Worried." Without conscious thought, Sam pushed away from the wall and drifted toward an uncomfortable looking couch, sinking onto it.

"You called to ask me about that hunt the other night," Caleb said, surprising Sam, who sat up a little.

"Yeah, I did," Sam admitted. "I want to know what happened to Dean." No point in beating around the bush.

"Whadaya mean?" Caleb countered, mind racing through a dozen scenarios, how to respond to them.

Flatly, Sam replied, "Dean said Dad shot him, Caleb, that's what I mean."

"What?" Caleb sounded stunned. "What are you talking about? What did Dean say to you?"

Sam frowned, puzzled by Caleb's reacation. "Not a lot. He said he didn't remember a lot of it. None of it until he fell and now it's like, he's being buried under these memories." Sam leaned forward and said in a bitter voice. "He said Dad told him he wasn't good enough, Caleb. Is that true? Did Dad say that to Dean?" Anger spread through the words like oil.

Caleb closed his eyes, his initial reply a huff of air.

"Caleb?"

Caleb ran a hand over his face. "He said it, Sam, yeah. Sort of, anyway." Caleb rushed on speaking over the noise of Sam's swearing. "Sam, listen to me. He didn't mean it the way Dean took it. He would never have said something like that to Dean. He was just talking-"

"Fuck, Caleb, you know Dean! Something like that…hell, Dad may as well have hit him…" Sam punched the arm of the couch. To Dean, those words from John would have gone through his heart like a railroad spike.

"Shut up, Sam and listen to me. You don't know what it was like for Dean, for your dad after you left-"

"Don't you blame this on me!" Sam snarled.

"No one blames you for anything!" Caleb yelled back. "You wanted to know! I'm trying to tell you!"

Sam clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to calm down. He took a deep breath. "Okay," he finally said. "You're right. I'm sorry." Sam pressed his hand over his mouth. He tried again. "It's just...he…Caleb, for some reason Dean thinks Dad shot him because he fucked up. He won't admit it, not really, but I know that's what he's thinking. That he did something so bad Dad felt justified in shooting him." Sam's long fingers worked through his hair, twisting around the strands and hanging there.

Caleb's voice came through the line, soft and intense. "Sam, I swear to you, whatever Dean said about any of this, and frankly I can't believe he remembers anything about it, it didn't happen like that."

Sam closed his eyes and lay his head against the back of the couch, the nubbly fabric rough against his face. "Then what did happen?" he asked, too tired to yell anymore and too wired to let it go.

Caleb drew in a breath, easing down into a battered recliner. This was gonna take a while. "It was about seven – eight months after you left…"

"John, are you sure Dean's up for this?" Caleb looked up from checking the load on his gun. He removed one of the bullets and rolled it in his fingers. Studying the silver slug he traced a fingertip over the crescent moon indentation in the side, a small cross below it. John always laughed at Caleb's insistence that the marks made the bullets more powerful. Had sneered at the expense and time it had taken to have the special molds made.

"He looks exhausted," he continued, touching the bullet to his lips in a kiss and loading it back in the chamber. A ritual, a promise. "We can finish this ourselves."

"We're all tired, Caleb." John groused back, rummaging in his pack for the compass. "We can't let this chance go by, and we can't hang around another month waiting until it comes around again if we miss it. Dean'll be fine." He located the little object and checked it.

He was concerned about Dean too, had heard Dean's breath sawing in and out yesterday. Seen him draw on the inhaler, trying to be discreet about it. Knew how Dean would react if he were treated in any way that intimated he was less than he should have been. Trying to always be everything and more than John's admittedly high expectations demanded of him. John couldn't coddle him, not now.

"John, for God's sake -" Caleb's voice took on an edge and he slammed the chamber back into the gun.

John impatiently banged his hunting knife down, turning to glare at Caleb. "He's gotta get past this, Caleb! It's been months!. He was sick, I know. He's got that damned inhaler if he needs it." John would have said the words to Dean's face just as easily as behind his back. Pulling punches wasn't his style. It was as much for Dean's good as for the good of the people they were trying to help that Dean join them. "He needs to be on this hunt, Caleb. We need a third man. He has to get his focus back. It's not good enough-"

John stopped as Caleb's suddenly straightened in the chair he was slouching in, his eyes darted past John to the door. John turned to see Dean step in, a strange look on his face.

"Dean. About time. Did you get the salt?" John went back to packing.

Dean glanced at Caleb, throat working. "Yeah," he finally said, faintly. "Yeah, I got all they had." Clearing his throat, he walked to the table and carefully set the bag he carried on it. He stood there for a moment, staring at the battered tabletop.

"What were you and Caleb talking about?" he asked, looking over at John.

"Nothing, " John replied casually. He shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable, wondering how long Dean had been standing at the door. He gestured slightly. "Tryin' to get this hunt planned out." John shot Caleb a look, but Caleb's eyes were back on his gun.

Looking away again, Dean said quietly, "I'll start loading the truck."

"Good," John said, relieved. "We can get outta here in a few minutes, then. Here, take this," he tossed one weapons bag at Dean, who caught it silently and went back outside.

Caleb glared at John. "Do you ever think before you speak? I can just about guarantee he heard you!"

John returned the glare with interest. "Caleb, he's not your son. I don't want him to get hurt. Or you, or me, because he can't keep his mind on the issues at hand. If he overheard us maybe it'll make him think."

"No, he's not my son," Caleb snapped, standing up to walk over and poke John in the chest. "He's yours. And this isn't the fucking Marines."

They stared at each other for a long moment. "Mind your own business, Caleb." John finally said. He turner away and reached out, jerking up the flashlights and jammed them into the small carryall.

Caleb snorted, shook his head and went outside, as much to get away from John's stubborn ass routine as to help Dean with the truck.

Caleb glanced over at Dean, jammed between he and John in the cab of the truck. He hadn't spoken a word other than to answer the rare question about their upcoming hunt from John. He kept his eyes fastened on his boots unless John directed a comment to him.

"Dean, something buggin' you?" John finally growled, shooting a quick look at Dean's downcast face then going back to staring out the window as the sun waned on the horizon.

Dean looked up briefly. "No, sir. Everything's fine."

John grunted and fell silent, situation handled.

Caleb rolled his eyes and concentrated on his driving. Light glowed suddenly on the horizon to the side of the dying sun's last faint rays. He squinted through the windshield, counting. A soft rumble came to his sharp ears.

"Shit," he spat. "It's gonna rain. Great."

Dean grimaced, John shrugged. "Can't be helped. We gotta do this tonight. It's our last shot."

"I know," Caleb rumbled. "I don't have to like it." He swung the old truck to the left and pulled into the edge of the woods, parking in the shadow of the trees and turning the engine off.

John slid out and stretched, joints popping. Dean and Caleb both exited the vehicle and did likewise. John shoved the seat forward and grabbed the canvas weapons bag, pulling out his favorite gun and checking the load. He buckled on the holster he wore when getting to the gun fast mattered and getting it caught in your clothes trying to pull it out was not an option.

"I'm gonna scout ahead. Keep your phones on. You know what you're supposed to be doing, let's get to it. Gimme five minutes." John tapped Dean's shoulder. Dean's head snapped up.

Lightning flashed closer still, followed shortly by a crash of thunder. "You good? Got your inhaler?"

Even in the gloom Caleb saw the deep flush on Dean's features and the tightening of his mouth.

"Yes sir," Dean replied in a low voice, eyes downward. The hand in his pocket fisted around the hated object.

John nodded, holding up his hand. "Five minutes." Turning he vanished into the darkness of the trees.

He had barely gone before Dean jerked the inhaler out of his pocket and hurled it as far as he could.

"Dean! What the hell are doing?" Caleb yelped, reaching out reflexively as it vanished into the darkness.

"Dad's right," Dean exclaimed. "I gotta get past this! It's a fuckin' crutch, I just don't have the balls to do it! I haven't done a fucking thing right since-" he bit the words off and slammed the palm of his hand against the truck bed.

Caleb caught Dean's arm but Dean jerked away, camouflaging the movement by reaching into the weapons bag and withdrawing the two short barreled shotguns and shoving one, butt first at Caleb.

"Dean, I know you heard what your Dad said. He didn't mean it the way it sounded." Caleb accepted the shotgun that Dean held out to him, trying to get Dean to look at him.

Caleb's comment was rewarded with a brief view of the green of Dean's eye's and then they moved away. The air was thick with moisture, sticky and hot, despite the coming of night and even though he was trying to hide it, Caleb could hear Dean breathing with a noticeable effort. He was his father's son and stubborn as hell, and he would choke to death before he would have used that damned inhaler now.

Caleb knew how much Dean hated this weakness he couldn't seem to shake. He was trying so hard to meet John's expectations and sometimes John was just an ass, plain and simple.

"Dean…"

"Caleb." Dean's voice was hoarse. He checked the load on his gun and cocked it, thunder echoing the crack as the barrel snapped into place. "He has to be able to depend on me. I'm letting him down. He's right." Dean turned away and walked into the deepening gloom as rain started to patter at the leaves around them.

"Dean!" Caleb called after him, but Dean walked on. Caleb sighed and shook his head. He pulled his pistol, spun the chamber to check his special rounds and shoved it back in the holster. Shouldering the shotgun he looked once more the way Dean had gone, shook his head again.

"Jackasses..." he murmured, wiping the rain from his he too vanished into the darkness of the woods.

Chapter Eleven: The Hunt, Part Two: Perception of reality


Sam got up and padded to the ICU door, squinting through the small pane of glass. He couldn't keep listening to this and sit still. He gripped the phone so tightly he was losing feeling in his fingers and the press of it against his ear hurt.This was all his fault, every God damned bit of it…"Sam?" Caleb questioned, pausing in his recitation. "You okay?"

Sam turned away from the door, nodding, walking slowly back down the hallway dragging his shoulder against the wall as if he couldn't hold his own weight up any longer. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm fine, go on."

"It's bad, Sam, I don't know if you really-"

"I want to know, Caleb! I have to understand!" Sam hit the wall with his fist. "Hell, Caleb. Dean, lived it. I can at least stand to hear about it." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

Caleb sighed. "Have it your way, Sam.' He took a deep breath and a long pull on the second beer he had drunk since starting this. "I don't know what happened to Dean after we split up until we…found him later. So I can't help you there."

"I don't think that part matters, Caleb. Tell me what you do know."

It didn't take long to pick up the trail of the werewolf they were hunting. He was a daring son of a bitch. The markers were so obvious it was almost deliberate. The sporadic, sloppy downpour wasn't helping, neither were the crackles of lightning or the ear blasting crashes of thunder.Caleb finally sought refuge from the rain under a wide ledge and snapped open his phone. John answered instantly.

"Yeah?"

"I got it," Caleb replied. "It's gettin' so friggin muddy, I'm afraid-"

John cut him off. "You got it? Caleb I been following the damn thing for ten minutes, I was about to call you and give you my location."

Caleb reached out and pulled a tuft of coarse brown fur from the bark of the tree in front of him. It wasn't even wet yet. Shit!

"John, where's Dean? We got a problem!"

John and Caleb had managed to hook up after a few fumbling moments in the dying rain, but neither had been able to raise Dean on his phone."Caleb. We gotta find him. There's two of these damned things out there!" John yelled over a final roar of thunder. "How could we miss that?"

"They're heading for the clearing," Caleb stated, studying the soggy print John had found.

Caleb's head jerked up suddenly, listening.

John's hearing was nothing akin to Caleb's but even he heard the muffled sound of a gunshot. Caleb jumped to his feet, John stiffening beside him. Then distant yells. Their names.

"C'mon!" John shouted, running toward the sounds, Caleb hot on his heels.

By the time they made it through the dripping underbrush to the edge of the clearing they were soaked and mud covered. The air was filled with hoarse barking growls and the sound of Dean screaming for help.

They burst into the clearing, dazzling with moonlight as the rain clouds parted, their view unrestricted and brightly lighted, in time to see Dean lifted from the ground by the huge female, her claws vanishing into his belly like fingers into jello. He screamed again, still managing to strike out with a flashing blade he buried in the creatures chest. Another beast, an even larger male, sprang forward and swiped at Dean's swinging legs as the female pulled him around.

John's blood ran cold as he helplessly watched Dean be the toy in a horrific game of tug 'o war between the two monsters. There was no time, they were too far away. Beside him Caleb's gun blasted twice, echoing the sound of John's as the two weapons discharged. The larger werewolf shrieked and stumbled to the side, clawing at it's own chest.

The female wheeled around, still clutching Dean, his limbs falling about loosely, to fix John and Caleb with a look of fury. She screamed, clasping Dean to her, effectively blocking their ability to get a clear shot.

John's rifle sprang back to his shoulder as those jaws dipped toward Dean's chest.

"John!" Caleb yelled, reaching out, "What are you doing?! You'll hit Dean!"

"I can't let him die like that!" John roared.

"Holy Christ…" Sam groaned, covering his eyes with one large hand. He sat on the floor, back against the wall, elbows on his knees. He got the odd look from the rare passerby but no one bothered him."Dad shot him." Sam whispered it, afraid he might overhear himself if he said it out loud.

"No," Caleb sighed, rubbing his own eyes. "John didn't shoot him, Sam."

Sam frowned at the phone. "Then…"

"I did. I shot him. I couldn't let John live with that. I'm not sure he could have." Caleb sounded to weary to go on.

"My God, Caleb…" Sam choked, relieved and horrified at the same time. "How...why didn't anyone tell-"

"I wasn't kidding when I said I couldn't believe Dean remembered anything at all about any of that night. Sam, that thing damn near gutted him. Hell, I put two bullets in him. I guess one of them went straight through to that hairy bitch that had him. She dropped him like he was on fire."

Caleb laughed ruefully, " Hell, John was over there and emptied the rest of a clip into her before I covered ten feet." Caleb slowly shook his head, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to face the ceiling. "Jesus, Sam. Dean was…the thing hadn't bit him, but…"

John dropped to the ground next to Dean, wanting to touch him, grab him. "Dean! Dean, can you hear me?"Caleb ran up to John, falling next to him on the cold muddy ground, gasping. "Is he…?"

Dean coughed, blood frothing on his lips. John's noise of relief was a hoarse cry. He gripped Dean's arm in one hand and made a hesitant movement toward his face, still loathe to bring him more pain with a touch meant to solace.

"Jesus, son…I'm sorry…"

Dean coughed again, his hands flopping impotently as he struggled to draw air.

"Turn him on his side, John. He's choking!"

John grabbed Dean's body and turned him as gently as he could. Dean was shaking and blood soaked. His coughing eased as blood ran from his mouth, clearing his throat to allow the passage of air, although his every breath was a wheeze.

Caleb stripped off his jacket and wadded it up, pressing it down on Dean's torn belly, holding it there, despite Dean's cry of pain and the feeble attempts he made to brush Caleb's hands away.

"Lay still, Dean! Christ, Caleb…" John was searching through Dean's jacket. Not finding what he was looking for. "Where's the inhaler?" he demanded, listening to the whistle as Dean breathed.

Caleb held fast to the pressure of his jacket against Dean. "He threw it away!" Caleb said quickly, pressing down harder.

"He what? Why?"

"Jesus…God! Stop it!" Dean gasped, trying again to push Caleb away again.

"Can't do it, kid, you're bleedin' all over the place." Caleb caught Dean's wandering attention and smiled. Caleb's sleeves were blood soaked halfway up the forearms and it wasn't stopping. Dean's writhing however, was. He hissed in a low voice to John, "We gotta get him outta here, stop this bleeding!"

John nodded. He and Caleb slipped their arms under Dean and lifted him with as much care as they could. "Hang on, Dean," John said softly.

Dean couldn't stop the cry as he was raised from the ground, not sure if the resultant agony of movement was worth the sensation of John's arm's around him, the warmth of John's body against his increasingly cold one.

John pressed his lips to Dean's ear. "It'll be okay, son," he murmured brokenly. "It'll be okay."

He spared a glance at Caleb. "What about-"

"I'm on it!" Caleb snapped. "Then I'm right behind you. Get him to the truck!"

John strode off without another word, back in the direction of the truck.

As fast as he could Caleb dragged the two, now transformed bodies into the low brush at the edge of the clearing and piled more undergrowth over them. He didn't waste time lamenting these victims, it wouldn't help them now. He would come back, salt and burn them as soon as he could.

Sweeping up the weapons he ran after John, catching up swiftly. John moved as fast as he could but every jostle jarred Dean. Awful as it sounded, he found himself wishing Dean would just pass out and be spared the continuous shock to his system that every slight misstep brought him.

"Trucks not far, how's he doin?" Caleb realized Dean was still conscious. "Hey, kiddo. We'll get you some help. Just hang in there."

Dean's eyes rolled to Caleb, his face against John's shoulder, one hand twisted in John's jacket. His mouth moved slightly, then his eyes fluttered closed again.

"You want me to take him?" Caleb offered.

"No," John said, striding on, "I've got him."

"We were out in the fuckin' middle of nowhere," Caleb said after a moment. He dropped the third beer on the floor, getting up to walk stiffly across the room and stare out into the night. His ass was numb from sitting and his voice was getting hoarse."So what did you do?" Sam sounded calm, controlled, more curious than anything. He flicked a glance at the unmoving ICU doors.

Caleb hesitated. "Dean wasn't gonna make it to a hospital, even if we could have found one." He dug a finger in his ear. "There was this guy I knew, lived around there. Closest place we could get to. We took him there." Caleb rested his head against the cold glass. "We didn't have any choice."

Caleb pounded on the worn oak door as hard as he could. "Stony!" he yelled. "Open up, God dammit! I know you're in there!" Very aware of John crowding him from behind, his tension a physical element, he waited approximately four seconds and then kicked the door in.Harsh light from naked bulbs spilled onto the porch, blocked briefly as John shouldered past Caleb with Dean. He glanced around for someplace to lay him.

"What the hell?" a rough voice shouted from across the room.

Caleb, swept the articles off the wide square table next to a ramshackle kitchen, onto the floor. "Put him there!" He snatched a horrible purple pillow from a nearby chair and gently lifted Dean's head, sliding it underneath. John took up a position at Dean's head, one hand on his shoulder. Dean had mercifully passed out in the car but hadn't remained that way long.

Caleb brought his gun up as the large, outraged man by the fireplace charged at them. "Who the hell are you—" he stopped dead, squinting into the garish light. "Caleb?" His face was covered with dirty beard and his clothes were equally unkempt and dirty.

"Stony, I don't have time to screw around here. This kid is hurt bad and we need your help!"

Stony laughed, barely glancing at Dean as he moved weakly, his blood already staining the tabletop. "Are you nuts?" he gestured at Dean. "I don't do that shit anymore!"

John brushed his hand through Dean's ragged hair, allowing it to rest briefly on the Dean's cheek, feeling Dean lean into his touch, wetness on Dean's face burning his fingers.

"Dad…" Dean murmured, rolling his head weakly toward where he thought John was. For the touch that was withdrawn to soon.

"I wasn't asking, Stony. You're doing it now." Caleb's voice was cold, determined.

"Fuck you, Caleb." Stony shot a look at the dark haired man, obviously guarding the boy bleeding to death on the table where he ate his meals. It wasn't a reassuring sight.

"NOW!" Caleb bellowed, grabbing Stony and yanking him over.

Dean gasped, crying out as the pressure on his abdomen was suddenly withdrawn and rough hands pulled his torn clothing away.

Stony surveyed the wreckage that was Dean's belly and made a sound of disgust and shock. "Christ on a cross, Caleb, what the fuck happened to this kid?". Stony stepped back, glaring at Caleb "Holy shit, what do you think I am? A miracle worker? I can't deal with this! " He leaned closed drawing his finger through the blood over the hole below Dean's ribcage, which experience told him had nothing to do with the torn flesh further down.

"This kid's been shot on top of everything else-"

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but Caleb says you can help." John voice was a low growl and carried a level of menace that made even Caleb stand back. "This is my son, and he's not gonna die without a fight." John cocked his pistol one handed and aimed it at Stony, finger just teasing the hammer.

Stony pulled back, a look of complete disbelief on his face at Johns action.

"No!" Caleb barked, stepping between John and Stony, holding up his hand. He reached out and dragged the sweating, heavy set man back over to the table.

"Nobody's asking for a miracle, Stony." Caleb shot a look at John, talking fast. "But you better at least try or this boy isn't the only one who's gonna need a miracle to stay alive."

Stony wasn't a coward, nor was he stupid. Fifteen years before he had been a Doctor. Bad luck and bad decisions had cost his license, made him a murderer, lost five years of his life behind bars and left him with no interest in anything other not getting involved in anything or with anyone. Caleb wasn't a friend but he was someone Stony trusted.

Staring into John's eyes was like staring into the gates of hell and more frightening than the levelly held barrel that pointed unwaveringly at his head.

Dean choked suddenly, coughing blood that trickled from his mouth.

Stony ground his teeth. "Fine," he spat. "I'm gonna need some help. I got nothing here and I'm telling you," he pointed a finger at John. "You'd be doing him a bigger favor if you used that gun on him right now!"

Eyes to Caleb, who nodded grimly, John released the hammer on the pistol and set it on the table next to Dean's head with a soft thud.

Having committed himself to the situation, Stony became a different man. In a shockingly short amount of time he had assembled a collection of instruments and other various medical paraphernalia. It wasn't much and it was old, but he supplemented his meager income by acting as 'horse doctor' for the scattered families and their animals who preferred to keep the police out of such incidentals as gunshot wounds and the occasional knifing.

He set Caleb to boiling water on the ancient stove and made it clear they had to stop the bleeding or this was all waste of time. Sterile wasn't even an option, they were gonna be doing good to make it to fairly clean.

Stony couldn't think of anything worse they could do than pour whiskey into Dean but like sterile, there were no options regarding pain killers. The damned kid was gonna die anyway, may as well die wasted and not see it coming. Dean choked and coughed, spraying them all with blood and liquor as he tried to obey John's command to drink.

Stony had cleaned up the bloody mess enough to see where he was working and forced his hands to stop shaking as he set about cauterizing the bleeding vessels. Caleb stood by to act as assistant or whatever was required.

"Hold him." Stony growled, reaching out. "This is gonna hurt."

"Dad…?" Dean rolled his head, tried to see him.

"Lie still, Dean!" John's voice was a choked whisper rasped into his ear. His arms stretched along Dean's, holding him. His head against Dean's.

Dean jerked, a guttural noise ripped from him, eyes snapping open as he felt rough movements pull across his torn belly. John bore down on him with his greater weight.

"Lie still, son…I'm sorry….lie still."

Dean arched up suddenly, screaming as blunt fingers dug into him producing an agonizing and nauseous sensation of something crawling through his insides. His boots thudded against the table top, strong hands gripping his ankles as he writhed helplessly against the invasive hands groping inside him.

"Hold him, for Chrissakes!"

The air became rank with the smell of burning flesh.

And still Dean screamed.

Sam hung over the sink, fairly sure he was through being sick. His hands shook but the pressure behind his eyes had lessened. He splashed water on his face, straightening slowly to grab some hand towels to dry off. He swallowed uneasily, clearing his throat. he twisted his head to the side, then slowly lifted the phone back to his ear."Caleb?" His voice was raw.

"Sam? You okay? I'm sorry, I guess I shouldn't have told you all that-"

Shaking his head, Sam wandered slowly back out of the men's room. "No," he said. "No, I'm glad you did. I wanted to know." He dropped back down on the couch, a hand covering his eyes. "No one said I had to like it."

"You want to know any more?" Caleb asked reluctantly.

Sam shook his head again. "No. I think I heard everything I need to. I…" Sam closed his eyes. "I can't believe he survived that. That he had to go through it. If I'd been there…"

Caleb made an angry noise. "Don't start that, Sam. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Shit happens. It wasn't your fault because you weren't there, anymore than it's your fault if Dean cuts himself shaving and you weren't there to stop him."

The words made sense but Sam couldn't feel them making sense.

"Dean won't believe me if I tell him all this," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was true, he would assume Sam was trying to make it seem like Dean had made a mistake. Understandable, but a mistake. And he would say it was bullshit and nothing would change.

"Well…" Caleb snorted. "I could prove it, but I don't know how you'd get the evidence."

Sam stared at the phone. "Huh? What are you talking about?" He heard the elevators whoosh open at the end of the hall.

"One of the bullets went straight through, killed that hairy bitch that had him, the other one…" Caleb paused.

Sam slowly sat up, realization dawning. "You didn't find it. My God. Dean doesn't know, does he?"."

Caleb shook his head. "Stony knew it was still in there, Dean was too weak to keep looking for it, he had to get out of him. John and I both kinda hoped that'd be then end of it. Hell, he lived. Took a while but he lived. People walking around with shrapnel in 'em all the time-"

Sam was once again engulfed in anger, guilt, awe. "A bullet's a bullet," he finally ground out after getting himself back under control. "What's that gonna prove?"

Caleb sank back into this broken down chair, enjoying its welcoming embrace. Dawn was starting to glow in the east and it had been a long. hard fucking night. "You remember how your daddy used to poke fun at my rounds? The ones I mark?"

Sam drew in a sudden breath. He could see the half moon cross design in his head. Had thought they were cool in younger years. Remembered how John had sneered at them as foolish and time wasting. Un-professional, had been his judgment and he wouldn't have been caught dead with one in his gun.

Sam jerked up as a hand tapped his shoulder. Dr. Mercer smiled down at him.

"Hang on," Sam said into the phone. He pushed to his feet, watching as Mercer reached into a pocket and held out a small clear plastic container.

Mercer shook it, the rattle from the contents loud in the hushed hallway. He popped the lid off and held it out to Sam, who hesitantly took it and emptied the object inside into the palm of his hand.

"I think we need to talk." Mercer said with a cocked eyebrow. "We found that inside your brother. It caused a rupture. I'd say it's been in there for years. I'm surprised he hasn't complained of pain before now."

Sam glanced at him, rolling the little misshapen object between his fingers. It was deformed, but even so, the half moon cross was still identifiable, marking it as Caleb's. "Caleb, can I call you back? Thanks." Sam closed the phone and put it in his pocket. He couldn't quite stop the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"I tell you we found a spent bullet in your brother's guts and you look relieved." Mercer frowned. "What am I missing here?"

Sam laughed shortly. "The whole point," he replied.

"Sam?"

Mercer and Sam both turned. The nurse from the ICU stood beckoning in the door. "Dean's awake, sweetie. I don't know for how long, he's still pretty groggy-"

Sam bolted through the door, not quite running her down, but close. As he passed the older couple, he was stunned to notice that the old man's eyes were open and his wife was holding his hand, speaking in hushed tones. His smile grew as he pushed through to Dean's bed, followed by Mercer, who immediately put a stethoscope to Dean's chest.

"Dean!" Sam breathed, clasping his brother's hand and reseating himself by the bed. "God, you're awake!"

Dean swallowed, grimacing, one hand drifting up to his face. His eyes opened and closed slowly as he looked at Sam. "What…"

"They had to do surgery, Dean. But everything's okay. You're gonna be fine. You just lost a lot blood." Sam kneaded Dean's hand, desperate with relief. "How you feel?"

Dean's voice was rough but Sam managed to make out, "Train wreck." And couldn't help laughing. "I'll bet."

Mercer straightened, patting Dean's arm. "Everything looks good, right now. Couple of days and I think we can move you to a regular room. All considered I'm amazed." He smiled, patted Dean again. "Get some rest, you need it. Sam, not too long. You need some rest to. We'll talk tomorrow." Mercer brushed through the curtains, leaving them alone.

Sam nodded. "Thanks, Dr. Mercer. We will."

Dean frowned, not quite with the program. "Talk about what?" he murmured. There were so many wires and tubes hooked up to him, moving didn't seem worth the effort.

Sam glanced down at the warped silver ball in his hand and reaching out, carefully placed it in Dean's.

Dean's hand closed over it but he couldn't summon the strength to lift his arm for a closer look. He could feel himself drifting back into sleep and had no real desire to fight it.

"Whazzit?"

"Doesn't matter right now," Sam replied, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "We'll talk about it tomorrow when you're more awake. " He laced his fingers through Dean's. Dean didn't pull away. As his eyes slid shut once again, Sam felt Dean's fingers tighten slightly in his.

"We'll talk about a lot of things tomorrow," Sam promised.

Caleb turned as he heard the clatter of ammunition hitting the floor, the silver slugs scattering like BB's on the uneven wood, disappearing into the dark crevices and falling through the many gaps to the dirt foundation below."Son of a bitch!" John exclaimed. "Shit, I don't have time for this!"

"Gettin' shaky in your old age?" Caleb laughed.

"Not funny, Caleb!" John snarled. "We need to get outta here and that was my last box of loads."

"Well here!" Caleb said. He shoved a small box of shells at John who eyed them with distaste. Caleb smirked, knowing how John felt about Caleb's special rounds.

"Don't use 'em if you don't want to. Maybe you can kill 'em with a dirty look."

Caleb should have died twitching from the look John shot him as he angrily loaded his weapons with the detested bullets.

"Let's go!" John barked, grabbing his rifle and storming out to the truck where Dean waited.

Caleb, closed his phone and wearily rubbed his face, letting his breath out in a deep sigh.There was a fourth beer in the fridge and as he popped the cap off the bottle and sucked down as much as he could on one swallow, he couldn't help but wonder how many years in hell that phone call had just added to his tally.

The End