Nebraska Ch. 3
Fanfic: Nebraska
Author: sandymg
Summary: Lucifer tempts Sam. Dean’s life (and afterlife) hang in the balance. The iPod reappears. And it’s possibly the end of the world as we know it. Not necessarily in this order.
Wordcount: 6,484 in 3 chapters so far -- Work in progress Complete
Spoilers: Set in Season 5. Assumes all canon through Changing Channels 5x08. References to Faith 1x12 and The Magnificent Seven 3x01
Genre: Gen, angst, Sick!Dean, hurt/comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean, Assorted others (all canon)
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke -- who'd best treat them well.
A/N: This story will run 7chapters and will update quickly is now COMPLETE
Chapters: [ 2], [ 1]
Chapter 3 - The Brotherhood of the Traveling Martyrs
Back at the motel he started with the obvious - Tylenol for the fever and the pain. He wet a washcloth with cool water and held it to Dean’s hot forehead. The vomiting had ceased, thank goodness. They’d had to stop three times during the 10 minute drive back. The last time Dean had coughed up blood. Sam tried not to think about that. He needed to stay calm, think this through, work it out.
The palm wound was nonexistent, further testament to the strength of this spell. For the first time in months he wished Ruby was still around. The bitch knew her black magic like nobody’s business. She’d even saved Dean once from a spell, not that anyone ever spoke of that. One in a long line of shit nobody ever spoke about.
“Ss … am,” Dean slurred.
“I’m here. We’re back in the room. I’m going to figure this out Dean. It’ll be okay.”
“Gotta get … Layla … back in ’er gr … ave.”
Dean thought this was a normal zombie case. The fever was addling his brain. For now all he could do was play along. “Sure Dean. I’ll get her back there and stake her. No worries.”
“Mother shh… ouldn’t’ve … ‘S wrong.”
Wrong as it could be, Sam thought. Dead things should stay dead. Sam looked down at Dean’s ashy complexion. Studied his own hand as he refolded the washcloth to the cool side and returned it to his brother’s brow. Because they both lived the world was fucked to hell. The wash cloth warmed up again in seconds. His brother’s eyes were closed, his breathing hard, another pain spike made him gasp suddenly, momentarily stealing Sam’s own breath.
He’d do it again -- take Dean to that faith healer -- do it again in a heartbeat.
***
“Bobby. It’s … Dean.”
He heard the breath intake on the other end and felt the worry sizzle through the line. “What happened Sam?”
“Hoodoo spell. Real dark. A … Someone … raised a zombie. Not your normal zombie. Not hungry, very normal. The conjurer sliced Dean’s palm and said the spell, added some powder and … DNA. It linked them - Dean and Layla ... the zombie. She’s getting more alive and he’s …”
“Hmm.”
“You know somethin’ Bobby?” Please Bobby, know what to do.
“Maybe. I’ll need to look up some things. Tell me everything. What she say, exactly?”
Sam shared all he could remember, every detail down to the saliva. And her statement that killing Layla would kill Dean. Bobby was quiet a moment.
“Okay, leave the zombie for now, especially as it doesn’t seem she’s hurtin’ anyone. Well, no civilians.” He paused. “Sam? Dean runnin’ a temperature?” Bobby asked with a lilt in his voice as if the question was almost too odd to ask.
“Yes. A high one. Tylenol helped a little but now it’s back. He’s got these abdominal pains. He was vomiting up a storm but that’s stopped, thank goodness. What is this … if I didn’t know better he almost seems-”
“Infected,” Bobby finished for him.
Sam started. “That’s not possible. She - the zombie - never bit him. And even if it did that’s an old wive’s tale, movie nonsense. Zombies don’t make other zombies.”
“This ain’t no ordinary zombie Sam. The woman, the mother you say, she’s raisin’ the dead. Really raisin’ the dead. Full on life, no pale flesh-eating imitation. And to do that you need some mighty black mojo. And a sacrifice. Or two.”
Dean. “What do we do Bobby? How long does - do we have?”
Silence.
“Bobby?”
“Maybe three days. Four max, and if we reach that point the damage may be … irreversible.”
Sam’s stomach twisted and he feared he’d hurl. He had a year last time and he hadn’t been able to save Dean. Three days. He shut his eyes and thanked Bobby telling him to please call back as soon as he knew more.
Dean stirred and opened his eyes again groggily. The pain killer was kicking in because his face was calm, the grimace gone. Back in freakin’ Nebraska with his brother dying. He couldn’t have cooked up a worst nightmare. Well, one that didn’t include any fallen angels.
“Hey Dean,” he said as cheerily as possible. “You feelin’ a little better?”
“Thirsty.”
Grabbing the canteen he carefully held it to his brother’s lips. “Easy. Want you to keep it down.”
“Whu … happen’d?”
For the second time in five minutes Sam retold the story.
“Layla’s mother?”
Sam nodded.
“Layla’s alive?” Dean asked in a tone that could only be described as pleased.
No. Goddammit, no. Dean was not going to somehow twist this sick puppy into some sort self-sacrificial existential good. It sucked. It was fucked up. None of it was good, not even Layla being alive. Remembering himself and forcing the anger into check Sam answered his brother calmly.
“In a matter of speaking. Trouble is, it’s kinda draining you.”
After staring glassily at his brother a moment, Dean muttered a positive acceptance. Sam had to turn his head to keep from erupting. How was it after everything that had happened, might happen, Dean could still think … not value … it would be easier to just knock his head against the wall than to try to figure out his brother’s martyr wish.
“Spoke to Bobby. He’s researching. We’ll figure it out.”
Dean perked at this a moment then got a shuttered look. “We gotta kill Layla?”
That was it. Enough was enough. “Dean. Layla is dead. Has been for years. Killing her is beside the point. She’s not supposed to be alive. It’s you we have to worry about.”
“I know that Sam. Just … just tired.”
Guilt assuaged Sam. This wasn’t the time to argue. Flashes of his father sprang from way deep. Can we not do this? Please. “I’m sorry Dean. You have a fever but I think it’s maybe breaking. You sound stronger.”
Dean nodded, tried to sit up but slumped back down.
“Whoa. Not yet. Let’s take it slow. How about some food? Think you could keep some soup down?”
Dean’s silent head shake spoke volumes. Whatever this psychic illness was, his brother was suffering. Complain, Dean, he wanted to shout. Yell, shout, tell me off, tell Mrs. Fucking Rourke off. Anything but this willing victim routine.
He went to start up his laptop when Dean reached up and feather light pulled on the cuff of his sleeve.
“Y’ leavin’ Sam?”
Swallowing hard Sam said, “No. Just going to research some. I’ll be right here.”
“S…sorry.”
Sam looked down surprised but Dean had shut his eyes and looked like he’d started to doze.
“For what?” he asked his idiot brother. There was no reply.
***
His fingers shook slightly as he dialed. Yes dialed, it’s not like this woman was on his Contact List. He didn’t even know if she still lived in Lincoln, not that it would make much difference as the odds of her wanting to help were slim. He just didn’t have the luxury of being too proud to beg.
“Tamara?” he said. “Sam Winchester.”
The silence told him she knew who he was, not that there was much chance she wouldn’t. At least she hadn’t immediately hung up.
“Coulda done without hearing from a Winchester,” she said slowly. “Like forever. What do you want?”
“It’s about my brother, Dean.”
“Heard he was back. Mazel tov. What’s it got to do with me?”
“We’re in Nebraska. Not too far from you in fact. We were visiting the grave of an … of someone we once knew. The deceased’s mother … she blamed Dean … Anyway she raised her daughter Tamara. Used some hoodoo I only thought was legend. Christian stuff mixed with ancient text. It’s … draining Dean and turning her daughter from zombie to really alive, I guess … Bobby says we have maybe three days. I thought … I hoped … you might be willing to help.”
She was quiet for so long Sam had to check the phone to ensure the signal hadn’t dropped off. “Last time I helped you boys my Isaac …”
“I know and I wish it had … Please Tamara, Bobby told us he didn’t know anybody that knew about hoodoo like you do. Learned from your grandmother, right? Dean … he’s … please.”
“For sure I’m going to live to regret this,” she said before asking where he was.
For the first time since it happened, Sam started to feel a little hope. He had Bobby researching, he’d dig up all he could himself and in just a little while the resident expert on hoodoo was going to walk through the door. It was coming together. Bit by bit, just like last time, he was going to make this right.
Dean called out again.
“Yeah Dean. Right here. What do you need?”
“I’m starving.”
Sam had to smile. Maybe things really were looking up.
His brother was now sitting up and his color looked better. He wondered if they’d perhaps overestimated Mrs. Rourke’s abilities.
“Sam. I know you told me this already, but, what the fuck happened?”
Sighing, he told the tale again.
“No shit? That little churchgoer did this to me?”
Sam nodded.
“Freakin’ fanatics. And killing Layla won’t undo this?”
Sam shook his head no, pleased that some self preservation was reemerging within Dean. “The Mom said that if Layla dies you would, too. Bobby seemed to think it possible enough to leave it be. For now.”
Dean checked out his palm. Sam wondered if he remembered that part.
“Huh,” his brother said.
“It healed quick.”
“Right. I seem to recall puking my guts out.”
“All the way back.”
“Tell me I didn’t soil baby.”
“No. I pulled you out in time.”
“Thank God.”
Dean really had the strangest priorities. “How about I heat up that soup I offered you earlier?”
He got a pout. “Guess a bacon cheeseburger might be pushin’ things?”
“A tad.”
Sam walked over to the room’s little kitchenette area grateful that it was there and opened up one of their stock cans of Campbell’s chicken and stars. He grinned, still Dean’s favorite since childhood. “Feels familiar,” he said as he stirred. “Think you can make it to the table?”
“’M not an invalid.”
“Okay. Just checking.”
He turned around to see Dean almost rise and then fall back to a sitting position. Abandoning the soup he walked over and wordlessly offered a hand. Frustration colored his brother’s cheeks as he held on to his younger brother’s arm and they worked their way slowly to the small table.
Once settled he waited quietly for Sam to bring the bowl over. He ate slowly, so not Dean. Sam pushed the worry down. They were going to get through this. It would work out.
“So what kind of whammy did she lay on me?” Dean asked when he was through.
“Old. Mostly Christian, other things, too.”
“I hate hoodoo.”
“I know.”
“She was holding the bible. Shoulda realized it then.”
True. So much of hoodoo conjuring was tied up in the bible, especially the Old Testament. All about retribution. Sam knew Mrs. Rourke specifically held Dean accountable for Layla’s death by stopping the faith healer from curing her. No matter that for every life the preacher saved the preacher’s wife choose another one for the reaper to take. Playing God. What gave people the right? Fighting back that twinge of guilt he remembered his brother’s face when the truth had come out. Dean had been tempted to choose - Layla over that protester. But Dean knew right from wrong. Sometimes too much so.
Despite the food Dean’s coloring remained paler than Sam would have liked. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Fever. Again. He handed Dean a couple more Tylenols before returning to his laptop.
“Thanks.”
Dean opened up his own laptop, a sight that continually made Sam smile a little inside. They worked silently a bit facing each other across the small table. At some point Dean moaned under his breath and clutched his stomach.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. Comes and goes. ‘M okay now.” Attention back on his screen Dean said, “Huh.”
Sam looked up.
“You said Bobby told you I might be infected. Like with the zombie virus?”
“Dean. There is no zombie virus.”
“28 Days Later zombie or cult classic like The Evil Dead?”
“You think this is funny?
“Maybe more Resident Evil?” Dean chuckled. “Yeah Sam. I actually kinda do. The Church Lady shot me up with the T-Virus. Guess this’ll put a crimp in the master plan.”
“What do you mean?”
Shaking his head Dean said, “Nothing.” He was silent another moment, eyes looking over his screen. “Sam. If this goes south, if I start doing anything I shouldn’t … you know what to do, right?”
“Dean …”
“No. We don’t know what this shit is. Hoodoo’ll probably just kill me. But just in case it does something else - changes me - I need to know you’ll do what’s right. Or do I need to ask Bobby?”
Sam felt the punch deep in his gut. He was supposed to promise to kill Dean. The irony washed over him tasting bitter. When the hell weren’t they talking about killing each other? He mentally shook his head. None of this mattered because it was never going to come to that. He was going to work this out, like he had before. Nobody was going to need killing. Nobody was going to die.
“Fine,” he barked. “But it won’t be necessary. There is no such thing as a zombie virus. Bobby was speaking metaphorically. Tamara will be here soon and we’ll figure out what we need to reverse this.”
Dean looked at him, face pale, eyes sunken deep. “Thanks.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Maybe we should c-”
But he never finished because a spasm of pain caused him to grunt and double over.
“Dean,” Sam shouted.
His brother fell off the chair and kneeled on the floor. The vomiting was deep and hard and tore any remaining food plus it seemed half his guts onto the already stained motel rug. Leaning over he held his brother’s back as heave after heave tore through him. He caught a foul smell, fouler than the puke on the rug. Oh God. Dean had soiled his pants.
“Ss … sorry,” Dean was muttering between desperate gasps. “Hurts …”
Leaving him a moment Sam ran for the washcloth still on the nightstand and wiped Dean’s face gently. He could tell the spasm was passing by the slowly relaxing features on his brother’s face. Pushing up on one knee Dean tried to stand. Sam held his elbow supporting much of his weight.
“Can you make it to the bathroom?” he asked. “We have to get you cleaned up.”
Dean’s face reddened. “Sorry,” he murmured again.
“Shut up. It’s okay.”
He sat Dean on the toilet and watched as he sunk against the tile. His head swam. Should he take Dean to a hospital? He’d need fluids, was likely dehydrated. They usually just took care of themselves. Of each other. Forcing his attention on the task at hand he adjusted the shower’s temperature and helped Dean undress. It was a testament to how weak Dean was that he was allowing any of this. He tossed the soiled shorts into the bathroom’s small garbage and tied off the liner bag.
Dean stood tentatively and opened the shower stall. Inside he leaned again against the wall.
“Do you need me to help?” Sam asked.
“We are NOT showering together,” Dean blasted despite the strain to his throat. “Keep your deranged fantasies to yourself. Bad enough those sicko fans write about this shit all the time.”
Sam smiled. Snarky Dean was definitely better than on his knees throwing up his guts Dean.
“I’m gonna wait outside. Call if you need me.”
“Yeah, yeah, perv, peep show’s over.”
He cleaned up the mess best he could. The smell was another matter. He rooted around their supplies and poured some bleach on it. Best he could do.
The knock startled him a moment before he remembered - Tamara.
She stood in the doorway long enough for Sam to have to say, “Please, come in.”
Inside she scrunched up her nose in disgust.
“I’m sorry. Dean got … sick. I … I’m sorry.”
“Smelled worse,” she said after a moment.
Given their line of work Sam didn’t doubt it. She held a large duffle bag which she dropped. Clearly it was heavy.
“Books,” she answered his unspoken query. “Grimoires.”
The bathroom door opened and Dean emerged wearing a towel slung low on his hips. Sam knew that it had to be his imagination but his brother looked slighter somehow. Tamara gave him the once over. After years of watching women appreciate his brother this was nothing new. Dean attempted his thousand watt smile but it was clearly dimmed.
“Tamara.”
“Dean.”
“You look good.”
“You look alive.”
Dean’s lips twisted up in a small smirk. “For now.”
“Guess that’s what I’m here for.”
The flirting left Dean’s eyes. “I … appreciate your doing this.”
Tamara had already dismissed him and was moving her heavy bag toward the desk.
“Sam?”
“Yeah Tamara?”
“Give that fool some clothes.”
***
They worked straight through till the sun hung low in the sky. Dean had sat with them at first but then exhaustion took over. At Sam’s insistence he’d lain down and now was sleeping fairly calmly. He knew the cramps weren’t over because every once in a while he’d groan. On the plus side as the afternoon progressed he’d drank and kept down a couple of bottles of Electrolyte, a fluid replacement solution. Tamara had brought them aware of the symptoms they could expect.
He reviewed the texts till he thought his eyes would shrivel up. They knew more about what Mrs. Rourke had done to Dean than Sam could even have hoped for. Unfortunately everything they learned tightened the knot in Sam’s gut. She hadn’t lied. The spell was one-way - Dean to Layla. Kill her and he’d die instantly. Of course, the reverse was also true if the transformation wasn’t complete but this hardly held much comfort.
Something about the spell continued to intrigue Sam. He cross referenced with another of Tamara’s grimoires. Nausea rose quick and high in his throat. “Oh God,” he uttered.
“Found it, didja?”
“The powder …”
“Mostly ground up baby bone.”
“Sacrificial,” he said on half a whisper.
“Yes. She had to kill the baby herself or it wouldn’t work. This is about the darkest kind of vengeance possible Sam. That almost always mean the blood of an innocent.”
He really was going to be sick. Dean couldn’t know this. Could never know this.
“She’s insane.”
“Probably. But that doesn’t help us Sam. I … spells like this are very powerful, evil, old. To try to reverse it would take …”
“Something just as evil.”
Tamara didn’t say anything. The blood of the innocent. He’d gone down that road before. Couldn’t … wouldn’t … His head was spinning. Was she saying that the only way to save Dean would be to kill a baby themselves? It couldn’t be … there had to be something else. Something they’d missed.
His cell phone trilled breaking the silence.
Bobby. “You got something?” he said by way of hello.
“How’s Dean?” the older hunter asked.
He looked over to the bed. Dean was sleeping. His color was a pale ash. Forehead gleamed. Again.
“’bout the same. Cramps. Fever. More vomiting earlier but it stopped again. Got some fluids in him." He could visualize Bobby’s head shake. Assumed it meant none of this was unexpected. “Bobby, Tamara’s here. We’ve been researching.”
“I know. She called me on the way to you.”
“Hold on and I’ll put you on speaker.”
Sam glanced toward the bed where Dean had stirred but was still asleep. As if reading his mind Bobby asked, “What’s Dean got to say ‘bout all this?”
“He joked about the Rage virus.”
“Sounds like Dean.”
“What’re we dealing with here Bobby? He’s not really going to change?”
“No. Not that I can see.”
Good, he thought darkly. Meant he would just die.
“But it will progress like an illness,” Bobby continued. “Won’t make him raving mad but it’s destroying his organs just the same.”
The nausea returned. He rose and popped open a soda can offering one to Tamara. “Okay. We know the bad. Now what’s good? What can we do about it? Slow it down at least till we get a handle.”
Silence.
“Sam …” Tamara began softly. “I’m sorry.”
No. He was not giving up on Dean. He hadn’t four years ago and he wasn’t now. That was the difference he told himself. He hadn’t tried hard enough last year, and that’s why … not this time. Not here. Not now. He remembered Rock Ridge. The ghost sickness. It had taken a drastic measure but they’d figured it out. He and Bobby.
“Bobby. We are not giving up.”
“Son …”
This could not be happening. Not Bobby, too. “The innocent blood, to do our own spell, can it be animal … a baby deer or lamb?”
Tamara’s eyes widened. “Not strong enough. Has to be human.”
“Would it slow it down?”
She shook her head. His was spinning, ideas forming and rejecting, moving, shifting faster than he could process. “What if … the baby … died of natural causes … before we …” He stood and started pacing, unable to contain the energy flowing through him because this time he thought he had it.
“Sam!” Bobby hollered on the other end of the line. “You can’t be sayin’ what I think I’m hearin’?”
“Hear me out. Babies die all the time. Illness. Born too premature. Crib death. It wouldn’t be our fault.”
It was gruesome even to his own ears. Made last year’s indiscretions a walk in the park. Dean would rather die than have this be the way he was saved. Made no difference.
“I love your brother like my own blood but Sam how can you even--?”
“Sam, Bobby, stop,” Tamara interrupted. “Just stop. It won’t work - even if we considered it - can’t be a natural death. The baby would have to be - killed.”
The floor sank out from under Sam and his breath left him in whoosh. Stumbling he held onto the back of the chair.
“Sam, I know how hard this is … can’t believe we’re freakin’ facing this again. But dark magic ain’t gonna get us out of this one. We need somethin’ stronger.”
Castiel. Oh my God, how could he not have thought of this already? What was wrong with him? Dean had. Of course, that’s what he meant before he passed out before. He’d wasted all this time and for what? To placate his ego that he could save his brother on his own? What kind of dick was he? The angels needed Dean. They would make this right.
“I’m gonna call Castiel,” Sam said. “This ends tonight.”
Chapter 4
Author: sandymg
Summary: Lucifer tempts Sam. Dean’s life (and afterlife) hang in the balance. The iPod reappears. And it’s possibly the end of the world as we know it. Not necessarily in this order.
Wordcount: 6,484 in 3 chapters so far -- Work in progress Complete
Spoilers: Set in Season 5. Assumes all canon through Changing Channels 5x08. References to Faith 1x12 and The Magnificent Seven 3x01
Genre: Gen, angst, Sick!Dean, hurt/comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean, Assorted others (all canon)
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke -- who'd best treat them well.
A/N: This story will run 7chapters and will update quickly is now COMPLETE
Chapters: [ 2], [ 1]
Chapter 3 - The Brotherhood of the Traveling Martyrs
Back at the motel he started with the obvious - Tylenol for the fever and the pain. He wet a washcloth with cool water and held it to Dean’s hot forehead. The vomiting had ceased, thank goodness. They’d had to stop three times during the 10 minute drive back. The last time Dean had coughed up blood. Sam tried not to think about that. He needed to stay calm, think this through, work it out.
The palm wound was nonexistent, further testament to the strength of this spell. For the first time in months he wished Ruby was still around. The bitch knew her black magic like nobody’s business. She’d even saved Dean once from a spell, not that anyone ever spoke of that. One in a long line of shit nobody ever spoke about.
“Ss … am,” Dean slurred.
“I’m here. We’re back in the room. I’m going to figure this out Dean. It’ll be okay.”
“Gotta get … Layla … back in ’er gr … ave.”
Dean thought this was a normal zombie case. The fever was addling his brain. For now all he could do was play along. “Sure Dean. I’ll get her back there and stake her. No worries.”
“Mother shh… ouldn’t’ve … ‘S wrong.”
Wrong as it could be, Sam thought. Dead things should stay dead. Sam looked down at Dean’s ashy complexion. Studied his own hand as he refolded the washcloth to the cool side and returned it to his brother’s brow. Because they both lived the world was fucked to hell. The wash cloth warmed up again in seconds. His brother’s eyes were closed, his breathing hard, another pain spike made him gasp suddenly, momentarily stealing Sam’s own breath.
He’d do it again -- take Dean to that faith healer -- do it again in a heartbeat.
***
“Bobby. It’s … Dean.”
He heard the breath intake on the other end and felt the worry sizzle through the line. “What happened Sam?”
“Hoodoo spell. Real dark. A … Someone … raised a zombie. Not your normal zombie. Not hungry, very normal. The conjurer sliced Dean’s palm and said the spell, added some powder and … DNA. It linked them - Dean and Layla ... the zombie. She’s getting more alive and he’s …”
“Hmm.”
“You know somethin’ Bobby?” Please Bobby, know what to do.
“Maybe. I’ll need to look up some things. Tell me everything. What she say, exactly?”
Sam shared all he could remember, every detail down to the saliva. And her statement that killing Layla would kill Dean. Bobby was quiet a moment.
“Okay, leave the zombie for now, especially as it doesn’t seem she’s hurtin’ anyone. Well, no civilians.” He paused. “Sam? Dean runnin’ a temperature?” Bobby asked with a lilt in his voice as if the question was almost too odd to ask.
“Yes. A high one. Tylenol helped a little but now it’s back. He’s got these abdominal pains. He was vomiting up a storm but that’s stopped, thank goodness. What is this … if I didn’t know better he almost seems-”
“Infected,” Bobby finished for him.
Sam started. “That’s not possible. She - the zombie - never bit him. And even if it did that’s an old wive’s tale, movie nonsense. Zombies don’t make other zombies.”
“This ain’t no ordinary zombie Sam. The woman, the mother you say, she’s raisin’ the dead. Really raisin’ the dead. Full on life, no pale flesh-eating imitation. And to do that you need some mighty black mojo. And a sacrifice. Or two.”
Dean. “What do we do Bobby? How long does - do we have?”
Silence.
“Bobby?”
“Maybe three days. Four max, and if we reach that point the damage may be … irreversible.”
Sam’s stomach twisted and he feared he’d hurl. He had a year last time and he hadn’t been able to save Dean. Three days. He shut his eyes and thanked Bobby telling him to please call back as soon as he knew more.
Dean stirred and opened his eyes again groggily. The pain killer was kicking in because his face was calm, the grimace gone. Back in freakin’ Nebraska with his brother dying. He couldn’t have cooked up a worst nightmare. Well, one that didn’t include any fallen angels.
“Hey Dean,” he said as cheerily as possible. “You feelin’ a little better?”
“Thirsty.”
Grabbing the canteen he carefully held it to his brother’s lips. “Easy. Want you to keep it down.”
“Whu … happen’d?”
For the second time in five minutes Sam retold the story.
“Layla’s mother?”
Sam nodded.
“Layla’s alive?” Dean asked in a tone that could only be described as pleased.
No. Goddammit, no. Dean was not going to somehow twist this sick puppy into some sort self-sacrificial existential good. It sucked. It was fucked up. None of it was good, not even Layla being alive. Remembering himself and forcing the anger into check Sam answered his brother calmly.
“In a matter of speaking. Trouble is, it’s kinda draining you.”
After staring glassily at his brother a moment, Dean muttered a positive acceptance. Sam had to turn his head to keep from erupting. How was it after everything that had happened, might happen, Dean could still think … not value … it would be easier to just knock his head against the wall than to try to figure out his brother’s martyr wish.
“Spoke to Bobby. He’s researching. We’ll figure it out.”
Dean perked at this a moment then got a shuttered look. “We gotta kill Layla?”
That was it. Enough was enough. “Dean. Layla is dead. Has been for years. Killing her is beside the point. She’s not supposed to be alive. It’s you we have to worry about.”
“I know that Sam. Just … just tired.”
Guilt assuaged Sam. This wasn’t the time to argue. Flashes of his father sprang from way deep. Can we not do this? Please. “I’m sorry Dean. You have a fever but I think it’s maybe breaking. You sound stronger.”
Dean nodded, tried to sit up but slumped back down.
“Whoa. Not yet. Let’s take it slow. How about some food? Think you could keep some soup down?”
Dean’s silent head shake spoke volumes. Whatever this psychic illness was, his brother was suffering. Complain, Dean, he wanted to shout. Yell, shout, tell me off, tell Mrs. Fucking Rourke off. Anything but this willing victim routine.
He went to start up his laptop when Dean reached up and feather light pulled on the cuff of his sleeve.
“Y’ leavin’ Sam?”
Swallowing hard Sam said, “No. Just going to research some. I’ll be right here.”
“S…sorry.”
Sam looked down surprised but Dean had shut his eyes and looked like he’d started to doze.
“For what?” he asked his idiot brother. There was no reply.
***
His fingers shook slightly as he dialed. Yes dialed, it’s not like this woman was on his Contact List. He didn’t even know if she still lived in Lincoln, not that it would make much difference as the odds of her wanting to help were slim. He just didn’t have the luxury of being too proud to beg.
“Tamara?” he said. “Sam Winchester.”
The silence told him she knew who he was, not that there was much chance she wouldn’t. At least she hadn’t immediately hung up.
“Coulda done without hearing from a Winchester,” she said slowly. “Like forever. What do you want?”
“It’s about my brother, Dean.”
“Heard he was back. Mazel tov. What’s it got to do with me?”
“We’re in Nebraska. Not too far from you in fact. We were visiting the grave of an … of someone we once knew. The deceased’s mother … she blamed Dean … Anyway she raised her daughter Tamara. Used some hoodoo I only thought was legend. Christian stuff mixed with ancient text. It’s … draining Dean and turning her daughter from zombie to really alive, I guess … Bobby says we have maybe three days. I thought … I hoped … you might be willing to help.”
She was quiet for so long Sam had to check the phone to ensure the signal hadn’t dropped off. “Last time I helped you boys my Isaac …”
“I know and I wish it had … Please Tamara, Bobby told us he didn’t know anybody that knew about hoodoo like you do. Learned from your grandmother, right? Dean … he’s … please.”
“For sure I’m going to live to regret this,” she said before asking where he was.
For the first time since it happened, Sam started to feel a little hope. He had Bobby researching, he’d dig up all he could himself and in just a little while the resident expert on hoodoo was going to walk through the door. It was coming together. Bit by bit, just like last time, he was going to make this right.
Dean called out again.
“Yeah Dean. Right here. What do you need?”
“I’m starving.”
Sam had to smile. Maybe things really were looking up.
His brother was now sitting up and his color looked better. He wondered if they’d perhaps overestimated Mrs. Rourke’s abilities.
“Sam. I know you told me this already, but, what the fuck happened?”
Sighing, he told the tale again.
“No shit? That little churchgoer did this to me?”
Sam nodded.
“Freakin’ fanatics. And killing Layla won’t undo this?”
Sam shook his head no, pleased that some self preservation was reemerging within Dean. “The Mom said that if Layla dies you would, too. Bobby seemed to think it possible enough to leave it be. For now.”
Dean checked out his palm. Sam wondered if he remembered that part.
“Huh,” his brother said.
“It healed quick.”
“Right. I seem to recall puking my guts out.”
“All the way back.”
“Tell me I didn’t soil baby.”
“No. I pulled you out in time.”
“Thank God.”
Dean really had the strangest priorities. “How about I heat up that soup I offered you earlier?”
He got a pout. “Guess a bacon cheeseburger might be pushin’ things?”
“A tad.”
Sam walked over to the room’s little kitchenette area grateful that it was there and opened up one of their stock cans of Campbell’s chicken and stars. He grinned, still Dean’s favorite since childhood. “Feels familiar,” he said as he stirred. “Think you can make it to the table?”
“’M not an invalid.”
“Okay. Just checking.”
He turned around to see Dean almost rise and then fall back to a sitting position. Abandoning the soup he walked over and wordlessly offered a hand. Frustration colored his brother’s cheeks as he held on to his younger brother’s arm and they worked their way slowly to the small table.
Once settled he waited quietly for Sam to bring the bowl over. He ate slowly, so not Dean. Sam pushed the worry down. They were going to get through this. It would work out.
“So what kind of whammy did she lay on me?” Dean asked when he was through.
“Old. Mostly Christian, other things, too.”
“I hate hoodoo.”
“I know.”
“She was holding the bible. Shoulda realized it then.”
True. So much of hoodoo conjuring was tied up in the bible, especially the Old Testament. All about retribution. Sam knew Mrs. Rourke specifically held Dean accountable for Layla’s death by stopping the faith healer from curing her. No matter that for every life the preacher saved the preacher’s wife choose another one for the reaper to take. Playing God. What gave people the right? Fighting back that twinge of guilt he remembered his brother’s face when the truth had come out. Dean had been tempted to choose - Layla over that protester. But Dean knew right from wrong. Sometimes too much so.
Despite the food Dean’s coloring remained paler than Sam would have liked. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. Fever. Again. He handed Dean a couple more Tylenols before returning to his laptop.
“Thanks.”
Dean opened up his own laptop, a sight that continually made Sam smile a little inside. They worked silently a bit facing each other across the small table. At some point Dean moaned under his breath and clutched his stomach.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. Comes and goes. ‘M okay now.” Attention back on his screen Dean said, “Huh.”
Sam looked up.
“You said Bobby told you I might be infected. Like with the zombie virus?”
“Dean. There is no zombie virus.”
“28 Days Later zombie or cult classic like The Evil Dead?”
“You think this is funny?
“Maybe more Resident Evil?” Dean chuckled. “Yeah Sam. I actually kinda do. The Church Lady shot me up with the T-Virus. Guess this’ll put a crimp in the master plan.”
“What do you mean?”
Shaking his head Dean said, “Nothing.” He was silent another moment, eyes looking over his screen. “Sam. If this goes south, if I start doing anything I shouldn’t … you know what to do, right?”
“Dean …”
“No. We don’t know what this shit is. Hoodoo’ll probably just kill me. But just in case it does something else - changes me - I need to know you’ll do what’s right. Or do I need to ask Bobby?”
Sam felt the punch deep in his gut. He was supposed to promise to kill Dean. The irony washed over him tasting bitter. When the hell weren’t they talking about killing each other? He mentally shook his head. None of this mattered because it was never going to come to that. He was going to work this out, like he had before. Nobody was going to need killing. Nobody was going to die.
“Fine,” he barked. “But it won’t be necessary. There is no such thing as a zombie virus. Bobby was speaking metaphorically. Tamara will be here soon and we’ll figure out what we need to reverse this.”
Dean looked at him, face pale, eyes sunken deep. “Thanks.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Maybe we should c-”
But he never finished because a spasm of pain caused him to grunt and double over.
“Dean,” Sam shouted.
His brother fell off the chair and kneeled on the floor. The vomiting was deep and hard and tore any remaining food plus it seemed half his guts onto the already stained motel rug. Leaning over he held his brother’s back as heave after heave tore through him. He caught a foul smell, fouler than the puke on the rug. Oh God. Dean had soiled his pants.
“Ss … sorry,” Dean was muttering between desperate gasps. “Hurts …”
Leaving him a moment Sam ran for the washcloth still on the nightstand and wiped Dean’s face gently. He could tell the spasm was passing by the slowly relaxing features on his brother’s face. Pushing up on one knee Dean tried to stand. Sam held his elbow supporting much of his weight.
“Can you make it to the bathroom?” he asked. “We have to get you cleaned up.”
Dean’s face reddened. “Sorry,” he murmured again.
“Shut up. It’s okay.”
He sat Dean on the toilet and watched as he sunk against the tile. His head swam. Should he take Dean to a hospital? He’d need fluids, was likely dehydrated. They usually just took care of themselves. Of each other. Forcing his attention on the task at hand he adjusted the shower’s temperature and helped Dean undress. It was a testament to how weak Dean was that he was allowing any of this. He tossed the soiled shorts into the bathroom’s small garbage and tied off the liner bag.
Dean stood tentatively and opened the shower stall. Inside he leaned again against the wall.
“Do you need me to help?” Sam asked.
“We are NOT showering together,” Dean blasted despite the strain to his throat. “Keep your deranged fantasies to yourself. Bad enough those sicko fans write about this shit all the time.”
Sam smiled. Snarky Dean was definitely better than on his knees throwing up his guts Dean.
“I’m gonna wait outside. Call if you need me.”
“Yeah, yeah, perv, peep show’s over.”
He cleaned up the mess best he could. The smell was another matter. He rooted around their supplies and poured some bleach on it. Best he could do.
The knock startled him a moment before he remembered - Tamara.
She stood in the doorway long enough for Sam to have to say, “Please, come in.”
Inside she scrunched up her nose in disgust.
“I’m sorry. Dean got … sick. I … I’m sorry.”
“Smelled worse,” she said after a moment.
Given their line of work Sam didn’t doubt it. She held a large duffle bag which she dropped. Clearly it was heavy.
“Books,” she answered his unspoken query. “Grimoires.”
The bathroom door opened and Dean emerged wearing a towel slung low on his hips. Sam knew that it had to be his imagination but his brother looked slighter somehow. Tamara gave him the once over. After years of watching women appreciate his brother this was nothing new. Dean attempted his thousand watt smile but it was clearly dimmed.
“Tamara.”
“Dean.”
“You look good.”
“You look alive.”
Dean’s lips twisted up in a small smirk. “For now.”
“Guess that’s what I’m here for.”
The flirting left Dean’s eyes. “I … appreciate your doing this.”
Tamara had already dismissed him and was moving her heavy bag toward the desk.
“Sam?”
“Yeah Tamara?”
“Give that fool some clothes.”
***
They worked straight through till the sun hung low in the sky. Dean had sat with them at first but then exhaustion took over. At Sam’s insistence he’d lain down and now was sleeping fairly calmly. He knew the cramps weren’t over because every once in a while he’d groan. On the plus side as the afternoon progressed he’d drank and kept down a couple of bottles of Electrolyte, a fluid replacement solution. Tamara had brought them aware of the symptoms they could expect.
He reviewed the texts till he thought his eyes would shrivel up. They knew more about what Mrs. Rourke had done to Dean than Sam could even have hoped for. Unfortunately everything they learned tightened the knot in Sam’s gut. She hadn’t lied. The spell was one-way - Dean to Layla. Kill her and he’d die instantly. Of course, the reverse was also true if the transformation wasn’t complete but this hardly held much comfort.
Something about the spell continued to intrigue Sam. He cross referenced with another of Tamara’s grimoires. Nausea rose quick and high in his throat. “Oh God,” he uttered.
“Found it, didja?”
“The powder …”
“Mostly ground up baby bone.”
“Sacrificial,” he said on half a whisper.
“Yes. She had to kill the baby herself or it wouldn’t work. This is about the darkest kind of vengeance possible Sam. That almost always mean the blood of an innocent.”
He really was going to be sick. Dean couldn’t know this. Could never know this.
“She’s insane.”
“Probably. But that doesn’t help us Sam. I … spells like this are very powerful, evil, old. To try to reverse it would take …”
“Something just as evil.”
Tamara didn’t say anything. The blood of the innocent. He’d gone down that road before. Couldn’t … wouldn’t … His head was spinning. Was she saying that the only way to save Dean would be to kill a baby themselves? It couldn’t be … there had to be something else. Something they’d missed.
His cell phone trilled breaking the silence.
Bobby. “You got something?” he said by way of hello.
“How’s Dean?” the older hunter asked.
He looked over to the bed. Dean was sleeping. His color was a pale ash. Forehead gleamed. Again.
“’bout the same. Cramps. Fever. More vomiting earlier but it stopped again. Got some fluids in him." He could visualize Bobby’s head shake. Assumed it meant none of this was unexpected. “Bobby, Tamara’s here. We’ve been researching.”
“I know. She called me on the way to you.”
“Hold on and I’ll put you on speaker.”
Sam glanced toward the bed where Dean had stirred but was still asleep. As if reading his mind Bobby asked, “What’s Dean got to say ‘bout all this?”
“He joked about the Rage virus.”
“Sounds like Dean.”
“What’re we dealing with here Bobby? He’s not really going to change?”
“No. Not that I can see.”
Good, he thought darkly. Meant he would just die.
“But it will progress like an illness,” Bobby continued. “Won’t make him raving mad but it’s destroying his organs just the same.”
The nausea returned. He rose and popped open a soda can offering one to Tamara. “Okay. We know the bad. Now what’s good? What can we do about it? Slow it down at least till we get a handle.”
Silence.
“Sam …” Tamara began softly. “I’m sorry.”
No. He was not giving up on Dean. He hadn’t four years ago and he wasn’t now. That was the difference he told himself. He hadn’t tried hard enough last year, and that’s why … not this time. Not here. Not now. He remembered Rock Ridge. The ghost sickness. It had taken a drastic measure but they’d figured it out. He and Bobby.
“Bobby. We are not giving up.”
“Son …”
This could not be happening. Not Bobby, too. “The innocent blood, to do our own spell, can it be animal … a baby deer or lamb?”
Tamara’s eyes widened. “Not strong enough. Has to be human.”
“Would it slow it down?”
She shook her head. His was spinning, ideas forming and rejecting, moving, shifting faster than he could process. “What if … the baby … died of natural causes … before we …” He stood and started pacing, unable to contain the energy flowing through him because this time he thought he had it.
“Sam!” Bobby hollered on the other end of the line. “You can’t be sayin’ what I think I’m hearin’?”
“Hear me out. Babies die all the time. Illness. Born too premature. Crib death. It wouldn’t be our fault.”
It was gruesome even to his own ears. Made last year’s indiscretions a walk in the park. Dean would rather die than have this be the way he was saved. Made no difference.
“I love your brother like my own blood but Sam how can you even--?”
“Sam, Bobby, stop,” Tamara interrupted. “Just stop. It won’t work - even if we considered it - can’t be a natural death. The baby would have to be - killed.”
The floor sank out from under Sam and his breath left him in whoosh. Stumbling he held onto the back of the chair.
“Sam, I know how hard this is … can’t believe we’re freakin’ facing this again. But dark magic ain’t gonna get us out of this one. We need somethin’ stronger.”
Castiel. Oh my God, how could he not have thought of this already? What was wrong with him? Dean had. Of course, that’s what he meant before he passed out before. He’d wasted all this time and for what? To placate his ego that he could save his brother on his own? What kind of dick was he? The angels needed Dean. They would make this right.
“I’m gonna call Castiel,” Sam said. “This ends tonight.”
Chapter 4