Fic: Capture the Flag 16/?
Title: Capture the Flag
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Death Takes a Holiday.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note: This chapter switches voices a bunch.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15
Chapter 16
This Is Your Life
Bobby was not happy, not by a long shot, as he peered through binoculars from the foreclosed house across the street. The widow, it seemed, viewed her deceased husband's burial flag like the Crown Jewels. Or maybe she was a clairvoyant who knew that someday a couple of strangers were going to break into her house to burn it.
Point was, there was security everywhere, and that was just from the cursory examination Bobby did on the outside. There was the very high-end alarm system, which Sam would probably have a better shot at figuring out. Bobby was no slouch when it came to disarming armed men, but disarming alarms… it made his neck twitch. He always ended up second-guessing himself, and the last thing you want during a hunt is to be standing there like a moron with pliers in your hand, staring at an open alarm box, begging the cops to pull up or the critter you’re after to get the jump. He'd probably be better at them, not so skittish, if he had more experience, but most of the jobs Bobby tended to take were in more rural communities. The high-end 'cut the blue wire' type systems had only ever come up once or twice.
Besides the alarm, the glass-encased flag seemed to be in a larger glass case which had a code combination lock. The only reason Bobby had even caught that tidbit, was because apparently Mrs. Cole (who was still Mrs. Cole after all these years) took Stars and Stripes out once a day to stroke the case lovingly, talk to it for awhile, wipe any smudges off of the glass and replace it carefully in the more secure display.
Many people would have thought she was nuts, and perhaps she was, but Bobby couldn't help the pang of sympathy that rose within him. He knew what it was to bury a spouse, and like he and his late wife had been when tragedy truck, the Cole's had been a young couple. One moment you counted on having your whole future together, the next you're alone. If Bobby hadn't had hunting to throw himself into, the quest to prevent what happened to his family from happening to anyone else's, he may have gone the same way as the lady he was currently spying on.
Back on task - locks and alarms were one thing. You can pretext your way into someone's home, tell them you're from the alarm system's company. If you're good enough they'll let you into their underwear drawer, nevermind their safe. Sam wouldn't have a problem doing that. No, it was the Doberman that was the unpredictable factor. And as Bobby witnessed when the mailman came, the dog only had a sweet disposition for its owner. Everyone else seemed to be walking kibble. Shit.
A sudden buzzing in his pocket startled him, almost making him drop his binoculars. Bobby glanced at the number - Sam's.
"Hey, Sam, everything okay? How's Dean?"
"He looks a better. I talked to his doctor. They changed his meds. Oxygen sats are still a little low, but stable. Fever is stable. They're going to get him down to radiology later on, take a look at his chest to see how much progress he's making, if they can take the tube out yet. How are things looking on your end?"
"Like it is going to be a real pain in the ass. Security on top of security. After I finish up here, I'm going to see what I can do about getting more info from the alarm company, blueprints, maybe. See if I can find out how hard it'll be get them to turn it off, get us a little window of opportunity. Then I'm off to the racetrack."
"We have a lead there or are you just feeling lucky?"
"Nope, Mrs. Michael Cole has an angry-lookin' Doberman. Track is the easiest place to pick up some horse tranquilizers when we don't have a horse."
"Fair enough."
"You still at the hospital?"
"I'm actually gonna grab us a motel here in town. Gonna shower, grab some non-hospital food. You know the drill."
"Already got us one. Comfort Inn. It's on 27 west. Right near a shopping complex. Can't miss it. We're in room 46. I tucked the key in your laptop bag while you were sleeping."
Sam's hand immediately began patting down the outside pocket of his bag. Sure enough, he felt something key-shaped. "Thanks, Bobby."
"'Course." The elder hunter acknowledged gruffly.
"You gonna be back in time for a late lunch?" Sam asked. "Should I wait for you, get us both something?"
"Naw, you go ahead. Like I said, I have a few more things to do. I'll meet you at the hospital later on."
"Okay. Check back with you later."
"Sure." Bobby flipped his phone shut, peering once again through his binoculars with a sigh.
:::
:::
Sam could hardly wait until Bobby disconnected before he was dialing the next number. It took until his third ring for Ruby to pick up.
"Well, if it isn't tall, dark, and geeky."
"Hey. You in the area?"
"Absolutely. You got a motel we can use?"
At this Sam faltered. He didn't want to bring Ruby back to where he and Bobby were staying. Ruby must have figured that was why he was hesitating.
"Don't worry about it. They wouldn't understand, and you can explain it better after you've saved the world from Lilith. I know a place. From the hospital take the main road south, I'll text you the rest of the directions in a bit. And, Sam? It'll be good to see you."
Before Sam could even reply, there was a click on the line that told Sam that Ruby disconnected.
Sam followed the texted directions to what looked like a train yard. He would've been sure he was at the wrong place, except he saw the familiar yellow muscle car parked outside. The door swung open and Ruby stepped out, her range of motion slightly inhibited by the skin-tight jeans she had poured herself into.
"Like it? Welcome to the Caboose Motel. We're in that one." Ruby pointed at caboose her car was parked outside of, a red one that had a pair of Adirondack chairs laid out on the its end like it was the back porch.
The inside was a surprise - fully furnished with a king size bed, a headboard that was an old train track, a bathroom installed with the normal motel amenities. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear he was not standing in a caboose. Yeah, he had to admit, this motel had a certain charm to it.
Now came the awkward part. Ever since Sam had finally told her he was back with the program, the full program - blood and all, Ruby had taken to not pushing it on him at all. Now it was up to Sam to say he wanted it, or god forbid, admit that he was starting to need it a little too. When he was close to her like this, close and running on empty, it was almost unbearable. He could already taste the copper in his mouth, and he began wiping at his lips, salivating as the prospect of sating his need.
Sam's mind flitted with the many arguments for and against what he was about to do. Usually he'd do this when there was a heavy-league demon in town that he needed to take out or get information from. But now, why now? Lilith wasn't even in the country. Alastair wasn't here. This wasn't a seal they were protecting, it was taking out a spook. He'd never even tried, never even needed, to use his powers against a spirit. It was the standard drill since childhood - research, interviews, salt and burn.
So, why now? Except…Dean was laid up in the hospital, barely able to breathe. Any demon could get in there and take him out. Sam needed to be at his best, at his strongest to protect his brother, to finish this case. It was all depending on him.
Well, that wasn't quite right, was it?
Bobby was there. More correctly, Bobby was out there, in the field right now working to help Dean, while he was holed up in a caboose.
Sam did appreciate Bobby, more than he could express, but it was Dean and him who were brothers, who needed to have each other's backs. And this ghost saw all too clearly how broken Dean really was. No, it was up to Sam to protect him, to help him put the pieces back together again. And in just a moment, he'd be strong enough that he could do that.
But why did he need the blood for that? Since when did he need demon blood (or, for that matter, any kind of supernatural assistance) to be strong enough to be Dean's brother?
The answer came - clear as day.
Since Sam was so weak that his brother went to Hell for him.
Sam grabbed the knife Ruby offered and drank deep.
:::
:::
Dean pored over the case notes, his fingers turning ink-stained due to the sweat pouring off his clammy hands, ignoring the din around him as he was poked and prodded, ignoring well-meaning (but incredibly nosy) questions about what he was working on. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He found the reason. He found Michael Cole. He found why him.
At first, anger thundered through him, assaulting his brain like the headache that was already pounding in his cranium.
Was that really what they thought? Well, fuck them! Dean wanted to bloody his knuckles punching someone.
"PTSD, my ass!" Dean wheezed aloud.
Maybe in his case it stood for Pretty Terrific Sexual Dalliances. Or, Party Time, Sam you Douche. Dean smirked, the anger still thrumming through him as he remembered the look of pitying concern in Sam's eyes. His brother thought he was that weak, that scarred? Bobby, too? A Warrior of God had pulled him out of Hell, because God thought he was strong enough to help stop the friggin' apocalypse! Or had everyone just magically forgotten that?
Dean's eyes continued to scan Sam's notes, hurt and indignation making it difficult to focus on the words. 'Symptoms'…
Oh.
The more he read, the more it was him.
The self-doubt and loathing that were always within him reared their ugly heads, the anger that had been flooding him swept away, leaving him the stark emptiness he was constantly trying to fill. He felt overheated and heavy, the guilt weighing on every inch of his skin.
They were right. Maybe he was that weak, that broken. He certainly was weak enough that he had taken Alastair's deal. It would be arrogant to assume he could just leave that glaring vulnerability behind. No, it was chained to him, hooked into his flesh.
"Of course they're right, soldier. You knew that all along."
Dean snapped his head up, startled to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him in a hollow voice that wasn't his own.
The problem with hallucinations, fever dreams, is that you will swear up and down they are the real thing until you're on the other side of it and firmly in reality again. A soldier in full dress uniform, a Corporal from the looks of the chevron on his sleeve, stood at the end of his bed, shaking his head sadly at Dean. With more than sadness, with familiarity. Goosebumps travelled quickly across the ailing hunter's skin at the change in temperature. Dean was suddenly pretty sure that he wasn't imagining things. Really pretty sure. Maybe.
"Hey, Mikey." Dean quirked his lip up into a smile as it began trembling from the shivering overtaking his body.
"You don't belong here, Dean. You remember every slice and jab, every howl of every animal allowed to claw at you, every violation. That's not all though, huh? You remember everything you were pushed to do to everyone else, everything they turned you into. Give in, please. Aren't you tired of having to wake up and face this every single day?"
"Just need a nap, but thanks for your concern." Dean quipped. The truth was written behind his faltering crooked smile, though. He was exhausted from facing Hell and some days he didn't know how he made it out of bed.
"I want to help you. Let me help you. Why would you want to remember these things for as long as you live? Come with me, I can make it better."
Dean felt his lungs seize, the sudden icy quality of the air making everything tighter and so much harder to breathe. Not good, so not good. Maybe this wasn't real, though. Sam's notes seemed to indicate he could be having a panic attack or a whacked out dissociative episode. Not that the cause mattered, because whether Soulja Boy over here was reality or not, Dean was having problems getting a breath. A problem amplified when the constant hiss of oxygen died down to nothing, the rush of air ceasing to travel through the mask.
The Corporal repeated his offer. "It is so much worse for you than any of the others. Come with me, let go. It'll be better."
Filtering in through haze in the shadowy corner of the room - Alastair, distant shrieks echoing.
"I brought you a present, Dean. Our own little version of 'This is Your Life'. You did so well with that first little tart as an appetizer, I thought you could use some encouragement. Purely selfish, you see. We have to make sure you're on the right track. You remember sweet little Abby, don't you? Bela?"
It was unfolding just as it did in those first days, months, after Dean first stepped off of the rack. The sight of Bela Talbot strapped down in front of him had him scrabbling backward, feeling his feet cut against the sharp volcanic rock beneath him. Or maybe not. He was in bed, wasn't he? Some hospital in Pennsylvania? Not back there. Not here - with her.
He felt Alastair grab his hair, the voice sneering in his ear. "Now, now Dean - I got you a present and you turn your nose up at it? I saved her just for you. She was ready for a cornea-transplant as soon as she strolled in, wheeling and dealing for black eyes." Alastair shoved him forward, his first breath inward full of charred bone.
"But I said, no, because I knew you were coming my way, Dean."
"So I put her on reserve, like a fine pinot grigio." Alastair crossed the torture chamber, swaying as if to a waltz, stopping by Bela’s head where he stabbed his demonic nose into her hair, taking lingering inhalations of humanity about to be uncorked. "Can you imagine how much better she’s going to taste after being steeped in all that fear? And here you cower," Alastair clicked his tongue and wagged his head. "That's not much in the way of gratitude. I thought I taught you that lesson already. We could start over..."
Her eyes were bugging out, pleading with him, the leather gag tight over her mouth. He could see the relief that was in those tearful blue eyes at first - Dean Winchester who rescued everyone was here in the non-flesh. He had to clench his fists to keep them from reaching out to untie her.
"Yes, my boy, perhaps you need a refresher course." Alastair mused thoughtfully. And Dean knew all too well what kind of machinations those musings brought to the surface.
Sniffing out the indecision, Alastair began his cajoling. "She made a deal to kill the very people who brought her into this world. She shot your brother. She sold the Colt - and that could've saved you, could’ve at least given poor Sammy a fighting chance. Is she really worth getting back up on my table? Really?"
Dean could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks, making their way through the soot that perpetually stained his skin. "No…"
There was a voice in the background, a sharp sir-yes-sir voice that cut through the crackle of flames that had begun to consume him. "C'mon, soldier. Don't say no. You can't say no. You deserve to take leave."
Alastair, still there, shoved the hell-bound version of him forward, planted a razor in one of his hands and some filth coated slivers of bamboo in the other, the cold steel of one and the sweltering stickiness of the other leaving his body as conflicted as his mind. He'd do this, because he couldn't face the alternative. Besides, why try to save her? It was clear there was nothing left to save of either of them.
The razor bit through flesh and caught on the hardness of her sternum. With Bela's first choked scream, he was hurtled back in the present, his eyes darting around, his heart cavorting wildly in his chest. The coast was clear of sulfur and bloodied scam artists, just clinical whiteness, sterile and freezing cold.
"Come with me, Dean, I'm beggin' ya."
What the present tense ghost and the Ghost of Christmas Past were asking of him were inexorably tangled up with one another. Was he saying yes or no to punishing her just a little bit more, just a little bit, until it felt right to him, until it felt like justice. Was he saying yes or no to Cole, who was offering peace that was tied up in a body bag? Which one did he even want…
To fight. He knew he needed to suck it up and fucking fight. And he'd tell that plague-ridden ghost to go stick it, just as soon as he could get some air in his chest.
Oh.
That was a problem. Where'd the air go?
He was going to die here in a sweaty, heart-thumping heap, because he was fucking winded? He'd always hoped that'd be the way he went out, but - say, at eighty years old underneath a redhead.
"It'll be better, soldier. I promise."
Focus, Dean, focus. Breathe. Tell this sonovabitch no.
But, resounding no's do not resound, or sound for that matter, when you don't have the air to push them out.
A strong familiar voice did it for him.
"No, it won't, Corporal." Bobby said, snatching the tiny salt packet off of Dean's lunch tray, fingers working hurriedly to tear it open. "Things get better when you live. They never have a chance to if you die."
With that, Bobby tossed a handful of salt at the spirit who promptly disappeared, then crossed the room to Dean's bedside and turned the valve for the oxygen wide open, the metal still ice cold from the spirit enacting its force on it. The grizzled hunter watched with wide eyes as Dean's chest hitched on every rapid swallow of air, gasping and coughing, a gurgle sounding from the back of his throat.
"Dean?! Dean!" Bobby fumbled for the call button that had fallen on the floor, pressing the button several times, still trying to get the kid to give him some sign he was hanging on. Dean's eyes were anywhere but on Bobby, flitting from all over the place as though searching the room for hidden dangers. Bobby cradled Dean's face in his hands, trying to get him to focus on him.
"Shit, kid…burning up. A LITTLE HELP IN HERE!" Bobby roared, catching Dean's flinch as he raised his voice. "Yeah, that's right, ya idjit, if you even think about believing the hogwash some nutcase spook is trying to sell you, I will tear you a new one! Just one breath at a ti-"
Bobby was interrupted by people in scrubs and white coats running into the room. A flurry of activity surrounded Dean, one nurse pulling Bobby away by the belt-loops on his jeans, the other pushing the head of Dean's bed back and removing the pillow so that he was laying flat.
"Heart rate 130, respiration 30, labored and shallow. Pulse ox 78!" One nurse shouted out.
Bobby saw a young looking fella in a white coat, a Dr. Aiken, break out what he knew was a non-rebreather mask, placing it on Dean with care and adjusting the oxygen valve on the wall.
"Temp is 104.2," warned a nurse in pink scrubs after invading Dean's ear with the thermometer. Across the bed, the other nurse looked blankly at her.
"I just checked his temp on vitals rounds. How did he get worse so fast?"
"Uhhh, doctor?" The nurse who had just finished taking Dean’s temperature was pointing to the side of the bed, where the tube leading from his chest was emptying into the canister at an alarming rate, a layer of thick sludge topped with frothy white. Before the medical professionals could panic about their patient drowning right before their eyes, the flow of the viscous effusion slowed to a stop as mysteriously as it had started.
"Let's get some ice in here, a cooling blanket." The doctor flipped through Dean's chart. "40mg of Lasix, let's get Combivent going through the mask. Dean, listen to me. I need you to calm down. Not breathing would make me panic too, but the calmer you are - the better it'll be." The doctor waited several long seconds where Dean kept the same hectic rate of respiration, before patting Dean's hand. "Okay, how 'bout we give you some help in that department."
Bobby saw the doctor pull a syringe out of the rolling tray that reminded him a lot of a toolbox he had back home. "What's that?"
"I'm giving him some Ativan to help him calm down. We need him to take some deeper breaths." Nearly as soon as the medication had been injected Bobby saw Dean's body relax, his fingers uncurling from the fists they had formed.
One nurse came back in with bags of ice when the other began speaking. "Pulse ox 86 and rising, respiration 24, heart rate 110."
Dr. Aiken began helping the nurses pack the ice around his patient's body. "Let's increase his dose of acetaminophen too. And I want the portable x-ray in here now."
"So, Mr. Morris…" Dr. Aiken said, turning toward Bobby, "What happened?"
Bobby was saved from having to answer when a muffled moan was heard.
"Back with us, Dean?" Dr. Aiken asked, both he and Bobby laughing at the raised hand that shot into the air to give them a thumbs up.
"Pulse ox holding steady?" Dr. Aiken asked one of the nurses who nodded in answer. "Let's get him back on the Venturi mask. I want a blood gas now and in four hours."
While the masks were being switched out, they heard Dean mumble, "B'by?"
"Yeah, kid, I'm here." Bobby stood at the foot of the bed and squeezed Dean's toes, not wanting to get in the way of the staff.
"R'l?"
"Yeah, boy, that was real."
"S'm?"
"I'll call him right now. Be right back."
Bobby quickly stepped out of the room and dialed Sam, who finally picked up on the fourth ring.
"I'm not interrupting you, am I?" Bobby asked with dripping sarcasm.
"What, no? Everything okay, Bobby? You find out anything with the alarm company?" Sam's voice sounded wrong to Bobby: clipped, rushed, and guilty.
"Alarm'll be easy. You need to come back to the hospital, Sam."
"Bobby. . . ?" Now there was the uncertain, worried Sammy voice Bobby was used to.
"Cole came to visit your brother while no one was here. If I hadn't walked in when I did…" Bobby shut up as several hospital staff walked by.
"Cole?! Jesus, Bobby…Jesus. I thought he wasn't…" Sam spluttered. "He's not…I mean, he's okay? I mean, what happened?"
"Calm down, Sam. I already have my hands full with one Winchester with breathing problems, don't need to make it two." Bobby heard Sam take a couple of breaths and the familiar sound of one of the doors of the Impala slamming.
Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. "So, what happened?"
"Respiratory distress." Bobby turned so he was facing the wall so he could utter the next part quietly. "Spook shut off the O2. Near as I can tell, Cole was trying to convince your brother to just keel over."
There was a sharp moment of silence.
"Sam?"
"Dean…he, um, he went for it?"
"No, Sam!" Bobby exclaimed in a chastising tone. "He didn't. Hence taking the trouble to turn off the oxygen. Seemed real keen on your brother meeting his Maker."
An enormous sigh of relief poured into Bobby's ear from the other end of the line."Okay, …okay, so…How is he now?"
"More stable than he was, high fever. They're icing him down now." Bobby stood flush against the hallway as a portable x-ray machine was wheeled past him and into Dean's room. "Getting some x-rays. He had stuff gushing out of his chest tube for a second there, then it stopped. Think they're worried about the infection they first told us about."
"I'm on my way now. Stay with him. We've got to figure out how Cole is someplace his flag isn't."
"We will."
"Bobby…"
"I won't leave his side, Sam. When he comes to, he'll be lookin' for your ugly mug, though, so get here. Drive safe."
Part 17
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Death Takes a Holiday.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Author's Note: This chapter switches voices a bunch.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15
Chapter 16
This Is Your Life
Bobby was not happy, not by a long shot, as he peered through binoculars from the foreclosed house across the street. The widow, it seemed, viewed her deceased husband's burial flag like the Crown Jewels. Or maybe she was a clairvoyant who knew that someday a couple of strangers were going to break into her house to burn it.
Point was, there was security everywhere, and that was just from the cursory examination Bobby did on the outside. There was the very high-end alarm system, which Sam would probably have a better shot at figuring out. Bobby was no slouch when it came to disarming armed men, but disarming alarms… it made his neck twitch. He always ended up second-guessing himself, and the last thing you want during a hunt is to be standing there like a moron with pliers in your hand, staring at an open alarm box, begging the cops to pull up or the critter you’re after to get the jump. He'd probably be better at them, not so skittish, if he had more experience, but most of the jobs Bobby tended to take were in more rural communities. The high-end 'cut the blue wire' type systems had only ever come up once or twice.
Besides the alarm, the glass-encased flag seemed to be in a larger glass case which had a code combination lock. The only reason Bobby had even caught that tidbit, was because apparently Mrs. Cole (who was still Mrs. Cole after all these years) took Stars and Stripes out once a day to stroke the case lovingly, talk to it for awhile, wipe any smudges off of the glass and replace it carefully in the more secure display.
Many people would have thought she was nuts, and perhaps she was, but Bobby couldn't help the pang of sympathy that rose within him. He knew what it was to bury a spouse, and like he and his late wife had been when tragedy truck, the Cole's had been a young couple. One moment you counted on having your whole future together, the next you're alone. If Bobby hadn't had hunting to throw himself into, the quest to prevent what happened to his family from happening to anyone else's, he may have gone the same way as the lady he was currently spying on.
Back on task - locks and alarms were one thing. You can pretext your way into someone's home, tell them you're from the alarm system's company. If you're good enough they'll let you into their underwear drawer, nevermind their safe. Sam wouldn't have a problem doing that. No, it was the Doberman that was the unpredictable factor. And as Bobby witnessed when the mailman came, the dog only had a sweet disposition for its owner. Everyone else seemed to be walking kibble. Shit.
A sudden buzzing in his pocket startled him, almost making him drop his binoculars. Bobby glanced at the number - Sam's.
"Hey, Sam, everything okay? How's Dean?"
"He looks a better. I talked to his doctor. They changed his meds. Oxygen sats are still a little low, but stable. Fever is stable. They're going to get him down to radiology later on, take a look at his chest to see how much progress he's making, if they can take the tube out yet. How are things looking on your end?"
"Like it is going to be a real pain in the ass. Security on top of security. After I finish up here, I'm going to see what I can do about getting more info from the alarm company, blueprints, maybe. See if I can find out how hard it'll be get them to turn it off, get us a little window of opportunity. Then I'm off to the racetrack."
"We have a lead there or are you just feeling lucky?"
"Nope, Mrs. Michael Cole has an angry-lookin' Doberman. Track is the easiest place to pick up some horse tranquilizers when we don't have a horse."
"Fair enough."
"You still at the hospital?"
"I'm actually gonna grab us a motel here in town. Gonna shower, grab some non-hospital food. You know the drill."
"Already got us one. Comfort Inn. It's on 27 west. Right near a shopping complex. Can't miss it. We're in room 46. I tucked the key in your laptop bag while you were sleeping."
Sam's hand immediately began patting down the outside pocket of his bag. Sure enough, he felt something key-shaped. "Thanks, Bobby."
"'Course." The elder hunter acknowledged gruffly.
"You gonna be back in time for a late lunch?" Sam asked. "Should I wait for you, get us both something?"
"Naw, you go ahead. Like I said, I have a few more things to do. I'll meet you at the hospital later on."
"Okay. Check back with you later."
"Sure." Bobby flipped his phone shut, peering once again through his binoculars with a sigh.
:::
:::
Sam could hardly wait until Bobby disconnected before he was dialing the next number. It took until his third ring for Ruby to pick up.
"Well, if it isn't tall, dark, and geeky."
"Hey. You in the area?"
"Absolutely. You got a motel we can use?"
At this Sam faltered. He didn't want to bring Ruby back to where he and Bobby were staying. Ruby must have figured that was why he was hesitating.
"Don't worry about it. They wouldn't understand, and you can explain it better after you've saved the world from Lilith. I know a place. From the hospital take the main road south, I'll text you the rest of the directions in a bit. And, Sam? It'll be good to see you."
Before Sam could even reply, there was a click on the line that told Sam that Ruby disconnected.
Sam followed the texted directions to what looked like a train yard. He would've been sure he was at the wrong place, except he saw the familiar yellow muscle car parked outside. The door swung open and Ruby stepped out, her range of motion slightly inhibited by the skin-tight jeans she had poured herself into.
"Like it? Welcome to the Caboose Motel. We're in that one." Ruby pointed at caboose her car was parked outside of, a red one that had a pair of Adirondack chairs laid out on the its end like it was the back porch.
The inside was a surprise - fully furnished with a king size bed, a headboard that was an old train track, a bathroom installed with the normal motel amenities. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear he was not standing in a caboose. Yeah, he had to admit, this motel had a certain charm to it.
Now came the awkward part. Ever since Sam had finally told her he was back with the program, the full program - blood and all, Ruby had taken to not pushing it on him at all. Now it was up to Sam to say he wanted it, or god forbid, admit that he was starting to need it a little too. When he was close to her like this, close and running on empty, it was almost unbearable. He could already taste the copper in his mouth, and he began wiping at his lips, salivating as the prospect of sating his need.
Sam's mind flitted with the many arguments for and against what he was about to do. Usually he'd do this when there was a heavy-league demon in town that he needed to take out or get information from. But now, why now? Lilith wasn't even in the country. Alastair wasn't here. This wasn't a seal they were protecting, it was taking out a spook. He'd never even tried, never even needed, to use his powers against a spirit. It was the standard drill since childhood - research, interviews, salt and burn.
So, why now? Except…Dean was laid up in the hospital, barely able to breathe. Any demon could get in there and take him out. Sam needed to be at his best, at his strongest to protect his brother, to finish this case. It was all depending on him.
Well, that wasn't quite right, was it?
Bobby was there. More correctly, Bobby was out there, in the field right now working to help Dean, while he was holed up in a caboose.
Sam did appreciate Bobby, more than he could express, but it was Dean and him who were brothers, who needed to have each other's backs. And this ghost saw all too clearly how broken Dean really was. No, it was up to Sam to protect him, to help him put the pieces back together again. And in just a moment, he'd be strong enough that he could do that.
But why did he need the blood for that? Since when did he need demon blood (or, for that matter, any kind of supernatural assistance) to be strong enough to be Dean's brother?
The answer came - clear as day.
Since Sam was so weak that his brother went to Hell for him.
Sam grabbed the knife Ruby offered and drank deep.
:::
:::
Dean pored over the case notes, his fingers turning ink-stained due to the sweat pouring off his clammy hands, ignoring the din around him as he was poked and prodded, ignoring well-meaning (but incredibly nosy) questions about what he was working on. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. He found the reason. He found Michael Cole. He found why him.
At first, anger thundered through him, assaulting his brain like the headache that was already pounding in his cranium.
Was that really what they thought? Well, fuck them! Dean wanted to bloody his knuckles punching someone.
"PTSD, my ass!" Dean wheezed aloud.
Maybe in his case it stood for Pretty Terrific Sexual Dalliances. Or, Party Time, Sam you Douche. Dean smirked, the anger still thrumming through him as he remembered the look of pitying concern in Sam's eyes. His brother thought he was that weak, that scarred? Bobby, too? A Warrior of God had pulled him out of Hell, because God thought he was strong enough to help stop the friggin' apocalypse! Or had everyone just magically forgotten that?
Dean's eyes continued to scan Sam's notes, hurt and indignation making it difficult to focus on the words. 'Symptoms'…
Oh.
The more he read, the more it was him.
The self-doubt and loathing that were always within him reared their ugly heads, the anger that had been flooding him swept away, leaving him the stark emptiness he was constantly trying to fill. He felt overheated and heavy, the guilt weighing on every inch of his skin.
They were right. Maybe he was that weak, that broken. He certainly was weak enough that he had taken Alastair's deal. It would be arrogant to assume he could just leave that glaring vulnerability behind. No, it was chained to him, hooked into his flesh.
"Of course they're right, soldier. You knew that all along."
Dean snapped his head up, startled to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him in a hollow voice that wasn't his own.
The problem with hallucinations, fever dreams, is that you will swear up and down they are the real thing until you're on the other side of it and firmly in reality again. A soldier in full dress uniform, a Corporal from the looks of the chevron on his sleeve, stood at the end of his bed, shaking his head sadly at Dean. With more than sadness, with familiarity. Goosebumps travelled quickly across the ailing hunter's skin at the change in temperature. Dean was suddenly pretty sure that he wasn't imagining things. Really pretty sure. Maybe.
"Hey, Mikey." Dean quirked his lip up into a smile as it began trembling from the shivering overtaking his body.
"You don't belong here, Dean. You remember every slice and jab, every howl of every animal allowed to claw at you, every violation. That's not all though, huh? You remember everything you were pushed to do to everyone else, everything they turned you into. Give in, please. Aren't you tired of having to wake up and face this every single day?"
"Just need a nap, but thanks for your concern." Dean quipped. The truth was written behind his faltering crooked smile, though. He was exhausted from facing Hell and some days he didn't know how he made it out of bed.
"I want to help you. Let me help you. Why would you want to remember these things for as long as you live? Come with me, I can make it better."
Dean felt his lungs seize, the sudden icy quality of the air making everything tighter and so much harder to breathe. Not good, so not good. Maybe this wasn't real, though. Sam's notes seemed to indicate he could be having a panic attack or a whacked out dissociative episode. Not that the cause mattered, because whether Soulja Boy over here was reality or not, Dean was having problems getting a breath. A problem amplified when the constant hiss of oxygen died down to nothing, the rush of air ceasing to travel through the mask.
The Corporal repeated his offer. "It is so much worse for you than any of the others. Come with me, let go. It'll be better."
Filtering in through haze in the shadowy corner of the room - Alastair, distant shrieks echoing.
"I brought you a present, Dean. Our own little version of 'This is Your Life'. You did so well with that first little tart as an appetizer, I thought you could use some encouragement. Purely selfish, you see. We have to make sure you're on the right track. You remember sweet little Abby, don't you? Bela?"
It was unfolding just as it did in those first days, months, after Dean first stepped off of the rack. The sight of Bela Talbot strapped down in front of him had him scrabbling backward, feeling his feet cut against the sharp volcanic rock beneath him. Or maybe not. He was in bed, wasn't he? Some hospital in Pennsylvania? Not back there. Not here - with her.
He felt Alastair grab his hair, the voice sneering in his ear. "Now, now Dean - I got you a present and you turn your nose up at it? I saved her just for you. She was ready for a cornea-transplant as soon as she strolled in, wheeling and dealing for black eyes." Alastair shoved him forward, his first breath inward full of charred bone.
"But I said, no, because I knew you were coming my way, Dean."
"So I put her on reserve, like a fine pinot grigio." Alastair crossed the torture chamber, swaying as if to a waltz, stopping by Bela’s head where he stabbed his demonic nose into her hair, taking lingering inhalations of humanity about to be uncorked. "Can you imagine how much better she’s going to taste after being steeped in all that fear? And here you cower," Alastair clicked his tongue and wagged his head. "That's not much in the way of gratitude. I thought I taught you that lesson already. We could start over..."
Her eyes were bugging out, pleading with him, the leather gag tight over her mouth. He could see the relief that was in those tearful blue eyes at first - Dean Winchester who rescued everyone was here in the non-flesh. He had to clench his fists to keep them from reaching out to untie her.
"Yes, my boy, perhaps you need a refresher course." Alastair mused thoughtfully. And Dean knew all too well what kind of machinations those musings brought to the surface.
Sniffing out the indecision, Alastair began his cajoling. "She made a deal to kill the very people who brought her into this world. She shot your brother. She sold the Colt - and that could've saved you, could’ve at least given poor Sammy a fighting chance. Is she really worth getting back up on my table? Really?"
Dean could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks, making their way through the soot that perpetually stained his skin. "No…"
There was a voice in the background, a sharp sir-yes-sir voice that cut through the crackle of flames that had begun to consume him. "C'mon, soldier. Don't say no. You can't say no. You deserve to take leave."
Alastair, still there, shoved the hell-bound version of him forward, planted a razor in one of his hands and some filth coated slivers of bamboo in the other, the cold steel of one and the sweltering stickiness of the other leaving his body as conflicted as his mind. He'd do this, because he couldn't face the alternative. Besides, why try to save her? It was clear there was nothing left to save of either of them.
The razor bit through flesh and caught on the hardness of her sternum. With Bela's first choked scream, he was hurtled back in the present, his eyes darting around, his heart cavorting wildly in his chest. The coast was clear of sulfur and bloodied scam artists, just clinical whiteness, sterile and freezing cold.
"Come with me, Dean, I'm beggin' ya."
What the present tense ghost and the Ghost of Christmas Past were asking of him were inexorably tangled up with one another. Was he saying yes or no to punishing her just a little bit more, just a little bit, until it felt right to him, until it felt like justice. Was he saying yes or no to Cole, who was offering peace that was tied up in a body bag? Which one did he even want…
To fight. He knew he needed to suck it up and fucking fight. And he'd tell that plague-ridden ghost to go stick it, just as soon as he could get some air in his chest.
Oh.
That was a problem. Where'd the air go?
He was going to die here in a sweaty, heart-thumping heap, because he was fucking winded? He'd always hoped that'd be the way he went out, but - say, at eighty years old underneath a redhead.
"It'll be better, soldier. I promise."
Focus, Dean, focus. Breathe. Tell this sonovabitch no.
But, resounding no's do not resound, or sound for that matter, when you don't have the air to push them out.
A strong familiar voice did it for him.
"No, it won't, Corporal." Bobby said, snatching the tiny salt packet off of Dean's lunch tray, fingers working hurriedly to tear it open. "Things get better when you live. They never have a chance to if you die."
With that, Bobby tossed a handful of salt at the spirit who promptly disappeared, then crossed the room to Dean's bedside and turned the valve for the oxygen wide open, the metal still ice cold from the spirit enacting its force on it. The grizzled hunter watched with wide eyes as Dean's chest hitched on every rapid swallow of air, gasping and coughing, a gurgle sounding from the back of his throat.
"Dean?! Dean!" Bobby fumbled for the call button that had fallen on the floor, pressing the button several times, still trying to get the kid to give him some sign he was hanging on. Dean's eyes were anywhere but on Bobby, flitting from all over the place as though searching the room for hidden dangers. Bobby cradled Dean's face in his hands, trying to get him to focus on him.
"Shit, kid…burning up. A LITTLE HELP IN HERE!" Bobby roared, catching Dean's flinch as he raised his voice. "Yeah, that's right, ya idjit, if you even think about believing the hogwash some nutcase spook is trying to sell you, I will tear you a new one! Just one breath at a ti-"
Bobby was interrupted by people in scrubs and white coats running into the room. A flurry of activity surrounded Dean, one nurse pulling Bobby away by the belt-loops on his jeans, the other pushing the head of Dean's bed back and removing the pillow so that he was laying flat.
"Heart rate 130, respiration 30, labored and shallow. Pulse ox 78!" One nurse shouted out.
Bobby saw a young looking fella in a white coat, a Dr. Aiken, break out what he knew was a non-rebreather mask, placing it on Dean with care and adjusting the oxygen valve on the wall.
"Temp is 104.2," warned a nurse in pink scrubs after invading Dean's ear with the thermometer. Across the bed, the other nurse looked blankly at her.
"I just checked his temp on vitals rounds. How did he get worse so fast?"
"Uhhh, doctor?" The nurse who had just finished taking Dean’s temperature was pointing to the side of the bed, where the tube leading from his chest was emptying into the canister at an alarming rate, a layer of thick sludge topped with frothy white. Before the medical professionals could panic about their patient drowning right before their eyes, the flow of the viscous effusion slowed to a stop as mysteriously as it had started.
"Let's get some ice in here, a cooling blanket." The doctor flipped through Dean's chart. "40mg of Lasix, let's get Combivent going through the mask. Dean, listen to me. I need you to calm down. Not breathing would make me panic too, but the calmer you are - the better it'll be." The doctor waited several long seconds where Dean kept the same hectic rate of respiration, before patting Dean's hand. "Okay, how 'bout we give you some help in that department."
Bobby saw the doctor pull a syringe out of the rolling tray that reminded him a lot of a toolbox he had back home. "What's that?"
"I'm giving him some Ativan to help him calm down. We need him to take some deeper breaths." Nearly as soon as the medication had been injected Bobby saw Dean's body relax, his fingers uncurling from the fists they had formed.
One nurse came back in with bags of ice when the other began speaking. "Pulse ox 86 and rising, respiration 24, heart rate 110."
Dr. Aiken began helping the nurses pack the ice around his patient's body. "Let's increase his dose of acetaminophen too. And I want the portable x-ray in here now."
"So, Mr. Morris…" Dr. Aiken said, turning toward Bobby, "What happened?"
Bobby was saved from having to answer when a muffled moan was heard.
"Back with us, Dean?" Dr. Aiken asked, both he and Bobby laughing at the raised hand that shot into the air to give them a thumbs up.
"Pulse ox holding steady?" Dr. Aiken asked one of the nurses who nodded in answer. "Let's get him back on the Venturi mask. I want a blood gas now and in four hours."
While the masks were being switched out, they heard Dean mumble, "B'by?"
"Yeah, kid, I'm here." Bobby stood at the foot of the bed and squeezed Dean's toes, not wanting to get in the way of the staff.
"R'l?"
"Yeah, boy, that was real."
"S'm?"
"I'll call him right now. Be right back."
Bobby quickly stepped out of the room and dialed Sam, who finally picked up on the fourth ring.
"I'm not interrupting you, am I?" Bobby asked with dripping sarcasm.
"What, no? Everything okay, Bobby? You find out anything with the alarm company?" Sam's voice sounded wrong to Bobby: clipped, rushed, and guilty.
"Alarm'll be easy. You need to come back to the hospital, Sam."
"Bobby. . . ?" Now there was the uncertain, worried Sammy voice Bobby was used to.
"Cole came to visit your brother while no one was here. If I hadn't walked in when I did…" Bobby shut up as several hospital staff walked by.
"Cole?! Jesus, Bobby…Jesus. I thought he wasn't…" Sam spluttered. "He's not…I mean, he's okay? I mean, what happened?"
"Calm down, Sam. I already have my hands full with one Winchester with breathing problems, don't need to make it two." Bobby heard Sam take a couple of breaths and the familiar sound of one of the doors of the Impala slamming.
Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply. "So, what happened?"
"Respiratory distress." Bobby turned so he was facing the wall so he could utter the next part quietly. "Spook shut off the O2. Near as I can tell, Cole was trying to convince your brother to just keel over."
There was a sharp moment of silence.
"Sam?"
"Dean…he, um, he went for it?"
"No, Sam!" Bobby exclaimed in a chastising tone. "He didn't. Hence taking the trouble to turn off the oxygen. Seemed real keen on your brother meeting his Maker."
An enormous sigh of relief poured into Bobby's ear from the other end of the line."Okay, …okay, so…How is he now?"
"More stable than he was, high fever. They're icing him down now." Bobby stood flush against the hallway as a portable x-ray machine was wheeled past him and into Dean's room. "Getting some x-rays. He had stuff gushing out of his chest tube for a second there, then it stopped. Think they're worried about the infection they first told us about."
"I'm on my way now. Stay with him. We've got to figure out how Cole is someplace his flag isn't."
"We will."
"Bobby…"
"I won't leave his side, Sam. When he comes to, he'll be lookin' for your ugly mug, though, so get here. Drive safe."
Part 17