Verbum Caro Factum Est : 6
XVI.
March 20, Spring Equinox
Gracian Restoration, Yemassee, South Carolina
“Where’s the freakin’ iodine?” Dean asked. His voice had no tone or depth.
He had passed out for the ten minutes that it took Bobby and Sam to carry him back to the car and make it most of the way back to Gracian’s. Gracian had driven the Impala with an injured shoulder so that Sam could keep Dean upright in the back seat and keep pressure on the wounds.
Dean rummaged through what he could reach of the duffel bag, though he couldn’t exactly see into it. The water from the steaming towels dripped into the gashes on his arms and chest and made him jittery.
“It’s right here.” Sam moved the wet towels back onto his arm. “Dean! You’re gonna have to be still, alright? The more you move, the longer this is gonna take.”
Dean sighed loudly and let the back of his head land against the headboard a little too hard. “Mhhmm, yeah, okay,” he conceded. He closed his eyes and took more focused breaths, but every breath he took made a spongy, hissing sound as he exhaled. His face was turning ashen colored again and he settled for repeating the head banging procedure in a stilted rhythm.
Leaning over Dean’s left arm again, Sam tried to get a good bead on the flesh gaping over his tricep. The muscle didn’t look torn. “How on earth did you even get one right here?” His voice lowered quickly like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Dean looked at Sam and a flash of remorse was quickly stifled. “I’m talented,” he replied in a thin whisper.
“I could tape some of them if we lay low here for a while, see how it goes, but… not if it was an animal. Do they count?” he asked, half joking.
Dean rolled his eyes.
Sam leaned back and took another look at the overall damage, lifting and adjusting the towels as gently as he could. The opening on the left side of Dean’s chest was bubbling. The towel wasn’t soaked in blood.
“This isn’t good,” he said, tensing for an argument.
He didn’t get one.
“I can stitch some of these up. It’s at least a couple hours work and the towels will help keep them soft, but this one…” All he had to do was glance at it and Dean winced. He grabbed a clean plastic grocery bag from the med duffel and held it over the wound, easing their last roll of Grip-Rite wrap under Dean and wrapping it lightly twice. “Man, we have to get you to a hospital.”
Dean gasped and looked at him, but only for a second. Then he went back to staring at the ceiling, his expression tight and drawn. The headboard was becoming a nice distraction in a masochistic sort of way. “Where’s Bobby?” he said.
Sam blinked slowly. “He’ll be back in minute. He went for ice and-”
“Okay, then he can’t do it.” Dean renewed his fumbling in the bag and found something. The towels fell off his right arm again as he unscrewed the cap with two fingers and took a long swig from the whiskey flask. “Come on, keep going. These are really starting to itch.”
Sam stared. “Dean, this-”
“Sam, drop it, alright? We’ll have to make do.”
Sam mouthed Dean’s words back at him. “This is not something that Bobby is going to be able to fix!” He gestured broadly at the mess of towels, blood and flesh. “Aren’t you listening…”
Neither spoke. Dean took a breath and it was raspy and whistled going in now, too.
“Dean, please.”
Dean shook his head and when he tried to speak, what was left of his voice cracked harshly and he tried to stifle a deep, wet cough. There was a wheezing noise and he made a face Sam had never seen before.
“That’s it,” Sam said. “We’re going. Right now.”
XVII.
March 21, Good Friday
Cafeteria, Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
Sam leaned back in his chair and pinched his eyes shut for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was just struggling to focus again on the laptop when Gracian walked in. His right arm was in a sling, holding a Styrofoam cup and with his other arm he held out a plastic grocery bag to Sam. He took the seat across from him at the tiny cafeteria table.
Sam sniffed and his eyebrows knitted together when he saw the sling.
Gracian lifted his uninjured arm and waggled his fingers. “Always was a leftie.”
One dimple appeared as Sam smiled. “I’m glad you’re okay, Hal.”
“Boy, I got more feathers left than any other damn peacock in this place,” he bristled and then chuckled.
Sam laughed and smiled his first genuine smile in a long time, even though it faded quickly.
Gracian made a show of grabbing a mini tub of half-n-half from the table with his injured arm and pouring it into his cup, stirring it with the tip of his finger. “Bobby picked up yer stuff from my place and took it to a motel ‘bout a mile down the road.”
“Where is he now?”
“Went to check on somethin’,” Gracian cocked his head to the side and watched Sam put his face in both hands and lean on the table, holding his head up in sheer determination to defy gravity. Then a muffled sigh leaked through. Gracian leaned forward and closed the laptop.
“I’ll be alright,” Sam protested.
“Bullshit,” Gracian replied.
Sam nodded and initially it was only to be polite, but the continued motion of his head seemed to convince his mind that Gracian was right.
“Super 8.” Gracian picked up the bag and dangled enticing things that meant clean and quiet and soft in his face.
Sam’s cheeks bulged as they let go a giant puff of air. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Well, you don’t exactly be smellin’ like roses,” Gracian replied brusquely. He shook the bag. “Room 104. Hot shower, toothbrush, color TV. How’s he doin?”
“Uh… they said they’ll have to leave the chest tube in until they’re sure his lung won’t collapse again. He’s been asleep. They said if he gets through the next twenty four hours without complications...” Something in Gracian’s expression told him it was more information than he’d been ready to hear. Sam blinked and stretched the muscles in his face. “They said he should make it.”
Gracian nodded and stuck his tongue in his cheek, then patted his shirt pocket and jacket for his tin of tobacco and his pipe. “Seein’ as he’s asleep, know anyplace a fellah can catch a puff?”
“I don’t. Sorry.” Sam’s smile was chagrined. He moved stiffly to pack the laptop.
Gracian rose and walked toward the door without looking back.
Sam called after him, “Hal, thanks, for everything. Will you call me if anythi-”
“Get some fuckin’ sleep, Sam!” Gracian shouted without turning his head.
XVIII.
Dean's Room, Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
The only sounds were the beep of monitors and a whirring noise. Then, the beep of monitors, a whirring noise and shallow breathing. Then, the beep of monitors, a whirring noise, shallow breathing and feet walking around. White light roared and flashed behind his eyes in bursts that lasted for several seconds before it got back to normal. After a few times, he sensed a pattern between the bursts and the beep and whirring noises and did a systems check.
He wiggled his fingers and toes. He groped clumsily under the thin blanket and tried to stretch out the tightness in his chest, felt resistance from a thick bandage. When he tried again, a thin cough was all it took. Spasms pierced through him and shards of light rained upside down in the back of his eyelids as air was forced into his lungs through his nose.
A warm press of fingers and a palm gripped the top of his arm. When everything stopped, he focused on the fingers, counted them, and waited several minutes for the pattern to start over.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” his own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.
“’Fraid so,” Bobby’s gruff response sounded gruffer than usual.
“Damn it,” Dean replied, smiling with the side of his face. He opened his eyes halfway and he looked straight up at first, but they kept sliding shut again, fading through to a world where lights shifted in a silent maelstrom.
After a few days that were actually minutes, he shuffled his legs. “Bobby.”
“Yeah.”
“Something,” Dean replied faintly, “There’s something… I need you… to do.”
Gracian walked in. “Sam’s goin’ and gettin’ some sleep,” he said.
Trained on Dean, Bobby barely acknowledged him. Without thinking, he squeezed Dean's arm and made him wince. “Sure thing. What is it?”
Dean concentrated. His breathing was so heavily assisted, he could only get out a few words at a time. “I want you… to unplug this… damn machine.”
“Cain’t do it. You need it for now,” Gracian said bluntly.
“Yeah.” Dean’s expression remained blank. “I know.”
The beeps of the machine metered every change in Bobby’s stricken face. Several minutes passed while he held Dean's arm. Finally, he reached over with his other hand and pulled up the blanket around Dean’s chest.
“Go back to sleep, son,” he said softly.
Dean’s entire body seemed to collapse in on itself. Then he slowly fell asleep again.
XIX.
Room 104, Super 8 Motel, Beaufort, South Carolina
She was waiting for his return to the dark motel from the gas station where he had gone to get something for his head. The lights on the outdoor corridor flickered, along with her temper.
“You’re going about this the wrong way,” she said as she followed him.
“We’re running out of time, Ruby. I noticed you didn’t seem to care much until now.” He said tiredly, turning to face he and looming over her small frame. “Where is Lenore? Is she okay?”
Ruby's face hardened. “I didn’t see anything to worry about until now.”
“Is. She. Okay?”
She lifted her chin and folded her arms. “I found them. In Austin.”
Sam twisted his neck and raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue.
“She’s dead.”
Disgusted, Sam shook his head. He turned and walked away from her. “Dean was right. I never should have trusted you. If you hurt her-”
Not bothering to move, she hurled her voice after him, ripe with cloying directness. “I didn’t hurt her. I found them, just like I said. I asked them what happened, just like you said.”
He stopped.
She continued, each clipped word stinging his ears. “They said it was the dead man’s blood that killed her. I didn’t tell them any different.”
Sam’s eyes panned the emptiness in front of him and he lowered his head, parsing out the information. “How long did she live?”
“Not long. Apparently, she died the night you helped them escape from your friend, Shaft.” Ruby tilted her head, fake confusion shrouding her features. “So much for not hurting her, I guess.”
“Goodbye, Ruby.” He continued to walk away, not turning to look at her. He reached the door and used the key.
She closed the distance between them. “You know, you are a real piece of work. Your family brought this all down on you and you’re just gonna go right on sacrificing yourself?”
Sam rotated his head without changing the look on his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Their breath escaped, steamed and mingled white and for a second, both were distracted by the color.
“I’ve been a busy girl, helping you… since you won’t help yourself,” she added tersely, and then smiled like she had a present for him. “I found out what happened to your mother.”
Sam didn’t try to hide a dark smile of disbelief, but he didn’t move.
“Your dad? The Marines discharged him. Sent him home with a Purple Heart and a real one to match. And your mom’s doctor friend had to tell her that her loving, hard-working husband was going to die of heart failure before they would see their ten year anniversary.” Ruby had to tilt her head back sharply to look into Sam’s eyes. "Little Dean was going to be without his father... I guess she couldn’t live with that.”
“I hope to God you’re lying because when I find out you are, I’m gonna enjoy ripping-”
“Oh, it’s true,” she snapped, her eyes serious, then mirthful again, “and actually kinda funny. You and your dad, always butting heads. He was the only one who never did a thing to harm you. He looked out for you, just like-”
“How could Dean possibly have anything to do with it? He was only four years old.”
“-and ten months,” she agreed quickly, then began to sway her hips side to side thoughtfully. “I can’t decide what’s more tragic. That Mary didn’t know you were on the way when she sold her soul to save your father, or…” her voice staggered off and she appeared to be deep in thought.
“Or what?” Sam bit out.
She only smiled. “You need me, Sam. You just won’t admit it.”
He didn’t blink. “The devil I know is better than the devil I don’t.”
Her face went dark, no longer teasing. “You don’t know Marchosias. You don’t know what he’s capable of. I do.”
A tendon flinched in Sam’s jaw when he smiled sadly down at her. His eyes were hollow. “I didn’t mean him. Or you.”
He twisted the knob and entered, closed the door quietly behind him, slumped down against it until he hit the floor. He fell asleep with his hand covering his face, propped in the corner.
Her lashes tickled his lower lip when he kissed the lids of her eyes gently, one and then the other and then back again. Two pairs of strong, fiery eyes burned with sadness into one another.
“I missed you, Sam.”
“Jess.”
Her fingers twisted in the layers of his shirt as they sought for purchase and he could feel the warmth of his blood rushing to the surface of his skin as her cool hands smoothed over his chest, onto his arms, around and down the curve of his spine, drawing him close. She leaned her hips forward into his, claiming him.
He pulled back, breath escaping slowly, his face reflecting her gentle expression. The slow slide of his vacant eyes grazed the subtle pout of her lips. He twined his fingers through long, flaxen curls, caressed the back of her neck, a soft wisp of skin against his calloused palm. His thumb curved, traced the line of her earlobe, lingered over the rise and hollow of her cheek.
“Why, Sam? Why do you love him more than me?” She raised her hand to cover his cheek, lips parted a deep shade of pink. She raised her chin to seek him out.
He lowered his head, wanting to be found.
He heard a baby crying. The room stretched and she disappeared from his grasp when he blinked at the sound. He was alone in a hallway, standing outside the door of his old room, in his old house. He could hear gentle crooning, the soft voice of a parent to their newborn, on the other side. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.
It hit him in the back when it opened, like he was already inside.
He looked behind him. Four year old Dean was standing in the doorway, but it was no longer the door to his room. He was in the downstairs hallway and it was the front door of the house. Little Dean was staring with wide eyes at someone over his shoulder. When he followed Dean’s dumbfounded gaze, he saw a man standing on the porch in a black trench coat with a popped collar, bouncing a bundle in his arms. Little Dean spoke behind him. “Did you come to see my mommy?”
Sam jerked awake. The room was dark, void, pregnant with silence. He got up from the floor and left for the hospital.
XX.
March 23, Easter
Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
Sam was still shaking when he walked out the double doors of the emergency entrance. He had gone two days without sleep, had refused to leave Dean’s side, but things had only gotten worse. He turned in a circle looking for somewhere to sit and anonymously fall apart for a few minutes, to let the cold staunch the pounding in his head.
Mr. McGillicutty, the surgery was successful … suffered complications from an infection and a repeated collapsed lung… resting heart rate is a little higher than we’d like… ICU overnight … he’s sedated … would you like us to call you when he wakes up…
He saw a bench twenty feet away, at the curb, but it was already occupied. He spared nothing but a cursory glance over the man, his training habitual, and his eyes had already panned for a more solitary spot when his mind caught onto something familiar. His eyes cut back. The man had long, sandy hair and dark jeans and boots. One of his arms was slung out across the bench. Twenty feet suddenly seemed like nothing as Sam closed the gap between them with steady steps, his hands in his pockets. When he stood in front of him, it took a few seconds before Sam could find the breath to speak.
“What did you do?” Sam said, still as a statue. Had they looked, the dark fire in Sam’s eyes would have kindled mind-numbing fear in the policemen walking past him.
The man, whose vest still said John, shrugged one shoulder.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t me, per se,” the man tilted his head back, but he didn’t look up. “Let’s just say, I have them on speed dial.”
“They nearly killed him.”
“Yep.”
Sam shifted his weight. “What were they?”
The man smiled and a hollow bark of laughter became a ghost between them. “My own little creation. Nice, aren’t they? Powerful when they’re after something like you two. Rather poetic really.” He pointed one finger and moved it in a wide circle toward Sam. “Although I will have to remind them that next time they should be more thorough.”
Confusion swarmed over Sam’s features before he could temper it with anger. He took a deep breath but couldn’t stop the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The man rose to leave. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you again. I hope you’re not too attached to your brother. You all have to go sometime. How does that saying go? Time waits for no-”
“You wouldn’t.” Sam’s body was a lightning rod, tension coiling in every feature, every limb. He lunged forward and jabbed a finger in his face. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Why, Sam, I’m offended. My actions are never pointless. There is always a reason. Pointless suffering holds no value.”
“Why him?”
“Why?” he dragged out the word and then shook his head. “Because of the way you were made, Sammy boy. Evil as they come. That deserves punishment, requires conformity, in this world and the next, before you become something greater.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He looked Sam up and down. “I guess.”
Sam was silent.
“You have associations. Some you may come to realize later, but associations nonetheless, and it’s my job to - well - stop you, frankly.”
“But I am the one who summoned you.”
The demon inside the man named John angled his head and flashed a grin. “Happy coincidence.” He dusted the shoulders of the vest, unbuttoned a pocket flap and reached inside to slide on a pair of dark sunglasses. “Do you know what an apocalypse is, Sam?” His mouth betrayed him with a smirk.
Sam’s chest heaved and his fingers curled into fists inside the pockets of his coat. His throat went dry. “The end of the world,” he whispered.
Marchosias rocked back on his heels, then leaned forward with the counterweight and slapped down fully on his feet again. “No. Would you like to try for door number two?”
Sam took a step backwards.
“It’s this,” Marchosias held his hands out at arm’s length, “right now. You keep your end of the bargain, make this easy for all of us, or your brother dies.”
As he walked backwards, Sam shook his head. “There was no bargain. You stay away from us or I’ll send you straight back to Hell.”
Marchosias didn’t flinch and his voice carried to the walls of the building and reverberated around Sam. “Your brother, for mine.”
Sam's feet stopped working. “What?”
The man tilted his head forward, peered over the sunglasses and looked right through Sam. “There’s no accounting for family, but then… you know that, don’t you?”
Sam tongued the inside of his mouth like he’d been punched. “Azazel?”
“I’d have done it myself. Dean saved me the trouble, actually. You can tell him thank you from me.” Another toothy smile passed summarily over his features and he began to close the distance between them in stiff-legged steps. “However, it did not help me to resolve the rest of this little predicament he created and now guess who’s left holding the bag?” He gestured loosely up to the building, “One of you has to go first. Wouldn’t you rather it be him? Save him the anguish and pain of watching your destiny unfold? Or is it that you want him here to stop you? Trust me, Sam, he won’t.”
“No." Sam stiffened and his tone was bitter. "There's nothing for him to stop because I'm not gonna do it. He doesn’t know, he doesn't need to know, and that's way it should be.”
“Oh, so Mr. Destiny had a choice! But turnabout is fair play, right? You had the choice. You made the choice. You chose to keep him in the dark. May as well have damned him yourself. And now... well, now he’s really in it, isn’t he? But, if that's the way you want it...” Marchosias offered a conciliatory smile.
The roaring in Sam’s ears drowned out the sounds of an ambulance arriving in the drive where they stood. His jaw jutted forward, his mouth open. Unable to speak, he blinked and licked his lips, looked hard through the sunglasses and saw the yellow beneath. "Fine."
Marchosias nodded sideways and blinked an expectant false frown. “How are the mighty fallen. I suppose innocence has it’s price after all, doesn’t it?”
“When?”
“When what?”
Sam lifted his chin. “How long do we have? Until you come for me?”
Marchosias shook his head genteelly. He lifted one hand in a salute. “But I’m already here.”
Something yanked Sam off his feet from behind and his body twisted and filled to bursting, his insides railing at the onslaught of what felt like a thousand tiny daggers pouring in and out and around him, until he found himself heavy on his hands and knees, bits of gravel digging into his palms and cutting into his knees as he lurched forward numbly and hit his head on the pavement, trying to breathe.
Someone was patting him on the back. Sam blinked and coughed, bile rising at the poisonous taste in his mouth. When he could open his eyes and look up, Marchosias was leaning against a parked car, digging dirt out of his fingernails. The neon lights of a honky-tonk bar blinked and blazed behind him.
“Looks like you had one too many,” Marchosias observed casually. “Come on. Let’s wash that down.” Without another glance at Sam, he pulled himself up and sauntered into the bar.
Sam pushed up weakly, balancing on his fingertips, and fought his way up the side of the car until he stood upright again. Nothing was familiar. With one arm around his stomach, he stumbled to the side of the road and raised a hand to flag down the closest passing car.
CHAPTER 7
March 20, Spring Equinox
Gracian Restoration, Yemassee, South Carolina
“Where’s the freakin’ iodine?” Dean asked. His voice had no tone or depth.
He had passed out for the ten minutes that it took Bobby and Sam to carry him back to the car and make it most of the way back to Gracian’s. Gracian had driven the Impala with an injured shoulder so that Sam could keep Dean upright in the back seat and keep pressure on the wounds.
Dean rummaged through what he could reach of the duffel bag, though he couldn’t exactly see into it. The water from the steaming towels dripped into the gashes on his arms and chest and made him jittery.
“It’s right here.” Sam moved the wet towels back onto his arm. “Dean! You’re gonna have to be still, alright? The more you move, the longer this is gonna take.”
Dean sighed loudly and let the back of his head land against the headboard a little too hard. “Mhhmm, yeah, okay,” he conceded. He closed his eyes and took more focused breaths, but every breath he took made a spongy, hissing sound as he exhaled. His face was turning ashen colored again and he settled for repeating the head banging procedure in a stilted rhythm.
Leaning over Dean’s left arm again, Sam tried to get a good bead on the flesh gaping over his tricep. The muscle didn’t look torn. “How on earth did you even get one right here?” His voice lowered quickly like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Dean looked at Sam and a flash of remorse was quickly stifled. “I’m talented,” he replied in a thin whisper.
“I could tape some of them if we lay low here for a while, see how it goes, but… not if it was an animal. Do they count?” he asked, half joking.
Dean rolled his eyes.
Sam leaned back and took another look at the overall damage, lifting and adjusting the towels as gently as he could. The opening on the left side of Dean’s chest was bubbling. The towel wasn’t soaked in blood.
“This isn’t good,” he said, tensing for an argument.
He didn’t get one.
“I can stitch some of these up. It’s at least a couple hours work and the towels will help keep them soft, but this one…” All he had to do was glance at it and Dean winced. He grabbed a clean plastic grocery bag from the med duffel and held it over the wound, easing their last roll of Grip-Rite wrap under Dean and wrapping it lightly twice. “Man, we have to get you to a hospital.”
Dean gasped and looked at him, but only for a second. Then he went back to staring at the ceiling, his expression tight and drawn. The headboard was becoming a nice distraction in a masochistic sort of way. “Where’s Bobby?” he said.
Sam blinked slowly. “He’ll be back in minute. He went for ice and-”
“Okay, then he can’t do it.” Dean renewed his fumbling in the bag and found something. The towels fell off his right arm again as he unscrewed the cap with two fingers and took a long swig from the whiskey flask. “Come on, keep going. These are really starting to itch.”
Sam stared. “Dean, this-”
“Sam, drop it, alright? We’ll have to make do.”
Sam mouthed Dean’s words back at him. “This is not something that Bobby is going to be able to fix!” He gestured broadly at the mess of towels, blood and flesh. “Aren’t you listening…”
Neither spoke. Dean took a breath and it was raspy and whistled going in now, too.
“Dean, please.”
Dean shook his head and when he tried to speak, what was left of his voice cracked harshly and he tried to stifle a deep, wet cough. There was a wheezing noise and he made a face Sam had never seen before.
“That’s it,” Sam said. “We’re going. Right now.”
XVII.
March 21, Good Friday
Cafeteria, Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
Sam leaned back in his chair and pinched his eyes shut for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was just struggling to focus again on the laptop when Gracian walked in. His right arm was in a sling, holding a Styrofoam cup and with his other arm he held out a plastic grocery bag to Sam. He took the seat across from him at the tiny cafeteria table.
Sam sniffed and his eyebrows knitted together when he saw the sling.
Gracian lifted his uninjured arm and waggled his fingers. “Always was a leftie.”
One dimple appeared as Sam smiled. “I’m glad you’re okay, Hal.”
“Boy, I got more feathers left than any other damn peacock in this place,” he bristled and then chuckled.
Sam laughed and smiled his first genuine smile in a long time, even though it faded quickly.
Gracian made a show of grabbing a mini tub of half-n-half from the table with his injured arm and pouring it into his cup, stirring it with the tip of his finger. “Bobby picked up yer stuff from my place and took it to a motel ‘bout a mile down the road.”
“Where is he now?”
“Went to check on somethin’,” Gracian cocked his head to the side and watched Sam put his face in both hands and lean on the table, holding his head up in sheer determination to defy gravity. Then a muffled sigh leaked through. Gracian leaned forward and closed the laptop.
“I’ll be alright,” Sam protested.
“Bullshit,” Gracian replied.
Sam nodded and initially it was only to be polite, but the continued motion of his head seemed to convince his mind that Gracian was right.
“Super 8.” Gracian picked up the bag and dangled enticing things that meant clean and quiet and soft in his face.
Sam’s cheeks bulged as they let go a giant puff of air. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Well, you don’t exactly be smellin’ like roses,” Gracian replied brusquely. He shook the bag. “Room 104. Hot shower, toothbrush, color TV. How’s he doin?”
“Uh… they said they’ll have to leave the chest tube in until they’re sure his lung won’t collapse again. He’s been asleep. They said if he gets through the next twenty four hours without complications...” Something in Gracian’s expression told him it was more information than he’d been ready to hear. Sam blinked and stretched the muscles in his face. “They said he should make it.”
Gracian nodded and stuck his tongue in his cheek, then patted his shirt pocket and jacket for his tin of tobacco and his pipe. “Seein’ as he’s asleep, know anyplace a fellah can catch a puff?”
“I don’t. Sorry.” Sam’s smile was chagrined. He moved stiffly to pack the laptop.
Gracian rose and walked toward the door without looking back.
Sam called after him, “Hal, thanks, for everything. Will you call me if anythi-”
“Get some fuckin’ sleep, Sam!” Gracian shouted without turning his head.
XVIII.
Dean's Room, Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
The only sounds were the beep of monitors and a whirring noise. Then, the beep of monitors, a whirring noise and shallow breathing. Then, the beep of monitors, a whirring noise, shallow breathing and feet walking around. White light roared and flashed behind his eyes in bursts that lasted for several seconds before it got back to normal. After a few times, he sensed a pattern between the bursts and the beep and whirring noises and did a systems check.
He wiggled his fingers and toes. He groped clumsily under the thin blanket and tried to stretch out the tightness in his chest, felt resistance from a thick bandage. When he tried again, a thin cough was all it took. Spasms pierced through him and shards of light rained upside down in the back of his eyelids as air was forced into his lungs through his nose.
A warm press of fingers and a palm gripped the top of his arm. When everything stopped, he focused on the fingers, counted them, and waited several minutes for the pattern to start over.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” his own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.
“’Fraid so,” Bobby’s gruff response sounded gruffer than usual.
“Damn it,” Dean replied, smiling with the side of his face. He opened his eyes halfway and he looked straight up at first, but they kept sliding shut again, fading through to a world where lights shifted in a silent maelstrom.
After a few days that were actually minutes, he shuffled his legs. “Bobby.”
“Yeah.”
“Something,” Dean replied faintly, “There’s something… I need you… to do.”
Gracian walked in. “Sam’s goin’ and gettin’ some sleep,” he said.
Trained on Dean, Bobby barely acknowledged him. Without thinking, he squeezed Dean's arm and made him wince. “Sure thing. What is it?”
Dean concentrated. His breathing was so heavily assisted, he could only get out a few words at a time. “I want you… to unplug this… damn machine.”
“Cain’t do it. You need it for now,” Gracian said bluntly.
“Yeah.” Dean’s expression remained blank. “I know.”
The beeps of the machine metered every change in Bobby’s stricken face. Several minutes passed while he held Dean's arm. Finally, he reached over with his other hand and pulled up the blanket around Dean’s chest.
“Go back to sleep, son,” he said softly.
Dean’s entire body seemed to collapse in on itself. Then he slowly fell asleep again.
XIX.
Room 104, Super 8 Motel, Beaufort, South Carolina
She was waiting for his return to the dark motel from the gas station where he had gone to get something for his head. The lights on the outdoor corridor flickered, along with her temper.
“You’re going about this the wrong way,” she said as she followed him.
“We’re running out of time, Ruby. I noticed you didn’t seem to care much until now.” He said tiredly, turning to face he and looming over her small frame. “Where is Lenore? Is she okay?”
Ruby's face hardened. “I didn’t see anything to worry about until now.”
“Is. She. Okay?”
She lifted her chin and folded her arms. “I found them. In Austin.”
Sam twisted his neck and raised his eyebrows, urging her to continue.
“She’s dead.”
Disgusted, Sam shook his head. He turned and walked away from her. “Dean was right. I never should have trusted you. If you hurt her-”
Not bothering to move, she hurled her voice after him, ripe with cloying directness. “I didn’t hurt her. I found them, just like I said. I asked them what happened, just like you said.”
He stopped.
She continued, each clipped word stinging his ears. “They said it was the dead man’s blood that killed her. I didn’t tell them any different.”
Sam’s eyes panned the emptiness in front of him and he lowered his head, parsing out the information. “How long did she live?”
“Not long. Apparently, she died the night you helped them escape from your friend, Shaft.” Ruby tilted her head, fake confusion shrouding her features. “So much for not hurting her, I guess.”
“Goodbye, Ruby.” He continued to walk away, not turning to look at her. He reached the door and used the key.
She closed the distance between them. “You know, you are a real piece of work. Your family brought this all down on you and you’re just gonna go right on sacrificing yourself?”
Sam rotated his head without changing the look on his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Their breath escaped, steamed and mingled white and for a second, both were distracted by the color.
“I’ve been a busy girl, helping you… since you won’t help yourself,” she added tersely, and then smiled like she had a present for him. “I found out what happened to your mother.”
Sam didn’t try to hide a dark smile of disbelief, but he didn’t move.
“Your dad? The Marines discharged him. Sent him home with a Purple Heart and a real one to match. And your mom’s doctor friend had to tell her that her loving, hard-working husband was going to die of heart failure before they would see their ten year anniversary.” Ruby had to tilt her head back sharply to look into Sam’s eyes. "Little Dean was going to be without his father... I guess she couldn’t live with that.”
“I hope to God you’re lying because when I find out you are, I’m gonna enjoy ripping-”
“Oh, it’s true,” she snapped, her eyes serious, then mirthful again, “and actually kinda funny. You and your dad, always butting heads. He was the only one who never did a thing to harm you. He looked out for you, just like-”
“How could Dean possibly have anything to do with it? He was only four years old.”
“-and ten months,” she agreed quickly, then began to sway her hips side to side thoughtfully. “I can’t decide what’s more tragic. That Mary didn’t know you were on the way when she sold her soul to save your father, or…” her voice staggered off and she appeared to be deep in thought.
“Or what?” Sam bit out.
She only smiled. “You need me, Sam. You just won’t admit it.”
He didn’t blink. “The devil I know is better than the devil I don’t.”
Her face went dark, no longer teasing. “You don’t know Marchosias. You don’t know what he’s capable of. I do.”
A tendon flinched in Sam’s jaw when he smiled sadly down at her. His eyes were hollow. “I didn’t mean him. Or you.”
He twisted the knob and entered, closed the door quietly behind him, slumped down against it until he hit the floor. He fell asleep with his hand covering his face, propped in the corner.
Her lashes tickled his lower lip when he kissed the lids of her eyes gently, one and then the other and then back again. Two pairs of strong, fiery eyes burned with sadness into one another.
“I missed you, Sam.”
“Jess.”
Her fingers twisted in the layers of his shirt as they sought for purchase and he could feel the warmth of his blood rushing to the surface of his skin as her cool hands smoothed over his chest, onto his arms, around and down the curve of his spine, drawing him close. She leaned her hips forward into his, claiming him.
He pulled back, breath escaping slowly, his face reflecting her gentle expression. The slow slide of his vacant eyes grazed the subtle pout of her lips. He twined his fingers through long, flaxen curls, caressed the back of her neck, a soft wisp of skin against his calloused palm. His thumb curved, traced the line of her earlobe, lingered over the rise and hollow of her cheek.
“Why, Sam? Why do you love him more than me?” She raised her hand to cover his cheek, lips parted a deep shade of pink. She raised her chin to seek him out.
He lowered his head, wanting to be found.
He heard a baby crying. The room stretched and she disappeared from his grasp when he blinked at the sound. He was alone in a hallway, standing outside the door of his old room, in his old house. He could hear gentle crooning, the soft voice of a parent to their newborn, on the other side. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.
It hit him in the back when it opened, like he was already inside.
He looked behind him. Four year old Dean was standing in the doorway, but it was no longer the door to his room. He was in the downstairs hallway and it was the front door of the house. Little Dean was staring with wide eyes at someone over his shoulder. When he followed Dean’s dumbfounded gaze, he saw a man standing on the porch in a black trench coat with a popped collar, bouncing a bundle in his arms. Little Dean spoke behind him. “Did you come to see my mommy?”
Sam jerked awake. The room was dark, void, pregnant with silence. He got up from the floor and left for the hospital.
XX.
March 23, Easter
Beaufort Memorial Hospital, Beaufort, South Carolina
Sam was still shaking when he walked out the double doors of the emergency entrance. He had gone two days without sleep, had refused to leave Dean’s side, but things had only gotten worse. He turned in a circle looking for somewhere to sit and anonymously fall apart for a few minutes, to let the cold staunch the pounding in his head.
Mr. McGillicutty, the surgery was successful … suffered complications from an infection and a repeated collapsed lung… resting heart rate is a little higher than we’d like… ICU overnight … he’s sedated … would you like us to call you when he wakes up…
He saw a bench twenty feet away, at the curb, but it was already occupied. He spared nothing but a cursory glance over the man, his training habitual, and his eyes had already panned for a more solitary spot when his mind caught onto something familiar. His eyes cut back. The man had long, sandy hair and dark jeans and boots. One of his arms was slung out across the bench. Twenty feet suddenly seemed like nothing as Sam closed the gap between them with steady steps, his hands in his pockets. When he stood in front of him, it took a few seconds before Sam could find the breath to speak.
“What did you do?” Sam said, still as a statue. Had they looked, the dark fire in Sam’s eyes would have kindled mind-numbing fear in the policemen walking past him.
The man, whose vest still said John, shrugged one shoulder.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t me, per se,” the man tilted his head back, but he didn’t look up. “Let’s just say, I have them on speed dial.”
“They nearly killed him.”
“Yep.”
Sam shifted his weight. “What were they?”
The man smiled and a hollow bark of laughter became a ghost between them. “My own little creation. Nice, aren’t they? Powerful when they’re after something like you two. Rather poetic really.” He pointed one finger and moved it in a wide circle toward Sam. “Although I will have to remind them that next time they should be more thorough.”
Confusion swarmed over Sam’s features before he could temper it with anger. He took a deep breath but couldn’t stop the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The man rose to leave. “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you again. I hope you’re not too attached to your brother. You all have to go sometime. How does that saying go? Time waits for no-”
“You wouldn’t.” Sam’s body was a lightning rod, tension coiling in every feature, every limb. He lunged forward and jabbed a finger in his face. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Why, Sam, I’m offended. My actions are never pointless. There is always a reason. Pointless suffering holds no value.”
“Why him?”
“Why?” he dragged out the word and then shook his head. “Because of the way you were made, Sammy boy. Evil as they come. That deserves punishment, requires conformity, in this world and the next, before you become something greater.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He looked Sam up and down. “I guess.”
Sam was silent.
“You have associations. Some you may come to realize later, but associations nonetheless, and it’s my job to - well - stop you, frankly.”
“But I am the one who summoned you.”
The demon inside the man named John angled his head and flashed a grin. “Happy coincidence.” He dusted the shoulders of the vest, unbuttoned a pocket flap and reached inside to slide on a pair of dark sunglasses. “Do you know what an apocalypse is, Sam?” His mouth betrayed him with a smirk.
Sam’s chest heaved and his fingers curled into fists inside the pockets of his coat. His throat went dry. “The end of the world,” he whispered.
Marchosias rocked back on his heels, then leaned forward with the counterweight and slapped down fully on his feet again. “No. Would you like to try for door number two?”
Sam took a step backwards.
“It’s this,” Marchosias held his hands out at arm’s length, “right now. You keep your end of the bargain, make this easy for all of us, or your brother dies.”
As he walked backwards, Sam shook his head. “There was no bargain. You stay away from us or I’ll send you straight back to Hell.”
Marchosias didn’t flinch and his voice carried to the walls of the building and reverberated around Sam. “Your brother, for mine.”
Sam's feet stopped working. “What?”
The man tilted his head forward, peered over the sunglasses and looked right through Sam. “There’s no accounting for family, but then… you know that, don’t you?”
Sam tongued the inside of his mouth like he’d been punched. “Azazel?”
“I’d have done it myself. Dean saved me the trouble, actually. You can tell him thank you from me.” Another toothy smile passed summarily over his features and he began to close the distance between them in stiff-legged steps. “However, it did not help me to resolve the rest of this little predicament he created and now guess who’s left holding the bag?” He gestured loosely up to the building, “One of you has to go first. Wouldn’t you rather it be him? Save him the anguish and pain of watching your destiny unfold? Or is it that you want him here to stop you? Trust me, Sam, he won’t.”
“No." Sam stiffened and his tone was bitter. "There's nothing for him to stop because I'm not gonna do it. He doesn’t know, he doesn't need to know, and that's way it should be.”
“Oh, so Mr. Destiny had a choice! But turnabout is fair play, right? You had the choice. You made the choice. You chose to keep him in the dark. May as well have damned him yourself. And now... well, now he’s really in it, isn’t he? But, if that's the way you want it...” Marchosias offered a conciliatory smile.
The roaring in Sam’s ears drowned out the sounds of an ambulance arriving in the drive where they stood. His jaw jutted forward, his mouth open. Unable to speak, he blinked and licked his lips, looked hard through the sunglasses and saw the yellow beneath. "Fine."
Marchosias nodded sideways and blinked an expectant false frown. “How are the mighty fallen. I suppose innocence has it’s price after all, doesn’t it?”
“When?”
“When what?”
Sam lifted his chin. “How long do we have? Until you come for me?”
Marchosias shook his head genteelly. He lifted one hand in a salute. “But I’m already here.”
Something yanked Sam off his feet from behind and his body twisted and filled to bursting, his insides railing at the onslaught of what felt like a thousand tiny daggers pouring in and out and around him, until he found himself heavy on his hands and knees, bits of gravel digging into his palms and cutting into his knees as he lurched forward numbly and hit his head on the pavement, trying to breathe.
Someone was patting him on the back. Sam blinked and coughed, bile rising at the poisonous taste in his mouth. When he could open his eyes and look up, Marchosias was leaning against a parked car, digging dirt out of his fingernails. The neon lights of a honky-tonk bar blinked and blazed behind him.
“Looks like you had one too many,” Marchosias observed casually. “Come on. Let’s wash that down.” Without another glance at Sam, he pulled himself up and sauntered into the bar.
Sam pushed up weakly, balancing on his fingertips, and fought his way up the side of the car until he stood upright again. Nothing was familiar. With one arm around his stomach, he stumbled to the side of the road and raised a hand to flag down the closest passing car.
CHAPTER 7