Chapter V

“We don’t know what caused the attack,” the doctor said quietly. When Sam didn’t say anything—he hadn’t really expected the doctors to find anything yet—she continued, as if she was trying to prompt Sam, “From what we can tell, he seems absolutely fine. We can’t explain what causes the pain. We’ve sent down the blood for testing and he’s scheduled for a CAT scan tomorrow in case there’s a neurological problem.”

At her words, Sam looked up. They were standing at the side of a long hallway, people in wheelchairs and visitors—friends and family—bearing sweets and flowers were passing them by. Every other moment a nurse or doctor walked past them. The most important person, though, stood with Sam and explained to him what he already knew.

Suddenly, the doctor’s voice changed and adapted a more business-like tone. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but does your brother have a problem? As in, does he have an addiction?”

Sam straightened to full height. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” the doctor said. She held the clipboard against her chest. Her blonde hair was bound in a ponytail. Sam guessed that if Mom had lived, she’d be around her age now. “We gave your brother something for the pain and that seemed to help. And you know, sometimes that’s all people are after. They’ll go to great lengths for a shot of morphine.”

“So you think he made himself convulse and throw up and punched himself in the face so his nose would bleed?” Sam spoke louder now. “That it’s just an act to get him some dope?”

The doctor remained unimpressed. “Happens more often than you think.”

“No,” Sam said, after a short pause when he felt he could open his mouth again and sound civil. “Just, no, okay? I definitely know that he’s not addicted to anything. I can guarantee you that. If he says he’s in pain, then he is.”

She seemed convinced and nodded. “Okay. We’ll try to find the cause of the pain then.”

“Thanks.” Sam tried to smile, but all he managed was to lift the corners of his mouth upward a little.

“Anyway, when we couldn’t figure out what it was, we gave him something for the pain. Until we know more, that’s really all we can do. Keep him comfortable.”

Sam nodded and swallowed. He hated her for saying that, because it sounded all too familiar. They’d been here before, a thousand times or more, and Sam was getting tired of it.

“Can I see him?”

“Yes. Just make sure he remains calm. Also, he might be a little foggy from the medication.”

He almost laughed at her, because damn—if there was an U.S. record of People Who’d Come Out Of Surgery The Most, Dean was definitely the record holder. Dad came second. Sam had watched both his dad and Dean wake up from surgery or be under heavy medication so often that he could have written a book about it. And then he could have written a sequel solely about trying to have conversations with drugged up relatives.

Instead of laughing, he just nodded.

Dean was awake when Sam entered, and he promptly turned his head to face Sam. A goofy grin greeted Sam. “What, no flowers?”

But Sam wasn’t in the mood for jokes, so he just said, “No.”

Dean gave a tiny shrug, eyes fixed on Sam. An IV was dripping fluids into Dean’s left arm, maybe the pain killers. Dean looked better than he had in the morning, less white in the face. Still, in the dim room—the sun hadn’t come around yet to fill the room with warm light—Dean’s face seemed more angular than ever. Pointy chin, cheekbones sticking out a little.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asked.

“All right. Better.” Dean’s voice was quiet. Steady, but quiet.

Sam pulled a chair closer—it screeched as it was dragged across the floor--, dropped on it and asked, “Can you tell me what is going on then?”

“No.” Dean looked like a deer in headlights.

“Shit, Dean. Don’t give me that crap. You collapsed in that diner. Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

“Not that easy, Sam.” He spoke slowly and deliberate. The drugs made it harder to talk so Dean had to focus on his words. In a way, that helped to make things easier. Less smart-assy comments from Dean that were supposed to sidetrack Sam.

“I gotta know.” Sam softened his voice. Dean glanced at him, eyes dulled by the drugs—not a lot, but obvious to Sam. Dean shook his head and bit his lip, then he stared at the ceiling.

“Please, Dean.”

Still Dean didn’t reply. God, he had to get Dean talking. If he didn’t know what exactly was going on, how could Sam keep him safe? He’d learned that lesson last time, and a bitter lesson it had been.

“They did somehing to you, didn’t they?” Sam prompted. Dean sucked in breath sharply, quickly. Sam was on the right track. “Look, you don’t have to...you don’t have to tell me what it was like. I don’t want any details. But you didn’t vomit and have spasms and blood seep from your nose before they took you, so my guess is they did something to you. And...I just want to know if you have a theory. Or an idea. Just give me anything. Please, Dean. Anything.”

Just when Sam thought that this was it, that he’d played all his cards and that there was no way he’d ever get Dean to talk, Dean put Sam out of his misery.

“They did something to my head,” he said. His words, though quiet--almost whispered—resounded loudly within the square and shook the walls. Sam’s stomach dropped. He’d guessed it all along but hearing it out loud...

“How?” Sam asked. His voice was thick.

Dean licked his lips. “Won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I can’t read people’s minds.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot upwards; he didn’t know what to say to that. Dean couldn’t read minds—what else was new? Before he could ask, Dean continued.

“But...I can...feel if they’re angry. Or happy. Or sad.”

The words “Yeah, right” lay at the tip of Sam’s tongue, but then he remembered that he’d promised to believe Dean and swallowed them back hastily.

“What do you mean?” he asked instead.

Dean sighed; he sounded exhausted when he explained. “I can pick it up. When someone is scared, I know it. I can feel it. And then....it’s like I get lost in it. That’s when the headache comes, and I feel sick.”

Sam didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. While his mind tried to wrap around the things that Dean had just told him, questions kept popping up, like how was that possible and maybe Dean was hallucinating? But he pushed them aside, ordered them to be quiet, and he broke free of the numbness that had taken over his body.

“Does that...happen a lot?”

Dean shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“At first it was just single episodes,” Dean said. “But...after the last time...well, the time before today—the headache didn’t go away. Not really. Like—it stuck. And today, it was so bad I thought I was gonna—I could feel everybody. All at once. I think it’s getting worse.”

And there it was—that sound in Dean’s voice, tiny and scared. Really, really scared. He was trying his best to hide it, but if the fear still peeked through the numerous layers of countenance, then it meant that Dean was truly and completely freaked. Only this time, after all Dean had been through anyway, it probably took less to freak him, less to turn him back into that broken creature they’d saved from Hell.

Instinctively, Sam’s hand reached out and found Dean’s arm. Dean looked at him with his eyes widened in surprise, flinched a little at the touch. But he didn’t withdraw his arm. Maybe the drugs made it too hard. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

“How come I never witnessed that?”

“Never happened when you were around--”

The last word got stuck in Dean’s mouth as it shaped a silent ‘o’ and he had “epiphany” written all over his face. His eyes locked with Sam’s and then suddenly it dawned on Sam.

“You mean—“

“Thought I was lucky,” Dean breathed, sweat on his forehead, and Sam remembered the doctor had given him orders not to get Dean worked-up. “Always passed when you returned. But maybe...”

“You think I stopped it?”

He brushed his thumb against Dean’s skin. Dean didn’t seem to mind, maybe he just didn’t notice. Dean shrugged.

“Makes sense,” Sam mused. “Maybe....I dunno, but maybe my psychic stuff that makes me immune to telepathy and stuff latches on to you. Like...a force field or something. Could be it’s actually doing some good for once.” Instead of getting you almost killed every six months.

“Force field?” Dean threw in. His lids dropped, but he whipped them open again.

“Maybe it protects you. Maybe my stupid special powers can shield you from thoughts or something.” He paused to catch his breath. “So you think that’s what they were trying to do? Create psychics?”

“Don’t know.” Dean’s voice had grown even quieter.

Sam bent forward just enough so he could lower his voice. “Listen, you’re scheduled for a CAT scan tomorrow. Maybe they’ll find out what exactly they did to your head. It’s a chance. You should get some sleep now. I’ll be right here, okay? And if I’m not, I’m just out to get a coffee. The pain killers helped when I wasn’t around, right?”

Dean nodded.

“Okay. I’ll be right here. Just rest.”

He watched his brother as, for the first time in weeks, he got some very much needed decent sleep. It was a start. Maybe the hospital people could help Dean. After all, if it really was a medical problem, that’s what the doctors were here for, right? Somehow, he would think of a lie that explained the damage the bastards had done to Dean’s head. And then, maybe they could figure out a way to fix Dean.

Sam stretched his legs and twisted his neck; every muscle in his body ached. He should have been used to chairs that were too low and too small by now, but somehow his body wasn’t. With a sigh, Sam stood and paced the room for a few minutes, before he decided that he could use a coffee.

He strolled down the hallway, his big feet shuffling over the floor like snow shoes. His arms swung at his sides idly, but his hands were curled to fists. He pushed some hair out of his eyes and ran a hand over his face, as he told himself over and over again that Dean would be fine. Dean always was. He had to be.

Sam would make sure he’d be fine. He wouldn’t have Dean ripped from him again. Not like that, not ever.

The coffee didn’t taste much like anything, hardly tasted like coffee, but Sam barely noticed. He sipped the liquid absent-mindly, holding the cup tight. He thought about the past couple of weeks since he’d rescued Dean from the hospital and all the clues he had missed and all the times he had let Dean’s excuses slide. About all the occasions where he’d just known something was wrong but Dean wouldn’t tell him what. He should have insisted more, he should have seen something like this coming.

He had barely reached the reception desk on his way back, was still a corner away when he heard a man’s voice, loud and used to giving orders, talking to the nurse at the desk.

“His name is Dean Saunders,” the man said, and Sam stopped frozen, heart shooting up into his mouth. The pounding drowned everything else out, and Sam narrowed his eyes as he focused on the man’s words. “He was admitted a few hours ago. We’re here to transfer him.”

“Doesn’t say anything about transferral here,” the nurse replied. She was typing on the keyboard, so Sam guessed that she’d checked Dean’s file.

“The man is a felon. He’s to be transferred to the hospital in jail,” another man added.

Shit, they’d found him. And not the Feds—Henriksen had officially declared them dead, besides, the Feds would have used Dean’s real name. Not the one Sam had given the hospital staff.

These people were here for Dean because of the experiments.

“You’ll have to talk to his doctor first,” the nurse said. “As soon as she gets out of the examination room.”

At that point, Sam started running.

There was another way to get to Dean’s room that didn’t lead past the reception and past the guys. It would take him slightly longer, but with luck, it would also keep him out of the men’s sight.

He flew down the hallway, dodging patients, little carts and beds that were in his way, almost slipped and bumped into an elderly couple. In the end, he stormed into Dean’s room and shut the door, leaped to the bed and shook Dean’s arm until Dean opened his eyes and blinked, frowning.

“Dean,” Sam panted, freeing Dean of the IV, “they’ve found you. We need to move. Get dressed. Quickly.”

Dean sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, while Sam found Dean’s clothes in the wardrobe, neatly folded. The nurse had brought them in earlier, while Dean had been asleep and Sam had slouched in the chair over by the bed. He helped Dean out of the hospital gown and into his pair of jeans and the shirt. Dean’s movements were just so damn awkward and slow from the drugs and sleep; Sam didn’t bother to tie the shoes but just squeezed the laces into the gap between Dean’s feet and the leather. He grabbed Dean’s things, his wallet and car keys, from the nightstand and pulled his brother to his feet.

“We need to hurry,” Sam said, and Dean nodded as Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s shoulder to support him as they walked.

It seemed to take hours to get out of the hospital, but later Sam didn’t remember any of that. Somehow Dean managed to gather the last of his strength, walk as upright as possible and not lean into Sam too much, put one foot before the other as Sam dragged him through hallways and doors, always glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t followed, always listening for hurried footsteps.

They left the hospital undetected, and then they squeezed through the rows of cars in the parking lot, and still Sam kept looking back, kept pushing Dean to continue walking. He’d cursed earlier when he hadn’t found a free parking space to park the Impala and had to leave the car by the sidewalk on a street around the corner—the paramedics wouldn’t allow him to ride in the ambulance—but now Sam thanked God or Fate or whoever in charge for it.

The Impala stood out wherever they went, and the people coming for Dean would probably have recognised it and left some guards with it. But the Impala awaited them elsewhere, and as they crossed the street and turned onto the street where Sam had left the car, they heard muffled yelling from the entrance of the hospital.

By now, Dean was barely keeping on his feet, and his breath resembled a deep metallic rattle. Sweat was running down his temples, and he said nothing, just moved alongside Sam, stumbling and tripping over his feet. When they reached the car, Sam’s breath was coming in hitches too. He shifted Dean into the passenger seat, and Dean slouched into the bench, unable to sit up properly against the back.

As soon as Sam was seated, he started the engine and steered the Impala on the road, avoiding the hospital, and after fifteen minutes, Sam watched the town grow tiny in the rear view mirror.

Chapter VI

The trees rushed by in a hurried blur, dots and splashes of greens in different shades, then an open field and more trees. All that Dean ever saw when he cracked his eyes open were those damn trees. The way they were lining the road made him uncomfortable, like skyscrapers in New York or those giant fences they used in Jurassic Park to keep the T-Rex away. Dean wanted open skies instead of narrow alleys, but whenever he opened his eyes only trees greeted him. And when he got really lucky, a cornfield that still felt like a bunch of fucking trees.

He sat sunken into the seat, slouched against the back with Sam’s jacket spread over him to keep warm. The blankets were stuffed away in the trunk, and Dean guessed that Sam was too panicked to even stop for a little while to get them and tuck Dean in. Dean didn’t mind. He minded very little except for those trees.

That and Sam asking him nearly every five minutes if he was okay.

Luckily, the meds made him so drowsy he didn’t even need to pretend to be sleeping most of the time. Maybe that caused Sam to shoot questions into Dean’s direction the moment he stirred. “Are you okay? Are you in pain? Do you--you know, feel stuff?”

Truth was, he didn’t have an answer to any of those questions. His head was buzzing, and he still felt nauseous, but he couldn’t say how much of that was because of the drugs and how much...because of his psychic stuff. The pain killers were probably blocking out a lot, and then there was Sam next to him and apparently, that helped too...but he still didn’t know how. He’d felt worse, but then again, he didn’t really feel like himself in the first place.

What he did notice was that when they passed through towns, the pressure on his head seemed to worsen, as if Sam’s special force field was breaking under the strain. Too many people with too many strong emotions, and even through the meds Dean still picked up emotions faintly, fear and anger, and occasionally, happiness. Because he figured he owed telling Sam the truth, and maybe because the drugs turned him mushy inside, Dean mentioned it the next time Sam asked.

“You mean, it’s not just single people anymore?” Sam’s voice was somewhere between worry, panic and astonishment. He glanced at Dean briefly, eyes wide, before he focused on the road again.

Dean shrugged. “I guess.”

“That’s not good. Means it’s getting stronger. We should figure out exactly what’s going on with you.”

“And how’re you gonna do that?”

Sam opened his mouth as if to reply, but then he seemed to change his mind; maybe as it struck him that really, they couldn’t do much. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted, hint of defeat in his tone.

“Call Bobby?” Dean suggested. Not that he really believed Bobby could help them; this wasn’t really a supernatural or demonic problem, more a scientific one. But giving Sam pointers as to whom to ask, where to go for and how to find answers always helped. Sam didn’t like dead ends, couldn’t stand to be faced with walls and obstacles he couldn’t overcome. He needed loopholes and gaps in the bricks that he could squeeze through to go on. The months before Dean had gone to Hell had been a serenade of Sam reading books and transcripts frantically, getting excited over theories that seemed like loopholes only to dismiss them later. He’d gotten so lost into that stuff he’d seemed surprised when Dean’s last day had suddenly knocked at his door.

“Yeah. I’ll do that.” Sam nodded, but he sounded like he was talking more to himself than to Dean. He sounded reassured. Dean smiled.

“Where are we going anyway?” he asked.

“Remember that cabin Caleb had by the lake up in Washington? That’s where we going. Might take us a few days but at least it’s in the definite middle of nowhere. No other people for miles. Guess it’s the best place for you now.”

“Jeez, Sammy,” Dean replied.

“Don’t start an argument.” Sam waved his hand dismissively, very chick-like, actually. Dean grinned but kept his mouth shut; Sam wasn’t yet finished. He knew his brother.

“We need time to figure out what’s going on, right?” Sam asked, but it was the kind of question he didn’t want to be answered. “We need time, and a safe place where they won’t find you. Where you can rest and we can think of a plan, and where we can find out what exactly is happening. Caleb’s cabin is the most deserted place I can think of. Unless you can channel the feelings of beaver and skunks too, we’re going. No buts.”

And that was that. Dean, too tired to argue, rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.

***

He hadn’t expected the small sandy road that led up to the cabin to be in that good shape; in his mind, he’d already pictured himself and Sam pushing away fallen trees and undergrowth or maybe even a dead moose. Dean didn’t know whether moose actually lived in these woods, but then again Black Dogs belonged to England and Wendigos to Minnesota, and they’d never bothered to check the facts and live accordingly either.

Maybe, since Dean and Sam and Dad knew about the cabin, other hunters did too and how often it’d been used since Meg had slit Caleb’s throat, as a refuge or hiding place or somewhere where a person could come and heal, was anybody’s guess. He was actually a bit surprised when Sam pulled up and parked the Impala in front of the cabin and no other car or van occupied the parking space, the lattice-blinds were shut, and no smoke was soaring into the sky from the chimney.

“We’re here,” Sam said, voice all tension, but his body slacked against the back of the seat like a ragdoll. He ran a hand over his nose and mouth and twisted his head to look at Dean. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dean replied. He leaned forward and glanced out the window, up to the sky—or where the sky would have been except that it was covered in branches and leaves. More trees. But these trees here didn’t bother him so much. They weren’t lining anything. They just grew where they liked to grow. He could respect that.

When Sam tried to manhandle Dean out of the passenger seat, Dean pushed him aside—more nudged him out of the way, really. How he could have lost so much strength in such a short time astonished him, but thankfully Sam got the message anyway and stepped aside, watching Dean intensely as he teetered across the leaf-covered ground towards the porch.

Sam found the key hidden underneath one of the stones that seamed the short track up to the cabin, exactly where Caleb had always put it and where Dad had always put it back when they returned to the open road and hunt.

They’d used the cabin on various occasions; usually when the Feds were after Dad or he’d been hurt and needed a little while to rest, and one summer they’d even spent two weeks here in what Dean guessed had been Dad’s idea of a holiday. Dean would have preferred Disneyland or even a plain trip to the sea. Instead, Dad had taken them to this forgotten place where even in summer, the water in the lake didn’t warm up and was an eerily popular breeding place for mosquitoes. Still, for two weeks they’d had a family vacation, and even a fourteen-year old Sam Winchester hadn’t dared to spoil that awkward bit of normality.

They stepped in and ran into a wall of thick dust. Grimacing, Sam quickly crossed the dark room, unlocked some of the blinds and pushed the windows open. Instantly, alongside sunlight, a fresh breeze floated in and swept the mouldy air outside. Sam went from one window to the next, opened them all until the room was illuminated by the evening sun and they could see dust particles dancing in the last rays of the day.

Sam turned around and smiled. “Just like old times.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied. It looked just like he remembered. The old living room with the integrated kitchen, all furniture covered with white blankets now. Two doors, one leading to a bedroom and the other to a bathroom. Small and stuffed with things: rock salt and holy water, paint in case one needed to draw symbols. Various books and amulets, herbs in all shapes and sizes of bottles and cans. It seemed like the cabin had turned into a free storage room for things hunters couldn’t always carry around.

Dean stumbled forward, swaying. He reached out for the back of the couch, and the next second Sam stood by his side, pulling the blanket off the couch. “You should sit down. Or maybe go to bed and get some sleep.”

“Thanks, but—“

“I mean it. I pulled you out of that hospital when you should have rested and you haven’t really since then.”

Sometimes Dean really wondered where for the love of God Sam had picked up that overprotective crap. Jessica, probably.

“You won’t miss anything,” Sam went on. “I’ll be cleaning out the cabin a bit and call Bobby. That’s all. And maybe see if there’s any food here.”

In the end, Dean nodded with a sigh. The prospect of some uninterrupted sleep in a bed was too tempting to be dismissed. Besides, if Sam knew him safely in a bed, maybe he’d allow himself some rest too and quit worrying for a while.

“Okay,” Dean replied. “Bed sounds good.”

***

He folded the last of the blankets up and stuffed it in one of the cupboards with its little blanket friends, dusted his hands off on his jeans and rose to look at his work. He’d freed all furniture of their cloaking, had even taken out the broom and swept as much dust and dirt outside as he could. The cabin still had the appearance of something taken out of a historical village rather than a vacation resort, but for now, it would do. He’d stayed in motels worse than this--quite a few of them too. A little dust was nothing in comparison to a room that reeked like mildew and cleaning agent.

Sam wiped some sweat off his forehead with his arm and listened—the door to the bedroom stood ajar and out floated Dean’s quiet snores. Sam smiled, then snuck out his cell phone and opened the back door.

The back porch faced the lake, a little staircase led down to the sandy shore that was softly falling into the green waters of the lake. High trees were bending over the house as if to protect it, and Sam tilted his head back for a moment to embrace the last warm rays of sunlight on his face. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to breathe.

They were, at least for now, safe. Dean should be out of danger by Sam’s calculations. If there were no people around with emotions to pick up, they couldn’t torture him. The scientists were probably still after Dean, but driving here, there’d been no sign that they’d traced Sam and Dean. Dean was better than before and finally getting some rest. Things were falling into place.

Now all he had to do was come up with a plan to save Dean. In time, for once. Before things were too late, but he could do that.

Sam trotted down the stairs and walked down towards the water slowly, the sand giving way under his feet, until he was far away enough that even if Dean woke up, he wouldn’t hear him. Besides, he needed to get away from the trees a little for reception.

The phone rang a couple of times until Bobby picked it up; his voice was like a warm buzz as he spoke.

“Yeah?”

“Bobby, it’s me.”

“Hey, kid,” Bobby said. “Been hopin’ I’d hear from you.”

“Sorry,” Sam replied, looking over his shoulder as a reflex, making sure he was alone. “Things were kinda...rough the past few days.”

“How’s Dean?” Voice tense. Crap. Sometimes the sheer worry for the brothers that Bobby seemed to harbour inside left Sam stunned. Bobby had gone to great lengths to pull Dean back from the deal, from Hell. He could have been killed, but Bobby hadn’t so much as blinked when Sam had asked him for his help. Then, seeing Dean all broken and lost in himself, he’d stood watch by his side when Sam was too tired to stay awake longer. Sam remembered his murmured words, the way he kept talking to Dean quietly even though for two weeks, no answer would come from Dean’s lips.

Funny how just when you thought you had nobody left in the world, no friendly face to turn to, people like Bobby showed up.

“He’s...well, that’s kind of why I’m calling. We have a lead about what the doctors at the facility were working on but...” Sam’s voice trailed off. His words didn’t make sense in his head, couldn’t bring them into the right order, couldn’t sort them according to importance. There were only flashes and images shooting through his head. Dean in the facility, waking up, Dean on the floor, Dean in the hospital and men...

“Why don’t you start at the beginning, kid?” Bobby prompted.

And suddenly Sam started talking.

He told Bobby everything he could think of, from the day Dean had vanished without a trace to the point where Sam had stepped on the shore to call Bobby. He filled him in on all the details he could remember, fleeing from the facility and then Dean’s attacks, the hospital and the people who had come for Dean. When he was done, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he dropped on the sand as sudden exhaustion overcame him, sitting cross-legged.

“Boy,” was all that Bobby said.

“Yeah.” Sam scratched little doodles in the sand. A sun. A cloud. A stick figure.

“So you’re at Caleb’s cabin now?”

“Yeah. Figured it was the safest place for Dean with no people around. He seems better too.”

“That’s good.”

When Bobby didn’t continue, Sam asked, “What are we going to do now? We can’t take him to a hospital; they’ll be looking for him there. And...I think his powers might be getting stronger, and if they get stronger, he might be getting worse. He’s better when I’m around because I can sort of block his powers but...I can’t be around all the time. I know this isn’t really your field of expertise, but I don’t know what to do...”

Shit. His voice broke, and his shoulders shook and Sam quickly wiped away a suspicious tear.

“Look, Sam,” Bobby began. His tone had a comforting touch to it now--shit, he’d interpreted Sam’s silence correctly. “I have a friend who’s a doctor. Not a hunter but he patches us up for free, when we’re in the area. I’ll give him a call, maybe he can help out. Maybe he can offer some educated guesses as to what’s wrong with Dean. Can’t hurt to ask.”

“Yeah.” Sam rubbed his nose. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Just, make sure Dean gets rest and you too, Sam. Gotta take care of yourself too. I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”

Dean’s quiet snores still filled the living room when Sam returned to the cabin. He pushed the door to the bedroom open a little and leaned into the doorframe, watching Dean.

The world was a weird place, a place where people sold their soul for other people and went to Hell, and came back shaking and faded, and just when they were on their way back to themselves, something like this happened.

It still felt like his fault. He should have looked after Dean more, should have made sure nothing could happen to Dean. But what was he supposed to do when his brother told him he was going to buy some beer and chips at the gas station down the road? There’d been no reason to go with Dean and yet, that once, Sam should have. He’d promised Bobby he’d look after Dean and take care of him when they’d set out from Bobby’s place.

He’d sworn it to himself. And failed spectacularly.

The old bedcovers lay in the corner in crumpled piles; Sam had used some blankets from the Impala to make the bed ready. That’s why the cover was olive green and read “US Marines,” and the blanket that Dean had wrapped around his body was a woollen quilt that Missouri had made for them. Dean’s face still shone white in the twilight, but his features were relaxed in sleep and all in all, Sam felt a little hope rising in his chest.

Dean was safe. Bobby was on the case. That was all that Sam could hope for, at least for now.


Chapter VII

Dean was holding up, and that knowledge was what let Sam sleep at night. He wasn’t doing better, but his condition had not worsened. At least now that the headaches and nausea tortured him less, Dean began to eat again. First in tiny sips, even if he complained that a three year-old could have prepared a better meal than Sam. But Sam knew that after all the weeks of going hungry, Dean couldn’t just go back to his normal eating habits and stuff himself with pie and cheeseburgers, so Sam mostly cooked soups and stews. Even if Dean had wanted to, his stomach could only hold so much food right now.

But things got better, and Dean began to put on some weight. The edges in his face softened; even a little red returned to his pale cheeks. He slept less during the day and spent a good deal walking around, meandering in the living room or strolling along the shore, and if he became too tired for those activities, he slouched on the couch and listened to the music from his Walkman.

Caleb had never bothered to put a TV set in his cabin, and Sam remembered how back in the summers when they’d spent nights or weeks here, they went for a swim or explored the forest (but only as long as the cabin was still in sight). On rainy days, they played cards and Sam also remembered that he in particular had used those days for reading. Or drawing. Doing all the girly stuff Dean only raised a doubtful, disapproving eyebrow about. But they’d never really missed the TV set. Never really found the time to miss it.

Sometimes Sam saw shadows of their younger selves running through the rooms, echoes of footsteps on the wooden floor, their own laughter resounding as they played hide-and-seek and Dean pretended that he couldn’t find Sam. Splashes from the lake as Dean and Sam jumped in from the pier. The sound of the rustling from the fireplace. He remembered curling up in Dad’s lap and falling asleep there while Dean read comics.

The memories, as happy as they were, also bore a twinge of sadness for Sam. How naïve they had been as children, how innocent and unassuming. He had not realised that he had been special enough to be picked by a demon and how that very idea of being special would send his only brother to Hell. The demon had not just been any demon, something that needed killing. He’d shaped their lives and left his fingerprints on everything they did, but not once had they guessed just how much the demon had changed their destiny forever. Not once had they stopped to think that maybe the demon hadn’t just randomly picked Sam’s crib or that there was something horribly wrong with Sam.

Even though Sam was beginning to wonder if, just maybe, his gifts were now protecting Dean instead of hurting him, he still couldn’t look back at the memories with such easy bliss. Too much had been tainted since then. Too much rested heavy on his shoulders even now.

He wondered if Dean had the same memories. If Dean did, he made sure not to talk about it.

***

They lived off canned food and more canned food. The next bigger town was almost an hour drive away. At the moment with things being as they were, Sam couldn’t take the risk of leaving Dean alone for two hours. Taking him along was out of the question.

The closet was stuffed with canned goods, so they would be okay for at least another month or even more, if they didn’t figure out a way to help Dean before that.

He avoided thinking about what would happen if they didn’t find a solution to all of this, no matter how likely not finding one seemed. They couldn’t just go to a hospital and demand Dean’s synapses to be glued together again. Sam was beginning to believe that doctors probably couldn’t fix what scientists had done anyway.

They wouldn’t even have believed them. Might have sent Dean to the psychiatric ward because from all the doctors could assume, Dean was having fits and hallucinations. Schizophrenia and its grand delusions at the finest. Because no matter how badly they screwed with your brain, there was no such thing as psychics and empathic abilities.

If they couldn’t come up with a cure, then Sam would take Dean to a place similar like this, deserted except for the two of them. They would go to a cabin somewhere in the woods, and if he’d have to drag Dean’s ass to Canada or Alaska or even Siberia for that, it didn’t matter. It was the best plan Sam could come up with.

As time passed, Bobby called and told them things that made sense but that Sam didn’t want to hear.

He paced the shore, up and down, keeping an eye on the cabin. He saw Dean move behind the windows and curtains, a black shadow hovering near.

Bobby spoke about a lot of things that Sam tried to get into his head as he listened. How the average human brain wasn’t meant for psychic stuff, how having that ability probably strained Dean’s mind. Put pressure on it and the more his brain lost the ability to hold the psychic stuff off, the more his brain opened to it, causing even more strain and pain. Bobby called it a vicious circle and Sam wanted to answer to that, but a big lump in his throat made talking impossible.

Bottom line was that Dean was getting worse.

Eventually, he stuttered an incoherent question about helping Dean, and his stomach tied up violently as he waited for Bobby’s answer. His friend didn’t know how to help him, Bobby told Sam, but maybe if the people responsible talked about what exactly they’d done to Dean’s synapses, then maybe...

“The pain meds helped him,” Sam threw in. He began to chew on the nail of his right thumb, glancing back to the cabin.

“Sorry, kid. Seamus says that the meds only take away the pain. But the pressure is still there, and it’s still doing damage to Dean’s mind. Pain meds don’t stop the process; they just numb Dean’s pain perception. They prolong the process, at best.”

“What...what happens if we don’t stop the process?” His voice sounded different. For a moment he wondered if he’d disguised it subconsciously, until he realised that the tears he was choking back and the tremours in his voice had made it sound like someone else’s.

“We don’t know that...that’s why we need to find those doctors or scientists or whatever you want to call them.”

“They could be anywhere,” Sam forced through clenched teeth. He bit his lip and swallowed, trying to get control over his voice back.

“I know Sam,” Bobby replied. “But Ellen’s on the job. Both Ellen and Jo are. As soon as they heard about Dean, they took off, and they’re pretty determined to bring the bastards down.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Sam, all you can do right now is watch your brother. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, okay?”

Sam nodded then realised Bobby couldn’t see it. “Okay,” he added.

“Are you going to tell Dean about this?”

“No.” Sam lowered his voice; he felt Dean’s eyes on him, watching him. A prickle ran across his shoulders. Dean couldn’t hear him from this distance, Sam knew that. Still. He trusted John Winchester to be capable of everything and Dean, as his heir, came second to that. It was a reflex still engraved from Sam’s childhood, when Dean had been the stellar super hero that would always save Sam and keep him protected. He wasn’t a hero to Sam’s eyes anymore, not a hero like with cape and superhuman powers anyway.

He was his brother, a guy who would give everything that he had to keep Sam safe. He was better than a hero. Right now, Sam needed to keep Dean safe. He needed to be the hero that Dean could not be right now.

“Good. Keep it that way. He doesn’t need to know about that just yet.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

Dean needed that bit of hope that he could be fixed. Sam needed that bit of hope that Dean could be fixed. It was all they were running on by now.

***

Sam was by the shore, talking on the phone. He kept looking back at the cabin nervously, as if he was afraid Dean might come running out and yell at him for something. He was probably talking to Bobby, and Dean could see him shrug, run a hand through his hair and pinch his nose; he didn’t seem too happy. Dean didn’t have to hear the words; Sam’s posture told him enough. News was bad. Most likely really bad.

Dean stepped back from behind the curtains and shuffled over into the bedroom; he didn’t have much time. While he could read Sam’s mood from the distance, he couldn’t know how much longer the phone call would take. He needed to hurry.

He left the door to the bedroom ajar so he would hear if Sam entered the cabin. He sat down at the edge of the bed then opened the first drawer of the nightstand. He’d filled it with boxer and socks to make sure Sam wouldn’t go near it. Reaching into the pile of cotton, Dean’s fingers searched in between layers of underwear and socks, until they found a small plastic barrel and enclosed around it.

He pulled the cap off and shook out two of the pills into the palm of his hand, and he hid away the container again. He swallowed the pills down with some water from the nightstand and rested his face in his hands for a moment, taking deep breaths.

The headaches and nausea had returned a couple of days ago, mildly at first and then getting stronger, almost as bad as before. Even though Sam kept close to him and they were stranded at the edge of the known world, it still wasn’t enough.

If it was this bad with civilisation miles away...Dean avoided to think about how much worse it would be to have people around him.

In a closet, he’d discovered emergency kits, pills, ointments and band-aids, everything a hunter needed to patch himself up and heal after a hunt gone bad. Dean guessed that there was some sort of unspoken rule, that if you came here and took some of the meds and bandages, you were obliged to restock them again when you left. But Sam and he weren’t leaving for a while, and there was an entire shelf with different sorts of pain killers. The pain killers let him function--at least enough to fool Sam who was so desperate to believe Dean was doing all right here. Dean just couldn’t bear the thought of breaking Sam’s heart.

Not again. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the hope in Sam’s eyes when Dean had begun to get his act back together again. Before the whole experiment thing had happened, that was. After Hell.

Those first few days had never been easy, and most of the time Dean had felt that he just couldn’t do it, that the darkness and fire followed him wherever he went and that he’d get lost in it. Some days still felt like that. At first he’d been so absolutely terrified that the words got caught in his throat and he couldn’t speak—later Sam had told him that he hadn’t said a word for two weeks. Dean couldn’t say whether the time had felt shorter or longer. Most of those first few weeks after Hell felt like one big blur.

But he’d pulled himself back together again and he’d noticed the change in Sam, the way he started to smile again, the way worry made way for relief. It had helped him too. And now—he didn’t want to see that desperate, horrified look in Sam’s eyes ever again.

So he’d started swallowing the pain killers. At first they’d eliminated the pain completely, by now no matter how many he took—and he couldn’t take too many, couldn’t be too out of it for Sam to notice—his head was always buzzing, always hurting and spinning. The meds helped enough to keep him on his feet but that was about it. It didn’t matter as long as he was able to keep the act up for Sam. Even though he knew that he was getting worse and the symptoms more powerful, he just had to be able to smile and nod for Sam.

Sam made dinner that afternoon, heated up a can of ravioli. The smell of food made Dean’s stomach flip, the thought of eating made him want to retch, but he couldn’t show it. Instead he told Sam a lie, said that he wanted to enjoy the evening air a bit, and trotted towards the lake, away from the reek of the ravioli. His stomach calmed down a bit the farther he got away from the cabin, but it only lasted for so long, until Sam called his name and told him dinner was ready.

He stared at the food with a turmoil demolishing his stomach that was tying and untying in knots, puckering up, and doing somersaults. His throat dried up, and he poked around in the food half-heartedly, feeling Sam’s eyes on him. Sam was watching, of course he was. Sometimes Dean thought that Sam kept a record somewhere of every bite and every sip Dean took.

He couldn’t use the “not hungry” excuse because he’d already skipped breakfast, and Sam wouldn’t buy it a second time. So, bracing himself against the reaction of his body, Dean ignored the nausea and the urge to gag and forced a bite down, then another one and another one. He swallowed the ravioli down whole, feeling that if the food lasted longer in his mouth than a few seconds, he’d never be able to get it into his stomach at all.

His fingers started shaking, but he just grabbed the fork tighter and forced a smile. Chills shook him as they wandered across his back down his spine and prickled the hair on the back of his neck. Keeping his eyes on the food--the goal--he pushed more ravioli into his mouth. As he ran a hand over his forehead, he noticed it was pasty with cold sweat.

It happened after that last mouthful. His insides revolted, protesting violently against the unwelcome food. It took Dean a split second to realise that he wouldn’t be able to keep the food down. He was up and in the bathroom just in time to not create a complete and utter mess as the food shot up his throat.

He heard Sam’s voice vaguely somewhere behind him, sounding panicked. Dean had no time or breath to answer, because his body convulsed and he threw up again, holding on to the seat of the toilet hard. A hand rested on his back, and as the cramps and gagging ebbed away, Dean finally let go of the porcelain and leaned against the wall limply. He was half seated, half laying; his world spun.

“Shit,” he panted. The taste of vomit was still in his mouth.

“What the hell was that?” Sam’s voice pierced through the stillness, and Dean opened his eyes to see Sam’s horror-stricken face.

“Nothing.” Dean waved his hand and pushed himself up. His legs still shook, but Sam’s hands found Dean’s arm and pulled him up. Dean staggered over to the sink and washed his mouth out with Sam’s hand on his back, between the shoulder blades. He would have never admitted it to Sam, but he found the gesture strangely comforting.

“Bullshit,” Sam said.

“Maybe the food just didn’t agree with me.” He walked back into the living room on unsteady feet, Sam’s hand curled around his arm again. “It does happen.”

“But not like this. Holy shit, Dean...”

“I’m sure I will feel better tomorrow, Sammy. Don’t fret over it. It’s nothing.”

He wondered if he was blushing, but then he’d always been a good liar.

Sam appeared to be eager to believe, because eventually he nodded and said, “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean nodded in return with a smile that he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes. Tomorrow, his act would have to be better.

***

Sam slept with one ear open, listening up even in his sleep. The door to the bedroom wasn’t closed entirely, Sam had insisted on that. So that even from the living room, where Sam had been occupying the couch for the nights because he’d also insisted on Dean taking the bed, Sam could hear if something was wrong.

And the moment Sam woke up and opened his eyes to the dark room, he knew something was definitely wrong.

He couldn’t tell where he got the notion from because the bedroom was quiet, and even after Sam had listened for a minute nothing unusual had happened. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, as if something crept over his back and suggested to him to go and check on Dean. Just to make sure.

Sam pushed the blanket back and sneaked over to the door, the planks creaking softly under his weight. Sam nudged the door open a little and narrowed his eyes to see better, and then it was like somebody had sucked out all the air from his lungs. Like a punch in the face.

In between crinkled sheets Dean laid spread across the bed, his right forearm hanging down from the edge of the mattress. He was panting, his chest rising with short breaths, and even in the dark Sam saw Dean’s pale face shine with sweat. His body was cringed, left arm folded over his stomach. When Sam entered, took a step towards Dean, Dean looked at him with his lips pressed together and his eyes narrowed in agony.

He was trying hard to not let any noises escape, no moans or whimpers. Or even screams. That much Sam could tell.

“Jesus Christ.” Sam brought his hand to his mouth and rushed to Dean’s side. His bare feet tripped on little round objects as he did. Kneeling down, Sam picked one of them up and recognised that pills were spread across the floor. As his eyes searched the floor for more, he also found the container that had held them.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Shit, Dean.”

Dean had been taking drugs against the pain. Which meant he wasn’t doing better at all. Which explained the vomiting. And judging from the mess, his hands had been shaking too much to take more pills. Dean’s figure trembled on the soaked sheets.

Dean wasn’t looking at Sam; he was staring straight ahead, mouth still a firm thin line, and his features lined with agony. It brought tears to Sam’s eyes, seeing Dean like this. So desperately trying to keep in charge, to not show how much the fucking thing, what the bastards had done to him, hurt.

“Shit, Dean,” Sam repeated. He placed his hands on Dean’s back again, like before, because Dean hadn’t seemed to mind. Upon the touch, Dean turned to look at Sam.

Sam should have been angry. For Dean lying to him and pretending and making a fool out of him. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly be angry with Dean when he saw his older brother like this, in so much pain and yet trying to hold on and be strong for Sam. When his body was convulsed in pain, the shirt sticking to Dean’s torso, Dean just clenched his teeth and refused to let Sam see just how bad he really was.

Among the fear and shock, anger surfaced. Someone had decided to steal time from Sam because Dean wasn’t getting any better here. He needed help, and they were running out of time. How was he going to save Dean if time disappeared like that, in large chunks that left big holes, sucking everything else in?

Dean wasn’t going to die, Sam told himself. They hadn’t been through an almost-apocalypse and broken Dean free from Hell and battled demons just so that Dean would waste away because some scientists had decided to play God. No way. Heroes didn’t die like that.

“We’re going to Bobby’s tomorrow,” Sam said quietly. “We will fix this. I promise. Somehow. Okay?”

Dean’s lip twitched to a lopsided smile, but it died as quickly as it had flared up.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

Dean’s voice was tiny. “I...I can’t move my legs anymore.”

>> Part Three