No Such Thing as a Night Off (1/2)--SPN--Dean, Sam
Title: No Such Thing as a Night Off
Author: borgmama1of5
Summary: They’d just finished a poltergeist. Dean just wanted to relax a little. So, of course, Sam had to find another case.
Spoilers: Between Bloody Mary and Skin, season 1
Wordcount: 9600--complete in 2 posts
Genre: H/C, Casefic, Gen
Disclaimer: Not mine or I’d sit them down and set them straight
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Beta: sandymg
No Such Thing as a Night Off
He gave the bosomy blonde bartender his best ‘want-to-get-laid?’ look, saluted her with the glass, and downed the whiskey in one smooth move. That was decidedly an interested look he got in return. He motioned for another shot and asked, as she poured it, what time she got off tonight.
Her nametag read “Cece.”
“In an hour.” Her eyes lingered on his face, then drifted downward. Yes, it was going to be a good night. They’d actually ganked the poltergeist without either of them getting hurt and he figured at least 24 hours till Sam found the next hunt. Dean was going to enjoy himself tonight. He gave Cece a warm smile and watched her sweet little ass as she walked toward the next customer.
“Dean.” No way could that be Sam’s I-got-something-serious voice already. Dean turned and glared at his brother’s earnest expression.
“Go away, dude, I’m busy.”
Immediately a frown line creased Sam’s forehead. “Busy doing what, Dean?”
“Relaxin’. Gonna have a good time tonight, if you catch my meaning?” Dean raised an eyebrow in Cece’s direction.
Naturally Sam’s lips compressed into a thin line. Not quite a bitchface, but close.
“I want you to look at this,” he said tightly. A folded brochure was thrust in Dean’s face.
“Jesus, relax a little, Sammy.”
David Clancy, Psychic Extraordinaire. A black and white photo of a man in his sixties, maybe, with an amazingly full head of hair.
Tour the Boar’s Tail Inn with master ghost-hunter David Clancy for an experience you will never forget! See the indelible imprint in the room where the madame of the old brothel was murdered in 1922! Feel the horrific energy in the closet where her children were strangled! Hear the echo of the last gasps of the vicious killer in the attic where he was strung up from the rafters! Then watch as David Clancy summons these spirits before your eyes!
Tours every evening at 10 PM; also at midnight on Friday and Saturday. $25 per person. Sign up with the restaurant hostess.
Vintage photographs, presumably of the victims, surrounded the text.
Dean shoved the pamphlet back at Sam. “So?”
“Doesn’t anything about this make you curious, Dean?”
“No, not really. Dude has a sweet little scam going, not our problem if people are dumb enough to fall for it.”
“What if it’s not a scam, Dean? What if there really are ghosts involved?”
“And these ghosts are what, just gonna work this show for a cut of the profits? Don’t think so, Sam.”
Cece was heading back in Dean’s direction. “One more, sweetheart? And how many minutes do I have to make it last till you and I can bust this place?”
Her tongue peeked between her lips as her cheeks dimpled. “Fifty minutes. Think you can last that long?”
“For you, sweetheart, absolutely. Longer if I have to…”
“Dean…”
“Busy here, Sammy.” Dean winked at Cece as she handed him another shot, her fingers lingering against his.
Sam exhaled in a long huff. “There could be something here, Dean. I think we should check it out.”
Obviously there was only one way Dean was going to get rid of him. Setting his whiskey on the bar, Dean fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumple of fives and singles. “Twenty-five, Sammy. Go take yourself on a ghost tour. I’ll pick you back up in, say, three-four hours.”
The bitchface finally burst out full force, but Dean just determinedly shook his head and went back to admiring Cece’s promising curves.
***
Including Sam, eight people were lined up at ten o’clock for David Clancy’s tour. Three twenty-something women who were celebrating a birthday for one of them - by the nonstop giggling Sam thought the partying had started several hours ago; a young couple who made him think of his Stanford friends; and a round gray-haired woman laughing quietly with a brown-haired teenager with glasses. There was a similarity to their faces - mother and daughter, perhaps. The older woman gave him a friendly smile.
“Ever done anything like this before?” she asked.
Sam shrugged to avoid answering. “Have you?” he turned the question around.
“Years ago I went on Richard Crowe’s Haunted Boat Tour with my sister. But that was mostly a trip to see where there’d been shipwrecks in the lake. Didn’t promise we’d actually see a real ghost like this fellow does.”
“So is David Clancy pretty famous around here? I’m from out of town,” Sam added at her quizzical look.
“Well, he’s gotten some write-ups in the paper recently. And Serena here decided we should do this for fun. We’ve both gotten interested in supernatural kinds of things.”
The arrival of the ghost-hunter ended the small talk. David Clancy looked like his picture, although surprisingly short, shorter than everyone in the tour line, not just Sam.
As soon as he started his pitch Sam pegged him as a hustler, and felt somewhat stupid. Dean would no doubt give him endless grief for wasting the money and it looked like he’d deserve it.
“We’re going down to the basement first so you can walk around and tell me if you sense anything, any of the spots where things … happened … and then we’ll get back together and you can compare what you felt and I’ll tell you what really went on down there. Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
The unfinished stairs leading down were pitched more steeply than usual in a public place and the handrail was disconcertingly shaky. One of the tipsy birthday girls tripped, her spiked heel catching on a knothole, and Sam reached out instinctively to grab her shoulder.
“Oh my God, thanks!” giggled the woman. “If I’d have broken my neck I guess I’d have to haunt this place with the other ghosts!”
It was hard to refrain from rolling his eyes but Sam managed. He was quite sure that he had been incredibly lame to get worked up over an obviously ridiculous premise. Clancy pointed out that where the furnace sat had once been a ‘coal-burning monstrosity’ and a previous owner had been a mobster and tortured delinquent ‘juice loan’ holders by burning them with hot coals, and rumor had it that there were bodies under the concrete floor. If people wanted to believe, they would even if ‘fake’ was spelled out in foot-high letters. Only when it was real, then most people didn’t believe. A soft snort and shake of his head at the irony, and what was he doing here anyway?
The redhead from the birthday group - a red from a box, not genetics, Sam was sure - stopped beside him. “I heard you say you’re not from around here?”
In her stiletto boots she was almost as tall as Dean. Willowy type.
“My brother and I are just passing through.”
“So where’re you heading? I’m Renee, by the way.” She extended her hand and Sam had to take it. As he did he could hear Dean chiding him, “Dude, she’s flirting with you!” and he smiled without meaning to. Which Renee immediately took personally and stepped closer.
“Sam.” Dean would have played along, seen how far he could get. He didn’t understand that for Sam one night of hot sex just wasn’t what he wanted. Not after Jess. “We’re doing a road trip, no particular destination.” He disentangled her fingers, started to move away, but she put a hand on his arm.
“We all have rooms down the road, not driving back into the city tonight. If you want to come by, you can help us celebrate Karen’s birthday…maybe we’ll be too scared to sleep after we see the ghost here, you know?”
This felt like a scene in a really bad movie. He shifted back a step.
“Um, yeah, I’m sorry, but my brother wants to get an early start in the morning.”
“If your brother’s as cute as you he should come along, then maybe he won’t mind heading out a little later in the morning.” Okay, that was dialog from a really bad porn movie … Dean would declare they couldn’t possibly be related if Sam turned this down, but Sam was not going to compound one dumb decision with another one, and he gave Renee a look he hoped she’d understand as ‘not interested’ and shook his head.
“Yeah, but um …” Fortunately Clancy started asking the tour if anyone had felt any disturbed energy and Sam managed to position himself on the opposite side of the group.
After that it was tempting to cut out of the tour as they passed through the dining room on the way to the second floor … but Dean would certainly be off with his conquest of the evening and Sam would have been stuck here anyway, until Dean got back with the Impala, and if the tour finished before Dean picked him up he’d probably have to turn down Renee’s offer again, so Sam figured he might as well stay with the tour. Maybe it would be educational - ha - to see how the psychic rigged up the supposed haunting.
The upper level of the building consisted of a long, dimly lit hallway with small rooms off each side. Clancy proclaimed that violent acts had happened in some of the brothel rooms, and a production was made of opening each old solid-wood door, asking everyone to step in one at a time and say what they felt. Two of the female trio reacted by proclaiming that they felt suffocated or claustrophobic in nearly every room; the third one just giggled non-stop. Sam was a little surprised that the young man reacted negatively to a couple of the rooms while his date just stayed in the hall and wouldn’t go in any of them. The older woman stepped assertively through each doorway, cocked her head like she was listening, then shrugged and came back out. Her daughter repeated the motions almost exactly.
“How about you, young man, why don’t you go in and tell us what it feels like?”
Sam shook his head.
“Strapping fellow like you, you can’t be afraid of ghosts, can you?” Of course that made everyone turn to look at Sam. Asshole, he thought.
“I doubt there are any ghosts around now, if there ever were.” His tone dared Clancy to push further. Sam was surprised at the smirk his words provoked, but the ghost-hunter didn’t say anything more to him as the group continued down the hallway.
The last room was clearly intended as a sitting room. A built-in sideboard, the leaded glass cabinet doors amazingly still intact, dominated the room. A rather dingy boar’s head with only one tusk was mounted on a plaque above the red brick fireplace, and two floral chairs that had clearly seen better days angled in front of it.
The hardwood floors in all the rooms had been sanded sometime in the not-too-distant past, but here Clancy gestured at a kidney-shaped gray area of the wood. It was about five feet long, Sam estimated.
“All the floors have been fixed up on this level, the previous owner to this one was thinking about making a little hotel to go with the bar and restaurant, you know. But this here spot? No matter how many times it was sanded that spot won’t go away. And you want to know why? Right here is where Estelle Reed, madame of the brothel, was murdered. Strangled, so no, it’s not a bloodstain,” several people twitched, “it’s more like her psychic energy was captured there when she died. And her spirit haunts this room. We might even be able to sense it tonight. Does anyone want to try?”
Unsurprisingly the partying threesome volunteered. From a drawer in the cupboard Clancy held up two pair of hooked metal rods.
“These are dowsing rods,” he said. “Anyone ever hear of using dowsing rods to find water?” Several people nodded. “Well these can find ghosts. What you do is hold them out straight in front of your chest,” he demonstrated as he spoke, “Parallel-like, and then ask questions that can be answered with a yes-or-no. Is there a spirit in this building tonight?”
The two rods Clancy was holding shifted to cross each other. “That means yes,” he said. “And you might be thinking I moved the rods together, but I didn’t. So here, Miss…”
“Emily,” one of the party girls took a set of the proffered rods from Clancy.
“Now just hold them lightly, put your thumbs here, and relax your hands. Feel how they lay there.”
Everyone looked closely at how Emily was holding the metal. Except Sam. It seemed obvious that any subtle response Emily made to the power of Clancy’s suggestions would cause the rods to move. About as real as an Ouija board.
“Now Emily, relax. And someone here, how about you,” he looked at the older woman, “Ask a question. A yes-or-no one.”
“Um, okay. Are you a man or a…no, I mean, are you a woman?”
The points of the dowsing rods floated toward each other.
“Now are you moving them at all, Emily?”
“No, absolutely not!”
Sam really didn’t mean for his snort to be audible.
“So you don’t believe, son?”
“No, I don’t really think there are any ghosts in this building.”
“You just ask a question, then.” The look the psychic was giving him made Sam slightly uneasy.
“All right. Are there any ghosts in this room?”
There were nervous twitters as the rods signaled ‘yes.’
“Now someone else ask a question, let’s see if we can narrow down who this spirit might be.”
Serena spoke up. “Were you married?”
The rods didn’t move. As everyone took turns asking questions Sam walked around the edges of the room while unobtrusively keeping his eyes on Clancy. Something in the little man’s demeanor - very sure of himself - kept Sam puzzling over what the charlatan was going to do.
Clancy now had the young man holding the second pair of dowsing rods and his girlfriend asking questions. Clancy prompted her to ask if there were any other spirits in the room. The tips of the rods just started to cross when Sam, passing in front of the fireplace, saw something out of place. He only noticed because he was eye level with the top of the mounted boar head, and he kept his gaze casual as he confirmed there was something stuck in the bristly hairs behind one of the stumpy ears.
Sam returned his attention to the rest of the tour group where the yes-or-no questioning had elicited that supposedly the ghosts of two children were in the room now.
“Are these your children?” the teen’s mother asked. The metal rods flew toward each other so forcefully the young man almost dropped them.
Clancy looked pleased with the staggered expressions on everyone else’s face, though his face tightened when he saw Sam was still disbelieving. He permitted a few more questions, and then said it was time to head up to the attic where they would come face-to-face with proof of the existence of spirits. Sam maneuvered so he could see into the cabinet drawer as the guide replaced the dowsing rods, and he was sure there was something else in the drawer. He tried to linger behind the group as they were herded upstairs, but Clancy made a point of putting Sam at the head of the line with warnings to watch his head on the rafters.
The detritus of an old attic has the same feel to it no matter what era the building is from. Two bare light bulbs with fragile pull-cord strings provided dim illumination for the mix of cast-off furniture, warped canvas paintings, empty picture frames, two old sewing machines from different decades, an old oscillating pedestal fan, and bundles of moth-eaten cloth - old curtains and tablecloths, probably. Little porcelain figurines, foot-tall statues, lamps long missing their shades, fake flowers, and a couple of trophies covered the horizontal surfaces. At the end near the stairway some worn cardboard boxes appeared to hold Christmas and other holiday decorations, with an electric beer sign propped against them.
Sam wondered what it said about the weirdness of his life that the yellowed wedding dress on the mannequin in the corner was pretty much a standard feature in the attics he walked through. However from the pointing and whispering it made an impression on Renee and her friends.
He did have to be careful of the low ceiling beams as he followed the rest of the group to the far end of the attic where enough space had been cleared for all of them to stand together. Sam looked down at the unexpected rough patch he stepped on, and he snapped to alertness at the realization this section of the floor was coated with salt. His eyes followed the roughness to see that Clancy was settling his customers inside of a salt circle shellacked to the floor.
“Now I want to point out that you are all safe as long as you stay within the protective circle here,” Clancy gestured. “It is gonna get a bit intense if the murderer’s ghost comes to visit us tonight, and I feel he will. So be sure you stay away from the edges of the circle so you don’t accidentally cross it, because that would be bad, very bad.”
The words had the desired effect of making everyone move closer to the person they were with, which left Sam alone on the left side of the salt ring. Clancy lifted a wrought-iron, three-pronged candelabra from the closest trunk and set it on the floor right in front of the group. He lit the candles with a match, then said, “I’m going to turn out the electric lights now, and when I come back in the circle we’ll see if the ghost will be summoned tonight.”
Watching him closely, Sam saw Clancy take something from his pocket after he pulled off the second light, but the dimness of the candlelight prevented him from seeing what. He was clearly holding something, though, as he stepped back inside the salt ring.
“Ego to order vos exorior!”
What the hell? A shadowy form appeared at the far end of the attic and the sudden drop in temperature raised the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck. One of the women gave a muffled scream.
“Ladies, gentlemen, I present the ghost of Rafael Deprizio, murderer of Estelle Reed and her two daughters.” Clancy’s voice rolled out in the cadences of a ringmaster. The ghost did not move.
“Rafael Deprizio, called Ralphie by the ladies of the brothel … Ralphie who was one of the enforcers, made sure the customers played by the rules and paid their bills … Little Ralphie, the ladies called him. Isn’t that right, little Ralphie?”
The psychic paused. The spirit did not move.
“Little Ralphie … short little man. They laughed at you, didn’t they, Ralphie. You didn’t like that, did you, Ralphie. Because they weren’t just laughing because you were short, were they? No, you knew why they called you little Ralphie, you knew why they laughed behind your back.”
The shape flickered. Someone in the circle muttered, “Shit.” Sam split his attention between the ghost and Clancy.
“Little Ralphie.” The words were spoken in a sing-song, dripping with contempt. “That’s right, isn’t it? They laughed at you. Madame Estelle let them laugh at you. Little Ralphie didn’t like that. Little Ralphie hit the girls when he got angry, didn’t he? Madame didn’t like that, but you did it when you figured she wasn’t looking. You hit them just like daddy hit you, little Ralphie.”
The ghost was flashing in and out at near strobe-light intensity but still hadn’t moved. Sam could see dust eddies whirling around in the blinking light, and the objects on the surfaces nearest the form were twitching erratically.
“It’s real, isn’t it? Why is he baiting it?” Sam wasn’t sure to whom the mother was speaking, him or her daughter.
Clancy continued brutally. “And when you were with the ladies, well, you didn’t like all the ‘little’ jokes they made after. And when Madame Reed caught you taking it out on one of her girls, you killed her. Showed them not to make fun of little Ralphie anymore.”
A blast of wind shuddered around the attic, drowning Clancy’s voice, rattling the beams and knocking the trash around. Except the air within the salt circle remained still, the candle flames barely flickering. Sam took a careful step closer to the psychic, trying to see what was in his hands.
“Little Ralphie, little Ralphie! Strangled the madame and then murdered her children too, because you’d seen them laughing! You’d seen them all laughing at you! You wanted to get them all, like you want to get me now! But you can’t do it, can you, little Ralphie? You’re impotent, that’s what you are! You can’t do anything!”
“Omygod, omygod, omygod …” Sam sensed the shuffling as the others in the circle moved tighter together, all of them shifting closer to him.
“Stay in the center,” he murmured at them. If Clancy did this every night, then Sam had to assume Clancy had potent protection for himself and his clients. But Sam didn’t know if this was typical or if Clancy was amping up the production for the non-believers. For him. If Clancy lost control of the apparition and someone was hurt, it would be Sam’s fault for egging the man on with his skepticism.
An attic window shattered as the broken beer sign went flying. A whirling column of debris was bearing down the center of the space, and there were more gasps and shrieks behind Sam.
In a succession of eye blinks the ghost abruptly vanished and reappeared just feet away from Clancy. So much rubbish was now swirling around the attic that the air behind the ghost was opaque. Hysterical cries were coming from the women behind Sam.
“You don’t scare me, Ralphie! You can’t hurt me, can’t touch me in here!” Clancy was screaming to be heard over the whirlpool. Junk was flying right up to the edge of the salt but nothing crossed it. The air was so cold now Sam could see his breath.
“Do your worst, you bastard!”
This had to stop - Sam seized the fist Clancy was shaking just as a series of sharp cracks thundered around them. Someone screamed, bodies surged, and in the chaos the candles were kicked over and the light vanished, and the instant it did the whirlwind spewed its contents across the salt line with lethal force. A hard edge caught Sam on his temple and he staggered … shrapnel from broken glass stung his exposed skin and he threw up a hand to shield his eyes. Full-blown panic overtook the rest of the tour group although someone was hollering “Get down on the floor! Or behind the furniture! This way!”
The impact of something massive impelled Sam to his knees, breath knocked out of him, pain tearing along his ribs. The howl of the wind and the screams of the women were deafening. Smaller bits of flotsam and jetsam pelted Sam as he shoved his hand in his jacket pocket for his flashlight.
The first thing he saw through narrowed eyes when the beam flicked on was Renee’s body lying in a red puddle, skewered through the stomach with an ornate piece of picture frame. Swearing was a waste of the little breath he had but Sam cursed anyway as he swept the light through the boiling air. Clancy was also on the floor, Ralph’s ghost looming over the body. The light gazed the shape of the candelabra and Sam stumbled through the barrage of trash zinging around him to grasp and hurl it.
Everything shooting through the attic dropped clamorously to the floor as the apparition dissolved.
“Out! Now!” As he scrambled to retrieve the iron Sam bellowed at the others. Pushing her daughter in the direction of the stairwell, the mother grabbed the arm of one of Renee’s horror-struck friends and pulled her toward safety.
The reprieve was momentary. Sam threw himself across the floor to retrieve the candelabra as the spirit reappeared with the swirling windstorm. Sam swung the iron through it again, buying time for the civilians to escape while his mind raced on how to take out the ghost by himself.
What Clancy had been holding - it must be by his body. Sam couldn’t see anything near it that might be connected to the spirit … Instinctively he ducked as a lamp flew over his shoulder to smash on the floor. He whirled, thrust his weapon into the ghost, then set the flashlight on the floor and flipped the body over with one hand. The awkward angle as the head flopped limply told Sam that Clancy wouldn’t be bothering Ralphie anymore.
There. His hunter-trained eyes locked on the bone that had been under the body. A finger bone. Sam reached for it … and with an explosion of pain the world went black.
***
Dean Winchester was leaving a string of happy women across America. And yeah, that wasn’t modest, but damn, he didn’t have to be.
Cece squirmed and gasped, “Don’t stop!” Her fingers gripped his shoulders so tight that he’d have ten round little bruises tomorrow. It was deeply satisfying to feel her arch and writhe and moan under his hands.
“Want you now!” she breathed.
The condom foil was waiting on the nightstand and Dean was ready when the unmistakable buzzing of his phone from his coat pocket called for his attention.
Dammit. Had to be Sam. Only his brother could have such crummy timing. He considered ignoring it for a moment. Probably Sam bitching to know when Dean was picking him up. Sam could just wait.
The vibrating of an incoming call stopped and switched to the measured buzz of a voicemail.
Damn, damn, damn. Just once could he not have to be responsible? But his body was pulling away from Cece even before Dean consciously decided to check the call. He muzzled her neck in apology.
“Mmmm, just a minute, sweetheart, gotta check the damn voicemail just in case …”
Her wriggle beneath him nearly changed his mind but … “One second’s all …” he promised.
He was thrown for an instant by the female voice instead of Sam’s. Then the words registered: La Grange Hospital. Calling from the cell phone of the young man in the emergency room to locate a relative. Dean was dialing as soon as he heard the hospital number. A rock of ice replaced his stomach as he waited for the phone to be answered.
“Dean?” Cece was at his side, rubbing her glorious body against him, and Dean didn’t care.
Twenty minutes later Dean was bullying his way through red tape, promising to give them all the insurance information they could possibly want as soon as he’d seen his brother, while trying to stay out of the notice of the cops all over the ER. The battle-axe at check-in was doing a terrific imitation of a heartless jail warden, refusing to let Dean pass until everything was properly completed and signed, but fortunately one of the ER doctors heard the commotion and motioned Dean to the closest cubicle.
Goddammit! His brother shouldn’t be lying on a hospital gurney … A crisp white bandage was partly obscured by tangled bangs and Sam’s face was peppered with tiny cuts and welts. Bare shoulders poked out from under the utilitarian hospital blanket covering him.
“How bad is he hurt?”
Sam’s eyes opened in response to Dean’s voice. “Dean?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Sammy.” He moved close enough to grip his brother’s hand.
“ ’S a real ghost, Dean, no’ a … no’ a fake …”
“ ’S okay, we’ll take care of it … Doc?”
“Your brother has a concussion, a bruised kidney, three cracked ribs, multiple contusions to his back and abdomen, and as you can see, lacerations on his face.”
Didn’t sound life-threatening, hell, a diagnosis like that wasn’t even an ER trip usually, but, “How serious?”
“Because of the concussion we want to keep him overnight, but he should be able to go home in the morning.”
“What happened?”
Sam’s eyes had closed again, and Dean could see the creases of pain on his face. This was why Dean had dragged Sam out of Stanford?
“We have several injured people from the Boar’s Tail Inn … and two fatalities.” Damn. Dean listened to the doctor without taking his eyes off Sam. “The stories we’re getting say that the psychic who gave the ‘ghost tours’ lost control of the spirit he’d summoned, and it attacked them. The survivors are obviously hysterical … The police are taking statements, trying to determine what actually happened.”
“I’d like to talk to this psychic.”
“Um, unfortunately he was one of the fatalities.”
“Oh. Well …”
The doctor jerked his head toward the desk nurse who had pulled aside the dividing curtain and was shooting death glares at both of them. “I think it would be a good idea for you to fill out the insurance forms now?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back, okay?” Dean gave Sam’s limp hand a gentle squeeze, frowned with worry at the lack of a reaction. “He’s gonna be all right?” Dean shot a fierce look at the doctor.
“Any head trauma serious enough to cause a concussion is something to be concerned about, and we need to watch for signs of blood in the urine from the kidney damage … He’s going to be in a lot of pain for a couple weeks.”
“Ahem!” Nurse Ratchet’s doppelganger cleared her throat ominously. Dean ignored her.
“Kidney damage?”
“He took several hard blows to the lower back and left side. It’s the same as when you bang your shin on a coffee table, blood vessels rupture and the leaking blood pools under the skin as a bruise. When a patient starts voiding blood, though, it means the capillaries aren’t sealing and sometimes surgery is necessary.”
The tension in Dean’s gut that had started to disappear returned with twice the intensity. The earnest doctor, who really wasn’t much older than himself, reacted to Dean’s glare with a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “I have to explain the worst case scenario. But I think your brother will be okay. And you better go with Nurse Lanwehr now. Please.”
Part Two: http://borgmama1of5.livejournal.com/41221.html