Moonstar

 Teaser
 
Sam braced himself to leap across the short space between himself and where Dean crouched, his favorite hunting knife pressing against the thin skin of his forearm, ready to draw up toward the elbow. There wasn't a doubt in Sam’s mind that Dean knew exactly how to do it so there would be no hope in hell of getting him help before he bled to death. Slashing across your wrists was for pussies  and grand-standers who wanted attention. Up the arm, into the elbow was for people who meant business. 

"Dean!Jesus! For Christ sake, Dean, don’t!” Sam cried, forcing himself to stay where  he was despite his every instinct. As Sam watched, a thin burst of red appeared  just under the blade. “Dean, please! You don’t know what you’re  doing!” Sam voice shook with desperate emotion, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. 
 
"Leave me alone, Sam. You don’t want to see this, go.” Dean’s voice shook too, but his  glazed eyes were wild. Blood began to trickle in a line, running down his arm to drip off his fingers. Dean’s eyes flicked down for an instant as the red  drops hit the floor, then shot back up to Sam. The corners of Dean’s mouth twitched into crooked smile, beads of sweat on his face ran together and joined the blood dripping to the floor. His eyes softened. “I can’t do this anymore…” he said, sliding the blade up his arm. 
 
“CHRIST, DEAN, NO!” Sam screamed, throwing himself forward.

​
Chapter One: Running on Empty
              
They should have never taken the job in Loren. 
 
They  were exhausted, frustrated by a string of bad luck jobs that had left them both drained and Dean increasingly angry. Money was in short supply and it had become a choice between food or a bed, so they had been sleeping in the cold car and splitting their few remaining resources between eating and ammunition, and ammunition had begun to take a lead over food. 

Sam’s attitude about the bad jobs fell more into a “shit happens”’ category. He was  aware that despite their best efforts, they couldn’t logically help or save everyone. He didn’t like it, but he could accept it. Dean, on the other hand, saw every fouled job as a personal failure. Knowing if he had only been faster or smarter, everything would have worked out. Sam knew this was not the case, but Dean would have none of it, piling blame upon blame on himself until Sam didn’t see how he could carry the load any longer.

Instead of doing the intelligent thing and allowing themselves some time to recover and regroup, Dean had insisted they take the Loren job first. After all, it was a werewolf. No big deal. 

That had been the first mistake.

Right from the start they had been lied to, misdirected, received bad information and in general given the run around by ‘concerned’ townspeople who didn't want the rumor of trouble in their tiny town to cut off  the life line of what little tourist trade they received. Sam had been all for telling them to shove it, but Dean had insisted that if they didn't take care of the problem it would only spread. As much as he wanted to blow the little town, Sam had to admit Dean had a point. So, the second night of the full moon had them racing down a rutted country road, short on sleep and patience, trying to catch up to their prey before it made it to the small house in the woods.

The waxing moon was a glowing grey ball of light hanging over them in the night sky. Cumulus clouds were forming on the horizon and faint lightning flashed along their edges from time to time. The brothers had been forced to leave the car in a clearing at the end of the road when a tire had blown. They had raced the last mile to the Bailey’s home. A deep gash in Sam’s thigh from the previous
day had slowed him down to the point he was almost dragging his leg before they had covered a half mile. Dean had run ahead to warn the family in the little white house that they needed to leave. 

Now.

Even before he had reached the house, Dean could hear the screaming, sending adrenaline bursting through his body. By the time he made it to the porch, gasping for breath, the screams had stopped and the gagging smell of blood, lots of it, told him he was way past too late.

Practically vibrating, Dean had cautiously climbed the steps, gun at ready and approached the front door that had been ripped from its hinges.

Blood splattered the walls, floor and furniture. Snuffling, smacking sounds came from inside. Eric Bailey, pillar of the community, softball coach and unknowing werewolf had already transformed and torn apart his two children after attacking his pregnant wife and then leaving her for the easier prey of his kids.

Dean recoiled, watching from the doorway, horror struck, as the father/werewolf had casually picked up a small arm and torn meat from it as though it were a chicken leg.

He fired twice without batting an eye, Bailey's body collapsing into the appalling ruin of his own children. Dean then gave in to his stomach’s demands and doubled over, vomiting helplessly, dropping to his knees in the middle of the small lake of scarlet covering the floor.

A soft sob to his right snapped Dean's head around and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, pushing himself upright. Muscles tensed, gun extended, he moved sideways into the next room, every sense on alert.

Cynthia Bailey, 8 months pregnant, PTA treasurer and cookie baker extraordinaire, lay quivering on the ground, a short distance away, in a growing pool of her own blood. Her shoulder was mangled and her left arm was torn open open to the elbow, but she was still alive. Her uninjured arm was curled over her swollen belly, trying ineffectually to protect her unborn child. 


She wept hysterically at what she had seen her husband become and do to her children, at the pain of her own injuries, the sudden sound of gunshots and at the sight of the blood stained man who moved slowly through the doorway, gun raised and aimed straight at her. His green eyes swept over her body, registering shock. His throat worked as he swallowed, coming closer. She whimpered and tried to pull herself away.

Dean lowered the gun and held out his free hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay…..sshh” He paused, standing over her, his face white and frozen. Finally, he went down on one knee beside her, oblivious to the additional blood soaking into his already saturated jeans. He
continued to stare at her, lips parting, but no sound coming from them.

“What’s happening?” she sobbed. “My children…my husband, that thing, attacked me…”

He twisted his head away, hand wiping the sweat out of his eyes, then pressing over his mouth.Oh, Christ…

“Please…help me…” she begged, grasping his arm with her good hand. He turned his stricken face back toward her. She watched Dean with a rabbit’s frightened eyes, breath coming in smothered sobs. The werewolf, her own husband, had bitten her, its curse roared though her blood even now. She did not know this yet, but Dean did. The night was barely begun, the moon was still full. It wouldn't take long. The realization of what was going to happen and what he had to do to stop it burned through his core with a pain unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He reached out and gently touched her face with his calloused fingers, brushing the hair from her tear swollen eyes, his own face a mask of torment, breath shaking in and out.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he soothed, tilting his head slightly. “Ssssshhhhh…” He leaned closer to her, murmuring brokenly. “It’ll be okay…just... close your eyes…”

Panic suddenly flared in her face. She tried to pull herself upright, stretched out a hand.“No…no, please! My baby…” Even as he watched, her eyes shifted to a rabid  yellow and her body started to shake.

Dean choked. Everything in his body felt like it had turned to ice water. Trembling, he stood again, raising his gun and pointing it at her heart. He had no choice.

She tried to pull herself away from him again, sliding in her own blood, shrieking, her child-ripe body already beginning to reform itself with frightening speed. Her screams escalating, fear, pain and--something else-- trying to gain control.

He pulled the hammer back and tightened his finger on the trigger, steadying his aim with the other hand. The gun was rock solid, but his eyes blinked rapidly and his voice shook with anguish. “I’m sorry,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>  
Sam heard the fist and second gunshot as he finally limped to the house. The rising screams as the third blast tore through the night stopped him cold for an instant. He burst into the house, gagging at the overwhelming smell of blood, staring at carnage such as he had never witnessed. The body of a blood covered, naked man lay sprawled on the floor, a small arm still clutched in his hand, bits of flesh dangling from his mouth. Sam refused to look any closer at what was scattered around him, fighting his own horror and nausea.

“Dean!” he cried out, stumbling into the next room. Dean, gray faced, knelt in blood and vomit, next to the dead body of pregnant woman. His gun hung from limp fingers, the muzzle dipped into the congealing blood around him.

Sam hung back, taking in the scene and instantly understanding the implications of that third gunshot. “Dean….oh, Christ, Dean…” he couldn't help the horror in his voice at what he knew his brother had just been forced to do.

Dean had slowly raised his eyes to gaze at Sam, features twisted and unreadable. Sam wasn't sure Dean actually saw him. “Dean, are you all right?” he said softly. Dean’s jeans were blood soaked to mid thigh.

Dean’s eyes shifted and focused on Sam. He frowned. “You’re bleeding, Sam,” he said in a flat voice.

Sam glanced down at his own jeans, a palm sized blotch of red on his thigh. “I think I popped a couple of stitches, it’s nothing.” He limped closer, just short of touching Dean. “Are you all right?” he said again.

Dean jerked his head in rough nod and dragged himself to his feet with what seemed to be an incredible effort. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead for a moment and cleared his throat, sniffing. “Yeah…I’m okay.” He swallowed and nodded his head at the woman on the floor. “He bit her…I had to…” His gun hand lifted in a half gesture. He looked down, mouth tightening. He drew his hand
roughly across it.

Sam cut him off, this time daring a hand on Dean’s arm. “I know, Dean. I know.” Dean’s green eyes were washed out and bloodshot as they stared at Sam. Sam could feel Dean quivering under his hand. “We need to finish up and get out of here. I’ll check the garage for gasoline. I can do this if you want to wait outside…” Thunder rumbled around them and a momentary flash of lightning painted the room
with blue light.

Dean frowned at him. “I said I’m okay, Sam. I’ll get the gas, your legs hurt.” He pulled his arm from Sam’s grasp and walked back through the front room  and outside to the garage, eyes averted from the mangled remains on the living room floor. Light rain stung his face as he stalked to the small frame building and kicked in the door, searching the dark interior for flammables.

He tried to keep his mind a blank, forcing away the images it wanted to replay for him like some twisted movie  but the thoughts swirled through his mind and he could not exorcise them. It had just been another job, like any other. Yeah, they had stopped the werewolf, but not before he had been forced to…

He had killed many werewolves, seen them return to their original forms, women, men, the rare child, but he had never had to kill one as it changed into it’s wolfen form, while it still retained a tie to it’s humanity. And never such as the one he had killed tonight. His stomach lurched up his throat as her pleading eyes leaped into his mind once again.

“Shit!” He slammed his fist onto a worktable, then swept it clean of its contents, scattering them about the room in a fury. He stood in the middle of the room, hands fisted to his eyes. He suddenly felt as though he were being smashed under a weight so great that to allow it to crush him could only bring relief. 

He jerked as thunder crashed around him and lightning filled the room with a glow, suddenly realizing Sam was calling him from outside. He dropped his hands, trying to calm his breathing. Casting a quick look about during the next light flash he spotted a can of kerosene and another of lamp oil. He grabbed both of them and carried them back toward Sam, waiting impatiently on the porch.

“What took you so long?” Sam asked, accepting one can, looking closely at Dean’s face.

“Couldn’t see,”Dean growled, brushing past Sam. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sam had covered the bodies with blankets he had found in the bedrooms. It was something they did not normally do, but in this instance Dean was grateful for the thought. It hadn't taken long to set the house on fire even though Dean was moving in a daze. Sam had tossed the match and pushed Dean out the door and into the fine rain that had started to fall. His leg was killing him and it was all he could do to keep moving through the rough terrain of the road and woods even with Dean’s assistance.

By the time they reached the car they were both soaked. Sam opened the trunk and tossed their guns into the hide while Dean wrestled with the spare tire and the jack.

It took longer to change the tire in the rain. Dean’s hand had slipped at one point and he had slashed the palm on the rough edge of the old wheel. Swearing at the pain, he spared a quick glance behind him and could see the yellow glow of the fire from the burning house over the top of the trees.            
 
Shoving the ruined tire and wheel to one side, he dropped the jack and tossed it in the trunk. Sam was sitting on the passenger side staring out of the window. Dean slammed the trunk shut and slid into the driver’s seat. He glanced over at  Sam.

“Your leg okay? As soon as we get stopped somewhere I’ll check it for you” He held his bleeding hand against his jeans leg, what was a little more blood?

“I’m fine,” Sam ground out. “Let’s just go.”

Hitting the ignition, the car fishtailed as Dean gunned it out of the clearing and tore down the highway, intent on getting as far away from the town of Loren as they possibly could.


Chapter Two: Stained 
 
They had driven for an hour in almost total silence, Dean chewing on the side of a finger and staring through the windshield into the darkness beyond. His facial muscles worked as he clenched his jaw and grimaced, holding an internal argument with himself. He had wrapped a rag around his cut hand after Sam had commented on the bloody steering wheel but would tolerate nothing more.

The night was cold and they were both shivering in their wet clothes. Sam had kicked the heater on, which helped with the shivering but filled the car with an overwhelming smell of blood from Dean’s soaked jeans.

Sam watched Dean warily, not sure for what. He was like a toy that had been wound to tightly and might fly apart at any moment. Sam knew what had happened back at the little house had hit Dean hard. Dean would never admit it, of that Sam was sure. Dean would bury this most recent emotional devastation somewhere in his psyche along with all the other horrors he had known and experienced and leave it to fester. Sam had quit shivering some time ago but Dean trembled still.

“We need some money,” Dean stated suddenly, the unexpected sound startling Sam. “We can’t sleep in the car again, and you need some decent food.” He shot his eyes at Sam, then back at the road.

“And you don’t?”

Dean ignored him. “We’ll stop and change clothes and clean up a little. There’ll be a bar soon.” And God, I need a drink. He turned the car into a long shallow curve and went back to chewing his finger.

“Dean, do you really think a bar’s a good idea right now? And how the hell are you gonna play pool with your hand like that?” Sam tried again. He was so tired even sleeping in the car sounded good. He brushed his hair back out of his eyes and leaned against the door.

“We aren’t sleeping in this car again,” Dean snapped. “We need money. A bar is the fastest way to get it. It won’t take long, and my hand won’t be a problem. If anything it oughta help.” Dean stopped chewing on his finger and was now worrying his thumbnail. His eyes kept darting around and it was making Sam nervous.

 “Well, I mean after tonight, I thought…” Sam started.

Dean gave him a hard look. “What about tonight?” he growled, a warning. His eyes flared angrily.

Sam blinked.“Uh…”

“It  was a job, Sam. No different any other job we’ve had.” He paused and Sam saw him swallow.“I did what had to be done.” Dean’s stare returned to the road. His fingers tightened on the wheel and he grimaced at the pain in his hand.

Sam sighed again, folded his arms over his chest and went back to staring out the window. He had not missed that twice Dean had verbally taken total responsibility for the night’s occurrences. When it came to the job in general it was ‘we’ but when it came to the actual events it was ‘I’.

They drove another twenty minutes or so, silent again. Finally they could see signs of an approaching town. At the first gas station, Dean pulled in, grabbed some clean clothes out of his bag and the first aid kit.

“I’ll  be right back,” he threw at Sam and headed to the men’s room. The glare as he switched on the lights made him swear and shield his eyes until they adjusted. He locked the door, dropped his stuff on the counter and just leaned against the wall for a moment. God, he was so tired… He wasn’t sure he could keep on his feet much longer. He didn’t want Sam to see him like this and he was so grateful that it had been him and not Sam who had entered that house first. The knowledge of what he had done was twisting in him like a knife. The thought of Sam having to endure such a thing was unacceptable.

Over the last few weeks he had been running on adrenaline. His usual worries over Sam and his father, lack of sleep, proper food and his own self inflicted guilt over the things he couldn’t control had worn him down in so many ways he was incapable of realizing his body was trying to tell him he had long overdrawn it’s resources. One fucked up job after another, innocents dying who shouldn’t have because he wasn’t fast enough or smart enough, one more failure piled on top of another, and then tonight-- He ground his fists into his eyes, stomach knotting suddenly, bending him over. Finally he took a deep breath, willed himself upright, pushing away from the wall. He faced the sink, bracing his arms on either side before looking in the mirror. 
 
His face was blown white by the harsh lights and the green of his pupils was dull and floating in a bloodshot sea. There were flecks and smears of blood on his face and t-shirt.

Her blood. Their blood.

He stared at this reflection for a moment, feeling his heart start to race again. He closed his eyes against the images jumping out in his brain, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead.

Her hand stretched out to him, imploring him to help her, help her baby.

 Close your eyes….

 Almost frantically, he ripped off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor. He turned on the water full tilt with the same desperate motions. Grabbing a handful of paper towels he soaked them, roughly scoured the blood from his face, hands and arms, leaving scratched red skin behind, hampered by his injured hand.

He had to get the blood off…..

Quickly, he kicked off his boots and skinned out of the stiffening, rank smelling jeans. He could barely stand to touch them and the stench of blood was making him sick. 
 
Thoughts  crossed his mind about leaving them in the trash but he knew better. He used more wet paper towels to get the dried blood off of his legs. He was gasping for breath, almost hyperventilating. Dizziness swept over him and he fell back against the wall. Doubling over, he cupped his hands over his mouth and nose and breathed into his hands, forcing himself to calm down. “Jesus”, he groaned. What the hell was going on with him?

 After a moment he reached out and braced himself against the sink again as his head slowly cleared. He reached out shakily for his clothes. Sam was gonna be banging on the door in a minute if he didn’t get his ass back out there. He pulled on the clean jeans and t-shirt and then grimacing, carefully unwrapped his hand. The water stung like a bitch and he hissed as he tried to wash the blood and dirt from his palm. It was a frigging deep cut and every motion of his hand reopened it. He dried it and tried to get antibiotic ointment smeared on it with unsteady hands before the blood welled up again. He finally settled on squeezing a line of ointment down the gash and packing gauze over it. He quickly wrapped fresh gauze
and tape around his hand and tossed what was left back into the first aid kit.

He yelped as a loud rapping drummed on the door.

Sam’s voice called out. “Dean? You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes. Are you okay?” Not desperate, but definitely edgy.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried to slow his heart. “I’m fine! Jesus, you gave me a freakin’ heart attack!” he yelled, voice echoing in the bathroom. “I’ll be right there! I had to fix my hand.”

“Do you want some help?”

“I got it! “ He snarled. He leaned against the wall and awkwardly tugged his filthy boots back on. He yanked open the door and almost fell over Sam standing right by the opening.

“Shit, Sam!”Dean snapped. “Do the words ‘personal space’ mean anything to you?” He stormed past Sam and threw the bloody clothes in the trunk along with the first aid kit.

“Sorry for getting concerned,” Sam said reflexively, following Dean. “How’s your hand?”

“Fine,” Dean replied, predictably. “How’s your leg?” He noticed Sam had changed to a clean pair of jeans also, during Dean’s absence. Sam looked as tired as Dean.

Sam shifted uncomfortably.“It’s okay. Dean, I still don’t think this is a good idea…”

Dean turned and glared at him. “Sam, we are not sleeping in this car again!” Dean repeated. “Now, you can come in with me or sit in the car, but I’m gettin’ us some money.” Dean threw himself back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Sam sensed Dean might actually leave him so he got in and slammed the door as Dean shot off.
                                  
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
As Dean had expected the outskirts of Pottsville sported several honkytonk type roadhouses. He chose one called Earl’s Placewith a good number of older cars and trucks still parked around it. Best of all it had a neon sign that proclaimed ‘Pool’. 

Dean slid into a parking space and stopped the car. He turned to Sam, rubbing his hand over his eyes before speaking. “You can get something to eat while I set up a game.”In answer to Sam’s frown, Dean cocked his head toward the bar and smiled crookedly. “I swear, just long enough to get us a room and a couple of square meals. I’m tired and hungry too, Sam.”

The understatement of the decade.

Sam sighed again, he always seemed to be sighing around Dean. “Fine. But no longer than that and you have to get something to eat too, I won’t eat if you don’t.” It was a rather childish threat but one that he felt would hold some power over Dean. “The last fucking thing you need is to pour a lot of beer into an empty stomach.” He climbed out of the car and followed behind Dean, limping slightly, into the garish noise of the bar.

Sam found a table in the back of the smoke filled room, rife with whining country music, sweaty, overweight men in cowboy hats and sweaty women packed into too tight clothing. Couples two stepped on the small dance floor and lined the bar clutching beers. It was all happening at Earl’s. Sam hated it, but Dean was right, they needed money. He just hoped Dean kept his drinking to a minimum so they could get what they needed and get the hell out.

Dean came up to the table with two beers and set one down in front of Sam. Dean’s was already half gone. There was none of the usual pleasure in Dean’s face at the prospect of fleecing a few locals. He was there to do a job.

“I ordered you some food. It’ll be here in a minute.” Dean had to raise his voice over the music. It wasn’t that hot in the bar but Dean’s face glistened with a sheen of sweat.

“What about you?” Sam frowned and pushed the beer around on its sweaty ring.

“I’m gonna check out the table action. I’ll be around” He sipped some more beer and then aimed himself at the three pool tables in the back, disappearing into the crowd.

“That’s not what I meant!” Sam called after him, but Dean was already gone. Shit.

Having no choice Sam settled back in the chair and had a drink of beer. He was exhausted, his head was starting to hurt and he was on edge over Dean’s current emotional state. He had recognized when Dean had thrown himself into survival mode. It allowed Dean to put any feelings about his actions into a place where he could ignore them so that he could overcome the normal problems of eating, sleeping and, as much as it galled Sam at times, looking out for Sam, with no thought spared for what Dean might need.

Sam knew what Dean had done this evening had rattled him to his foundations no matter how justified his actions might have been. It had certainly rattled Sam.

An over-painted waitress suddenly slid two plates onto the table in front of Sam, popping her gum. He jerked back in surprise.

“Sorry,  darlin’, “ she laughed, with mismatched teeth gleaming. “Didn’t mean to scare ya! You need another beer?” Her hair was piled a foot high and hung in glossy tendrils around shoulders. Whatever color it was supposed to be did not exist in any spectrum Sam was familiar with.

He  shook his head emphatically. “No, I’m good, thanks.” He studied the plates, greasy cheeseburgers and overflowing mounds of fries. Why wasn’t he surprised?

She clicked her tongue at him and bounced her eyebrows. “I’ll just bet you are,” she crooned with another smile. She turned and headed back to the bar, her broad hips jouncing.

Sam rolled his eyes. Could this evening get worse? He took another drink of beer and looked around. He gradually found his attention wandering to the cheeseburger. It actually smelled pretty good. He didn’t want to admit it, remembering his threat to Dean, but he was starving. Hating himself, but God only knew when Dean would come back, he picked up the burger and took a large bite. He didn’t
quite moan, but his eyes rolled back in his head as he chewed.
                                                           
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
“Hey, wake up Sleeping Beauty,” 

Sam came to with a start, his head pillowed on his arms. “What?...” He blinked at Dean seated across from him. When in the hell had he fallen asleep?

Dean’s face was lined and weary, he wasn’t even trying to look otherwise. He pushed a small pile of bills at Sam. “385 bucks, minus the bar tab. And the $20 tip for  Marilyn Monroe there to let you sleep.” Dean nodded his head at the brassyhaired waitress who winked at him.

 Sam fought a yawn that threatened to tear his head in half and knuckled his eyes. “What time is it?”

“1:45. They’re gettin’ ready to close down.” Dean hiccoughed softly, belching silently against his fist and cleared his throat. He could barely keep his eyes open but he didn’t look particularly drunk.

Sam  frowned at him. “Did you ever eat?”

Dean shrugged, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, well, they say beer is liquid bread. You ‘bout ready to find a real bed?”

“You promised you’d eat. How much did you have to drink?” Sam sounded slightly petulant.

“Three beers and a whiskey shooter…I think. “ Dean closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. He actually had no idea how much he’d had to drink. He wasn’t exactly drunk but he sure as hell wasn’t exactly sober either. He definitely had a headache and his stomach wasn’t very happy with him but at least they could get a room now. He had actually snatched a couple of bites of his cheeseburger on a trip back to check on Sam, who was out cold, but they had gone down like lead and he had opted to forego the rest of it.

Sam stared at him. “You think?” The bandage on Dean’s injured hand was blood soaked. There was no point in saying anything, so Sam didn’t waste his breath. He’d wait until they got to their motel and re-dress it for him then.

Dean yawned and left his head resting in his hands. “That’s what Bubba said it was…can we go now, please, ‘cause frankly, I feel like shit. Marilyn says there’s a cheap motel a little ways down the road, but you’re gonna hafta drive. I’m gonna be doin’ good to get to the car.”

Dean wasn’t lying, drunk or not, it was all Sam could do to maneuver him to their car. The food and brief nap had given Sam back a little energy for which he was grateful. He guessed if one of them was going to continually be an idiot the other had better take care of himself so he could watch out to make sure the idiot didn’t hurt himself. Even if the idiot was doing what he thought was best.

He eased Dean into the front seat, making sure he wouldn’t hit his head on the window when Sam closed the door. Dean was out before Sam even made it to the driver’s side, arms crossed, forehead mashed against the glass. He moaned softly with each exhalation and shifted restlessly, muscles twitching, as Sam watched.

Sam finally turned on the ignition and left Earl’s Place and Marilyn Monroe behind, searching ahead for the promised cheap hotel.                                
 

Chapter  Three: Inventory
 
The Pines Motel, was indeed about 10 minutes away from Earl’s. Sam could see the crooked vacancy sign coming up on the left and sure enough, a stunted pine tree graced the entrance to the motel.
 
Weary and relieved, he pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the office. It was 2:15 in the morning but  there was a clerk on duty, watching late night TV and smoking, with his feet up on a desk. He barely gave Sam a second glance.

Sam got a room and snagged the keys, thank God. He hated those card things. Moving the Impala down to the end of the run of cabins, he carried both their bags in and went back to rouse Dean. How he got both of them stumbling into the room he’d never know, by then Dean was so out of it he could barely walk.

Once he had Dean settled in a bed, boots and belt off, Sam had staggered into the bathroom and taken a fast shower to sluice off as much of the day as he could. He quickly checked the gash on his leg but other than being sore it looked good. He had popped a stitch, but it wasn’t worth bothering with. What was one more scar? He needed to shave but feared he would slice open his throat if he tried.
He made a stab at brushing his teeth and then slid into some sweats and a t-shirt and collapsed onto his own bed, reveling in being able to stretch out his lanky frame and burrow his head in a pillow instead of his arm folded on a hard car seat.
                                                           
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
 
The unmistakable sounds of sickness snapped Sam out of a dead sleep. He sat up, blinking in the dimly lit room, rubbing his eyes, automatically checking Dean’s bed.  Empty. 
 
It felt like he had just gone to sleep, collecting his thoughts was almost impossible. He focused on the orange clock dial. It was 5:38 am.

The retching sound came again. Sam got to his feet and went over to the bathroom. He leaned close and listened. More coughing and throat clearing, followed by a soft groan.

Sam tapped on the bathroom door.“Dean? Are you okay?” Thinking what a stupid question that was, Sam tried the door and found it locked. He knocked again, “Dean?”

Dean was crouched over the toilet, gasping. He spit out another mouthful of saliva and bile and fought his convulsing stomach for control. He couldn’t answer Sam, just dropped his head on his arm, balanced on the edge of the bowl.

“Dean!” Sam barked through the door. “Answer me, man!” He knocked louder and rattled the knob. In another minute he’d be breaking it in.

Dean cleared his throat again and spit, forcing his voice to work. “I’m okay, Sam,” he finally choked out. “I’m just sick.” He lurched forward as he vomited again, painful dry heaves now.

“DEAN!” Sam banged the door.

Dean groaned, stretched out a shaking hand and flipped the lock on the knob. Sam blundered in, pissed as hell. “What the hell, Dean?” he snapped. He took one look at Dean sitting on the floor, pale, head in his hands and stopped being mad, switching to concern.

Dean sat back against the wall, hands clawed into his eyes to keep them from blowing out of his skull. His skin was greased with sweat and he was breathing heavily through his mouth, knees drawn up, rocking slightly.

Sam started to close the toilet lid and sit there but Dean waved him away impatiently. Sam grabbed a washcloth and soaked it, handing it to Dean and lowered himself onto the edge of the tub instead.

Dean held the wet cloth over his eyes. “Thanks,” he rasped, coughing.

“Jeez, Dean, you look awful!”Sam exclaimed. “Can I do anything for you?” Sam felt terrible. Dean had done this to himself so they could sleep in a bed for a change.

 “I don’t know.” Dean kept swallowing, not sure he wasn’t going to be sick again. Finally, he said, voice gravelly. “Bring me a gun?”

Sam’s mouth twisted. “I told you, you should have eaten something.”

Dean snorted. “And I told you I did.” Had he? “It made a sudden guest appearance about ten minutes ago.” He groaned again and shifted his body uncomfortably.

“Do you want some aspirin?”

Dean’s eyes popped open, watchful. “Save time…” he grunted, “throw ‘em in the toilet…shit…”He lurched forward again. There was nothing left for his stomach to rid itself of, but that didn’t stop it from trying.

Sam grimaced, listening to him, feeling a little ill himself.

Dean finally fell back, exhausted. He used the washcloth to wipe his face. He was shivering. Sam got him some water to rinse his mouth out.

When he handed the glass back to Sam, his hand was shaking. Sam set the glass on the counter and watched Dean rub his eyes.

“Feeling any better?” Sam ventured, unsure where to go from here. Normally a lecture about drinking too much would have followed but this was definitely not one of those times.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. “Yeah, Sam,” he drawled, “I’m just peachy.” He rubbed a hand across his stomach and made a face. He relaxed his legs until his feet hit the cabinet.

Sam studied his fingernails. “I was thinking—“

Dean banged his head against the wall. “Oh, God…”

Sam frowned. “I’m serious, Dean. I think we oughta take a few days off and get our heads on straight. These last few weeks have been kinda rough. We need a break.” He glanced at Dean to see what kind of effect this statement would have on him.

“My head is on straight and I don’t need a break.” Dean replied, pretty much as Sam figured he would.

“Dammit, Dean!”Sam put more emotion into his voice and tried again. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. Have you taken a look at yourself?” He gestured at Dean, sprawled on the floor.

Dean deliberately took a long, slow look at himself and then resettled his eyes on Sam. “Inventory says everything seems to be here.” He blinked slowly.

Sam’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean. Dean recognized the look with a sinking feeling. This look meant, “I’ll sit here until hell freezes over if that’s what it’s gonna take to make you do what I want.” And he would too. Dean recognized the expression from Sam’s source book of ‘Looks Sam Uses Too Manipulate Dean’ article seven, subsection b. What Dean found amazing was that Sam seemed to know when this look, rather than his standard sad puppy look, would be the most effective.

If Dean hadn’t felt like shit he probably wouldn’t have acted this way but Sam was trying his patience and Dean knew where this was going. He wasn’t up for it mentally or emotionally and though he’d have rather burned in hell than admitted it, Sam was right. They were both beat to the socks. Somehow, making it sound like something Sam needed made it more acceptable to Dean. He realized this wasn’t an argument worth having.

He covered his face with his hands and moaned. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll take a few days off if that’s what you want. Just get off my back, okay?”

Sam smiled, relieved. "Great!" He caught sight of the bloody bandage on Dean’s hand. “Dean, we need to redress your hand.”

Dean glanced at his hand and grimaced. “Shit. I forgot about it. Now it hurts." He floundered about for a moment trying to get on his feet and finally, looked at Sam. "Give me a hand up.” He grasped Sam’s hand and Sam hauled him to his feet. Dean swayed precariously and sank down on the closed toilet, head swimming.

“Okay?” Sam asked, leaning over him.

“Yeah, I’m fine! Let’s just do this so I can go back to sleep, my head’s killing me.” 

Sam left to get the first aid kit out of the car. Dean put his arm on the counter and rested his head on it. 

Normally when he was hung over he still had some pleasant memories to lessen the pain. There was nothing in the last twenty four hours he wanted to remember, if only the instant replay in his mind would cooperate. He was starting to feel nauseous again and wished Sam would get back. God, I gotta lie down…. 

Sam came back with the first aid kit and set it down on the counter. Luckily, the arm Dean was using as a pillow was the injured one and he already had it stretched out. Sam stripped off the old bloody bandage as quickly as he could. Dean hissed but lay still. Sam made a face at the gash as he gently washed the blood and old ointment off. It still gaped open and looked nasty. His lips tightened and he studied Dean’s pale face for a moment. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Dean’s face, sliding down his throat where the pulse jumped lightly under his skin.

“Dean, I hate to say it,” Sam’s voice was reluctant, “but you really need stitches, this looks like hell and it’s never gone heal like this.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder, didn’t open his eyes. “Fine, just do it.” He replied listlessly.“Put the trash can over here in case I puke again.” He heard Sam do as he requested, putting it where Dean could keep his hand on it.

Sam quickly laid out the alcohol, curved needle, thread, tiny scissors and fresh bandages. He dragged the chair in from the front room to he could sit to work more steadily. He threaded the needle and wiped everything down with alcohol. Dean jerked but said nothing. Sam carefully held Dean’s hand down with his own and started working as quickly as he could. He could feel Dean’s muscles pull with every dig of the needle. Sam was quite proficient at stitching wounds, but he hated doing it, especially when there was nothing to dull the pain of the stitches themselves as they drew through torn flesh. He murmured words of comfort as he worked, not sure if Dean was even listening.

Ten small stitches later and he was done. He packed the wound with fresh antibiotic ointment and gently laid fresh bandages over it.

“All done,” he said softly. When Dean didn’t respond, Sam shook him lightly.

Dean started and pulled away.“…y’finished?” he stared at his hand, which hurt worse than before.

“Yeah, let’s get you back to bed.” He stood and caught Dean under the arms to help him up. It was an obvious struggle for Dean to regain his feet.

Once he was up, he brushed off Sam’s assistance. “Dude, I puked. I’m not dying. I can make it on my own” He cradled his hurt hand against his stomach and walked slowly to his bed, practically falling on it. Sam followed closely enough to help if needed, but far enough away not to hover.

“You want to take your clothes off? It’ll be more comfortable.” Sam offered.

Dean shook his head. “I just wanta sleep.” He crawled under the covers and dropped wearily onto the pillow, rolling onto his side. 

Sam snapped his fingers and went over to his bag. Dean heard water running and then Sam was back, shaking him again.

 “What the fuck, Sam?”

“Take these.”Sam held out three pills, two Dean recognized as aspirin, the third was small and red.

“What is that?”Dean pushed himself slowly upright, he’d welcome the aspirins.

“It’s one of the antibiotics the doctor gave me the other day. I think you need to take ‘em. I’m afraid your hand may get infected.”

“Sam, you’re supposed to be taking those!” Dean growled.

“Dean my leg is fine, it has a refill, we can get more. Please.” Sam held out the water in his other hand.

Dean was too tired to argue anymore. He grabbed the three pills and took them with a quick gulp of water, hoping they stayed down. He fell back on the pillow. “Can I sleep now?” He rolled back onto his side and closed his eyes.

He felt Sam pull the covers up higher on him and then the creak of the mattress on Sam’s bed as Sam settled back onto it.

After  a moment Dean said. “Thanks, for fixing my hand.”

“No problem,”Sam replied. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, Sam. I’m okay.”

“Will  you let me know if you need anything?”

“I  need to sleep, Sam.”

“Sorry.”


Chapter Four: The Mourning After

 Dean listened as Sam shifted on his bed, trying to get comfortable. He moved his throbbing hand up higher on the pillow and fell into the darkness.

Sam's eyes opened slowly and he stretched luxuriously, yawning. He was warm and relaxed. His back felt great after a night on a mattress instead of bent to conform to a car seat. If he'd dreamt at all he didn't remember. That was worth more than any of it. God, he owed Dean one. He scratched the unruly hair out of his eyes and rolled over to check Dean out.

Dean was facing him, still asleep. The covers had slipped most of the way off of him, trailing onto the floor and his bandaged hand was wedged upright with a pillow. Sometime during the night he had pulled off his t-shirt and thrown it on the floor.

As he watched, Dean shifted, his eyes fluttering open, but he didn't appear to actually awaken. His hand brushed his face and he rolled onto his back, eyes still open. Sam frowned, slowly pushing himself upright. Dean's breathing deepened abruptly and he groaned. His hand batted at the air, his body twisting.

"Wh….Sssam…" Dean was suddenly sweat slicked but Sam could see him shaking. Dean's head rolled violently back and forth and he dug his fingers into his eyes . Sam scrambled out of his bed and over to Dean's just as Dean sat up with a snap, voice a smothered cry from deep in his chest.

"NO!"

Sam caught Dean's arms as he flailed out, keeping his own head back out of the way.

"Dean! Dean, wake up! It's me, Sam!" Sam shook him as Dean continued to struggle, moaning.

"DEAN!" Sam yelled.

Dean's eyes popped open and he stared at Sam, gasping. "Sam?" Relief flooded Dean's face and he closed his eyes for a second, hands to his face.

Sam relaxed his grip on Dean's arms. "Yeah, Dean. It's me. Calm down." He could feel Dean shaking under his hands, his eyes clouded by confusion.

Dean flinched back, pulling out of Sam's grip, still breathing heavily. His throat worked and he covered his mouth suddenly, wincing.

Sam leaped for the trash can and shoved it under Dean's face.

Dean clutched it, gagging, but managed to keep from throwing up this time. He swallowed the saliva that flooded his mouth and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, resting his chin on the edge of the plastic.

After a moment, Sam offered him a wet cloth in exchange for the trash can.

Dean coughed and lay back against the pillows, holding the cold rag to his aching head. His muscles trembled and he had a hard time keeping his breath even. He felt the bed sink as Sam eased down on it. For some reason his closeness was bothering but Dean couldn't ask him to move. His heart gradually slowed to a regular thump that he couldn't feel throbbing in his head.

Sam tentatively rested a hand on Dean's leg, feeling the muscles jump at his touch and he withdrew it. "You okay, now?" he asked softly.

"Son of a bitch….." Dean moaned. He turned the washcloth over to get the cool side against his eyes.

"You had a nightmare." Sam began.

"No shit."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Shit, no."

A statement that left little room for argument. "It was just a stupid dream." Dean growled. I will sleep in the car forever before I'll take another drink to buy a bed, he swore.

Dean lowered the cloth and blinked, pushing himself up on his elbows. His short hair stuck up everywhere and there was a clear imprint on his cheek of the amulet he always wore. It would have been laughable if his face hadn't been so gray and there weren't circles under his eyes. "Wh'time…is it?" he squinted in the dim light from the dresser lamp.

Sam glanced at the clock. 10:46 am. Wow. He must have died after Dean went back to bed.

"It's almost 11:00—" Sam began.

Dean jerked spastically. "11:00! Shit!" He shoved Sam off the bed with his leg, pushing to his feet. And immediately sat back down as pain shot through his skull and his brain short circuited. He curled forward, head down, elbows on his knees.

"Jesus…"

"For God's sake, Dean!" Sam exclaimed in exasperation.

"I'm fine," Dean panted. "Other than my head, my hand and my stomach. I'm fine. Just gimme a minute." He gulped air and clutched his head until the pain settled itself back into a dull knot behind his left eye. He was aware when Sam moved away and the door opened and closed.

The door opened and closed again after a minute and Dean heard an odd tiny pop.

"Here," Sam said, nudging Dean's hand with something wet and cold.

Dean opened his eyes a crack, Sam held a sweating bottle of water. His face was creased with concern and if Dean had been able to look closely enough, a little guilt. Sam had felt so good upon waking up and Dean obviously still felt like shit.

Dean squinted up at him and accepted the water. "Thanks." He slowly eased himself back into a sitting position. He took a long drink of water. It was too cold, but still felt good running down his throat.

Sam sat on his bed, opposite Dean. He gestured at the bottle. "I know you always seem really thirsty after you—" He broke off, uncomfortably.

Dean had already downed half the bottle. "After I've been drunk off my ass." he finished for Sam, managing a crooked smile. He poured some of the water in his good hand and patted his face with it, letting it drip onto his chest.

"That's not what I meant," Sam protested. "It wasn't like that this time."

Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "It sure as hell wasn't." He rubbed his forehead. "Usually, I have fun."

"You sure you don't want to tell me about the dream? You always bug me about telling you mine."

Dean shook his head gently. "You mean, will I show you mine if you show me yours? Yeah, well, my dreams don't come true, so there's nothing to tell. It was a crappy nightmare compared to yours. I don't wanta bore you." Dean's manner suggested otherwise but Sam knew better than to press right now.

Instead, Sam shook his head and snorted. "Listen, check out is in an hour, do you want to stay here another night or go on? I don't care, if you want to rest up."

Dean coughed and drank some more water. He was so dehydrated he could almost feel his body sucking up the water as he drank. He desperately wanted some more aspirin but decided he better wait until he ate something. He'd thrown up about as much as he could stand.

"No, let's get outta here." He finished the bottle and tossed it at the trash can. Missing it. He hiccoughed softly and grimaced. "Let me grab a shower." He slid himself off the bed again, slowly this time and put a hand against the wall until he knew he had his balance.

Sam watched him to make sure he would stay upright and then rose and walked to the door. "I'll check us out. Back in a few minutes."

Dean nodded at him and waved. He rummaged in his bag and came up with his last pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt. A deeper search excavated a long sleeve blue shirt, two socks, mismatched, and some boxers. He shrugged over the unmatched socks, wouldn't be the first time, and headed to the bathroom. He flipped on the light, wincing as it hurt his eyes and reached out to turn on the water, getting it as hot as thought he could stand it. His hand hurt too much to try to hold a razor so he blew off shaving. He liked his skin smooth, but not ripped to shreds.

Steam started to fill the bathroom. God, he was still so thirsty. He grabbed one of the cups off the counter and ran tap water into it, drinking it down in one long swallow.

He dragged off the rest of his clothes and stepped under the water, doing his best to keep the bandaged hand dry. He faced away from the water and leaned the other hand against the wall letting the needles of hot water loosen up the muscles in his back and neck.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, eyes closed, water running over his face. The pain in is head slowly eased.

Eric Bailey lifted the tiny arm to his bloody lips and peeled the flesh back with his teeth, eyes fixed on Dean…. 

Dean gasped as the image leapt into his mind, clapping his hands to his eyes as if that could block it out. His foot slipped on the wet porcelain and he cried out, grabbing the catch bar with his bad hand, barely breaking his fall.

He hung there for a minute breathing heavily, heart thudding. Why did his brain keep playing those images?

 He finally straightened slowly, unclenching his hand from the bar. He looked at the bandage in disgust, not only wet but seeping red again. Shit. He
made a face. Well, now that it was wet- He grabbed the soap and quickly finished his shower, more interested in just getting the hell out of there than I cleanliness.

He toweled off and quickly pulled on his jeans. Curling his lip, he carefully stripped the soggy bandage off his hand and dabbed at the stitched gash with a dry wash cloth as blood oozed up between the stitches. Man, that hurt!

 "Dean, I'm back!" Sam called from the other room.

Dean pulled the door open. "Hey, uh, I could use a little help here," he stated, holding out his hand. He stepped back to make room for Sam as he hurried through he door.

He caught Dean's hand, moving the wash cloth out of the way. "What happened?"

Dean shrugged. "I kinda slipped, I grabbed that bar to keep from…OW!...falling, dammit Sam!" He tried to pull his hand back as Sam examined
it, but Sam held on tight.

"Be still!" Sam snapped. "I'm trying to see if you pulled any of the stitches." Finally, he pressed the cloth into Dean's hand and curled his fingers
over it. "I'll bandage it again. Sit down." He pawed through the first aid supplies still scattered on the counter, found the tape, gauze and ointment and went about re-bandaging Dean's hand. As he worked he noticed how pinched Dean's face looked, his eyes a million miles away.

"Earth to Dean…" he said softly.

Dean started. "What?"

"Where are you?" Sam replied, taping down the gauze. "If you feel that bad, maybe we should stay." He finished wrapping Dean's hand and stood up to clear away the mess.

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head. He flexed his fingers carefully. "No, I'm okay. I just…last night…I can't get it….." God, had it just been
last night? He dug his thumb between his eyes.

"Let it go, Dean. It's done." Sam turned to give Dean a small smile. "C'mon. You're stuck back together. Let's get outta here. I don't know about you, but I'm starving and there's a place down the road from here that the clerk said does breakfast all day. Supposed to be pretty good. I'm hungry as hell and you seriously need to get some food into you." He snapped the box closed.

Dean sighed and nodded. He was feeling really shaky, maybe he just needed a sugar hit.

Sam handed him his t-shirt. "Finish getting dressed. I've already got our stuff out in the car." He went back into the other room and Dean heard the door again.

Dean yanked the t-shirt on and grabbed his socks. Where the hell were his boots and belt?
 
Sam drove because Dean, for one of the few times ever, just didn't want to drive. He felt too woozy and gripping the wheel with his right hand would have been too painful. He slumped in the passenger seat as they drove toward the restaurant. It was a quick drive. The Sunny Side Up was apparently a favorite local spot, the parking lot was filled with cars and an area was set aside for semi trucks of which there were several.

As they entered, Sam found the buzz of voices and the clatter of crockery rather pleasant. As the hostess led them to a table, Dean followed along in his wake, looking at the floor. Once they were settled in a booth Dean put his head down on his arms.

"Man, is it that bad?" Sam asked, more than a little concerned.

"Yes," Dean's voice was muffled by his arms.

The waitress came up to the table, set down two waters and stared at Dean's head. She cocked her head at Sam.

"He okay?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "He just needs coffee, I think." He leaned closer to Dean. "Do you want coffee?"

Dean lifted his head enough to blast Sam with a look then lowered it again.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, two coffees, two large orange juices, one of your breakfast specials—Dean, what do you want?"

"Anything sweet," Dean replied from the depths.

"Pancakes and sausage with extra syrup, please," Sam snapped the menu shut and handed it to the waitress. She shook her head as she wrote down their order and went to get the coffee. Sam made a face as his stomach growled. The thought of a real breakfast in God only knew how long, was downright exciting.

"You got any aspirin?" Dean finally raised his head and pressed his fingers over his eyes.

Sam reached into his jacket pocket and pushed the bottle at Dean after removing the childproof cap, which always stonkered Dean, even on a good day. He took another small bottle out of his other pocket and popped the lid, shaking two red pills into his hand. He dropped one in front of Dean and tossed the other in his own mouth, washing it down with the water.

Dean palmed 3 aspirin and the antibiotic without comment and swallowed them all at once, draining his water glass as he did.

They sat in peaceful silence, Dean with his head in his hands, taking sips of coffee he had dumped three packets of sweetener into and Sam, placidly watching the action around them in the fast paced restaurant.

When the food came, it not only smelled great it looked great. Sam grabbed his fork and dug into the mound of hash browns that had been fried in butter. Scrambled eggs nestled up against them and four slices of bacon flanked the eggs. A plate next to it was stacked with buttered wheat toast. The orange juice tasted fresh and he drank half of it in one gulp.

Dean smiled, watching him and somehow at least part of him felt some of last night had been worth it.

His body desperately craved sugar, so he picked up the syrup pitcher and proceeded to drown the pancakes in front of him.


Chapter Five: Contamination

Dean swallowed the last bite of syrup soaked pancake and sat back, eyes closed. He took a deep breath.

Sam watched him, smiling, spreading jelly on his last piece of toast. "Feel better now?" He bit into the toast, savoring the taste of butter and grape jam.

Dean nodded, glancing at Sam. He wiped his fingertips on the napkin, "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I didn't realize I was so hungry."

Sam looked around for the waitress. "Do you want some more?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I'm full. You finish and we can go." He slid out of the booth. "I'll be right back." He moved in the direction of the restrooms.

Sam ate the rest of his toast and signaled the waitress for their check.

Dean was gone a long time and just about when Sam was ready to go find him he returned, holding his cell phone and looking a little grim.

Sam narrowed his eyes as Dean slid back into the booth. "What is it?"

Dean wordlessly held out the phone so that Sam could see the screen. A series of numbers marched across the tiny screen and Sam recognized for what they were. 


Coordinates. 


His heart sank and his first thought was, shit.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean! You promised—" he hit his fist on the table making the dishes jump.

"I talked to him, Sam," That shut Sam up. "It's a paying gig, plus room and board. Some hotel in a place called Miracle Springs. It sounded pretty simple, probably a poltergeist. I know I promised but we could use the money and it's gonna be a little while before we have a any credit card action going. This is some guy that helped Dad out when we were kids and he owes him. "

"Then let Dad do it." Sam replied, knowing it was stupid. "We need some time off. You need some time off ."

Dean just gave him that LOOK. They stared at each other for a good five minutes before Sam, disgusted, finally gave up.

"Fine! But I swear to God, Dean, the minute, the instant this is done-"

"Ok, Ok, Ok. You made your point." Dean shook his head. He pocketed the cell phone.

"So where is this place?" Sam growled, still pissed.

Dean looked blank. "Hell, I don't know where we are, let alone where that place is" He ruffled his hair and yawned. The pain killers were kicking in,
still short on rest and with a full stomach he was getting sleepy again." He said it was a few hours from where we—" Dean stopped dead and his eyes fell. "From the last job…" Dean swallowed. "Someone around here must know." His voice had become much softer.

Sam frowned. "Dean…" Dean's look stopped him. Sam sighed. "I'll ask at the check out. I can map it out on the laptop"

Dean flipped his hands in indifference. "Whatever," he replied. He covered another yawn. "Do you mind driving again? I can spot you in a couple hours. I don't think I can stay awake."

"No problem," Sam said, sliding out of the booth. And he didn't mind. He recognized that Dean's body was giving in to its need for rest and Dean wasn't trying to fight it, which was good. Sam'd drive all day if he had to. Sam was sorely pissed at their father, nothing new there, and at Dean for being so willing to just keep going, no matter what. Dean obviously still needed to come to some sort of grips with the happenings at the Bailey's. Maybe immersing himself in another job would help him put the last job behind him. Sam had a pretty good idea what Dean's nightmare had been about. When Dean decided to blame himself for something, his guilt complex could take on dangerously heroic proportions as Sam had witnessed in the past and saw Dean living with on a daily basis.

The woman behind the register knew of Miracle Springs. It was off season and would be very quiet but was an interesting place nonetheless. If they were looking for someplace to relax that oughta be it. She roughed out directions and highways, apparently it was well known in the area, but still several hours away. Sam thanked her and went out to the car where Dean was waiting.

Dean settled himself on the passenger side, wadding his jacket up as a pillow against the door. He still looked pensive, but it may have just been fatigue.

Sam started the engine, stopping himself as he put the car in gear.

"What's the name of this place?" Sam asked.

Dean was already half asleep and mumbled "Miracle Springs…."

"No, I mean the hotel. "

"Oh, Moonstar. Crazy name for a hotel…."
 
"Jesus, Sam. Where the hell is this place? The top of Mount Everest?" Dean complained, gulping when the car and his stomach suddenly dropped as the road took a sharp dip and then a 90 degree turn back up to the right. They had switched driving again after the last stop for gas.

"It said 15 miles on the last sign and that was 5 miles ago." Sam replied tensely, hands gripping the wheel. They had driven all over the country, but he was used to wide open spaces where the road didn't fall away on one side of the highway and right up a mountain on the other. The straight areas of road were barely long enough to accommodate the not inconsiderable length of the Impala before you had to turn 180 degrees again.

Unfortunately, getting to the interesting old town of Miracle Springs meant a steady climb up twisting mountain roads. Dean had awakened just as Sam pointed the Impala skyward. The last hour of driving had been one constant corkscrew of speeding up and slamming on the brakes to accommodate the twists and turns of the narrow two lane highway. Dean wished to God they hadn't stopped for breakfast before they left. The continuous swaying and stop and start motion was actually making Dean carsick, although he would have died before admitting it. Too much more of this and he was going to be hurling out of the window. He would have changed places with Sam, but there was no place wide enough to pull over.

To make matters worse, the cars and trucks they met coming from the opposite direction, were tearing along at twice the speed Sam was willing to go on the unfamiliar road and several had come close to running them off. It had to be local traffic that knew the roads, although Sam couldn't imagine taking the curves at the speed most of the drivers did. The only vehicles moving with caution had out of state tags and seemed as leery of the sheer drops that presented themselves unexpectedly on either side of the road as he was.

Dean clutched the door handle as Sam swung the nose heavy Impala around yet another hairpin curve, eyes widening as the ravine on his side of the car loomed beneath him through the window. There was no shoulder and the few guard rails that existed were suggestively bent and twisted. If they went over the edge, there were so many trees below them he figured they wouldn't roll more than a few hundred feet before they crashed into them.

Sam glanced at Dean with a puzzled frown. "You okay?" Dean's color didn't look good.

Dean's eyes were closed. "I'm fine." He grated. "Breakfast didn't agree with me."

Sam's mouth quirked, "I could pull over if you're gonna puke, but I'll be damned I'd know where." He negotiated the next turn with care.

"Just watch where you're going!" Dean snapped, hitting his fist on the door.

To their right, as they came around another curve, a log house built less than ten feet from the road hung precariously off the side of the mountain they were traversing. Beyond it was a broad valley and more rolling mountains undulating in the distance. Cloud filtered, late afternoon sunlight softened the view and Sam would have enjoyed looking at it, but watching the scenery and maneuvering the car was not a workable combination.

"Who would build a house in a place like that?" Sam asked, dumfounded. If you were out in the yard and fell, you'd roll all the way to the bottom of the mountain. Some 800 feet from the looks of it.

"Who cares?" Dean growled. He gaped at a yellow highway sign that read, "Caution, dangerous curves next seven miles" With a symbol that looked like a piece of ribbon candy. "Next seven miles" He bleated, face stricken. "What the hell did they call the last seven?"

Gradually the road began to exhibit signs of habitation. Small roadside shops selling souvenirs, the usual roadside junk. A lot of small cabin type motels, restaurants and tourist information centers. There weren't a lot of people out, but a few stood waiting at spots marked 'Trolley Stop." The closer they got to town the more businesses of every type imaginable started crowding together. 

All of the buildings had a turn of the century feel, even the obviously newer buildings had been designed with a Victorian feel to them. There wasn't a spare foot of ground off the road that didn't have a motel, restaurant or house serving any purpose other than as a house on it. Stained glass was everywhere, even on the rattier buildings. A noticeable number of buildings had closed signs on them, some of them in serious need of repair. There was a certain charm to what they were seeing, but also an air of neglect.

Sam was craning his neck to look around and they weren't apparently even in the old part of town yet.

"Looks kind of empty," Dean commented, noticing that many of the motels they were passing had vacancy signs.

"Well, didn't that guy say it was off season? A lot of the tourist business dies down in the fall and winter. They're only open eight or nine months out of the year." He pointed at a motel called Etta Mae's with a restaurant next to it. It was painted lavender and a sign outside said World famous Omelets! It was almost six o'clock. "You wanta get something to eat? I'm hungry." He couldn't help smiling. "Maybe it'll settle your stomach." He pulled into the parking lot.

"Screw you, Sam." Dean said, with feeling. "That's the last fucking time I let you drive."

Sam laughed and got out of the car.

You had to go down two flights of stairs to get to the restaurant and motel check in. At the right of the entryway was another set of narrow stairs that led down to the restrooms.

The hostess, a rawboned woman with teased hair and too much eye makeup, gave them a big smile and showed them to a table by a huge window. It looked out over another one hundred foot drop. Large birds sailed past the window. Dean couldn't stand it.

"Could we have a table that isn't hanging out in space, please?" Dean gave her a smile that was a little warped at the corners.

She was unfazed. "Sure thing, honey. It's not like we're short on tables." She was right. There were only two other groups in the dining room. A couple that kept nuzzling and giggling and family of four, two obese adults and two equally fat children of indeterminate age and sex. One of them, the girl (?) kept coughing and wiping her nose on her sleeve and being scolded for it by her mother. They reminded Dean of weebles.

The hostess took them to another table at the opposite end of the room and handed them the menus. "Claire will be your server. She'll be right along. Ya'll want coffee?"

"God, yes!" Dean said. Sam nodded. She grinned again and went to get the coffee pot.

Dean was looking around at the décor. Wallpaper that looked like shelved library books. A huge serving island ran down the center of the room. The view from the window was much better when he didn't have to see the bottom. The best looking thing was the hostess coming back with the coffee. She poured two cups and left the carafe on the table for which Dean blessed her. He drank half the cup in one scalding swallow.

Sam stared at him. "How can you do that?" Mystified as always, by Dean's ability to drink something that hot without batting an eye.

Dean frowned at him and tossed back the rest of the cup, quickly pouring himself another. Some semblance of normalcy began to seep into him. He knew he got cranky and distracted when he was hungry, but he couldn't help it. The roller coaster car ride hadn't helped.

"Boy, you really are in a mood." Sam commented, taking a cautious sip of his own coffee.

Dean shrugged, glancing up as a chunky girl in her twenties, with a long brown ponytail, walked up to the table carrying an order pad. Her eyes widened as she took them in and her welcoming smile got a little wider.

"Hi, there! I'm Carla. What can I get you guys today?" her eyes roved over Sam and then settled on Dean, who was still in a bad mood and barely acknowledged her. He took another drink of coffee, pretending interest in the view out the big window.

Sam rolled his eyes, sometimes Dean could be such a child. He gave Carla a smile and pushed the menus at her. "What's good?"

"Well, we've got a dinner special. We serve our omelets all day. That sign out front isn't kidding. It's a three egg omelet with everything, biscuits and gravy, home fries, bacon, sausage and a short stack of pancakes." She laughed as Sam's eyes widened.

"Man, that's a lot." He said after she finished.

Carla winked at Sam. "You look like you can handle it. How about you, darlin'?" She asked cocking her head at Dean.

Sam spoke before Dean could get his mouth open. "He's gonna need another cup of coffee before you wanta talk to him. Bring us two specials. No peppers on his omelet and a side of salsa with mine."

Carla laughed again and scribbled it down. "What kind of pancakes?"

"Blueberry," Sam and Dean said in unison. They glanced at each other and snorted softly.

Carla shook her head. "Be right out. Hope you're hungry."

Dean set his cup down and rolled his head, neck popping. "So, okay," he started. "What did you find out about this place?" While Dean had driven, Sam had taken advantage of the time and done some research on their destination.

Sam flipped the laptop on and started typing. When he had the site he was looking for he started reading aloud. Dean could have read the info himself, but Sam was aware that Dean hated reading and avoided it whenever possible. Sam didn't understand why, but would not risk possible embarrassment to Dean by asking. Dean had to touch things, taste them if need be, experience them physically to absorb knowledge. Dean would only do research himself when he had no other choice. Sam had taken naturally to doing research, loved it, as a matter of fact and it had just become his part of the job.

"Let's see, uh…" he rubbed his lip with his thumb out of habit. "The Moonstar was built between 1884 and 1886. It has five stories and sits on top of a mountain that's 2000 feet above sea level. It's built out of granite with walls eighteen inches thick. It was designed as a luxury hotel for wealthy families who were coming to Miracle Springs for the healing hot springs that abound in the area-"

"Abound?" Dean interrupted.

Sam grinned. "Their words, not mine."

Dean shrugged, "So what's the deal, sounds pretty dull." He started tapping his spoon against the coffee cup saucer. An unconscious signal to Sam that he was getting bored.

"Wait. During the construction, one of the workmen fell to his death. He died where room 218 was built. Supposedly, people have seen him around the hotel ever since then." Dean moved his head from side to side. "The hotel did really well for about 5 years until people realized that the waters weren't healing them and they lost interest in coming here. The hotel was closed for a while and then turned into a boarding school for girls in 1908. During that time a young girl was either pushed or jumped from one of the upper floor balconies, no one knows for sure. There have been a number of reports of people seeing her fall, screaming from the windows." He went on, not failing to notice Dean was watching him now. "It closed in 1924 and then was used as a junior college from 1930 to 1934."

He turned the laptop so that Dean could see the picture he had on the screen. A balding man with a goatee, wearing clothing from the early part of the century, a rather severe look on his face.

Dean took the bait. "Okay, so who's that?"

"This is where the history of the hotel gets real interesting. This is Nigel Becker, Dr. Becker, his patients called him. He opened a hospital in the hotel in 1937. A hospital for cancer patients. Supposedly he had a cure for cancer and he bilked over $4,000,000 from people who came to him hoping to be cured." Sam cocked an eyebrow at Dean who was sitting up straighter, frowning.

"Whadaya mean, bilked them, how?" Dean leaned forward, studying the old photo.

"He ran the hospital for three years, claiming to have a 'miracle cure' for cancer. He didn't, but he still managed to defraud a lot of desperate people and families out of money to continue treatments and he also sold his cure through the mail and over the radio. Supposedly he conducted a lot of experiments on the patients, trying out different versions of his cure." Sam sat back as Carla appeared with their overloaded plates. He closed the laptop and put it on the chair next to him.

"Here you go!" She said, skillfully setting the multitude of plates down without dropping any.

"Wow," Sam stated, looking at all the food. "If someone else comes in, see if they want to join us." His mouth was watering, he didn't realize how hungry he was. Knowing the money they were spending would be replaced with legitimately earned pay somehow made it almost decadent.

Dean eyed the pancakes greedily. Pancakes twice in the same day was a treat beyond imagining. He rewarded Carla with his most devastating smile. "This looks great, Carla, thanks." Sam could have sworn her knees buckled.

"You need anything else you just let me know, okay?" Her knee brushed Dean's thigh as she left their table. Startled, he pulled his leg farther under the table.

Shaking his head as Sam smirked at him, Dean dug into the steaming omelet. "God, I'm starving!"

For a little while they did nothing but eat, then Dean gestured at Sam with his biscuit laden fork. "So, go on about this Becker guy. What did he do to those patients?"

Sam swallowed a mouthful of pancake, hesitating. "I'm not sure you want to hear about it while you're eating."

Dean grimaced. "Well, I guess I can take it if you can, since you already know." He hurriedly took another bite, just in case.

Sam habitually cleared his throat before he spoke. "He treated all the patients with his secret elixir. Some orally, used it as a salve, by injection and in surgery. The story says in some cases he would perform surgery and after he made the incision he would pour the elixir into the wounds and then sew them back up. When he did surgery on brain cancer patients he would peel back their skin, saw through the skull and pour the stuff directly on their-"

"I get the picture!" Dean gagged, holding up his hands. "Jesus!" He rubbed his eyes. "What the hell was this elixir anyway?"

Sam pushed a sausage around on his plate. "A mixture of alcohol, carbolic acid, brown corn silk and ground watermelon seeds."

"Are you shitting me!?" Dean stared at him, outraged. "What the fuck? What the hell was that supposed to do for them?" He pushed his mostly empty plate away. It was good thing he was pretty much full 'cause he sure didn't want anymore now.

Sam shrugged, "It didn't do anything for them. It may not have killed them directly, but it sure didn't stop the process, probably hastened it along. The hope that it would help is what kept the patients families paying. They never actually knew what Becker was doing."

"How many people died there?" Dean asked after a moment.

"Records don't say. A lot. The hotel has a morgue in the basement-"

"Are you kidding me?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope. They also had a crematorium on site. People who died were never moved until night and then they were taken down to the morgue and their bodies were burned. The relatives usually weren't informed until it looked like the money was gonna stop coming in. Then they were sent a box of ashes and a consoling letter." Sam pushed his own plate away and picked the laptop back up.

"Stories also say that Becker performed a lot of weird stuff on the patients, that there are body parts and whole bodies bricked up in the walls that no one has ever found. A bunch of stuff like that. It's hard to tell where truth and legend split. Becker was finally arrested three years later for practicing medicine without a license. He spent 4 years in Leavenworth, was released and died in Florida in 1958." He flipped the screen around to Dean, a series of photographs of the Moonstar Hotel, original and various shots through he years including a recent one showing the renovation work in progress.

Dena leaned in to look at the photos. "He did all that and just got four years in the pen? Jeez, I'd sure as hell haunt the place if I'd been one of his patients."

Sam lifted his eyebrows. "I think that may be part of the problem. Dave Wilkins bought the property a year ago and has been renovating it, planning to reopen this coming spring. A lot of people are excited about it. They think it will help boost the economy to have luxury hotel in town again. A lot of businesses have gone out because the tourist trade just isn't there any more. Miracle Springs isn't that far from a lot of local attractions, they just need to get people to start coming here again." Sam poured a little more coffee.

Dean scratched his head. "I guess whatever favor he did Dad must have been a biggie." He frowned, tapping his spoon again.

Sam shut off the laptop and put it next to him. "I guess so." Sam agreed. "It's funny. The fact that the hotel is supposed to be haunted isn't really a problem according to the articles I read." Sam laughed. "He thinks that's a draw for clientele, but some of the stuff that's going on is a little to weird even for him. Some people have gotten hurt and he's starting to have trouble getting the workman to come in. They have to get the remodel done in time to open in March and they're already running behind what with one thing and another. I guess that's why he was willing to pay us. he can't afford to miss that deadline."

Dean sucked on his upper lip and nodded. "Guess we just need to talk to the guy and see what the hell's going on."

"Yeah, after reading about this place, I'm kinda curious to see it. Oh, thanks," Sam added as Carla came over with their check.

"Can I get you boys anything else? Anything, really, just ask." She picked up Dean's plate, managing to brush his hand as she did so.

Dean glanced weakly at Sam who gave him a big, sunny smile. "No, I think we're good, thanks." He replied, sliding out of his chair.

Carla looked disappointed. "Are you all just passing through?"

Sam shook his head helpfully. "No, we'll be around for few days, anyway." He ignored the look Dean fired at him and clambered to his feet.

A huge grin bisected Carla's round face. "Well, hey, great. Don't be strangers!" She gathered up the rest of their dishes and headed back to the kitchen after another sidelong glance at Dean.

"Thanks a lot!" Dean growled.

"True love is never a problem." Sam replied, snickering, as he followed Dean to the register to pay.

The weeble family waddled up to the register just as Sam and Dean came up and Dean stepped back slightly to indicate that the family could go first. The father smiled at Dean as the mother fussed with what apparently was the younger boy. The fat little girl sniffed and coughed, doing her sleeve bit again. Dean's smile faded slightly as she looked up at him and grinned. He backed up a little more, bumping into Sam.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed, moving his foot back.

"Sorry." Dean murmured.

Sam pushed past him. "I'm gonna wash my hands, I'll meet you in the lobby."

"Yeah, whatever…" Dean said distractedly. He rummaged in his pocket for his worn wallet. As he worked through the cash, a five slipped out and fell to the floor. Shit. He squatted down to retrieve the bill and found himself face to face with the congested little girl. She held the bill out to him. She was maybe ten.

"Hi! Cough… cough… I'm Amy."

Dean reached out to take the bill just as Amy scrunched up her face and sneezed explosively. A fine spray of God knew what splattered Dean's face and clothes. "Christ!" His yelp of outraged disgust as he flailed away from her drew everyone's attention their way.

The girl's mother leaped forward. "Amy! Oh, my goodness! You know you're supposed to cover your mouth when you sneeze!" She grabbed a handful of napkins and tried to wipe Dean off. He batted her hands away.

"I've got it! It's ok! It's ok! I'll take care of it!" he threw some bills on the counter and followed Sam to the restroom, thudding down the stairs, holding his hands away from himself.

Sam fell back as the door was kicked open and Deans stormed in, throwing his jacket on the floor and started frantically washing exposed skin. Sam watched in amazement as Dean scrubbed at his face.

"What's the matter with you?" He demanded, drying his own hands.

Dean made a sound of disgust. "That damned kid practically puked on me!" he snarled, savagely washing his hands and wiping at the splatters on his t-shirt.

"What? Are you kidding?" Sam made a face.

"I reached down to pick up some money I dropped and she sneezed right in my face!" Dean grabbed some paper towels and started wiping his jacket down.

Sam laughed. "She sneezed on you? Whoa, dude, that sounds dangerous."

Dean's look should have killed Sam on the spot. "I hate kids!" he swore, stomping out of the room, back up the damned narrow stairs and up the two sets of stairs to the car. Sam followed in his wake, smirking.

"You think you'll live?" Sam kidded, as Dean ripped off his t-shirt when they got to the car to the obvious delight of a pair of chamber maids pushing a cart. He threw it at Sam and rummaged in his bag for a clean one, jerking it on. At this rate he was going to need to do laundry in the next 10 minutes.

"Not funny, Sam! Just get in the damn car!" Dean slammed into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. Sam hurried around to the passenger side before Dean drove off and left him.

"How the hell do we get to this place from here?" he demanded as Sam slid in.

"We can take the historic loop," Sam consulted a map he'd gotten online. "Make a left up here at the sign and just follow it around. It ends up right at the Moonstar."

"Fine!" Dean snapped. His anger was soon forgotten in the need to maneuver the big car cautiously through the narrow tilting streets. Sharp turns confronted him unexpectedly and the street went up and down with maddening irregularity. The houses, old Victorians, sprawled over the ground almost to the street itself in places. Everything from tiny cottages to huge mansions crowded against each other for what little flat space there was between the valleys and ravines they were perched on. Many of the old houses were in disrepair. A few were in the process of being remodeled. Almost all of them had a sign out front advertising Bed and Breakfast.

Dean swore as he just missed a mailbox negotiating a tight right turn and then an immediate left into a street that went up at what seemed like a 90 degree angle. If another car came from the other direction they'd be trapped there forever.

Even Sam was tight lipped as they drove slowly along. When their surroundings suddenly opened up he was genuinely shocked at the sight before him.

Dean stopped the car with a jerk staring up through the windshield. "Holy crap."


Chapter Six: Surprise

Dean guided the car a few more feet off the road and came to a stop, getting out to have a better look. He heard Sam's door open and close as Sam joined him.

The Moonstar may have been a faded jewel but you could still see her former magnificence even with scaffolding covering her exterior and various trucks and equipment marring her grounds.

She loomed five stories high, balconies and cupolas, leaning this way and that, sprinkling her exterior with seeming carelessness. Long narrow windows glared into the parking lot below. Dean frowned looking up at them, finding the blackness behind the glass unnerving. Her high pitched roof line sported long fingers of black wrought iron fretwork reaching into the cloudy sky. A wide veranda with a curved staircase like a tongue curled from the mouth of the entrance to the worn driveway. She was massive, sold granite, easily perched on the highest point around, dominating everything around her, growing straight out of the ground in haughty grandeur.

Despite the beauty of the location and the architectural wonder of the building itself, Dean found the air of the place oddly unsettling. There was a sensation of coldness, watchfulness, as if the building had taken notice of them. Notice of him. He tried to shake the feeling off, knowing it was silly.

There was a small parking area to the west and unkempt gardens wandered about the grounds, overrun still with weeds and unwelcome invaders. As they walked closer you could see the ground falling away at the sides and back and more buildings dotting the mountainsides around her, clinging precariously. The narrow strip of road slid drunkenly around the side and disappeared in the trees behind the structure. Dean thought he saw a bell tower just below.

Dean whistled. "Man. This place is kinda creepy. This Wilkins guy has his work cut out for him." He glanced at Sam who was smiling open mouthed, studying the granite facade.

Sam's eyes cut toward Dean. "It's beautiful," he commented.

Dean made a face and rubbed his arms. It was starting to get dark and the air was cooling off. "Yeah, well , each to his own, I guess. But it's sure as hell big." He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Sam as he moved forward.

Sam wandered ahead, stumbling in the loose gravel, still looking up at the huge building. "It's gonna be pretty impressive when they get finished with it. We should come back and check it out." They walked past the scaffolding fastened to the front of the building, a few of the workmen giving them sidelong glances, a lot of them checking out Dean's Impala. They were packing away tools, obviously quitting for the day.

"Yeah, maybe next Halloween," Dean commented under his breath. He wrinkled his nose and coughed. There was a strange scent in the air that was getting stronger the closer he got to the hotel. He looked over at Sam. "Man, what's that smell?"

Sam sniffed audibly. "I don't smell anything. What's it smell like?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, kinda sweet, but not in a nice way." He rolled his shoulders under his jacket and rubbed under his nose. They went up the stairs and into the lobby. The smell was much stronger in here, almost overpowering. Dean actually snorted to try to get rid of the odor in his nose and started breathing through his mouth.

"Maybe it's paint or something," Sam offered. "I can't smell anything but dust. Wow." he added as he took in the lobby. Even in the fading light, it was still impressive. The room wasn't large but still managed to appear massive. Heavily carved wooden panels encircled the room, along with a huge marble topped counter at one end. A monstrous stone fireplace sat to their right that stretched all the way to the top of the eighteen foot ceiling. The floors were granite. Double glass doors across from them opened outward into a narrow garden with another set of stone steps vanishing into the depths where the ground fell away.

Outside Sam could see the edge of what looked like a pool off to the left. Bags of concrete and stacks of wood and stone were everywhere. More scaffolding was mounted around the room. A wide staircase with a very low railing doubled back on itself on the far right and climbed toward the next floor. Closer inspection revealed it also went down another floor. The doors to an elevator were situated next to it. Hallways ran to the right and left off the lobby.

They were startled when a heavy set man about their dad's age, dressed in jeans and a paint splattered shirt came out from a room behind the counter. He wore glasses over bright blue eyes and his brows were drawn together over them.

"I'm sorry. This is a closed construction site. No unauthorized persons allowed." He moved toward them with a herding gesture clearly intended to make them leave.

Sam held up his hand, "We're looking for David Wilkins,"

The man blinked. "I'm David Wilkins, who are you?" He removed his glasses, rubbed his nose and slid them back on.

Sam smiled and reached out to shake. "I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean." He gestured at Dean who was standing to the side with a sour expression on his face.

David's face took on a look of such relief it was startling. He grasped Sam's hand like a lost brother and pumped it enthusiastically. "God, I'm so glad you're here! It's great to meet you!" He turned and offered his hand to Dean. Dean smiled slightly and took his hand, widening his eyes at Sam.

"Sorry about a minute ago." He apologized. "We have a big problem with sightseers. We don't want anyone to get hurt and we don't need people just wandering around. Did you just get here?" He laughed. "That was stupid question. " He gestured them over to a pile of concrete bags. "Sit down for a minute, so we can talk." He looked at Dean quizzically. "You okay?"

Dean jerked. "Yeah," he waved his hand. "This smell's kinda gettin' to me." He walked over to the concrete and sat down opposite Sam.

David frowned. "What smell?" He looked around sniffing. "You don't smell smoke or anything do you?"

Dean shook his head, puzzled. "You can't smell that?" Sam and David traded looks and then shook their heads. Dean pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "Hell, maybe it's just me." He finally said to himself.

Sam spoke to David but watched Dean. "If you don't mind my asking, where do you know our Dad from?"

David laughed. "He never told you guys about me? Man, I haven't seen you boys since Dean was what? Maybe four? You'd just been born." He gestured at Sam. "You boys grew into a good looking pair. Your dad must be real proud."

The brothers exchanged glances. Dean lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"I introduced you dad to your mother." David went on. Sam and Dean both looked stunned. David's eyes had faded into memory as he spoke. "It was kind of a blind date. I knew your dad from the marines and my date knew your mom so we each brought them along to meet." He shrugged, "The rest is history. I didn't even know they got married until I came through town a few years later and called your dad." His face sobered and he studied both young men for a minute. "You're dad's a good man. I was really sorry to hear what happened to Mary- your mother. I know it must have been hard on all of you."

Sam bit his lip and shot Dean a look but Dean was staring at the floor. "Thanks," Sam said softly. The silence dragged on uncomfortably. They certainly understood now, what John Winchester, and they, owed this man.

Sam straightened and looked at David. "This is quite a place. So, tell us what's been going on around here. " He forced a stiff smile.

"Yeah, thanks, I'm real proud of her." It showed in his eyes as he looked around the grand room. "What exactly do you know about the hotel? I'm assuming you did a little research before you agreed to take this job." David wiped his hands on his jeans.

Sam nodded. "Checked out the history, local stories, enough to kind of know what's supposed to have happened here in the past. What kind of stuff have you been seeing?"

David was silent for a moment, appearing to collect his thoughts before he spoke. "We've had complaints from the workers about tools and equipment missing. I'd write that off to vandalism, but what tools are found later are in such weird places it's kinda hard."

"Like where?" Dean asked, leaning closer. The smell hadn't gotten any worse, but it wasn't sitting any better with him. Sam was glad he was interacting at least.

David lifted his eyebrows. "We were missing a sledge hammer for two days. When we found it, it was dangling from a weather vane on the highest part of the roof. That weather vane is fifteen feet tall." He shook his head and went on. "Voices from nowhere, some of the men have reported being pushed or have had things thrown at them. Last week, Brad, the rock laying foreman, one of his guys fell off the scaffolding and broke his leg." David lowered his voice. "He swears he was pushed. By a woman." His mouth tightened. "Who came out of the wall."

He laughed, but not like it was funny. Sam and Dean said nothing. "I know this place is supposed to be haunted. Frankly, that's one of the reason's I bought it. But, before, there was just odd little things, funny noises, maybe you thought you saw something out of the corner of you eye." He glanced back at Dean. "Sometimes, funny smells."

Dean grimaced, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets.

"It's an old building, there's a lot of history, that kind of stuff's not that surprising. But it's been getting worse and I can't afford to have people getting hurt or not showing up to work. I've got to get this place finished in time for the opening in March. That may seem like a long time, but trust me, even if we were 100 on schedule, which we aren't, it would still be touch and go."

Frowning, Sam cocked his head. "You said 'before'….before what? Did something happen?"

David moved his hands in a shrug. "Something's always happening, we tear stuff down, we rebuild it. But…" He massaged the back of his neck.

"But what?" Sam invited.

"The really weird stuff started when we started working in the governor's suite, after we found the passageway." Dean and Sam exchanged a look. David made a face before he went on.

"It leads all through the hotel, with exits at different points, all the way down to the basement. The original plans say nothing about it. I had heard that Dr. Becker had such a thing built but until we stumbled on it, I didn't believe it. It was just part of the legend."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, maybe you should take a look around, kind of see for yourself. My wife can give you the tour. She knows the history better than I do," he stood, followed by Sam and Dean. "We can fix you up with a room here. We aren't open for business of course but it's handier to have some livable rooms here. My wife and I have been sleeping here when we aren't off on business about the hotel and a few others from time to time depending on what being worked on." He swept his hand toward the town below the hotel.

"Pretty much everything around here is within walking distance if it's in the old part of town. A lot of walking up and down, but it toughens your legs." He grinned. "Or if you'd prefer, we can book a couple of rooms at the Spring Park. It's not fancy, but the rooms are clean and it's a neat old building. Five stories and every one of them is on a ground floor." He laughed at Dean's squinted look of disbelief.

"How is that possible?" Sam said, laughing.

David winked. "You'll see. Let me get Linda. I'll be right back. Oh, you may want to just move your car into the parking area on the west side of the hotel. There's not much parking room downtown, I'm sure you've already noticed how twisty and narrow the streets are."

Sam nodded as Dean rolled his eyes. "We did notice."

Dean gestured at Sam.. "Let's go move the car and then we can have a look around. Be right back" He started toward the exit, anything to get into the fresh air again. His head was buzzing.

"I can't believe you can't smell that!" he exclaimed to Sam as they trotted down the wide steps. He coughed and cleared his throat several times.

"Dean, I didn't smell anything! We gotta go back in, if it's that bad—"

"It's fine, I just need some air." Dean walked up to the Impala and unlocked it, sliding in.

Sam got into the passenger side. It took a few seconds for Sam to realize Dean had been turning the key and nothing was happening. Not only did the engine not growl to life it didn't even attempt a gasp. Absolute and total silence.

"What the hell?" Dean tried it again. Nothing. He popped the hood and got out, leaning over the engine. Sam joined him, but as Sam's knowledge of mechanics would have fit in a pin hole and still left room to drive the Impala through the various things Dean was doing were a mystery to him. "Try it." Dean ordered, arm buried up to the elbow in the engine.

Sam obligingly got in and turned the key. Nada. The only sound was Dean swearing.

"Again." Dean called. Less than nada. "SHIT! It was fine when we pulled up!"

"Maybe the alternator went out or something." Sam leaned out the window. He ducked back in when he was blasted by Dean's exasperated gaze.

"You don't even know what a fucking alternator is!" Dean yelled.

"Okay, fine. It won't start. Let's just push it where he said to park it and leave it in the shade. Maybe it'll start later. There's nothing we can do right now." Sam had a point but whether or not Dean would choose to see it was another matter. Sam couldn't see Dean around the hood but after a moment, it slammed down.

"Fine! Take it out of gear." Dean went to the back of the car and started pushing while Sam steered. The parking area was about a hundred feet away and Dean wanted it away from the building so no stray stonework would chance to fall on it. He wasn't happy until it was tucked safely under the trees in the shade.

Muttering to himself as he and Sam went back to the hotel, Dean paused at the foot of the stairs, scenting the air. The smell was still there but had faded in intensity. Still high on the gag meter, but he was fairly sure he could at least tolerate it. Maybe it was him. He'd probably caught bird flu from that damned kid and weird smells were one of the symptoms.

"You didn't catch bird flu." Sam snorted. "Stop muttering to yourself."

"Stop listening when no ones talking to you!" Dean retorted indignantly.


Chapter Seven: Are You Okay?

Dean grimaced as he re-crossed the threshold of the hotels front door as the full assault of that smell washed over him again. God, it was so strong, how could the others not smell it? It was thick and overwhelmingly sweet with a stomach twisting under-scent that Dean could almost place.

 Sam glanced at him curiously as Dean apparently made some sound, but said nothing.

 David had been joined by a woman who was certainly eye-catching to say the least.

"Get the car moved all right?" Davis asked, seeing the dark look on Dean's face.

"It won't start." Dean said shortly. "We had to push it."

"What's wrong with it?"

Dean shrugged, obviously upset. "Don't know. It was fine until we parked. I'll have to take a look at it tomorrow." His eyes shifted to the woman next to David.

"I'm sorry, hopefully it won't be anything too bad." David gestured at the woman. "Guys, this is my wife, Linda. Linda this is Sam and Dean Winchester. You may remember me mentioning their Dad once or twice, John Winchester."

Linda Wilkins was attractive in a heavy set, hard sort of way, a little too much makeup and her hair was dyed a brassy red and worn in a loosely gathered knot at the back of her neck. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of her red mouth. Large gold earrings clattered at her ears. She wore purple capris and a pale blue tank shirt, stretched to the max by her copious bosom. The part of her breasts not restrained by the fabric, jumped and jiggled with every movement, as if they possessed a life of their own. They were daubed with paint, as was quite a lot of the rest of her. Sam shook her hand when David introduced them and tried to look her in the eyes. Dean couldn't help staring, fascinated, but repelled. It was like watching dumplings bob to the surface of a stew.

"Nice to meet you, both," she said in a rich voice. Her smile seemed to say she was genuinely pleased to have them there. She was also direct. She took a look at Dean, slouched to one side and said, "You look like shit, kid. You hungover?" She had a New York accent.

Linda!" David squeaked.

Dean straightened, a startled look on his face. He glanced at Sam who was also surprised, but also unsuccessfully trying to hide a smirk. "I'm okay." He mumbled defensively. The sickly sweet odor didn't seem quite so bad now, but was still playing havoc with his stomach. In truth he wanted to sit down. It had been a long day, his muscles ached and he could feel his energy waning. The thought of wandering this huge building right now was so not appealing.

"I'm sorry. Was that rude?" She exclaimed. "You boy's will have to get used to the fact that I say what I think. Something comes into my head, it falls out of my mouth. Don't be offended." She laughed. "Just ignore me, like David does."

Sam was relieved when she grabbed an over shirt and shrugged it on if only because it forced Dean's eyes upward, although the resultant motion from the act of pulling on the shirt was almost audible.

"Sorry for the way I look," she tossed the unlit cigarette in a trash pile. "I've been painting in the office." She glanced around at the mess. "For God's sake, let's go to the kitchen. There's at least a table and some chairs." She cast an eye at Dean again, who hastily averted his own gaze. "You sure you're okay, sweetie?"

He nodded. "I'm fine."

Linda laughed again, softly, shrugging, "If you say so." She walked forward shooing them ahead of her into what was obviously going to be a dining room. "Kitchen's this way. It's pretty basic right now, enough to do a simple breakfast or sandwiches, but we usually eat out or have something brought in. You boys feel free to help yourselves to anything you can find. There's always coffee." She led them into a large room with a huge table in the center, covered with blueprints, swatch books for wallpapers, paint and carpet and other miscellaneous papers. She opened a metal cabinet and rummaged inside, eventually producing some cups.

David pulled out a couple of chairs. "Sit down, guys. Do you want some coffee? Or a soda?"

Dean spoke up instantly. "Coffee'd be great, thanks." He sank gratefully into one of the mismatched chairs. He rested his elbows on the table and absently rubbed the back of the hand he had cut the night before which was starting to ache. The smell seemed less noticeable in here, or at least was less offensive. He resisted the urge to put his head down on his arms.

David glanced at Sam, who nodded, "Coffee's fine." Sam leaned toward Dean and spoke softly. "You okay? Your hand bothering you?"

Dean's eyes flicked up and he moved his hands away from each other. "Stop asking me that!" he hissed. "I'm gettin' tired of it."

Sam lifted his eyebrows and sat back. "Sorry."

Linda and David came back to the table carrying two cups each and set them down. Dean caught his cup left handed and took a big swallow. Linda settled in a chair and rested her bosom on the table. "So I guess David told you about our little problem?"

Sam rested his own arms on the table. "Yeah, kind of. He said you knew a lot more about the hotel than he did. I guess we could use a little more information, we usually try to research our jobs, to try to get a better idea of what we may be dealing with. Local history, legends, that kind of thing." He sipped at his coffee. "We definitely want to have a good look around, familiarize ourselves with the hotel and the different areas where you've had
disturbances."

"Linda actually found the hotel." David offered. "We were looking for an investment property and she found it online. She did a lot of research on the area and the structure's history. It's really fascinating."

Linda shrugged. "I used to work for a real estate speculator so I have a fair idea of a good buy. This area is ripe for a tourist boom ." She laughed. "Although, we may have bitten off more than we could chew with this baby."

"You said you didn't mind that the hotel might be haunted." Dean's voice cut in. "If that's true then what difference does all this make?" His voice sounded a little raspy and he cleared his throat, talking another drink of coffee. Sam frowned, listening to him but said nothing.

David nodded, looking a trifle chagrined. "The possibility of seeing or experiencing a ghost is a big draw for a lot of people. As the owners, though, hearing a few footsteps or voices is one thing. The idea that a customer might be pushed off a balcony is something else. We've been living here full time for the last 2 months and up until we found that passageway, no one ever noticed anything that wasn't harmless to say the least. Fun scary, if you know what I mean."

The look Sam and Dean shared said that clearly, they did not.

Sam smiled. "Well, we'll try to help you with the problem as much as we can. It's a fabulous building, even like it is now. I'm anxious to take a closer look at it."

David checked his watch. It was almost 7:30. He exchanged a look with Linda. "Unfortunately, the generators go off at 7:00, they provide light to the areas that aren't totally wired yet, some of the upper floors, the basement level. We only have the main living areas completely electrified. We'll probably have to hold off on a tour until in the morning. And," he added. "To be quite honest, we haven't had dinner yet and I'm hungry. Have you guys eaten? We could go down to the Spring Grill, the foods pretty good and it's just a few blocks walk."

Sam shook his head. "We grabbed something to eat on the way here, thanks. I'm sorry we couldn't get here any earlier."

At the end of the table Dean was rubbing his eyes. His hands covered a huge yawn. Sam bit back a smile. Dean would be asleep in another few minutes judging by the signs. Sam realized Dean was probably still suffering from the effects of the night before, mentally and physically.

Linda shrugged one shoulder, causing a ripple across her chest. "No problem, you can see more in the light and I'm sure you boys are tired, that's not a fun drive if you've never done it before." She rose from the table. "I've got some books and things with information about the hotel. Why don't I get 'em and you can look 'em over. There's also a historical society in town, they have a lot of photos and all kinds of things. They don't get a lot customers so they'd probably be thrilled to help you." She was digging around on the shelves behind them and returned to the table with four or five books of different sizes and several file folders.

Sam, ever the researcher, sat up with interest as she deposited them in front of him. He opened a folder and looked through a series of photocopies of the building at different stages of construction. "This is great. Thanks."

"Knock yourself out," Linda replied. She turned as David brought her a jacket. "I guess the world will just have to get used to me and the girls being paint splotched," she said as she worked her arms into the jacket, causing another minor tsunami.

Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek. The girls?

 David reached into a box and rummaged around, coming up with a couple of keys. "These two rooms are ready, do you want to be together or each have your own room?"

Sam tried to catch Dean's eye, but Dean's eyes were now closed. "We usually stay in the same room."

David nodded and tossed down a key with 203 engraved on it. "That oughta work for you then. The numbers are on the door, you won't have any trouble finding it." He held out a ring of labeled keys. "These are all the keys to the building. We have a spare set. In case you do decide to wander. Do be careful, though. Linda and I haven't really experienced anything to out of the ordinary, other than what I told you earlier. But we weren't looking for it either." He cocked an eyebrow at Sam, then turned back toward Dean. "He always this quiet?" 

Dean looked up then, embarrassed.

Sam smiled tightly, watching Dean. "Not usually, no. We had a bad night last night." Dean's eyes popped open all the way and shot to Sam. Sam stared back at him. "We're both a little tired, I think."

"Well, don't wait up for us. We'll see you in the morning. Good luck….I guess." David smiled and he and Linda moved toward the door. Sam heard the lock on the front door click.

"What the fuck was that all about?" Dean demanded. "We had a bad night?"

 "Maybe you don't remember being there." Sam commented. Dean's eyes flickered. Sam gathered up the papers and books. "Let's find these rooms and get some rest. I know you'd drop dead before you'd admit you're worn out, but I'm tired even if you're not. It's probably better if we do check this place out tomorrow. Our heads'll be clearer."

Dean made a face, but Sam was right. He was beat. His hand was sore, his body ached and dammit, his throat hurt. Figured. Germy little brat. He dragged himself to his feet and followed Sam back out through the dining room and back into the lobby.

As they crossed the stone floor, the windows glowed with a sudden light and soft thunder rumbled in the distance. Sam was surprised they could hear it through the thick walls.

"We better get out stuff before it starts to rain." Dean said.

Sam hung the ring of keys on his arm and put the books on the counter. "Sounds close." Dean undid the lock on the door and they hurried down the steps into the now dark parking lot. One vapor lamp, mounted temporarily over by the heavy equipment kept the area from being pitch black.

The wind had come up and thickening clouds worked to obscure what little daylight might have been left. The lightening came again, followed loudly by thunder and Dean felt a fine sprinkle on his face. They jogged over to the Impala and Dean opened the trunk, leaving Sam to pack a weapons bag. He opened the driver's door and slid in, trying the key one more time. 


Nothing.  Dammit!

He reached out and patted the dash board. "I know it's not your fault, baby. I'll check you out in the morning.' He reached back and dragged out their two duffle bags of clothing and personal items and pulled Sam's laptop across the seat. As he got out Sam slammed the trunk and joined him, shouldering his duffle.

"No good?"

Dean pocketed the keys and shook his head. "I'll get under her tomorrow and look it over. It's probably something minor." He sighed and glanced back at the hotel as lightning back lit it and a huge bolt shot across the sky. The empty black gaze of the windows was unsettling and he turned away.

"C'mon, we're gonna get wet." He grabbed his bag and Sam's laptop and they both ran back to the veranda and slipped inside the doors as the rain began to pelt down in earnest.

Sam bolted the door behind them and went to retrieve his papers and books, stuffing them into one of the countless plastic bags lying about.

"What was the room number?" Dean asked as he started up the stairs.

Sam glanced at the heavy brass key. "203. I guess all the rooms are on the upper floors." He hurried after Dean.

The steps were low and wide, almost too low to be able to move up easily. Both of their strides were naturally taller than the risers and it was a little awkward. Also, the railing that ran along the open side was about 6 inches shorter than what would have been considered standard, which made you tend to shy toward the inside wall.

"I guess people were a lot shorter back then," Dean commented as he caught the toe of his boot on the step, again, stumbling.

Sam gave up and took two steps at a time, which was a little too tall to feel natural, but better than tiptoeing. The staircase turned back on itself after a small landing and then a corridor ran off to the left. Remnants of old fashioned, flowered carpet still covered the floor, threadbare and faded but another clue to the richness this building had once commanded.

Sam was reading doors. 203 was halfway down the corridor on the right. He dropped his duffle on the floor and opened the door. You could still hear the thunder, but the lightning was blocked.

Dean reached in and felt for a wall switch, it was an old toggle style switch and he flipped it on. A light in the center of the ceiling flashed on and cast a harsh brightness over the barely furnished room. Sam followed him in. There were two full size beds, a table and chairs and a worn looking dresser. The furniture was old, but the room was surprisingly clean and the beds were neatly made. To the right was another door that led to a bathroom straight out of the 1920's, claw leg tub and all. A window faced the lower garden and the bell tower that Dean had seen earlier. As he stared out the window, lightning illuminated the grounds, grayed by the pouring rain. He could see lights here and there further down the mountains and an occasional sweep of headlights.

Sam shrugged, "We've certainly stayed in worse. At least it's free."

"Mmm…" Dean replied, dropping his bag on the bed by the door, which also happened to be next to the bathroom. He cleared his throat again and winced, swallowing.

"Your throat hurt?" Sam asked, coming over.

Dean sighed and nodded slightly. "I told you that damned kid had bird flu."

Sam snorted and reached out to feel Dean's forehead. Dean sidestepped him, stripping off his jacket. Now that he was near a bed he was so tired he wasn't sure he could stay awake long enough to get undressed.

"I wanta see if you have a fever."

"You already know I'm hot, Sam," Dean replied, struggling to toe off his boots, "In every sense of the word." He added with a tiny smirk, so Sam would lay off. He rolled the t-shirt off and dropped it on the floor.

To hell with it, he thought. He knocked his bag on the floor and collapsed on the bed in his jeans. He pulled a pillow over his face to block the glaring light and was asleep within a minute.

Sam, watched, smiling slightly. He really wanted to recheck Dean's hand, but he guessed that could wait. He leaned over the bed and carefully lifted the pillow, laying the back of his hand against Dean's face. A little warm. He shook his head and replaced the pillow. Flipping off the overhead light and turning on a small table lamp he opened the laptop on the table, setting the bag of books next to it. He wanted to read some of the documents Linda had given him and even though he was tired from the harrowing drive, he wasn't ready to sleep yet.


Chapter Eight: Abyss

Dean shifted uneasily in his sleep. He was hot and the room seemed airless. Finally climbing to half awake he kicked off the covers Sam must have pulled over him. He rolled onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face, feeling the sweat on it. His head hurt and his throat felt raw when he swallowed.

He glanced over at the bedside table to see if Sam might have left the aspirin there by any chance. He sighed. No such luck. To get up and try to find them was just too much effort. Little geek probably had them hidden anyway. Dean's tolerance for pain killers was notoriously high, they wore off quickly and didn't work as well as they should have. Sam had restricted Dean's access to them to stop him from taking six at a time every two hours.

Dean's eyes traveled to the table and he realized Sam was slumped over the laptop, asleep, bathed in the light of the desk lamp. It crossed Dean's mind that he should make Sam get up and go to bed but that was also too much trouble.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, nerves tingling, overcome with the sensation that he was waiting for something. The sense of expectation was almost palpable. The room was absolutely silent. He shivered, the sweat on his body chilling as the room temperature inexplicably dropped. Gooseflesh rippled his skin and his breath started to shake. Warily, he pushed himself up on one elbow, knuckling his eyes with the other hand. His eyes felt filmy, giving the room a haze that seemed to be getting worse as he watched.

He was abruptly overwhelmed with the sweetish smell he had been experiencing and as the air grew thick with it he found it more and more difficult to breathe. Recognition hit him like a blow. Honeysuckle. That was the scent and with that knowledge came the identity of the underlying odor.

Rotting flesh.

Dean pushed himself totally upright, his heart starting to thud. He didn't even have his damned knife! Sam slept on, oblivious. Dean tried to call his name but nothing came out of his mouth. Wake up, Sammy! He thought as loudly as he could. Now would be a good time to turn into Psychic Boy!

He tried to get up but that no longer appeared to be an option as he couldn't move a muscle.

The swirling haze concentrated itself in the center of the room and the figure of a woman emerged from the fog. The muscles in his leaden body started to shake as he stared at her. She shifted suddenly to the foot of the bed and stretched out a hand to his ankle. Her fingers traced up his leg, her touch leaving ice in it's wake.

"Don't be afraid," He heard the words in his head but her mouth didn't move. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun. Her clothing was white, shapeless and nondescript. He couldn't take his eyes from her face. Not beautiful, but gentle and mild, dusted with freckles, her dark brown eyes filled will sadness, almost regret. He could feel himself falling into them, sinking into the deep brown wells as she watched him.

Her nails dragged on his jeans, catching in the folds of fabric as she moved up his leg in a series of jerking motions, the noise soft but audible, each small sound and pull of fabric making his nerve endings jump. Dean struggled to draw breath, choking on the foul thickness of the air filling the room.

SAM! His mind screamed.

Now, both her hands stroked up his waist, his chest, cupping his face, her hands cold against his fevered skin. He couldn't breathe. Sudden thirst, genuine, dying in the desert thirst, sucked every drop of moisture from his body and his tongue and throat shriveled. She leaned into him, fitting her body to his. I've waited so long…..for someone like you….so much pain. The words moaned across his mind, as she pressed closer.

Close your eyes….

God…PLEASE…. Dean's mind went spinning as felt himself going numb. There was incredible pressure as she pushed her body against him, burning like acid, dissolving into his skin, shoving him into the blackness of the room in his mind where everything he couldn't face was locked away. And then he was gone.

Sam awoke with a jerk, surprised to find himself draped over his laptop. His back complained as he tried to straighten up, joints popping. He groaned, stretching, wondering how long he had slept like that. His watch read 12:41, it had been 9:45 the last time he'd checked it. Man! No wonder he was stiff!

He turned toward Dean's bed at the sound of a whimper. Sam started as Dean suddenly jumped from the bed and rushed into the bathroom, filling a glass with water and gulping it down. He frantically refilled it and drank that one in a long swallow. He was choking down a third before Sam's brain kicked in and he stumbled into the bathroom jerking the fourth glass out of Dean's hand, spilling
most of it on the floor.

"What are you doing? You're gonna make yourself sick!" Sam exclaimed, holding the glass away as Dean lunged for it.

"I'm thirsty!" Dean cried, fighting him for the glass. His eyes were glazed, the pupils so large there was only the thinnest circle of green around them. His face was flushed, water dripping down his chest, soaking the waist of his jeans.

Sam stared at him, dropping the glass and grabbing Dean's arms to try to hold him still.

"I'M THIRSTY!" Dean cried again, struggling, but not as strenuously as before.

"Dean, wake up! You're sleepwalking!" Sam shook him.

Dean stopped fighting and jerked out of Sam's grasp, drawing himself up and narrowing his eyes. Sweat rolled down his face and he was shaking. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Sam's eyes widened and he felt his heart skip, then start racing. He fell back a step, looking Dean up and down. "Who're you?" he echoed, and somehow it didn't sound stupid at all to his ears.

Dean snorted, tossing his head. "Margaret," he replied, his tone clearly conveying, Idiot. "I'm thirsty." He repeated with deadly emphasis, reaching for the glass again.

It took every bit of nerve Sam had and he grimaced as the sound of his hand connecting with the side of Dean's face cracked through the small room.

Dean clutched his face and staggered backwards. His face twisted as he looked up at Sam, eyes rolling back in his head. His legs gave out, hands and knees hitting the floor.

Sam grabbed for him as Dean fell, kneeling next to him on the cold tile. "Dean? Dean are you okay?" he asked anxiously, trying to see Dean's eyes.

There was a brief silence and then, "What the hell was that for!" Dean yelled in outrage, pushing Sam away, holding his hand against his face.

Relief washed over Sam. "Dean?" Sam asked again in a small voice. 

"Who the fuck did you think it was!" Dean closed his eyes and groaned, "Ugh….." He suddenly went pale, pressing a hand against his stomach. "Oh, man…." He drew in a sharp breath and lunged for the toilet, promptly throwing up all the water he had just drunk.
"What the hell?" he gasped, coughing. Sam caught his shoulders until the spasm appeared to be over and then handed Dean a wash cloth.

"Dean, I'm sorry. You were acting so weird." Sam fidgeted nervously, watching Dean get himself under control.

Dean sank back down on the floor, holding his head in his hands. "Is it just me, or do we spend a lot of time in the bathroom together?" he moaned. He tilted his head up at Sam and fixed him with a one eyed stare. "Am I missing something here?" He demanded, voice rough. "What weird? I was asleep and the next thing I know I'm in the bathroom, you're slapping the shit out of me and I'm puking water like a geyser. Did I drown taking a shower in my sleep or something?" His voice was getting more hoarse with every word. He lowered his head again, coughing.

Sam frowned at him. "You don't remember?"

Dean glared at him. "Remember what, dude? That slap? It's gonna be a long time before I forget that!" He rubbed the red, hand shaped welt on his skin. He cleared his throat, grimacing.

"Dean, I swear to God, I woke up just as you ran into the bathroom and started chugging water like it was drinking contest." Sam held up his hand to  stop Dean's comment. "I stopped you and you went ballistic. You kept saying you were thirsty."

"I don't remember any of this," Dean rasped, glaring at Sam.

"I guess you were sleepwalking, Dean. I don't know. But when I wouldn't give you the glass back, you gave me this look and asked who I was. Your eyes were all funny. I asked who you were and you said, Margaret."

"Margaret?" Dean exclaimed. His eyes shifted to the side.

"I couldn't wake you up, so I….." Sam's voice trailed off and he shrugged with his hands. "I'm sorry. It's like you were someone else. I didn't know what else to do."

Dean wiped the new sweat off his forehead and pushed slowly to his feet, using the wall to brace himself. He move like his joints hurt.

"Well, I can tell you one thing," he growled, "If I was gonna be someone else, it sure as hell wouldn't be a Margaret!"

Sam hovered close by as Dean moved unsteadily back toward his bed. He sank down on the mattress pressing his fingertips to his forehead.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head slowly. "I…I did have a dream…I think it was a dream." He sighed and coughed again. "Jesus, I'm too tired," he murmured finally, laying back with his arm over his eyes.

"You've got a fever," Sam said, watching him. "You want some more aspirin?" Sam went over to his jacket and fished in the pockets. He shook out two pillsand held them out to Dean. "You want some water to wash 'em down with?"

Dean rolled his eyes and made a face. "God, no." he tossed them in his mouth and dry swallowed them. Closing his eyes he turned onto his side. The air seemed cold now and he shivered again, hugging himself and pulling his legs up.

Sam reached down and pulled the blankets back over Dean.

"I guess I shouldn't have teased you about that kid sneezing on you." Sam remarked, clicking off the table lamp. He noted the rain had stopped. "I think you're really sick."

"Damn right." Dean replied. He coughed a trifle theatrically. "Oh. And Sam?" he continued turning back to so that he could see Sam. He wanted to get this out before his voice was totally gone.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam said faintly.

"The next time you think I'm sleepwalking, think again, cause little bro, I owe you one, big time." Dean settled himself further into the mattress, he coughed again, for real, ending in a wheeze.

Sam lifted an eyebrow, he had no doubt sooner or later Dean would collect. Of that he was sure. "You need anything else?"

"mm umh. Tired." Dean coughed again. 

Sam shucked off his jeans and climbed into his own bed, After a while his breathing grew soft as he drifted into sleep.

Dean's eyes opened once he was sure Sam was asleep and he stared into the darkness, a frown marring his features. He shivered again pulling the blanket closer around him, as chilled by his fever as the he was by the cloying scent of honeysuckle that still hung in the air.

He ran as much of what he could remember through his mind. A shudder rocked him.

He had been dreaming…hadn't he?


Chapter Nine: A Daze Work

Coming awake for Sam, was like crawling through a dark tunnel that spiraled upward with broken glass scattered here and there. You didn't want to keep going, but you'd come so far already it seemed pointless to stop.

He groaned and forced his eyes open. The room was disgustingly bright with sunlight. He pawed at his gritty eyes and stretched stiffly. He was as tired as he had been when he had gone to bed, not including Dean's little-

Shit.

He rolled over and swore at the sight of Dean's empty bed, covers kicked onto the floor. Sam checked his watch. 7:15. He couldn't believe Dean could have willingly gotten up that early. Crap.

Sam shook his head and started searching for some clothes that were moderately clean. Laundry was becoming an issue. He'd have to ask Linda about a laundromat.

He tugged on his boots and stood to look out the window. He had a great view of the mountains behind the hotel, mist still settled in the lower areas, swirling around the buildings. But no Dean in the gardens he could see.

He couldn't help himself, he grabbed a gun and stuffed it in the back waistband of his jeans. He jerked open the door and clattered down the stairs. Pausing as he crossed the lobby and going to the now open front doors. Some of the workman were already pulling up in trucks and SUV's. He stepped out onto the veranda and squinted out across the parking lot, shrugging into his jacket. The
early morning air was chilly.

Relief hit him as he saw the hood up on the Impala and what had to be Dean's body draped across the engine.

He trotted across the loose gravel, deliberately making enough noise so that Dean would hear him coming. Sam could hear Dean coughing as he approached.

Dean turned slightly as Sam drew closer then returned his attention to the car. Jerking motions indicated he was replacing or removing something.

"You're up early," Sam commented, coming to a halt and peering at whatever it was Dean was doing.

"Couldn't sleep anymore." Dean's voice sounded raw. "Wanted to take a look at her."

 'You sound awful." Sam said.

Dean cleared his throat. "Thank God, I thought something was wrong with my ears."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean jerked back from the engine, grasping his right hand in his left.

"What happened?" Sam exclaimed, reaching out. He was shocked at Dean's appearance. His face was thin and haggard looking, telltale dark circles forming under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days even though Sam knew otherwise.

Dean twisted away, grimacing. "It's nothing! I just hit my hand! Shit!" Hegrowled and hugged his injured hand to his chest.

"Let me see." Sam insisted, torn between irritation and concern. Dean was so damned stubborn.

"It's ok, Sam!" Dean turned back to the car and started gathering up tools one handed.

Sam rolled his eyes and felt angry frustration fill him. He fought it back
and leaned in next to Dean. "Any luck with the car?"

Dean shook his head. "Still won't start. I don't know what the hell's wrong. Everything looks okay." He backed out from under the hood. His face wrinkled up and he sneezed explosively, twice, doubling over with the force of it. The tools tumbled out of his hand and he fell back against the Impala, clutching his head. "Ugh, God…." He shook himself like a dog.

Sam squatted down and gathered up the fallen tools. He tossed them in the open toolbox and snapped the lid closed. "I don't think you need to be out here in this cold air, Dean. You really look sick." Sam commented carefully as he stood back up.

"Yeah, well I had a bad night." Dean rasped. "Someone slapped the shit out of me while I was asleep." He looked at Sam and then down at the ground. "Dude, can I have some more aspirin?" he finally asked in a tired voice. He rubbed the back of his good hand across his eyes and looked over at Sam, sighing. "Please." He was still cradling his right hand against his stomach, slightly hunched over, as if standing was almost too much effort.

The please surprised Sam more than the request. Dean rarely said please unless he was wheedling or it was life or death. Sam realized with some alarm that he couldn't recall ever having seen Dean so beaten and miserable looking, not even during that God awful trip to Nebraska. This was something in Dean's eyes Sam had never seen, a haunted look.

Sam guiltily fingered the bottle in his jacket. He had hidden them again after Dean had gone back to bed. He opened his mouth but Dean cut him off in the same tired voice.

"I had something to eat." Dean said, eyes closed "Linda had some donuts. I grabbed a couple and some coffee before I came out here." He neglected to include the part where the coffee and donuts became part of the landscape shortly thereafter.
 
When Sam seemed to hesitate, Dean snapped. "I'm not lying! She saw me eat them, you can ask her." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes,coughing again. Between his nightmare ridden sleep, his hand, this whatever he had come down with and just the general shittiness that was his life lately he had had about all he could tolerate in the last two days. "Jesus Christ, Sam!" he snarled. "Who died and made you lord of the pain pills anyway?"

"I didn't think you were lying," Sam responded in his own defense. He took the bottle out and shook out two pills, holding them out to Dean. His voice was harder than he liked but he was really getting pissed. "You take too many of these at a time and too often." Sam ground between his teeth. "It's bad for you. I know you don't care about what you do to yourself, Dean, but I do." He screwed the cap back on and held the bottle out to Dean, he was so mad his hand was actually shaking. "Here! Take 'em." He rattled the bottle.

Dean's eyes were dull and bloodshot as he looked at Sam's hurt expression. He sighed again. Tearing Sam's head off wasn't going to make him feel any better.In point of fact it made him feel worse. He knew he was being an asshole but he couldn't help himself. He accepted the two pills but pushed the bottle away and shook his head. "I know you do, Sam." He tossed the pills in his mouth and
washed them down with a swig of water from the bottle sitting on the roof of the car. He grimaced as he swallowed with an effort.

"I need to redress your hand, Dean. " Sam said, after a moment, returning the pills to his pocket.

Dean shook his head. It hurt like hell just to move his hand, the thought of Sam screwing with it made him ill. "It can wait." He motioned at the hotel. "Linda said she'd take us around whenever we were ready." His voice was fading fast. "I gotta take these-" he kicked the toolbox at his feet and nodded his head toward a group of men sitting on a tailgate drinking coffee.

"Fine, return the tools and we'll get going with Linda. After I do your hand," Sam replied. He reached into his arsenal of facial expressions and pulled out the big guns. The I'LL STAND HERE FOREVER LOOK .

Dean recognized it. He couldn't fend it off when he felt well, it was hopeless right now. He glared at Sam for a moment then groaned and shrugged. He didn't have the strength. "Fine. Whatever."

As they came back in the lobby Linda turned from the counter with a smile. "You boys ready for the grand tour?"

Sam smiled apologetically at her, pulling a non resistant Dean along by his jacket sleeve. "We need to take care of something, do you mind waiting a little longer?"

"No problem, sweetie, just let me know. I'll be working on the books." She went back to her papers.

Sam herded Dean upstairs to their room, stripped off his jacket and over shirt, which was like trying to undress a sleepy child. He dragged a chair into the bathroom and settled Dean in it. Then hauled one in for himself.. Dean sat quietly, head down, with his eyes closed as Sam got to work. Sam couldn't help but note how flushed Dean's skin was.

Sam made a face as he pulled the old bandage away from Dean's hand. It came away slowly, glued to the wound with gooey ooze. Dean hissed and tried to jerk away.

"Hold still!" Sam barked, jerking back. He ran warm water and as gently as he could washed the wound. Several of the stitches had pulled and the flesh was red and swollen. Sam chewed his lip.

"Dean, you pulled some of these stitches, this really looks infected." He eyed Dean. "You probably should have gotten a tetanus shot."

Dean had his head pillowed on the other arm. "Just do what you need to do."

Sam sighed and went to get the first aid kit.

It was a nasty job. Sam did most of it with his teeth clenched. He removed the torn stitches and cleaned the wound with antiseptic as thoroughly as he could, then set about re-stitching.

Dean did his best to remain still and be quiet but Sam knew it hurt like hell. Dean sat up finally and ground his fist into his forehead, fingers twisted in his hair, making a guttural sound of pain. His side was pressed against Sam's. Dean was hot and Sam could feel him shaking.

Finally, Sam forced the last new stitch through and tied it off. He covered the area with more antibiotic ointment and carefully laid new bandages over it. He wrapped Dean's hand more thickly to help protect it. It would be a little awkward to use but might keep him from pulling any more stitches.

Dean's head had fallen back down on his arm and Sam gave him a gentle shake. "You with me, man?"

 After a cough and some throat clearing, Dean nodded, lifting his head slightly. "Yeah…"

"Take this and let's get you up." Sam held out one of the little red pills and some water. While Dean downed the pill, Sam got up and pushed his chair out of the bathroom.

Dean shoved himself away from the sink and got shakily to his feet. His hand was throbbing. He felt totally wrung out, as if Sam's ministrations had drained the last of his energy. He took an unsteady step and reached out to catch himself on the door frame as dizziness stole his balance.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm as all the color drained out of his face. "You okay?"

"….m'dizzy…" Dean breathed out. His head rocked back and his knees buckled as he slumped against Sam.

Startled, Sam managed to take Dean's weight as he fell. "Whoa, whoa!…take it easy." He put an arm around Dean's waist and hauled him over to his bed, easing Dean down. He adjusted Dean's body more comfortably and then hurried back to the
bathroom to get a wet cloth.

He stroked it over Dean's face. There were smelling salts in the kit but he didn't want to use them, they'd just make Dean cough more. "Wake up, Dean. C'mon…" He tapped Dean's hot cheek with his fingers, insistently. After another moment Dean's eyelids fluttered and opened. 

"There you are," Sam said, relieved. "How you doin', bro?"

Dean looked confused. "What…?" He lifted his hand to his face and covered his eyes.

"You fainted." Sam replied, folding the cloth and placing it on Dean's forehead.

"….don't faint…" Dean replied blearily. He coughed, wincing.

"Ok," Sam agreed. "You decided to take a nap standing up." He got up and rummaged for the thermometer, coming back and sticking it in Dean's ear. Dean didn't fight him, which was disturbing. "Dean, dude, you are a total wreck. Why I'm not hauling your ass to the doctor right now, I'll never understand." Sam bitched, checking the reading on the thermometer after it beeped. 101.5. Not as high as he was expecting, considering how bad Dean looked and was acting.

"Car won't start, that's why. I'm fine, jus' ….lie down…awhile…." Dean's voice was a hoarse whisper. He opened his eyes. "What day is it?" His fingers massaged his temple in slow digs.

Sam frowned. He had to think. "Uh…Wednesday. Why?"

Dean' s eyes closed again and he groaned softly, "My head…hurt's. It's too loud." He shifted uncomfortably, brows drawing together.

"What's too loud?" Sam asked, feeling a coldness shift over him. Sam's eyes widened as Dean's fingernails suddenly clawed into the skin of his temple. Sam grabbed his hand. "Dean! Stop that!"

Dean twisted away. "Stop the noise…. my head." He mumbled, resettled himself in a series of jerking movements, rolling on his side. His coughed weakly as his limbs relaxed with a few twitches and his hoarse breathing evened out.

Sam sat watching him for several long moments. He rested a hand lightly on Dean's arm.

Why the hell couldn't Dean have left his fucking cell phone in the car yesterday? That thought staggered Sam.

Christ, had it only been 24 hours?



Chapter Ten: A Delicate Balance
 
Sam trudged down the stairs, irritated and worried. He didn't like leaving Dean in his current state but it looked like all he was capable of right now was sleeping. He needed to rest so Sam didn't really have a problem with that.

Linda turned with another smile as Sam reluctantly walked up to the counter.

"Where's Dean, sweetie?" The unlit cigarette bobbed as she spoke. He wondered why she never actually smoked it. She wore the usual skimpy top, her cleavage billowing out of the neck as she rested her bosom on the desktop and leaned forward. Deep in the crevice he could see what looked like a butterfly's wing curving across one rounded hump of gelatinous flesh. Linda seemed oblivious to the effect she was creating.

David came out of the office behind her and grinned at Sam. Sam hastily forced his eyes upward.

"Hey, Sam, I saw Dean out earlier working on your car. He have any luck?"

Sam shook his head. "No, it still won't start."

"Oh," David frowned. "Maybe we need to get it towed to a shop."

Sam shook his head emphatically. "No, not unless Dean, okay's it. That car is his baby. He doesn't like anyone touching it except him. He barely lets me drive."

David laughed. "I had a car like that once, I understand. Say, where is Dean? Weren't you guys supposed have a look around this morning?"

Sam's mouth tightened. "Yeah, well, that's what I need to talk to you about. Dean isn't feeling very well—"

"I told you!" Linda interrupted, clapping a hand on the desk. "I told David last night that boy looked sick. What's the matter with him?"

Sam hesitated. "It's kind of a long story," he began. He scratched through his hair. "The last few weeks have been kinda rough, especially on Dean. I thought it's mostly he's just tired but now he's coming down with something and he cut his hand pretty bad the other night changing a tire. I think it may be getting infected." He pushed a piece of paper back and forth on the counter as
he talked. "We were gonna take a break for a few days when Dad called about you guys needing some help. Dean insisted we come here first." Sam rubbed his eyes. "I'm really getting worried about him. He's so damned tired, he running a fever, I'd be happy if I could just get him to eat." He tried to toe the line of how much information was enough but not too much.

Linda frowned and glanced at David. "You should have said something to your dad, Sam." David said, straightening up. "This could have waited. He would have understood."

Sam couldn't stop the bark of laughter. "I'm sorry." He murmured at their looks of surprise. "My dad's changed since you knew him, I think. Besides Dean would have insisted we come no matter what. That's just how he is."

"There's a doctor's office in town, maybe you should take him." Linda offered, eyes toward the upper floor. "Sweetie, don't worry about us, you need to take care of Dean."

" He wouldn't go unless he was bleeding to death and even then I'd still have a fight on my hands." Sam shrugged, playing with his paper. "Anyway. Dean's asleep right now. I fixed his hand back up and I think he'll probably sleep most of the day. I was thinking I might go down to that historical society and do some more research, there's some stuff I want to check out after looking at the
papers you have. I just kinda hate to leave Dean alone."

"Well, sure, sweetie. It's just a 10 minute walk from here. Would you like me to check on your brother now and again?" Linda was just so damned nice. David stood behind her nodding. "There's some canned soup in the kitchen, maybe I can get him to eat a little later."

Sam was grateful but embarrassed. "I hate to ask you to do that-"

"Sweetie, you're trying to help us, let us help you a little. It's not your fault Dean is sick. I don't mind. It'll give me something to do besides work on these damned books."

"If you really don't mind, I'd appreciate it a lot." Sam admitted. "We're here, I feel like we need to be doing something to help you, I'm just sorry the timing was off. Dean'll, probably feel a lot better tomorrow." He shrugged, "If not, I guess I'll have to force the issue." Sam scruffed his hair again and glanced at the stairs. He was still reluctant to leave but sitting in their room all day watching Dean sleep would accomplish nothing other than making Sam feel less guilty. 

"No trouble at all," Linda assured him. "Give me your cell phone number so I can call you if I need to and here's a number you can call to check on him." She scribbled a number across a yellow sticky note and held it out to him. "David, can tell you how to get downtown, everything is pretty much on two streets. I know you haven't had breakfast yet. Stop at the grill and get something to eat.
Give them your name. We have a tab, we gave them your names to add to it. And don't worry about Dean, we'll keep an eye on him for you." She reached out and patted his hand.

"Thank you, that's really nice. I will." Sam gave her his cell number, and pulled his jacket back on.

 David motioned him to the back doors, "C'mon, I'll give you directions, you get lost, everyone knows the place. Just ask someone."

Sam walked through he back gardens, down the steps and past the church with the bell tower. There were no sidewalks except downtown and every step was downhill. As he walked his stomach began to growl and he realized he probably ought to
grab a quick bite. David had said the grill was two blocks off Spring Road and to the right. Starving himself, he decided, wasn't helping either of them.

He couldn't help but be taken in by the old buildings as he walked, many of them hanging right off the mountainside. Staircases ran zig-zag at every level from the street to the top floors. Rickety looking decks of every size festooned the buildings and every open area even slightly large enough to park a car had a sign that read. "Private Parking, Violators Will Be Towed."

As he got closer to the small downtown area, several open spaces where buildings had once stood had been leveled and were now being used for timed parking. The streets wound around like a snake and some dropped at such a steep angle Sam had trouble walking down them. Buildings were built on top of buildings, extended out from the sides and sunk down in the low areas until it
seemed there was no place left to build. It was beautiful in a weird sort of way and fascinating.

Many of the stores were filled with artwork and antiques. Just as many also had signs that said "closed for the season" or "out of business". All in all, though, it was very pleasant and many of the people he passed waved or spoke.

As he walked along in the cool of the morning, several people were already strolling the old granite walks, looking in the store windows or having coffee in the outdoor cafes'. He spotted the Grill, across the street from the Spring Park Hotel and crossed the empty road to get some quick breakfast.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Linda glanced at her watch and decided to take a peek at Dean to make sure he was all right. She was tired of figuring construction costs versus probable profits over a given span of time. She tossed the soggy cigarette she was mouthing and shifted her bulk to the stairs.

Sam had left their room door open slightly and she pushed it open a trifle more and peered in. Dean lay on his back, his bandaged hand draped over his stomach, the other hung off the bed. His face was turned away but he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She stepped into the room, pausing to look down as she crunched into a thick line of white powder spilled across the doorway.

What the hell?

She bent with an effort and brushed her fingers through the crystals and brought them close to her eyes.

It looked like…..salt.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dean moaned softly in his sleep, brushing his face with his bandaged hand. Soft voices hung on the edge of his consciousness but he couldn't rouse himself enough to hear what they were saying.

The room grew colder as the mist began to swirl in gentle folds about his bed. He shifted uneasily and his eyes fluttered open as the dark haired woman leaned close to him once again. He could see other figures drifting behind her but could make out no one individual.

His breath caught in his throat as the smell of honeysuckle and death filled his nostrils. Heart racing he tried to pull away but it was useless. She pressed herself against him, her body sinking once again into his. She was gentler this time, as if she realized that her first effort had been to harsh, but he whimpered nonetheless . He struggled against being shoved aside, back through
that door and into the blackness that terrified him. She sensed his terror, but her need supplanted any desire to ease him from it. She needed this body. But she needed to wield it with more skill, more care.

Dean's body sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  Dizziness kept his form still for a moment until the ungodly thirst became too much and he stumbled into the bathroom. He drank glass after glass of water until his stomach hurt and still the thirst was unabated. Drawing breath was like inhaling needles and he couldn't swallow his throat was so parched. He gagged over more water, finally vomiting it all into the sink. He hung there, choking, to shaky to move. His head splitting.

After a few moments, he raised his eyes. The reflection in the mirror as she lifted Dean's head revealed a white face, circles under the eyes, breath heaving in and out. This body, she became aware, was weak from illness, exhaustion, lack of food and the nightmare ravages of it's own mind, but still it would have to do.

Gradually, the breathing calmed and he slowly straightened up, studying the reflection more closely. Using the bad hand clumsily, the now wet t-shirt was pulled off and dropped on the floor. Hands moved lightly up the thighs and tracing over the hard muscles of the belly and chest, up each arm and finally along the lines of this man's face.

For a long time she stared into the green eyes, aware that her invasion was tearing apart his ability to maintain his sense of self. That her need to share this body was burning out it's little remaining strength, weakening the carefully constructed defenses, there to protect him from the demons of his own creation. They raged within him, clawing, wailing for release, almost overwhelming her as she took control, even as he was forced to relinquished his control and was dragged down by them.

So lonely…frightened….so much guilt and pain…so consumed by darkness…so vulnerable…

The very vulnerability was what she had waited so long to find. Someone who could not push her away, so anguished they were incapable of it. Someone whose pain equaled her own.

The eyes narrowed and turned from the mirror. He moved across the room to the door, silent in his stocking feet. The door was ajar but he paused at the crooked salt line with a look of distaste. Sighing, he turned and moved back toward the closet. Thirst still overwhelmed him and he snagged a water bottle that was sitting on the table and taking a swig, using this bodies knowledge and
instinct to sharpen her ability to use it . His skin felt cold and he shrugged into the shirt lying on the bed, not bothering with the buttons.

This body's strength was waning and only her own urgency stayed it from collapse. She needed this body, she had waited so long now. She prayed this man's remaining strength could keep him free of his own private hell long enough to help her escape hers.

Since she couldn't cross the threshold she would have to go another way, and now thanks to the hand she held up to her face, that way was no longer barred.


Chapter Eleven: Puzzle Piece

 Sam poured over the stacks of papers and photos the two ladies of the Miracle Spring Historical Society had been thrilled to provide him. It was obvious they didn't get a chance to share much of this information very often.

He had checked in with Linda and she had reported that Dean was sleeping peacefully.

Much of it the information he already knew, but the two proprietors, Sophie and Sarah James, twin spinsters, were a mine of historical gossip. It was confusing to talk to them, they so closely resembled one another he couldn't keep track of which was which.

"So what happened to the staff when the hospital closed down?" Sam asked the small woman on his right, who looked just like the small woman on his left, right down to the dress, shoes and earrings.

"Oh, dear me, it seems some of them were brought up on charges but they were never prosecuted." Sophie/Sarah replied. "By the time Dr. Becker was arrested, there weren't that many patients left, or staff for that matter. Patients families had been taking their loved ones out and filing charges. Margaret Reed was one of the-"

Sam's head snapped up. "Who?"

Sarah/Sophie blinked. "Margaret Reed. She was Dr. Becker's personal assistant almost up to the end." She began to leaf through the pages, carefully touching her thumb to her tongue between each turn.

Sophie/Sarah shook her head. "No, dear. It happened at least a month before the police arrested him, I'm quite—"

"What happened?" Sam interrupted, causing both ladies to gasp. "I'm sorry." He said placatingly. "It's just that this could be very important. Who is Margaret Reed and what happened to her?"

The ladies looked each other. "Why, dear, no one knows. She vanished one night and no one ever saw her again. " Sophie/Sarah turned the book she was searching and pointed at a photo. "This was Margaret Reed."

Sam studied the old photo indicated. A rather plain looking woman with gentle eyes and dark hair tied back in a bun, she was standing next to a man Sam recognized as Dr. Becker. He scanned through the tagline below the picture. "Dr. Nigel Becker, esteemed physician in the field of cancer treatment, welcomes a new assistant to his staff, Miss Margaret Reed, lately of…"

He flipped through the next few pages, skip reading as articles first blessed the good works of Nigel Becker and then slowly began to shift to more and more questions about Dr. Becker's methods and what exactly went on at his 'Cancer Clinic'.

He saw no more mention of Margaret Reed until one headline jumped out at him.

"Researcher's assistant missing . Margaret Reed, assistant to Dr. Nigel Becker of the Becker Cancer Hospital, was reported missing after she failed appear for work 2 days in a row. Already under investigation for his questionable methods, Dr. Becker denies any knowledge of Miss Reed's whereabouts…"

Sam stopped reading and leaned closer to the two ladies who were watching him expectantly.

"So what can you ladies tell me about this?" He tapped the paper and smiled inwardly as the two women glanced at each other conspiratorially.

She lifted Dean's arm and took another drink from the water bottle, pressing his body against the cold walls of the passageway. The doorway from the closet of 203 still functioned. His body was dizzy and feverish, but she had to force him to go on. The passage was pitch black but she seemed to know every twist and turn, where the staircase was that led to the 1st floor. The third, the top floor.

The morgue.

She moved through them blindly with the practice of prowling them for too many restless years behind her.

He could hear Linda and David talking as he moved behind the walls. He could hear other voices too, drifting in and out of his hearing, could feel the chill movement of the shadow speakers as they wandered through the darkness. They were aware of his presence in only the most simplistic sense. Lost in their world of pain and sadness, trapped in a circle of time and circumstances replaying over and over until eternity, unable or unwilling to free themselves. He might have helped them but they were no threat to him and he felt no fear.

As she moved him deeper into hotels lower floors the wooden passage changed to sloppily laid stone and brick. She dragged his fingertips along the stonework as he walked, feeling the roughness against his skin, relishing sensation once again. The dank scent of the damp walls, roots spilling through in places where the surrounding earth was encroaching on the man made barriers. The feel of the cool walls as he rested against them from time to time.


His footsteps slowed as he came to the end of the corridor, and he started patting the walls on the right side gently, gradually brushing over them with short soft strokes. Finally locating the spot she was searching for with a sharp intake of Dean's breath. She put his cheek against the wall and gradually flattened his body along the stone, eyes closed, hands pressed against the cold
surface.

"I'm here," they murmured brokenly, a shudder running through them as they lay against the wall. A tear spilled from the corner of his/her eye and they turned their face so that it soaked into the stone and covered it with a soft kiss. "I'm here…"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sam was headed back to the hotel, armed with a thick folder of photocopies and a head full of little known facts about well known people. Unfortunately, the walking trip back up was not as easy as the going down had been. His thigh muscles were screaming, especially the leg he had been gashed in, before he was halfway back up the 90 degree road he had stumbled down earlier. He was anxious to get back, feeling guilty about leaving Dean in the hands of virtual strangers, no matter how well-intentioned.

He was also desperate to share his new found information with Dean and he was disgusted with himself for not suspecting the obvious sooner.

He jerked as his phone buzzed against his hip and he grabbed for his pocket, clawing the phone out. He struggled to keep his papers together as he held the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, this is Sam!"

"Sam, sweetie, where are you?" Linda sounded upset.

"I'm on my way back. Why? Is Dean ok?" His heart started to pound under his ribs and he forced himself to keep struggling uphill.

"I don't know, Sam!" Linda voice was frantic. "I went to check on him a minute ago and he was gone! I checked the bathroom, your car, David is looking for him but I wanted to call you-"

"Dammit!" Sam exclaimed. "I'll be right there!" he shoved the phone back into his pocket and did his best to hurry up the steep streets back to the hotel.

  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 
     
They pushed away from the section of wall swiping clumsily at the tear streaks on their face.

His/her shaking breath slowed and he moved unsteadily the rest of the way down the corridor. Drinking the last of the water he dropped the bottle on the ground. Reaching out to the wall, his fingers crept over the doorway with deft familiarity, searching out the secret recesses that would open it. Pain shot up his arm from his injured hand as he probed the small openings, forcing his too
large hands to fit.

After a moment he was rewarded with a loud click and the panel creaked outward. Satisfaction put a tight smile on Dean's lips as he stepped into yet more darkness and started probing once again.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The last two blocks of the uphill run almost put Sam out. His lungs were burning and his legs were shaking by the time he staggered through the gardens into the hotel lobby. Linda was waiting anxiously for him.

"Sam!" She exclaimed, taking in his breathless state. "For Gods sake, sit down!" She grabbed his arm and propelled him to a chair.

He sat, wheezing for a moment, the muscles in his legs jumping. "Did you find him?" he gasped, dropping his papers on the floor.

 Linda shook her head. "David's looking over the second floor, I've been looking down here, we just don't know where he could be. It's such a huge building and the grounds…Sam , I'm so sorry!"

Sam shook his head, finally getting his breath back. "It's not your fault. I should've stayed." He got shakily to his feet, trying to think.

"I'm gonna check out our room again," Sam said,"and then I guess I'll just start looking. He was pretty weak, I can't imagine he'd go too far." As least he hoped Dean wouldn't stray too far. Right now he didn't have a clue what Dean might be capable of.

Linda nodded. "I'll look around down here, call the cell if you find him, please." She grabbed a flashlight and started toward the dining room.

Sam thudded up the narrow stairs as fast as his aching legs would allow and shoved open their door. The salt line had been disturbed but was still unbroken, he wasn't sure if that was good thing or a bad thing. There was nowhere Dean could hide in the little room. Sam rummaged in his bag and came up with a powerful flashlight, clicking it off and on to make sure it worked.

He opened the closet door and flashed the light around the interior, they rarely hung up their clothes so the small cubicle was empty. On a whim, he stepped in and pushed on each of the walls, then rapped them lightly with his knuckles. Nothing.

He frowned and left the closet, moving back through the main bedroom door and back out into the hall. He took a deep breath and looked around.

 Where the hell to start?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When the outer door finally clicked open, Dean shoved forward with both hands and heaved against the resistance of hinges that had not moved in decades, ignoring the pain in his hand and breaking out in a sweat as the door gradually shifted. Her joy when it finally slid out of the way sent Dean's heart racing and a wave of dizziness sent him back against the wall and sliding down to the
ground. She backed off and gently encouraged his body to rise, they were so close.

God, please, it was finally going to happen.

She sent Dean stumbling through the darkness, every item he brushed up against forming a picture in their mind as clear as day. The metal storage cabinets, the lockers, the large adjustable lamp that hung from center of the room, the table--

She stopped Dean against the cold metal edge and ran his dry fingers over the icy surface. A shiver danced over Dean's hot skin as he touched it, one hand clutched at his head as sensation and image suddenly tore through his mind. He cried out, eyes clenched tight, pain flaring in his hip as he hit something on the way to the ground.

 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"What are you doing, Nigel?" Margaret shoved against the door of the morgue.Fear quickly spiking into panic when she realized it was locked. "Nigel! Open this door! I know Stephen is with you!" She pounded her fist against the wooden door, rattling the knob with the other. Dark brown hair pulled from the bun it was twisted into and fell in dark feathers around her face.

Becker's voice came from the other side of the door, so near she would have sworn he had his lips right up to the frame.

"I'm working, Margaret." He said in a warm, lilting voice. "You know I don't like to be interrupted, my dear. "An autopsy requires all of my concentration." She could hear his steps walking slowly away from the door. The sound of muffled whimpering sent Margaret's heart racing.

"Stephen!" She cried, hitting the door with both fists. "Don't touch him!"  She screamed, throwing her body against the door. "Nigel! Don't do this! It's only a matter of time before you're arrested! Don't make it worse! Please…for God's sake…don't hurt him…." She pressed her body against the door, weeping now.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dean rocked against the wall, head back, heels of his hands ground into his streaming eyes, moaning helplessly. He didn't want this…didn't need this…..


>>>>>>>>>>>

To her surprise, the door suddenly opened and she fell forward into the morgue, sprawling indelicately on the floor. Using both hands she pushed herself up off the filthy, blood spattered floor. Her uniform was now blood and dirt streaked, her stockings were torn and her hair had fallen totally free of it's restraints. She heaved herself back to her feet and whirled to face the man she had admired,
had once, stupidly, blindly, thought she loved. Until she had found Stephen...

Becker's pointed, sharply handsome face, his dark eyes all mocked her with a small twisted smile.

"Well, my dear…you did say you wanted in…" His long hands made a graceful gesture.

"You bastard!" She spat, swinging for a slap.

He caught her hand and fought her back. "Tut, such language. Wherever did you learn it?"

He twisted her arm behind her and spun her around, facing the autopsy table where a young man lay mostly covered with a blood stained sheet.

Margaret's cry died in her throat as he jerked her arm. Stephen's face was white and wasted with illness. He moved his head weakly against the cold metal of the table. His eyes fluttered.

Margaret shook with sobs. "Stephen! Oh, God Stephen….." She tried to pull free but Becker held tighter.

"There he is, my dear," Becker hissed, lips against her ear. "What a pitiful replacement you chose over me, to weak to be the man I know you need, what can he do for you but die and leave you with nothing. But then you'll probably leave him too, we both know a faithless slut like you has no loyalty."

"I'd rather have Stephen for whatever time I can get than a monster like you forever!" Margaret snarled, wrenching free. "What you did to those people, to Stephen…I can't believe I could have been so blind!" She threw herself on Stephen's body, clawing the sheets away from his cold, pallid flesh. Stephen whimpered and one hand crept upward weakly, to caress her dark hair.

Margaret pressed her face to Stephen's chest. "Nigel, please, I'm begging you." Her quiet voice shook with emotion. "If I ever meant anything to you…don't take Stephen away from me. He and I will go, no one will see us. We'll go far away…"

Becker snorted and curled a lip in disgust. "What a touching request. And what, may I ask would benefit me from agreeing to your heart rending plea? As we have already established, my arrest is imminent. My reputation is ruined, I'm in disgrace.  My practice?" Becker laughed. "Let's be realistic, my dear, I have nothing left to lose."

He turned and walked slowly across the room, chin in his hand, appearing to be deep in thought. He opened one of the glass fronted cabinets and withdrew a bottle of clear liquid and a cloth.

Margaret was murmuring broken endearments to Stephen as Becker drifted back across the room.

"You meant a great deal to me, Margaret, I have never shared my life with someone before I shared it with you. That loss is not one I can suffer lightly, but," he added, shaking the clear liquid onto the rag as he moved closer. "Your tender request has touched me. I find I cannot deny you your desire to spend the rest of your life with this fading husk, if that is your choice."

So saying he pressed the rag against Margaret's face and grabbed her to hold her still as she struggled, whining through the fabric pressed over her mouth and nose. "Allow me to assist you in that endeavor…." His voice and the world faded away as Margaret's eyes rolled back in her head and she relaxed into unconsciousness.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dean cried out and shoved himself backwards in the blackness on the cold floor until he was as far back into the corner as he could crush himself, arms curled around his head, knees drawn up, shaking uncontrollably.  "Don't leave me here," He gasped over and over. "Don't leave me ,God, don't leave me here…"


Chapter Twelve: From A Dark Place

Sam hustled back down the stairs, muscles aching, pain from his half healed thigh pulling his face into a grimace. When he hit the lobby he looked around, there just weren't that many places on this level.

Linda came out of the dining area, rather breathless, but for once her heaving bosoms did not command Sam's attention.

"Any luck? " He demanded as soon as he saw her.

She shook her head. "Sweetie, if he's anywhere on this floor, unless he crawled in a silverware drawer I can't find him."

They both turned as David thudded down from the staircase behind Sam. He shook his head at their questioning looks. "Nothing, I ran every room in the upper floors."

"Locked ones, too?" Sam asked. "Trust me," he said in response to their puzzled faces. "If Dean wants in, a locked door isn't going to stop him, especially the antiques on these doors."

"Have you checked downstairs?" Sam moved toward the lower staircase.

Linda shook her head, "Not that thoroughly. There are several offices and small rooms down there, the bathrooms and the spa….Sam, " Linda caught his arm. "Why would Dean do this? Could he be delirious? Should we call the police? Or a doctor?"

Sam shook his head, face grim. "If what I think has happened, I'm pretty sure doesn't know what he's doing and we don't need a lot of people here to explain things to. Just help me, please. We have to find him." He turned back to the stairs and limped down them as fast as he could. What if they couldn't find him? The mere thought froze Sam's blood, spurring to greater speed and making it
difficult to fight down his desire to panic.

It didn't take long to make a sweep of the downstairs rooms with Linda and David helping.

It also meant it didn't take long to see Dean wasn't there.

Sam leaned against the wall, trying to think, one hand gripped habitually in his long hair.

His eyes fell on a door that was solidly bolted at the end of a short corridor off the main hallway. He pushed away from the wall and walked over to it.

"What's in here?" he asked running his hand over it, glancing back at Linda and David.

They looked at each other. "It goes to the morgue, we always keep it locked." David replied. "Even if Dean went in there, he certainly couldn't have thrown the bolts and padlocked it from the inside…"

Sam tugged on the padlock. "If he got in, I'm pretty sure he didn't use the door. You got the key?"

David nodded, withdrawing the small ring of keys from his pocket.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Margaret's senses returned slowly and hesitantly. Pain pounded in her skull and the sweetish odor of chloroform still hung about her. She opened her eyes but at first saw only blackness.

She couldn't move. Every part of her body seemed twisted and locked in place, bound down and off balance.

Gradually, as she gave herself time to recover, she realized she was gagged, lying down in a space that was apparently barely large enough to accommodate her body. Was she in a closet?

She was, she finally knew, tied TO something. Her arms were wrapped around it and tied in place as was every part of her body including her head.

The thinnest slice of light came through a tiny slit as far up the wall she was lying against as she could roll her eyes. She had to calm herself and breathe through her nose, closing her eyes to give them time to adjust to the almost complete blackness.

Her eyes snapped open again as a warm voice trilled from the other side of the wall she was lying against.

"I know you're awake," Becker stated. His voice came through the tiny slit at the top of the wall. "Don't feel obligated to reply, my dear, under the circumstances, I suspect you may find it difficult." There was a soft chuckle. "I apologize for the accommodations. I realize they may be a trifle small, but then wasn't closeness the point here?"

A sharp, measured tapping began to move down the wall. She could visualize him walking a slow track up and down, tapping the wall with his glasses, just like he did when he would pace his office, thinking.

"You should be grateful," he began again. Tap, tap. "After all, we are all getting what we wanted here." Tap. "You and the man you love will be spending the rest of your lives together. What a touching picture." Tap…,tap…tap. "And I, my dear, no matter where I go, or how much time passes, will always know where to find the woman I love." Tap…Tap. " What great peace of mind for me, eh
Margaret? Be certain, you will always be in my thoughts. As no doubt, I will be in yours."" She could here the gentle taps as he moved down the hallway, until they finally faded from her hearing

She tried again to move but it was impossible. Her eyes rolled hesitantly to the side to try to make out what was beside her.
 
Her shriek was no less horrific for being muffled by the gag. She instinctively tried to flail away.

Stephen! Oh my God, Stephen!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

They all heard the distant scream as the door came open, revealing a narrow black hallway.

Sam pushed by David and ran heedlessly down the corridor, flashlight jerking light spastically as he ran. He came up against another door and kicked it in without hesitation even though the pain in his leg was shattering. It slammed into the wall with an ear splitting crash. Sam shot his light around the room, searching for the source of the desperate sounds he was hearing.

"Dean! Where are you?"

He followed the sounds into the next room, stumbling over boxes and paint cans.

Harsh light suddenly flooded the main room as someone hit the light switch..

"Sam? Sam, my God, did you find him?" Linda's panic stricken voice echoed around the room.

Now that he could see, Sam dropped his flash and went down on one knee, hand stretching out slowly toward Dean's huddled form, crammed as far as he could go into the junk piled in the small side storeroom.

His arms were crossed over his face, buried against his drawn up legs. His shirt was bloodstained and his right palm was crimson. The skin Sam could see was crisscrossed with deep scratches. He was twitching and shaking violently, fingers spasming. His cries had fallen to panting moans, broken by ragged coughing.

"Dean…it's me, Sam…" Sam inched closer, the small sounds he made moving, causing Dean to flinch. "It's ok, Dean. Everything is gonna be ok…" He spoke as gently as he could, trying not to betray the shock he felt at his brother's condition. He heard Linda and David come up quietly behind him, heard Linda's sharp intake of breath.

Dean lifted his head slightly, eyeing Sam in confusion, breath jerking. "It's so cold…" he murmured brokenly. Spent tears left muddy tracks down his face from his red rimmed eyes.

Sam felt his heart twist. Dean…

"Can one of you get me a blanket? " Sam said softly, over his shoulder.

"Sure," David said just as quietly. His hurried steps faded away.

Sam crept up the dusty pile of boxes, bags and cobwebs, Dean watching him with wary eyes. He pulled back slightly as Sam got closer, shaking his head. Sam's touch on Dean's leg made him jerk backwards, but there was nowhere left to go.

"Don't leave me here….please…" Dean's fingers suddenly dug onto Sam's arms, fresh tears spilled from his eyes. "Don't leave me in the dark…"

Sam had his arms around Dean then, pulling him close. Sam closed his eyes, pressing his face against Dean's sweaty hair. Fever heat blasted off of him. Without thinking, Sam began to rock gently, whispering nothing words of comfort.

Dean kept murmuring brokenly against Sam's shoulder, not to leave him there, in the darkness. The only problem was, Sam didn't know who was speaking.

Dean or Margaret.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

David returned quickly with a blanket and Sam wrapped it around Dean's shivering form and gently coaxed him to his feet with David's help. Linda hovered as they carefully picked their way off the pile of junk and onto the floor.

Once they made it to the floor, Dean's weight shifted suddenly as his legs gave way, catching Sam by surprise before he could compensate and taking them both down.

"Man," Dean groaned, pushing weakly against Sam who was sprawled over him. "Get off me…"

Sam scrambled off and grabbed Dean by the arms. "Dean? Is that you?"

Dean didn't seem confused by Sam's odd question. He coughed again and sniffed, swallowing. He nodded, wiping at his face. "Yeah…I think so…" his voice was ragged. "God, I'm….freezing…" He hugged himself, and Sam caught the blanket and pulled it back around him.

"Can you make it to our room?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded again after a moment. "I feel kinda weird…my legs …." He tried to rise and managed to do so with Sam and David's assistance. They pulled Dean's arms across their shoulders and gripped him around the waist easing him out of the room.

"I'll get his bed fixed up, " Linda offered.

Sam gave her a tight smile. "Thanks." Linda vanished down the hall way.

As they passed through the autopsy room, Dean's head turned to stare at the table, a shudder surmounting his shivering.

"Okay?" Sam asked.

Dean looked away. "Yeah. Except…"

Sam and David paused. "Except what?" Sam's voice was tense.

Dean groaned. "Man, I really gotta pee…"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Getting Dean up to their room was a trip. After all the walking and running, Sam's leg almost couldn't take the weight of dragging himself and Dean up the stairs, even with David's much appreciated assistance. Dean managed to use the bathroom under his own power but he was so sweaty and dirty he refused to get in the bed.

David excused himself so that Sam could assist Dean without embarrassment. Sam thanked him softly as he closed the door and limped back to Dean, slumped on the toilet, head in his hands, still, except for the motion caused by his sporadic coughing.

"You wanta take a fast shower? Get those cuts taken care of…and your hand…again."

"Sam…" Dean didn't lift his head, his voice thick.

"It's ok, Dean." Sam said. He knelt awkwardly in front of Dean and began to pull the filthy shirt slowly down Dean's scratched arms. "This isn't your fault. I think I got a pretty good idea of what's happening. We can fix this—"

"Sam, please! " Dean pushed ineffectually at Sam's hands. He was so tired and so cold. "Listen to me!" The memories of what he had seen, what he had lived, had left him confused and shaken. Frightened he still wasn't alone within himself.

Sam stopped. "What Dean? Tell me what you want?" He sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs.

"She's not trying to hurt me….."

"Hurt you?" Sam barked in outrage. "Jesus Christ, Dean, look at you! It's not like you weren't a mess already when we got here but now…. She's fucking with your mind, we gotta stop her!"

Dean jerked back as Sam raised his voice, hastily looking down, he almost cringed. Sam's mouth shut with an audible clack of his teeth. He searched Dean's face for some idea of what was going on and how not to…scare him…again.

He finally reached out and began to gently remove the shirt once more. "Let's get you cleaned up and then we can talk.." He spoke quietly, carefully, as though addressing a frightened child. Dean watched him from under his eyelashes. "I promise, I'll listen to what you have to say, ok? I'm sorry I yelled."

"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot," Dean warned in a low voice.

Sam stood with an effort and tossed Dean's shirt into the main room. "I don't think you're an idiot, Dean, but after all this, I'm beginning to have serious doubts about myself." He pressed his fingertips to his forehead and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"I'll see if I can find you some clothes," Sam finally said, "you've gone through damn near everything. I'll throw a load in the washer later." He paused. "Can you get your jeans off all right?"

Dean nodded and began to fumble with his belt, unwilling to accept that final humiliation. Sam went to search for clothes, finally grabbing a pair of sweats he found at the bottom of Dean's bag, some boxers and a pair of socks. He pulled a fairly clean shirt from his own bag and carried them into the bathroom.

Dean was leaning against the wall, arms braced, trying to keep his feet, clad in his boxers, his jeans kicked to one side. He was still shivering, his skin prickly with gooseflesh. He watched Sam silently.

Sam reached into the shower and turned on the water full blast and as hot as it would go. After a moment the room became steamy and Sam changed the temperature to one that wouldn't blister skin from bones.

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, hating the taste of the words he was about to say. "Uh, Sam? I'm not sure I can stand long enough to…" he began.

Sam stripped off his own shirt and threw it down. "Don't worry about it."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Showered and in dry clothes, Dean moved slowly back to the bed and sat down. Sam had gotten so wet, helping Dean he had finally stripped off the rest of his clothes once Dean was done and taken a shower himself while Dean dressed.

The sensation of Margaret's hold on Dean had gradually faded and he was more comfortable, as if his skin fit once more. His control over the troubled thoughts running through his mind did not come so simply. No matter how hard he pushed they kept returning to twist his ability to think clearly.

He lay back, coughing , rubbing one hand across his chest, wishing he could turn his mind off, just for a few minutes. A little silence was all he wanted. The shower had warmed him up, and he actually felt a little better. His injured hand hurt like a bitch but he hadn't pulled any stitches this time. It was thickly re-bandaged.

Sam came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him. He paused by Dean, studying him.

Dean's eyes rolled up to meet Sam's gaze. "What?"

Sam opened his mouth as a knock sounded on the door. He grabbed the bag on his bed and vanished back in the bathroom.

"Sam? It's David and Linda. We brought some coffee. If you boys are decent, we'd really like to talk with you."

Dean had to force the words though his throat to get enough volume to be 

David opened the door and Linda stepped in with a tray. They both smiled when they saw Dean, sitting up, looking so much better.

Linda set the tray on the table and rushed over to Dean, breasts jouncing. "Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry for what happened!" She exclaimed, grasping his hand and holding it against her chest.

Dean's eyes widened and he gently excavated his hand, a touch of color flaring in his face. "It wasn't your fault, don't worry about it." His voice was rocky sounding but understandable after a few hesitant swallows. He pulled back slightly, uncomfortable with her nearness. He glanced up as Sam came back out of the bathroom, pulling on a shirt.

Linda jumped and went back to her tray. "I brought some coffee," She said, "And I made a couple of sandwiches in case you were hungry. Or there's some soup if a sandwich is too much. Sam said you haven't been eating." She carried a thick mug over to Dean and carefully handed it to him.

Dean cupped the mug in both hands and glanced doubtfully at the thickish brown liquid inside. It smelled good, anyway.

She laughed at the expression on his face. "It's vegetable beef. I ran it through a blender so you could drink it."

Dean mouthed a relieved 'oh'.

She set a plate with a sandwich on it on the bed next to where Sam had settled into a chair. She handed him a cup of coffee.

"Thanks," Sam murmured. He really wasn't that hungry but it was thoughtful of her. He was pleased when Dean lifted the mug of soup and took a cautioussip.

David and Linda each sat down and pulled a cup of coffee over to themselves. They sat with the air of people who were waiting for something. A quick exchange of looks between them and David leaned forward.

"Sam, Dean, what the fuck is going on here?"



Chapter Thirteen: Trade

The silence grew after David's blunt question. Finally Sam glanced at Dean who was slouched on the bed, staring into his cup of soup. Linda and David also watched him expectantly and he squirmed inwardly at the scrutiny.

God, he hated being the center of this kind of attention. He detested his earlier helplessness, the pitying sympathy from their hosts. He knew Sam had figured it out but trying to explain something he didn't understand himself, to two strangers….

He wanted to know what Sam had found out that might help make sense of this. Everything was all jumbled together in his mind and he was having trouble separating this new horror from his own nightmare reality. He was furious at being helplessly used by this force, unable to fend it off….Jesus, he really was a weak son of a bitch, how could Sam even stand to look at him anymore after
this last episode, let alone speak to him….

He coughed against his fist. "Get on with it," he finally ground out. 

Sam got up and fished the bottle of aspirin out of his jacket and wordlessly shook two out for Dean. Dean accepted them in equal silence, dry swallowing them.

Sam settled back into his chair and took a long drink of his coffee. He leaned his elbows on his knees and addressed Linda and David.

"In 1941, Nigel Becker, was still operating this place as cancer hospital. He hired an assistant, a young woman named Margaret Reed." From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean's head snap up. Sam turned to him with a reassuring smile. "No, you're not crazy. She was a real person." He turned back to Linda and David. "I'm sure you know the name if you know anything about this hotel."

David shook his head but Linda nodded. "She disappeared about a week before Becker was arrested."

Sam nodded. "Five days, exactly." He reached for his notes and flipped them open. "I had an interesting conversation with Sarah and Sophie, the ladies at the historical society." He shook his head. "I don't know who their sources are but they have the inside track on a lot of stuff around here." He caught sight of the sandwich sitting on the bed and grabbed it, taking a large bite, shifting the plate to the table behind him. He realized how hungry he was after all the racing around.

"Cut to the chase, Sam!" Dean snarled suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was killing him. The air felt too thick.

Sam swallowed the bite. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "To make a long story short, Becker and Margaret had an affair. He had a very magnetic personality and she just fell for it. Everything was great for a while until Becker came under serious investigation and Margaret finally realized what was actually going on at the hospital." Sam snatched another bite of sandwich. "Margaret met a patient
here, a Stephen Morrison. She fell in love with him. For real. Margaret wanted to leave with Stephen, the place was shutting down, it was just a matter of time before it all ended." Linda and David were watching Sam with rapt expressions. Dean's gaze was fixed on a position just past his knee, mug forgotten in his grip. A drop of sweat drifted down from his temple.

Sam leaned forward again. "Becker was an egomaniac, not the kind of guy who liked to let go of something once he had it. There's a lot of suggestion raising the possibility that by this time Becker was genuinely insane. Apparently, he went nuts when he found out Margaret and Stephen were planning to run off together. " He consulted his notes.

"No one saw Margaret again after May 17th. Records at the hospital are pretty weak , by this time the hospital was almost closed down and no one was really maintaining them. Stephen Morrison's records stop on May 18th. He's listed as deceased but there are no supporting documents to show if he was cremated or if the body was ever claimed. Rumor had it that Margaret and Stephen did
leave together, but not through he front door—"

"He killed them…." Dean's voice was so soft, Sam almost didn't hear him. Dean raised a hand to his face and rubbed between his eyes.

Sam glanced at Dean, nodding. "I think that's exactly what happened. He killed them both and disposed of them somewhere in the hotel."

Linda had a hand over her mouth. "You mean they're buried here, somewhere? In the hotel?" Her tone clearly stating that, spirits on site were one thing, actually bodies something else all together.

David was frowning, struggling to follow this train of thought. "What makes you so sure they're here?"

Sam pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "I'm guessing they're in the passageway somewhere. I'd have said the morgue but you said the real trouble started after your workmen broke into the passage. For whatever reason, their spirits must have been trapped in there and when the workmen broke it open it released them. Or at least it released Margaret."

David's mouth tightened and he traded looks with Linda. Linda reached out tentatively toward Dean. He drew back. She looked at Sam. "But how does that explain what's happening to Dean?"

"He means," Dean said, voice raw, face washed out. "that I'm being possessed by Margaret's spirit." He grimaced at the mug he was still holding and handed it to Sam. The few swallows he had managed to choke down had turned to acid in his stomach.

Linda and David both laughed a little uncomfortably, trying to get the joke.

Sam licked his lips, eyeing Dean as he spoke. "Spirits, demons, whatever, are capable of possessing a living person but have to have a way in, a chink in their armor. It usually results from a vulnerability the person is experiencing, mentally, emotionally or physically that allows a doorway to open and let's the spirit take over."

"You can't be serious," David said, an aw c'mon now look on his face.

Disbelief played over Sam's face. "Are you kidding? What the hell did you think was gonna happen when you called us?" Sam snapped, suddenly furious. "You wanted help!" They stared at him. "What? Did you think we'd waltz in with a bible and some holy water, mumble some Latin and everything would be okay?" Dean was staring at him now. Sam was so pissed he didn't care how he sounded. "This is serious! This is for real! It's not some movie where the hero rushes in and saves everyone at the last minute! This thing is getting to my brother. Dean could have died!" Sam felt Dean's fingers close on his wrist. Linda and David had drawn back from Sam's tirade.

"Sam! Dude, chill. Please." Dean tugged on Sam's arm, "this isn't helping." His eyes pleaded with Sam. His haggard face was devoid of color, shadowed by two days of stubble and marked with dark circles under his eyes.

Sam bit his lip and forced himself to calm down. Dean's fingers uncurled from Sam's arm.
 
Silence filled the room for a beat . There was a soft rumble from outside as thunder growled in the distance. The light seemed to shift in that instant, the room got darker.

"I'm sorry," Sam finally said, rubbing his own eyes. "This is a very dangerous situation and it has to be handled the right way. We have to find the bodies and salt and burn them or this is never gonna end and it's probably gonna get worse."

He turned to Dean, "I know this is hard. She's come for you twice now. This last time it had to be to show you something or tell you something. Where did you go? How did you get in the morgue?" 

Dean was quiet for a moment. "I…I can't remember, until I came to in the morgue, it's just a blur. Like some crazy dream." Dean twisted his head to the side until Sam heard neck bones pop. He shuddered at the scattered memories of that dizzy, cold stagger through the blackness, aching with thirst, body burning with fever. The loss of himself….

Dean frowned as a sudden image of bricks being slid into place, someone whistling as they laid them with slow precision, the wall growing higher with each passing moment. The rough feel of them against his face, the smell of wet concrete, face dampened by tears, heart racing as useless adrenaline was pumped into his blood by panic, the growing darkness …

Panic blasted through him as honeysuckle and death filled his nostrils. Dimly he heard his name through the sudden roaring in his ears. A crescendo of voices assailing him. Oh, Christ…no…his mind screamed. Dean started pushing back into the bed, crushing himself up against the headboard. He shoved out his hands, in a futile blocking   recognized the cold sensation of her presence
creeping up his body, sliding effortlessly into him. Why couldn't he stop this?! He felt as though he were falling into himself, sucked into the abyss of his own fear as the room slid sideways…

"NO!" Dean's arms flailed out and he kicked himself backwards, off the bed with a jarring thump and back into the wall, breath coming in moaning gasps. His arms wrapped around his knees, wrists crossed, rocking madly. His head struck the wall behind him.

Sam, stunned, floundered over the bed to try to get to Dean. Linda and David both fell back at his sudden scramble, Linda shrieked, their faces losing color, their hands clasped together. The lights in the room began to flicker and spark. The air turned so cold Sam could see his breath. Thunder rattled the glass in the windows. Sam knelt by Dean and grabbed his arms. Dean's head fell back
against the wall again, hard enough to hurt the knuckles of the hand Sam hastily shoved behind it to soften the blow.

"Dean, c'mon man!" Sam ground his teeth. "Dammit! Let him go!" Sam stumbled to his feet again and groped in his bag for the flask of holy water. He fumbled the cap off, stopping dead when he turned.

Dean had stilled, arms still wrapped around his knees, head down. Slowly, he raised his face until he was staring up at Sam from under his brows. The shuddering lights gave the room a stop motion feeling of unreality. For an instant Sam could almost make out a flickering form superimposed over Dean's. He felt his skin roughen, the bottle of holy water, dangling from his fingers.

Dean cocked his head, blinking slowly.

Sam had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Dean?" he ventured hesitantly.

Dean's head made a tiny movement from side to side.

"Not anymore….." he breathed.
​

Chapter Fourteen: Death Bound

(Dean) swallowed with an effort, breathing through his mouth, chest rising and falling. His arms gradually relaxed, moving to cross over his stomach, legs sliding down slightly. His eyes never left Sam, who still stood frozen in place.

Sam's nostrils flared suddenly as he inhaled the sickly sweetness that was filling the air. This must be what Dean had been picking up on. It was all Sam could do to keep from gagging. No wonder Dean had been sick.

Behind him David and Linda made a startled sound between them as they picked up on the odor.

The lights stopped flickering but left the room in a dull half light. Thunder still reverberated outside and soft lightning added it's own illumination.

"Let him go." Sam said again.

(Dean) snorted. "I don't want him. But I have no choice now. Don't." he warned as Sam stepped forward. "I don't want to hurt him, don't make me." A grimace tightened his eyes and mouth.

"You are hurting him!" Sam replied angrily.

(Dean's) eyes closed briefly, opened again. "No. But my presence is only making it easier for him to hurt himself. The damage was done. The longer I remain the worse it becomes." He hugged himself tighter.

"Then let him go!" Sam barked. 

"I can't"

"Why? What do you want? If you want help, let us help you but, please…let him go. He can't take much more of this. He's sick." Sam tried not to beg but it came out sounding that way.
 
(Dean) nodded in that odd slow way, brushing the sudden sweat from his forehead. "Yes, he's is ill, but that's not where the real damage lies." Sam could see Dean's body was starting to shake, his face flushing.

"What do you want?" Sam demanded, muscles bunching in his jaw, hands fisting. He stepped closer despite the warning and the fact that his closeness made (Dean) draw back into himself again.
 
"I need him to set us free!" (Dean) cried. His hands clamped over his face and he started to sob brokenly. His hand shot out as Sam moved. "Stay back!" He ordered, eyes up and glittering dangerously, tear tracks streaking his face. He slowly pushed himself up the wall, using the flats of his hands to support himself.

Dean's body was trembling violently, dripping sweat and Sam was afraid he was going to have a seizure if this didn't stop. Another clap of thunder clattered the window glass.

"We can set you free!" Sam exclaimed desperately. "We can help you move on! Let us help you. Please! We just need to know where that bastard left you!"

"He won't let us go!" (Dean) moaned in anguish and doubled over, hands clawed into his hair. "He won't let us go!" He tumbled forward as Sam jumped to support him, David hesitating only a second before joining him. Dean collapsed limply between them as Linda cried out.

Together they pulled Dean back onto the bed, heat billowing off of him, clothing sweat soaked.

"Get some water!" Sam spat, checking Dean's eyes. His heart hammered under Sam's hand. "C'mon, Dean!" Sam ordered in a voice rivaling their father's. "Wake up! Right now!"

Dean suddenly arched off the bed as he gasped in a lungful of air and started coughing.

Sam collapsed on the bed next to him, with his face in his hands. He reached out with David's assistance and helped Dean sit up.

"Are you back?" He asked, searching Dean's face. Dean blinked and finally nodded. Sam held the water to Dean's lips. Dean grasped the glass and tried to gulp it down but Sam wouldn't let him, forcing him to take small swallows between his
coughs.

Linda slowly came up to the bed and stood behind David, watching with a look somewhere between fear, confusion and awe. "Is he all right?' She asked timidly.

Dean finished the water and fell back against the pillows, "Son of a bitch…." he whispered hoarsely. "What the fuck happened?"

Sam went into the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth. Dean's face was still flushed and his skin was much too warm but he seemed to be Dean again. Sam wearily folded the cloth and put it on Dean's forehead. Dean closed his eyes. He really had a headache now. He could feel every beat of his heart in his temples. His body felt drained, beyond exhaustion.

How much more of this shit could he handle?

"She's gone?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded again. "I don't know what happened….I was …" His eyes flicked to Sam's face and then to the floor, "I could feel her getting inside me but I couldn't stop her…." he cleared his throat. "I don't know what happened….but she's gone." He looked sick, body shuddering.

"All right, that's it." Sam stated with absolute finality. "We've got to find those bodies and find them now. " He sighed and scrubbed his hair. "We'll just have to start looking." He turned to David. Lightning flashed through the windows, lighting up one side of Sam's face. The lights flickered again.

"There has to be an entrance to the morgue at the end of the passage, there's no other way Dean could have gotten in there." Sam decided out loud. He got up and dug around in one of the equipment bags. "You and David go open up the morgue and wait there. He held out a canister of salt. "Pour this in a line around the inside walls of the morgue."

"Salt?" Davis questioned. 'Why?"

"It'll keep anything in the passage from coming through. Just do it. Trust me." Sam replied. "Dean and I will meet you there. See if you can find a pick and shovel somewhere. If we do find anything we're gonna need it."

Sam's manner was so grim and determined, David had no choice but to believe him. He nodded and took Linda's arm, then turned back, "Sam, what I said before. I'm sorry, I had no idea…."

Sam shook his head. "Nobody does, man. It's ok."

David hesitated again and then nodded and they left the room to search for a pick and shovel.

He turned back to the bed where Dean lay. "Dean…"

Dean's was staring into space. "She died of thirst." The rasp of his voice somehow made it sound worse.

Sam paused, frowning.

Dean looked up at him. "The sick bastard bricked 'em up alive, tied together and gagged. Stephen died the first night, she couldn't get loose. She died of thirst, 5 days later, tied to a rotting corpse." His breath shook as he drew this knowledge from a place he didn't know existed.

Sam stared at him, mouth opening in horror, face going white.

Dean covered his eyes. "My God…" Her memories blended with his, and for a moment he lived it. Bound inescapably to a dead man, trapped in a forever of blackness as putrid skin decayed against you, the sensation as your body shriveled and ached for moisture it couldn't get, the feel of tiny legs crawling over you both as insects found their way to the unexpected feast…

Dean gagged and pushed himself off the bed, stumbling into the bathroom to vomit acid, barely able to hold himself up.

Sam rushed after him to grab Dean's shoulders and keep him from falling as he choked.

 Dean fell back, groaning. "Let's just do this, I need it to be over, Sam. I can't….." he broke off, coughing.

Sam clutched Dean's arms. Dean's voice was so weary sounding. If Dean couldn't retrace his steps this could take hours and Dean would never last in his present state, he was already so weak. He struggled to stand with Sam's help. His head hung down as he braced one hand on the door frame, holding his injured hand against his stomach.

"Can you make it?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"Oh, yeah," Dean grunted. "I'm great. It's just these unexpected visitors wear me out." He glanced up at Sam and tried a crooked smile. It didn't last long.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into eating some of that sandwich?" Sam ventured. "You need to get some strength back, you can hardly walk, Dean." Sam felt the heat of Dean's skin. He still had a raging fever.

"I feel better than I will if I try to eat that sandwich." Dean replied, swallowing. His voice was a hoarse croak and it plainly hurt to talk. "Besides, I don't see where I have much choice." He replied. He looked disgusted. "God," he groaned, staring at his stocking covered feet.

"What?" Sam said sharply, easing Dean back onto the bed.

"If I try to put my boots on I'm gonna fall flat on my face." He couldn't stop himself from sinking limply back on the bed.

Sam chuckled in spite of his tension. He grabbed Dean's boots and knelt to help him get them on.

"Sam," Dean said softly, trying to shove his foot into the boot as Sam held it. Sam looked up.

"Yeah, Dean."

"I'm sorry."

Sam stopped and stared at him. "For what? This isn't your fault." He tugged the boot on all the way and caught the other.

"I should have been able to stop her—"

"Dean…." Sam sat back. "Dean, this isn't your fault. This could have been anyone. You just…you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. We shouldn't have come here, not like this."

"Like what?" Dean's voice, rather than angry was dull and lifeless. "Like if hadn't fucked up so much lately? Dropped my guard? Jesus, I've let so much stupid shit happen that I should've been able to stop-" Dean's eyes closed.

"No, that's not what I mean!" Sam snapped. "Who the hell do you think you are, Superman? Give it a break, Dean. Are you responsible for every shitty thing that happens? Did it ever occur to you that you're as much of a victim here as anyone?" He jerked the boot on and stood up. "If you weren't so far gone already I'd knock the crap out of you. The minute we get this mess straightened up, we're outta here! All you're gonna do until I say otherwise is sleep and eat until you stop talking and acting like an idiot!" Sam went to grab the flashlights and make sure a gun was loaded. "Let's just get this the hell over with. If you need to stop, say so, otherwise I don't want to hear any more of this shit from you!" Sam snapped over his shoulder, cocking the shotgun.

Dean lay with his eyes still shut, he didn't think he could make his body move. Sam's words washed over him without sinking in. Every muscle burned with fatigue and he was enveloped in a cocoon of heat he couldn't shake off. His hand felt as though he had picked up a burning ember and couldn't put it down. He just wanted to sleep and never wake up, leave this nightmare behind him…he wanted to hear silence…..

He didn't fight her this time, when he felt her, couldn't have if he'd wanted to. But instead of the sense of being ripped from himself, he felt a gentle strength infuse him, fueled by a desperation that instantly became his. This feeling was wielded with a new delicacy, restrained, but no less urgent for it.

Help me…help us… whispered across his drifting consciousness. Please….

The boost wasn't much, but enough to push him into a sitting position, head still swimming. He brushed fingers across his forehead, eyes reflected inward. He knew then. Time was running out…..

Getting to his feet was more effort than he thought he could manage but the presence that had taken him to his knees, now offered what support it could, small but welcome, making her need his.

Sam grabbed the flashlights and turned to find Dean standing right behind him.

"Shit!" Sam gasped. Dean's eyes were glassy but he looked coherent. "Are you okay?"

 "I know where they are." Dean stated. Sweat rolled down his face. "We have to hurry. C'mon."

Sam stared after him as Dean pulled open the closet door and went inside. Sam watched, a little uneasy, but fascinated as Dean moved his hands over the back wall. He obviously knew exactly what he was looking for. He pressed in on one of the center boards and it flipped back to reveal a catch. Dean pulled on it and to Sam's amazement the whole wall pivoted inward, leaving a space wide enough for a body to pass through that led into a dark tunnel.

Dean laughed, then started coughing, ending up leaning against the other wall.

Sam handed him a flashlight when he had himself under control. "What's the deal, Dean?"

Dean looked at him. "It's ok," he said, wiping his face on his arm. "We're gonna stop this." He smiled crookedly, then made a face, rubbing his nose as he started down the thin hallway, fighting off the urge to sneeze. "Ready?"

Sam nodded, switching on his own light and following. He watched Dean carefully, a little frightened by the Dean's sudden rally but ready to aid him if he needed it.

The passage was hung with cobwebs and had the deadest air Sam had ever encountered. No movement at all. It was lined with unfinished walls, plaster and open studs, like a mine shaft. It led them to a right and left turn in the walk. Right led to a small door with a tiny sliding panel, left led down a stairway. They remained silent except when Dean would cough.

"What kind of a sick sonuvabitch would have secret passageway to other rooms in the hotel?" Sam wondered aloud.

Dean shrugged. "They were used to get around the building when people were here the good doctor didn't want to see."

Sam didn't question Dean's answer. He had to stoop in places and Dean couldn't stop himself from walking slightly sideways even though he was fairly sure his shoulders wouldn't hit the walls if he walked straight forward.

It got a lot colder and there was a slight sensation of going down hill. The walls were damp and cobwebs drifted from the low ceiling.

Dean stopped after a few minutes and leaned back against the wall, resting his hands on his thighs, head down.

Sam caught Dean's arm. "You need to sit down?"

Dean shook his head. "Just need to stop for a second," he said breathlessly. "Kinda dizzy…"

Dean could feel an odd, rhythmic vibration in the wall as he rested against it. He could almost hear it. He wondered what was causing it but was having trouble keeping his mind focused beyond what he needed to do.

Dean could hear also voices. To far away to make out the words even if he strained to hear them, but there anyway, buried in the whining hum filling his head. He remained standing in the narrow hallway, one hand against the wall. His injured hand, throbbing now, pressed over his ear. The sweetish odor assailed his nostrils and he breathed deeply without meaning to. It didn't seem so bad
now. Maybe he was getting used to it…. His eyes closed and his head fell forward.

He jerked back upright as Sam grabbed his arm. "Dean! Sit down, man, before you fall down!"

Sam's cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He kept his grip on Dean and snatched the phone out of his pocket. "Yeah?" he barked. "Sorry, yeah, we found the entrance, we'll be there in a few minutes. Ok, great." Sam snapped the phone closed.

"That was David. He and Linda are waiting for us at the other end. Can you make it?"

Dean's brief energy spike was fading but he nodded and straightened back up. He didn't protest the hand Sam left under his arm. He batted a hand at his ear, shaking his head. "Can you hear that?" His voice was getting rougher.

Sam listened. He heard only their breathing. "I don't hear anything."

Dean snorted. "You couldn't smell anything either." He pushed away from the wall, moving unsteadily.

"Christ, Dean, are you gonna make it?" Sam exclaimed again, still gripping Dean's arm.

"I think I kinda have to," Dean replied, shaking Sam off and moving on down the corridor, light bobbing as he used the wall for support.

The walls gradually changed to stone and mortar, unevenly laid. Mortar squeezing out from between the granite and dribbling in long dried clumps on the ground. Every now and again one of them would stumble over one, swearing.

Sam's flashlight finally shone against a dead end of wood. "Is this it?" he asked Dean. He turned when he received no answer. "Dean?"

His flashlight revealed Dean pressed up against the wall to Sam's right, running his hands over the stones, stroking them with his fingertips, eyes closed.

Oh God, he thought. He turned back to the door and yelled. "David! Linda? Can you hear me!"

He was rewarded with a muffled yell from beyond where he stood. He went back to Dean, who was crooning softly to the wall. "Dean!" Sam spoke sharply to try to get Dean's attention. "We need to get through to the morgue! How? Where's the
latch on this one?" he gave Dean a hard shake. "Dean!"

Dean blinked, staring blankly at Sam and then seemed to come back to himself. He stumbled over to the door and feeling over it quickly, threw the latch and pulled it open. He stepped into the narrow opening beyond and started to push but it was beyond him to exert the necessary pressure.

"I can't move it:" he groaned, stepping back into the corridor.

"Let me," Sam said, "Where do I shove?"

"Here," Dean put Sam's hands in the proper spots. "Hard as you can." Dean sank back against the wall and slid to the ground. Sam started to go to him but Dean waved him off.

"I'm ok, just open the freakin' door…" Not much more than a whisper.

Sam put his back into it and the old hinges finally moved forward. Light flooded in from the next room and he heard Linda gasp.

"Oh, my God!"

Sam was relieved to see a thick line of salt along the floor. David grabbed the side of the locker that was attached to the section of wall Sam was shoving and helped pull it open.

"I just can't believe this." David breathed. He stooped to walk into the opening, fairly well lighted now from the glaring morgue lights, coughing at the fetid air. He spied Dean sitting on the floor, head back, elbows dangling off his knees, eyes closed. He squatted down by Dean.

"I brought some water, you want some?"

Dean's eyes popped open and he nodded. His throat was on fire. David brushed past Linda, lingering in the doorway. Sam was gathering up the tools. David grabbed a sledge hammer and a bottle of water and went back in.

Linda was seated next to Dean in the shadows. David opened the water and handed it to Dean who drained half of it one swallow, coughing.

"Thanks," he gasped.

David walked up the corridor a few feet to where Sam stood, balancing a pick in his hand.

"Where do we dig?" he asked picking up the sledge hammer.



Chapter Fifteen: Rising Storm

Linda sat next to Dean as David and Sam bashed away at the wall. Every blow made Dean flinch and he was becoming more and more agitated as he watched. Sweat rolled off his face and soaked his t-shirt once again. Chill air was pulled through the open ends of the corridor, raising gooseflesh on his damp skin.

"Sweetie, you need to calm down." Linda advised concernedly, watching as Dean began to hit the back of his head lightly against the wall with every strike of the pick. He glanced at her but said nothing.

David and Sam paused, tiny flecks of blood on their faces from flying bits of stone. Sam wiped sweat from his forehead. He hefted the pick again and slammed it into the wall, ducking away from the darting chips of rock. David responded with a strike from the sledge hammer and this time the wall finally dented in.

"We got it!" Sam cried, hitting it again. Stone fell into the opening and he used the pick to pull part of the wall away. Once it was breached, the wall crumbled outward with relative ease. Sam knelt and pulled out debris that had fallen in and tossed it on the floor behind him. He flashed his light into the hole and sat back, looking grim,.

David straightened up slowly, a growing look of horror on his face, and backed slightly away, one hand crept over his mouth. "Christ Almighty…" He murmured.

Linda rose and helped Dean struggle to his feet, crossing over to the opening in the wall.

She cried out and turned away. "Oh, my God."

Dean pulled free of her grasp and joined Sam on his knees. Sam reached out a hand to steady Dean as he took the flash and leaned into the opening.

Crushed into the space between the walls, barely 24 inches deep, lay two withered bodies, so entwined with each other it was difficult to determine where one ended and the other began. Their skulls were pressed together, their arms were around each other, even their legs were tangled. The two bodies were as close as they could be. It would have looked tender and intimate save for the
gags tied around their jaws and the strand after strand of what looked like some kind of tape that wound around them and bound their hands at each others backs. Crammed together in the narrow space, movement wouldn't have been possible.

"Help me get him out," Dean requested in a soft voice. "Please…"

Sam reached in and between themselves and a reluctant David, they managed to pull the two bodies out as carefully as they could, and lay them on the ground.

Once out, determining which was which was simple. In the airless space the bodies had dried but not really decayed. The figure that had been on top wore a hospital gown, the figure on the bottom, female clothing, with long, dark hair still hanging from the dried skin
of the scalp.

Margaret and Stephen, love pledged in life and bound together in death, had been found at last.

Linda had begun to cry softly behind them. David put an arm around her. "It's gonna be okay now," he whispered to her, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

"What do we do now?" he asked Sam.

Sam was watching Dean and didn't answer. Dean's face had softened and a tear rolled down his cheek as he gently caressed the parchment skin of Stephen's face.

"He was so weak," Dean whispered. "He tried so hard not to die…and afterwards, I wanted to die so badly." His breath caught. He looked over at Sam, eyes brimming. "I'm sorry. "

Sam swallowed, unable to move. "For what?" Sam said, knowing he was going to regret it.

Dean's eyes closed, his head moving slowly from side to side. Sam could barely make out the next words as Dean lowered his head.. "I told you he won't let us go…." His body began to fall forward.

Sam's eyes widened as staccato rappings suddenly filled the corridor. A hot wind, like a blast from hell, tore through the tunnel, flattening their clothes against their skin and forcing them to protect their eyes from the stinging dirt and bits of debris blown up from the ground in it's passing.

Linda screamed and she and David, arms protecting their heads, staggered back through the tunnel into the morgue. Sam threw himself toward Dean as he huddled over the two bodies, arms over his face. The noise and wind ceased as abruptly
as it had come and after a moment Sam raised himself up, looking around. He glanced down at Dean who lay still beneath him, slumped over the couple's dried remains.

"Crap!" Sam snarled. He pulled Dean off the skeletons and back into his lap, shaking him and slapping his face lightly. He seemed forever to be trying to bring Dean back to consciousness. He grabbed the water bottle Dean had been drinking from and splashed some in Dean's face.

After a few heart stopping seconds, Dean, coughed and his eyes fluttered and opened. Sam hugged Dean to him, shaking with relief. He even managed to laugh when Dean's voice protested weakly.

"Dude…c'mon. What did I say about personal space…."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"What the hell was that all about? Was it because we found the bodies? Are they gone? Their spirits I mean?" David asked Sam as they sat in the kitchen, a short while later.

The bodies had been moved with some difficulty to the morgue and been covered with blankets. Sam had wanted to dispose of them then and there but Linda had objected. One, starting a fire in the hotel and two, it just didn't seem right. Sam had tried to persuade her but she would have none of it right then.

Dean sat next to Sam with his head pillowed on his arms and a blanket around his shoulders. Sam couldn't tell if he was asleep or not. Linda move restlessly around the room, peering out the window from time to time where rain now pounded the glass. Thunder rolled more gently as the storm moved slowly on.

Sam made a face. He yawned helplessly for a moment. It couldn't be later than 7 or 8 but he felt like he'd been up all night. "I don't know," he finally said. "We need to burn those bodies and salt them. That's the only way to know for sure."

"Is that legal?" Linda asked suddenly. "I mean, aren't you supposed to call the police if you find a body?" Her voice trembled slightly. It wouldn't take much to send her into hysterics at this point.

Sam glanced at David. "We can't call the police, not if you want this to end." He slid his cup back and forth. "They'd take the bodies for forensics work and identification. Obviously, Margaret, at least, couldn't move on as long as her body was bricked behind that wall. I'm not sure just finding it is enough to let her go."

"It just doesn't seem right. They must have family." She sank into a chair at the table.

Sam glanced at Dean as he stirred. "We can take care of it in the morning, but I really don't want to wait any longer than that. Everything seems ok ,now, but…" he reached over and pulled the blanket back up on Dean's shoulders.

Dean drew a deep breath and pushed himself up, dislodging the blanket again. His face was still flushed. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then rested his head in his palms. "Man," he growled, clearing his throat roughly. "I need a drink."

Linda got up. "I'll get you some water-"

Dean shook his head. "No. I mean a drink. A real drink."

Sam frowned at him. "Like hell."

Dean tilted his head to the side and looked at Sam out of the corners of his eyes, brows drawn together. "Did that sound like I was asking permission?"

Sam blinked at the tone, content and coldness of his words.

"I can make decisions for myself, Sam. I don't need you to tell what I can and can't have." Dean moved his eyes back to David. "So, you got any alcohol around here?"

 The room was awkwardly silent as David stared first at Sam's hurt, puzzled expression and then at Dean's angry eyes.

"There's…uh, there's some whiskey…I think," he offered uneasily. It's under the counter, up front." He made a small pointing gesture. "I can get it."

"No." Sam said. "You don't need to drink in your condition."

Dean grimaced and massaged his fingers into his forehead. "My condition? That brings up something else. Hand over the damned aspirin." This time Sam looked shocked. "I think I can also decide how much painkiller I need and when. I'm sick of havin' to beg for them."

Sam face flushed angrily and he stood up, pulling the bottle from his pocket and tossing it on the table. "I tried to give them to you before and you wouldn't take them!" he snapped. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Nothing." Dean shook six aspirin out of the bottle, inexplicably enjoying seeing Sam's mouth tighten. He tossed three in his mouth, swallowing. "In case you haven't noticed," he pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. "I've had kind of a crappy day! Never mind," he said to David. He threw the last three aspirin to the back of his throat and washed them down with Sam's coffee, choking slightly.

He walked to the door, the blanket slipping off onto the floor. Sam grabbed it up, wadding it in his fists. Dean paused at the door for a moment, hand against the frame and then moved across the lobby to the stairs,

Sam turned back toward David and Linda. "I'm sorry. Dean gets in these moods when he's been pushed too far." He bit his lip and looked back at the stairs. 

Dean had to stop every few steps and brace himself on the wall before he could go on.

"It's ok, Sam. If anyone deserves a fit of temper he certainly does." Linda assured him. "Go help him. We can work all this out tomorrow. I'm sure everything is gonna be all right."

"Yeah, Sam. We already owe you big time." David smiled at him and went to stand by Linda.

"Thanks." Sam finally said. "I hope you're right." He trotted across the lobby and caught Dean halfway up the stairs, grabbing his arm. "What the hell, Dean?"

Dean tried to jerk away but Sam held tight. "Leave me alone, Sam. I wanta lie down."

Sam pulled him on up the stairs, "Then let me help you and stop being an ass. What was that all about back there?" he kicked open their door and aided Dean back to the bed. His clothes were filthy and sweat soaked but he had no others and Sam hadn't had a chance to wash any clothes.

"What?" Dean asked, sounding confused. He lay still as Sam pulled his boots off and lifted his legs onto he bed.

"Dean, I know how you get sometimes but, believe me, now is not the time for a trip to nowheresville." Sam dropped Dean's boot's and sat on the bed.

Dean's eyes were cloudy looking. Sam sighed, reaching to feel Dean's face. Still hot. As annoyed as he was about the triple dose of aspirin, maybe they'd help.

"Dean reached up and covered his eyes. "Man," he groaned. "I feel awful…I'm so tired." His hand dropped back to the bed. He brushed Sam's leg with his fingers. "I didn't mean whatever I said, Sammy….I don't know what I'm saying anymore. My brain feels like someone put it through a blender."

Sam closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. He was incredibly weary himself. After tomorrow this would be over and he and Dean could get the hell away from here.

"It's ok, Dean. I know. Try to get some sleep." He stood with an effort. "Hopefully we'll be out of here tomorrow." He went to the door, pulled it to, flipped off the lights and stumbled over to his own bed and dropped down on it. He was asleep within minutes.

Dean lay in the darkness with his eyes closed. He drifted more into unconsciousness than sleep, barely registering the soft sounds that came from the head of his bed. A regular rhythm.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap.



Chapter Sixteen: Open Wounds

Dean came semi-awoke, lost in a haze of stifling heat, the air so thick it felt solid as he struggled to draw it into his lungs. The effort alone sent his heart thudding and he gasped weakly through his mouth, dragging his arm across his sweating forehead.
He rolled onto his side, trying to ease the nausea in his stomach. It felt like every muscle in his body ached and his head was filled with an insistent vibration that seemed to be growing with every labored beat of his heart. Weak moonlight lessened the gloom and his eye fell on Sam, collapsed in an ungainly pile on his bed, exactly like he had fallen asleep.

Dean felt a surge of guilt for what he'd put Sam through the last few days. Hell, he thought, the last year. Or 20. Unbidden, memories began to filter across his mind.

Standing outside their house as it burned, clutching Sam in his arms.

Sam as a laughing baby, splashing in the tub as Dean tried to bathe him.

Huddling together under the bedclothes during a storm, the first time Dad didn't come home all night.

Teaching Sam to hold the shotgun correctly, so the recoil didn't knock him down.

The choking fear every time they went on a hunt with Sam and Dean feared for his brother's safety.

The first heart stopping time Sam had gone down and not gotten up again, blood everywhere.

And every time after that.

The night Sam left for Stanford.

Sam fighting and screaming as Dean dragged him from his flaming apartment, leaving Jess behind to burn.

Sam, standing by the side of the road, alone in the dark, as Dean drove angrily away.

He ground his fists into his eyes, making a muffled sound of anguish. God, if only he hadn't been so spineless and hadn't forced Sam back into this he might still have his pretty girl and his pretty life….

Are you enjoying the show, boy? I can offer you more.

He felt the words more than heard them, but they rang loudly in his head nonetheless. He jerked his hands down and rolled back over, head spinning. Through a drifting fog he could make out a tall figure in dark clothing standing at the foot of his bed. The figure moved closer and Dean could make out the goatee and slightly balding man he had seen in the, seemed like a century ago
pictures, Sam had shown him. This was Doctor Nigel Becker, renowned cancer specialist, standing at the end of Dean's bed, a pissed off look on his face, agitatedly tapping a pair of glasses on the foot board,

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean said anyway, not really surprised. At this point he knew he was dreaming, if not delirious. What the hell did it matter?

Don't play with me, boy, Becker snarled. If you think you suffered unintentionally in Margaret's clumsy hands, don't doubt what I'm capable of doing on purpose.

"You shouldn't be here," Dean drawled, he was having trouble collecting his thoughts. "You're buried in Florida, you sick son of a bitch."

Stupid boy. Becker leaned on the foot board. Margaret was mine until that cancer ridden weakling took her away from me. If I was willing to kill her rather than lose her, don't you think I would make my own small sacrifices to make sure I could still reach her if I wanted to.

Dean stared at the long slender hands gripping the foot rail. There was something wrong  but he couldn't put his finger on it.

I can't undo what's been done but I can make your precious brother regret every moment of your presence here….

Dean tried to struggle upright. "Leave my brother alone! If you hurt him—" Blood began to thunder in his skull.

Becker laughed, like breaking glass. I have no intention of hurting him. He assured Dean. I'm going hurt you.

"You can't do anything to me." Dean bluffed, even as the room was starting to shift.

 I won't have to. Becker said with a thin smile. Trust me. You've got more than enough ammunition to do it to yourself. All you need is
a little push and you'll be over the edge…

What you do to yourself will be much more painful for your brother to deal with than anything I could ever do to him.

Becker straightened with a sigh. Such a waste of a life, he turned slowly away, as if it no longer mattered. Nothing but death and destruction follows you everywhere you go because of your useless interference. Becker looked back over his shoulder, studying Dean with a crooked smile.

Don't you think it's time to stop?

Dean screamed as the thick stone walls in his mind, already weakened and shaky, blasted apart and he was swept away in the maelstrom, drowning in a whirlpool of blood and horror. A lifetime of terror, hurts, failures and disappointments washed over him and through him, replaying each tragic, life altering moment he had buried with such care that he had convinced himself they no longer existed. He was helpless against the onslaught and fell, crushed beneath its weight, leaving his soul ripped apart.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He came to, after a fashion, drifting, not really aware of his surroundings but conscious of movement. He could sense the presence of others around him, could hear a soft whisper of conversation but not really clear enough to make out the words. His muscles felt so heavy, it was almost painful to try to move. He became aware, after a dizzy moment that it wasn't he who was moving but
rather, his surroundings were moving around him. He reached out and felt nothing yet the air around him felt solid, oppressive.

He realized he was standing, a thick white mist writhing around him. The voices came from the mist, the words gradually becoming clearer as he stood and listened. Cocking his head as if to hear better.

Murderer! Thief!

Dean gasped, twisting as the words cut into him like a knife, hurting. He brushed his hand across his face trying to rid himself of the clinging fog. "Who's there?" he gasped drunkenly.

A face suddenly formed out of the whiteness, lips peeled back in a grimace of hate. Layla Roark's face.

Killer, she hissed, drawing back into the swirls. It was my turn! You didn't deserve this gift!

Dean jerked back . The bitter words a physical blow. "It wasn't my fault!" He cried and his eyes fluttered. His eyes didn't feel open but he could still see.

Butcher!

A woman's face whose name he had never learned darted at him. She had been torn to pieces because he couldn't reach her in time to stop the demon. Her voice was hot needles sinking into his brain.

You tore out your brother's heart, destroyed his chance for happiness…..Jessica spat the words at him as she passed, her face a twisted parody of seared flesh.  If you'd stayed away….

"I didn't know!" Dean exclaimed, desperately grabbing for her, fingers sliding through her. "How could I know?"

Other faces began to form in the whiteness, shifting in and out of the mist, closer with each passing second as they hurled words into his face. Faces buried in his memory, each an accusation, a victim, a failure, each dead because of him.

Sadist…. Psycho…

He flinched away, falling to his knees, raising his hands to fend them off, the mist shifted, changing colors, turning red, thick, rising to drown him in blood again…

You deny it?….the lives you've ended…the horrors you've inflicted?...

It cut through his mind like a serrated surgical instrument, as deeply as it could go. Dean ground his hands into his eyes, gasping as the pain shot through his skull. He strained his eyes into this non-vision. His heart began to race and he felt lightheaded, sick, the cold crawling inside him, freezing his muscles.

Monster…

He flailed out with his hands, searching for anything solid to hang on to.

Then Cynthia Bailey, her face trapped halfway between human and werewolf, drenched in scarlet, stepped from the swirling red mist and thrust a bloody, limp, bundle of tiny arms and legs into his grasp.

Baby killer!

"NO!" Dean yelled, throwing his arms over his face, feeling himself shatter like glass, little pieces exploding outward like  a bizarre puzzle that could never be reassembled.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He opened his glazed eyes, lying on the cold floor, the room shifting and twisting as he tried to focus, making him sick. He dragged himself upright, clutching the furniture, stumbling toward the door. Fixated on the simple realization of what he had to do. 

Sam , his consciousness pulled to far away to hear his brother, never moved as Dean staggered from the room.

Dean wasn't sure how he found his way downstairs. Through shimmering waves of fever the steps seemed to slew around as he tried to walk, making him stumble drunkenly, nearly going over the short rail. He caught himself against the wall and used it to keep himself upright.

He could feel the heat pouring off of him as the blood pounded through his veins, his body jerking with every pump of his heart. He stopped his forward momentum on the last stair post, catching the carved wooden ball at the top. The pain in his hand as he stopped himself almost blacked him out as he felt the stitches tearing through his flesh. He grabbed the edge of the bandage in his
teeth and ripped it off. Blood began to drip from his hand. He hung there, sick and dizzy, trying to remember what he was doing,

What he had to do.

He clutched his head with one hand, tearing into his hair. He wanted the pain to stop. God, he just wanted the voices to stop….

He only knew one way to do that and he already knew where to find it. The pint of Jack Daniels was right where David had said it was, tucked under the counter. The seal was broken and the bottle was about a fourth empty but it was enough. He unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle up, drinking until he gagged. He coughed and wiped the whiskey spilling down his face on his arm, eyes
watering. The liquor seared his throat and hit his stomach like a fireball, sending more heat to burn behind his eyes. He cradled his bleeding hand against his belly, blood dripping down his skin.

The car….he had to get to the car, it was important. Everything had to be just right and clothes, after all, made the monster.

He pushed away from the counter, a trail of bloody hand prints marking his passing.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sam woke up suddenly, not from a dream but from the cold sensation that something was wrong. He jerked around to look at Dean's empty bed, blankets thrown on the floor, the door to the hall was open.

SHIT! Fuck! God, he should have seen this coming!

He rolled out of the bed and threw himself into the clothes lying on the floor, jamming his feet into his sneakers, hands shaking.

How could he have been so stupid! He wasn't sure if was referring to himself or Dean. He scuffed through the salt line at the door, to pissed and scared to care. He was without a clue as to where Dean might have gone.

He should have tied Dean to the fucking bed!

He circled down the carpeted stairs, stopping dead as he discovered, the bloody trail Dean had left behind him. He went out to the veranda, tumbling down the steps. The Impala was still parked in the darkness under the far trees. He jogged over to it and checked through the windows to make sure Dean wasn't passed out in the backseat, wishing he was.

Heavy clouds raced across the fading moon, alternately lighting the scene and plunging it into blackness. Cold wind blasted through his thin shirt and the trees rattled their branches together over his head. Lightning illuminated the western sky and thunder murmured again in the distance. He stood there for a moment rubbing the back of his neck trying to think.

He mentally kicked himself repeatedly. He should have forced the issue. He should have gotten Dean the hell away from there the first night, when he started acting so weird.

The only bright spot was that Dean did not usually go far when he made the decision to waste himself with liquor. Assuming that was what this was, and Sam had to admit the last few days had been more than enough to send Dean on one of his infrequent benders. Dean needed to be able to get back to wherever they were calling home at the time, or at least make it possible for Sam to find him. The fact that the Impala was still there was a good sign that he was probably on the grounds somewhere. But considering the size of the place and how well Dean seemed to be able to find his way around, God knew how long it would take to
find him.

Dean liked vantage points when he was in one of his damned moods so Sam decided to start high and work his way down but it still took almost an hour to comb the roof and higher balconies. There were so many rooms he could be anywhere. He wasn't sure if he was upset or relieved as each place turned out to be wrong.

Sam was panicked and shivering by the time he made it to the second floor balcony that overlooked the empty pool. Ragged steaks of lightning tore through the sky overhead and thunder was once again rattling the windows. Cold wind flapped Sams clothes and tossed his hair in is eyes.

A muffled cough jerked Sam's eyes to the far corner of the building where the stone railing met the wall.

Dean was pressed into the corner, almost hidden in the shadows. He was bare footed, elbows on his knees, one hand cupped over his eyes, the other dangling forward, a pint of Jack held loosely in his fingers. Sam had no clue as to where he might have gotten it, but then remembered David's comment about the bottle under the counter. Trust Dean to recall that piece of information.

Relief and fury battled for dominance as Sam stalked across the balcony. "Christ, Dean! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Not everywhere or you woulda found me sooner," Dean drawled. He sounded like he'd been eating razor blades. He tilted the blood stained, nearly empty, bottle of Jack up to his lips and took a long pull, coughing as swallowed.

That pissed Sam off even more. "I woke up and you were gone. How long have you been up here?"

Dean glared at him. "You know," he spat in disgust, "You never did sleep through the night, not when you were a baby and not now." He started to take another drink but let his hand fall back. "Not long enough." He said in reply to Sam's question, sucking in a deep breath and coughing.

Sam could see him shivering in the cold air. An occasional icy tap of rain his Sam's skin.

"How much you had to drink?" he demanded.

Dean's glare this time should have at least caused Sam an embolism. "Not nearly enough, Dad."

Sam drew breath again and tried to think how to handle this. This wasn't Dean's usual, rather gentle, descent into a drunken stupor. In an obtuse sort of way, even though he hated what Dean would do to himself, those brief, unblocked moments were Sam's only insight into Dean's heart. This wasn't like that. This was a desperate and violent effort to shut himself off as fast as he could, any
way he could and damn the consequences.

"Get up, Dean!" Sam suddenly yelled, decision made. "We gonna get our shit and get outta here! I don't care what Dad owes this guy!"

Sam saw Dean draw in and expel another lungful of air.

"Fuck you." Dean said, without looking at him. Dean raised the bloody bottle again but Sam lunged forward and jerked it out of
his hand. Dean swore at the pain it caused.

"Damn you!" he snarled pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Gimme that!"

Resigned to the fact that he may as well pitch his head after it, Sam threw the bottle as hard as he could. He heard it shatter faintly in the darkness and braced himself.

Dean stepped into the fragmented moonlight. Lightning threw everything into brilliant relief. Dean's shirt hung unbuttoned and sweat glistened on his face and chest, rolling down his body to soak his jeans. He stared at Sam, fists balled at his side. His face was as pale as the stone around him and the look in his eyes was nothing Sam had ever seen before. He breathed heavily through his
mouth, ribs rising and falling under his taut skin.

Sam recoiled at the sudden, sickening smell of sweat and blood that rolled over him from Dean. With a chill he suddenly recognized the blood soaked jeans and shirt Dean had worn that night at the Bailey's. His stomach turned over and his heart began to race.

"Dean…" he began softly, wary now. "Why are you wearing those clothes?"

Dean coughed, glancing down at himself. He looked up at Sam in surprise. "Whadaya mean? Don't you reco'nize trophies when you see 'em?' He held his shirt out away from his body and turned his leg. "Hunter's gotta have trophies? Right?" he pointed randomly at a large red stain on his shirt.

"See here?" He held it out for Sam to see better. "This is that…kid in St. Louis? You remember him? Blonde hair? Real cute." He moved his finger to his blood soaked thigh. "This is from that woman I killed in Morrilton…no, no, wait,you weren't there for that..." He swallowed, grimacing at the pain in his throat, then snapped his fingers. "That's right! You were in college! While I was out slaughtering people-" He coughed again, wiping a hand across his forehead.

San took a step forward but Dean backed off. "No, I'm not done, not even close." He slapped his other bloody leg. "This is Layla! And
Marshall…and…. Shit, there's so many I can't even 'member them all. But they're all here, their blood, all over me….inside me…." His face crumpled and he bent over, pressing his hands to his eyes, shoulders shaking. "God, That's all I do….Christ, Jack the Rippers got nothin' on me." He sucked in air through his teeth with a sizzle  and straightened, swiping at his eyes, half choking, holding his injured hand against his stomach. Sam could see more blood smearing across Deans belly as he moved it. Dean sniffed, staring blearily at Sam.

Sam held out his hand. "Dean, please, we just need to get away from here. Something here is doing this to you, making you feel these things. Once we go, everything will be all right—"

Dean snarled and swore at him, stumbling back against the balcony railing, coughing. Sam gasped and shot upright, fearing Dean would accidentally go over the side.

"You don't get it, Sammy….you never have." Dean grabbed his head in one hand, twisting his fingers in his raggedly cut hair. "You got the brains, you were smart. You got away. Me, I'm just the muscle, I'm stupid. I'm Dad's fucking attack dog. I kill on command. That's all I'm good for. I can't walk away. I don't even need Dad to order it anymore, I just do it 'cause I can!" Dean sank to the ground, knees akimbo, head back against the railing.

Sam felt helpless against whatever had Dean by the throat. He knew Dean didn't really mean or even realize what he was saying but he was terrified by the driving emotion behind it. Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. He cautiously approached Dean and crouched down, putting a hand on Dean's knee, leaving it there even as Dean jerked his knee to get it off. Sam dug his fingers in. "Dean…"

Dean shocked him by suddenly uncoiling from the ground, knocking Sam backwards, straddling him, hands forcing Sam's shoulders down. Sam's head rang from hitting the stone floor and he shook his head, eyelids fluttering.

Dean leaned close over him, his sweat dripping onto Sam face. "What's wrong, Sammy? I thought you liked it when I got plastered and spilled my guts to you?" He grabbed Sam's hand and crushed it against his own chest. "I can feel you heart beating, Sam….can you feel mine?"

Sam felt Dean's heart thundering under his hand. He rocked to try and dislodge Dean but it was useless. "Dean, please! You've been through hell the last few weeks. You're exhausted, you're sick. I know what happened at the Bailey's hit you hard. But you did—"

Dean cut him off with a coarse laugh. "The right thing? Is that what I friggin' did? Hit me hard?" Dean laughed again, full of contempt
and disgust. "I killed a pregnant woman, Sammy, I killed her baby. My pinnacle of accomplishment in a lifetime of destruction!"

Sam shook his head again and grabbed Dean's arm with his free hand in a panic. "No! When her husband bit her she stopped being a woman. It's terrible, but it's true! You had no choice! You know what would have happened with both of them if you hadn't pulled the trigger!"

Dean leaned closer, still clutching Sam's hand against his chest and put his lips next to Sam's ear, the slick sweat on his face rubbing against Sam. "When I shot Cynthia Bailey," he hissed. "She died. But her baby? " Sam grew cold as Dean went on. "You ever watch a baby die inside it's mother, Sammy, boy? Watch it writhe, struggle, just under the skin, until it finally quits moving?" He released Sam's hand abruptly and got to his feet, swaying over him.

"Your never gonna get it. I finally do though." He snorted and shook his head. A shiver rocked him from head to toe and he backed slowly away from Sam, eyes down. He reached a hand behind him, dropping into a crouch. Sam saw moonlight flash on metal.

Sam slowly got to one knee and held his hands out, palms up. "Dean…."

Sam braced himself to leap across the short space between himself and where Dean now knelt, his favorite hunting knife pressing against the thin skin of his forearm ready to draw up toward the elbow. There wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that Dean knew exactly how to do it so there would be no hope in hell of getting him help before he bled to death. Slashing across your wrists was for pussy's and grandstanders who wanted attention. Up the arm, into the elbow was for people who meant business.

Dean's eyes rolled up to Sam's face. "I've been drowning in blood since I was four years old, Sam…." He winced. The muscles of the injured hand holding the knife tightened convulsively.

"Dean! Jesus!…For Christ sake, Dean, don't!" Sam cried, forcing himself to stay where he was despite his every instinct. As Sam watched, a thin line of red appeared just under the blade. "Dean, please! You don't know what you're doing!" Sam voice shook with desperate emotion, tears starting to spill from his eyes.

"Oh no, Sam…" Dean's voice was beyond tired. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm putting an end to it. You don't want to see this, go….I wish you would." Dean's voice shook too, his glazed eyes were wild. Blood began to trickle , running down his arm to drip off his fingers. Dean's eyes flicked down for an instant as the red drops hit the floor then shot back up to Sam. The corners of Dean's mouth twitched into crooked smile, beads of sweat on his face ran together and joined the blood dripping to the floor. His eyes softened. His voice broke. "I can't do this anymore…" The blade slid upward.

"CHRIST, DEAN, NO!" Sam screamed, throwing himself forward.


Chapter Seventeen: Scattered Pieces 

Sam hit Dean in a sideways tackle that took them both down. Sam, grabbing wildly for the knife and Dean fighting wildly to keep him away. They rolled across the dirty, wet stone floor of the balcony, grunting and cursing, smashing into the French doors with a shattering of glass. Thunder and the crackle of lightning added it's own accent to the battle as they each fought for control. 

Sam caught Dean's bad hand, still clutching the knife and crushed it in a death grip, causing Dean to scream out and release his hold. The knife clattered to the ground and Sam kicked it away.

"God damn you!" Dean swore at Sam, trying to get enough freedom to swing on him. Even though Sam had gotten the knife away, Dean had managed to open a huge gash on his arm and blood was splattering over both of them. "Get away from me!." Dean was berserk in his attempt to get Sam off of him.

Sam had no desire to injure Dean but it appeared Dean had no such problem regarding Sam,judging by his manic efforts. Even in his present condition and bleeding like a stuck pig, he was still a formidable opponent. Sam realized that Dean, fired by only God knew what, was fighting madly to get back to that knife and finish the job.

They rolled back over the broken glass, Sam feeling it bite into his skin, as he concentrated on just trying to get Dean pinned down. Behind him he heard a sudden scream as Linda and David burst onto the balcony, stopping dead at the sight of Sam and Dean, thrashing on the ground, blood everywhere.

Sam finally managed to get Dean flat on his back and hold him there by literally lying on top of him spread eagled, with Dean's arms and legs pushed out to the side, so that he had no leverage. With Dean already weakened, Sam's greater size and weight finally turned the tide. Sam could feel his hand slide over the blood covering Dean's arm as it continued to run from the gash.

"Dean, STOP!" Sam begged. "Please, God, just stop!"

Dean had no intention of stopping and flailed against Sam with all the strength he could muster, making his blood pump that much harder. At this rate he would bleed to death before Sam could get him under control.

"Let me go!"

Sam finally head butted Dean as hard as he could, sending Dean's skull crashing back into the stone and stunning himself in the process. Dean went instantly limp as Sam collapsed on top of him, breathless and exhausted.

Reeling, Sam dragged himself off of Dean and pulled off his own overshirt, seeing the blood spots but ignoring the sting of the cuts across his back from the broken glass. His hands shook as he bunched the shirt up to press against the gash in Dean's arm. It was long, bad enough, but not as deep as all the blood would have indicated. Apparently, Sam's tackle had kept Dean him from
digging in too hard.

Linda and David rushed over. "My God! Sam, what's going on? We heard all the crashing and…"

"Go up to our room!" Sam barked, cutting David off. "Get the brown bag on the floor by the table, bring it here!"

David bolted without argument. Linda, wearing a robe and gown that barely concealed her assets in the gusting wind, knelt by Sam. "What can I do?"

He grabbed her hands and pressed them over the shirt. "Hold this here!" The next blast of thunder almost drowned him out. "I'll be right back!" He ran down the stairs and back through the lobby and out the front door to the Impala. Icy rain pelted him as he tore through the darkness. He fumbled the keys into the lock and jerked the trunk open, grabbing a coil of rope and a loaded salt gun.
He slammed the trunk back down and stumbled on trembling legs back to the hotel, dropped the rope on the floor and got back to the balcony.

David was kneeling by Linda, examining the slash on Dean's arm. Dean was still out cold.

"We need to get this bandaged." Sam said tersely, pushing Linda out of the way as he knelt again. "Then we're burning those bodies. NOW!"

Swiftly, he wound Dean's arm with bandages from the first aid kit he had had David fetch. He also wrapped Dean's hand and tied off the gauze. They could do a better job later.

"Your back is bleeding, Sam." Linda exclaimed, getting to her feet and accepting the bag as he thrust it at her. "What happened out here?"

"David, help me with Dean," Sam ordered. Rain was starting to patter on them as they managed to get Dean's limp form up and hauled to the lobby. They lay him on the floor and Sam wrapped Dean's wrists with rope and tied him to the column
that ran up to the ceiling, leaving a short lead so that Dean could move. Once that was done, Sam collapsed next to him on the floor, breathing heavily, eyes closed.

"Why did you do that?" Linda quavered, eyes going from Sam to Dean and back again.

"Dean just tried to kill himself!" Sam wheezed. He pressed his hands over his eyes. "Christ…"

"He what?" Linda exclaimed. "Why would he do that?" 

Sam had a pretty good idea. Even after the Bailey's, Dean had still been able to keep it together. Dean was always balanced on the precipice of a psychological minefield of his own creation but something God awful had to have happened to force Dean to such measures. The thought terrified Sam that Dean had finally lost control.

Sam dragged himself laboriously to his feet, ordering his legs to hold him up. The healing gash in his thigh ached to the bone and he limped as he moved toward David.

"Come with me!" he ordered David. He turned and pointed a finger at Linda, who flinched back. "Watch him!"

 Sam and David disappeared down the stairs. Linda sat next to Dean's blood covered body. A darkening bruise was appearing
on his forehead, almost identical to the one she had noticed on Sam. Lightning made the windows glow, on the heels of crackling thunder. Dean moaned softly and pulled against the ropes holding his wrists. Linda reached out tentatively and touched his face. His head was resting on Sam's jacket.

His eyelids fluttered and finally opened. He stared blearily at Linda, tugging again on the ropes. "What the…" The pain in his arm and hand doubled as he began to struggle.

"Dean! Dean, sweetie, please! Calm down!" She did her best to soothe him with words, willing to admit he frightened her enough to make her want to keep her distance. "Sam tied you up. He said you tried to kill yourself!" She reached out again. "He'll be right back, I promise."

"Sam? SAM did this! SAM!" Dean bellowed Sam's name with surprising strength. Linda snatched her hand back. "SAM, you get your ass back here right NOW!" he screamed. He managed to drag himself to his knees using the ropes, but he couldn't stand. He swayed so badly, just kneeling was almost impossible. Linda backed away from him. "Sam! God DAMMIT!" The vibration from his voice reverberated through his skull and he bent over clutching his head.

He turned as Sam and David wrestled their burden up the stairs. They had found a tarp somewhere and had wrapped the bodies in it. Sam dropped his end of the bundle on the landing and rushed over to Dean, grabbing his shoulders. "Dean! Calm Down! You've lost a lot of blood, calm down!"

"Untie me, Sam! Right now! I mean it! You fucking untie me NOW!" Dean still wore that crazed look and Sam wouldn't have untied him right then to save his own life.

Sam shoved Dean up against the column, as carefully as he could, hating himself. "NO!" He shouted back. "You shut up and listen to me!"

Dean still struggled against Sam but it was obvious his strength was failing him. His eyes shot daggers at Sam, lost between disbelief and fury.

Sam grabbed the rope binding Dean's hands and jerked it up, causing Dean to cry out. "You just fucking tried to slit your own wrists! You're not in control anymore, Dean! I can't take the chance that you'll try it again. I can't let you go until we burn these bodies!" Sam's voice made it clear he was at the end of his own rope. "I swear to God I will tie you the rest of the way up if you don't
settle down!" Sam shook his head. "It's not what I want, Dean. But I got no choice."

"You son of a bitch…." Dean seethed, his voice faltering as he began to cough again. He jerked against the ropes, but his body was betraying him with it's weakness and his head was swimming. The adrenaline was leaving his body in a rush along with what little color he had. Dean's head rocked and Sam gripped his arms as he slumped down. "Get the fuck away from me…" Dean gasped.

Knowing Dean didn't realize what he was saying didn't keep the words from hurting.

Dean's body heaved with each breath, his skin was clammy and Sam was afraid that much more stress to his body would send Dean into shock. Sam climbed wearily to his feet and started back toward David.

Dean rasped. "Man, please untie me…." He swallowed and closed his eyes. "I feel sick…." The whiskey he had drunk was swirling around his head intermixing with the images spinning through his brain. He started to shiver.

Sam squatted down, studying Dean.

"Dean…look at me." Sam put his fingers under Dean's jaw and pulled his head up. "Dean, you just tried to kill yourself." Sam said it gently but his eyes were anything but gentle.

Dean grimaced. "I what….no…." The blatant evidence of his bandaged arm and the fact that Sam had him trussed to a post told him otherwise. "Christ…." he groaned as it all crashed in on him. For a moment he thought his head would burst from the onslaught of his private hell opening up before him, a bottomless chasm of horror and pain waiting to suck him in. The things he had done….what he had tried to do standing on the cold balcony in his bloody clothes, with his bloody soul, facing off with Sam…..

Sam grabbed him. "Dean! Dean, stay with me!" Dean felt his hands jerking as Sam quickly untied him. He felt himself being laid on the hard stone floor, his body quaking. His legs were raised and propped on something as softness was tucked around him. Sam's voice, speaking urgently, "Linda, get some water, please? Room temperature and put a little salt in it."

"Sure, Sam." Linda hurried into the kitchen.

Sam brushed a hand though Dean's hair. "Lie still Dean. Just lie still." Sam rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired on so many levels. "We've got to burn those bodies." He said, looking at David. "Is there someplace outside where the rain won't stop us?" Sam massaged his forehead trying to keep the headache pounding behind his eyes from getting any worse.

David nodded, licking his lips nervously. "There's a big covered shed next to the hotel where we've been storing equipment. It has a dirt floor, there's an access from inside the hotel."

"Fine, let's get them out there and get this done. You have kerosene or something?" Sam stopped as Linda returned with a glass of tepid water. He smiled his thank you and put a hand under Dean's head.

"Try and drink some of this," Sam helped hold the glass as Dean choked down a few swallows, making a face at the salty taste. He still felt nauseous but he'd stopped shaking.

Sam offered him the glass again but Dean shook his head.

"Sam, listen to me…" Dean pleaded as Sam lowered his head back down on the wadded up jacket.

Sam's mouth tightened. "Dean…"

Dean whispered hoarsley. "What about Becker?"

Sam stopped dead. "What about who? Becker? Becker came to you?" Sam gave Dean a narrow eyed look of suspicion. "I thought it was Margaret that's been wearing you like a damned shirt."

Dean caught Sam's arm. "Margaret didn't want to hurt me, Sam. She just wanted us to find her body and Stephen's. She was looking for someone to help her."

His grip on Sam's arm tightened and he struggled to sit up, even though Sam was trying to push him back. His legs slid off the bags of concrete they were propped on. "What happened with me…..before," He stopped, fighting his way through the jumble in his mind, then closed his eyes and pushed on. "Becker made it happen. I don't know how…. everything just fell in…. I couldn't stop myself.
He said he was gonna punish you for finding them. But he was gonna do it by …." Dean swallowed and rubbed a hand across his dry lips. He had been worn out before but the act of sitting upright was almost too much for him now. His muscles were shaking at the effort.

Sam leaned forward. "What, Dean?" he asked gently. He was aware of Linda re-entering the room, pulling on a heavy sweater. She had changed clothes. Lightning blued the room, causing the lights to flicker.

Dean's eyes shot to David, then Sam, and then back to the floor. "He said he was gonna hurt you by making me hurt myself." Dean fumbled for the words, embarrassed to be saying them in front of people who had no idea the sort of things Sam and Dean had seen and done in their short lives. "I couldn't stop the memories…all those things I….I couldn't stop them…" Dean covered his eyes with
his bandaged hand, I can't stop them…unable to say it, unable to block it out.

Sam's eyes widened as he realized what Dean was saying. "Dean, it's ok…" He reached out but Dean jerked back from his touch, disgusted with himself for being unable to withstand what had amounted to psychological rape.

"Don't." There was an edge of panic to Dean's voice that Sam took seriously. He dropped his hand back to his side.

"Becker died and was buried in Florida, Dean," Sam began. "How can he be here? " He still wasn't sure this wasn't just another layer of Dean's recent possessed psychosis.

Dean raised his head, a memory that had been hiding in the back of his mind suddenly making itself known.. "He was at the foot of my bed, tapping his glasses on the foot board." Dean seemed to be talking to himself. "I was watching his hands. There was something…." God, why couldn't he remember! He tried to claw a hand through his hair but both arms hurt too much and he dropped them back to his lap with a grimace.

"Margaret said that he wouldn't let them go…."

Sam nodded in response. "You said that a couple of times. I didn't understand."

"The only way they could be controlled by Becker's spirit is if Becker had a way to come back here, a way to stay in….." Dean gasped as a series of images played across his mind's eye, flickering and out of focus, like an old movie.

>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

Becker whistled a simple tune softly, pausing as the wall was almost completed, the last few bricks ready to go, save for the tiny slit he was leaving at the top. A part of his mind was niggling him about leaving Margaret like that with nothing to remind her of him, a token of their time together. 

Damn. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? His watch? A photo?

No it needed to be something very personal. He still loved her….still .wanted to be with her.

>>>>>>>>>>>

It suddenly him like a physical blow. "Oh, my God!" Dean groaned at his slow mindedness. "Shit! His hands!" Dean could see it clearly in his mind now, Becker leaning on the foot of the bed, fingers curled over the iron railing.

Light from the overhead lamps glinted off of the knife as Becker
positioned his hand flat on the table and set the blade against the skin of his
little finger. One quick push and it would be done…..

Nine fingers. Not ten.

"What?" Sam yelped, frustrated.

Dean held out his hands imploringly, fingers extended. "That's what was wrong, he was missing a finger! The son of a bitch cut off one of his own fingers and left it with them!

Sam and David gaped at him. "Are you kidding?" Sam finally got out. "I know he was a psycho, but, how can you know that about his finger? Maybe it was already missing."

"Listen to me! He told me that if he was willing to kill her, why wouldn't he make a small sacrifice of his own to stay with her?" Dean dragged a hand across his eyes. "Think about it, what better way to maintain contact? He may not have realized what it really could do for him, maybe it was just some stupid symbolic thing, but once he did….burning those two bodies may stop them from
coming back, but it won't stop Becker!" Groaning softly, Dean's head fell forward, his body sliding down.

Sam reached out to stop him and he sagged limply against Sam.

"I'm right, Sam. I know it." Dean breathed.

Sam took a deep breath. "If you're right, how the hell are we gonna find something like that in this hotel?"

"He didn't plan on killing her….. he did it before he finished bricking up the wall where we found them. He was sorry he didn't think of it sooner or he would have put it with their bodies….." Dean gripped Sam's arm. "It's still in the wall. Where we found them." Dean was using Sam's body to pull himself up.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, stopping him.

"I'm going with you.

"The hell you say," Sam replied, in no uncertain terms.

Dean shoved away from Sam and stood swaying, reeking of blood. He reached out to steady himself against the column he had been tied to.

"Yeah, the hell I say." He replied, swallowing the pain in his throat and welcoming the anger that got him on his feet. Praying it would be enough to keep him there.


Chapter Eighteen: Over The Edge

Sam and David had wrestled the two bodies outside, under the covered patio where equipment was stored to keep it dry. Rain was falling in earnest and thunder and lightning still flamed the sky.

They returned to the lobby where Dean and Linda waited. Sam helped Dean get back on his feet. He was looking worse by the minute but Sam was more concerned about Dean's mental equilibrium. Dean appeared distracted and confused and seemed to have trouble concentrating. The look on his face, though, told Sam an argument was pointless so they started down the stairs. Linda elected to remain in the lobby.

Sam carried the shotgun. He wouldn't have trusted Dean with a weapon anyway. He wasn't steady enough on his feet and had to use the walls to support himself as he walked down the corridor that led to the morgue.

Dean was freezing and wore Sam's jacket over his filthy shirt, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, wishing he'd thought to put on his boots. He stumbled along behind Sam, his slashed arm hugged to his body. He had shut himself down, refusing to listen to the words still hissing through his mind, sensing his demons hovering close by ready to sweep him away at the first unguarded moment.
They hung, gibbering softly, just beyond his reach and he couldn't help putting a hand over his ear to try to block out the sounds. He could almost see the o smother him, hands reaching out to drag him down.

God, it would be so easy to just let go….. 

"Dean…." Sam caught Dean's elbow, causing Dean to jerk upright with a gasp, shuddering away from Sam's touch, not even sure where he was. Somehow, he was bent over, leaning against the wall of the morgue.

"It's ok, Dean," Sam was saying softly. "This'll be over soon. Sit down, David and I'll search the alcove."

"No, I'm coming in with you." Dean finally managed to say, pulling himself from the whirlpool of his thoughts. "It's there, Sam."

"I believe you, Dean," Sam assured him. "I hope we can find it. It's just…I'm worried about you being here, so close to this-"

Dean frowned at him, straightening up painfully. "I'll be all right," he growled impatiently. He pushed at Sam, his eyes desperate. "I gotta stop this, Sam. This shit in my head…I can't…" Dean faltered, looking away.

Sam sighed, Dean's pain almost more than Sam could stand to see. He stepped Dean stepped through the doorway that had been hidden behind the lockers, hissing at the chill in the passage. Sam still frowning, went through after him. David followed, flashing his light down into the darkness then into the opening they had created in the wall Margaret and Stephen had been closed up behind.

Dean put his back against the wall across from the hole and slid down to the ground, feeling the rough wall scrape his back. He drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around himself, shaking. He was so cold and it was getting colder.

Sam laid the shotgun on the ground by the opening and shoved his upper body through the wall, flashing his light around on the dirty ground in the shallow recess. Part of him recoiled at the thought of what lying here, bound inescapably to her dead lover, waiting to die, had to have been like for Margaret. Despite himself, he could almost understand what had driven her to do
what she did. He was just sorry Dean had been the victim. He hoped to God the damage done to him was repairable.

He glanced back at Dean, crouched against the wall, head resting on his bandaged arm, the other hand cupped over the back of his head, eyes closed. Sam could see him shivering from where he knelt. He needed to get Dean to a doctor.

He twisted his body to look up along the mortared walls, searching for anything that might be the prize they were seeking.

Sam's eyes shifted around as he noticed how cold it was becoming. His breath was starting to fog. He pushed his body further into the opening, trying to reach up to a large blob of dried mortar. He could see something just hanging off the edge. He couldn't quite reach it…..
 
Dean's eyes snapped open and he slowly turned his head to look down the corridor as the air suddenly turned to ice and he couldn't breathe.

"What the…" David gasped, hugging himself. "Why's it so cold?"
 
Sam's fingertips just caught the mortar and he pulled up a few more inches, fingers closing on a small, shriveled object.

"I think I got it!" he cried excitedly. He lost his precarious grasp and the tiny object tumbled to the ground.
 
Dean dropped his arms and rolled to his knees, eyes cut so tightly to the side they almost appeared white. "He's coming…" he murmured.

There was an ominous crack from overhead. "Get out! " Dean screamed at David suddenly, finding the strength somewhere to lurch to his feet and shove the man toward the opening into the morgue. Caught off guard David tumbled through the doorway and sprawled in the outer room.

Sam heard the scuffle and pulled back out of the wall as another crack shot through the corridor as sharp as a gun blast. He watched, dumbfounded, as the walls of the corridor literally rippled outward, sending a wave of bricks, stone
and mortar at them.

Sam instinctively curled into a ball, covering his head with his arms as the explosion of rock came at him.

"Sam! Look out!" Dean threw himself over Sam's body knocking them both back into the shallow alcove as the ceiling collapsed into the corridor, burying them both in an avalanche of debris.

David, still shocked by Dean's sudden action, barely got out of the way to avoid the rocky missiles that shot out of the doorway along with a billowing cloud of dust. Stone crashed against the far wall.

Warily, waving the dust out of the way, trying to see, David pushed back into the doorway, coughing as he tried to inhale in the dusty air.

"Sam! Dean!" he shouted, stumbling over the rubble. He tripped over the stock of Sam's shotgun and jerked it free from the dirt.

"David!" Linda's voice shrieked his name as she ran into the morgue. "What was that! I heard an explosion--Oh, my God!"

She stumbled to a halt staring at the mass of debris falling out of the doorway."David!" She screamed again. "Oh, thank God, are you all right?" she exclaimed as he stepped out, shotgun dangling from his hand.

"I'm fine, help me!  The guys are trapped in here!" He disappeared into the slowly dissipating dust cloud. Linda followed without hesitation, picking her way over the scattered stone.

 "What happened?" She cried, coughing.

"I don't know. Help me get these rocks off them!" He started heaving the chunks of rock off of Sam and Dean's legs. Linda crouched down next to him and started pulling rocks away.

Both men were buried up to the point where their bodies disappeared into the shallow wall crevice and David could not see past midway up their chests. One pair of legs shifted suddenly, dislodging more stone and David heard someone groan.

Renewing their efforts, the couple cleared as much off as they could and pulled the top body free. Linda cried out as Dean rolled limply back into her arms. Sam was moving now and with David's help managed to extricate himself from the hole. His arms and body were scraped and cut and blood trickled down from a small gash on his forehead but otherwise he seemed ok. He shook the dirt out of his hair and tried to clear his head.

His eyes fell on Dean, lying in Linda's grasp, eyes closed. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth and a new assortment of cuts and scrapes had been added to his tormented body.

Sam knelt over him, feeling his arms, legs and chest for breaks. "Christ, Dean…."

Dean's chest convulsed and he coughed suddenly, curling over. Relief flooded Sam as Dean's eyes fluttered open.

"You… ok?" Dean gasped, reaching out for Sam's arm.

Sam grabbed his hand. "I'm fine, you stupid bastard! What the hell was the idea behind that?"

Dean rolled his head against Linda's pillowy chest. "Did you find it?" He groaned.

Sam nodded. He held out his hand. Somehow he had managed to snatch the tiny
object from the ground and keep hold of it during the explosion. "I got it, Dean."

Dean lifted a hand but it fell back limply to the ground. "Burn it, Sam….now….burn them…."

Sam shook his head, "I'm not leaving you here—"

"Sam, just do it…." Dean clutched his head suddenly, eyes clenched shut, crying out. "God…PLEASE! Jesus Christ, Sam, make it stop!"

 Yes, Sam, make it stop.

 Sam heard the voice in his head and leaped to his feet. "You bastard! What are you doing to him? Stop it!" Sam screamed out into the darkness. Linda and David stared at him.

Nothing. I opened a door….he can close it again…..if he doesn't go insane first….

 Sam saw the deeper darkness that coalesced into a form a few feet from Dean's writhing body as Linda tried to comfort him, tears running down her face.

Sam snatched the shotgun from the ground at David's feet and pumped both barrels toward Becker's laughing spirit.

Linda screamed as the booming echo deafened them all in the confined space.

Sam took another long look at Dean's twisted face and cupped a hand against it, fixing Linda, openly weeping now, with a deadly look.

"Take care of him!" he snarled and ran from the room. David got to his feet and pounded after him.

Linda cradled Dean against her and cried helplessly, her tears dropped on his dusty skin, leaving muddy streaks trailing down his face.
 
The door to the morgue slammed shut in Sam's face as he shot toward it. He barreled into it. Already hanging from his earlier assault , it flew backwards out of the frame.

His long legs ate up the narrow hallway that led from the morgue to the lower level rooms. That door too, slammed shut. Sam made short work of the doorknob using the butt of the shotgun and kicked the door outwards. David followed, panting.

The second Sam stepped into the main room, the packing cases and equipment tumbled toward him, tools sailing across the room and impacting into the walls. Sam covered his face and tried to shove and block as much as possible. He heard glass shatter as cases hit the display windows of the new sauna and David swearing behind him. Broken glass sliced into his skin but he ignored it,
fighting his way up to the first floor landing clutching Becker's remains in an iron fist.

>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
Linda's weeping had dropped to quiet sniffling and she wiped her eyes with her fingers, brushing the dirt off of Dean's face with the other hand. He had fallen still once Sam was gone, his breathing labored but steady. Sweat had formed on his skin and she used it to help wipe some of the dirt away with her sleeve. His skin felt so hot.

She was frightened by the muffled crashes she heard but resolutely stayed where she was. She knew she couldn't move Dean by herself and wouldn't leave him, no matter what.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Dean moaned softly and rocked his head against her, his eyes shifting restlessly under his lids. He couldn't face this nightmare anymore, screaming filled his head as horror after horror poured from the breach in his battlements, despite his desperate efforts to shore the walls back up and insulate himself from them. A pit was opening beneath him and the longer the battle raged the more he felt himself weakening, gradually being overcome with the desire to let himself fall into it, end it. His body would be left behind,
but his mind would no longer comprehend the need for the struggle.

I'm sorry, Sammy…..I can't take it anymore…..
 
Sam fought his way up the stairs, David on his heels, helping to block and clear the way as Sam stumbled and fell. David grabbed his arm and hauled him back up, racing through the lobby, leaping and dodging the obstacles cast in their way as they ran.

Thunder and lightning crackled outside as the front doors blew open and slammed back against the wall with an ear splitting crash, wind and rain blasting through the opening, soaking them both in an instant.

As they hit the dining room they both threw themselves to the ground as every window in the room exploded inward showering them with icicles of jagged glass. Wind screamed as it tore past the glass left in the frames. Wiring and lights burst into geysers of arcing blue, raining sparks to the ground. 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
Dean suddenly felt himself being wrenched back from the edge he was teetering on. Strong hands gripped his arms and held him steady even as his body tried to fall forward.

He twisted his head up. He was standing on the edge of a windswept cliff, sky a crooked patchwork of black and grey clouds racing each other from one horizon to the other. It was cold and dark and wind whistled and screeched though the barren branches of the skeletal trees stretching their claw-like limbs skyward. Below him, at the bottom of the abyss, flames leaped upward and withered arms and hands curled in and out of the fire, blackened faces with red eyes and torn mouths called his name. He felt himself pulled toward the edge and again he was hauled back.

I'm sorry…..we never meant to hurt you….

 He turned.

Behind him Margaret stood, hair blowing in the cold wind, a sorrowful look on her face as she watched Dean. Next to her stood a dark haired man, not the man ravaged by illness but the man as he had been once. Strong and ….happy. Stephen.

 Margaret reached out a hand to Stephen and he accepted it with a smile.

 We don't have much time…..

 Dean blinked at her, he lifted a hand to his aching head. "I don't understand." His voice sounded tinny and distant.

She stretched out a hand to him.

Let us help you, as you helped us…..

 Dean stared at her a moment longer. He was so tired….

 Margaret lifted her hand higher, turning it palm out.

 Please…..

 Dean glanced back at the fire, feeling the temptation of it's warm embrace, the aching need to just stop trying… 
Then, hesitantly, he reached out and allowed her to take his hand in hers. Instantly memories flooded him along with a warmth that was different from the fiery depths below him.

Sam smiling at him. Laughing with him.

 Standing outside their house as it burned, clutching Sam in his arms. Accepting the adult responsibility with fierce devotion.

 Sam as a laughing baby, splashing in the tub as Dean tried to bathe him. Laughing in return, even with soap in his eyes.

 Huddling together under the bedclothes during a storm, the first time Dad didn't come home all night. Being brave for Sam, so he wouldn't be scared.

 Teaching Sam to hold the shotgun correctly, so the recoil didn't knock him down. So proud when he finally fired and kept his feet

 The choking terror every time they went on a hunt with Sam and Dean feared for his brother's safety. The glorious relief when they made it home safe.

The night they had shared the experience of Sam's first attempt at drinking and the hell that they also shared afterwards when their father found out.

 The first heart stopping time Sam had gone down and not gotten up again, blood everywhere. When he had opened his eyes, smiled weakly and everything was okay again.

 The night Sam left for Stanford. But the glorious moment of seeing him again after two years.

 Sam fighting and screaming as Dean dragged him from his flaming apartment, leaving Jess behind to burn. But keeping Sam alive.

 Sam, standing by the side of the road, alone in the dark, as Dean drove angrily away. And Sam riding in like the God damned cavalry in a stolen car to save Dean's ass. 

Dean's lips pulled up in a small smile.  A gentle strength flowed into him, enough to push back a little against the broken barriers.

Enough to make him step away from the edge.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
Sam poured kerosene over the two bodies, still locked together in the embrace of death, as David stood ready with a match. Bloody cuts dotted both their bodies and David's hands shook uncontrollably, but he tossed the match as Sam nodded. Flames burst upwards, whipped by the wind. Sam tossed the withered finger in his hand into the hottest part of the fire and fell back, arms over his face as blue fire licked outwards like a tentacles in a last effort to punish them.

"Holy Mother of God!" David yelped. "Jesus Christ, now I've seen everything!"

Sam couldn't help it and laughed. Exhausted, hurting, he sank down on a crate and watched the fire burn. He started as the scent of honeysuckle suddenly wafted over them, overpowering the smell of smoke. The underlying scent of death was gone.

He looked up to see Dean, leaning heavily on Linda, coming through the archway that led back into the hotel. He rushed over to take Dean's weight from Linda. Dean's face was white, his manner agitated.

"Dean! Man, are you ok? I mean…." Sam floundered for words as he helped Dean to the crate he'd been sitting on.

Linda stood next to David, examining his various cuts. She made a face. "How are we gonna convince the insurance company we had an earthquake?" She bit her lip. "Is it really over?"

Rain began to fall again, drumming the roof above them and dripping through small holes. Occasional drops hitting the fire with a hiss.

Sam, kneeling by Dean, nodded. "Yeah, it's over." Sam cocked his head and spoke softly. "Dean?"

Dean. staring at the fire, suddenly jerked upright, gasping. He blinked as though waking from a deep sleep. "Christ…." He muttered, lifting his arms and looking himself over with a growing look of disgust.

Sam frowned. "What?"

Dean suddenly started fumbling with his shirt, his movements frenzied and uncoordinated, dragging the cloth roughly down from his shoulders.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam asked, slightly alarmed, as Dean struggled to get his arms out of the sleeves. Sam reached out to stop him but Dean jerked away with a growl.

"No! I want 'em off!" The pain in his arm and hand was agony as he savagely jerked the shirt off and threw it on the fire, losing his precarious balance in the process and falling forward to his hands and knees.

"Dean! Man! What…?" Sam grabbed him to help him up but Dean pulled away again. "Dean, it's the fever…"

Dean's  hands wouldn't cooperate as he tried to unfasten his reeking, blood saturated jeans. Their very touch was repellent.

"I'm not delirious!" Dean snarled. "Help me!" he begged Sam. "I want to get this shit off me!" Dean tried to stand to work the jeans down but his knees buckled and he stumbled. Sam grabbed him, trying to stop his fall and succeeded only in taking them both down again. Dean flailed angrily but his body was too worn out to respond as he wanted.

"Dean! Calm down. I'll help you. I understand." Sam quickly helped Dean undo the stained jeans and pulled them off his legs.

"Burn'em!" Dean demanded, still on the ground.

Sam did as he was told, throwing the garment into the flames. They ignited with a whoosh.

Sam bent to help Dean to his feet. David and Linda gaped at Dean as he stood there, dressed now only in black boxers, dirty, bloody, body crisscrossed with scars, old, not so old, new scars, every one a memory, an experience that had created the man who wore them.

"I need to get this off me," Dean repeated hoarsely, gripping Sam's shirt. Leaning toward the pouring rain.

At first Sam didn't understand, then realization hit him.

"Dean, no...you're sick. C'mon you need to be in bed." Sam tried to pull Dean along but Dean resisted.

"I'll crawl if I have to," he threatened, meaning it.

Sam locked eyes with Dean and finally nodded. Then he carefully helped Dean out into the rain.

Dean could no longer stand under his own power so Sam eased him gently to his knees. The rain was cold but Sam found it oddly refreshing. Instead of going back under the roof, he stayed where he was.

Dean sank back on his haunches, head down. Sam watched as Dean knelt there and let the rain run over his body. The fire light flickered and glowed on his slick, wet, skin as he slowly ran his hands over his arms and chest, oblivious to the bandages, rinsing away the grime, sweat and blood. He cupped his hands next to his uplifted face and caught the rain as it fell, pouring it on himself,
running his hands through his ragged hair and over his face.

The rain plastered his boxers to his muscular frame and for all intents and purposes he may as well have been naked. Dean obviously didn't care as he continued rubbing his hands over his body to rid it of whatever bloody memories he could.

Sam was grateful for the mask of rain and his face shifted to a smile as he shook his head gently. Dean needed
this and he was damned if he'd stop him. He lifted his own face to the rain and raked the wet hair back from his eyes.

Linda also stood with her mouth open.

David glanced at her, then stepped in front of her. "Ahem, maybe you oughta go get that blanket." He commented, giving her a not so gentle shove.

>>>>>>>>>>>
 
Sam had finally forced Dean back into the hotel, pushed him under a fast, hot shower and into bed. Dean wouldn't go to a hospital so Sam stuffed some painkillers and antibiotics down Dean's throat and had spent an hour re-stitching Dean's hand for the third time and carefully repairing the damage to Dean's lacerated arm as well as he could. The scar would serve as a permanent reminder to him of how desperate things could get.

Sam carefully dressed the wounds with fresh bandages and tended to the myriad of other tiny cuts dotting Dean's body. Dean was still feverish but nothing like before and more importantly, he seemed calm. Sam was certain Dean would feel much better after a solid sleep. His other injuries would, at least on the surface, eventually heal. He hoped it would be the same with whatever wounds he bore internally.

He finished up and was putting the few remaining supplies back into the case.
He thought Dean had finally fallen asleep, his face worn and thin looking. Dean
had lost a lot of weight in the last few weeks, Sam reflected, sighing. Dean
shifted, his eyes opened and rolled in Sam's direction.

"Hey," Sam said. "I thought you were asleep." He smiled.

Dean moved his head in a slight negative. He was having trouble focusing his eyes, let alone focusing his thoughts. He lifted his hand to rub his eyes but couldn't make it, engulfed in a haze of pain killers. His hand fell onto his chest.

Sam moved the case onto the floor. "Do you want anything? A drink?"

"I'm sorry," Dean finally whispered, so softly Sam almost didn't hear him.

"Dean, for what?" Sam leaned forward on the bed, frowning.

Dean's moved his bandaged arm. "What I did….tried to do…." His teeth sank into upper lip, eyes shut.

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, it's ok. You weren't responsible. It's over."

Jesus, Sam thought, please don't do this. 

"No. I didn't think…I mean, no matter how bad it got, I never thought-" He made a frustrated noise. "Sam, I would never do that. I swear."

"I know that, Dean. But everyone has a breaking point. Even you." Sam added at Dean's look. "You have to admit you had a little help." He squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Dean. You'll feel better after some sleep. We can get outta here as soon as you feel like it."

Dean watched Sam's face for another moment and then nodded shortly and closed his eyes, turning away from Sam.

Sam sat quietly until he heard Dean's breathing smooth out.

Once he was sure Dean was asleep, Sam took a long slow shower and tended to his own cuts. He tumbled into his bed and fell instantly asleep.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
 
Sam slid behind the wheel of the Impala and shoved the key in the ignition, holding his breath. "Yes!" he crowed when the engine roared to life. He patted the steering wheel. "Good girl." He crooned, then was grateful Dean was sitting on the front steps of the hotel and couldn't hear him.

He pulled the car around to the front steps and got out, grabbing their bags and tossing them into the back seat.

Dean climbed slowly into the passenger side and settled himself against the window. He had said his good byes, been engulfed and half smothered by Linda's bosom, shaken David's hand, brushed off their apologies for his unfortunate experience. His temperature had dropped to 100.3 and even though he was still shaky on his feet, Sam had finally agreed, after a short argument, to leave. Dean could finish recuperating somewhere else.

David and Linda had insisted on having food sent in from the Spring Grill so they didn't leave on an empty stomach. Sam was starving and appreciated the gesture, though he really was hot to go. Even Dean had admitted to being hungry, although compared to usual, he hadn't eaten much.

Dean was ready to go, and was glad when Sam finally shook David's hand, allowed himself to be muffled by Linda and climbed behind the wheel, slamming the door.

Sam put the car into gear and with a final wave pulled away, armed with directions that would not take them back down the steep mountain road. He tossed an envelope in Dean's lap.

"Our pay." He said.

Dean fumbled with the envelope. He couldn't bend the fingers on his right hand and flexing the fingers of the other hand made his arm ache, but he managed to get it open and finger through a clump of money in various denominations.

"How much?"

"2500 dollars'" Sam replied. "I'm not sure it was worth it." He glanced at Dean who frowned.

"Do you know how long it's been since we had this kinda cash?"

Sam accepted the envelope back from Dean tucked the money inside his jacket, saying nothing. He pulled the car onto the main road, glancing at the Moonstar in the rearview mirror as it grew smaller in the distance. No matter how fabulous the building might be when it was done, he never wanted to set eyes on it again.

"So what now?" Dean finally asked to break the growing silence. He rested his arms awkwardly in his lap.

Sam glanced at his watch, making a careful turn into one of the narrow streets. "Right now. This minute. Our vacation starts. Remember what I said. Sleep and eat. That's it."

"And that means?"

Sam paused at a stop sign and then turned the car onto the two lane highway. "It means, " he replied, "we get the hell outta this town and as far away from that hotel as possible. We'll go some place nice. Get a nice room at a nice hotel."

Dean stared at him. "That's nice." he said, a trifle puzzled

"I'm not through. After we check into the nice motel we're gonna find a nice restaurant and you're gonna stuff yourself so full of steak you can't move. Then we're goin' back to the hotel and you're gonna take your meds and sleep until you're hungry again."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Then what?"

Sam looked thoughtful. "Then I think maybe Italian."

Dean barked a laugh. He nestled back in the seat, carefully crossing his arms over his stomach. His eyes closed. "mmmm….sounds nice. You pick the place and I'll do my best to gorge myself."

Sam chuckled and they drove along in silence once again. Dean let the familiar sensation of being in the car lull him.

"Dean…" Sam said softly after a bit.

"Sam," Dean replied, eyes still closed. He braced himself to fend off what was coming.

"Are you really feeling better? Seriously." Sam asked, cutting his eyes at Dean.

Dean nodded, "Yeah. I'm gettin' there." He laughed softly. "Don't think I'll be running any marathons for a little while, though."

"How much of what happened do you actually remember?"

Dean opened his eyes and stared out of the window at the passing scenery.

He carefully pushed a stone into place, balancing it next to the last one, closing the breach, even as the things he sought to shut away still howled for release.

 "Not that much. It's all kinda hazy. Like a bad dream." He looked over at Sam, trying out the new mask.

Another stone  was placed in the gap. 
 
Sam was concerned that Dean seemed so placid. He had witnessed Dean pushed to the point where taking his own life had seemed the only way out.  "Dean, please. I know how horrible this all was for you-I mean, look at you."

"Sam," Dean's voice was so thin and soft a breeze would have shattered it. His hand fell on Sam's arm again and his fingers tightened forcefully, pain making him grimace as he turned and just looked at Sam. His eyes pled silently for Sam to let this go. To understand that this was a line that couldn't be crossed.

Sam stared into Dean's hollow eyes, where wounds ran so deep they would never heal. He finally nodded. "I'm sorry, " he murmured. "I won't ask again. But I'm here, Dean," he added gently. "I'm always here."

Dean's mouth pulled up a little at the corner.  Dean's fingers squeezed Sam's arm one last time. His hand dropped back into his lap and he turned away.

Another stone was carefully stacked on the wall.

 Dean watched Sam out of the corner of his eyes. Sam was frowning and Dean knew what was wrong but could not give Sam what he wanted. He licked his lips.

 "Hey, Sam?" Dean ventured finally. He turned to look at Sam, one eyebrow cocked.

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam replied distractedly, trying to watch the road.

"You get a load of the boobs on that Linda? Fuckin' life of their own."

Sam sat in stunned silence, staring at Dean, whose eyes were twinkling. The he burst out in a genuine belly laugh.  "Shit, Dean!" He choked.

Dean couldn't help it. He started to laugh, relaxing as the mood in the car lightened perceptibly.

And another rock slid home. ..

The wall would be stronger and thicker than before.

​A fortress.
 
Unfuckingbreakable.

END