Going Through the Motions - Chapter 5

[postfallen]

Title: Going Through the Motions
    Author: postfallen
    Genre: Gen
   Spoilers: Takes place immediately following My Bloody Valentine. Ye have been warned.
   Summary: Dean is making himself ill keeping Sam out of the demonic radar. Things take a rapid downslide after that.
  A/N: LJ is new to me. So if I'm doing something wrong, please forgive my ignorance. Let me know, and I will correct it.
  Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.  

After the diner the brothers part ways with Castiel and check into a hotel. The night is long for both brothers.  Dean tries to muffle his coughing and gasping as best he can, but it’s not like Sam can sleep while knowing what’s going on, how bad he sounds. Finally, Sam rolls over and turns on the lamp, looking across to Dean’s bed.

“Dean, that sounds awful. Really awful.”
Dean throws him a glare and pushes himself up to lean against the headboard. Takes a drink of water from the glass Sam had thoughtfully provided earlier.

“I think it sounds awesome. Go back to sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“ ‘M gonna compose a speech, Sam. What do you think? I’m going to sleep.” To prove his point, he folds his arms across his midsection and closes his eyes, but remains sitting up.
It must be because it’s easier to breathe sitting up. And that’s how it seems: his breathing sounds a little less labored in this position, like the crap in his lungs settles slightly better. That can’t be a good thing. The cough expectorant hasn’t been doing much to help Dean. The more gunk he manages to cough up and spit out, the more there still seems to be in his chest. Sam’s diagnosis remains exactly the same, bronchitis or something. The only thing he’s surer of is how fast he’s going to drag his brother to a clinic as soon as this hunt is finished, no matter what he says.

The next morning finds them tired but sharply dressed. Sam steps out of their motel bathroom, suited up and freshly shaved.
“All I’m saying is if you would rather stay here and rest while I go do this-“

“Sam, you’re not benching me on this one,” the older Winchester cuts him off with finality before he finishes. His voice is hoarse from all the coughing and he’s popping cough lozenges like they’re going out of style. “It’ll be easy. We’re just going to the school and then to Tate Burke’s house to talk to his parents.” He fumbles with his tie, swears at it under his breath, and tries again.

Sam reaches over with a sigh and quickly fixes it for his brother.

“If by ‘easy’, you mean a hunt with nothing to go on besides strange behavior from a group of kids, a missing sixteen year old boy, and some…thing wearing your face, then yeah, totally easy. I agree.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s a shape shifter or a ghost. Or maybe it’s a shape shifting ghost. Whatever it is, it obviously has great taste.” He chuckles to himself and coughs gingerly into his fist, trying not to set off another round of protracted hacking. “And as soon as I find it, I’m permanently wiping the perfect smile off that disarmingly handsome face. Damn, it’s warm in here.”

“It’s not warm in here; it’s you,” Sam corrects his brother. “And you might want to take this a little more seriously. The last time you were impersonated you ended up on America’s Most Wanted.” Sam sees Dean smiling. “And don’t even make the joke I know you’re thinking about making. Way too predictable.”

In truth, Sam is glad that Dean’s making the effort at humor. It may be just for show, but he finds a small amount of comfort in it. If he still has the energy to put on the game face, then maybe he’s strong enough to stay on his feet for this thing. He catches himself almost smiling. When he looks up, he sees that Dean has caught him in the near act, too. The older Winchester grins; he looks relaxed. Sam is suddenly struck with the thought that he can’t remember the last time he felt like this. This - good. It’s a genuine moment the two of them are sharing, and they enjoy it. That is, until Dean brings it up short by going into another coughing fit.

Sam watches in alarm as his brother’s face goes red from the strain. “God, Dean, I think you should sit down.” He steers him to the closest bed and Dean sits without resistance. It takes a long minute before he can take more than two breaths without losing control again. Suddenly, he jumps up and strides into the bathroom, where he spits a large wad of mucus into the toilet.

“Aw, that’s just wrong,” is all he says when he comes back out, wiping the tears out of his eyes and taking a swig of coffee.

“And definitely unhealthy,” Sam agrees, looking Dean up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Cas? Get him to come instead, you go to some clinic.”

Dean shoots his brother a look like he just asked who John Bonham was.

“Dude, we’ve been over this already. The answer is no,” he lifts up a finger to silence Sam before he has the chance to speak up, which he clearly wants to. “Let me finish. I was going to say the answer is no, but when this is all over I’ll let you drag me to whatever doctor you want and I’ll go peacefully.”

Sam’s eyebrow shoots up. “So you admit you’re sick?”

“Did I ever deny that I was?”

Sam decides he’s drawing the line. He’s not sure why exactly, but this is the final straw. This can’t go on any further; it’s time to bring everything out into the open, whether Dean likes it or not. “Then what’s with the urgency, Dean? Why did you want us to race out here, pretending like everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t?”

Dean’s face suddenly turns into stone, his eyes flinty. “Don’t start, Sam,” he says, and moves to grab his wallet off the small table in the corner of the motel room.

“I think I am starting. I want to know what’s going on with you.” Stubbornness is a classic Winchester quality, of which Sam has an overabundance. Dean knows this. He also knows that he’s too tired for a verbal sparring match. He sighs and spreads his hands. When he speaks, his voice is scratchy and loud.

“What do you want me to say, Sam? Huh?”

Sam raises his voice in exasperation. “The truth is a good place to start, Dean. What’s the big deal with this hunt, and why are you working so hard to keep Cas at a distance? Last night you practically shooed him away after the diner.” Sam switches tactics; if he wants the truth from his brother he should set the precedent. “But mostly, I want you to admit that you’re not okay, so we can fix this. I heard what Famine said to you, Dean, and it was all crap. He was wrong. About everything.”

Dean takes in what Sam has to say. When he’s done, the older Winchester nods once and looks at the door that leads out of this room and away from this conversation. The door he won’t be able to walk through until he throws down like his brother wants him to. Okay, then. It was going to have to happen sooner or later. He looks Sam straight in the eye.

“Sam, the first time Bobby and I put you through detox we weren’t sure if you were going to live. And Bobby told me that he thought maybe we were doing the wrong thing and cold turkey wasn’t the way to go. That we were killing you. I told him that I would rather have you die a human than a monster.”

Sam glances sharply at Dean, but doesn’t interrupt. Shame blooms hotly in his cheeks, face burning from embarrassment.

“That last time you were drying out in Bobby’s panic room it was because of me. I put you in there. I left you in that motel room for those demons to come find you, no one watching your back. What happened…what you did…It’s my fault.”

“Dean, I did it so I could be strong enough to save you-“

“I’m the one who’s supposed to be saving you, dammit!” Dean’s voice is a hoarse shout and he breaks into coughing again, the sound wet and tearing. This time, when Dean sinks down onto the bed to sit Sam can see that his legs are wobbly. For a moment he almost regrets forcing Dean to open up and wishes that he would crack another joke. Wishing, again. What a bad habit.

Dean continues unprompted. “So whatever you want to say about Famine’s little pep talk with me, just can it. It’s not important and there’s zero room for it in the big picture. The demons got the drop on us, Sam. On me. And I let them. And that’s why we’re on this hunt, this demon-free hunt,” the elder Winchester wipes at his forehead again, pinching the bridge of his nose before resuming. “Because it seemed like as good an opportunity as any to get the hell out of dodge and regroup.  And give you…more time. And that meant getting us away from a certain angel-who shall remain nameless-so he couldn’t swoop in on us. Or else you would have been raring to take off to Minnesota and jump back in the fire.”

It’s a bitter pill but Sam understands now. He’s taken completely aback. 
“You took this hunt…to keep me away from the demons?”

Dean looks beaten by the admission. “Yeah, Sam. I did. I guess I wasn’t sure how you would react if you were around demon blood so soon again after. I just wanted to make sure Famine didn’t still have your number and you wouldn’t be…tempted. Cas didn’t just call me on the drive here; he called me about going to Minnesota the day I pulled you out the safe room, but I never told you or Bobby. He’s been dogging me ever since.”

“You should have told me.”
“Dude, I think you’re the last person who should be giving me the honesty lecture. I think I’ve earned a lifetime exemption from that one from you.”

Dean regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth. He watches his brother’s face harden, but not before the hurt is clear in his expression. 
Damn it. Great deflection, Winchester.

When Sam speaks again, his voice is soft.

“You’re right. I’ll be in the car - whenever you’re ready.”

With that, Sam is out the door.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

The drive to Robert Fulton High School only takes about thirty minutes, the silence punctuated by Dean’s coughing.

He feels bad about what he said to Sam. He glances over at his brother in the passenger seat. His little brother’s jaw is clenched so hard he can almost hear his teeth cracking.

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said back there. I was a dick,” Dean tries lamely. He would say more, but even those few words have left him feeling short of breath. If he doesn’t stop talking and try to slow his breathing he’ll end up coughing, and he’s beyond fed up with that.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dean. Let’s just get to work.”

Okay, he can do that. That’s what he wanted, after all. To work. To not have to worry about the Apocalypse every friggin’ moment. To prove to himself that he can actually go more than five seconds without thinking about it, period. Whatever this hunt shapes up to be, it’s got to be better than what he and Sam have dealt with recently.

God, he hopes so.

While pulling up to the school Dean smothers another wracking set of coughs into the sleeve of his suit jacket.  When he’s done, his face drains from red to white in a matter of seconds, leaving him pale as a ghost.

“You up for this?” Sam asks, but isn’t surprised when Dean nods.

“You bet. So, who do you want to be today?”  The elder Winchester reaches over and opens the glove box, pulls out a handful of badges, IDs, and other fake documentation. He rifles through them for a moment before he pulling one out for himself and one for Sam, tossing it in his lap with a smirk while he flashes his own for his younger brother to see.

Sam squints at Dean’s ID. “Detectives Crockett and -“ he looks at his own. Rolls his eyes. “And Wiggum? You’re joking, right?”

Dean’s grin gets wider. “Let’s go, Clancy.”

“Whatever you say, Don Johnson.”

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

The school secretary is a meek, mousy little thing, but obviously quite sweet. She sees Sam and Dean and smiles tremulously, half-rising and then sitting down again quickly, as though she’s lost the nerve to stand. “Are you the detectives that called just a few minutes ago?” She’s young, and cute in a wallflower kind of way, so Sam expects Dean to take the lead on this one. He waits for his brother to say something a moment before realizing that Dean is actually waiting on him to do it, purse-lipped and serious as he manages to stifle a cough.

The younger Winchester obliges, stepping smoothly into his part. “Yes, ma’am, we are. We’re very appreciative that we were able to come in on such short notice.” As Sam speaks, he and Dean give her the simultaneous credential flash. “Detective Crockett and I won’t need to take up too much of your time here.”

The secretary’s voice is so timid it barely registers above a murmur. “Oh, it’s no trouble,” she says. “It’s just so awful, that boy disappearing...His poor parents. Principal Wheeler is expecting you, Detective…” her voice fades hesitantly, waiting for Sam to fill in the blank.

He can almost see the mirth threatening to explode out of Dean. To his credit, the older Winchester manages to keep the smirk from showing on his face. It’s all Sam can do to keep himself from elbowing his brother sharply in the ribs.

“Please, call me Clancy.” He wonders if the smile on his face is more of a grimace. He reminds himself to destroy this particular badge, or else come up with something for Dean in retaliation. Probably both.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

As far as principals go, Wheeler seems standard issue. His office is bland in an authoritative way. There is a calendar and a clock on the wall, some framed photos of his wife and kids on his desk, but that’s it for aesthetics. Not a clinical atmosphere, just straightforward. Looking at the fifty-something man, it’s clear that recent events have certainly taken their toll on his sleep. His eyes are heavy and dark circled but he shakes Sam and Dean’s hand like he means it.

“Good morning, Detectives,” he greets them. “Please,” he motions for them to sit while he pulls up his own chair behind his desk.

“I certainly hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure what further help I can be. I’ve already given a statement; I don’t have terribly much to tell, I’m afraid.”

Dean leans forward, his expression serious and attentive. “It may seem like that, but my partner and I, we’ve just been assigned to the case and if you wouldn’t mind, we really do prefer to start fresh in all aspects of the investigation.”

Principal Wheeler absently smoothes his tie. He nods and smiles wanly. “Of course, I would be happy to tell you anything you would like to know.”

Sam smiles gently, unobtrusively. His “confide in me, I’m all ears” expression. “That would be very helpful,” he says and sits forward in his chair. “Would you mind telling us about Tate Burke? Starting with his expulsion.”

Wheeler nods, smiles sadly again.

“If I had to pick from the entire school which student would be most likely to do what he did, Tate would never once have crossed my mind. He was an exceptional student. An A- average, great basketball player. He was just one of those kids that could do everything. He comes from a lovely family. Everyone was so fond of Tate, faculty and classmates alike,” he stops, reflecting. “Tara Conner is so upset…His girlfriend.”

Beside him, Sam is aware of Dean stirring and lifting the back of his hand to his pursed mouth, stifling a cough. He manages to keep it together and the elder Winchester goes still again.

Principal Wheeler closes his eyes briefly, rubs his temple. “Then, last week he attacked a faculty member. Our basketball coach, John Patterson. It happened in the locker room; students say he just…went wild. He started shouting that he was going to kill John. It took four students to pull Tate off; John needed half a dozen stitches above his eye. Understandably, he’s quite shaken up over the incident.” Wheeler stops for a second. When he continues, his voice is filled with regret. “His parents were completely devastated to hear about the event, not to mention speechless. It was incredibly difficult to expel someone who had always shown so much promise. I can’t stop asking myself if it had something to do with his running away that same night, if he did indeed run away. It was just so unlike him to attack John like he did. It’s like he was-“

“Possessed?” Sam asks calmly, finishing Wheeler’s sentence.

Wheeler nods. “Exactly.”

Dean shifts a little, coughs as surreptitiously as he can. When he’s done, he absently passes the back of his hand across his forehead. “It sounds like the school has had quite the run of incidents this past month.”

Wheeler’s face is dismal. “That is one way of putting it, yes. These last few weeks have been difficult, starting with our janitor, Miles Stanley.”

“The hit and run. Terrible.” Sam intones gravely. The sympathy encourages Wheeler to continue with the subject.

“No offense, but I wish they would hurry up and catch the person responsible. Miles was a good man. He was with us for almost seventeen years, would never harm a fly. It’s simply tragic.”

“Yes, it is tragic,” Sam agrees. He switches gears, noticing that Dean isn’t doing so well. His older brother keeps clearing his throat in lieu of coughing, and he’s starting to break into a sweat. He needs to hurry this along.

“The new janitor, ah-“ he pretends like he is struggling to recall the name as though it were on the tip of his tongue. A pause hangs in the air before the principal replies.

“Al Larson,” Wheeler helpfully supplies.

“Yes, thank you. Mr. Larson, he made a statement to the papers about…strange occurrences happening at night in the school?”

Wheeler chuckles dryly. “You mean the break-and-waxer? Yes, well, that particular topic is up for debate. I’m sure you gentlemen can see for yourselves that the floors in the hallways don’t look like they have been polished anytime at all recently. Al’s a decent person, but he’s confused. He has good days and not so good days. But it’s only been a month since he started working at the school, and I’m sure once he’s fully adjusted here things will go much better for him soon.”

“Has Mr. Larson ever said anything else unusual to yourself or the faculty? Has he ever complained of seeing or feeling anything strange? Like a room suddenly going cold, for example?”

Wheeler thinks for a moment, then frowns. He seems unsure of where this line of questioning is going to go. “No, nothing like that. Not to my knowledge.”

Sam moves in a different tack.

“Can you tell me about the other student disturbances that you’ve experienced recently?”

Wheeler is now definitely confused. “You mean the suspensions? Not to sound insolent, Detective, but I’m not sure what this has to do with Tate. Those kids didn’t even know him.”

Sam adopts an understanding, patient look. “I’m sure this may sound odd to you, Mr. Wheeler, but like my partner said, we like to look into all aspects of an investigation. We’re just trying to lay down some groundwork. I’m sure there is probably no pertinence but we would appreciate your humoring us, all the same.”

Wheeler looks slightly dubious, but he obliges Sam. Yes, there had been a string of suspensions recently. No, the kids involved weren’t troubled. In fact, they were normally upstanding students. They didn’t even hang out in similar circles; they were in different grades. Each incident involved either fighting or destroying school property. One girl had even set off a Roman candle in the women’s faculty bathroom (meriting a barely contained chuckle from Dean).  As Wheeler talks, Sam starts to feel more and more like he and Dean won’t be getting anything particularly useful from him. The death of the Miles Stanley, the behavior from the students who were suspended, Tate’s disappearance - there wasn’t any apparent connection from what he could see. Perhaps they were digging for information in the wrong hole.
Sam barely finishes the thought before Dean breaks into a chest-crushing round of wet sounding coughs, unable to stop them from breaking free.

Sam regards him, his concern barely concealed. Dean isn’t getting any better. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Wheeler looks sympathetic. “That sounds terrible. You must be a dedicated man, working even when you’re coughing like that.”
Sam couldn’t agree more. You don’t know the half of it.

“Why don’t you have our secretary Alice show you to the water fountain? A drink might help with that.”

Dean glances up sharply at Wheeler’s suggestion then looks at Sam for a brief second. Long enough for the younger Winchester to know what his brother is trying to tell him. “You go on with Alice, I’ll meet you outside,” Sam says. Dean nods once, still coughing. He gets out of his chair and leaves.

Sam counts to ten in his head before he gets out of his chair. He extends his hand to Wheeler. “We appreciate your time, sir. We’ll be in touch if there is anything more we need.”

Wheeler takes his hand and pumps it. “Of course, Detective. Please don’t hesitate to come back.” A pause. “Do you think you’ll find Tate? Are you getting close?”

Sam gives his best reassuring smile.

“Closer every day,” he tells him. “Don’t worry about seeing me out. I’m sure I’ll find my way.”

The secretary’s area is still empty when Sam enters, Alice apparently taking Dean to that promised water fountain. Good.

Sam’s always been a good snoop; it only takes a couple minutes before he’s picked the lock on the filing cabinet and finds what he’s after. And not a moment too soon, because as he leaves he brushes by Alice, the secretary. She gives him a direct smile, as though she’s suddenly forgotten that she’s shy.

“That’s quite the cough your partner has,” she says. “Be careful you don’t catch it, yourself.”

Sam nods. “Duly noted. Thanks for helping him out.”

“No problem. Take care, Detective. Good luck."

Sam doesn’t feel her eyes on his back as he leaves.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

Dean meets Sam in the hallway, and Sam feels the knot in his stomach tighten upon the sight of his brother. Dean looked terrible yesterday. Today, his appearance is abysmal. His breathing is wheezy and hoarse, and he’s pale except for an unhealthy flush in his cheeks. It’s clear that it’s taking a monumental effort to stay standing. Sam puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and he can feel the unnatural heat coming off him. He needs to be in bed. He’s not up for this. But there’s still one more stop to make today and Dean won’t put it off. So Sam looks at his brother searchingly. “Dean, you good? For just a little longer?”

There is no hesitation on Dean’s part. “Yeah, of course. You get the kid’s address?”

Sam gives his older brother’s should a quick squeeze before dropping his hand. “You bet. I just need to check something out. I’ll meet you at the car, okay?”

Dean is indignant. “What do you mean, you’ll meet me at the car? Am I on a time out, Sam?” He turns his head and coughs painfully into his arm, the sound bouncing down the empty hallway. Sam winces at the noise.

“I mean I have to check something out. Quietly. So. I’ll meet you at the car. Okay?” He doesn’t mean to come off as condescending but he doesn’t exactly have time to waste. And the sooner Dean gets off his feet, the better.

“Whatever.” Dean grumbles when he can talk but turns and leaves Sam to it, anyway. Sam looks on for a moment while he leaves, but only for that one moment. He’s got to be quick: this quiet in the halls can’t last for long. He puts his hand to the small of his back, feels for the bolt cutters he’s got tucked away. In the back of his mind he’s laughing to himself over the bizarreness of the fact that he had foreseen the need for them. Hunting the supernatural, killing the things that go bump in the night, fighting Lucifer, the Apocalypse. Breaking into high school lockers.

All in stride, after all.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

Dean doesn’t mean to doze in the Impala. He doesn’t feel himself close his eyes and drift off. When he’s out, he doesn’t even feel like he’s asleep. It doesn’t seem like he’s sitting in his car, either. It’s just him, nothing else, and even then there is a disconnect within him and his own body bears no relevance to him. This isn’t his head, achy and buzzing on top of his non-shoulders. These aren’t his lungs, working like they are under a thousand pounds of pressure. He can’t decide from one moment to the next if he’s way too hot or if he’s chilled to the core. His muscles are a quivering mass of pulp, his bones weak and painful. No resemblance to Dean Winchester at all. Nothing is right here.

When is it ever right, Dean?

Dean?

“Dean!”

Dean jerks awake, but that can’t be right, either. When did he fall asleep? What just happened? He looks to Sam for an explanation, but his brother has no answers forthcoming. Instead, Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s arm, his face intense and urgent.

“Dean? You with me now? I’ve been calling and calling your name and you wouldn’t wake up. You okay?”

Dean pulls his arm out Sam’s grasp; even the slight pressure his brother is exerting on him is painful. The elder Winchester looks around and finds himself surprised on more than one count.  He barely remembers being in the Impala, but he is unsure of how he fell asleep and for how long. All he sees is a parking lot around him and he can’t quite seem to pull the recollection of where he had just come from out of the fog in his mind. He feels strange, fuzzy. “This isn’t the motel,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. Apparently this isn’t the right thing to say, because his brother’s hand moves to cup the side of his neck to get him to turn his face towards him. Dean blinks and squints despite the overcast weather, his headache is that bad. Sam stares long and hard at Dean for a second.

“No, Dean. We’re outside the school, remember? I told you to wait for me in the car, and you must have fallen asleep. God, you’re really warm. I think I should take you back to the motel. “

Oh, yeah. That’s right; the school. Dean takes as deep a breath as he can. He needs to pull it together, right now.

“I’ll be fine, Sam. Just a little out of it. I fell asleep, like you said.” He rubs his eyes and sits up straighter. “So what did you have to do in there, anyway?”

Sam looks his brother up and down before answering. “Wheeler gave me the names of the students who were suspended, so I checked their files as well as Tate’s. Turns out they also keep the locker number of each student on record.” Sam holds up the bolt cutters. “So I did a locker check.”

“You narc,” Dean chuckles. Gives his head an amused shake. “And? Any illicit substances? Porno mags?”

“I’d say definitely illicit.” Sam digs in his pocket, revealing two small cloth bags with drawstring ends. “I only had time to check two lockers before I heard someone coming, but I’m willing to bet we would find these in all of the lockers of those kids who’ve been acting strangely. They were tucked away in the corner, hidden. One of them came from Tate’s locker.”

The younger Winchester opens the bags and upends them into his palm. Two small coins fall out. They are roughly the size of dimes, with unfamiliar markings. Dean takes one and inspects it, frowning. “These symbols look familiar to you?”

Sam squints at the one he’s holding. “No.”

“Me neither.” Dean hands it back to Sam, who puts it back in its pouch. “So whatever these are, you think they mean that Tate and those other kids were marked by someone? Because if so, then I think it’s safe to say that whatever we’re dealing with, it’s flesh and blood and not some sort of spirit.” Even as he’s speaking, Dean feels his lungs running short on air. By the time he’s done, he’s out of breath and coughing again.

Sam is silent a moment before turning to his brother. “Tate was the last kid to go bad. It seems like convenient timing for him to be missing as of that night.”

“You think he’s behind this?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t hurt to assume he’s lurking around here somewhere while whatever this is plays out.”

“But then why would he leave one of those in his own locker?” Dean asks, shivering.

“Good point. What are you thinking?”

The elder Winchester puts the key in the Impala’s ignition, turns it. The car roars to life. “I think we should start with going to Tate’s house as planned, then do some looking into that Miles Stanley. His death was the first incident - then suddenly kids are wigging out. Maybe there’s a connection.”

“And don’t forget there’s something out there with your face on it,” Sam reminds his brother. “We should be looking for it, see what it is, what it wants.”

Dean sighs. This is turning into one hell of a grocery list. “Hey, if you have any suggestions on how to tackle that one, I’m all ears,” Dean says. “But until then, let’s focus on what’s in front of us.” He reaches up and puts the Impala in gear. “What’s the kid’s address?”

*       *       *       *       *       *      *

Sam is anxious to get back to the motel. Ever since they left the high school Dean’s been withering at a fast rate. When Sam woke him in the Impala, his brother was clearly disoriented. Now, as they pull up to the Burke house, Sam is tempted to ask Dean if he wants to wait for him in the car. He doesn’t, though, because he already knows the answer. As they walk up the porch and ring the doorbell, Sam resolves to get this done as fast as possible.

It turns out to be a fairly quick operation. Tate’s parents let them in immediately following the presentation of their badges, taking them to the living room. Sam asks the questions in a gentle voice while Dean smothers his coughing as best he can. The Burkes are obviously exhausted with worry and they appear to be well seasoned by police questioning. They answer everything that Sam asks as though the process is old-hat to them by this point. There isn’t much the brothers glean from the interview besides what they already know. Tate is a good son, never combative. He is an excellent student. He loves sports. He had always said such glowing things about his coach, John Patterson. They simply couldn’t understand why he would have done such a thing unprovoked.

“I just can’t believe he would run away,” Mrs. Burke sobs while her husband puts his arm around her. “But I can’t believe anyone would want to harm him, either. It’s just too awful.” Her voice wavers and breaks off. Mr. Burke murmurs into her ear softly.

Sam glances around the living room, giving them time. Beside him, Dean is rubbing the back of his neck and looking away, also stalling. The younger Winchester’s eyes fall on a framed photo. It’s a picture of the Burke family, taken a while ago from the looks of it. Tate looks about six or so in the picture, standing beside a girl about six or seven years older. Sam motions to it. “Is that his sister?”

Mr. Burke glances over, following Sam’s line of sight. He nods. “Yes, that’s Jen. She moved out about a year ago. She was here not that long ago, you just missed her. Would you like us to give her a call and get her to come back?”

Sam shakes his head gently. “No, Mr. Burke. That won’t be necessary, but thank you. If you don’t mind, there’s just one last thing. Would it be possible for us to take a look at Tate’s room?”

Mrs. Burke regains enough composure to look up at the brothers. She blinks to clear her eyes of tears and smiles. “Of course, Detective. Up the stairs and down the hall,” she sniffs and wipes her eyes one more time. “We’ve left it as it was.”

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

Tate’s bedroom is spectacularly just like the bedroom of any other sixteen year old boy. There are clothes strewn on the floor, posters on the wall, porn under the bed. Sam and Dean get to work quickly and quietly. They check under the mattress, in the drawers of his dresser, then pull the drawers out to check under them. They search the closet, his clothes. Dean points to a photo of a young girl with dark hair and blue eyes stuck to his mirror. “This must be his girlfriend,” he observes. “Tara, Wheeler said? Cute for jailbait.” Dean turns from the photo and keeps searching. He bends down to riffle through Tate’s gym bag at his feet. Finding nothing, he starts to straighten up but is taken by a sudden coughing fit. Sam continues searching, albeit halfheartedly. He’s feeling pretty confident that there’s nothing to implicate Tate. Whoever or whatever is behind this, it’s not the kid, which means he’s a victim. Behind him, he hears Dean start to gasp between coughs as though he’s suffocating. He turns around in time to see Dean start to sag, his knees slowly buckling.

“Whoa, Dean. Take it easy.” Sam is there in an instant. Guiding his brother to sit on the floor, gently pushing his head down to rest on his bent knees. “Just slow it down for a second. Easy breaths.”

There’s nothing easy about his breathing, though. Sam has his hand on his brother’s back and he can feel him struggling for air. His chest is making rasping, bubbling noises with every wheezing inhale. When Dean finally lifts his head, his face is shiny with sweat and he’s shivering violently, despite the sickly heat that prickles off him. Slowly but surely, he gets himself under control again.

Sam kneels down, searches his brother’s face for signs of distress. “You’re really sick, Dean. I think we should go; we’re not finding anything here.”

Dean takes a shaky breath and waits for a second as though he’s expecting to burst into coughing again. “You’re right,” he finally agrees. “The kid's as regular as bran.”

“So what next?”

Dean wipes his face with a trembling hand, speaks in a clipped voice, trying not to run out of precious oxygen. “Like you said, we should go. Head back to the motel. See what we can dig up about Miles Stanley, where he lived, where he’s buried. Help me up, Sam.”

Sam is only too happy to oblige.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

When the brothers arrive back at their motel room, Dean sinks wearily down into a chair. He rubs his forehead for a moment, reaches for the Tylenol. Sam passes him a bottle of water. “I’ll head out and grab us some lunch in a minute,” he says.

Dean shrugs. “Just grab something for yourself. I’m not into eating.” He pops three pills into his mouth and takes a gulp of water.

Sam gives him the eye from where he’s shrugging out of his suit and tie. “You don’t have to be into it. All you have to do is chew and swallow.” He meets his older brother’s glare with equal force. “I’m serious, Dean. There’s no arguing me on this. I’ll bring you back something light.”

“Something light? I’m not ninety, you know.” Dean loosens his tie, pulls out his cell. “Think we should call in for reinforcements? Show Cas what you found and see if he knows anything? Might save us some research.” He waggles his phone at Sam.

The younger Winchester raises an eyebrow, pulls on a hoodie and jeans. “So does this mean you’re done avoiding him, if you’re calling him now?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You mean this conversation isn’t over yet? I already told you why I was avoiding him, Sam. So stop beating the horse, already.” He dials Castiel’s number pointedly. Predictably, the angel answers right away.

“Dean?”

Dean clears his throat before speaking, trying to get some punch in his rapidly diminishing voice. “Hey, Cas. Can you come over? We found something we need you to take a look at.”

Cas is standing beside Dean the second the address leaves the elder Winchester’s lips. Dean is startled by the angel’s sudden proximity and almost drops the phone. “God, Cas,” he complains. “Sometimes I think you try to be creepy.”

The angel looks down at him. “Hello, Dean,” he simply says. “What did you find?”

Sam hands the pouches over. “One was in Tate’s locker.”

Castiel examines them.  “Tokens,” he breathes, “but I am unfamiliar with the sigil.”

“Join the club,” Dean grumbles, then coughs. The spasms only get worse, and soon he is doubled up in the chair, hacking and gasping desperately.

“Hey, ease up there, Dean. Slow it down,” Sam bends down and rubs between his brother’s shoulder blades, darting a look at Cas. Dean shoots up out of his chair and bolts for the bathroom, where he promptly gags and throws up the water and Tylenol he had taken earlier, the pills not even completely dissolved yet. He remains hunched over the sink for a moment, sucking in as much air as he can between bouts.

Cas remains rooted to the spot he’s standing on. The sound of Dean’s coughing triggers something within him, or perhaps more accurately, within Jimmy. A memory swims up to the surface, unbidden. It’s Jimmy’s daughter, Claire, and when she was five she was terribly ill, coughing and gasping endlessly. Then one terrifying night there was a trip to the emergency room. It’s a blur: Claire’s face, the look of fear, her desperate struggles to breathe. Cas can feel the remembered panic of his vessel as doctors wheeled her away.  The memory is hazy at best; Jimmy’s consciousness is deeply submerged. But now Castiel has a name for his anxiety about Dean.

Dean comes out of the bathroom on shaky legs. “It’s the coughing,” is all the explanation he offers, sitting back down.

“Dean,” Cas speaks up, concerned, “I think you may be getting pneumonia.”

“That makes two of us,” Sam agrees. He sees the look his older brother shoots him and spreads his hands. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I think this may be out of our league. I don’t think this is something you can fight off naturally on your own. It’s time to go to a doctor before you get too bad. If it’s the kind of pneumonia you can take antibiotics for, you should be. Think about your health for once.”

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean growls. Sam lifts his eyebrows and crosses his arms, silently daring his brother to say more. Cas just stares at Dean as though comprehending a vast mystery.

Dean glares up at both men standing over him, waiting for his rebuttal. He almost does say something in retaliation, but snaps his mouth shut. Aw, screw it. He’s too tired to argue anymore.

“Fine, but we wait and see how I feel tomorrow. Tonight, we have a dead guy’s place to break into.”

Chapter 6: http://postfallen.livejournal.com/1943.html