Bridging Two Solitudes: 'Supernatural'

By Scullspeare © 2008

CHAPTER ONE

Sam ran, heart hammering against his chest, long strides pounding on the wooden planks beneath his feet, but he couldn’t get there in time. He could only watch helplessly as his brother fell.

“DEAN!”

Thrown by some unseen force, Dean sailed backwards. His body crashed through the railings that framed the decaying wooden bridge, the weather-worn timbers shattering on impact. He had no chance to save himself. Unconscious, he tumbled over the side and into the fast-moving current 30 feet below.

Sam skidded to a stop at the side of the bridge where his brother had fallen, feet slipping on the icy deck. As he fought to regain his footing, he kicked the shotgun that had flown from his brother’s grasp. In a taunting echo of the man who had held it moments earlier, the gun fell off the bridge and disappeared into the raging water.

Sam grabbed the broken railing to steady himself, frantically scanning the turbulent waters of the river beneath him. His chest tightened as Dean’s seemingly lifeless body surfaced and was carried downstream by the swift current.

Breath clouding as his respiration rate quickened, Sam tore off his heavy coat. Eyes locked on Dean, the thumping of his heart pounding in his ears, the world seemed to move in slow motion around him. He knew the three-storey drop into icy water would likely knock him out. He knew hypothermia would quickly rob him of motor control and the ability to think clearly. He knew that jumping in after Dean meant drowning was the likely outcome – for both of them. He didn’t care. He was Dean’s only chance.

He inhaled deeply and before the coat he had shrugged from his shoulders even hit the bridge deck, Sam launched himself toward the water.

But the spirit that had tossed Dean so effortlessly into the river now set its sights on Sam.

Instead of falling into the river below, Sam was yanked roughly backwards, landing heavily on the far side of the bridge. The impact drove the air from his lungs and smashed his head against the stone base of a thick bridge support pillar.

Groggy, he blinked to clear his vision. He scanned the bridge around him but there was no sign of whatever is was that had just grabbed him. Coughing as the cold air he sucked in greedily hit his lungs, Sam pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He had barely regained his balance when a blast of icy pressure slammed into his chest and smashed him against the pillar a second time, this time pinning him in place.

Sam shivered as a biting wind enveloped him, then gasped at the feel of invisible icy fingers grabbing his arms and holding them tightly. His sweatshirt offered little protection; beneath the fleece he could feel his skin crack and burn from the intense cold of the touch.

His shivering intensified as the wind picked up again, the gust sending the coat he’d dropped tumbling toward the opening Dean’s fall had created. The down jacket snagged briefly on the shattered timber railing before falling off the bridge and out of sight.

Sam, still struggling to free himself, cast a desperate glance down river, frantically searching for any sign of Dean in the fast-flowing water.

“DEAN!” Sam screamed his brother’s name, frustration blending equally with anger at his inability to help him. He struggled harder against the invisible hands that held him, his face reddening with exertion.

He toppled forward when the hands suddenly let go. But before he could fall, he was slammed backwards again. This time the icy fingers grabbed his face, twisting his head away from the river. He inhaled sharply as the cold burned his cheek and jaw. Angrily, he tried to pull the hand away but there was nothing tangible to grab onto.

Sam’s eyes widened as a face began to materialize in front of him. He blinked rapidly, fighting to bring his vision back into focus.

Then he saw her. The woman’s form remained translucent but she was now visible. She was tall, almost able to look him in the eye. She wore a high-necked white blouse, buttoned primly from chin to waist where it was tucked neatly into a long black skirt. The wind played with tendrils of greying hair pulled loose from the bun at the nape of her neck.

Sam shivered as his eyes met hers. He’d seen angry spirits before, and this one was pissed, no question there, but there was something else too.

The bony fingers of her hand held his face tightly as she stared at him, her eyes cold, her gaze unflinching. She leaned closer, then closer still until he could feel her icy breath. Then she smiled. Sam didn’t scare easily but her smile scared him.

The apparition’s face was inches away from Sam’s. Locked in her grip, he was unable to move or speak. Her hold on his face tightened as she slowly raised her free hand before jabbing an arthritic finger suddenly through his forehead.

Pain exploded inside Sam’s head setting off an avalanche of images and sounds; a woman screaming, then crying… men shouting…gunfire….the thunder of horses’ hooves….more gunfire….more screaming…… Fear and anger fuelled the kaleidoscope of images as they played out through his mind, tilting and warping crazily until he felt sick.

Sam coughed and retched as the pain subsided. Chest heaving, he swallowed hard to push back the nausea. He forced his eyes open to find the spirit still staring at him intently. Her cold smile returned as she traced her finger slowly from his forehead, down his face and along his jawline.

Her grip on his face tightened again as she twisted Sam’s head to the side, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “He had to pay, now so must you. Ask the Lord to forgive you, for I cannot.”

Sam stared at the spirit, his breathing rapid and shallow as her words echoed painfully inside his skull. Her hold on his face relaxed slightly and, for one brief moment, Sam thought she was about to let go. Instead, her cruel smile returned as she once again slammed his head into the pillar behind him. He never felt her hand release him as the world around him suddenly turned black.

xxxXXXxxx

As the turbulent river waters, swollen by the spring thaw, twisted and turned their way toward the Atlantic, an unconscious Dean was pushed underwater and up again by the current, a human counterpart to the chunks of ice freed from upstream by the slowly rising temperatures.

The current drove his body into one of two large boulders jutting out from the centre of the river, before spinning him around and slamming him into the second rock, his shoulder striking first. The eddy pulled him away from the rock before shoving him back into the boulder a second time. This time his head struck first, blood flowing down his temple from the wound just under his hairline, as the current flipped him onto his back.

A large chunk of river ice, following the current behind Dean, slammed into his torso before the river pulled it to the side where it lodged between the two rocks.

The jammed ice also pinned Dean in place, trapping him between the ice and the rock at his back. Only luck, of the warped kind the Winchesters were used to, kept his head above the water.

xxxXXXxxx

“Oh God. There’s a body down there.”

Jason Tait turned quickly and looked in the direction his girlfriend Penny was pointing.

The two were experienced hikers, enjoying a morning ramble in the state park. The route was far from challenging but, given Ol’ Man Winter had yet to move out to make way for Spring, was close to civilization if the weather turned nasty or they found themselves in trouble and needed to call for help.

But this sure as hell wasn’t the kind of trouble they’d been thinking of.

The guy in the water was young, about his age Jason guessed, and he was pinned against some rocks mid-river. His close-cropped sandy hair and eyebrows were frosted over with ice, his skin bluish-grey in colour. His body bobbed slightly each time the current collided with the rocks, but otherwise he made no movement.

“Is he dead?”

Jason shrugged, staring intently at the body, trying to pick up any sign of life. There was nothing. “I don’t….I can’t tell from here. Looks like it though.”

He moved closer to the riverbank which, from where they stood, was a good 10 feet above the water. “Hey,” he yelled. “Can you hear me?”

Predictably, there was no response.

He turned to see that Penny had already pulled out her cellphone and was dialing 911.

The first ring had barely finished when the operator answered.

“I’m hiking on the riverfront trail in Plymouth State Park. There’s a guy in the Crooked Arm River….He’s…he’s not moving.” Penny swallowed and her voice dropped noticeably in volume. “I think he’s dead.

“What? Oh, yes, yes,” Penny nodded, a reflex , and stayed on the line, providing a few additional details until the emergency operator verified he had a lock on the GPS in her phone. “Yes, of course. I’ll keep the phone on and we’ll stay right here.”

She looked at Jason and shivered involuntarily, more from shock than cold. He reached out and pulled her into a hug. Penny wrapped her arms around him, drawing herself in tighter and resting her head on his chest. Without thinking, she stole another glance at the body in the river, and froze.

“Oh my God, he’s alive.”

Jason turned quickly to look incredulously at the body, the man, in the river.

The movement was almost imperceptible. At first he thought he was mistaken, a trick of light or the current playing with the body, but then it happened again. The man’s eyes blinked slowly and his head moved sluggishly, as if he was fighting to find the strength to hold it upright.

“No shit, Einstein,” Jason admonished himself silently. The guy had been in freezing water for God knows how long. Of course he was fighting. To live.

“Hey.” He released his hold on Penny to cup his hands around his mouth to help his voice carry further. “Hey, can you hear me? Give me something dude. Help is on the way.”

As he tried desperately to get a response from the guy, Penny was back on the phone, redialing 911.

She spoke quickly, breathlessly, amazed at how the situation had changed from just a few moments earlier. “I called about a body in the river…..Yes, uh, no. No, it’s not a body. I mean he’s alive. The man’s alive. Please, hurry.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sammy?

Dean thought he heard his brother’s voice.

No answer.

Aw, come on Sam. The silent treatment? What the hell am I supposed to have done this time?

Still no answer.

Dude, please. I’m too tired to fight.

Dean struggled to open his eyes. His head was pounding and he felt sick. To feel this crappy he should at least be able to remember the party that caused it, right? But if a Winchester bender was behind this hangover, he was drawing a complete blank.

He fought again to open his eyes. Shit, this was way harder than it should be.

He jumped as he felt a smack on his cheek. What the hell? Who slapped him?

In shock, Dean’s eyes snapped open. He blinked trying to clear his vision but it remained as fuzzy as his thinking.

Another slap. Sonovabitch.

Dean’s eyesight cleared a bit more. Then, in a brief moment of lucidity, he realized what had happened. Water. He’d been slapped by water. For the first time since he battled his way to semi-consciousness, he realized he was in water. Up to his neck in it.

How the hell did that happen?

He was also stuck, a steady pressure on his chest holding him in place. Dean tried moving, but his body showed no interest in co-operating. The arm his brain had just ordered to move remained floating limply at his side.

Come on Winchester, he chided himself. Quit playing dude in distress and get your ass in gear. Since when did you sit around waiting to be rescued?

Dean’s internal dialogue stalled when it suddenly hit him how cold he was. It was hard to breathe, each breath he managed to suck in chilling him further from the inside out.

It struck him odd that he wasn’t shivering more. It was also hard to think, his mind as sluggish as his unco-operative body.

The hand he’d tried to move what seemed like minutes ago suddenly jerked and scraped against the large chunk of ice in front of him. Nice reflexes, dude, he admonished himself silently.

Dean groggily lifted his head, his attention drawn by two blurry shapes moving on the shore a short distance away.

“Hey.”

Dean’s head jerked at the shouted voice, squinting and blinking to try and bring its owner into focus.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

Sammy? That you? Dean tried to clear his throat. Great. Add his voice to the list of things that didn’t work.

The voice from the shore called out to him again. “Give me something, dude. Help is on the way.”

He frowned. Was it Sam? If so, he sounded funny.

Focusing what little energy he had, he managed to wave his arm to acknowledge the voice calling to him, but the effort emptied his gas tank. His vision greyed at the edges, grey quickly turning to black.

Dean frowned again, trying to remember what he’d just been doing.

Right. Talking to Sam. But he was just too damn tired. Sorry Sammy, gotta sleep this off. Wait ’til morning, then you can tell me what you’re so pissed about.

His head dropped to his chest. As he slid into unconsciousness, his body relaxed and he slipped slightly between the boulder at his back and the chunk of river ice holding him against it. While the ice kept Dean pinned in place, his head lolled forward and under the water.

CHAPTER 2

Sam startled awake only to close his eyes again just as quickly, assaulted by a pounding headache. He groaned as he tried moving, rolling onto his side, wrapping his arm around his head and breathing deeply as he willed the hammering inside his skull to stop.

“Dean?”

His voice, muffled behind his arm, sounded weak and thick with sleep. When there was no answer, he pulled his arm from across his face, cleared his throat and tried again.

“Dean?”

Still no answer.

Sam forced his eyes open but his vision was blurry. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, and then pushed himself up into a sitting position; his long legs sprawled awkwardly in front of him. He frowned as he felt cold earth between his fingers. Still fighting the vertigo that threatened to topple him, he realized he was outside.

Sitting on the ground. Outside. That couldn’t be good.

Leaning forward, he screwed his eyes closed, pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his eyesight but everything remained out of focus. It was like someone had smeared Vaseline on a piece of glass and asked him to look at the world through it.

Sam rubbed his eyes again, slowly turning his head in one direction, and then the other, trying to get his bearings. He was in the midst of a stand of trees. He squinted upwards. There was a blur of blue sky beyond the abstract treetops and he could feel a shaft of sunlight warmly caressing the left side of his face and his left arm.

Okay. So how did he get here? The last thing he remembered was, um…..

Well…..

Sam groaned, rubbing his temple. Relax, he told himself, pushing back the building panic. It’s all there. You just have to reach it.

He glanced upward, squinting again as the sunlight hit him in the face. From the position and strength of the sun he guessed it was mid morning.

Sam snorted in frustration. Un-frigging-believable. He could tell time from the sun’s position but he had no clue where he was or how he got there.

And where the hell was his brother?

“Dean?” Sam’s attempt at a shout failed miserably, his usually big, deep voice barely audible and raspy. The attempt also refueled the pounding in his head and his stomach lurched in response. He stilled momentarily, closing his eyes and holding his breath as he fought to push back the nausea.

As the churning in his stomach quieted, Sam drew up his knees, wrapped his arms around his legs and lowered his head onto his knees. “Think, Sam,” he muttered to himself. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Lifting his head again a moment later, he clasped his hands together at the nape of his neck, closed his eyes and squeezed his head between his elbows. “Think”

Slowly the events of earlier in the day came back to him. He and Dean were meeting up with an old friend. On the way they decided to look into a recent death supposedly linked to a haunted bridge. They’d gone to check it out and…. Confusion ramped up Sam’s headache as he once again took in the forest that surrounded him. He’d lost consciousness on the bridge. How the hell had he got from the bridge to here, wherever here was?

Sam’s eyes widened as his mind’s eye suddenly focused on the spirit of the old woman. She’d grabbed him - after she’d thrown Dean off the bridge….

Oh God. The spirit had thrown Dean in the river.

The memory of his brother’s body falling, then being dragged away by the current fuelled another wave of nausea and this time Sam couldn’t stop it. He barely had time to twist to the side before his body expelled the contents of his stomach, the heaving continuing long after there was nothing left to throw up.

When the heaves subsided, Sam pushed himself weakly backwards and collapsed against a tree. He spat angrily to clear the bile from his mouth and used the back of his sleeve to wipe his mouth, his other hand to clear his watering eyes.

It was early morning when he’d watched, helplessly, as the spirit had thrown Dean into the river. How long had he been unconscious? Out of habit, Sam glanced down at his watch but his fuzzy vision could barely tell there were numbers on the face, let alone make out what they read. But given where the sun was now, it had to have been hours since Dean….since he……

No. No way. Dean wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Sam’s heart was now pounding in time with his head, but he refused to allow himself to think the worst. He was still alive so his brother was too.

He had to be.

Sam again pushed himself up so he was sitting rather than slumped. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an attempt to clear his head.

He had to get help. Find out what happened to Dean. Find Dean.

Sam reached for his hip pocket, fumbling for his phone, but his heart sank when he realized he was no longer wearing his winter jacket. He’d shucked off the down-filled coat to jump into the water after Dean, right before the spirit grabbed him. His phone was in the pocket of that coat.

Sam swore silently. Screw the phone. He’d walk back to the bridge and find his brother. He twisted so he could grab the tree behind him and tried to haul himself up but his legs felt weak and rubbery, refusing to hold his weight. The effort made his head spin and he crumpled immediately, landing on his ass at the base of the tree, breathing heavily.

He let out a yell of frustration. He needed to get to Dean. But how?

Sam blew out a slow, steady breath to calm himself down. He needed to think. Clear his head. Figure out what to do first.

Closing his eyes, Sam could clearly see the bridge spirit’s face, her dark eyes burning into him. He could feel her icy breath, her bony fingers squeezing his arms and his face. Then there was the horror show of sounds and images that tumbled through his head right before he blacked out.

What had the spirit said to him?

Her words echoed through his head. “He had to pay. Now you will too.”

Was the ‘he’ she referred to Dean? What the hell did he have to pay for? No, that was too literal. They’d only just rolled into town. There was no way they could have done something to get her pissed off at them personally. At least not yet.

The ‘now you will too’ part of her threat obviously linked to him waking up here in the middle of nowhere, but why?

“Not to mention ‘how’,” he muttered. He shivered, and not just from the chill that persisted in the late March air. In an attempt to retain what little body heat he had left, he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, shoved his hands in the pockets and shifted slightly to his left into the shaft of sunlight breaking through the trees.

According to the reports Sam had found online, a man had supposedly jumped from the bridge a few weeks earlier. While the official cause of death was suicide, the incident had refueled stories of a vengeful spirit who haunted the bridge.

At the diner where they’d stopped for breakfast, the waitress had filled them in on the local legend. Depending on whom you talked to, she said, the spirit was either a grieving woman mourning the loss of her soldier beau in the Civil War or an angry woman, seeking revenge after her lover cheated on her. While the waitress had dismissed the stories as tourist fodder, a quick Internet search by Sam revealed a dozen or so deaths connected in some way to the bridge and going back decades.

It had been enough for them to decide to check it out. Sam now wished he’d done more research first. Guilt over what happened to Dean further stoked the nausea roiling in his gut and he swallowed hard to stop himself throwing up again.

The spirit’s words continued to spin through his head. What else had she said? “Ask the Lord to forgive you, for I cannot.”

Forgive what? Sam rolled his eyes. Why the hell did spirits always talk in riddles?

Of the two options the waitress had presented, the second seemed the better fit for the spirit Sam had seen. She was definitely pissed; maybe she was just lashing out at her cheating husband through any man she met on the bridge. Sam frowned. But, if that was the case, the body count should be a lot higher since she’d supposedly been haunting the bridge since the Civil War.

And how was all this connected to the supernatural slideshow the spirit had projected into his head? The images had flashed by so quickly Sam couldn’t sort one from the other. He could hear the screams, he could sense the fear but he couldn’t seem to slow down the film to get a good look at the pictures.

The more Sam thought about it, the more he kept getting stuck on one image. His brother being thrown off the bridge.

His stomach lurched again at the memory of Dean being tossed through the air, smashing through the bridge railing and disappearing into the angry current below.

Sam leaned heavily back against the tree, closing his eyes and breathing slowly and deeply in an attempt to quiet both his headache and his stomach. He was all too familiar with the symptoms, all classic signs of a concussion.

Pulling down his hood again, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, feeling for cuts, lumps or bumps to explain the persistent headache, fuzzy vision and constant nausea. He winced when his fingers brushed over a blood-encrusted goose-egg on the back of his head.

“Own.” The pain jarred loose the memory of him being thrown through the air, and cracking his head against the stone pillar on the bridge, just before the spirit grabbed him. That explained a lot.

Closing his eyes, he had a clear image of Dean’s face with trademark smirk firmly in place. “Shake it off, Sam. If you’re seeing two of me, the world’s already a better place. Now get off you ass, and get moving. You need to get help.”

Sam couldn’t disagree. Concussion or no concussion, he had to get out of there – wherever there was.

As the latest wave of nausea dissipated, Sam figured he’d rule out the obvious before tackling the more difficult options available to him.

He cleared his throat and he shouted. “Hello? Can anybody hear me?”

His voice, at least, seemed to be improving. It was still raspy and lacking its usual power but if there was anybody around, they were going to hear him.

He repeated his call for help.

The only reply, however, was a slight echo of Sam’s own words.

Again Dean’s voice sounded clearly in his head. “C’mon Sammy, What’d you expect? Ranger Rick hiding behind a tree, ready to jump out and escort you back to town? Nothing’s ever that simple for a Winchester.”

Sam had to smirk. Dean was right, of course. Lady Luck had a blind spot when it came to their family.

Thank God it was a sunny day. At least he had that going for him. Given the sun’s position, he could basically figure out east from west, north from south. The river where this whole mess started ran west to east, dumping into the Atlantic Ocean. The forested area south of the Crooked Arm River fell mostly within the boundaries of Plymouth State Park and covered roughly 150 square miles. Given the terrain, abstract as it was with his current fuzzy vision, Sam felt fairly confident he was somewhere within the park, southwest of the bridge. What he didn’t know was whether he was one mile southwest or 100 miles.

Or how the hell he got there for that matter. Once again his brother’s voice played out at full volume inside his head. “It was that spirit bitch, Sam. Tossed my ass in the water, threw yours in the middle of nowhere.”

Sam saw his brother frown. “That’s twice now we’ve gone over the side of a bridge,” Dean’s voice said, referring back to the Woman in White encounter that had pulled Sam out of Stanford and back into the hunting world. “Both times I ended up the drink and you stayed high and dry. How is that fair?”

“It’s not fair, Dean,” Sam muttered, ignoring the fact he was answering a question posed by a figment of his own imagination. “Nothing about this is fair.”

He shifted uncomfortably. His ass was getting damp from sitting on the cold ground so long. It was time to try getting up again even though he didn’t know where the hell he was going to go.

xxxXXXxxx

Capt. Doug Bishop grabbed his two-way radio from the passenger seat, climbed down from his truck, slammed the door behind him then jogged down toward the water.

SARTechs Joe Timlin and Steve Johnson, already dressed in cold water survival suits, had arrived just before him and were scrambling to load gear into the rescue boat.

Doug had been working with Search & Rescue in Plymouth County for more than 30 years. The fast-flowing river that cut along the northern boundary of this east coast tourist region was the site of many of those rescue operations.

When the 911 call had first come in, it was for a recovery. A man’s body had been seen in the river, caught up on rocks off the south bank about two miles west of the municipal dock.

Then there was the second call. The body was no longer ‘a body.’ The man was alive.

With that news his squad moved into high gear. Experience told Doug this rescue may yet become a recovery but until he knew for sure, they would assume the victim was alive.

The only land access to the south shore where the victim was located was via the park hiking trail, a trek that would take them nearly an hour on a good day; by boat, they were only nine minutes away.

The county chopper, returning from a run delivering organs for transplant to the state hospital, had also been called in; if the victim was still alive when they pulled him out of the river, the chopper would be needed to get him to County General ASAP. Sheriff’s deputies were already on site, blocking off the county road that ran parallel to the river along the north bank, to create a makeshift landing zone.

Doug crossed the dock to which the rescue boat was moored, surveying the river as he climbed aboard. The spring thaw was well under way so the water was high, fast-running and still dangerously cold.

An ambulance had pulled into the riverside parking lot just after Doug. The paramedics inside jumped from the vehicle, moved around to the back doors and began unloading medical supplies. Matt Hardy, the senior of the two paramedics, had been working emergencies in Plymouth County almost as long as Doug. His partner Jenn Cabot had been with him for the past five years.

Doug’s radio crackled. He recognized the voice as Sheriff’s Deputy Ethan Harris. “Search & Rescue: we’re on location with roadblocks established. Chopper ETA: 17 minutes. We have a visual on the victim; he’s in the water about 20 feet off the south shore and…….” Doug listened to the deputy’s heavy breathing, transmitted over his shoulder radio, as he ran toward the water. When Harris spoke again, worry cut through his professional detachment. “Search and Rescue, be advised: the victim just slipped under the water. He’s still pinned in place but, I repeat, his head is now under the water.”

Doug’s heart rate ratcheted up a notch as he brought his radio up to his mouth. Now, more than ever, every second counted.

“10-4, Harris. We’re under way. Out.”

The paramedics, Matt and Jenn, were now seated in the middle of the boat fastening their life vests, medical supplies stowed at their feet. The SARTechs, Joe and Steve, unleashed the mooring ropes and pushed the boat away from the dock. Now in place in the wheelhouse, Doug fired the engines. The powerful twin outboards roared to life, and Doug deftly guided the large, inflatable craft against the current, praying as he did so they would be in time.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam knew there were cabins and campsites scattered throughout the park. Most, if not all, would be unoccupied as it was late March and the park didn’t officially open for the season until the end of April. But if he could find a cabin or ranger station, there was an outside chance he could find a phone or radio to call for help.

As Sam stumbled along, he knew the odds were against him, even if he didn’t have a concussion and impaired vision to contend with. But, however slim, his chances of finding help were far better than if he stayed put. He and his brother wouldn’t be missed for at least another few hours. They had arranged to meet their friend Doc for lunch but she wouldn’t move them from late to missing until at least an hour or so after the time they were supposed to meet – the Winchesters didn’t exactly have a good track record when it came to showing up on time.

Any head start Sam could give himself increased his chances of being found, and being found faster. And that improved the odds of finding Dean - alive.

Sam was cold, shivering noticeably whenever the sun disappeared behind the occasional cloud or the forest canopy thickened. He’d pulled his hood back up, which helped a little, but his hands were freezing. He’d tried shoving them in his pockets but, given his problems seeing, needed his hands free to steady himself and help him navigate. He’d settled for pulling his hands up inside his sleeves, no easy task for a man who had a hard time finding shirts or jackets whose sleeves were long enough to begin with.

Before he’d set off, Sam had checked his pockets to see what supplies he had at his disposal. The first thing he’d found was the lock-pick set he always carried on a hunt, shoved in the back left pocket of his jeans. He’d shook his head at that discovery; not much use for lockpicks in the middle of nowhere. His money clip and a handful of change found in his right front pocket would be even less helpful. In his left front pocket, however, he’d found his Swiss Army knife and a book of matches he’d taken from the diner at breakfast. At least those might prove useful.

When he stuck his hands back in the pocket of his hoodie, his left hand had closed around an opened tube of breath mints. He smiled as he rolled the candy between his fingers. He’d bought them the day before when the brothers had stopped for dinner and Dean had ordered his favorite extra onions burger. Following the meal, Dean had taken the roll of mints, offered innocently by Sam, popped one in his mouth with a scowl, then thrown the roll back at his brother, mumbling something about salad-breath not going to win Sam any new friends either.

Sam’s smile widened at the memory, but faded quickly as it was replaced by the image of Dean being thrown off the bridge and into the river, the current carrying him helplessly away. Sam’s stomach churned and his chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. What if that was the last image he ever had of his brother?

Sam glanced across the clearing in front of him. He’d give anything to see Dean walk out from behind a tree, worriedly chewing him out for landing in the middle of this mess. He forced himself to concentrate on that image; anything to chase away the one of Dean flying off the bridge and into the water.

“You better be okay, Dean. You’d better be….”

Sam paused to catch his breath, stuck his hand in his pocket and rolled the pack of breath mints between his fingers. He popped a mint in his mouth to chase away the taste of bile that still lingered there before tucking the rest of the roll back in his sweatshirt pocket.

As Sam looked up, the landscape tilted crazily in front of him. He stumbled and grabbed a nearby tree to steady himself as the pounding in his head returned with a vengeance. He swallowed hard, eyes screwed shut, and punched the tree in frustration. A few deep breaths later, his headache quieted and the nausea leveled off.

He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly in another failed attempt to clear his vision. Turning to face southwest, or what he hoped was southwest, he stuck his right hand out to his side and felt through the air until he found another tree for support, then took an unsteady step forward. He took two more steps successfully before stumbling over a root and landing hard on his knees. He closed his eyes, breathing hard, as he fought to summon the strength to haul himself up again.

“You’ve gotta do it, Sam,” he chided himself. “You’ve gotta find Dean.”

With that mantra playing through his head, he pulled himself to his feet, took one shaky step, then another, then another. He bit back a laugh when a Chinese proverb he’d once heard popped into his mind, the one that said every journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.

His smile widened as he remembered repeating that proverb to Dean. His brother had snorted loudly. “Yeah,” he said, trademark grin firmly in place, “but it’s the last five or six that suck out loud.”

As Sam stumbled along, he failed to notice a sudden burst of wind kicking up the leaves behind him, or the abrupt drop in temperature that accompanied it. As the dust, snow and forest debris settled, a young woman stood where the wind had originated. As the wind lifted her long brown hair from her face, it revealed bruising around her eye and temple, the mottled skin caked with dried blood. She was breathing heavily as she scanned the forest around her.

Her breath caught as her eyes fell on Sam’s retreating form. Fear flashed briefly in her grey eyes but was quickly replaced by anger. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the tall man unsteadily make his way through the forest. She bit back a smile as she turned and ran, fading quickly until there was no sign she was ever there.

CHAPTER THREE:

Jason Tait had never been a patient man.

Common sense told him to sit tight, wait for the Search and Rescue crew to show up and pull this stranger out of the river. That’s what they were trained, and equipped, to do. But logic told him there was a good chance the man in the water would be dead by the time they arrived. When Jason saw Dean lose consciousness again, his face falling under the water, he knew waiting for Search and Rescue was no longer an option.

He shrugged off his winter jacket and began to unlace his boots. “Give me the rope from the backpack, Penn.”

Penny turned away from the man in the river and toward her boyfriend, her eyes widening as she realized what he had in mind.

“No…NO….I mean….I…”

Jason continued pulling off his boots. “I have to Penn. Look, he’s gone under. He’s not going to last until Search & Rescue gets here.” He smiled at her grimly. “It’s okay. I can do this.”

She nodded, far from convinced, but knowing it just wasn’t in his nature to sit on the sidelines if there was anything he could do.

Weakly, she returned his smile. “Right. Well let’s do it then.” As she reached for their backpack that carried basic survival items, including a length of rope, she hoped her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

Jason was a strong swimmer; he’d been a lifeguard all the way through college, but that was on the beach in summer and the county pool in winter, not in an ice-filled river.

Reading her thoughts, Jason offered her another tight smile. “We’ll tie off the rope to a tree and tie the other end round my waist. We should have just enough to get me down to the water and over to those rocks. I’ll grab the guy and swim back to shore. If you help reel us in, it’ll be even faster.”

His words were an attempt to reassure himself, as well as Penny. “I shouldn’t be in the water all that long.”

Penny walked back a few steps to loop one end of the rope around a tree, knotting it expertly. She looked at Jason worriedly. “Look, I get why you’re doing this. I don’t want to see that guy out there die, but I don’t want to see you join him either.”

“It’ll be okay.” Jason flashed her quick smile. “I…we can do this.”

Noting Penny had secured the rope around the tree, Jason knotted the other end around his waist. He then gathered up the loose coils, creating a taut line between himself and the tree, and used that to brace himself as he rappelled down the embankment, gradually letting out the rope until he reached the river’s edge. Once there, he dropped the loose coils still in his hand, quickly assessing the length of rope remaining. There was enough to allow him to swim out to the rocks where Dean was pinned. So far, so good.

It was only when he stuck his foot in the water, the cold shocking his system and stealing his breath, that he hesitated.

Then he looked over to the man in the river, the guy who was still fighting, still alive after being in this freezing water for God knows how long. He didn’t know his name or anything about him. Jason wondered if he had a family? A girlfriend? A wife or kids, frantic with worry, wondering where he was? Suddenly the body became a person – he was someone’s son, maybe someone’s father or husband or brother – and he needed his help. Jason shoved his fear aside and plunged in.

Penny watched from shore, her already pounding heart ratcheting up another level the minute Jason stepped into the water. Using the rope to steady her descent, she scrambled down the incline to the water’s edge. There, she grasped the rope with both hands, needing the connection to Jason as reassurance, and ready to pull the two men to shore as soon as Jason got hold of the unconscious stranger.

With the speed of the current, Jason swam only a few quick strokes before he reached Dean, and Penny allowed herself a quick sigh of relief. Jason tucked himself behind the boulder so he wouldn’t be pulled further downstream and lifted Dean’s face out of the water. By this time Jason was shivering violently, the first stages of hypothermia setting in. He smiled grimly. The poor dude he was trying to save had long ago passed the shivering stage.

His plans for a quick, straightforward rescue disintegrated when he tried to pull Dean free. The chunk of river ice that had slammed into Dean had become wedged between the two boulders, the relentless current jamming it tightly in place and trapping Dean behind it.

On dry land, the ice would have posed little challenge to Jason. But, in the river, the icy water quickly sapped his strength and with little traction to help him, he struggled to free the unconscious man, punching and kicking the ice, all while trying to keep Dean’s head out of the water.

“Damn it.” The effort had expended both energy and body heat, neither of which he could give up uselessly if he hoped to get both of them to safety. Realizing a quick rescue was out, he drew on his lifeguard training and assessed the victim.

He pressed shaking fingers against Dean’s neck, checking for a pulse. He said a silent prayer when he found one. It was faint, but it was there.

But Dean wasn’t breathing. The beating of Jason’s own heart quickened when he wondered if he was too late.

No. No, damn it. Anger-fuelled adrenaline spurred his actions. “No way, dude. You’re not dying on me now.”

He moved beside Dean, treading water clumsily as the frigid water progressively robbed him of control of his limbs. He used one trembling hand to tilt back Dean’s head, the other to pinch his nose closed and began rescue breathing.

Breathe.

One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand. Five one-thousand.

Breathe.

He slid his hand between the ice and Dean’s chest, trying to sense the rise and fall which meant the stranger was breathing again, but the fast-moving water, the layers of clothing the man wore, the ice pinning him in place and his own shaking limbs conspired to rob him of any definitive answer.

The words “come on, come on, come on” looped through his head in a desperate, plaintive mantra, as he alternated between breathing and counting.

Then Dean coughed, throwing up river water as his lungs fought to take in air. Jason tilted the man’s head forward, supporting him as the coughing and vomiting racked his battered body.

Jason smiled, teeth chattering, as the stranger’s eyes blinked and slowly opened, revealing dazed green irises beneath.

“Hey, man. You hang in there, okay. Not sure how you got yourself in this mess, but we’re gonna get you out. You keep fighting, you hear me? I just need to get you unstuck and get us both the hell out of this river.”

xxxXXXxxx

Dean couldn’t see. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

He could hear, but sounds around him were muffled, distant, distorted.

He tried to open his eyes but they showed no interest in co-operating.

He tried to move, but no luck there either. And there was a steady pressure on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He struggled to put the pieces together. Why the hell was it so hard to think?

He tried again to open his eyes but with no more success than his previous attempt.

He was vaguely aware of hands supporting his head, something he seemed incapable of doing himself, as he felt himself retching, then puking.

Nice.

The vomiting was followed by a coughing fit that tore at his lungs and throat but the pressure on his chest lessened. Something was still pushing against him, making it impossible to move, but breathing was now less difficult and the sounds around him began to lose their distortion.

He could almost make out words. A man’s voice. Talking to him.

Sammy?

Okay, Winchester, he told himself, quit screwin’ around. Open your eyes.

This time his eyes obeyed and slowly slid open. He blinked at the onslaught of light. A figure bobbed in front of him, moving way too much for Dean’s liking.

Damn it Sam, keep still or I’m gonna toss my cookies all over you. Again.

The pounding in his head didn’t help either. He retched and coughed, silently cursing the headache-fuelled nausea. He felt like crap.

He felt his eyes sliding closed again.

Just let me sleep, ’kay Sam? It’s either bad burgers or I picked up some bug. Just let me sleep it off…. I’ll be fine….

Dean frowned as the chatter continued. What the hell was Sam saying?

“Hey, man. You hang in there, okay. Not sure how you got yourself in this mess, but we’re gonna get you out. You keep fighting, you hear me? I just need to get you unstuck and get us both the hell out of this river.”

His last few words ignited a spark in Dean’s fuzzy brain. ‘Get us both the hell out of this river.’

Struggling to keep his eyes open and his gaze on Sam, Dean fought to get the words out. “What…we…doin’ in … river….Sammy?” His voice was barely audible but Sam must have heard him because he stopped moving around, and turned Dean’s face toward him.

“What? No, I’m not Sammy…..”

Dean rolled his eyes, missing whatever Sam said next. Here they were in deep shit, and little brother was bitching about the use of his childhood nickname.

“So not the time, Sam…” he mumbled, blinking again, trying to force his vision into focus so he could figure out what the hell Sam was doing. His brother had begun moving around again; he could hear him splashing about and see his blurry form bobbing up and down but didn’t have clue what he was trying to accomplish.

“What the hell, Sam?...Syn…chronized swimming’s…. a chick’s sport.” A lame joke, he knew, especially since the energy used to get the sentence out left him teetering on the edge of unconsciousness yet again.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me, okay! What’s your name?

“Huh?” Dean concentrated fiercely on trying to understand his brother’s words.

“Tell me your name.”

Oh. Okay. They were playing the head injury game. Sam must think he had a concussion. He swallowed hard to calm another wave of nausea that also refueled the pounding in his head. Good call there, little brother.

“So?”

“Huh?”

“What’s your name?”

Right. “Dean.”

“Good. I’m Jason.”

Dean frowned “You hit your head too, Sammy?”

Confusion was painted across the faces of both men as each tried to figure out what was going on in the other’s head.

Jason’s question died on his lips as he heard Penny yelling from the shore. “Hold onto him.”

Penny had watched helplessly as Jason began breathing for this stranger. Her heart had skipped a beat when she saw the man coughing and spluttering, knowing he was alive – at least for the time being. She then watched with increasing frustration as Jason struggled to pull the man free.

The two men had both been in the water way too long.

“Jason!,” she yelled again, finally succeeding in getting his attention. “Hang onto him Jase, I’m going to try and pull you in.”

Grateful for the gloves protecting her hands, she grabbed the rope, wedged her foot against a large rock embedded in the shore for extra traction and pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Dean was wedged too tightly for Jason to slip his arm around his shoulders, so he opted instead to hook his elbow through Dean’s and use his foot to try one more time to dislodge the ice.

Then Mother Nature lent a not-so-helping hand. The warmth of the sun was slowly melting the exposed portion of the ice chunk, gradually shrinking its diameter. The ice, finally succumbing to Jason’s attempts to move it, suddenly shifted sideways, its narrowing girth now easily pulled downstream between the two boulders by the relentless current. It gave way so suddenly Jason lost his tenuous grip on Dean and the elder Winchester slipped below the surface. Jason grabbed for him, his trembling hand snagging a fistful of the back of his jacket just as Penny heaved on the rope to pull them to shore.

With the current pulling him one way and Jason pulling him the other, Dean’s barely conscious body slipped out of his coat, between the two rocks that had held him captive and drifted downstream.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam was exhausted. Stumbling through the forest, unable to see clearly, he’d lost track of the number of times he’d tripped, lurched and outright fallen. Each tumble zapped even more strength from his already depleted reserves.

He slumped against a tree, breathing heavily, once again trying to orient himself, make sure he wasn’t walking in circles. He was trying to navigate by the sun but it was educated guesswork at best.

Sam flashed back to a stupid argument the brothers had fallen into a few weeks earlier when they’d got lost in rural Ohio. They were tired, hungry, had been cooped up in the Impala far too long and their patience with each other had worn paper thin.

“I did not miss a turnoff, Sam.”

“Yeah, you did, Dean.” Sam tapped his finger impatiently against the map he was holding. “You should have turned left just after that farm we passed…..”

“If we should have turned left, why didn’t you say so when….

Sam slammed down the map. “I did say so, Dean. As usual, you knew better…’

Dean glared at Sam. “I’m driving, you’re navigating. So navigate. Channel your inner Columbus and get us the hell back to where we should be.”

Sam snorted, turning back to the map. “Nice metaphor, Dean,” he grumbled, tracing his finger along the road they wanted to be on and obviously weren’t. “Columbus was looking for India and found North America. With his sense of direction, we could end up in Florida. Did you manage to sleep through every history class in high school?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m in good company. Columbus apparently snoozed through a few geography classes; didn’t seem to hurt his career prospects.”

He glanced over at Sam, tenting his eyebrows. “Besides, would it be so bad if we ended up in Florida – sun, sand, girls, girls in bikinis…..”

Sam rolled his eyes. “A certain waitress in Tampa.” Sam met his brother’s sideways glance and they shuddered simultaneously, before snorting with laughter.

And with that laughter, the tension in the car dissipated as quickly as it had arisen.

Sam smiled at the memory then shivered, rubbing his hands on his arms trying to generate some body heat. God, he wished Dean was with him right now. Together the two of them always seemed to be able to figure a way out of whatever mess life dropped them in. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a lot of bickering and butting heads along the way but knowing they had each other to lean on always made things easier, more tolerable.

“Just be okay, Dean,” Sam muttered. “Just be okay.”

Sam blew out a deep breath, pushed himself off the tree and stumbled forward. His thoughts returned to the spirit on the bridge. He frowned as he pictured her face and the anger that blazed in her eyes. What had happened to make her so angry she would just lash out at Dean? Lash out at both of them?

Under normal circumstances, or what passed for normal for the Winchesters, it was the kind of supernatural mystery Sam loved to delve into. But he first needed to know Dean was safe; then he’d go after the spirit who attacked them.

A noise off to Sam’s left broke through the silence of the forest, grabbing his full attention. His eyes widened when he realized someone was running toward him, heavy footfalls mixing with labored breathing, branches snapping and cracking as the runner barreled through dense underbrush.

The sounds quickly disoriented him, first coming at him from his left, then charging toward him from his right. His head snapped from one side to the other as he tried to get a fix on the runner.

Behind him, a woman screamed. Sam whirled around in the direction of the cry but, reflexes dulled by injury, his body wasn’t ready for the sudden shift and he fell, hard.

His right knee twisted as he went down and he landed heavily, the impact sending a jolt of pain from his knee all the way up to his still pounding head. He retched as the pain fuelled a new wave of nausea.

Lifting his head, Sam scanned the forest around him, blinking rapidly in yet another futile attempt to clear his vision. Where the hell had the scream come from? And who was screaming?

The wind rose suddenly and blasted past him. Sam raised his hand to protect his face from the dust, dirt and ice that pelted him. Then, as suddenly as it arose, the wind died down and disappeared completely.

There was nothing, or no one, in sight, at least as far as his fuzzy vision could tell. He closed his eyes and listened, hoping his hearing might pick up something his faulty eyesight couldn’t, but the only sound was his own rapid, shallow breathing. The forest around him was silent. Unnaturally so.

Shakily Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position and blanched as the movement reignited the pain in his knee. He surveyed the abstract landscape around him, shifting uncomfortably.

Get it together Sam, he chided himself, you’re imagining things. But instinct told him he wasn’t. In the world Sam and Dean lived in, imaginary fears paled next to the real thing. Something was out there, he just didn’t know what.

He grimaced at the pain in his leg. Gingerly, he pressed his fingers into the side of his swollen knee, wincing at the tenderness. Perfect. Add a sprain to his growing list of injuries. At this rate, he’d be dragging himself out of the forest on his ass, if he got out at all.

He exhaled loudly, knowing he had to get up, test his leg and hope to God it would hold his weight. As he braced himself to attempt standing, he heard it again.

This time there was no mistaking it. It was no bird’s call. No animal’s cry. It was a scream. A woman was close by and in trouble. Sam staggered to his feet, again leaning heavily on a tree and shifting most of his weight to his good leg. A sound in the distance caught his attention and he closed his eyes trying to zone in on its origin.

Again he heard someone running, fast. He could hear leaves crunching underfoot, a cough as the runner fought to suck in air. Sam looked to his right, to his left, behind him and across the clearing. Nothing. Where the hell was the runner?

Sam’s heart beat loudly, the percussive accompaniment to the dizzying symphony of footfalls that bombarded him from all directions. He closed his eyes again, willing his ears to focus on the runner.

Sam opened his eyes and his head snapped to the left when movement there grabbed his attention. Someone was running towards him. A woman. Her face was a blur to Sam but he guessed she was young by the speed she was moving. Long, dark hair swung freely behind her as she ran. She wore a light-colored blouse and a long, dark skirt.

Still running, she cast a quick glance behind her and stumbled. He foot caught in the hem of her long skirt and, unable to stop her forward momentum, she fell.

Instinctively, Sam moved in to help but, hobbled by his injured knee, could only watch as she went down. By the time Sam reached her side, she had rolled onto her knees, breathing heavily and was staring off into the distance.

“Are you okay? I….” Sam’s offer of assistance was cut off abruptly as, startled by his unexpected appearance, the woman spun round to face him. Unseen by Sam, the woman’s hand closed around a dead branch lying to her side. As Sam reached down to help her up, she swung the branch and it connected with the side of his head. He crumpled instantly, pain exploding through his skull.

As he collapsed and the world greyed out around him, the last thing he was aware of was the woman scrambling to stand up, running toward him – and right through him.

CHAPTER FOUR:

Jason lunged desperately for Dean but the current grabbed the unconscious man first, pulling him between the rocks and beyond the reach of his would-be rescuer.

The rope around Jason’s waist that once served as a lifeline to the safety of the shore, now prevented him from swimming after Dean. His hands moved to the knots that held the rope in place but the icy river water had robbed him of the dexterity to even grasp the rope, never mind unravel a hitch that submersion in freezing water had soldered in place.

He had been so close. Dean was alive, he was talking, they were almost safe. Now he could only watch helplessly as the river pulled him away. He fuelled what little strength he had left into a primal yell, frustration mixing equally with anger. He punched the water feebly as his shivering worsened, the spastic contractions now uncontrollable. It took him a moment to realize that when his body jerked against the rock at his back it was because he was now moving through the water, around it.

He looked up as he cleared the rock to see Penny hauling on the rope, hand-over-hand, reeling him in. She was straining against both his weight and the current, which was determined to pull him downstream. He tried to protest but neither his voice nor his limbs would co-operate.

A roaring sound in his ears momentarily confused him. Penny was shouting something at him but he couldn’t make out the words. Then she briefly removed one hand from the rope to point downstream.

Jason glanced to his left and relief washed across his face as he took in the sight of the approaching rescue boat.

Please. Please, he thought. Let them be in time.

xxxXXXxxx

Capt. Doug Bishop watched this latest series of events unfold from the vantage point of the boat’s wheelhouse.

Ethan Harris, the sheriff’s deputy on site, radioed in as the rescue team made its way upriver. One of the 911 callers on the shore had jumped into the water in an attempt to rescue the man in the river. Doug had shaken his head at the news. He understood the instinct to help but without training and the right equipment to back it up, good intentions could turn a situation from bad to worse really quickly.

As the boat had rounded the bend in the river, he’d caught sight of a woman on shore holding onto a rope that stretched out into the river and disappeared behind two boulders that protruded from the water about 20 feet offshore. A chunk of river ice was lodged between the two rocks. As Doug guided the boat toward the boulders, the ice broke free and was carried off by the current.

A flurry of movement then caught his attention. As the ice was sucked away, between the rocks he could see one of two men reach in vain for the other who had slipped from his grasp. The fast-flowing current grabbed Dean, pulled him between the rocks and downstream toward the rescue boat.

Doug throttled back the engines and maneuvered the boat into place. SARTechs Steve Johnson and Mike Timlin stood poised for action at the side of the boat, Steve securing a safety line to the harness Mike wore over his survival suit. Receiving the ready signal from Doug, Steve tapped the shoulder of his partner, whose eyes were glued to the man in the river. With the touch, Mike launched himself into the water, swimming cross-current and allowing the river to deliver its victim to him. His muscular arm latched onto Dean, pulling him in so Dean’s back rested against Mike’s chest, his head supported by his rescuer’s shoulder. Mike wrapped one arm around Dean’s chest to secure his hold, raising the other arm to flash a thumbs-ups signal to his crewmates in the rescue boat.

The safety cable attached to Mike’s harness kept the two men near the boat despite the current’s determination to pull them away. With the signal from his partner in the water, Steve turned to the winch that held the safety line. As he hit the reverse switch, the cable was reeled in, pulling rescuer and victim toward the boat. Doug kept the engines running deftly controlling the craft against the powerful current. Experience allowed him to operate the boat on instinct, his eyes locked on the men in the river and the rescuers on board working to pull them out of the water.

As the safety cable pulled the two men alongside the boat, paramedic Matt Hardy and Steve reached over, grabbing hold of Dean and lifting him from the water and onto the deck of the boat. The moment he was inside, Matt and his partner Jenn Cabot began their work, assessing Dean’s condition.

Steve turned back to his partner, offering him a helping hand as he hauled himself up into the boat.

With both men now onboard, Doug gunned the engines again, moving the boat against the current toward the second victim. The woman on shore was still trying to haul him in but the current was fighting her. As the boat rounded the rocks, he once again throttled back the engines as he maneuvered the craft alongside Jason. Grabbing a bullhorn from the floor of the wheelhouse, he called to Penny on the shore. “Let go of the rope, miss. We’re going to pull him onboard.”

Penny didn’t want to let go. She stopped pulling but still needed the tangible connection to Jason until she was sure he was safe. She heard the reassuring voice of the older man at the wheel of the boat. She saw the two burly men in gold survival suits reach over the side of the boat toward Jason. She saw them pull him into the boat but still she refused to let go.

Even when he disappeared over the side of the inflatable craft, and she felt the rope go slack as one of the rescuers cut through it, there was a moment of panic. Only when he turned to her and flashed a thumbs up sign did she finally relax and drop the rope at her feet.

With Jason safely onboard, Doug turned his attention to Penny. He throttled the engines up slowly and gently ran the boat up onto the shore. Steve hopped over the side and ran up to Penny. “You okay, miss?”

Penny nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Jason? The other guy?”

Steve unfolded the blanket he was carrying and wrapped it around Penny’s shoulders. “The paramedics are working on them now. Come on, let’s get you onboard.”

xxxXXXxxx

As Matt assessed Dean’s vitals, Jenn had cut off and tossed aside his sodden clothing, wrapping him in layers of blankets. His bare chest was left exposed only long enough to attach leads to the cardiac monitor before he was bundled up again.

He was hypothermic, that was obvious. His head injury was another major concern. His pupils were unequal, his reactions sluggish.

“Core temperature 87 degrees. Shit, he’s in V-fib”

Jenn handed the defibrillator paddles to Matt, set the machine to charge, then pulled the blankets away from Dean’s chest.

“Ready at 200. Clear.” Dean’s body jerked as the first shock hit.

The paramedic shook his head when there was no conversion.

“300. Clear.”

Dean’s body jerked again from the second shock. “Sinus rhythm. We’ve got him.”

Dean retched suddenly, vomiting up water. The paramedics quickly, expertly rolled him onto his side until the retching and coughing subsided.

When his breathing calmed, Matt listened to his lungs before rolling Dean gently onto his back. Jenn re-fastened the cardiac sensors to his chest and cracked open heat packs, placing them between the layers of blankets next to his neck, armpits and groin, before bundling him up yet again. She placed an oxygen mask over his face and loosed his left arm from the blankets as she prepared to insert an IV, first connecting the fluids to an IV warmer. She cleaned the gash along his hairline and taped gauze in place until it could be properly stitched.

Then, as Matt relayed Dean’s vitals to the hospital, Jenn noticed her patient beginning to stir.

Jason was protesting as Mike, the SARTech, insisted he lie down. He was determined to see what was going on with Dean. The paramedics already had Dean cocooned in blankets by the time Jason was hauled onboard and were busily assessing his condition. Relief was fleeting, however, as Dean’s heart stopped moments after Jason landed in the boat, only a few feet from the stranger whose welfare he was now so emotionally invested in.

Come on, dude, he said silently. Don’t give up now. Keep fighting.

He batted Mike’s hands away as he took in the efficiently feverish activity surrounding Dean as the paramedics used the defibrillator to shock him back to life. He sagged noticeably in relief when Dean coughed and spluttered and the paramedic spoke three simple yet powerful words. “We’ve got him.”

“Jason.” He turned to see Penny’s worried face staring at him intently as she took in the bluish colour of Jason’s skin and the violent trembling of his limbs. “Please, let them help you.” She nodded in Dean’s direction. “He’s in good hands.”

Mike smiled gratefully at Penny as his patient relaxed and suddenly became far more co-operative. He placed an oxygen mask on Jason’s face and placed a thermometer in his ear to take his temperature.

He looked over at Penny and motioned to Jason. “You two know each other?”

She nodded. “Yeah. We’re together – eight years now.”

“Good. That makes this easier. I could use your help if you’re up to it.” As she nodded, Mike handed her a pair of scissors and grinned at her puzzled look as she took them from him. “Your superhero boyfriend here needs to get out of these wet clothes as quickly as possible. Don’t worry about buttons and zippers, just cut them off.”

She grinned down at Jason, taking in his arched eyebrows as she took the scissors to his jeans. “Just as well you remembered my birthday last week or you could be in real trouble right about now.”

His smile, partially obscured by the oxygen mask, faded as he realized Dean was coming to.

xxxXXXxxx

“Sir. Can you hear me?”

Dean heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t familiar but she sounded concerned.

“If you can understand me, squeeze my hand.”

He felt someone place their hand in his. He squeezed it weakly, amazed at the amount of effort the simple action took

“Good. Good. We pulled you out of the river. You’re very cold, you’ve got a head injury but you’re safe now. We’re going to take good care of you, get you warmed up and feeling better before you know it.”

Dean frowned. Out of the river? How the hell did he end up in the river?

He blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the pressure on his chest, as he looked up at the woman’s face. He could tell that her hair was dark but her facial features blurred before he had a chance to properly see what she looked like.

Another coughing fit tore at his chest and once again the paramedics rolled him onto his side. As he was rolled again onto his back, he glanced up and this time he could see the concerned brown eyes of the woman leaning over him.

A paramedic. She was a paramedic. His fuzzy brain took in the patches on the sleeve of her jacket, one predominantly featuring the red cross on a white background. He frowned at the orange vest she wore over the jacket. A life jacket?

An older man’s face moved into his line of sight. Another paramedic. Matt smiled down at Dean, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“Hang in their, buddy. You’ve beaten the odds so far, so just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. We’ll take care of the rest.” He leaned in a little closer and the laugh lines around his blue eyes deepened as his smile widened. “When you’re back on your feet, I’d go buy a lottery ticket if I were you.”

Dean wanted to laugh at the absurd idea of a Winchester winning the lottery but could barely find the energy to stay awake, his eyelids as determined to close as he was to keep them open.

Dean’s head lolled to the side as the paramedics continued to assess his condition. The blanket that had been hooded around his head and the oxygen mask now over his face obstructed his vision, but he could see another man being treated off to his right. As the other patient turned away from Dean, answering questions posed by the man leaning over him, the blanket wrapped around his head slipped down, revealing a mass of shaggy, dark hair.

Sam? Sam had been in the water too?

The cardiac monitor alerted Jenn to her patient’s rapidly escalating heart rate.

“What’s the matter?” Her voice was calm, comforting. “Are you in pain?”

She scanned her patient and the monitors tracking his vitals with practised ease, searching for the cause of his distress.

“Okay, I need you to calm down.” Jenn held her patient’s face gently in her hands, forcing him to look directly at her. “Breathe slowly. Come on, deep breaths.”

Dean was lucid enough to realize panic wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to slow down his breathing.

“Good. That’s much better,” Jenn rubbed his arm gently, reassuringly, as the monitors signaled his heart rate and respiration leveling out.

By this time Dean had managed to work one arm free of the blankets and weakly lifted it, pointing at Jason, the man his battered mind was convinced was Sam.

Jenn took note of the gesture and glanced over to her partner, who was checking on Jason’s condition

“Matt?” He answered her unspoken question with a smile and a nod. Jenn smiled down at Dean as she tucked his arm back inside the blankets. “Relax. Looks like he’s going to be fine. He jumped in the water to save your butt so we’re just being cautious, making sure he warms up safely. You can thank him when we get to the hospital.”

If Dean had had the energy, he would have groaned out loud. Geekboy little brother to the rescue. He’d never live it down.

He grimaced as the crushing pressure in his chest returned. He caught the look of alarm that flashed briefly across Jenn’s face before he scrunched his eyes closed in an attempt to push back the pain.

“Hey. You still with me?” The paramedic’s voice had that tinny, distorted sound again, like she was speaking to him from inside a tunnel. He struggled to concentrate on what she was saying but could only see her lips move. “Matt, I need some help here, he’s having trouble breathing.”

‘Lady, that’s an understatement,’ was Dean’s last conscious thought before his head lolled against Jenn’s hand and he slipped back into oblivion.

“Dammit. He’s crashed again.”

Matt pulled off the oxygen mask and tilted Dean’s head back to open the airway and insert the intubation tube. He secured the Ambu bag to the tube and began the rhythmic pumping of oxygen into Dean’s lungs as Jenn once again charged the defibrillator.

“200. Clear.”

Matt removed the Ambu bag as Jenn attempted to shock Dean’s heart back into rhythm.

“Still nothing. 300. Clear.”

She shocked him again.

“Okay, got him”

Matt re-attached the Ambu bag and continued to breathe for Dean, as Steve and Doug moved in. They placed the rescue litter beside their patient, ready to lift the elder Winchester into it for the trip from the boat to the helicopter.

As the paramedics worked for a second time to shock Dean’s heart back into rhythm, the rescue boat had reached the opposite shore. Doug lifted the twin engines as he ran the boat up onto the bank. Shutting off the engines, he stepped from the wheelhouse. He threw a mooring rope to Deputy Ethan Harris on shore and turned to help ready the two victims for transport to the helicopter, which had just appeared on the horizon.

Jason was reeling. Their rescue had taken place at dizzying speed. It seemed like only seconds ago he and Penny had spotted this guy in the water. Since then he’d lost track of the number of times he’d thought Dean was dead, only to be amazed that he was hanging in there.

“Dude, that’s some will to live you’ve got going there,” he muttered as he watched the two SARTechs pick up Dean and place him gently in the litter. Jason struggled to sit up, only to feel a hand on his shoulder gently but firmly push him down again.

“I don’t think so, dude.” It was the biggest of the three SARTechs, the one who’d been treating him. Mike, yeah, that was his name. “You’re doing well. Let’s make sure you stay that way. This ride’s on us. Just lie back and relax.’

Jason reached up to pull the oxygen mask away from his face and motioned toward Dean. “Is he going to make it?”

“His heart’s beating again – that’s a good start.” Mike glanced over at Dean. ”You guys good friends?”

Jason shook his head. “His name’s Dean. That’s all I know.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam blinked in confusion as he regained consciousness. He lay sprawled on his stomach, the side of his face numb from the cold earth it was pressed into. He groaned as he tried lifting his head, the hammering inside his skull intensifying with the movement. Gingerly, he lowered his head again and sucked in a deep breath, trying to remember what the hell had happened to leave him lying face down in the dirt.

Slowly he opened his eyes, but could see nothing out of his left. Carefully, Sam rolled onto his back, wincing as pain flared in his knee, shot up through his hip and fuelled a fresh wave of nausea. He swallowed hard, grimacing at the bitter taste of bile. His left hand flexed slowly before moving up to gently rub his left eye. His fingers found dried blood encrusting the side of his face and temple and his left eye now swollen shut.

The memory of the spirit’s attack came tumbling back to him in vivid detail – the sounds of someone running, seeing the woman fall and trying to help, then the explosion of pain in his head as she’d lashed out at him. Now he had fuzzy vision in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other eye at all.

Not trusting his eyesight, he listened for any sign the spirit was still present but the forest around him was quiet. He heard little more than his own labored breathing.

His brother’s voice cut through the pounding in his head. “She clubbed you, dude – with a tree branch. That’s what you get for trying to play knight in shining armor to a ghost.”

“I didn’t know she was a ghost, Dean - at least until she ran right through me.” Sam snorted, realizing he was talking to himself. He didn’t care. He was lost, hurt and alone and Dean’s presence, even if it was only in his head, was a source of both strength and comfort. He also chose to believe as long as he could hear his brother’s voice, Dean was okay.

His brother sounded puzzled. “Something’s off, Sammy. Most spirits can’t do that – pick up solid objects, I mean. They walk through them, throw them at you but they don’t go all Barry Bonds on you and start swinging for the fence.”

Sam groaned as he slowly sat up. “Yeah, well I started this whole misadventure on the bridge, took an involuntary nap and woke up here. That’s not exactly in the rulebook either,” he mumbled to himself, scrubbing a hand across his battered face.

Sam shivered. He looked up and realized the sun was low in the sky and dropping steadily behind the tree line. He’d been out of it for a while. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his left arm trying to generate some body heat.

Sam looked around in confusion, wondering what curveball this day would throw at him next. But the day was almost over, the sun rapidly disappearing behind the trees.

With his fuzzy vision, the sun was Sam’s only guide. Without it to help figure out direction, he’d be wondering in circles in no time. He had no choice but to set up camp for the night.

He refused to think about what would happen if it was a cloudy day tomorrow but the words ‘royally screwed’ resounded loudly through his head – in Dean’s voice.

As the sun went down, so did the temperature. For late March, the weather had been relatively mild. As long as he kept moving and stayed in the sun whenever possible, he’d managed to stay warm throughout the day. Staying warm at night would be another challenge entirely.

Sam dragged himself to the nearest tree and used it for support as he hauled himself to his feet. He was exhausted. His vision had been even more compromised by the black eye, his headache, thanks to the latest spirit’s clubbing, was worse than ever and his knee had swollen even more while he was out cold, making it difficult to stand, let alone walk.

He squinted up at the sky, trying to gauge the sun’s position. Sam figured he had about an hour or so of daylight left. John Winchester had made sure both his boys learned basic survival skills. Neither Sam nor Dean were big fans of camping, but they’d lost count of the number of times they’d come to rely on those lessons their father had drilled into them as kids.

Today was no different. Battered as he was, Sam was able to rig up a basic shelter. He used his belt, boot laces and the cord from the hood of his sweatshirt to lash together small, pliable branches from two parallel trees, creating a framework on which to lay the evergreen boughs he was able to snap off or cut off with his pocket knife. He then piled evergreen boughs on the ground, under the canopy he had created. As a bed, it was as uncomfortable as hell, although he had to laugh when he realized he’d slept in motel beds that were worse. Still, it was dry and kept him off the cold ground.

Then he built a fire. Sam cleared mulched leaves, needles and twigs from the ground in front of his shelter. He then used his bare hands to dig into the ground to create a small fire pit, piling the dirt he pulled out around the edge to form a firebreak. It was hard work because the earth had yet to thaw completely and his hands were freezing by the time he was done.

A dead tree a few yards behind his shelter had provided a small supply of firewood. It sat out in the open, the sun drying it to the point it might actually burn. He snapped off some smaller branches with his hands, then sat down and used his good leg to break off some slightly bigger ones. Without an axe, anything bigger than kindling was out of the question, so he’d have to make do and try to keep a fire going with twigs as long as possible.

He layered in pine needles and the smallest twigs, then used a match to set them ablaze before adding the larger twigs and branches. As the fire caught, he collapsed inside the shelter he had created, exhaustion finally trumping Winchester stubbornness. Shivering, he wriggled closer to his fire, trying to take in as much of its meager warmth as possible.

He wanted to sleep but he needed to stay awake until Dean got back. He frowned. No, that wasn’t right. Dean wasn’t here. He had to find Dean, make sure he was safe. Yeah, that was it.

But he’d just been talking to Dean, right?

Exhaustion and injury were playing tricks with Sam’s memory and he was finding it increasingly hard to sort fact from fantasy, reality from comforting illusion. The confusion scared him. If he couldn’t stay lucid, he was in serious trouble.

He allowed himself to collapse backwards into his shelter, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt to provide a cushion of sorts against his pine bough pillow and felt his eyes begin to droop shut. Sam blinked, staring at his campfire. It wouldn’t last long once he fell asleep.

Sam’s eyes drifted shut but snapped open again when he heard a noise on the far side of his campfire. Dean? Was Dean back?

A lone figure stepped from the shadows into the firelight. Sam gasped audibly when he realized it was the spirit of the young woman. The apparition paused on the far side of the fire before walking straight through it, the draft she created sending a shower of sparks into the air. She stopped, right in front of Sam, and stared down at him, a quiet rage tempering the despair in her voice. “What kind of monster are you?”

CHAPTER 5

Cocooned in blankets, intubation tube still in place and currently attached to an Ambu bag pumped rhythmically by a nurse, Dean was barely visible on the gurney as they wheeled him out of the ER and toward the ICU.

Monitors tracking his heart and respiration rate were piled on top of the blankets, their readings watched carefully by the medical staff who pushed him down the corridor and into the waiting elevator.

As the elevator doors closed, Dr. Jack Kendall shook his head. The kid must have a horseshoe up his ass. It had taken the ER chief and his team hours to get their patient’s body temperature stabilized near normal and his heart beating steadily.

Dean’s heart had stopped twice while in the care of the paramedics, once more shortly after arriving in the ER, and there had been a few minor episodes of arrhythmia since. While his heart had been beating steadily for the past two hours, Kendall had got him admitted to Cardiac ICU so he could be monitored closely for the next 24 hours.

Kendall grabbed his patient’s chart and scanned the list of injuries and procedures it detailed. When Dean had first arrived their main focus had been to keep him breathing and warm him up. Warmed fluids were introduced intravenously and heated oxygen was pumped into his tired lungs via the endotracheal tube. They’d keep him intubated for the next few hours, at least, while they watched for any signs of pulmonary edema or respiratory distress syndrome.

A neurologist had also been called in. While Dean’s tests had been promising so far they couldn’t yet rule out further complications, ranging from seizures to swelling of the brain, from the lack of oxygen.

The head injury compounded neurological concerns. Twice over the past several hours, Dean had roused briefly, but had yet to fully regain consciousness. Kendall scribbled down an order for an MRI.

Dean had also needed seven stitches to close a deep gash along his scalp line, the impact point of the head trauma. An impressive array of bruises also painted the left side of his body, starting at his shoulder and travelling down his side to his thigh. The hematoma on Dean’s hip was the worst of the bruises. A compression bandage had been applied and they would continue drug therapy and icing it to control the swelling. Surgery to drain the blood trapped within the muscle fibres was still a possibility if the swelling didn’t subside within a day or two, but Kendall believed that an unlikely option. The ER chief had been pleasantly surprised when X-rays revealed the hip bones beneath the contusion were neither broken nor fractured. The kid would be in pain when he woke up, be uncomfortable walking, but he wouldn’t be in traction.

Kendall stared at the box on the patient chart that asked for ‘cause of injury.’ His pen hesitated over the empty space before scrawling in ‘Unknown.’ Given the head injury and deep bruising, the doctor’s best guess was some kind of heavy impact; maybe he’d been hit by a car and knocked into the river. It turned his stomach to think someone may have done that intentionally – or even accidently but not bothered to call for help.

Staring at another empty box on the form, the doctor slammed down the chart in frustration, pulling off his protective gown and soiled surgical gloves and throwing them in the disposal bin near the treatment room doors. His trauma team had spent the better part of their day helping save this man’s life. His chart now listed his injuries in detail and would soon contain a full outline of every drug they had given him and every procedure performed in the course of saving his life. But on the line for patient’s name, there was a solitary entry – Dean.

The other kid they’d fished out of the water, Jason Tait, had been taken upstairs hours ago. He was conscious, aware and, backed up by his girlfriend, was able to tell the authorities what had happened, at least from the point of spotting Dean in the river. He had been able to provide Dean’s first name but nothing more. Kendall stared again at the box asking for a surname, refusing to fill in ‘Doe.’

He turned to one of the nursing assistants. “Jane, call admin and tell them to work with the cops to get a proper ID on this kid. He’ll be out of it for a while and he’s likely got family wondering where the hell he is.”

“I think I can help there.”

Kendall turned in the direction of the new voice. The offer came from Dr. Kelly Caine, a Stanford University Medical Centre surgeon, brought in by County General to conduct a week-long seminar for their medical residents in her speciality, paediatric trauma. Kendall had been aware of her observing his team as they fought to save Dean’s life but had chalked it up to professional curiosity. Now he wondered if it was something more.

He smiled. “That’s kind but not necessary, Dr. Caine. Really. Our administrative staff can take care of…..”

“Please…” she returned Kendall’s smile. “Believe it or not, I know him. His name is Dean, Dean Remington. I treated his brother about 11 years ago.”

Dr. Kendall’s eyes widened in surprise. “You remember the brother of a patient you treated 11 years ago?”

Dr. Caine shrugged, biting back a smile. “Trust me, if Dean was awake, you’d find him hard to forget too.”

Jack Kendall smiled, shaking his head. “That I can believe. A few hours ago, I would have laid odds he wouldn’t wake up at all. He put up a helluva fight.”

Dr. Caine nodded. “Let’s just say his family doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll give my secretary a call; ask her to dig up Sam’s medical records. Those should give us a contact number for Dean’s family.”

Dr. Kendall nodded. “By all means then. I’m sure his family will be grateful and it’ll save the police a lot of legwork.”

Dr. Caine smiled again at Kendall. As he turned away, she grabbed the plastic bag holding Dean’s sodden clothing, batted open the ER doors and headed down the hall.

Her smile slipped as soon as her back was turned to the glass ER doors. The story she’d told Kendall was a careful blend of fact and fiction; enough fact to stand up under scrutiny, enough fiction to keep the cops’ interest in Dean at a minimum.

Kelly Caine had first met the Winchester brothers when she a med student in Boston. Twelve-year-old Sam had the flu and it had turned into pneumonia. John was out of town on a hunt and Dean, panicked at the sight of his little brother struggling to breathe, half-carried, half-dragged Sam into the ER where Kelly was an intern.

Dean, getting over the flu himself, was barred from seeing Sam after he was admitted to the ICU and almost got himself kicked out of the hospital permanently when he pitched a loud, curse-filled fit over being separated from his brother. Kelly managed to calm the irate teen by promising to get him in to see Sam. She’d kept her word, breaking more than a few rules in the process, a move which earned her both an official reprimand from the attending physician and Dean’s respect.

In the years since, Doc, as Sam and Dean called her, had proven herself a trusted friend to the Winchesters. The friendship was further cemented when a supernatural tragedy struck close to home, taking the lives of Doc’s husband and infant daughter.

Now fully aware of what the Winchesters did for a living, and the cause behind their numerous and frequent injuries which had first raised her suspicions, Doc often helped patch them back together whenever they were in the same zip code and, on occasion, had helped them cover their tracks with authorities whenever hospitalization was necessary.

Doc glanced down at the bag containing Dean’s clothes. The paramedics had said there was no I.D., nothing to tell them who Dean was or where he was from. That, in itself, was actually a good thing; it gave her a clean slate to come up with a fake background for Dean Remington. A quick name change on Dean’s medical records, adding the alias du jour, and they’d be good to go.

What she hoped to find was something that might tell her where the hell Sam was. That first meeting with the brothers, when Sam was 12, had clearly illustrated what subsequent encounters reinforced; when one Winchester was down, the other was at his side. End of story. The fact Sam was nowhere around now told her something was wrong. Very wrong.

Doc had been calling Sam since she’d first recognized Dean in the ER but every call had gone straight to voicemail. The paramedics had said they’d pulled Dean out of the river and it scared her to think Sam might have ended up in the water too. And if they hadn’t found him yet, he could be…well, she chose not to dwell on that possibility.

Ducking into the thankfully empty staff lounge, she pulled her cellphone from her pocket, hitting redial to again call Sam. She blew out a breath in frustration when, once again, the call went straight to voicemail.

“Sam. It’s Doc. Dean’s with me. He’s okay. Call me as soon as you get this.”

Her first message had been short and blunt. “Call me.” Now she offered enough information to put Sam’s mind at ease if he heard it, but not enough to give much away if it fell into unwelcome hands.

Doc scrubbed a hand across her face before glancing down at her watch. When she couldn’t get hold of Sam, she’d called another old friend for help. His plane should have landed by now.

As if on cue, her phone rang. She smiled at the name in caller display.

“Hey Bobby. Where are you?”

“Pulling up to the hospital. Cab’s gonna drop me off right at the front doors.”

Doc grabbed the bag holding Dean’s clothes and headed toward the lobby. “I’ll be right there.”

Doc hurried down the hallway, well aware her cellphone use within the hospital was a blatant breach of protocol, and headed for the main entrance.

“How’s Dean doin’?” The worry in Bobby’s voice was obvious.

“Still out of it, but he’s hanging in there.”

“Sam shown up yet?”

Out of habit, Doc shook her head. “No sign of him, and all my calls are going straight to voicemail.”

She heard Bobby sigh. “Mine too.”

“What the hell did they find, Bobby?” Doc ignored the glare from the volunteer at the visitor information desk as she crossed the lobby, still talking on her cellphone. “There wasn’t supposed to be a job here. We were meeting for coffee, that’s it – until I got the e-mail from Sam saying they’d be about an hour late because they wanted to check out some haunted bridge.”

Bobby sighed again. ‘Yeah, well even when Sam and Dean aren’t looking for trouble it has a habit of finding them.”

The glass main doors of the hospital slid open automatically as Doc stepped in front of them and she walked outside, stopping under the canopy that framed the entrance. The temperature was dropping sharply as the sun went down and, dressed only in scrubs and a lab coat, she shivered.

The headlights of a car driving up toward her from the left quickly drew her attention, as did the illuminated Airport Taxi sign on its roof. She clicked her phone shut as the cab pulled to a stop and the back door flew open, the car’s interior lights showing Bobby also putting away his phone. He handed some bills to the driver, grabbed his duffle from the seat beside him and stepped out of the car, pushing the door shut behind him.

He gave Doc a quick hug then motioned with his head to the hospital behind her. “I wanna see Dean, then I need to go check out the bridge. See if I can pick up any clues where Sam might be.”

Doc nodded, motioning for Bobby to follow her. “It’s going to be pitch black by the time you get there. Think you can find something that will help?”

“If it’s there, I’ll find it,” Bobby growled, in a tone that left no doubt he would.

“Excuse me. Dr. Caine?”

Doc and Bobby both turned toward the male voice. It belonged to a uniformed sheriff’s deputy crossing the lobby toward them.

Doc’s bright smile hid the suspicion in her eyes. “I’m Kelly Caine. What can I do for you, deputy?”

The deputy returned her smile and nodded at Bobby. “I’m following up on this morning’s John Doe case, er….” He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, “I believe his name is Dean Remington. Doc Kendall in the ER said I should talk to you. Says you know the family. What can you tell me about Mr. Remington – and how he might have ended up in the river?”

xxxXXXxx

Sam stared up at the spirit in front of him, wishing he could clearly see her face. She seemed to be studying him intently.

The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon and daylight was almost gone. Sam sat mostly hidden in the shadow of his jury-rigged shelter, only his long legs illuminated by the dancing flame of his small campfire.

Slowly, awkwardly, Sam pushed himself up on his elbow. He squinted at the apparition in front of him, trying to bring her into focus, as curiosity quickly overpowered his initial surprise. “Who are you?”

Anger fuelled her response. “Don’t play games. You know my name.”

Sam shook his head lightly, wincing at the movement. “No, I don’t. Look, my name is Sam, Sam Winchester…..”

“Liar.” He recoiled instinctively as she took a sudden step toward him. “Your name is Paddy. I heard the other man call you that.”

“Paddy?” Sam’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “No, my name is Sam. And what other man?”

Sam’s muddled thoughts turned immediately to Dean. Had she seen him? Had his brother found him? He shifted forward, the hood of his sweatshirt slipping off his head as he pushed himself out of the shadow of his shelter and fully into the firelight.

His sudden movement seemed to startle the spirit. She backpedaled clumsily, landing in the middle of Sam’s fire. Her translucent form stood there, oblivious to the shower of sparks that surrounded her and untouched by the flames that danced up through the torn hem of her long skirt.

Sam held up his hand in a non-threatening gesture. “Please. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on? He looked hopefully into the dark forest that surrounded him, looking for any sign of his brother. Reality grabbed him again before he could fully buy into the welcoming delusion his battered mind created.

He turned again to the spirit, swallowing to fight off a new wave of nausea fuelled by his still pounding headache and worsening knee pain. “My brother is missing. I need to find him. When you said you’d seen another man, I thought for minute….maybe….”

The spirit tilted her head quizzically. “You’re not him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Not who?”

Again, he cursed the fact he’d couldn’t read her expression. She moved toward him again, stepping out of the fire, the draft sending another shower of sparks into the air.

“You look much like him….you…..What did you say your name was?”

“Sam.” He shifted warily. “Sam Winchester.”

“Sam Winchester.” She repeated his name slowly, as if testing it out, seeing if it was a good fit. She raised her arm, pointing at his battered face. “You’re hurt.”

Unconsciously, he rubbed his swollen left eye, wincing at the tenderness of the broken, bruised skin. He smiled ruefully. “Yeah, you swing a pretty mean tree branch.”

The spirit started. “What? I wouldn’t, I mean…….” She moved closer to Sam and knelt down in front of him. He shifted away from her instinctively; the last time she’d been this close he’d ended up being clubbed. He swallowed hard and willed his blurry vision to focus so he could read the spirit’s expression but she remained little more than a dark silhouette against the firelight.

Disbelief tinged her response. “I hit him. I was careless, slow – he almost caught me. I needed to get away. He laughed at me…. I was so angry…….”

She tilted her head at Sam and once again he wished he could read her expression. “I…..I thought you were him. I hit my head when I fell and, sometimes, I can't see properly.”

“That makes two of us,” Sam mumbled, pushing himself from his shelter and closer to the fire.. “What’s your name?” When there was no answer he tried again. “Please?”

“Mary.”

He smiled softly. “One of my favourites. It was my mother’s name.”

“Really?” Mary’s voice suddenly sounded very young.

“Yeah. How old are you, Mary?”

“Eighteen.”

Sam nodded. “And where do you live?”

“Why?” Suspicion tinged her question.

Sam smiled disarmingly. “I’m just trying to figure out how we both got here – wherever here is.”

Confusion and uncertainty weakened Mary’s anger.. ‘I…I…I’m not sure. When you….when he grabbed me and threw me across the room, I hit my head. I couldn’t see….everything was blurry. I couldn’t think clearly…...I think I must have fainted because I don’t remember what happened next – one moment I was at my home, then I was here – with him.

“Now, now I’m lost….. No matter which way I run, I can’t find my way home.”

Sam sat up straighter, a sense of déjà vu overwhelming him. He blinked rapidly, his vision clearing briefly, teasingly, before sliding out of focus yet again. In that moment of clarity, however, he took in Mary’s haunted, tear-streaked face.

Sam shifted to get more comfortable but winced as his knee protested the movement. Experience told him a violent death of some kind was the likely cause of Mary’s spirit being trapped here in the forest, forever in search of a way home she was doomed not to find. “This man, the one who took you…did he, um.” Sam’s voice softened, knowing there was no easy way to ask the question, even of a spirit. “Did he rape you.”

Mary inhaled audibly at the question. “No.” She was shaking her head. “No. He tried, but I got away. I hit him and I ran away. But he chased me…he keeps chasing me….and now I’m so lost, I……..”

The sound of heavy footfalls crashing through the forest to Sam’s left cut off Mary’s story. She scrambled to her feet. “It’s him. He’s coming.” She turned to Sam. “You have to run. He’s not very fast but you have to run or he’ll find you too.”

Without waiting to see if he’d follow, she spun around, hitched up her long skirts and took off at a run, vanishing before she was halfway across the clearing.

“Wait.” Sam struggled painfully to his feet, forcing his uninjured left leg to support all his weight. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed hard to regain his equilibrium.

“Mary, please…….” There was no answer and no sign of her. He looked around him warily. Could there really be another ghost, literally running around the forest? Sam’s question was answered when the chill down his spine made him aware of another presence behind him. He turned unsteadily to see an imposing figure standing on the far side of the small clearing. The man was of similar build to Sam – a little taller perhaps, broader across the shoulder too. As he walked through the fire, untouched, it became obvious this latest visitor was yet another spirit. Sam swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his balance.

As the spirit lurched toward him, Sam miscalculated, putting too much weight on his injured leg. It gave way and he fell, landing heavily at the feet of this latest spectral visitor. Breathing hard, he looked up to find the massive spirit looming over him.

The spirit stared past Sam into the dark forest behind him, then looked down to glare at the man at his feet. He crouched down slowly so his face was level with Sam’s, leaning in closely. “The little bitch is mine,” he snarled.

Sam recoiled, repulsed by both the spirit’s words and the cloying odor of stale tobacco and sour whiskey that seemed to envelop him. Sam’s vision swam in and out of focus, briefly allowing him to see the man’s cold eyes glitter in the firelight as his lip curled into a sneer.

The spirit stood up suddenly, his hulking frame lumbering at Sam and right through him. Sam shuddered at the sensation. In the fleeting connection, the evil within the spirit was overwhelming.

Sam’s breathing became shallow and rapid as he dragged himself painfully around to face the retreating specter. He wanted to stand, use his own considerable height to full advantage, but his strength was gone.

He was in no shape for a confrontation but he couldn’t help himself. He cleared his throat. “No.”

The single word was enough to stop the spirit in its tracks. He turned slowly to again face Sam. For a brief moment he didn’t move. Then he blinked out of sight, reappearing almost instantly right in front of Sam. A meaty hand reached down and grabbed Sam by the throat, lifting the younger Winchester with ease. Sam struggled to breathe and to free himself but the spectre held him effortlessly. His vision began to grey with lack of oxygen but he clearly heard the spirit laugh, just before he felt himself thrown through the air and collide with a tree on the far side of the clearing. He was out cold before his body crumpled to the ground.

xxxXXXxxx

“Thank you Mr. Singer.” The deputy shook Bobby’s hand. “This is a good hospital. I’m sure they’ll have your nephew back on his feet in no time.”

Bobby nodded. “Appreciate that, Deputy. And thanks.”

“Ma’am.” The deputy nodded at Doc before turning and walking across the lobby and out the main entrance.

Doc met Bobby’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. “You come up with that cover story on the spot, or map it out on the way here?”

Bobby shrugged. “Bit of both. Did some research on the area while waiting for the plane.”

Bobby had informed the deputy his nephew Dean was an environmental studies major, concerned that the planned construction of a causeway just outside of town would have a detrimental effect on fish passage in the river. Dean, he said, must have slipped and fallen when he was out gathering information for his thesis.

In the best case scenario, the cops would buy that story, write up the whole thing as an accident and move on. Worst case scenario, if they needed more to convince them, they’d head out to the proposed site for the causeway, which was about five miles further upriver than the old bridge the Winchesters had been investigating.

Bobby visually tracked the deputy as he walked away. “Hopefully it’s enough to keep the cops out of our way until we figure out what the hell’s goin’ on, and keep them off Dean’s case until he can walk himself out of here.”

Doc nodded. “Come on. I’ll take you up to the ICU. Dean’s unconscious and on a ventilator but I’m sure it’ll do him good to know you’re here.”

Bobby nodded, shaking his head as they crossed the lobby toward the elevators. “Still a stickler for rules, I see.”

Doc feigned innocence, as she pressed the button for the elevator. “Can’t think what you mean by that.”

The doors opened and Bobby followed Doc inside the car, where she hit the button for the fourth floor. “Just goin’ out on a limb here,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but something tells me visiting hours are long over.”

Doc shrugged. “I do what’s best for my patients, regardless of what the rulebook says. Always have, always will and I’m too damn old to change my ways now.”

That made Bobby laugh. Doc was still a couple of years away from turning 40. She was a small, trim woman, her honey blond hair now worn shoulder-length and loose rather than long and in the ponytail she always sported when Bobby first met her. Kids loved her, which made her chosen field of pediatrics a natural fit, and adults were quickly won over by her genuine warmth. But behind the easy smile there was a sharp mind, a quick wit and, when pushed, an even quicker temper – one Bobby held a healthy respect for.

Bobby had never known Doc while her husband and daughter were alive but Sam had told him there had been a subtle shift in her personality after their deaths. She was more guarded with her emotions, less trusting of people – traits the Winchesters were all too familiar with and ones that, ironically, deepened their friendship.

When the elevator doors opened at the fourth floor, Doc crossed to the nurses’ station, confirmed Dean’s room number, then pointed it out to Bobby.

She smiled. “Go on in. I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

Bobby nodded his thanks then walked over to the doorway Doc had pointed out. The glass-walled room was located just behind the nurses’ station. Dean lay in the lone bed in the room looking grey, drawn and unnaturally still. Bobby exhaled audibly as he walked up to his bedside. He had seen the Winchester boys in the hospital numerous times but it never got any easier to see them like this.

The head of the bed was elevated and Dean’s face was partially obscured by a flat, oval pad holding the intubation tube in place. An IV drip fed into the back of his left hand, another into the crook of his arm. A blood pressure cuff encircled the top of his right arm while a collection of multi-colored wires, disappearing under the neck of his hospital gown, connected him to the bank of monitors tracking his heart rate, respiration and god knows what else.

“Dammit, Dean.” Bobby shoved his ball cap back, scratching his head worriedly, before pulling the hat firmly back in place. “What the hell have you boys gotten yourselves involved with this time?”

Dean stirred slightly, whether in response to Bobby’s voice or just by coincidence, Bobby wasn’t sure. He reached forward to squeeze Dean’s shoulder reassuringly.

When Dean did wake, Bobby knew the only way he would concentrate on his own health was if he knew Sam was okay. “You hang in there, ya hear? I’m gonna head out and see if I can find that brother of yours. Should have him parked in this chair beside your bed by the time you wake up.”

Bobby had no idea where Sam was, if he was even alive, but if the younger Winchester was still breathing, he was damn well going to find him.

A sudden, shrill beeping yanked Bobby from his thoughts. The alarm on the monitor beside Dean’s bed was shrieking for attention. Two nurses and a doctor, followed immediately by Doc, rushed into the room and past Bobby to get to Dean.

Bobby’s eyes widened, his heart pounding. “What? What’s happening?”

Doc looked at him grimly after taking in the feverish activity around Dean. “He’s drowning.”

CHAPTER 6

“Drowning?” Bobby’s heart rate ramped up as he watched the ICU staff work on Dean. “You mean his lungs are filling with fluid?”

Doc nodded. She’d known Bobby long enough to know he didn’t like to be coddled. When someone he cared about was in trouble he just wanted the facts.

“His body is not taking in enough oxygen.” Doc offered him a tight smile. “But Dean’s here in the ICU, he’s already on a ventilator and they’re catching the problem early. They’re giving him diuretics which will help his body get rid of the excess fluids. We get rid of that and he should be able to absorb the oxygen he’s being deprived of right now.”

Bobby’s eyes remained glued on Dean. “And if he can’t?” When Doc didn’t answer right away, he turned his gaze to her. “Doc?”

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Then we have to worry about pneumonia, organ failure…..” Her jaw clenched. “But don’t borrow trouble, Bobby. Like I said, they caught it early.”

She took a step closer to the bed, watching as the ICU chief continued working on Dean. “Bill?”

Dr. Bill Everett glanced up at Doc. “The drugs are taking hold. I’m optimistic. I’ve also got him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic to help fend off pneumonia. And I think we’ll leave him on the vent for the full 24 hours. to be safe.” He turned to offer a reassuring nod to Bobby. “Your nephew is a fighter. He’s doing everything he can to beat this.”

Bobby nodded. “Why hasn’t he come to yet? Is he in a coma?”

Dr. Everett shook his head. “No. The head injury is a concern, and we’d be happier if he had regained consciousness before now, but he’s exhausted. He needs rest, time to give his body a chance to recover.”

Doc rested her hand reassuringly on Bobby’s arm. “Like Bill said, he’s a fighter, but he’s been fighting all day. Let’s give him a chance to recharge his batteries before we hit the alarm bell, okay.”

Bobby nodded. “I just don’t like seeing him so……so still. It’s not Dean.”

Doc smiled. “I’ll agree with you on that. But a neurologist has been assigned to Dean’s case. He’s already run a battery of tests and so far there’s no major cause for concern. There’s an MRI scheduled for later. That will tell us more. Obviously, we won’t know the full extent of the head injury until he wakes up but, like I said, let’s not borrow trouble.”

“Okay.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Well, while you docs do your thing, best I can do is go find that redwood of a brother of his.” He motioned with his head toward Dean. “Soon as I know he’s stable, I’m heading’ out to look for Sam.”

Doc nodded. “Mind if I tag along?”

Bobby glanced at Doc. “What about Dean?”

Doc smiled reassuringly. “Dean’s in good hands. I’ve got my pager so the hospital will let me know if he takes a turn for the worst. But given how long Sam’s been gone, he may need medical help. If you find him, and I pray to God you do, I can be of more use with you than staying here.”

Bobby walked up to the foot of Dean’s bed. Despite the flurry of activity in the room since the alarm went off, Dean hadn’t moved. Bobby reached up to rub his beard, exhaling audibly. “I’m going to go bring Sam back. You just hang in there, Dean, and if you don’t have the phone numbers of at least two nurses by the time I get back, you and I are going to have a serious talk.”

They stayed with Dean until they were sure he was out of immediate danger then headed out. By the time they pulled onto the gravel side road that would take them to the bridge, it was daybreak.

Doc guided her car round a gentle bend in the road, then hit the brakes suddenly. The Impala was parked on the side of the road right in front of them.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. Dean’s Chevy was out in the open, no attempt made to hide it. That told him the boys had no intention of being away from the car for long. But the fact it hadn’t been towed almost 24 hours after Dean had been pulled from the river, also told him the cops hadn’t found it either.

And that meant they likely hadn’t been down to the bridge, giving Bobby and Doc the first chance to check it out for clues to Sam’s disappearance.

Doc pulled her car to a stop just behind the Impala, gravel crunching quietly beneath its tires, and shoved the sedan into park. She glanced from the car to the thick forest that lined each side of the road. The optimist in her wanted to see Sam pop up from the Impala’s back seat where he’d fallen asleep, or come strolling out of the trees, crooked grin lighting up his face as he blurted out some wacky explanation for why he’d been out of touch for so long.

The realist in her recognized those thoughts for the fantasy they were. The only plausible reason Sam wasn’t twisting his lanky frame into a pretzel, trying to sleep on the small, plastic chair at Dean’s bedside, was that something was keeping him away from his brother. And whatever it was couldn’t be good.

Bobby climbed out of Doc’s car and walked over to the Impala, reaching into his pocket for his keys. He’d had a key to Dean’s Chevy since it was rebuilt following the crash with the semi. Doc stepped out of her car, slammed the door and walked around to stand beside Bobby as he opened the Impala’s trunk.

He took out two duffle bags and then lifted the trunk’s false bottom. Bobby’s practised eye scanned the items in the weapons locker; it was full, even Dean’s favorite Colt 1911 was tucked safely in place. It looked like a sawed-off was the only thing missing but that didn’t surprise him; Dean didn’t go anywhere empty-handed if there was even a chance of running into something supernatural.

As Bobby checked out the trunk, Doc pulled her phone from her pocket and hit re-dial. She sighed as once again the call went straight to Sam’s voicemail.

Bobby tilted his head at Doc. She shrugged as she put away the phone. “I just keep hoping, one of these times, if I keep trying, he’ll answer.” She shook her head. “Wishful thinking, I know, but I just need to do…..something.”

Bobby smiled, loading rock salt cartridges into a sawed-off before tossing the Winchesters’ duffle bags back in the trunk and slamming it shut. “You covered Dean’s tracks to keep the cops off his tail, that’s a big something. Now come on, let’s go check out the bridge.”

With a brief nod to Doc, he turned and followed the worn path through the trees to the bridge. Doc fell in step behind him. She thought back to the information they’d scanned through briefly before leaving the hospital. “So this haunted bridge story – it’s some kind of spin on the Woman in White legend?”

Bobby nodded. “Tourist brochures say a young woman waited each day for her soldier beau to return from the Civil War. Only he never did so, broken-hearted, she threw herself into the river. Now she haunts the bridge, still waiting for him to come home.”

The trail widened and Doc moved up to walk beside Bobby as he spoke. “The locals tell a slightly different tale; they say the soldier beau was actually a bastard who came home from the war safe and sound, but already married to someone else. His jilted fiancée threw herself off the bridge in grief, and now lies in wait for other cheating men and makes them pay.”

Doc nodded. “And the latest death, the one that piqued Sam and Dean’s interest, lends more credibility to the locals’ theory, right?”

“Yeah.” Bobby thought back to the newspaper articles he’d scanned online. The latest victim was a salesman on an overnight stay in town. He’d apparently asked about the old bridge at his hotel so, when his body washed up a couple of days later, authorities ruled it a suicide, deciding he’d gone out to the old bridge to throw himself off because his life was falling apart.

“Turns out the salesman was in the midst of a nasty divorce battle with his wife accusing him of adultery.”

Doc frowned. “But if there’s any truth to that theory, why would the ghost go after Sam and Dean? Neither of them is in a committed relationship, and neither is the type who would get involved with a married woman, knowingly at least.”

Bobby shrugged. “Spirits aren’t always the most logical bunch but, yeah, something is off. I’ve got some more digging to do once we’ve checked out the bridge. Figure out what we’re missing.”

They heard the roar of the water long before the forest opened up to reveal the river and the old bridge that spanned it. Footfalls echoing eerily, they walked across the weathered planks that formed the deck of the bridge. Unconsciously, their pace slowed as they took in the broken railing; it was likely the spot where Dean had fallen, or been pushed, into the river.

Bobby frowned at the broken timber and the splinters that littered the bridge around the opening. Dean had hit that railing with some force. He moved closer to the opening, glancing over the edge. His frown deepened when he caught sight of a piece of blue fabric fluttering under the bridge.

“Here, hold this.” He passed off the shotgun to Doc, dropped to his knees and leaned over the side to get a better look. “It’s a coat,” he said, reaching down to try and grab the jacket. “Could be one of the boys….”

Doc nodded. “I wonder…….” She grabbed her cellphone from her pocket and hit re-dial. Seconds later they heard ringing coming from the jacket Bobby was trying to grab. He turned to look at Doc. “Yeah,” she said, her stomach lurching at the implications of the discovery. “It’s Sam’s.”

Bobby lay on his stomach to extend his reach. He grabbed hold of the coat and pulled. It was snagged on something and remained stuck until Bobby gave it a harder tug. He heard fabric rip but the jacket was now free. He pushed himself backward and grabbed the railing to steady himself as he stood up. “It’s just a coat, Doc. It doesn’t mean……”

As he turned to face Doc, his eyes widened. The angry face of a spirit loomed over her shoulder.

Doc caught Bobby’s expression and knew exactly what it meant. “Oh God.” She spun quickly, eyes widening at the translucent form of the spirit now standing right in front of her.

The woman was much taller than Doc, older too, her deep brown hair sprinkled with grey. Anger distorted her features and burned brightly in her dark eyes. But the spirit’s glare was directed solely at Bobby. Before Doc could react, the spirit barreled forward, charging through her and right at Bobby.

Doc shuddered at the sensation of the spirit passing through her, then spun again, in time to see the specter grab Bobby by the throat and lift him, effortlessly, off the ground. He dropped Sam’s coat as he struggled to free himself.

Doc clenched and unclenched the shotgun she was holding. If she shot the spirit from where she stood, she’d also blast Bobby full of rock salt. Quickly, she moved off to the side, turned and fired. Bobby was hit with some of the residual spray but the spirit took the full impact of the blast and dissipated instantly. Bobby fell to the ground, coughing.

Doc, heart pounding, knelt down beside Bobby, reaching out to check out his injured throat. He batted her hand away gently. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice a bit more gruff than usual. “You got her before she could do any damage.” He smiled. “Thanks for that. You okay?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah. She ignored me completely. Can’t say I like the feel of a spirit passing through me but no harm done.”

She looked worriedly from Bobby to the broken bridge railing. “Looked to me like she planned on tossing you in the river. I think that confirms what we thought happened to Dean. But Sam? You think…I mean.. did he….”

Bobby shook his head. “Don’t go there, Doc. There’s a lot so far that doesn’t add up. I’m not going with the worst possible outcome until I’ve got proof, one way or another.”

Doc nodded, grateful for Bobby’s confidence. Her brow furrowed as she pictured the ghost running at her. “She look like a jilted bride to you?”

Bobby accepted Doc’s hand as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. Again, he shook his head. “Yet another plot hole in the local legend.” He grabbed Sam’s coat, then looked from the coat to Doc. “What say we get outta here before she comes back, do some research and figure out what the hell is going on.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam was aware he was shivering before anything else.

With difficulty, he forced his eyes open. His left remained swollen shut but the vision in his right seemed a bit clearer. Everything was still in soft focus but it was no longer one big blur.

His teeth were chattering as he looked around him. It was daylight again. He was lying on his stomach at the base of a tree. He frowned as he was able to make out the outline of his primitive shelter on the far side of the clearing and a blackened circle in front of it that had once been his fire. What the hell was he doing over here when his shelter was over there?

A burst of pain across his back brought the memory of the spirit’s attack flooding back. The male spirit had thrown him across the clearing – right after he’d had a fireside chat with the young female spirit. And his still-pounding head was an ever-present reminder of the bridge spirit who had set this whole series of events in motion.

He groaned as he sat up, the groan morphing into a hiss of pain as he twisted his injured knee the wrong way. He shook his head. “Three spirits in one day. That’s nuts even for us.”

“Yeah, Sammy. Looks like you’re the guest of honor at a frigging supernatural convention.”

Sam startled at the sound. This time it wasn’t in his head. He turned in the direction of the familiar voice, an incredulous smile breaking out across his face. Dean was standing at the side of the clearing, leaning against a tree. He had his favorite Colt 1911 in hand and trademark grin firmly in place

“Dean?” Sam couldn’t believe it. Dean was OK. His brother had found him.

Sam smiled, really smiled, for the first time in more than a day, the realization that his brother had tracked him down against God knows what odds sending a surge of adrenaline through his weary body. He had no clue how Dean had managed to find him but, at this point, he didn’t give a damn. Hell, he should be pissed. All this time spent worrying Dean might be hurt, or worse. “Dean, you jerk,” he said softly, his smile refusing to leave his face. “You OK?”

“Nope”

“Huh?” Sam blinked rapidly then rubbed his eyes in yet another vain attempt to clear his vision.

.“I’m way better than OK, little brother. I’m awesome.”

Sam snorted as he used the tree behind him to haul himself to his feet, holding on tightly until the vertigo passed and shifting his weight solidly onto his good leg. “Quit screwin’ around Dean.. Just…just…get me the hell out of here. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I can’t see straight, my knee’s screwed, I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places and,” his nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of himself, “and I really need a shower. Not to mention you owe me the 4-1-1 on what the hell happened to you.”

Dean’s grin softened to a sympathetic smile. “You look like crap dude. You really do need to take better care of yourself.”

Sam snorted. “Thank you Captain Obvious.”

Sam stumbled, grabbing hold of a tree to avoid falling. Leaning heavily on the trunk, he held up his arm toward his brother. “Give me a hand, Dean. If I have to do this under my own steam, it might take us until Memorial Day.”

Dean, who had moved instinctively toward Sam when he stumbled, arched his eyebrows apologetically. “Sorry dude. There’s nothing I’d like better than to help you out but, um,” he gestured to himself, “in case you haven’t figured this out already, I’m not really here.”

“What? Dean, I have never been so glad to see you in my life, but quit being a jackass and give me a hand.” Sam used what little energy he had left to smack his brother across the shoulder. His hand passed right through Dean, causing Sam to overbalance. Only a last-minute grab for the tree beside his brother prevented a fall.

His eyes widened as realization hit like a punch to the gut. Dean wasn’t really there. It was his brother’s spirit because Dean was…was……

Sam’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. He slumped sideways, his cheek scraping against the rough bark of the tree, the shock of his realization sapping his little remaining strength. Icy fingers, reminiscent of the spirit’s touch, reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart. His vision, blurry as it was, grayed further at the edges as he struggled to breathe.

He blinked slowly up at Dean, who hovered over him worriedly. Sam could barely find his voice. “Oh God, you’re ….you’re….

Dean did a double take when he realized what Sam was thinking.

“No, Sam. Listen to me.” He knelt down so his face was level with his younger brother’s. “I’m not a ghost, Sam. You hear me? I am not a ghost.” His trademark grin returned under sparkling eyes and quirked eyebrows. “I’m just a damn fine figment of your imagination.”

Sam let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “What? But why…”

Dean’s grin widened. “Guess that somewhere in the super-sized yet slightly dented brain of yours you figured you could better handle whatever’s goin’ on here with a little help from big brother.”

It suddenly clicked with Sam that while everything around him remained fuzzy and distorted, his brother was crystal clear. He saw the worry in his green eyes, punctuated by the furrow between his brows. He saw his left hand move to his right, not to the gun he held there but to twist the silver ring he wore on that hand. He saw him do the requisite visual inspection of Sam, checking for himself the extent of his brother’s injuries. He saw him shake his head as he pushed off the tree and stood up, clicking the safety on his gun and lifting his jacket to stow it in the waistband of his jeans.

He saw all that in high-def Technicolor but, glancing down, his own hand remained a blur, even when held inches from his face. He blinked again, willing his vision back to normal, but everything except his brother continued to look like something out of an impressionist painting.

His eyes glistened as he fought to keep his emotions in check under his brother’s concerned gaze, relief replacing the overwhelming fear. “Thank God….I mean…..It’s just…, imaginary or not, it’s good to see ya, man.”

Sam wasn’t sure what this imaginary manifestation of his brother said about his own mental health but, right now, he didn’t care. Physical and emotional exhaustion had taken their toll and Sam’s defenses had crumbled. Right now he’d take his brother in whatever form he could get.

But the realization the real Dean was still missing, possibly dead, and he was still alone, ate up what little strength he had left. Sam sagged against the tree at his back, his voice broken as he spoke to his imaginary brother. “I can’t see, Dean….I can barely walk….I don’t know where the hell I am….I don’t know where you are…. “I’m…I’m scared, man. I don’t know what to do.”

Dean moved in quickly, crouching again beside his brother and resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder reassuringly. The gesture registered with Sam but there was no sensation of touch.

“Come on, Sam.” Dean’s smile softened. “At 18, you got yourself cross-country to Stanford without any help from me or Dad – not to mention taking care of yourself all the time you were at school. Even managed to land yourself a very hot girlfriend. This…” he gestured to the forest around him, “this is just a walk in the park.”

Sam snorted. “So not funny, Dean.” He frowned as one dark possibility occurred to him. He leaned in closer to his brother. “Christo.”

This time it was Dean’s turn to startle. “Dude? What the….”

When nothing happened, Sam shrugged. “Just checking.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows as his grin returned. “That’s my boy. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean’s grin faded as he watched his brother, still on the ground where he’d fallen moments earlier, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Come on big guy, we need to get you outta here. Any idea which way is home?”

“Dude, come on.” Sam opened his eyes long enough to fix an incredulous stare at his brother. “I’m lost. By definition, that means I don’t know where I am, or what’s here. I can barely walk, and then there’s the little matter that I can’t see.”

Dean moved in quickly, staring worriedly at Sam’s eyes. “How did that happen?”

“Don’t know, man. Just woke up and everything was fuzzy. I keep hoping it’ll just clear up but, so far, no luck.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to frown. “But you can see me, right?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, imaginary big brothers I can see perfectly. It’s just reality I’m having a problem with.”

Dean offered a tight smile. “And what’s wrong with your leg?”

“My knee got screwed when I was attacked by Mary.” Dean looked puzzled. “Oh, that’s Spirit No. 2. She swung at me with a tree branch and I twisted my knee when I fell. I think it’s sprained.”

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw. “She may be Spirit No. 2 on your roster, Sammy, but she just went to No. 1 on my salt and burn list.”

Sam smiled. It didn’t take much to bring out Dean’s overprotective streak. “To be honest, Dean, I don’t think Mary’s the one we need to worry about. Her attack on me was more a case of mistaken identity. She thought I was Spirit No. 3 – a big dude with a bad attitude who threw me into a tree. Now he is definitely salt and burn material.”

Sam saw Dean’s jaw clench again. Sam winced as he shifted his weight, giving up on finding a comfortable way to sit but without the energy to try standing again. His brow furrowed as he stared at Dean. “So where are you? The real you I mean.”

Dean frowned. “Have to say, that has me a bit worried, Sammy. I mean, I should be out here watching over your scrawny ass since it has a nasty habit of getting itself into big trouble. But I’m not, and that tells me I just may be ass-deep in trouble of my own.”

Sam gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, that has me worried too. You got thrown off a bridge, dude.”

The elder Winchester’s eyes widened. “Off a bridge?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, into the river.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

Sam shrugged. “The way it usually happens. A pissed-off spirit, - uh, that would be Spirit No. 1 in today’s playbill - and she tossed your ass overboard.”

“She? Dean sat down suddenly, leaning back against a tree as he stared incredulously at Sam. “I let some spirit chick throw me in the river?”

Sam shared his discomfiture. “Worse. It was a grey-haired spirit chick.”

Dean looked truly crestfallen. “An old lady ghost?”

Sam nodded.

“Damn it, Sam, you gotta have words with the real me when you get back. Me? Getting one-upped by Whistler’s old lady? I mean, come on…...”

Sam sighed, unable to keep a tinge of guilt from his voice. “I was like 30 seconds behind you, man. The next thing I knew you went flying through the air ….. It all happened so fast. You were in the water before I could even get near you.”

Dean’s gaze softened as he saw the guilt ripping apart his already battered brother. “Uh-uh Sam, no way. Don’t you dare make this your fault. Blame me for letting my guard down. Better yet, blame the damn ghost. But this is not your fault. You hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” With a determined effort, Sam hauled himself up, leaning heavily against the tree to maintain his balance. He looked over at Dean, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. “Besides, I didn’t fare much better. About 10 seconds later, she tossed my ass here, in the middle of nowhere.”

Dean looked worriedly at his brother as he too stood up. “Just hang in there, okay? Let’s get you back to civilization, get Doc to check you out. Get everything back in working order. I mean, what’s the use of having a hot doc for a friend if you can’t get a little free medical care once in a while? ”

Sam grinned at Dean. “I think I might just have to let Doc know you think she’s hot.”

Dean’s smile brightened again. “Just an expression, Sammy. I’m not gonna horn in on your first crush.”

Sam sighed. They’d been down this road before. “Dean, I did not have a crush on Doc. I was 12. And she was married. She was just really nice to a scared kid stuck in the hospital.”

Dean’s smile became a smirk. “What about at Stanford? You two hung out together there. You were both grown-ups, both available then…….you trying to tell me you never once thought of her as Demi to your Ashton?”

Sam shook his head. This imaginary version of Dean was as incorrigible as the real thing. “No. It wasn’t like that and you know it. Some of us can be just friends with the opposite gender, you know.”

Dean shot an incredulous look at Sam “Some of us. But, come on. I mean, it’s like walking into a candy store and not sampling anything. It just flies in the face of all that is good and right with the world.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look incredulous. “Oh I would just love to hear you say that in front of Doc, or any other woman for that matter.”

Dean started to object then thought better of it. “Yeah, they’d pretty much make hamburger out of me, wouldn’t they?”

Sam nodded. “Pretty much.”

“What can I say, Sammy. I love women – almost as much as they love me.”

Sam shook his head at his brother’s playful grin. “Yeah, Dean – I think it’s your modesty that wins them over.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Don’t knock it, Sam. It works.” He cleared his throat. “Ready to get outta here?”

Sam took an unsteady step forward. “As I’ll ever be……”

“Good. Follow me.”

Sam sighed in frustration at Dean’s attempt to take command of their, his, situation. ‘Um, while I appreciate the help, Dean, as you pointed out, I’m making you up. Since I don’t know where I am, how exactly do you know where you’re going?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t, but hey, I’m open to any better suggestions.”

“Fine. Whatever, dude.” Sam was way too tired to figure out the metaphysics of following his imaginary brother in a quest to find safety. He took a faltering step away from the tree he’d been using as support, waving his arm in Dean’s direction. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re slipping, Sammy. If you’re gonna quote MacBeth, at least get it right.”

“Huh?”

Dean turned to face his brother, walking backwards across the clearing. “What Shakespeare wrote was ‘Lay on, MacDuff,’ which, come to think of it, sounds a whole lot more interesting. I wonder if…..”

He stopped when he realized Sam was staring at him, eyebrows disappearing under his disheveled hair. “What?”

“Dude! You are so not my brother.”

“That hurts, Sammy.” Dean’s words belied the grin on his face as he waggled his eyebrows at Sam and tapped the side of his head. “Hey, I may not be the walking encyclopedia in this family, but I think you left behind a few pages in here when you conjured me up.”

Sam offered up a weary smile. “You’re a smart guy, Dean, as well as a smart ass, it’s just Shakespeare was never your thing. The only time you got into the Old Bard was a pub by that name in Boston, and that’s only because you were trying to hook up with one of the waitresses there.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled at the memory. “A comely wench. I sure liked her iambic pentameter.”

Dean stopped walking when he realized Sam had done the same. The younger Winchester had barely made it across the clearing and he looked ready to collapse.

Dean wore his worried expression again. “Sammy?”

Sam shook his head, slumping against the tree beside him and sliding down it to the ground. “Give me a sec, dude.” He looked up and met his brother’s concerned gaze. “I, uh, just need to catch my breath, then I’ll be good to go.”

He rubbed his injured knee. “I think I need to splint my leg. That should help. Then we can keep going.”

Dean nodded then frowned, pointing at Sam’s shoes. “Dude, where’s your shoelaces?”

Sam frowned, then laughed when he remembered. He gestured to the shelter he had built the previous night. “Holding that together.”

Dean smiled softly, nodding in admiration. “Nice one MacGyver.”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah, well thanks to the incredible hulking spirit, I didn’t even get a chance to sleep in it.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he moved in closer to his brother. “You’re shivering dude. You need to get warm.”

“I’m OK, Dean. I just need to splint my leg then….”

Dean interrupted. “No, Sam. You need to get warm. Put those boy scout skills to work and start a fire. You can splint you leg, then, once you’re rested and warmed up a bit, then we’ll work on getting you out of here.”

Sam shook his head. “No Dean. We need to keep moving. I need to find you, make sure you’re okay, make sure…”

“Sam.” Dean was getting angry now. “You push yourself now, you’re gonna get about 50 feet from here and collapse and then what? Huh? Just take a minute to recharge your batteries.”

“I…..” Sam knew his brother was right, but that didn’t make the further delay any easier to accept. “Fine, but just until I’ve splinted my leg. Then we get going.”

Dean nodded. “That’s all I’m asking, dude. Come on, get the campfire going. Then, while you take care of your leg, you can tell me about the spirits you’ve been chatting with. It’ll be fun.” Dean settled down on the ground next to the fire pit Sam had created. “All we’re missing is cold pizza and warm beer.”

Sam shook his head as he hauled himself to his feet and limped over to the small pile of firewood he had collected the previous day. He smiled at Dean. “Cold pizza and warm beer, huh? You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Me crazy?” Dean grinned back at his brother before leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs at the ankles. “I’m not the one talking to imaginary friends, Sammy.”

CHAPTER 7

Sam blinked in confusion at the dying embers in front of him. He’d just lit the fire, why was it almost out?

Dean, crouching down beside Sam, answered his unspoken question. “You passed out, dude.”

Sam stared blankly at Dean, trying to remember when his brother had shown up. Too quickly it came back to him that Dean’s comforting presence was simply his battered mind playing tricks. He coughed as he pushed himself upwards..

“How long?” His voice sounded thick, rough.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “How long were you out?” When Sam nodded, Dean shrugged. “Hard to say. A while. Few hours, maybe.”

Sam looked around him, wincing at the movement. He’d stiffened considerably while he was unconscious, the pull of taut, bruised muscles across his back and shoulder a loud reminder of the injuries there. His headache was still front and centre and his vision still fuzzy although improving. The pain in his knee, however, was nauseatingly sharp and seemed to be getting worse. Now, too, his throat was sore. He winced as he found the bruises on his neck, a souvenir from the male spirit who had grabbed him by the throat before throwing him across the clearing.

He looked down at his right leg, surprised to see it now encased in a rudimentary splint. He frowned as he tried to remember making it.

Dean sat down next to the fire and gestured to the splint. “Nice job, Dr. Winchester – especially given what you had to work with.” He frowned at Sam’s out-of-character lack of focus. “How you feelin’?”

“Like crap.” Sam looked around him, dazedly. “What the hell, Dean? I thought the plan was get outta of here, not camp out.”

“Guess you used up whatever juice you had left playing doctor.” Dean’s grin lit up his face. “Okay, that came out way dirtier than I meant it. Anyway, you finished splinting your leg, said ‘See, good to go,’ then keeled over.” His grin disappeared as he took in his brother’s confusion. “You know, if you’re trying to worry me, Sam, it’s working.”

The sequence of events Dean described tumbled through Sam’s head. He coughed as he fought back another wave of nausea. He’d been so focused on getting himself back to town, getting help for Dean, that he’d ignored the overwhelming exhaustion determined to fell him. In the battle between determination and exhaustion, exhaustion was the apparent victor.

Sam glanced behind him at the wreckage that had once been his shelter. After stumbling and stepping right out of his shoe in his quest to make the splint, he’d reclaimed the laces he’d used to lash together the branches But without the laces pulling the main branches together, the shelter had quickly fallen apart. Lacking the will or the energy to rebuild it, Sam had simply dragged a pile of the evergreen bows fireside to sit on while he rigged up the splint.

Sam hissed as he cautiously probed his injured knee with his fingers. Dean looked on worriedly. “How bad is it?”

Sam shivered as he looked over at Dean. “Don’t think it’s broken, or dislocated.” He glanced down at bruised, distended skin now visible where he’d pulled open the pre-existing tear in his jeans.

Dean leaned forward to take a closer look. “Nah, but it’s twice the size it should be and that can’t be good.”

Sam had to agree. He also knew that without the splint, there was no way it would hold his weight.

Sam had used his pocketknife to cut strips from his T-shirt and used those to strap two long, inch-thick branches to his leg. The stripped-down branches ran from mid-thigh to just above his ankle, down each side of his leg. The strips of cloth were tied above and below the knee, mid-calf and above the ankle, the splint now providing his leg the support and stability the injured muscles and ligaments couldn’t.

“Sam.” The younger Winchester blinked dazedly as he looked from his knee to his brother. “You’re shivering, dude.” Dean motioned to the fire. “You need to get that going again before it goes out completely.”

Sam shook his head. “No, we need to go…..”

“Sam!” Dean’s voice took on the the commanding don’t-mess-with-me tone he learned from their father. “Get warm first. The temperature’s dropping. You get too cold, you’re body’s just gonna shut down and that’s not gonna do either one of us any good.”

Sam nodded, only then fully aware of the trembling in his limbs and chattering of his teeth. He groaned as he dragged himself toward the fire, his body driven more by instinct than conscious thought. He threw on some small twigs, then poked at the embers with a larger stick in an attempt to reignite the kindling. As it caught, he tossed on some of the larger twigs and branches he’d managed to collect earlier.

As the fire gained strength, Sam allowed himself to collapse in front of it. As much as he hated the delay, Dean was right. Just a few minutes to get warm then he’d be on his way. He lay on his side, slight tremors racking his body as he wrapped long arms around himself, trying to retain any warmth he could steal from the flames. He curled in on himself when hacking coughs ripped through him.

The worry lines in Dean’s brow deepened. “Damn it, Sam. We need to get you help.”

Sam coughed again before fixing Dean with an incredulous look. “You have a knack for the obvious, dude.”

Sam was having hard time staying awake. He struggled to sit up, pushing himself up onto his elbow before collapsing again. “Damn it.” He looked up at Dean, who had instinctively moved in to help the second his brother fell. “I’ve gotta get up,” Sam mumbled, trying to block out all pain and exhaustion and focus on the main task at hand. “I’ve gotta find you, man. Make sure you’re okay.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “That tune’s getting a little old, Sammy. First, you need to take care of yourself. Hate to point out the obvious – again – but you’re a mess.”

Sam suddenly sounded very young. “But you fell. I need to…..”

Dean cut him off. “You can’t take care of me if you don’t take care of yourself first. You’re exhausted, your knee’s all screwed to hell, you can’t see right, you haven’t had anything to eat or drink in almost two days now…”

He saw Sam about to interrupt. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m barking up the obvious tree again, but dude, come on……” Dean sat down beside his brother, his tone softer. “Look, don’t ask me how I know this but, I think I’m okay.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open and fixed on his brother. “What?” He coughed again as he struggled to sit up. “But, how….”

Dean shook his head. “I told you, I don’t know. Just run with me on this one. I’m an idiot for lettin’ myself get chucked off that bridge, but I’m not dead.” He nodded as if trying to convince himself. “I know I’m not.”

Sam stared at his brother, wanting nothing more than to believe that. Emotionally, he was on the edge and his eyes glistened. “Thanks Dean, I…..”

Dean wrinkled his face in disgust. “Oh, now don’t start goin’ all girly on me, Sam. Stay focused. Top priority is getting you back to town, ASAP, and getting your banged-up butt into a hospital bed.”

Sam.dragged a hand across his face before turning to face Dean. “I’m right with you on the getting the hell out of here part, but no hospital.”

Dean snorted. “Good luck on that, Sam. Once Doc gets a look at the sorry state you’re in, she’s gonna lock you up in the ICU ’til you’re 30.”

Sam clenched his jaw stubbornly. “I’ll just tell her no. She can fix me up at the motel. Hell Dean, you can …..”

Dean cut him off, shaking his head. “Ain’t gonna happen, dude. In the whole time we’ve known Doc, you’ve never once been able to win an argument with her when it comes to medical stuff.”

Sam sounded five. “Neither have you.”

Dean shook his head, puzzled. “I know, and it pisses me off. I don’t know whether it’s a woman thing, a doctor thing, a woman doctor thing….”

Now it was Sam’s turn to interrupt, smiling in spite of himself. “I think it’s a Doc thing.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, I think you’re right there, Sammy. Anyway she’s gonna insist you check into Hotel Red Cross and I’m gonna be right there backing her up, every step of the way. So just accept it and put what little energy you have to better use and figure a way out of this mess.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Both brothers turned to face the soft voice that had cut into their conversation. Mary, the spirit of the young woman Sam had encountered the day before, stood across the clearing watching Sam intently.

She looked around Sam curiously. “I heard your voice. To whom were you speaking?”

Sam answered without thinking, twisting his body wearily to face Mary. “My brother.” He waved his hand in Dean’s direction. “This is Dean. Dean meet Mary.”

Mary looked puzzled, then hurt. “Are you playing a trick on me?”

Sam frowned. “What? No, of course not. I wouldn’t…..”

Dean cut him off. “She can’t see me, dude.” When Sam turned to face him, he shrugged. “Think about it. The two of us are on a closed circuit, which cuts her out of the loop.”

Sam glanced between his brother and Mary, then back to Dean. “But you can see her?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, dude. You’re makin’ me up. I see what you see.”

Sam turned back to face Mary. He smiled sheepishly at her confused expression. “Um… it’s just….er…”

Dean frowned impatiently. “Spit it out, Sam.”

Sam glared at Dean. Mary, who had been standing across the clearing, blinked out of sight and reappeared suddenly right beside Sam. He jumped, startled by her sudden closeness.

Dean jumped too. “Okay, tell her to stop that, tell her ……”

Sam frowned. “Dean…..

“I mean it, Sam…..”

“Dean, shut up.”.

Sam turned to see Mary, eyes wide, tilt her head quizzically. “You are a strange man, Sam Winchester.”

Dean snorted, earning another glare from Sam.

Turning again to Mary, Sam shrugged. “I’m not usually like this.” He smiled lamely. “I….. I have a head injury…..”.

Mary’s face fell. “Your injury – it’s because I hit you?” Her eyes glistened with tears. “For that, I am truly sorry. I was angry I had allowed him to find me again. I lashed out, I…..”

Sam frowned as he listened to Mary talk. There was something very formal about her speech.

He cleared his throat. “Mary, you said you were 18, right?”

Mary nodded.

“When were you born?”

Mary seemed bewildered by the question. Sam smiled, speaking softly. “Please. I’m just trying to sort things out – things that might help us both. What year were you born?”

Mary tilted her head, curious. “Eighteen-hundred and fifty-eight.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Whoa. She looks pretty good for a 130.” He was now pacing behind Sam. “But what the hell has kept her spirit wandering the great outdoors for more than a century?”

Sam’s vision had improved to the point that, for the first time, he could take in the details of the clothing Mary wore. Her long, dark skirt was torn at the hem, revealing the dirt-stained lace of petitcoats beneath. The left sleeve of her pink checked blouse was also torn, the fabric hanging from her elbow and revealing a slender forearm.

Sam smiled softly. There was a quiet strength to her manner, a natural warmth that told him, had they met in life, he would have liked her.

He grimaced as he shifted his weight. The warmth from the fire was making him sleepy and exhaustion and dehydration was threatening to fell him yet again. But he wanted to figure this out. He fought consciously to concentrate. “Mary, when you came here before you said you couldn’t see after hitting your head, right?”

The fear and anger Sam had sensed in the spirit in that first encounter were back, this time painted clearly across her face. She nodded once.

“How did you get hurt?”

He saw her jaw set and her eyes flash as anger quickly consumed the fear. Her voice was steady. “He pushed me. He and another man forced their way into our home and he pushed me. I fell, and hit the back of my head. When I opened my eyes, everything was blurred..”

Sam closed his eyes as yet another coughing fit ripped through him. Dean crouched down beside him, his hand rubbing his brother’s back as he’d done when Sam was sick as a kid.

Sam looked up at Dean, smiling tiredly. “Thanks, man. I swear I can feel your hand on my back.” He snorted. “Forget hospital bed. I think there’s a rubber room waiting for me when I get out of here.”

Dean returned his smile. “Why? Just because you’re out here moderating a chat between Caspar the Friendly Ghost and your imaginary brother doesn’t mean you’re nuts. You said it yourself, our lives are weird, man.”

Sam laughed, which set off another round of coughing.

Mary’s worry over Sam’s distress turned into anger. “This man’s attack on me amuses you?”

Sam’s expression sobered quickly. “No, of course not.” With difficulty, he pushed himself upwards again. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. Forgive me. What happened next?”

Mary’s anger quickly dissipated, replaced by sadness as she fought to reclaim the memories. “Things are…..unclear. I remember shouting, and gunshots, being dragged outside – but I couldn’t see, couldn’t tell what was happening. The man who held me smelled of whiskey and tobacco. I tried to push him away but he was strong. I could not get away.”

She looked at Sam, almost apologetically. “I remember little more until I awoke. I was lying on the ground, outside, and the two men were arguing.” Mary paused, shifting uncomfortably at the memory.

Sam spoke softly. “Do you remember what they were arguing about.”

Mary frowned. “Of course. They were arguing about me. The big man wanted to kill me, finish the job, he said. The other one wanted to just leave me.” An air of defiance entered her voice. “I took the choice away from them. While they were arguing, I ran away.

“When they realized I was gone, the big man came after me.” Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I still couldn’t see very well so I was slow. I fell, a lot, and he caught up with me. But when he came near me I hit him. I found a branch near my hand and I hit him with it.”

Mary’s bravado suddenly evaporated and a scared girl replaced the resolute woman who had stood there moments earlier. “I killed him. He was lying there, his face bloody……

Dean stopped pacing. “I like her Sam. She’s feisty. Could live without the cliffhangers, though.”

Sam frowned at his brother before turning back to Mary. Unconsciously, he raised his hand to his blackened left eye. “So when you hit me, you thought…..”

Mary nodded. “….that I was reliving that moment.”

Sam’s voice softened. “And what make you think you killed him?”

Mary’s eyes glistened. “The other man, his partner, showed up. He looked down at the man I hit, and told me I killed him. I just turned and ran – and this time he did not follow.”

She looked at Sam, her large, grey eyes confused, scared and angry. “But he found me again. As much as I despised him, as much as he frightened me, part of me was glad for it meant I had not taken a life.” She twirled a strand of hair nervously, gazing unseeing into the distance. “But then it became obvious that was not the case. Now he and I share the same fate."

She turned to look at Sam, for the first time allowing her vulnerability to show. “He is always there, always chasing me. I just want to go home but I can not find my way. And I can not get away from him.”

Dean studied Mary closely. “Okay, so now we know she knows she’s dead. And she knows the guy chasing her is dead too. But does she know that this supernatural game of hide and seek has been going on for more than a century?”. He turned to Sam. “Or that there’s another spirit back at the bridge somehow involved? Or that what’s happening to you is a nasty Simon Says version of what she went through?”

“Dean! One question at a time, dude.” Sam felt light-headed, dizzy. “I think I know what’s going on. I think….I…” The world around Sam started to swim out of focus. He heard Dean’s voice but it distant.

“Sam you stay with me….Sam!”

Even turning to look at Dean was difficult. Sam’s head suddenly too heavy for his neck to support. Dean’s face was suddenly inches from Sam's but Dean’s voice seemed a long way off. An intense, blinding flash of pain ripped through Sam’s head as he focused on his brother’s voice.

“Sammy, you stay with me. You’re not dyin’ out here. Not on my watch.”

“Dean, I…..” His brother’s words spun through his head on fast forward as Sam felt himself falling……

xxxXXXxxx

Bobby walked down the hospital corridor carrying two cups of coffee.

He’d spent part of the morning talking to the Search and Rescue crew who had pulled Dean out of the water, thanking them for saving his ‘nephew’s’ life and gleaning as much detail as he could about the rescue. Then he’d returned to the hospital and visited Jason Tait, the kid who’d put his own life on the line to help Dean.

His next stop was the local library, searching through newspaper records to look into the number of deaths linked to the bridge, and circumstances surrounding them.

The more information he gathered, the more convinced he was that Sam had not ended up in the river. The feeling was fed more by gut instinct than fact, but it was an instinct that had served him well through a lifetime of hunting. He was sure the spirit they had seen at the bridge the previous day was behind Sam’s MIA status but he had some more digging to do to figure out how, not to mention why. Once he’d checked in on Dean, he was headed back to the library to see what he could find in local historical records.

Rounding the nurses’ station and walking up to the doorway of Dean’s ICU room, he saw Doc standing at his bedside. Her guard was down and the worry was etched plainly across her face.

“Doc? Somethin’ happen?”

She looked up from the chart she was reading, offering Bobby a half-smile, shaking her head. “No – and yes.”

At Bobby’s puzzled reaction, she closed the chart and glanced down at Dean. “His heart rate and respiration are steady. The diuretics are doing their job - his lungs are clearing so he’s off the ventilator…..”

“So that’s the good news,” Bobby interrupted, glancing over at Dean who now had an oxygen mask strapped to his face in place of the ventilator. There were also small electrodes attached to each side of his head. “What’s the bad?”.

“His temperature is up. That’s not completely unexpected, given the stress his body’s been through, but it could be an early indication of pneumonia. We’re also concerned that he still hasn’t fully regained consciousness.”

Bobby’s heart sank. “Brain damage?”

Doc shrugged. “The MRI showed bruising to his brain, some mild swelling in the frontal and temporal lobes. Given time, they should heal without any medical intervention but, until he wakes up……”

Bobby frowned as he looked down at Dean and focused on the tiny electrodes measuring his brain activity. “What’d the EEG show?”

Doc sighed. “That’s the most puzzling thing here. If someone showed me the results without me knowing the patient, I’d swear it was the brain activity of a conscious person.”

Bobby’s eyes widened as he looked from Doc to Dean and back again. “You tellin’ me there’s something more than a medical problem? Something connected to, um, our line of work?”

Doc shrugged again. “Could be. I’m just saying from a medical perspective, the facts don’t exactly add up.” She turned to face Dean, reaching over the bed rail to clasp his hand. “Dean, it’s Doc. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

When there was no reaction, she tried again. “Come on, Dean. Where’s the smartass we all know and love.”

With still no response, Doc rubbed her knuckles firmly against his sternum. “Dean, come on. If you don’t wake up, Bobby’s going to let me drive the Impala – and you know what my driving’s like.”

Bobby put down the cups of coffee on the bedside cabinet and reached over the railing to squeeze Dean’s shoulder. “You listen to Doc, ya hear me Dean? Hospitals are for sick people. You need to get your butt outta bed and help me find that brother of yours.”

That got a reaction. The lines of the EEG monitor started dancing crazily across the screen. Under his closed eyelids, Dean’s eyes moved rapidly back and forth. His head rolled across the pillow and his fists clenched as he fought against some unknown distress.”

Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper, muffled further by the oxygen mask. Doc and Bobby both leaned in and heard his words clearly. “Sammy, you stay with me. You’re not dyin’ out here. Not on my watch.”

xxxXXXxxx

Mary watched as Sam slumped over, barely conscious. He lay beside the small fire he had built, sprawled on his side, his eyes blinking slowly.

“Sam Winchester?” There was no reaction to Mary’s soft-spoken question. She knew little about this man but he had seemed kind.

The side of his face that was swollen and bruised from her misguided attack was now hidden behind the arm wrapped round his head as he fought against the pain that had felled him. With only the uninjured side of his face visible, he looked younger than she’d first thought. And far younger than her attacker she’d mistaken him for. Mary knelt down beside him and reached out to touch his face, tracing ghostly fingers gently down his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice broke slightly as she offered her apology.

The sound of someone running through the forest on the far side of the clearing caught her attention. It was him. After all these years no skill was needed to recognize his heavy-footed gait.

She glanced down at Sam and smiled softly. “Don’t worry. I will not let him hurt you. I owe you that much.”

Her attacker lumbered out of the forest, stopping in his tracks when he saw her. Mary stood slowly, facing him defiantly.

“You knew I’d find you,” he snarled. “I always do.”

“But I’ll get away.” Her smile turned cold, her eyes flashing. “I always do.”

She turned and ran, disappearing completely before she left the clearing.

The man roared in anger, before taking off in pursuit. He too took only a few steps before disappearing from sight.

Unseen by either spirit, Dean crouched beside his brother, a hand resting protectively on his shoulder. He had heard Mary’s apology, then watched as she threw herself back into the ghostly game of cat and mouse that had been playing out for more than a century, drawing the second spirit’s attention onto her and away from Sam.

He had also clearly seen Mary’s attacker. He looked down at his brother. “There’s no bruising on his face, Sam. I don’t think she killed him. Doesn’t explain why he’s still here but I’m positive; that swing with the tree branch wasn’t the home run she thought it was.”

Sam’s eyes blinked then a strange look passed over his face. Dean startled at the expression then worriedly scrubbed a hand across his face. He glanced around the clearing then looked down at his brother, shaking his head as if to clear it.. “I think we need a Plan B here, dude. No way are you walking out of this forest under your own steam any time soon.”

Dean nodded, as if making up his mind on something. “Okay, Sam – here’s the plan. I need to leave. I don’t want to, but if I stay, we’ll never find you.”

He reached over and brushed his hand through Sam’s hair, something he hadn’t done in a long time. “You hang in there, you hear me. Don’t you dare give up.

“I’m coming back for you, Sammy. I’m coming back”

CHAPTER 8:

Dean had no recollection of the waking process, just sudden awareness.

He groaned as the all-too-familiar sounds and smells assaulted his senses. He was in hospital. What the hell had landed him in here this time?

His head was pounding and his mouth dry. His throat hurt, his chest hurt, his hip hurt. Crap, what didn’t hurt? He frowned as he realized he could hear his own wheezing breath rattling back at him from inside the hard plastic mask strapped to his face. He wanted it gone but couldn’t seem to summon the strength to lift his hand to his mouth and pull it off.

Forcing his eyes open, he squinted against the too bright light of the room. The light only intensified his headache and he squeezed his eyes shut again, rolling his head across the pillow and toward the door on the opposite side of the room. The motion was slight but enough to fuel a wave of nausea that left him dry heaving. He curled instinctively on his side only to roll back with a groan as fire ignited in his hip. His hand hit the safety rail of the bed and he locked onto it feebly in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. His other arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen as he willed his stomach to settle and fought to quiet the pounding in his head.

His eyes blinked open as he felt a cool hand on his forehead.

Sam?

“Try and relax. Your doctor’s on his way.”

It wasn’t Sam’s voice. Dean’s vision was fuzzy at first, but slowly came into focus on the woman at his bedside. Definitely not Sam. Her scrubs told him she was a nurse. She was in her late 20s, tall and slender, her curly brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her green eyes sparkled behind trendy square-framed glasses and her smile was warm and genuine.

“I’m Terri. It’s good to see you awake.”

He smiled, his inclination to flirt instinctive, but when another wave of headache-fuelled nausea wiped out any attempt to be charming, he decided not throwing up on her would be the best way to make a good first impression. He swallowed hard, allowing his hand to fall off the bedside rail and join the other in curling around his stomach.

“Feeling sick, huh?” Dean settled for a slight nod in response to Terri’s question.

She smiled sympathetically. “It’s the head injury. Dr. Elton will be here in a minute. He can increase you anti-nausea medication to make you feel more comfortable."

“Throat hurts.” Dean barely recognized the weak, raspy voice as his own.

“Here,” Terri raised the head of Dean's bed a little more, “these should help.” She gently pulled aside the oxygen mask and offered him a spoonful of ice chips, which he accepted gratefully, before settling the mask back in place.

“Better?”

He nodded again, the coolness of the ice helping quell the rising nausea and numb the rawness of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on leveling out his breathing. The nurse was hot. If he puked all over himself or, worse, all over her, Sam would never let him live it down. He frowned. Where the hell was Sam anyway?

He started to ask but was interrupted by an unfamiliar man’s voice. “So, I hear our patient decided it was time to wake up?” Dean opened his eyes again to take in the tall doctor now standing beside Terri.

The nurse smiled down at Dean, tilting her head toward the doctor. “This is Dr. John Elton. He’s been looking after you since you came down from the ICU.”

Even with the pounding in his head, Dean raised an eyebrow when the doctor’s name registered.

“I know, I know.” The doctor rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I’ve heard all the jokes, from grade school all the way through med school.”

Terri smiled as she adjusted Dean’s pillows. Her eyes flashed mischievously. “I’ll bet he hated those teachers who insisted on taking attendance last name first.”

Dean’s head was way too fragile to laugh. He settled for a half-smile as he squinted at the doctor. John Elton was in his early-40s, in good shape as far as Dean could tell given his baggy white lab coat, and his dark, wavy hair featured just a hint of grey at the temples. He smiled at Dean before reaching for a clipboard at the base of Dean’s bed and checking over the information it held.

“He woke up about five minutes ago,” Terri told the doctor, pumping the blood pressure cuff on Dean’s right arm. “He’s complaining of a sore throat, nausea…”

“Headache,” Dean croaked as he squeezed his eyes closed again. He needed the headache to go away so he could think. The doctor and nurse were talking but every now and then he lost track of what they were saying, their voices sounding tinny and distorted.

Dr. Elton nodded. “Well I’m sure we’ve got something that will take care of that.” He scribbled a drug order on Dean’s chart and nodded at Terri before turning back to Dean. “You’ve got a concussion. That’s what’s causing both the headache and the nausea. And you were hypothermic when they brought you in. You’ve been in and out of consciousness, mostly out, for the better part of two days.”

Dean blinked at the doctor in surprise. Two days? What the hell? “How?” he rasped, swallowing hard again to try and get his voice back in working order while frantically trying to remember the series of events that that landed him in the hospital.

“How did you end up here?”

Dean nodded.

Dr. Elton turned from the monitors. “I’ll make you a deal. You answer a question for me; I’ll answer one for you. “What’s your name?”

Dean frowned at the doctor. “Trick question?”

Dr. Elton’s smile widened. “No tricks. We know who you are; we’re just making sure you do.”

Instinct told him to keep it simple. “Dean. My name’s Dean.”

Dr. Elton nodded. “Good. And what year is it?”

“Uh-uh.” Dean closed his eyes and swallowed to fight off another wave of nausea before continuing. “My turn…. Answer …my question.”

The doctor smiled. “Doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with short-term recall. That’s a good sign.” He nodded. “Fair enough. How did you end up here? They pulled you out of the river two days ago. Local kid, with the help of Search and Rescue, saved your butt.

“You were in the ICU for the first 24-hours, and then we brought you down here after the first time you woke up. Do you remember that?”

Dean shook his head lightly. The first time he remembered waking up was in this room a few moments ago.

Fuzzy images of a bridge, a river, a paramedic with dark hair all tumbled through Dean’s mind. He remembered feeling really cold. He remembered talking to Sam, Sam yelling his name. Dean frowned. The doc just said some local kid pulled him out of the river. That wasn’t right. It was Sam. He remembered talking to him. He could see him giving him a thumbs-up sign.

Dr. Elton glanced over at the cardiac monitor. “Your heart stopped three times while they were trying to get your body temperature back to normal and they were forced to intubate you, put a tube down your throat, to help you breathe. If your throat’s feeling a little raw right now, that’s why.”

Dean didn’t need the layman’s explanation. He was all too familiar with the procedure. He hated hearing his own wheezing breath inside the oxygen mask he wore but breathing was way more difficult than it should be.

“Weak.” There was little power behind his exclamation but the annoyance was clear.

Dr. Elton smiled down at Dean. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re still running a slight temperature and your lungs still have some fluid in them, that’s why it’s hard to breathe.” The doctor’s smile widened reassuringly. “You’re going to feel tired for a while but, with rest, you’re going to be okay. So just relax. Give the medication a chance to work.”

Dean didn’t want to relax. He was fighting hard to pull up memories that didn’t want to surface and fighting to quiet the percussion section in his head. As the doc had suggested, he was tiring quickly, using up what little energy he had just to stay awake as he frantically searched his memory for answers. “Don’t…can’t remember what happened. I…”

“Give it time.” Dr. Elton squeezed Dean’s shoulder consolingly as he noted his patient’s respiration rate quicken. “Right now we just need to concentrate on getting you well.”

Dean frowned at his well-meaning doctor. He probably knew better than the doc what concussion symptoms were. He’d put money down on the fact he was more familiar with what they felt like. God knows he’d had enough of them. But most times he had his brother there to fill in the blanks. He needed to talk to Sam. He needed Sam here.

He shifted, then yelped as pain shot up from his hip.

Dr. Elton moved to the side of the bed and pulled up the blankets to assess the hip injury. “Try and relax, Dean.”

Dean frowned. The relaxing part would be a whole lot easier if this man’s hands weren’t under his gown, probing his hip.

“You’ve got some pretty extensive bruising down your left side, especially here on your hip.” Dr. Elton tucked the blankets back in place “You’re very lucky your hip’s not broken, but it is going to be sore for a while. When you’re stronger, we’ll send a physiotherapist in. She can give you some exercises to do to help you loosen up and stay limber as the injury heals, okay?”

Dean nodded, swallowing hard.

“Do you remember how you got those bruises, Dean?”

Dean frowned at the doctor’s question. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Think I fell……Ask Sam……”

While Dean had missed Terri leaving the room, she returned at this point carrying a syringe which she handed to Dr. Elton, who injected its contents into Dean’s IV.

“There. That should help.”

Dean felt himself relax almost immediately. He frowned sleepily at Dr. Elton. “Sam. Sam’ll know…. He’ll tell me.” He yawned. “Tell him …tell him to get….his scrawny ass…. in here….”

Injury and medication took over pulling Dean back into a healing sleep.

Terri looked down at Dean, wiping a cool cloth over his face. “Sam? That’s his brother, right?”

Dr. Elton nodded. “Yeah. Dean’s uncle says Sam is out of town on business. They’re trying to get hold of him to let him know about Dean’s accident.”

“Good.” Terri straightened Dean’s sheets. “They seem close.”

Doc Elton nodded again, making a note on Dean’s chart. “I’m sure he’ll be on the first plane he can get the minute he hears the news about his brother.”

xxxXXXxxx

A coughing fit pulled Sam back to consciousness, his lungs objecting to the frigid air he was breathing in. He tried to push himself upwards but seemingly lacked the strength to do anything but lie there.

He groaned at the pounding in his head the coughing had ignited, rolling forward and pressing his forehead into the cold ground until the pounding receded to a dull thump. With considerable effort, he forced his eyes open..

He was lying on his side in front of his small campfire. Its smoldering remains told him, once again, he’d been out of it for some time. He was pleasantly surprised to discover his vision, in one eye at least, was close to normal, sliding out of focus only occasionally.

He frowned as he took in the empty clearing around him. “Dean?”

There was no answer. With difficulty, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, swaying dangerously as his body objected to the change in position. He clamped his eyes closed until the vertigo passed., then once more surveyed the clearing. It was empty.

“Dean?” Still no answer. No sign of him anywhere, not even his voice inside Sam’s head.

Sam dropped his head to his chest, snorting at the paradox. Logically, not being able to see or hear his imaginary brother was a good thing. It likely meant his battered brain was healing and he was one step further along on the road to recovery.

But, damn it, he missed Dean’s presence. For all the times he had told Dean he could take care of himself, for all the times Dean had told him Sam was the stronger of the two, he knew they were strongest together. Each fed the other’s strengths, shored up the other’s weaknesses.

Suddenly aware he was no longer alone, he twisted to his right and saw Mary standing at the edge of the clearing. She blinked out. then reappeared at his side. Worry seeped through the warm smile she offered.

“You do not look well, Sam Winchester.”

Sam snorted again, which launched a new round of coughing. “And you, Mary,” he smiled, when he regained his breath, “have a knack for understatement.”

She smiled uncertainly, the humour not translating well over the generation gap. Mary knelt down beside Sam. “You should find the strength to get up. If you lie down, you will not survive. I did not.”

Mary’s behavior surprised Sam. The spirits who knew they were dead were usually the vengeful ones. He studied her face. “You know? You know that you’re….”

“Dead?” Mary nodded. “Yes. I did not at first but, yes, I know now.”

“How?”

“I found my…my body.” She pointed into the woods beyond the clearing. “It’s over there. I remember falling. I was so tired I couldn’t get up. But he was still chasing me. So I crawled into a hollow and hid. I covered myself with leaves and twigs so he wouldn’t find me.”

The irony did not escape Sam. Her tormenter didn’t find her. But no one else did either.

“I’m so sorry, Mary.”

The spirit tilted her head quizzically. “Why would you be sorry? None of this is your fault. You did not take me from my home, cause my death or condemn me to this fate.”

Sam marveled at the innocence of Mary’s spirit. She seemed angry only at the man chasing her – and justifiably so. But even after a century of reliving the final moments that led to her death, she still possessed the gentle nature she apparently had in life.

Sam struggled to turn toward Mary. Winded by the effort, it took him a while to regain the energy to speak. When he did, he smiled sadly. “I’m sorry that you’ve been forced into this. No one should have to die like you did, or go through what you have.”

She returned his smile in kind. “I am tired, Sam Winchester. I want to rest. I just wish I could see my family again, to say goodbye.”

Sam swallowed. “Mary, do you know how long it’s been since you…. since you died?”

The spirit seemed puzzled. “A long time. Why.”

Sam weighed his words carefully. “It’s been more than 130 years, Mary. Your family will have….moved on.”

Mary seemed floored by the news. Her eyes welled with tears. “So there is no home for me to return to. No family….” Tears fell as her eyes met Sam’s. “What did I do wrong that I was forced to live this hell every day for so long? I tried to live a good life. Why would God forsake me?”

Sam’s voice was gentle, comforting. “I don’t think he did, Mary. I think there’s something holding you here. If we can figure out what it is, then maybe we can help you.”

Mary tilted her head quizzically, her long brown hair falling over one shoulder and grey eyes widening. “How? How can you help me?”

Sam winced, closed his eyes and swallowed hard as pain in his knee flared up, igniting a new wave of nausea. He opened his eyes to see Mary staring at him worriedly, expectantly. His breathing was shallow and rapid and he fought to get out the words. “I don’t have what I need to help you but if my brother….when my brother finds me, he’ll be able to get it.”

He coughed, cringing as the hacking ripped through his chest. “But…but until he gets here, I think I know where to begin." Sam's tired eyes met Mary's. "Show me where your body is.”

xxxXXXxxx

The next time Dean woke he felt a little more like himself. The headache was still present, although in a less obnoxious form, his stomach had settled and, if he stayed still, the pain in his hip remained a dull ache. The oxygen mask was still across his face and he could still hear his own shallow, raspy breathing.

The subdued lighting in the room and the darkness showing through the cracks in the blinds told him it was night, but he had no clue what time it was.

He glanced around the room. He was alone.

Damn. Where was the hot nurse when he actually capable of turning on the patented Dean Winchester charm? More importantly, where the hell was Sam?

Somewhere in a dim corner of his memory he could see the kid flashing him a thumbs up sign, signaling everything was OK. But if that was true, why wasn’t his ass parked in the not-so-comfy looking plastic chair at his bedside? Sam might be in a motel room somewhere, catching some much-needed sleep, but something seemed off. Too often he’d seen his brother stubbornly attempt to sleep in a way-too-small chair, refusing to leave the hospital until he was sure Dean was out of danger. Under current circumstances, there was no way he’d voluntarily take off without at least talking to Dean first.

Dean also couldn’t quite believe the thumbs up he’d seen in his mind’s eye. He needed more tangible reassurance. He needed a phone. He’d call Sam, make sure he was okay. Maybe he was down the hall, maybe across town, Didn’t matter. Wherever he was, he needed to talk to him.

Not seeing a phone on the bedside table, Dean reached over his right shoulder, grabbing the call button that lay on his pillow and pressed it repeatedly.

While he waited he looked down at his battered body, hidden beneath the standard issue hospital gown and several pale blue blankets. Two arms, two legs. All present and accounted for. He wiggled his feet and moved his hands; all were in working order. He grimaced at the pain in his hip and a slight stiffness in his left shoulder but, whether through rest or medication, the pain was duller and more manageable than the last time he woke. What bothered him the most was the weakness. He wanted to sit up but just couldn’t summon the strength, forcing him to lie there, helpless, as he waited for someone to come.

He noted there was a clip attached to the middle finger of his right hand, a pulse something-or-other they called it, and an IV port in the back of his left.

He lifted his right arm and twisted around his hospital bracelet. It took him a couple of tries to bring the letters into focus but when his vision cleared he smiled at the entry for patient’s name: Dean Remington. Ha. Good one Sammy. The name of the hospital was also on the bracelet. Plymouth County General Hospital.

Okay, so he knew who he was and where he was. Plymouth County. They’d come here on a job. No, that wasn’t right. They’d come here and found a job. Something to do with a pissed-off spirit. Sam had read about it latest victim on-line and Dean had suggested they check it out. Beyond that things were fuzzy. Screw it. It hurt to think right now, he’d get Sam to fill in the details.

He pulled at the neck of his hospital gown, taking in the cobweb of wires and electrodes attached to his chest, then glanced sideways at the monitors to which the wires relayed their information. Thankfully, the monitors were in silent mode so there was no annoying beeping to further fuel his headache.

The last time he’d be hospitalized, after the demon-driven semi plowed into the Impala, he’d awoken from his coma with tubes both up his nose and down his throat and their removal, to put it bluntly, sucked out loud. Thankfully he’d slept through that treat this time around. He scowled when his thoughts wandered further south and hoped he’d slept through the catheter removal too.

“God, I hate hospitals.” He weakly slammed his hand down on the bed in frustration.

“It’s not the hospital that’s the problem, it’s the fact you keep landing in them. You on some ‘For-every-10-stays-get-one-free’ program I don’t know about?”

Startled, Dean opened his eyes and turned toward the familiar voice. “Doc Blue?” Sam’s childhood nickname for Doc slipped out before Dean could stop himself. He frowned, puzzled as Doc moved into the room and to his bedside. “What are you doing here? You change hospitals without letting Sam know?”

Recognizing the fuzzy memory symptoms of a concussion, Doc shook her head. “No. Just here for a week giving a seminar.” She reached over Dean’s shoulder to turn off his call button. “You two were on your way here to meet up with me, remember?” She smiled. “The idea was coffee, a chance to catch up. For once, no drama, supernatural or otherwise, attached.”

Dean smiled tiredly. “Guess plans changed, huh?”

“Apparently. How are you feeling?”

“Fi…..” He bit off his pat response as Doc’s eyebrows peaked over her intense blue eyes. He sighed, sagging back into the bed. “Like road kill.”

Dean looked up to see Doc watching him intently. He flashed back to the first time they’d met. His chest still tightened and heart rate sped up whenever he thought about Sam that night, lips turning blue as he struggled to breathe. When Sam was admitted to the ICU, they weren’t going to let Dean in, until Doc intervened. Dean was pissed, he was worried, he was scared as hell but, instinctively, he trusted Doc. When she’d handed him scrubs and a surgical mask and told him the only way he’d get to see Sam was if he wore them, shut up and did as he was told, he’d done so without question. Hell, he’d have worn a clown suit if it got him into Sam’s ICU room. No, strike that. Clowns and Sam were a bad combination.

He’d later heard some big-shot doctor chewing out Doc for breaking the rules but she was unapologetic, saying Sam’s chances of recovery were far greater with Dean around than if was isolated from his family. Dean had missed what they’d said next because they’d walked away from Sam’s room but, from there on in, until Sam left the hospital, he had been allowed daily to sit at his brother’s bedside.

Dean rubbed his temple in frustration and looked up at Doc. “How come I can remember the day we met you like it was yesterday, but yesterday is a complete blur?”

Doc smiled at the muddled logic of Dean’s question. “It’s the concussion, Dean. You know as well as I do it can play havoc with memories around the time of the injury. Just cut yourself some slack and give it time. Chances are it’ll all come back.”

Dean fisted the blankets as he stared past Doc at the open door of his room. “I’d rather have Sam fill in the blanks. Where the hell is he anyway? Did he tell you what happened?”

“No.” Doc answered him softly without elaborating. Dean turned his gaze from the doorway back to Doc. She gave him a warm but distracted smile while absent-mindedly twisting the wedding ring she still wore seven years after the death of her husband. Dean recognized her tell – the one nervous habit she had when something was bothering her. If he wasn’t worried before, he sure as hell was now.

“Doc? Where’s Sam?” Ignoring the pounding in his head and sharp pain in his hip, Dean summoned what little strength he had, pulled the oxygen mask from his face, grabbed hold of the bed’s safety rail and hauled himself up. “I need to talk to Sam. Now.”

Doc moved in quickly, “Okay, Dean. I need you to calm down. Getting yourself worked up isn’t going to help anyone, especially you. Please.” She moved to put the oxygen mask back over his face but Dean weakly batted her hand away.

“No.” His chest was heaving with the effort of just sitting up, his breathing shallow and rapid. “Doc, where’s Sam?”

Doc took a deep breath. Her voice was quiet but steady. “He’s missing, Dean.”

“What?” The pressure on his chest was increasing and with each rapid breath he was finding it harder to breathe. “What do you mean ‘missing.’" Dean's eyes darted back and forth as he tried to sort through his muddled memories. "Sam hauled me out of the water. I saw him. I talked to him.”

Doc cast a concerned glance at the cardiac monitor. She moved to the head of Dean’s bed, adjusted the flow of oxygen from the panel in the wall, and moved to place the mask back over Dean’s face.

Dean batted it angrily away. “I said I need to talk to Sam.”

“Dean.” Concern tempered the no-nonsense tone of Doc’s voice. “I need you to calm down. Now. Another cardiac episode is not going to do you or Sam any good. Now lie down, breathe deeply and I’ll tell you what I know.”

As much as Dean hated to admit it, she was right. He was on the verge of passing out. His headache had ratcheted back up and it felt like there was a band around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter, making it harder and harder to draw a full breath. Sullenly, he allowed Doc to place the oxygen mask over his face and didn’t protest as she gently pushed him back onto his pillow.

“Okay, now slow, even breaths….”

“Doc….” Dean’s voice was again muffled by the mask, which fogged up as he exhaled.

Doc shook her head. “Uh-uh. I talk. You breathe. Got it?”

Dean nodded curtly.

A nurse appeared in the doorway of Dean’s room. “Oh. Dr. Caine. You need some help? The alarm from his cardiac monitor just went off at the nurses’ station.”

Doc turned and smiled at the nurse. “Thanks. I’ve got it. He’s just a little upset we haven’t been able to reach his brother.”

The nurse nodded. “You need any meds?”

Doc shook her head. “Thanks, but no. The oxygen seems to be doing the trick. I’m going to stick around for a while so I’ll hit the call button if we need anything.”

The nurse nodded, smiled and disappeared down the corridor.

Doc turned back to Dean whose hand was raised to take off the oxygen mask. Doc stopped him, pointing to the cardiac monitor. “You see that? Every time you get bent out of shape, it’s recorded on that monitor. If I hadn’t been here, the night nurse and on-call physician would be sedating you right now and, on a strictly clinical basis, I’d agree with them. As it is, you’ve just lined yourself up for a whole pile of tests as soon as Dr. Elton sees you EKG record.”

Dean’s eyes flashed angrily. “Sam?”

Doc gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I know you’re worried. I get that. But right now, you’re in no shape to go charging out there trying to find your brother. We’ve got it covered. I need you to concentrate on getting your strength back.”

Dean frowned. “We?”

Doc nodded. “When you showed up at the ER, the first thing I did was call Sam. When I couldn’t get hold of him, I called Bobby.”

Dean yanked down the oxygen mask. “Bobby? Bobby’s here? Where? I need to talk to him.”

Doc took the mask from Dean’s hand and replaced it over his mouth and nose. “Bobby’s out there looking for Sam. Given your escapades in Milwaukee earlier this year, we can’t exactly launch an official Search and Rescue without the pair of you landing behind bars at the end of it all. Bobby’s gathering as much information as he can, trying to figure out what you ran into and where Sam might be. He’s even called in a few favors from some hunters in the area.”

Dean’s mumbled response was muffled further by the oxygen mask but the message was clear. “I need to get out of here and help him find Sam.”

Doc sighed. “Look, you know I don’t follow rules for rules sake. But, right now, you getting out of bed and getting all worked up is definitely not in your best interest. I know it’s hard, but try and relax until Bobby gets here. Let’s see what he came up with before you make your next move. Okay?”

This time Dean’s response was clear. “No promises.” He slumped deeper into his pillows.

As Dean’s breathing leveled out and his heart rate steadied, Doc removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with a nasal canula. Dean protested briefly, until Doc told he could have the oxygen mask back if he preferred. He didn’t.

Doc grabbed a stool from the far side of the room and rolled it to Dean’s bedside. She had yet to sit down when Dean fired off his first question. “I don’t get it. When did Sam disappear? He hauled me out of the water, right?”

Doc shook her head. “No. I think with everything you’ve been through, your mind has scrambled a few things together. You were rescued by a local kid, Jason Tait.”

Dean frowned, trying hard to put the pieces together himself, as Doc continued. “They brought both of you here and kept Jason overnight so I got a chance to talk to him. He said when you were semi-conscious, you kept calling him Sam.”

Dean turned to face Doc. “Was I that out of it?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah, although in fairness he looks a bit like Sam. Same height, same long dark hair.” She smiled. “Nowhere near as good with the puppy dog looks though.”

Dean nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Well Sam’s been polishing his act since before he could talk.”

Doc nodded in agreement. “One good thing. With Jason playing hero, it put him in the spotlight, not you. You slept through it, but the rescue was a pretty big deal around here for the past couple of days – a lot of media interest.”

Dean’s gaze was steady. “What’d they dig up?”

Doc shook her head. “Nothing we didn’t want them to find. And like I said, Jason made a great distraction. He’s local – lives in the city now but was home visiting Mom and Dad for the weekend, about to pop the question to his long-time girlfriend, when he risked his life to rescue a complete stranger. It’s a great story. The media ate it up.”

Dean’s frown remained. “And the cops?”

“They bought the story that Dean Remington, environmental studies major, fell in the river while researching his thesis.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds just like me.”

Doc shrugged. “Well, it kept you out of their sights and that’s what counts.”

Dean shook his head. “If they can help find Sam, I’ll call them and turn myself in. Hell, they can toss my ass in jail and eat the key for all I care. I just need to know Sam’s safe.”

“That’s what we all want, Dean.” Doc looked at him intently. “What does your gut tell you.”

“Huh?”

Doc stood up, grasping the bed rails with both hands. “You know your brother better than anyone. What does your gut tell you?”

Dean stared back at Doc. She was right. No one knew his brother better than he did. He’d know if something had happened, right? He’d sense it if Sam was hurt. Feel it if he was ….was…

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched “He’s not dead. I don’t know where he is, but he’s not dead.”

Doc smiled and reached over the bedrail to give Dean’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “I believe you. I need you to believe it too.” She sat down on the stool again, her eyes steady on Dean. “Do you remember coming to while you were still up in the ICU?”

Dean frowned, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. The only place I remember in this hospital is this room.” Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Why.”

He could read Doc pretty well. She was trying to decide how to tell him something he probably wasn’t going to like. “Spill it, Doc. Whatever it is won’t get any easier by dragging it out.”

She nodded “You weren’t fully conscious, but you said something pretty clearly. Bobby and I both heard you.”

Dean tilted his head expectantly. “What?”

“You said, ‘Stay with me, Sammy. You’re not dying out here. Not on my watch’”

Doc studied Dean’s reaction carefully, her gaze darting between Dean himself and the cardiac monitor beside his bed. After the initial shock of the implications of his own words, she watched Dean take in the information, pull it apart and put it back together again, all in the space of a few seconds. She jumped slightly when Dean grabbed her arm.

His green eyes were lit by a determination that hadn’t been there moments earlier. And something else too. Hope.

He blew out a breath to steady his voice. “I need to talk to Bobby. Now.”

CHAPTER 9:

“Good to see ya back with us, Dean.”

The elder Winchester lay slumped back against the pillows, staring off into space. At the sound of Bobby’s familiar voice, Dean turned quickly to face him. “Any news on Sam?”

Bobby scratched his forehead under the peak of his ball cap. It was classic Dean. It was the first time he had been fully conscious since Bobby arrived in town, but pleasantries be damned when Sam was in trouble.

“No. No sign of him.” Bobby shook his head as he walked into the room. “So far,” he qualified as he saw Dean visibly deflate. “But I talked with some of the Search & Rescue guys. If he …..

Dean cut him off, shaking his head. “He’s not in the water.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean’s statement. It wasn’t said hopefully. It was offered matter-of-factly. Dean clenched his jaw before turning again to Bobby, raw emotion painted clearly across his face. “I saw him, Bobby.”

Bobby thought back to the words the barely-conscious Dean had muttered earlier in the ICU. ‘Stay with me, Sammy. You’re not dying out here alone.’ “You saw him?’”

“I…” Dean swallowed, Adam’s apple lurching in response. There had been no judgment from Doc when Dean had told her earlier. Now there was none from Bobby but Dean was still struggling with the meaning of the images that had suddenly tumbled through his head. “Sam, he’s lying on the ground. He’s not moving ….but he’s not dead. And there’s someone, something, with him.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, his confidence in what he had seen, what he wanted so much to believe, dissipating quickly. “How can I…I mean…. what the hell, Bobby?” Dean turned to the older hunter, seeking answers, seeking reassurance.

Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets as he studied Dean, the elder Winchester clearly rattled. “So, what you’re seein’, it’s more than a memory?”

“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean snapped, impatiently. “I know what a memory is. This is…I don’t know what the hell it is but it’s Sam and he’s in trouble and we need to get to him.”

“Where is he?”

“What?”

Bobby folded his arms across his chest. “Describe for me what you see. Where is he?”

Dean’s eyes darted back and forth as he focused on the images. “I don’t know. It’s, um, he’s outside, lying on the ground next to a….a campfire.”

Bobby nodded. “Concentrate on that image. Look around. What else is there?”

Dean frowned, but closed his eyes. “There was something there, or someone. It was like he was talking to someone, but they’re gone now. Now there’s nothing - except trees.” His brow furrowed further as he opened his eyes and looked up at Bobby. “You buyin’ into this? You think there’s something to it?”

Bobby shrugged. “You’ve been lookin’ out for Sam all your life. Hell, there are times when you know what Sam’s thinking before he does. Maybe this is all just part of that, um, connection.”

Dean fisted the bed covers. “Yeah, well that connection, as you call it, has never come with streaming video before.” He looked up at Bobby, the image of Sam lying on the ground in pain playing repeatedly through his mind. “What’s messin’ with my head most, Bobby, is it doesn’t feel like I’m watching it. It feels like I’m there. How can I….”

Bobby’s gaze was steady. “Maybe it’s not just you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bobby weighed his words carefully. “Sam’s visions, they could be the tip of the iceberg as far as psychic abilities go. If he’s in trouble, maybe he’s reaching out for help. Makes sense that you’d be the one he’d reach out to.”

Dean frowned. “Sam can’t do that – can he?”

Bobby shoved his hands in his pockets. “He might not be aware he’s doing it. If he’s hurt, or his defences are down, he might be able to tap into abilities his logical, conscious mind doesn’t know how to work or has prevented him from reaching.”

Dean thought back to Sam’s admission after Max Miller killed himself. When Sam’s vision had shown Max shooting Dean, his brother had been able to telekinetically move the cabinet blocking the closet doors. The incident had scared both brothers, not just for what it was but for what it suggested. Was this latest ‘connection’ another example of latent powers Sam had unconsciously tapped into?

Dean banged his fist on the bed. “If that’s the case, I wish he’d channel his inner compass and pass along proper directions so we can haul his sorry ass back here. I mean, trees? How the hell are we supposed to find him when all he gives us are trees?”

“He might not know where he is, Dean. If that’s the case, it’d be pretty hard for him to tell us, no matter what means he had.”

For a brief moment Dean’s cocky demeanor and well-honed bravado disappeared, revealing the vulnerability beneath. “We have to find him, Bobby?”

“We will.” There was a simple determination in Bobby’s words that Dean clung to. “In fact, you may have given us just what we need.” Bobby smiled down at Dean. “Just hang in there, okay? I need to make a phone call, then we’ll see about tracking down that brother of yours.”

“Bobby…”

Bobby was already half-way out the door. “Give me five minutes Dean. I’ll be right back.”

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, pulling off the nasal canula in frustration. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam lying on the ground, arm clutched around his head like he was in pain. He needed to be out there looking for him, not stuck in a damn hospital bed.

Earlier, after Doc had left to find Bobby, Dr. Elton had shown up and put Dean through the barrage of tests Doc had warned him he was in for after sending the heart monitor haywire. He hated every moment of it but, when the testing was done, he was disconnected from most of the monitors tracking his condition. Only the oxygen canula and the IV drip remained.

Dr. Elton had also given him the okay to get out of bed three times a day, as long as it was under the supervision of a nurse or doctor. Patience not being one of Dean’s strong suits, he had taken him up on that offer immediately. Terri, the nurse, had lowered the safety rail on the side of the bed and offered a steadying hand as he moved to climb out. Dean had gently but firmly batted it away, determined to do it under his own steam – not to mention grab his clothes and get the hell out of the hospital the minute they left him alone again. His body, however, had different ideas.

His hip had protested the movement from the moment he slid out of bed, but the first few steps had gone relatively well. He was shuffling along like an old man, and forced to use the IV pole for balance, but he was moving independently. Dean had turned to give Dr. Elton a smug grin and a cocky “See, no problem,” when the doctor’s face had started to blur and twist until, as Dean would later put it, he looked like “that dude in the weird-ass stolen painting Sam once told me about. You know - The Scream.”

The thought barely had time to register before he felt two strong arms, one slender, one muscular, wrap around his waist. Dr. Elton was on his right, Terri on his left, each offering the support his legs suddenly refused to provide. So much for a quick getaway.

Dr. Elton studied Dean’s face, assessing his condition, and Dean could feel the man’s fingers press firmly against his wrist, checking his pulse. “Just breathe through it, Dean. You’ve been lying down a long time, your body’s just protesting the change in elevation. Close your eyes, that might help.”

For once, Dean did as he was told. When he opened his eyes again, the doctor and nurse still flanked him, each with one arm around his waist and one arm supporting each elbow, but the room was no longer spinning.

He exhaled slowly and turned to face Dr. Elton, who thankfully no longer resembled modern art. “Well that sucked.”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll bet. Still dizzy?”

Dean carefully shook his head. “No. I’m good. Could use a little personal space, maybe a cheeseburger, extra onions, but, otherwise, I’m good.”

Dr. Elton smiled at his patient. “No can do on the cheeseburger. You’re a cardiac patient, remember? But if you can manage a few more steps with our help, we might be able to do something about your space issues.”

It took way more effort than Dean cared to admit, but this time he managed to cross the room without the world tilting on its axis. On the way back toward the bed, he felt Dr. Elton and Terri each relax their hold on him.

“Let go of me. I can do this,” Dean ground out, trying to convince himself as much as his doctor. He weakly pushed them away and continued his slow shuffle-step across the room unassisted, limping heavily to keep the weight off his injured hip.

Reaching the bed, he flashed a cocky grin back at his doctor. “See? Good to go. Where are my walking papers?”

Dr. Elton smiled again, shaking his head. “Your act might be a little more convincing if you didn’t have a death grip on the bed there.”

Busted, Dean’s smile did little to mask his annoyance.

Dr. Elton moved in toward Dean and gently but firmly maneuvered him back into bed. “How ’bout you get a good night’s sleep and then we’ll try this again in the morning. See how you do.”

“Whatever,” Dean yawned, as he slumped back onto his pillows. He wasn’t waiting for a doctor’s permission to check himself out of the hospital. He’d just catch his breath, play possum until the doc left, then get the hell out of there. Once clear of the hospital, he’d hook up with Bobby and start looking for Sam.

Dr. Elton finished making a few notations on Dean’s chart and nodded at his patient. “Good work, Dean. I know it’s hard being stuck in the bed. You don’t strike me as a guy who sits still for long, but rest is the best thing for you right now.”

Dean shook his head. “I'll rest better if you let me outta here.”

Dr. Elton’s expression said he had fully expected a battle with his patient. “I know you’re starting to feel better but push yourself too soon and you’re going to relapse. That’s the last thing we want.” He walked to the side of the bed and clicked the safety rails of Dean’s bed back in place. “Just cut yourself some slack, OK?”

Dean’s glare over the rails going back up, an obvious attempt to keep his ass in bed, was the equivalent of a few four-letter words best not uttered in polite company.

Dr. Elton grinned. He’d seen, and heard, far worse. “Get some sleep, Dean. I think you’ll be amazed how much better you feel in the morning. You’re over the worst now. We just need to take it slow.”

Dean nodded curtly. Slow wasn’t in his vocabulary. He’d stick with his plan to check himself out the minute the doctor left the room. The plan’s main flaw was he was sound asleep before Dr. Elton and Terri were even out the door.

He’d woken hours later, momentarily confused about where he was. As the events of the past several hours and days came back to him as a collection of disjointed images, he frowned trying to figure out what time it was and cursing himself for falling asleep in the first place.

A young night nurse was in the room when he woke up. Telling her he needed to use the bathroom, he’d thrown off the blankets and moved to slide out of bed. The nurse lowered the safety rail and slid one arm around his waist and the other under his elbow as he made his way across the room. Dean was pissed he still needed the help, but took some solace from the fact the room didn’t twist and spin this time. Suddenly, his planned escape seemed a lot more doable.

By the time he got back to the bed, however, he felt like he’d just run a marathon. His choice of language to express his frustration had both shocked and impressed his nurse. He muttered an apology as he hauled himself stiffly into bed, where he lay recharging his batteries when Bobby arrived.

It seemed like Bobby had only just left the room to make his phone call when he suddenly reappeared, startling Dean. The fuzziness in his head told Dean he’d likely fallen asleep again. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to reclaim focus, frowning at Bobby. “Who were you calling?”

Bobby walked over to his bedside. “You remember an old Marine buddy of your Daddy’s by the name of Joe Patterson?”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Vaguely. Big guy….chopper pilot, right?”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah. He lives about 50 miles up the coast. Runs his own chopper business now. Hauls tourists around mostly but does some work with Search & Rescue. Also works with hunters on a fairly regular basis. I talked to him earlier tonight. When I told him Sam was missing, he volunteered one of his birds.

"Based on what you just told me and the information I've dug up, I think Sam's in the woods southwest of the river. Now we've got a place to start, I just called Joe back, took him up on his offer. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

“Where do we meet him?” Dean reached for the safety rail, trying to find the release mechanism that would lower it and allow him to climb out of bed.

“Just cool your jets, Dean.” Bobby placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, meeting resistance when he tried to press him back on his pillows. He noted that Dean’s breathing rate had quickened as impatience mixed equally with annoyance. But there was something else too. Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “You okay with this plan? I know how you feel about flying. I could always….”

“I’ll handle it. It’ll be fine.” Dean swallowed hard, trying to buy into the outright lie.“Besides, it’ll be the second time this week I’ve been up in a chopper. Third time this year.”

“First time conscious,” Bobby muttered.

“Not helping,” Dean snapped back.

Bobby bit back a smile. “Fine. But for now, just relax. Like I said, Joe won’t be here for a couple of hours. We need to use that time to go over what we know. Try and narrow down where Sam might be.”

“We can figure it out on the way to wherever he’s landing his chopper.” Dean threw back the covers. “I hope you brought me some damn clothes.”

“Dean, you sure you’re up for this? Why don’ t you let me…...”

“No way, Bobby. I’m not sitting on the sidelines here.” Dean finally found the release mechanism for the safety rail and pushed it down. “Now let’s go.’

“Go where?” Both men turned to face the doorway where Doc now stood.

“I don’t need a lecture, Doc,” Dean growled. “I just need to get outta here. We’ve got a way to check out what I, um, saw.”

Doc’s concerned expression turned hopeful as she walked into the room, looking from Dean to Bobby. “Catch me up.”

Bobby frowned as he took in Dean’s still-too-pale face, the dark circles that underscored his eyes and his constant wheezing. He turned to face Doc. “First things first.” He tilted his head toward Dean. “How’s he doing?”

“I’m right here, Bobby,” Dean growled, “and I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Bobby growled back. “Says the guy in the hospital bed. That’s why I’m asking Doc.”

Doc shook her head as she walked over to the foot of Dean’s bed. The two men’s words may have been spoken harshly but the mutual affection was obvious. She pulled Dean’s chart from the holder attached to the bed frame and scanned through the notations. Both men waited impatiently as she flipped through the numerous colour-coded sheets of paper and checked the results of his latest battery of tests.

She looked up to find Dean staring at her intently, almost daring her to find something, anything, that would stop him from going after Sam,

She snapped the chart shut and turned to Bobby. “He’s doing well…..”

Dean’s green eyes flashed at Bobby. “See. Told you.”

Doc frowned at Dean. “He’s doing well – when you consider that two days ago his heart stopped - three times - his core body temperature was 87 degrees and he took a blow to the head hard enough to scramble his memories from the few days prior to the accident. ….”

“Yeah, but I’m a quick healer,” Dean mumbled, not liking the turn the conversation was taking.

Doc moved round to the far side of the bed, to Dean’s left. Her brow furrowed in annoyance at the oxygen canula lying discarded on the blankets. ‘You’ve been out of bed?”

“Yeah, went for jog,” Dean snarked. “

“Dean.” Bobby’s voice was a low growl. “Don’t be a smartass. We’re on your side here.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine.’ Dean’s version of contrite told Doc he was anything but. “Crocodile Doc Elton came by earlier, gave me the okay to walk across the room. First time was a little shaky. Second time better.”

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

Dean shook his head. “Second time, nah,” he answered truthfully.

“Shortness of breath?”

The hesitation before Dean’s answer, combined with his audible wheezing, told Doc all she needed about his emphatic “No.”

“No? So you’re just working on your Darth Vader impression, huh? Doc ignored Dean’s glare. “How’s your headache?”

“It’s okay.” When her eyes didn’t waver, he sighed. “Still there, but better.”

Doc pulled a penlight from her pocket and shone it in Dean’s eyes. “How bad? On a scale of 1 to 10.”

“Dammit, Doc. Give a dude some warning.” He batted the light away and scrunched his eyes closed. “It was a 2 or a 3 – at least until you did that.”

“Sorry.” Doc dropped the penlight back in her pocket. “Okay, the good news: you’re doing well, especially considering what you’ve been through. The bad news, and it’s my responsibility as a doctor to tell you this, is you’re in no shape to go running off in search of Sam.” Dean started to interrupt but she cut him off. “No, Dean. As much as you like to think you’re invincible, you’re not. I know you’re starting to feel better but there’s still fluid in your lungs and without the oxygen and those antibiotics we’re pumping into you, you’re leaving yourself wide open for pneumonia to take hold. Your body needs to rest, you need….”

“I’ll rest when we get Sam back,” Dean snapped, more harshly than he intended. He shuffled guiltily when he saw Doc recoil. “Sorry.”

Doc smiled, shaking her head. “No apologies necessary. I know you’re worried about Sam but I’m worried about both of you.”

Dean gestured to the mass of medical equipment surrounding his bed. “I’m good. You and your fellow whitecoats made sure of that. Now it’s Sam we need to focus on.”

Doc exhaled as she took in the stubborn set of Dean’s jaw. This was one argument she wasn’t going to win. There was no way Dean would lie idly in a hospital bed when Sam was in trouble. With or without her, he was going to go after Sam. She crossed her arms and fixed Dean with an equally stubborn stare. “Okay. If, against my better judgment, I go along with this, we need to set some ground rules.”

Dean started to object but Bobby cut him off. “You set the rules, Doc. I’ll make sure Dean here plays by them.”

Dean fought back the instinct to protest. He was outnumbered and, if he was being completely honest, still felt like crap. As long as he got to join the search for Sam, he’d worry about ‘rules’ later. “Fine.”

Doc nodded. “First rule, the oxygen canula goes back on until we’re ready to leave. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Dean glowered but didn’t protest as Doc replaced the canula under his nose. His brow furrowed at her latest statement. “You said ‘we.’ You coming along too?”

Doc nodded. “When we find Sam, he’s going to need my help. He’s been out there for more than two days now.” She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze when she caught the flash of fear in his eyes. “Hey, you’re the one who told us Sam’s okay. He’s strong, he’s smart, he’s resourceful. Once we find him, with a little TLC, he’ll be good as new.”

Dean nodded turning to Bobby. “Doc said you were at the library earlier today. Is that where you figured out where we should start looking for Sam?”

Bobby nodded, pulling a sheaf of papers from inside his vest. “Yeah. I know who our bridge spirit is – and I think she’s making Sam relive history.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam had come to the bitter realization there was no way he was walking himself out of the woods.

His knee, even splinted, refused to hold his weight for more than a few steps at a time and, fuelled by exhaustion, dehydration and a concussion, his headache was constant and clouding his thinking.

It was a tough pill to swallow, but he had no choice but to stay where he was. All he could do was keep himself alive as long as possible and hope, and pray, he would be found. And that the imaginary version of his brother had been right – Dean was okay and would be leading the charge to find him.

Sam huddled by his meager fire, thinking back to a threat Dean had made after Sam had gone missing when he was possessed by Meg. Driving away from Bobby’s after they’d finally exorcised the demon, Dean had eyed his brother worriedly. “I swear to God, Sam, you go missing one more time, I’m gonna lojack your ass.”

Sam smiled tiredly at the memory. “Get me out of this mess, Dean, and I’ll lojack myself.”

But if Sam couldn’t save his own ass, the least he could do was try and figure out what had happened. Who was the spirit who had attacked Dean? Why had she attacked Sam and how had she dumped him here in the middle of nowhere? And how were the three spirits he’d run into connected? Sam didn’t believe in coincidence; there was a common thread that tied them all together; and finding that thread was the key to getting rid of the bridge spirit and Mary’s tormentor, and helping Mary find peace – not to mention making sure what happened to him and Dean never happened to anyone else.

Mary had agreed to show him where her remains lay but, with the small flashlight Sam usually carried on a hunt still in the pocket of the coat he'd lost at the bridge, he was forced to wait until morning. Mary might not need daylight to see where she was going but Sam did.

That meant another night outside after another day without food and very little water. The signs of dehydration were already present. No matter how long he lay by the fire, Sam couldn’t shake the chills that racked his body yet his skin felt warm to the touch; his breathing was labored, shallow and rapid, keeping time with the too-fast beating of his heart; his arms and legs tingled and his mouth felt like it was lined with cotton batting.

In the shadow of the evergreens that dotted the forest around the clearing, a few patches of snow lingered. Sam knew eating snow would speed up the onset of hypothermia but, in a move even MacGyver would be impressed with, he’d rigged up a means to melt the snow. With his pocket knife, he’d cut in half the leather pouch that held the lock pick tools. Taking one of the halves, he’d opened the pouch and scored a small hole in the top of each side. Through those, from the inside out, he’d threaded the prongs of a Y-shaped branch to hold the pouch open. Filling the pouch with snow he was then able to hold it over his fire until the snow melted. The leather of the pouch was getting damp but remained watertight at least long enough for him to drink the contents. It was a slow, laborious process, and god know what kind of crap he was ingesting with the water, but, so far, it had kept him alive and mostly functional.

Mostly. Sam knew the head injury and dehydration were taking a toll, his lucid moments increasingly further apart. He shivered and huddled closer to the fire, frustrated by his inability to think clearly. When he wasn’t simply unconscious, his thoughts were muddled and it required intense effort simply to focus. If he was on his game, he was sure he would have already figured things out, a fact that frustrated him even more. He was still trying to fit the pieces together when exhaustion once again won out over stubbornness and he fell into a fitful sleep.

When Sam awakened the sun was already high in the sky, meaning it was around mid-morning. His fire was out, thin tendrils of smoke rising from the ashes. He was stiff and cold, his teeth chattering as he slowly pushed himself up. His vision swam in and out of focus, like someone playing with a camera lens, before finally clearing.

He was trying to decide whether it was worth re-starting the fire when Mary appeared suddenly at the edge of the clearing, running breathlessly to his side.

Sam frowned at her wild-eyed expression and rapid breathing. “Mary?”

She dropped to her knees beside him, shaking her head. “I am alright, Sam Winchester.”

Sam’s eyes widened at the irony of that statement. “Did something happen? I mean, something other than, well……”

She shook her head, an almost perverse pride in her smile. “No, it is always the same. He is too slow, too loud – I always hear him coming. I was a little careless, perhaps; allowed him to get too close, but he never catches me.”

Sam studied Mary’s face intently. “He never caught you while you were alive, did he?”

Mary froze, then shook her head slowly. “No. Each time he came close, I was able to run away or hide. The only time he almost caught me was the time I hit him with a tree branch.” She reached over, tracing a ghostly finger gently down the side of Sam’s face, following the bruising that blackened his eye, cheek and jaw.

He winced at the icy feel of her touch, causing Mary to quickly pull her hand away. She smiled apologetically.

Sam shuffled uncomfortably, rubbing his own arms in an attempt to generate some heat. He studied the spirit now kneeling beside him, “Mary, who is he? The man chasing you…”

She tilted her head quizzically before shaking it softly. “I do not know. I had never once laid eyes on him before he and his partner came into my home.”

“What happened?”

Mary sat back on her heels, smoothing her long skirt over her legs. “I was at home with my mother. The door flew open and these two men barged in. They told us they needed a place to hide for a while, then they would go. One of them, the smaller man of the two, grabbed my mother by the arm and I told him to let her go. That’s when the big man, the one who still chases me, hit me. I fell, hit my head on the stove…. After that, my memories are unclear until I woke up here in the woods and the two men were arguing. Since then I have been running. Trying to get away from him, trying trying to find my way home but, no matter which way I run, I always end up here.”

Sam mentally kicked himself when he realized there was a something he should have asked Mary the first time they talked. “Mary, is there a bridge around here? The one that crosses the Crooked Arm River?”

Mary shook her head. “I know the bridge you speak of. It is not far from my home. But it is not around here – at least not that I have been able to find. If I could get back to that bridge, I could find my way home. But it is almost as if I am trapped here, like the forest will not let me leave.”

Sam knew it wasn’t the forest trapping Mary; it was her remains. If he had any hope of helping her move on, he’d have to find a way to salt and burn them.

Mary’s revelation about the bridge, however, threatened to eat up what little hope Sam had left. If he was nowhere near the bridge, his chances of being found ranged from slim to non-existent.

His breathing, shallow and rapid, kept tempo with the pounding in his head. For the first time since he woke up after the attack on the bridge, he felt very, very alone.

“Sam?”

He turned to see Mary watching him intently, worry painted across her face. He cleared his throat, swallowed, then, despite everything, smiled. “That’s the first time you haven’t used both my names,” he offered in answer to her puzzled frown. Sam wasn’t sure why that struck him funny but it did.

Mary shifted uncomfortably. “Did I offend you?”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look puzzled. “No. Why would I be offended?”

Mary shrugged. “I was always taught it was rude to use someone’s Christian name until invited to do so, and then only in the presence of a chaperone.”

It suddenly clicked in Sam’s foggy brain he was dealing with someone who lived over 100 years ago, in a time when rules of etiquette, especially between unmarried men and women, were far stricter. In his mind’s eye he could see Dean rolling his eyes.

He smiled. “Please, call me Sam. When you use both my names, it makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

Mary smiled softly at the battered man before her. “I think, perhaps, Sam Winchester, you are in trouble.”

Sam snorted. “A ghost with a sense of humour; now I’ve seen everything.”

Mary’s smile widened. “If I am being honest, I have never held much regard for the strict rules of etiquette.” Her smile turned into a grin. “And my instincts tell me you are no slave to convention, either.”

Sam returned her grin, nodding. “That’s one way of putting it. But if you think I don’t follow rules, wait 'til you meet my brother, Dean.”

Mary looked around expectantly. “He is coming here.”

Sam sighed, his smile slipping. “I sure as hell hope so.” He cleared his throat. “But until he finds us, I need to figure some things out.” His voice softened. “Can you take me to where you, um, where you found your…” Staring at the young woman in front of him, who seemed so vibrant, even in her ghostly form, it was hard for him to say such crass words as ‘body’ or ‘remains’ out loud.

Mary saved him the difficulty. She nodded, pushing herself to her feet. “I will show you.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked down at Sam. “How is it you are not afraid of me? I would have been terrified had a ghost, if that is what I am, appeared before me when I was alive.”

Sam pushed himself along the ground until he was next to a sturdy tree, using it to haul himself up. “Spirits,” he said, with a grunt, as he fought to find his balance, “it’s kinda what we do, my brother and I. We help people.”

Mary nodded. “You are a priest?”

Sam snorted. “Uh, no. We just know that sometimes things don’t follow the natural order as they should. And people, or the spirits they become, need a little help to move on.”

“You can help me move on….end this?”

“I hope so, Mary. I really do.”

Sam suddenly remembered something his imaginary brother had said. "Mary. The man chasing you. I don't think you killed him."

Mary's eyes widened. "How could you know that?"

Sam coughed and took a moment to reclaim his breath. "Next time he shows up, look at his face. There's no bruising. If he died from that blow to the head, his ghost should still have that injury."

Mary's eyes darted back and forth as she processed this new information. "But if that is the case, why am I still here?"

Sam closed his eyes, fighting against a wave of dizziness that suddenly washed over him. "I don't know, Mary. It's just one more part of the puzzle I'm still trying to figure out."

Mary began walking across the clearing, digesting this latest information. Sam followed slowly behind. Only a few unsteady steps later he stumbled, crashing heavily to the ground. The fall winded him. As he refilled his lungs, the cold air set off another fit of coughing.

When the coughing stopped, Sam’s chest was heaving with the exertion of simply trying to breathe. Mary appeared suddenly at his side, looking on worriedly. “Sam?”

“It’s okay. “ He offered her a tired smile. “Look, this isn’t going to be pretty. Walking just doesn’t seem to be in my repertoire at the moment. I’m going to have to drag my ass over there – literally.” He looked in the direction Mary had pointed earlier, to the spot where she had discovered the remains of her own body. “It’s not far, right?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s just beyond the clearing.”

“Okay.” Sam nodded, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He looked up at Mary. “Lead the way.”

He used a combination of army crawling and dragging himself backwards to haul himself along the ground. A half-hour later he was exhausted. The exertion has raised his body temperature further but, given his dehydrated state, he was sweating little.

When Mary stopped, Sam looked from her to the small hollow she was staring at.. With a groan he used the closest tree to haul himself up to a sitting position, then fell back exhausted against the same tree. He waved his arm weakly in the direction of the hollow. “There?”

Mary nodded, but said nothing.

Sam blew out a breath, then belly-crawled over to the hollow. At first there was nothing to see other than the desiccated leaves, broken branches and tiny saplings that littered the forest floor everywhere. A short time later, after digging through the dirt and leaves his hand soon hit something hard. It was a bone. Time and weather had long since broken down flesh and fabric and bones were all that were left. Gently, respectfully, Sam brushed away the dirt.

He turned to see Mary standing silently beside him. Her eyes glistened with tears. “At first you could see me, when the winds would come and blow away the leaves. Most times though, I stayed hidden. The same wind that uncovered me would return and hide me again. I have been hidden for a long time now.” She turned to face Sam, pain etched clearly across her pretty face. “Is that why I was never found?”

Sam swallowed hard. Right now Mary’s fear hit all too close to home. “I’m sure they looked for you, Mary. But hidden here, unconscious or……well, you would have been very hard to find. If you hadn’t shown me where you were, I never would have known.”

Mary nodded.

As Sam cleared more leaves from Mary’s bones, he noticed something tangled in the skeleton’s hand. Brushing aside more dirt revealed a gold chain, the gold dulled by age and exposure. Carefully, Sam extricated the necklace from the skeleton’s fingers. Pulling it loose revealed the broken chain was attached to a large, oval locket.

A delicate ‘G’ was engraved in the locket’s face. Sam turned to see Mary staring at the necklace in his hands. “It is my mother’s locket,” she said. “She tried to stop that man from taking me. I reached for her and, as the man pulled me away, the locket snapped off in my hand. I still had it clenched in my fist when I awoke here.”

Clumsily, Sam tried to open the locket, fumbling until a fingernail slid between the two halves and he was able to pop it open. Inside, protected from the elements, were two well-preserved tin-type photographs – one of three children and the other of a man and a woman.

Sam froze when he took in the woman’s face.

Turning to face Mary, he held open the locket. “This is your family?”

Mary smiled sadly. “Yes, my brothers and me when we were little, and my parents.”

Sam’s heart pounded against his chest as he stared again at the woman in the locket. Her face was kinder than he remembered but there was no mistaking it.

Mary’s mother was the spirit from the bridge.

CHAPTER 10

Dean was back in the Impala but he was not a happy man.

First, he was in the back seat. Doc had injected him with a painkiller as they left the hospital but, since a side effect was grogginess, had banned him from driving.

To prove another point, Doc had insisted he ride in a wheelchair for the trip to the hospital’s front entrance. That short ride quickly make it clear his hip wasn’t ready to be folded up behind the wheel any time soon. Even riding shotgun was out. That forced him, grumbling loudly, into the back, leaning against the door with his injured leg stretched out across the bench seat.

Second, he was about to go up in a helicopter. And for a man deathly afraid of flying, there was just no way to turn that into a good thing. But the chopper ride offered the best and fastest way to find Sam so, for that, Dean would suck it up

Bobby’s research had given them a logical place to start their search. He had shared his findings with Doc and Dean as they helped the elder Winchester make his escape from the hospital.

“Our vengeful spirit is a woman named Agnes Graham.”

Bobby passed Dean a sheet of paper containing a photocopied story from an old newspaper. Dean glanced at the article then up at Bobby. “Who is she?”

“Pillar of the community, as far as I could tell,” Bobby said. “Agnes and her husband Alistair lived on a small farm not far from here. He ran a lumber mill in town, they raised three kids, attended church every Sunday….nothing out of the ordinary….”

“Until….,” Dean prompted.

“Until a series of tragedies wiped out Agnes’ whole family. That sent her over the edge, figuratively and literally – she threw herself off that bridge in the fall of 1876. Body washed up a few miles downstream.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “So what set that chain of events in motion?”

“Two drifters.” Bobby checked the piece of paper in front of him. “Patrick Corrigan and Dan Shepherd. They’d robbed a bank two towns over and rode into Plymouth with bounty hunters on their tail.

“From all accounts I read, it was just bad luck for the Grahams that Corrigan and Shepherd chose their house to barge into looking for a place to hide out for the night. Only the women in the family – Agnes and her daughter Mary – were home at the time. Long story short, the robbers were spotted going in and a neighbor raised the alarm. Corrigan and Shepherd basically shot their way out of there, dragging Mary Graham with them as hostage.”

Dean, now dressed and lying on top of the bed covers, took in this latest information. “Obviously this is the part of the story where Aggie turns from pillar to pissed-off.”

Bobby nodded, dropping the rest of his papers on the bed beside Dean and shoving his hands in his pockets. “The Grahams, a few neighbors, the bounty hunters all took off after the robbers, tracked ’em down a few days later but Mary was no longer with them. After a little, um, encouragment, Shepherd admitted they’d dumped her in the woods, saying she was just slowing them down.”

“I’ve said it before, Bobby,” Dean growled. “Demons I get, people are crazy.”

“Yeah.” Bobby nodded. “And it gets worse. Search parties combed the woods for days looking for Mary but were never able to find her. She just vanished. The stress of it all caused Alistair to drop dead of a heart attack. That, combined with everything else, incensed Mary’s older brothers to the point they busted into the local jail and grabbed Corrigan and Shepherd, who were awaiting trial there. They hauled them back out into the bush, trying to force them to retrace their steps and show them where they’d dumped their little sister.”

“I think I would have liked these Graham boys.” Dean pursed his lips. “But I’m guessing the bad guys didn’t exactly trip over themselves to co-operate.”

Bobby shook his head. “Shepherd only made it as far as that bridge before taking a swan dive, pretty much like you did. Friends of the Graham family tried to say the guy fell or jumped trying to get away but, reading between the lines, seems more likely one of the Graham boys tossed him over the side. Might have been out of anger, might have been an attempt to get his partner to be more co-operative…….”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever. He got what he deserved, if you ask me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “But, since any story we end up in the middle of never has a happy ending, this Corrigan didn’t just roll over and start playing nice, did he?”

Bobby shook his head. “Nah, he sounds like one surly bastard. Accounts seem to vary on what happened next but all agree on the fact Corrigan ended up dead. They hauled his body out of the bush a week later, but never were able to find Mary.”

Dean nodded. “So that was the breaking point, huh? Agnes lost both her husband and daughter to these bastards, so….” Dean bit off his thought and stared at Doc. His stomach clenched as he realized the clear parallels to Doc’s tragic past. Evil had also claimed the lives of her husband and baby daughter. “You okay, Doc?”

She nodded slowly. “Part of me feels for Agnes. I wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on my worst enemy…..” Doc cleared her throat and looked from Dean to Bobby. “But, the fact remains: Agnes attacked Dean and it’s very likely she attacked Sam. Something pushed her over the edge….."

Bobby reached for another paper on the bed. “That something was the loss of her sons. The Graham boys were both charged with the vigilante murders of Corrigan and Shepherd, had the misfortune to draw a judge who believed ‘thou shalt not kill’ was absolute, and ended up hanging for their so-called crimes.

“The day after both her boys hanged, Agnes walked back down to the bridge and threw herself off. There were a couple of witnesses. Said she never hesitated. Just stepped over the railing and jumped.”

Dean clenched and unclenched his jaw. “So, Sam and I, we’re what - some kind of easy substitute for Corrigan and Shepherd? She gets her revenge on them by beating the crap out of us or anyone else who happens to cross that bridge?”

Bobby nodded, glancing at Doc. “The night Doc and I went out to the bridge, she ignored Doc completely, and went straight after me. All her victims have been men. She’s making the men who destroyed her family, or whatever substitutes she gets her hands on, pay over and over again for robbing her of her husband and children."

Doc frowned. “But if it’s simply revenge-fuelled misandry, wouldn’t the body count be a lot higher after all these years?”

Dean frowned at Doc. “Misan-what?”

“Women who hate men,” Bobby offered.

“Then why didn’t just say that?” Dean’s frown returned, betrayed by the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. “No wonder you and Sam get along so well. If he was a chick he’d be you – only taller.” He turned to Bobby. “How many kills is Agnes credited with, anyway?”

“She may have dispatched a few people no one missed or reported but the official tally is 17.” Bobby shrugged. “Best as I can tell, time of day has a lot to do with when she attacks. She used to go out to the bridge with her sons in the morning, to see them off when they went searching for Mary, then she’d meet them at the bridge at the end of the day when they returned. From the accounts I’ve read, if a time was noted, attacks took place either in early morning or early evening.”

Dean nodded, eyes darting back and forth as he tried to sort through this latest information. “But what about Sam? That vision, or whatever the hell it was, showed me he’s not in the water. Why not? Why didn’t she just toss him in the river right after me?”

“My guess is this.” Bobby pulled a sheet of paper from the pile on the bed and handed it to Dean. It was another photocopy of an old newspaper clipping, this one containing ‘Wanted’ poster sketched images of the two bank robbers.

Dean looked at the images and his chest tightened. “I’ve seen this guy before, Bobby.” Dean tapped the image of Patrick Corrigan, his brow furrowing. “How the hell would I know him?”

“The one on the left?” Dean nodded in answer to Bobby’s question. “Kinda looks like Sam, doesn’t he?”

Dean looked again at the sketch. “No. He doesn’t look anything like Sam.”

Bobby reached for another paper, containing a news article published while the manhunt for the two bank robbers was still under way. “Forget the pictures,” he said. “What if you didn’t know Sam, had only seen his once and had to give a general description. Corrigan is described as exceptionally tall, believed to be at least six feet, five inches, and wore his dark hair long and unkempt.” He stopped reading, raising an eyebrow at Dean.

“Still doesn’t explain where I’ve seen him before , but …..” Dean rolled his eyes, the puzzle pieces suddenly snapping together. “Okay. Now I get it. Corrigan didn’t die in the water. The Graham boys took him out into the woods and, when he wouldn’t co-operate, show them where he abandoned their sister, they either killed him or just left him there. Eye-for-an-eye stuff.”

Doc continued Dean’s train of thought. “Now, 130 years later, Agnes has had lots of time to get royally pissed off. She sees Sam, thinks he’s Corrigan and somehow dumps him in the woods, just like they did with the real Corrigan – and leaves him out there to die alone…...”

Bobby nodded. “Condemning him to the same fate as her daughter.”

“But how?” Doc folded her arms, looking from Bobby to Dean. “If she haunts the bridge, how’d she manage to dump Sam...wherever she took him?”

Bobby scratched the back of his head. “That’s the 64,000 question. When we’re dealing with the spirit world, it’s not, um, an exact science. Sure, there are certain basic rules but the circumstances of a person’s death always define the parameters of what a spirit can do. And since circumstances are always different, well, let’s just say it keeps us on our toes.”

Dean’s eyes fell on an article describing the search for Mary Graham. An image flashed through his head of a teenage girl with long, dark hair. “How old was Mary Graham?"

Bobby searched his memory, mentally sifting through the reams of records he had gleaned information from. "She was a teenager, 17, 18, I think."

"Sonovabitch.” Dean rubbed his temple as his headache ratcheted back up a notch. He turned to Bobby. “Any of these articles have a picture of her?”

Bobby shook his head. “Beyond ‘Wanted’ posters, most newspaper back then didn’t run many sketches. Why?.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Because I've got this image of a girl in my head and I think it might be Mary Graham. How the hell do I know what she looks like?"

Bobby’s eyebrow quirked at that news. “You sure it's her?”

Dean shook his head. “Hell, Bobby. I’m not sure of anything. You said they never found Mary. They never even found her body?”

Bobby shook his head again. “From what I read, no. I mean, there’s 150 square miles of forest out there today, just within the boundaries of the state park. A century ago, that wilderness stretched a hell of a lot further. Would be real easy for anyone to get hopelessly lost and never be found.”

Bobby caught the look of alarm that flashed across Dean’s face. “Hey, just remember, we’ve got a lot more options available to us today. We’re gonna find Sam.”

Dean’s gaze was fierce as his eyes met Bobby’s. “Damn straight we will.”

Dean, lost in thought replaying all the information Bobby had offered up before they left the hospital, jumped at the sound of knocking on the Impala window. The rear door on the passenger side opened and Doc leaned in. “How you doing?”

Dean sighed. “I’m fine, Doc. Quit worrying.”

Doc smiled softly. “Yeah, well you and I have very different definitions of the word ‘fine’ so forgive me if I do a little worrying. Did I mention this was a bad idea?”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, Doc. Only a hundred times.”

"Is that all? I'm slipping." Doc’s smile faded, replaced by concern for her friend. “The chopper’s on its way in. You sure you want to do this?”

“Try and stop me,” Dean growled. The sounds of the chopper were getting louder and Dean looked past Doc, trying to pick out the helicopter in the overcast sky. They’d hoped to get the search under way before daylight but Joe had been delayed and sitting around waiting was doing Dean’s nerves no favors; he needed to get the search going so he didn’t have to think about going up in the chopper any more. He shuffled round to open the door he had been leaning on and began the slow process of pulling himself out of the car.

From the hospital, Bobby had driven the Impala to the municipal dock where the chopper would land. Doc had followed in her own car a few minutes later. Not knowing what medical supplies would be stowed aboard the rescue helicopter, she’d stocked her own first-aid kit with as much as he could justify ‘borrowing’ from the hospital.

Now, both cars were parked side by side a safe distance from the heli-pad. As Dean pulled himself to standing, his wheezing turned to coughing as his lungs protested the unwelcome workout. Doc moved round to offer him a hand. Her quirked eyebrow dared him to refuse but his response was lost in the loud thudding of the rotor blades and high-pitched whine of the turbine engine as the helicopter came in for a landing.

Doc and Dean both turned their faces away, scrunching their eyes closed as the prop wash kicked up dust and an icy spray from the nearby river. As the rotors slowed, Dean lifted his head and squinted at the helicopter, seeing Bobby walking toward it, hunched over and one hand firmly holding his ball cap in place. The helicopter door opened and a tall man with a silver crew cut stepped out, extending his hand to Bobby, shaking it enthusiastically and clapping him on the shoulder. With the engine powering down, the pilot leaned in closely to hear what Bobby was yelling. He nodded as Bobby gestured in Dean’s direction and the two men began walking over to where Dean and Doc were standing.

Bobby took care of the introductions. “Joe, this is Dr. Kelly Caine; Doc, Joe Patterson.”

Doc smiled, shaking Joe’s hand. “Thanks for helping us.”

Joe nodded. “Glad I can, ma’am.”

Bobby turned to Dean. “And you already know Dean.”

Joe smiled. “It’s been a while. You were a good deal smaller the last time I saw you.” He shook Dean’s hand warmly but his smile faded. “I was sorry to hear about your daddy, son. He was a good man. Stubborn as an old goat, and twice as ornery on a good day, but nobody I’d rather have at my back in the middle of a shitstorm.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled, Joe’s blunt manner quickly setting his at ease. “Thanks.”

Joe turned to a small, wiry man who had exited from the far side of the chopper and crossed the heli-pad to join the group. “Everyone, this is Artie Knaff, my co-pilot. Artie, you know Bobby, and this is Dean and Doc Caine.”

Artie nodded, offering a wide, genuine smile. “Glad, I could help. We’ve just got a few things to go over then we can get going.”

Dean frowned. “What things?”

Joe smiled. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here, and guess none of you has rappelled from a helicopter before.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Why the hell would we have to do that?”

Joe gestured to the woods on the far side of the river. “If your brother is lost out there somewhere, there’s a good chance when we find him there’ll be no place clear enough to land the chopper. If that’s the case, you’re gonna have to rappel down to him. We need to show you how to fasten and unfasten the safety harness so, when the time comes, we can get you down to him, and then back up into the chopper, ASAP.”

He looked from Bobby to Dean. “Under normal circumstances, I’d have a full crew with me to handle this sort of thing, but Bobby said you wanted to keep this under the radar. Am I right?”

Bobby nodded. “Yeah, the fewer people who know what we’re doing, the better.”

Joe clapped Bobby on the shoulder. “As far as the authorities are concerned, I’m testing out some new Search and Rescue equipment. We won’t be bothered. Now, let’s show you how this equipment works.”

Dean swallowed. This day was going from bad to worse. Not only was he going up in a helicopter, there was a good chance he’d soon be swinging from a cable beneath one. “Sam, you better be okay,” he muttered to himself, “because I am so gonna kill you for making me do this.”

Out loud, he said simply, “Fine. What do we need to know?”

Artie tilted his head quizzically as he took in Dean’s pallid complexion and labored breathing. “You sure you’re up for this, son?”

Dean glared at him. “I’m fine. Let’s just do it.”

Joe smiled at Bobby. “I see Johnny’s stubborn gene lives on in another generation.”

Bobby nodded as they walked toward the chopper. “Yeah, and wait ’til you meet Sam now he's all grown up. All the time I’ve known’em, still haven’t decided who’s the most pig-headed.”

Joe and Artie quickly and efficiently showed their three passengers how the rappelling harnesses worked and how to attach it to a rescue litter if Sam was injured and couldn’t move under his own steam. The next lesson showed them how to operate the two cameras mounted on gimbals on the underside of the fuselage. The cameras each offered 360-degree views of the ground, the images transmitted to monitors inside the chopper. The cameras were also equipped with thermal imaging technology, capable of picking up heat signatures almost a kilometer away. That would allow them to scan thick brush the ordinary cameras couldn’t see through and, if necessary, continue the search after dark.

Bobby shook his head. “Pretty fancy set up, Joe.”

Joe smiled. “Yeah, well, since I often help boys in, um, your line of work, I made a deal a few years back with one of the manufacturers. We field test new equipment, put it through its paces then provide them will a full report on how it stacks up in action.” His smile widened. “We might leave out a few of its more, er, unique applications but it’s a good deal for both sides.”

He slapped Bobby on the shoulder as he opened the door to climb into the pilot’s seat. He glanced over at Dean, taking in the worry painted clearly across the younger man’s face. He smiled reassuringly. “Hey, let’s go find that brother of yours.”

xxxXXXxxx

Sam stared at the women in the locket. He slumped back against the tree as the shock of recognition set in. Mary’s mother was the spirit who haunted the bridge; the spirit who had thrown Dean in the river and tossed his butt into the middle of nowhere.

Sam’s breathing rate quickened as he turned to look at Mary. “You said your memories of your kidnapping are unclear, but what do you remember?”

Mary frowned as she tried to pull up the memories. “I remember shouting, I remember some gunfire, I remember being dragged outside and being pulled up on a horse. The last thing I heard was my mother calling my name. I think she was crying, but everything is so jumbled, so …..I am uncertain.”

Sam flashed back to the images planted in his mind by the bridge spirit. They were Mary’s memories. Or the memories of someone who shared her experiences; her mother.

Sam’s eyes darted back and forth as the puzzle pieces fell into place. Mary’s mother apparently blamed him, and all her other victims, for Mary’s kidnapping and subsequent death.

He looked down at Mary’s remains. He wasn’t sure whether she died of exposure, the blow to the head or a combination of the two. But, whichever way you looked at it, her tormentor caused her death. Had he not hit her, had he not taken her from her home, she would not have died alone and scared in the middle of nowhere.

Sam stared at the locket in his hand and tried to reconcile the woman in the photograph it contained with the angry spirit on the bridge. They were obviously the same person but the woman who attacked him bore no trace of the warm smile so evident in the woman in the picture. Time and grief had obviously taken their toll, twisted her mother’s spirit into something far different than she was in life.

As Sam glanced at Mary, he saw she was staring at the locket he held. As she looked up at Sam, her eyes glistened. “When I hid from him, I was cold, I was scared so I held on to that locket. It was like having my family with me.

She looked again at Sam, an almost embarrassed smile crossing her face. “I am sure I sound like a silly girl to you, but it gave me strength.”

Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t sound silly at all. It…..” Sam had been staring at the locket, at the photos it contained, when he suddenly noted a feature he’d missed earlier. Under the glass, between the beveled edges of the locket that held the photo of the three Graham children, and encircling the photo, was a tiny braid.

Sam held up the locket as he turned to Mary. “The braid? Is that hair?”

Mary nodded. She smiled softly. “Yes, it is a family tradition; a few strands of baby hair from all three children, me and my brothers, woven together with some of my mother’s hair. It represents a mother’s life, always intertwined with her children’s.”

Sam’s eyes widened. The locket contained a physical link to Mary’s mother. Angry spirits were generally locked to one place While he wasn’t sure how Mary’s mother died, he’d put money on the fact it had something to do with the bridge. He rubbed his temple, willing his fuzzy mind to clear. If Mom died on the bridge, that explained why she haunted it, but not how she had been able to transport Sam miles away. The tiny braid in the locket offered a possible answer; a physical piece of her was here in the woods and that just might be enough for her to maintain a connection between the two sites.

Sam was exhausted and it was getting harder and harder to think clearly. Without the tree at his back, he doubted he had the strength to remain sitting up. He blew out a breath and again fought to find focus. On a good day, dealing with the supernatural was far from an exact science and this was anything but a good day. And something was bothering him. If Mary’s mom could somehow transport him from the bridge to the middle of nowhere, could she do the same with herself?

Sam turned again to Mary. “When was the last time you saw your mother?”

Mary frowned. “I told you. When those men came and took me from my home.”

Sam nodded, fighting to sort through this new information. “But you’ve never seen her out here?”

Mary’s frown deepened. “No, of course not. If she had found me, I would no longer be here.”

“No, I mean since you, um, died. You haven’t seen her spirit.”

Mary looked horrified at the suggestion. “Her spirit? Why…”

Sam stomach lurched, and this time not from the nausea “I’m sorry.” Sam’s fuzzy brain had forgotten that Mary had no idea her beloved mother was now an angry spirit who had been haunting a bridge for more than a century. “I’m just trying to...”

Sam’s apology was cut off by the sound of someone barreling toward them through the brush. His head snapped to the right in time to see the lumbering form of Mary’s tormenter fade into sight about 15 feet away.

His eyesight much improved since their last encounter, Sam got his first good look at the spirit of the man who caused Mary’s death and continued to torment her more than 100 years later. He was a big man, similar in height to Sam but with a beefier build. His hair was long and dark and a few days worth of stubble framed a hard, cruel mouth. His eyes narrowed as he smiled coldly. His run slowed to a walk as he neared Mary, his rolling gait suggesting a life spent on horseback.

Mary stood to face him, shoulders pressed back defiantly. She returned his smile in kind and her eyes flashed angrily. She glanced at Sam, spun quickly and took off at a run, daring her tormenter to follow.

But unlike every other time over the past 130 years, this time he didn’t.

He stopped right in front of Sam, his expression stony as he stared down at the man slumped against the tree. He looked from Sam to the direction in which Mary had run off then back down to Sam. But this time he was smiling – and there was nothing in the smile to like.

With no warning he leaned down, grabbed Sam by the neck and hauled him up to his feet. Sam gasped for air as the beefy hand closed tightly around his windpipe and slammed him into the tree he had been leaning against only moments earlier. Sam’s vision swam and he pawed helplessly at the spectral hand that held him in place.

“I hope you’re listening, missy,” the spirit bellowed. “Unless you haul you pretty little behind back here by the time I count to 10, your new friend here is about to meet his maker.”

A gold tooth glinted as he leaned in, his face inches from Sam. He laughed as Sam coughed and spluttered, fighting to breathe through the spirit’s choking hold.

“One…..two…..

CHAPTER 11

“Are you humming Metallica?”

Inside the helicopter, they all wore headsets so they could hear each other over the deafening thudding of the rotor blades. Dean’s humming was being transmitted clearly to everyone on board.

Dean frowned in response to Doc’s question. “It calms me down.”

Doc smiled. “Calm is good.” She quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “But ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls'?’”

Dean ignored the question and continued humming, keeping his eyes glued to the monitor in front of him.

The search for Sam began in the southwest quadrant of the state park, the area Bobby’s research showed Patrick Corrigan’s body had been found in, and followed a classic grid pattern.

Dean was at the controls of one of the cameras mounted on the underside of the helicopter’s fuselage, Bobby the other. Doc scanned the monitors displaying the images the cameras tracked and used a pair of binoculars to scan the ground below through the open side door of the helicopter.

Doc also kept a worried eye on Dean. For the most part, his fear for Sam’s safety was overriding his fear of flying, until the chopper banked sharply or dropped suddenly to closer check out an image picked up by the cameras. Then she’d see him tense, close his eyes and swallow as he waged an internal battle to maintain control. Twice already she’d forced an oxygen mask on him to ease his breathing; his weak objections telling her all she needed to know about his current state of mind.

Just prior to take off, she’d also taken him aside after withdrawing a syringe from her medical bag. “If you’re determined to do this, I can freeze your hip to make it easier for you to move around.” Her frown deepened in concern. “Don’t kid yourself, you’ll pay for it later when the freezing wears off but, for now at least……”

“Just do it,” Dean growled, undoing his jeans so she could jab the needle into his hip. The numbness allowed him to sit in the cramped chopper seats and concentrate on operating the cameras but Doc still caught the occasional wince and sharp intake of breath if he moved too quickly the wrong way.

The search had been under way now for more than three hours. There had been a couple of false alarms. Dean’s heart had begun racing the first time he’d seen movement on the thermal imaging camera but it had turned out to be a deer. Dean knew Sam would give him no end of grief about that mistake when he heard about it, and, given Bobby’s face when they discovered ‘Sam’ was actually Bambi’s mom, he had no doubt Sam would hear about it.

But, hell, Sam could give him grief six ways from Sunday about anything he damn well pleased as long as they got him back safe.

A few moments earlier, Joe had said they had about another hour before they’d have to turn back for refueling. Dean wanted to keep going as long as possible; his gut telling him they were close. Sam was close. That instinct proved solid when Bobby’s voice suddenly crackled over the headsets. “I think I’ve got something; there’s movement to the west, at 11 o’clock.”

Dean’s eyes darted from the images his own camera was displaying to the monitors showing what Bobby had found. Joe banked the chopper to the left and dropped altitude, zeroing in on the co-ordinates Bobby had given him.

Dean stared at the monitor. “What, Bobby? What do you see?”

“Wait for it.” Bobby’s voice was calm. “There’s a stand of evergreens blocking our view right now. Wait ’til Joe circles round then look to the right of the screen.”

Dean’s eyes were glued to the monitor. His heart rate increased and every drop of moisture in his mouth suddenly evaporated. The chopper moved slightly to the left - and then Dean saw him. Branches obscured his view of Sam’s face but there was no mistaking those long legs. A broad grin broke out across his face but disappeared almost immediately when he realized Sam was struggling.

“What the hell’s goin’ on? Looks like something’s got him pinned.” Dean glanced up a Bobby, his breathing rate increasing noticeably. “Can you see what it is?”

Bobby shook his head as he zoomed in the camera, his eyes never leaving the monitor. “Uh-uh. I can't get a good angle.” Whatever was holding Sam, wasn’t showing up on the cameras.

Joe’s voice crackled over the headsets. “Switch to thermal imaging.”

“What?”

“Use thermal imaging. It’ll pick up heat signatures, even through the trees.”

Dean glared in the direction of the cockpit. “I don’t give a damn what the cameras show. My brother’s in trouble. Get me on the ground. Now.”

Joe’s voice was calm, in direct contrast to Dean’s worried anger.

“Son, I can land this bird on a dime. What I can’t do is land it in the treetops. I’m gonna move off to that clearing to the south and we’ll lower you down there.”

“Do it quick, Joe.” There was an urgency in Bobby’s voice that belied his calm manner. “Sam’s definitely not alone down there. And whatever’s with him, it isn’t friendly.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he looked from Bobby to the monitor displaying the image he had captured in freeze-frame from the thermal imaging camera. Sam showed up as the familiar orange-red heat signature. What worried Bobby was the blue-green image right beside Sam, an image that illustrated a sudden, drastic drop in temperature, something that Bobby and Dean both knew meant only one thing: the presence of a spirit.

xxxXXXxxx

The spirit of Paddy Corrigan was strong, easily pinning Sam against the tree. The younger Winchester’s feet were barely touching the ground, intensifying the pressure on his throat. His vision swam in and out of focus as he fought to draw in air. He heard the spirit’s voice calling to Mary but it sounded like a tape playing at the wrong speed. Sam tried to cry out, warn Mary not to listen, but the spirit tightened his grip on Sam’s throat, making it impossible to speak.

He was aware of the spirit laughing at him, leaning in close as he began counting. Why the hell was he counting? Sam had been having a hard time thinking clearly before the spirit grabbed him and the lack of oxygen now made it next to impossible.

“Three…..four…..”

The spirit leaned in closer and even in his semi-lucid state, Sam gagged at the sour whiskey smell that enveloped him. He coughed weakly, gasping for air.

Realizing his captive was about to pass out, the spirit loosened his grip. Suddenly able to breathe, Sam sucked in air greedily which set off a new spate of coughing as soon as the cold air hit his lungs.

The spirit smiled, using his free hand to pat Sam’s cheek mockingly. “It’s a shame, boy. I don’t think that little hussy cares for you as much as you thought she did. Looks like she’s quite happy to sit back and watch you die. Let’s test that theory, huh?”

With his left hand still holding Sam by the throat, the spirit’s right hand curled into a fist which he drove suddenly into Sam’s stomach. Corrigan laughed cruelly as Sam coughed and sputtered. He tightened his grip on Sam’s throat once again.

“Five….six……”

He turned away from Sam, yelling over his shoulder and into the forest where Mary had run off. Sam’s vision wavered; he could see the spirit’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear his words, his voice disappearing inside a loud thud-thud-thud that suddenly filled the air. The spirit seemed oblivious to the noise but it was all Sam could focus on. It took a moment for the familiar sound to register in his fuzzy brain but when recognition hit, he struggled to smile. It was a helicopter. He’d been found.

If he could, he would have laughed at the irony. He was about to die at the hands of a spirit just as the cavalry appeared on the horizon.

The spirit sensed Sam’s struggling increase as he strained to see the helicopter, which was obscured by the nearby stand of evergreen trees. Corrigan turned to face him, tightening the pressure on Sam’s throat. Lack of oxygen caused Sam’s vision to grey at the edges. Fighting to stay conscious he scanned the trees, searching for any sign of the helicopter that sounded like it was right above him.

If the spirit who held him was aware of the approaching chopper, he made no sign. His grip on Sam’s neck tightened even more.

“Seven….. Eight……”

Sam saw the spirit’s lips move but the beating of the helicopter’s rotors drowned out all other sounds. Sam felt himself slipping, catching only a brief glimpse of the red chopper through the trees just before his greying vision turned black.

“Let him go. He means nothing to you.”

Corrigan maintained his hold on the unconscious Sam as he turned and glared at Mary’s spirit, who reappeared suddenly about 10 feet from the two men.

The glare morphed slowly into an evil smile. “You’re right, he means nothin’ to me – but obviously he means somethin’ to you. That’s three times now I’ve caught you alone with him. How improper.”

Mary’s eyes glittered angrily. “It’s me you want. Let him go.”

Corrigan’s hand slid from Sam’s throat and fisted in Sam’s sweatshirt, keeping him pinned against the tree. With his free hand, he motioned to Mary. “Get over here.”

Mary’s jaw clenched. “Let him go first.”

Corrigan slammed Sam into the tree angrily. “Don’t you get all uppity with me, missy. If you don’t want me to snap you new beau like a twig, haul your little fanny over here - now.”

Mary’s glare softened as she looked at Sam. His head was hanging forward, his arms limply at his sides. Only Corrigan’s fisted grip was keeping him upright. Her expression hardened as she turned again to her tormentor.

“Why?”

Corrigan scowled at the unexpected question. “Why, what?”

“All this time, why do you still chase me?”

Corrigan’s face twisted into a warped smile. “I’m just fulfilling a promise – to that snot-nosed brother of yours.”

“My brother?” Mary’s intent was simply to divert Corrigan’s attention from Sam while she figured out a way to help him, but discovering her brother was somehow connected to this vile man was a startling revelation. “How could you know my brother?”

Corrigan used his free hand to pull up his dark leather coat and heavy flannel shirt, revealing a gaping wound in his lower back. “Who’dya think I have to thank for this? Little bastard stuck me when I wouldn’t show’em where we dumped you.”

Mary’s eyes glistened as she thought about her two protective older brothers. For one of them to have stabbed this man, they must have out of their minds with worry. Her gaze hardened as she met Corrigan’s cruel eyes. “If that is what killed you, my only regret is that the knife was not in my hand.”

Corrigan laughed. “Aren’t you the feisty little whore? His mouth hardened into a sneer. “I warned him, if he left me out here to die, I would make you pay. I would track you down and make you suffer if it was the last thing I did.”

Mary recoiled at the venom in Corrigan’s words. He had made a promise in life and fulfilled it in death.

Corrigan saw Mary’s gaze move to Sam. His hold on Sam’s shirt tightened. “I don’t know who this whelp is, but unless you wanna watch him die, get over here.” His eyes narrowed as his cruel smile returned. “Where was I? Nine…..Te…..”

A blast cut off Corrigan’s countdown. Mary’s eyes widened as Corrigan dissipated with a bellow and Sam crumpled to the ground, landing face down at the base of the tree. Her gaze snapped to the left, toward the origin of the blast. Standing there was an older man, a still smoking shotgun in his hands. He was breathing hard, moving slowly toward Sam but his eyes were fixed on Mary.

She stayed frozen in place, watching as he crossed to Sam’s side.

“Sam?” The man’s voice was gruff but worried. He crouched beside Sam, eyes still glued on Mary, shotgun at the ready, as he reached down and touched Sam’s neck. The man then reached inside his jacket, withdrew a small black box and spoke into it. “I’m with Sam. He’s breathing but he’s gonna need your help, Doc. And be careful. We’ve got company.”

The man’s eyes never left Mary as he tucked the black box back inside his jacket.

Mary was puzzled by the man’s actions but he seemed no threat to Sam. In fact, he seemed to care about him. And the blast from his shotgun had made her tormentor vanish. The problem was he wasn't gone; she could still feel his presence. Perhaps she could lure him away while this man helped Sam.

Mary glanced at Sam, who lay, unmoving, where he had fallen. As she lifted her gaze she met the eyes of the man beside him. She smiled sadly, and faded from sight.

Bobby watched her disappear and then turned his full attention to Sam.

There had been the predictable argument in the helicopter over who would rappel down first, with Dean adamant it would be him. Only when Bobby had stated the obvious, that they needed to get to Sam ASAP and Dean’s hip injury and breathing problems meant he was in no shape to run, had he relented. Bobby had taken off at a sprint, shotgun in hand, the moment his feet touched the ground and he’d unhooked the harness.

He saw Sam before he cleared the trees and, for the first time, caught sight of the spirit holding him in place. He pushed himself to run faster when he realized Sam was no longer struggling. Bobby cut to the right, approaching the spirit at an angle to give him a clear shot without hitting Sam. He raised the shotgun as he ran, experience countering his rapid breathing and keeping his aim steady. He fired and, while the spirit disappeared when hit with the blast of rock salt shot, Bobby knew it would be back.

Once Bobby had rappelled down and Artie had winched up the cable, Dean had moved in to go next. Doc placed a hand on his chest and shook her head.

“Is there anything I can say, other than this is a really, really bad idea, that will stop you from doing this. You heard Bobby’s radio call. Sam’s breathing. Please. Stay here. Let me go down, then Bobby and I will bring him out.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “I’m not sitting this one out, Doc. Not ’til I see for myself Sam’s safe.”

Doc’s steely gaze met Dean’s. “Fine, but I’m going down first.” Doc cut off Dean’s interruption before he even started. “Trust me. You’ll want me on the ground when you get there.”

Doc took off her headset and fastened on the harness. She grabbed her medical bag, blew out a deep breath to steady her nerves and stepped from the helicopter, allowing the winch to lower her down.

Dean kept his thoughts on Sam. He didn’t want to dwell on how crappy he felt. He didn’t want to think about what he was about to do. He was trying to ignore completely where he currently was. He focused on his brother. Sam was right there, just beyond the trees, and he needed to get to him.

With Doc safely on the ground, Artie handed the rappelling harness to Dean, who fastened it on as instructed, deliberately ignoring his shaking hands. He looked out the open door of the helicopter and to the ground beneath. He felt his mouth dry out and his heart beat faster and faster, those all-too-familiar invisible bands tightening around his chest making his congested lungs work harder and harder.

His breathing was shallow and rapid as he turned around, his back to the open doorway. His vision swam and he realized his hands had a death grip on the sides of the doorway. “It’s no time to be a pansy-ass,” he admonished himself silently. “Just do it.”

With one final exhale, he closed his eyes and stepped backward into nothing.

His stomach lurched and his heart rate ramped up again when he bounced in the air as the line pulled taut. Pain exploded across his chest and his vision whited out behind his closed lids. He heard a cry of pain and it took a moment to register it was his own voice.

He had no recollection of the descent, only his feet touching the ground and crumpling beneath him. He was aware of Doc’s arm around him as he slumped against her. The sound of his own labored breathing echoed in his ears, despite the overwhelming thudding of the helicopter overhead. He felt an oxygen mask suddenly pressed against his face and the sharp jab of a needle in his arm.

He peeled his eyes open. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against Doc, his head on her shoulder. The noise of the helicopter faded into the distance as Doc waved it off and Joe swung the chopper round to check out Sam and Bobby.

Dean curled an arm protectively around his chest. “Sonavabitch, Doc. What the hell was that?”

There was no mistaking the worry in Doc’s voice “That was too much, too soon.” She felt Dean tense, his arm tightening around his chest as he fought to push back the latest wave of crushing pain. “Breathe through it, breathe through it….that’s it. It’ll take a couple of minutes for the morphine to take hold, then you’ll start to feel better.”

He grimaced against the pain. “Sam….”

“Bobby’s with Sam. You heard him on the radio. Sam’s breathing. As soon as I know you’re okay, I’ll go take care of your brother.”

Dean’s breathing gradually slowed and deepened and the pain in his chest turned from blindingly sharp to a dull ache. Slowly, Doc sat him up, hesitated for a moment until she was sure he was steady, then moved round to face him.

Dean rubbed his chest, grimacing. “What the hell, Doc?”

Doc shook her head, sliding her hands under Dean’s shirt to check out his ribcage. “Two days ago they were pounding on your chest, trying to keep you alive. The fact they didn’t break any ribs in the process, was a miracle in itself. If there were any hairline fractures, that little trip down from the helicopter likely made them worse. Hence the reason you’re in a world of hurt right now.” She unzipped a pocket on her jacket and pulled out a stethoscope, sliding it under his shirt to listen to Dean’s heart and his lungs. When she was finished, her worried gaze met his and she shook her head.

Dean pulled the mask from his face. “What?”

“You have some angel watching over you.” She smiled giving his shoulder a squeeze. Your heart’s beating a little fast but that’s not surprising given what you’ve just been through. You feel dizzy, light-headed?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, it was just the pain in my chest. Felt like that angel you mentioned was stomping on it. It’s better now.”

Doc quirked an eyebrow. “I want to get over to Sam but if….”

Dean cut her off by handing the oxygen mask to Doc. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

Dean pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, accepting Doc’s help without protest.

Dean wanted to run, get to Sam as quickly as possible, but his body just laughed at that idea. He focused on simply walking in a straight line. He also didn’t object when Doc shifted the bag of medical supplies she was carrying to her left shoulder and slid her right arm around his waist, offering support. Dean couldn’t afford pride right now. He put his arm across Doc’s shoulders and kept moving.

Dean’s chest tightened again as they cleared the trees and he caught sight of Sam. His brother was lying face down on the ground beside Bobby. “Sammy?”

“He’s breathing, Dean.” Bobby’s voice tried to be reassuring but couldn’t quite cover his worry.

Dean grimaced as he dropped to the ground beside Sam, ignoring the pull of his injured hip and placing his hand on Sam’s neck. The faint beat of a pulse beneath his fingers was only slightly comforting. The side of Sam’s face that wasn’t pressed into the ground was a mass of bruises, his eye swollen shut. Where the skin wasn’t bruised it looked flushed. Dean touched the back of his fingers to Sam’s forehead and it felt warm, way too warm considering Sam had been lost outside in the middle of March for almost three days.

“Sammy?” Dean rested his hand worriedly on the shoulder of his way-too-still brother. “Time to wake up, bro. We’re gonna take you home.” His chest tightened further when Sam didn’t move. He glanced up at Doc who was already listening to Sam’s lungs with her stethoscope. “We’ve gotta help him. Where the hell do we start?”

After listening to Sam’s heart, Doc pulled the stethoscope from her ears and began checking his bruised neck before pulling a penlight from her pocket, gently opening his mouth and shining it down Sam’s throat. “We start by making sure he’s breathing and keeps breathing.” Her eyes met Dean’s. “So far, so good. There’s a little swelling in his throat, likely from whatever caused these.” She pointed to the bruises that mottled the skin on either side of Sam’s throat. “But, so far, his airway is clear.”

Doc continued her examination of Sam, her deft fingers gently probing the bruising around his eye and down the side of his face. Running her hands over his head, she frowned as found a large welt just behind his ear. She glanced up at Bobby. “Was he like this when you found him?”

Bobby shook his head. “He was pinned against the tree but went down as soon as I dropped the spirit holding him there.”

Doc’s gently pried open Sam’s eyes and used the penlight to check for pupil reaction. Dean watched Doc work then glanced at Bobby. “What the hell was it, Bobby? What did this to him?”

Bobby’s voice was steady. “I’d put money down it was the spirit of Patrick Corrigan. Got a good look at the ugly bastard before I shot him full of rock salt.”

“The bank robber?” The surprise in Dean’s eyes morphed quickly into anger. “Dude’s lucky he’s dead but there’s nothing I’d like better than to kill him all over again.”

Dean turned back to Sam, glancing up at Doc. “So? How’s he doing?”

Doc kept working. “Like I said, he’s breathing. His heart rate and respiration are a little too fast for my liking but likely because he’s dehydrated.”

Dean’s hand was resting on Sam’s. “That’s why he’s so warm, huh?”

Doc nodded.

John Winchester had explained the dangers of dehydration to his boys when they were still young. “Imagine the Impala’s engine running without any fluids,” he’d said. “It’ll keep going, trying to do its job, but it’ll overheat and, eventually, break down. Your body’s just like an engine. Always make sure you’ve got water with you, especially when you head into remote places.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the memory. Great advice but kidnappings by nasty spirits were a little hard to plan for.

Doc offered Dean a tight smile before turning her attention back to Sam. “Get the oxygen out of the bag, Dean, and put the mask on Sam. That’ll help. Then once we get him turned over, I’ll get an IV started.”

Dean grabbed the oxygen but frowned as Doc reached in the bag and pulled out a neck brace. “What’s that for?”

Doc caught the look of alarm that flashed across Dean’s face. “Because of this bruising across his back, I’m gonna put a C-collar on him to keep his neck stable until we can get him properly x-rayed.” She smiled reassuringly. “I don’t think we’re dealing with any serious spinal injuries. It just pays to be cautious, okay?”

Dean nodded as settled the oxygen mask on Sam’s face.

Doc reached into the supply bag and pulled out a space blanket, using her teeth to rip open the plastic packaging. She unfolded the blanket and laid it on the ground beside Sam before glancing up at Bobby. “Give us a hand here to roll him over. Dean, hold his head steady. On three, roll him toward me. Ready? One, two, three.”

Despite their efforts to be careful, none missed Sam’s groan of pain as they moved him onto the blanket.

“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes jumped from Sam to Doc and back to Sam, but his brother showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

Doc glanced at Bobby before sliding her hands under Sam’s shirt, checking his ribs and abdomen for any further injuries. “Would be a good idea to call your pilot friend up there, Bobby. Tell him to send down the litter and a backboard. Sam’s not walking out of here under his own steam.”

Bobby nodded, pulling the radio from inside his vest to make the call. After a brief conversation, he motioned to the clearing they’d rappelled down to. “Joe’s gonna lower the litter over there. I’ll be right back.”

Doc nodded, then turned back to Sam. Catching the fear that flashed in Dean’s eyes when she’d noted Sam wasn’t walking himself out, Doc offered another tight smile. “Like I said, Dean. I’m just being cautious. Sam’s been out here a long time and, by the looks of it, he’s been through a lot.”

Dean nodded, then frowned at Doc’s puzzled expression. “What?”

As Doc had cut open the sleeve of Sam’s hoodie to start the IV, she noticed a gold chain trailing from Sam’s hand. Gently, she peeled back his fingers to reveal the necklace he had locked in his grasp. She held it up for Dean to see. “You ever see that before?”

Dean took the locket and turned it over in his hand, shaking his head. “Never.”

He shoved it in his pocket and returned his attention to Doc’s examination of Sam.

She next removed the rudimentary splint Sam had applied to his right leg, cut open his jeans from the cuff to mid-thigh and surveyed the extent of the injury to his knee.”

Dean swallowed as he took in the mass of bruising that encircled Sam’s badly swollen knee. “You can fix it, right?”

Doc nodded. “With time.” She took an inflatable cast from the supply bag and slid the C-shaped plastic outer shell under Sam’s leg and pulled the inflatable sock it contained over his foot and up above his knee. She handed the pump to Dean. “Inflate the cast. It’ll keep the knee stable until we get him a proper brace at the hospital.”

Dean was about to nod when the spirit of a young woman materialized suddenly behind Doc. He reacted on instinct, dropping the pump Doc had just handed him and reaching under his shirt for the gun stashed in the waistband of his jeans. Doc’s eyes widened in shock as Dean pulled out the gun and pointed it toward her. She scrambled out of the way when she realized he was aiming over her shoulder.

Dean had a clear shot but hesitated. It was the girl whose image had flashed through his head when they were back at the hospital talking about Mary Graham. Was this Mary?

He frowned, puzzled, when he saw fear flash across the spirit’s face. Mary glanced at Sam then turned back to Dean. Raising her arm, she pointed behind him. “He’s here.”

The hairs prickling on the back of Dean’s neck left him no doubt somebody, or something, was behind him. Dean threw himself sideways with a groan and rolled so he was facing the direction in which the spirit had pointed. Shakily, he raised the gun and squeezed the trigger three times just as the angry spirit of Patrick Corrigan appeared, arm raised as if to club Dean across the head. Dean’s bullets found their mark and the spirit dissipated in almost the same instant he had appeared.

Dean crumpled against the tree behind him, breathing heavily. His hand still held his gun but his arm fell limply to his side.

Doc frowned worriedly. “Dean?”

He blinked at Doc dazedly. “S’okay, Doc….jus…just gimme a sec…..” Dean squeezed his eyes closed and blew out a breath. That last burst of activity had apparently used up what little energy he had left.

Bobby came running toward them, dragging the rescue litter behind him. “I heard the shots. Corrigan?”

Dean nodded at Bobby, fighting to reclaim his breath.. “Bastard disappeared before…..before I could empty my clip into him.” He turned in the opposite direction. There was no sign of the female spirit. He looked at Bobby incredulously. “The girl….Mary, I think….. she warned me he was coming.”

Bobby placed the litter near Sam and pulled out the backboard it contained. “She was here before too…..when I first got here.” He looked down at Sam. “You know salt bullets are only going to hold off Corrigan for so long. I say we get out of here; take care of the living and worry about the dead later.”

“No.…….help….her.”

Dean, Doc and Bobby all froze when they realized it was Sam speaking. His weak voice was barely audible, muffled further by the oxygen mask. Dean dragged himself to Sam’s side and grabbed his hand. “Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes blinked dazedly up at Dean, his eyes widening when recognition set in. “Dean? That….really… you?”

Dean grinned. “The one and only, Sam.” He shook his head. “Hate to say it, but you look like crap, dude.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s hand weakly. “You….okay?”

Dean pushed aside the exhaustion that threatened to fell him and flashed his brother a patented Dean Winchester smile. “Never better, now I know you’re in one piece – more or less anyway. “We’re gonna get you outta here. You’ll be back in civilization, safe and sound, before you know it.”

Sam smiled tiredly, his eyes drooping closed. Dean began to gently pull his hand from his brother’s, only to have Sam clamp down on it with surprising strength. “No. Can’t….go yet.”

Dean frowned. “Like hell we can’t, Sam. You need a hospital like yesterday. We’re outta here. Now.”

Seeing Sam getting agitated, Doc moved in. “Hey, handsome. How ’bout you just relax and listen to your brother, okay?”

Sam’s brow wrinkled at the familiar voice. “Doc?”

She smiled down at him. “Yeah. And Bobby’s here too.”

Sam smiled weakly, as Bobby moved into his line of sight. “Hey Sam.” Bobby turned to Doc. “Look, we really need to get going. Corrigan’s likely to show up again and Joe’s running out of gas up there. If Sam’s ready to move, let’s get him loaded up and get the hell outta here.”

“No.”

Dean sighed. Sam’s voice was barely audible but he knew that stubborn tone all too well. They were in for a fight.”

He clamped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sam, I hate to tell you this dude but, the shape you’re in now, you couldn’t beat up a Teletubbie, so you’re not gonna win a fight with me. Now chill and don’t give me any more crap.” He turned to Doc. “You said he needs to be on that backboard?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want him jostled around.” She smiled down at Sam. “We’re gonna have to strap you in for the ride home, Sam. I can’t say it’s gonna be pleasant but I need to keep you as still as possible until we can properly check out your injuries, okay? Try and relax. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Dean….please.”

Dean groaned. Even barely conscious, Sam could give him a look that cut through every line of defence he could build up. “Damn it, Sam.” He leaned in so his face was inches from Sam’s. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it. Whatever you want – just as soon as we know you’re okay. So quit being a pain in the ass and let us take care of you.”

Sam was fading and Dean knew he’d won – a reprieve, at least, if not the battle. He helped Doc roll Sam onto his side as Bobby slid the backboard in place, then roll him back. He looked on as Doc fastened the straps around Sam’s head, chest, waist and legs.

He tried to push himself up, to help Doc and Bobby lift Sam into the litter, but his body suddenly refused to co-operate. He frowned and tried again, only to collapse against the tree at his back. “Sonovabitch…..”

Doc saw him struggling. “Dean?”

His eyes were drooping shut as he turned to face her. “I’m, uh….I’m outta gas, Doc. You got somethin’ in you bag of tricks to keep me goin’ a bit longer?”

“Uh-uh. No more chemical help. Your body’s saying ‘enough’ – it’s time you listened.” Doc walked over and crouched beside Dean. She placed her fingers on his neck to check his pulse, shaking her head. “The morphine I gave you earlier should have felled you before now. The only thing that’s kept you going this long is adrenaline.”

Bobby looked from Sam to Dean, shaking his head worriedly. “Doc, we’ve really gotta go.”

Doc nodded, then quirked an eyebrow as her eyes met Dean’s. “You wanna try standing. See if you can make it to the chopper?”

Dean grabbed the tree behind him and tried to pull himself up, failing miserably. He offered Doc a sleepy smile. “Take care of Sammy. Then, if Bobby can give me a hand, I should be good to go…..”

Doc gave his hand a squeeze. “You got it.” She turned to Bobby. “Let’s get out of here.”

On the count of three Bobby and Doc lifted Sam into the litter. Bobby used the radio to call the chopper back to the clearing then nodded at Dean. “I’ll be right back. Keep your eyes peeled.” He turned to face Doc who was putting the carrying strap of the litter over her shoulders. “You sure you can handle this Doc? He’s a big boy.”

Doc returned his quirked eyebrow. “Like I have a choice? I can handle it. Let’s go.”

With a collective grunt they picked up Sam and walked off slowly through the trees toward the helicopter.

Dean watched them go, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. His body suddenly felt like Jell-O and his head like it would fall off his shoulders if he moved too fast. But they’d found Sam and, as beat to hell as his little brother was right now, Dean knew he would be okay.

He closed his eyes and frowned when he thought about the helicopter ride he still had to suffer through to get home. “You so owe me, Sammy,” he muttered. He nodded, smiling. “I know. When you’re better, we’re going to the circus. One with clowns. Lots and lots of clowns……”

His smile widened as a shadow passed over him. “That was quick, Bobby. I……” He peeled his eyes open and his smile disappeared instantly. It wasn’t Bobby. Looming over him was the very pissed-off spirit of Patrick Corrigan.

CHAPTER 12

Every instinct told Dean to pick up his gun and empty his clip into the spirit of Patrick Corrigan. And in his mind, he didn’t hesitate. He fired bullet after bullet into the hulking spirit, each one payback for hurting his little brother.

Dean blinked, then frowned when he realized Corrigan was still looming over him. Why the hell was he still around?

Dean looked dazedly down at his hand. He was holding his gun but his hand hadn’t moved. It lay limply on the ground at his side, where it had been since before Corrigan showed up. He glared at his hand, mentally barking at it to move, to curl tightly around the gun, pick it up and blast away at Corrigan.

But exhaustion and morphine had taken over, creating a disconnect between mind and body. Dean’s mind, fuelled by instinct, was still firing off instructions but his body was ignoring them.

The voice inside his head grew louder, and it was pissed. ‘Now, Winchester. Pick up the damn gun and shoot the sonovabitch.’

Corrigan took a step closer but still Dean’s hand refused to move. He swallowed hard as Corrigan crouched down in front of him. Dean focused on the gun, concentrating on trying to pick it up. His thumb twitched lazily, instinctively knocking the safety off the Colt 1911 but his favorite gun, the one that usually seemed custom-fit to his hand, now seemed way too heavy. He just couldn’t find the strength to pick it up.

Dean’s vision swam and there were suddenly two Corrigans looming in front of him. He looked up to see a matching set of angry scowls. He groaned, quirking an eyebrow at one of the spirits. “As if one ugly-ass sonovabitch wasn’t bad enough, now you brought your evil twin?”

Corrigan grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into the tree at his back. Dean frowned. That should have hurt. A lot more than it did. A cocky grin slid lazily across his face as he stared back at Corrigan. “Give it your best shot, asshat.”

Corrigan’s scowl deepened and he hauled Dean to his feet, slamming him into the tree a second time. Dean heard himself grunt as the impact knocked the air from his lungs. Now that hurt. His grin contorted into a grimace as pain flared in his back. “Sonovabitch……..”

Corrigan’s face hovered inches from Dean’s. If he’d been angry before, he was royally pissed now. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a cold smile. “You’re a cocky little bastard, ain’t ya?”

Dean’s breathing was rapid and shallow. He glared at Corrigan, then frowned when he realized he’d dropped his gun when the spirit had hauled him up. His head flopped limply forward and he stared at the gun on the ground.

Corrigan’s gaze followed Dean’s, and fell on the gun lying beside his captive. His smile turned smug and he let go of Dean. Unsupported, Dean’s knees buckled and he fell heavily on his injured hip. He bit his lip, fighting against the pain and the nausea it ignited.

Breathing heavily, Dean peeled open his eyes in time to see Corrigan pick up the gun – his gun. The spirit ran his fingers over it admiringly before turning back to Dean. His eyes flashed viciously.

“This the gun you shot me with?” He raised it slowly, pointing it at Dean’s head. “I think I should return the favor.”

Dean lay on the ground, arm wrapped protectively around his injured ribcage and lacking the strength or the co-ordination to push himself up. He stared up at Corrigan and smiled. “I think,” he slurred, “that’s a really bad idea.”

Corrigan’s mouth curled into a snarl as his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

“Leave him be.”

Corrigan’s head snapped to his right and saw Mary standing across the clearing. His finger relaxed on the trigger, and he shook his head as he glanced from Dean to Mary, his cold smile becoming a smirk. “First the whelp, now the cur. You really are a bitch in heat, aren’t you?”

Mary’s eyes flashed defiantly. “This man has done nothing to you. Why must you hurt him?”

“Nothing?” Corrigan snarled. “The little bastard shot me.” His eyes narrowed. “Where I come from, if a man points a gun at you, you got every right to shoot him back.”

Mary took a step closer. “He did you no harm. You are still here.”

Corrigan looked down at the gun, then up at Mary. “Don’t mean I’m fine with what he did.” He smiled, then pointed the gun at Mary and fired. A look of shock briefly crossed her face before she dissipated.

Corrigan’s vicious smile deepened as Mary disappeared. “Stings, don’t it?”

Corrigan turned back to face Dean, who remained lying on the ground where he had fallen. The spirit took a step forward and pointed the gun at Dean’s forehead. “For you, this might do more than sting.”

A shotgun blast stopped him from pulling the trigger. The blast hit Corrigan square in the back and he dissipated, bellowing in surprise, as the gun fell from his hand.

Bobby ran up to Dean, shotgun still in hand, looking him over worriedly. “I heard the shot. You hit?”

Dean blinked up at Bobby in confusion. “Huh?”

Bobby frowned. “I saw Corrigan with your gun. Did he shoot you?”

Dean’s brow furrowed further. “Somebody shot me?”

Bobby’s frown deepened. He knew Dean had been in rough shape when they’d left for the chopper with Sam a few minutes ago, but he had still seemed clear-headed. Now the morphine really seemed to have taken hold.

Bobby quickly assessed Dean and sighed in relief when he found no bullet wounds. He picked up Dean’s gun, stowed it in his waistband, then reached down to haul up Dean. “Come on. Time to go.”

Dean nodded, his eyes blinking slowly. “Corrigan…..he came back.”

“Yeah, Dean. I know.”

With difficulty, Bobby got Dean up on his feet but the elder Winchester’s legs were like rubber, refusing to support his weight. He flopped heavily against Bobby.

“Corrigan shot the girl…..the girl ghost.”

Bobby’s eyebrow quirked at that news, then he nodded. It explained the shot he had heard while running back from the chopper to get Dean.. “Well rock salt ain’t gonna hurt either one of them permanently. You know that, Dean. Right now, we need to get out of here before one or both shows up again.”

Dean nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Kay…. Let’s get Sam.”

Bobby shook his head, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist and pulling Dean’s right arm across his shoulders to better support Dean’s weight. “Sam’s all taken care of Dean.”

“Sam’s okay?”

Bobby nodded. “He will be.”

Dean turned to face Bobby, pain etched clearly across his face. “That bastard hurt Sam. He shouldn’t have done that, Bobby.”

“I know, Dean. But we got to him in time.” Bobby frowned. Dean’s eyes were losing focus and his speech was becoming more slurred. “Come on. Sam’s nice and safe, tucked away in the chopper with Doc. I’m gonna take you to him. Let’s get the two of you patched back together, then we’ll take care of Corrigan.”

“Yeah.” Dean frowned at his old friend. “Corrigan took my gun, Bobby.”

“I know, Dean.”

Dean’s co-ordination was shot. Bobby was struggling to keep him upright and keep them both moving toward the chopper.

Dean frowned. “That pisses me off. I liked that gun – a lot.”

Bobby nodded, straining against Dean’s increasingly un-co-operative weight. “We got it back, Dean.”

“We did?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I like that gun.”

Dean, still leaning heavily on Bobby, scowled as he caught sight of the helicopter hovering above the trees. His head flopped onto Bobby’s shoulder. “Flying sucks.” His knees buckled and Bobby grunted as he was forced to shift quickly to support the extra weight. Dean flashed a hopeful smile at Bobby. “Let’s walk.”

“What?”

“Let’s walk home.”

“Dean it’s about 95 miles as the crow flies. And, in case you hadn’t noticed, only one of us is really walking here.”

Dean considered this information. “We could stop for lunch. I’m buyin’”

Bobby bit back a smile despite his worry. “Sorry, Dean. Joe’s waiting. And Sam’s up there. You wanna be close by in case he wakes up, right?”

“Sammy’s sleeping?” Dean frowned at the deafening thud-thud of the chopper as they stumbled out of the trees and into the clearing. “How the hell’s he sleepin’ through that racket?”

The chopper was now directly overhead. Bobby squinted upward and saw Artie lean out the open side door and flash him a thumbs up sign. He then swung the rescue litter out on the winch and lowered it down to Bobby.

After Dean’s problems rappelling from the helicopter, Doc adamantly refused to allow him to be hauled up the same way. With the litter, he would be lying down and there would be no added pressure on his ribcage.

No longer able to fight the effects of the morphine, Dean put up little resistance as Bobby maneuvered him into the litter and gently pushed him to lie down. His frown relaxed as his eyes slid closed. He was sound asleep before Bobby had the final safety strap secured.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam was aware of voices long before he was able to peel his eyes open. The voices were fuzzy at first, distorted, and he had no idea what they were saying. But there was something familiar, something comforting about them and he relaxed just knowing they were nearby.

He rolled his head in the direction the voices came from but groaned when the movement ramped up his headache. He screwed his eyes closed as he waited for the pounding in his head to ratchet back down.

Sam gagged as he tried to swallow, grimacing at the pasty taste in his mouth that suggested he’d been asleep for a while. He listened again to the voices, concentrating on them, until they became clear enough to understand.

He smiled sleepily. One of the voices was his brother’s. And Dean was pissed about something.

“Quit being a mother hen. I’m fine.”

“You're not fine, Dean. Better, yes, but you’re a long way from fine. And keep still or this is going to take me twice as long as it should.”

Sam frowned as he recognized the second voice. It was Doc and she was obviously worried about Dean, who was complaining again.

“Ow. That’s too tight.

“It’s supposed to be tight. Now quit wriggling. God, you’re worse than a kid.”

“Am not.”

Sam’s frown relaxed into a soft smile as he listened to the exchange between Doc and his brother. If Dean was whining, he wasn’t seriously hurt, or at least he was on the mend. But on the mend from what?

“Okay, you’re really not going to like me for this….” There was an apologetic tone to Doc’s voice, “ but I need you to cough.”

“What?”

“You’ve still got some fluid in your lungs and you need to clear it. So take a slow, deep breath, and then cough.”

Sam’s frown returned. What the hell was wrong with Dean?

Doc’s voice was gently encouraging. “That’s it, nice, deep breath. Now cough.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open at the cry of pain that followed the requested cough.”

“Sonovabitch, Doc…Crap, that hurt.”

There was a touch of guilt in Doc’s response. “Told you weren’t gonna like me much. Unfortunately, the best thing for your lungs doesn’t exactly sit well with your cracked ribs.”

Sam squinted against the bright light and to bring his fuzzy vision into focus. Cracked ribs? What the hell was going on with Dean?

As his vision cleared, it settled on his brother who was standing on the far side of a bed, a hospital bed, his back toward Sam. Dean’s torso was bandaged and Doc had her arm around his waist, supporting him. He was hunched over and obviously in pain, his breathing rapid and raspy. Sam frowned at the bruising which extended beyond the bandages, up Dean’s back and across his shoulders.

“Better now?” Doc’s hand instinctively rubbed gentle circles on Dean’s back to help ease his discomfort.

Dean’s breathing gradually slowed and leveled out although Sam could still hear him wheezing, even from the other side of the room. His brother looked up to scowl at Doc. “Don’t ask me to do that again.”

Doc smiled, apologetically. “Sorry, no promises. If you want us to spring you from this place, we need to get your lungs cleared up.” Her voice softened. "You want to lie down for a while?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah, it hurts to lie down. I’m gonna stand for a bit.”

Doc nodded, picking up a white T-shirt from the bed and pulling it over Dean’s head, before gently helping him thread his arms through the sleeves. Now Sam was really worried. Dean was obviously in pain and, if he was letting Doc help him get dressed, something was definitely up.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Dean turned quickly at the sound of his brother’s voice, the sudden movement eliciting a grunt of pain. “Sammy?”

One arm wrapped around his ribs, the other pushing an IV pole in front of him, Dean walked round the bed toward Sam, limping heavily.

Sam’s frown deepened at his brother’s unsteady gait. “You get….. the number of…. the bus that…… hit you?

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Taken a look in a mirror lately?” Relief quickly overrode his smirk. “Man, it’s good to see you awake."

As Sam turned to look at Doc, it registered for the first time since he’d woken up that he was in a hospital bed. Maybe the bus that hit Dean had rolled over him too. He grimaced as he tried to move. It sure as hell felt that way.

Sam closed his eyes, fighting against his headache to remember what had landed him in the hospital. Slowly, a door in his mind opened and memories of Dean’s fall into the water, the bridge spirit’s attack, being lost in the woods and his run-ins with Mary and her tormentor all tumbled through.

He opened his eyes and looked at Dean. There was a hitch in his voice he couldn’t quite hide. “I’m not dreaming, right? You found me – it’s real this time?”

Dean frowned, puzzled by his brother’s question. He reached over the safety rail of the bed and squeezed his brother’s arm. “Course we did. Was there ever any doubt?”

Sam nodded tiredly, concentrating on the feel of his brother’s hand on his arm. “Yeah, for a while there…...” He saw pain flash across Dean’s face. He gagged, trying to clear his throat. “I….I knew you wouldn’t stop looking but….but I didn’t know where the hell I was so how …how could you….” His voice trailed off as he fought to get his emotions under control.

“Hey.” Dean cleared his throat and smiled. “Winchesters don’t do chick-flick moments, remember?” His smile did little to mask his concern and, despite the macho posturing, his hand lingered on his brother’s arm. He exhaled loudly, fighting to get his own emotions in check, and smiled again at Sam. “Remember what I said about lojacking your ass if you went missing again?”

Sam smiled weakly. “So not my fault.” He scratched his chest, frowning at the wires he could feel through the thin cotton of his hospital gown, wires that obviously connected him to the bank of monitors he’d noticed behind Doc at the side of his bed. He also noted there were IVs inserted into the backs of both hands and there was a bulky clip attached to one finger.

He winced as he tried to move. He was weak, stiff and sore all over. His right leg, given the bulky outline visible through the blankets, looked like it was encased in some kind of cast. He knew he’d done a number on his knee when he fell, but just how bad was it?.

He gagged when, trying to voice his question, he became aware of something stuck at the back of his throat.

“Relax, Sam.” Doc smiled at him reassuringly. “It’s been five days since you disappeared. When you decided to keep sleeping on us, we had to get some nourishment into you, so you’ve got a feeding tube down your throat. Once we check you out, make sure everything’s improving as it should be, we’ll get rid of it, I promise.”

Dean pulled a face. “If you think having it in sucks, wait ’til they pull it out.” He shuddered, thinking back to his own experience after the collision with the demon-driven semi. “That takes sucks to a whole new level.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Five days?” His voice was thick and weak from disuse and he gagged again as he fought against the intrusive feeding tube.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, dude. You were missing for almost three days before we finally tracked your ass down, and you’ve been doin’ your Sleepin’ Beauty impression for the past two.”

After Sam had been found, Doc had got permission for the chopper to land on the hospital heli-pad. From there, both brothers had been taken straight to the ER. Jack Kendall, the ER chief, had raised an eyebrow when he recognized Dean but Doc and Bobby already had a cover story worked out.

Sam Remington, they told him, had been with Dean when his brother was researching his environmental studies thesis. When Sam had fallen and injured his knee, Dean had gone for help and that’s when he’d fallen in the river. Given the head injury he’d sustained, he hadn’t remembered Sam had been with him until some time after he’d woken up. Against medical advice, he’d insisted on joining the search for his brother which ultimately led to Sam being found but both boys landing back in the ER.

X-rays confirmed Dean now had cracked ribs to add to his long list of injuries, two in the front courtesy of the rappel from the helicopter and one in the back thanks to Corrigan slamming him into the tree. His lungs had yet to fully clear and there were early signs of pneumonia. He was placed back on oxygen, and an IV once again administered antibiotics to fight off infection. By the time he was ready to be shipped upstairs to a room, he was awake and protesting loudly about not knowing what was going on with Sam.

In the ER, the swelling in Sam’s throat had worsened, forcing them to insert a breathing tube to keep his airway open. The head injury was another major concern but tests showed no bleeding in the brain. As with Dean, they’d have to wait until Sam regained consciousness to fully assess the extent of the head injury, but his breathing problems and dehydration were enough to land him in the ICU for the first 24 hours.

That had been the worst time for Dean. He was on a different floor, in pain whether he was standing up or lying down, and couldn’t seem to get a satisfactory answer from any of the doctors or nurses he peppered with questions about his brother’s condition. Bobby had stayed with Dean, trying but failing to calm him down, while Doc had gone with Sam to the ICU. Once Sam was settled in, Doc headed downstairs to give Dean the update she knew he was chomping at the bit to hear.

Arriving on Dean’s floor, she’d found him about 20 feet from the elevators, obviously headed for the ICU. He was leaning against the wall, fighting to catch his breath as Bobby tried in vain to convince him to wait.

“Sorry, Doc.” Bobby smiled apologetically. “But short of tying him down…..

“I know. I….”

Dean interrupted. “How’s Sam?”

Doc smiled softly. “Still sleeping. He’s responding well to the fluids he’s being given, and the swelling in his throat isn’t getting any worse. Those are both good signs. I know I’m asking the impossible, but try not to worry, okay?”

Doc eyed Dean worriedly. His chest was heaving from the exertion of walking from his room to the elevators. “What about you? I’d tell you to sit down but that probably hurts a helluva lot more than standing right now. You steady?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, but you’re right about the sitting part….. lying down too.” His arm curled protectively around his ribs. “Both hurt like a sonovabitch. I’d rather stand.” His jaw clenched stubbornly. “And, before you say anything, I’m not goin’ back to my room ’til I see Sam. I need to see for myself he’s okay. ”

Doc shook her head. She'd dealt with Winchester stubborness long enough to know when not to fight it. “Fine. I can’t blame you for that. But wait here – just for a minute. Deal?”

Dean nodded curtly and Doc disappeared down the hallway. She returned a few minutes later and injected the contents of a syringe she carried into the IV Dean was dragging with him.

“What’s that?”

“Morphine.” Doc smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s a much lower dosage than I gave you before. It’ll help with the pain but you won’t be quite so loopy. You’ll feel sleepy but….

Dean frowned, pushing himself off the wall and limping toward the elevator. “Loopy? I don’t get loopy.”

Bobby smiled. “Yeah, Dean. You do.” Bobby held open the door of the elevator that had just arrived. “ It’s the only reason I can think of for what you said to that nurse in the ER.”

Dean scowled at Bobby as he shuffled into the elevator. “What? What’d I say?”

Bobby just shrugged, biting back a smile. Dean turned to Doc, who just shook her head and hit the button for the ICU floor. “Sorry, Dean. That kind of talk makes me blush. Come on, let’s go see your brother.”

Despite his worry, Dean’s surprised expression slowly turned to a smirk as the elevator doors closed. “Did I at least get her number?”

Once he arrived in the ICU, Dean’s difficulty breathing had little to do with the congestion in his lungs. He always had a hard time when Sam was sick or hurt. A part of him always blamed himself; he should have protected Sam more, taken better care of him. It didn’t matter than Sam was a grown man, more than capable of taking care of himself; since the age of four Dean had felt it his responsibility to keep his brother safe. Seeing Sam lying in the bed in the ICU, a machine breathing for him, he couldn’t help but feel he’d failed.

“Don’t do it, Dean.” Bobby rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder, easily recognizing the elder Winchester’s guilt. “What happened to Sam, it’s not your fault. He’ll be fine. He just needs time.”

Dean nodded as he shuffled towards Sam’s bed. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the safety rail and looked down at his brother. “Hey, Sammy. I, um, need you to wake up, okay? Then we’ll get the hell outta here – go find a hunting cabin somewhere, kick back with some beers until you’re feeling better. You can tell me about Stanford, I can tell you about girls – it’ll be fun.”

Doc and Bobby had left him alone, talking quietly to Sam, while keeping a concerned eye on him through the observation window of the ICU room. Doc had put an end to the visit only when, exhaustion obviously taking its toll, she had seen Dean start to sway.

Dean had relaxed a little more the following morning when Sam was taken off the ventilator and moved out of the ICU and into the same room as Dean. He’d been horrified when they’d told him the feeding tube was necessary, willing Sam to wake up and tell them to shove it, he wanted a salad instead, but his brother showed no signs of stirring.

Now, almost 48 hours after they arrived at the hospital, Sam was finally awake. Dean had hovered anxiously as Sam was put through the expected barrage of tests, bombarding the doctors and nurses with questions and grilling Doc some more if he didn’t get the answers he wanted.

He’d smirked, but said nothing, when two beefy orderlies were brought in to help Sam on his first foray out of bed. Sam had been promised crutches once they were sure he was steady on his feet but, first time out, he was stuck between Carlos and Ray, their muscular arms offering support as he learned to manouvre with his leg in the brace protecting the torn ligaments in his knee.

Sam glared at Dean. Standing there in a gown that barely reached his knees and didn’t fasten at the back, he was flanked by two big guys he’d just met who each had their arms wrapped round his waist. Knowing Dean, he was about to get it with both barrels. But Dean, after watching the effort it took for his brother to make it across the room, just smiled, adding a quiet “Good job, Sam. We’ll both be out of here in no time.”

Once settled back in bed, Sam looked over at Dean. His brother must have been really worried to overlook such prime teasing fodder. Or maybe he was just tired. After spending most of the morning shuffling around the room and the hallways beyond, harassing Sam’s doctors and nurses, Dean had finally been ordered back into bed to rest. Sitting up was still torture on his cracked ribs so he was flat on his back, mildly comfortable after another shot of morphine.

When Sam had been taken from the room for tests, he’d used the separation from Dean to pepper the doctors with questions of his own, about his brother’s health. He knew he wasn’t going to get a straight answer from Dean. Doc was the most forthcoming and Sam had blanched when she’d filled him in and he realized how close he’d come to losing his big brother.

It was early evening before the steady stream of medical professionals moving in and out of their room dwindled to the occasional visit from a nurse to check the monitors or their IVs.

Doc leaned in the doorway to the brothers’ room, shaking her head. Dean was out of bed again. He was standing at the side of his bed, an arm still wrapped protectively around his ribs. He was pale, the dark circles under his eyes testament to the physical and emotional ordeal he’d been through over the past week.

Sam didn’t look much better, especially given his battered face and bruised neck. She could see him gagging against the feeding tube which his doctor had insisted remain in place until the following morning. He was also antsy, and that was something she could help him with.

“Hey boys.” She smiled. “I think you’ve probably had enough medical visitors for one day so we’re going to leave you alone – after we take care of one more piece of business.”

Dean frowned, “What business?”

Doc walked into the room carrying a pair of crutches. Holding them upright, the armrests of the crutches were level with the top of Doc’s head. She smiled at Sam. “Obviously, these aren’t for me. Feel like making a solo trip out of bed?”

Dean’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You think he’s ready?”

Doc nodded. “I wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t. Sam?”

Dean shuffled to the end of his bed. ‘I don’t know, Doc. He looked kind of cozy before, sandwiched between Carlos and Ray. Maybe we should call the brawny brothers back in to make sure Sam doesn’t land on his ass. He can be kind of klutz, you know.”

Sam shot his brother a look, then pushed himself up in bed with a grimace. “Let’s do it, Doc.”

Doc moved to the far side of Sam’s bed, leaned the crutches against the wall and lowered the safety rail on the bed. She offer a steadying hand as Sam slowly pulled himself out of bed, Dean noting every wince and grimace as he did so.

Dean frowned. “You sure he’s ready? What about the feeding tube thingy? What about..”

Doc turned to face Dean. “Now who’s being a mother hen? The sooner Sam gets up and moving under his own steam, the sooner he gets out of here. I’m not taking him on a 10-mile hike – just across the room and back.”

“But…”

Sam cut off his brother’s objection, settling himself onto the crutches Doc had handed him.. “It’s okay, Dean. I wanna do this – on one condition.”

Dean eyed his brother suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

Sam smiled at Dean and waved his arm weakly at the opposite wall. “I make it to that wall without landing on my ass, and you have to cough.”

Dean’s eyes widened. He had no idea his brother had been awake earlier when Doc put him through the torture she referred to as a breathing exercise. He shook his head. “No. No way, Sam. That hurt like a sonovabitch. I’m not doing it again.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Fine, then I’m not walking and we’re both stuck in here. That make you happy?”

Dean glared at his brother. Sam waited expectantly.

Doc shook her head at the battle of wills playing out before her. “Guys, please……”

“Fine.” Dean hated caving first. “But only because I want out of this place as much as you do.” He glared again at Sam. “You really are a little shit.”

Sam’s grin lit up his battered face. “I’m not little.”

It took Sam a few steps to get into the rhythm of swinging his braced leg and his crutches but he soon crossed the room. Doc followed behind, guiding the IV pole and watching carefully for any signs of unsteadiness. There were none. Sam was slow, but moving across the room under his own steam.

Mission accomplished, Sam turned to face Dean, breathing heavily but his grin widening. “Well?”

Dean’s face fell. He turned to Doc, looking for sympathy. “Do I have to?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “What are you – six?”

Doc smiled encouragingly. “Come on, tough guy. Just a deep breath in, then cough.”

Dean coughed softly.

Sam snorted. “What kind of wimpy-ass cough was that?”

Doc bit back a smile. “I, uh, wouldn’t have put it quite like that but, he’s right Dean. You’re trying to clear your lungs. Come on, do it again.”

Dean scowled at his brother but did as instructed. His face contorted in pain as he coughed and the anticipated pull on his ribs lived up to his fears. “Fuck, that hurt!”

He looked up to see Sam’s face contorted in sympathy. “Oh no. Don’t you give me that ‘I feel you pain’ crap. This is all your fault.”

Sam grinned. “Willing to do it again if I can make it back to my bed without wiping out?”

Dean’s scowl deepened as he looked from Sam to Doc. He couldn't wimp out on a challenge even if it was going to hurt like hell. “This is some kind of evil let’s-torture-Dean conspiracy you two cooked up, isn’t it?

Doc laughed. “It may not seem like it Dean, but it really is for your own good.”

“Fine.” He turned his glare on Sam. “Just get your ass back in bed, Samantha, and let’s get this over with.”

Sam grinned but, if he was being completely honest, the trip across the room had wiped him out. His jaw clenched as he concentrated on moving forward and keeping himself balanced. By the time he reached his bed, his chest was heaving with the exertion. He pulled himself gratefully back in to bed, wincing as Doc gently lifted his braced leg back onto the support pillows.

He dropped his head back and rolled it across the pillow to face Dean. “Well?”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean breathed in and coughed. The expected curses followed but stopped abruptly when a look of alarm crossed his face.

Worried, Doc walked quickly to his side. “Dean?”

He swallowed, disgust quickly replacing the alarm. “I, uh, coughed up something.”

Doc smiled in relief. “That is the point, Dean.”

“No, that’s gross.”

Doc’s smile widened. “Come on.” She gave Dean’s arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Let’s get you back in bed. You’ve been wondering around enough for today. You need to rest."

Dean opened his mouth to object then closed it without saying a word after catching the look Doc gave him. It was one that clearly told him he wasn’t going to win this fight. Muttering something that Doc was convinced sounded like ‘you’re not the boss of me,’ he pulled himself gingerly back into bed, wincing as he tried to find the least uncomfortable position to lie in.

Doc nodded at Dean. “Please, stay put, okay? You really do need the rest.”

Dean nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good.” He caught Doc’s raised eyebrows. “What? I can be good.”

Doc fought hard to bite back a smile, as she turned to Sam. “And you. Good job with the crutches but don’t get any bright ideas about trying them out again unsupervised. You feel the urge to go wandering, hit the call button first, okay?”

Sam nodded. “Thanks, Doc.”

Doc returned his smile, before pointing a finger at Dean. “I mean it, Dean. Stay in bed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” Doc shot him another look and his eyes widened innocently. “What? I got it. Be good. In bed.” His innocent expression became a full-fledged far-from-innocent grin.

Doc shook her head, muttering something about ‘incorrigible’ as she left, closing the door behind her.

Dean’s smile faded as he turned to look at his kid brother. The swelling in Sam’s black eye had started to subside and bloodshot white was now visible surrounding the familiar hazel.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “All macho crap aside, Sam, how you doin’?”

Sam rolled his head across the pillow and stared at Dean. “All macho crap aside, I feel like crap. But better than I did this morning, at least. “What about you?”

Dean opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. For a moment, all traces of bravado disappeared. “You scared me, Sammy. I thought……”

“Yeah.” Sam looked over at Dean. “You scared me too, Dean. When I saw you go in the water…..and I couldn’t get to you……I…..”

Dean nodded, clearing his throat. “Listen, um, I’m a little fuzzy on how I ended up flyin’ off that bridge. Care to fill in the blanks?”

“It was the spirit, Dean. She just picked you up and threw you over the side. I tried to get to you, to jump in after you but she grabbed me first. She…….”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Jump in after me? Are you nuts?”

Sam stared back at his brother. “What was I supposed to do?. Stand there and watch you drown?”

Dean’s face crumpled. “Well, no, but…..I….you... Dammit, Sam, we need to get rid of Aggie once and for all.”

“Aggie?”

Dean frowned, suddenly realizing Sam had been out of the loop for a while and may not have all the details of the mess they had landed in the middle of. “Agnes Graham. That’s the bridge’s spirit’s name. She’s …..”

“Mary’s mom,” Sam finished.

Dean nodded. “So, the spirit out in the bush – that was Mary, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “She saved my butt, Dean. More than once.” His voice was soft but there was no mistaking the determination. “We need to help her.”

Before Dean could answer, there was a knock on the door. It opened quickly and Bobby walked into the room.

Sam smiled. “Hey, Bobby. Thanks, for….you know. Thanks.”

Bobby nodded. “You know I’m there for you, Sam. Any time.”

Dean frowned. “Where’d you go, Bobby? Doc said you left this morning to check something out. What?”

Bobby looked from Sam to Dean. “I’ve been trying to find out where they buried Corrigan so we can take care of him once and for all. Problem is, he was a drifter, not from around here and a criminal. When they hauled his body out of the bush, he got a pauper’s funeral and an unmarked grave. I’ve been combing cemetery records all day trying to find out where they stashed the bastard.”

Sam’s stomach roiled as he thought about Mary. “But we are gonna be able to find him, right.”

Bobby nodded. “Oh, I’ll find him. We’ve just got a bigger problem right now, somethin’ I should have picked up on earlier.”

Dean grimaced as he tried to haul himself up in bed. “What?”

Bobby adjusted his ballcap. “All the attacks by Agnes, we wondered why there weren’t more? It’s because she can only appear for a finite amount of time. The attacks all take place between the day Mary was kidnapped and the day Agnes threw herself off the bridge.”

Dean frowned. “I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders yet, Bobby. What am I missin’?”

Bobby returned Dean’s frown. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of Agnes’s death. If we want to get rid of her, we have to do it before tomorrow night.” 

CHAPTER 13:

“Tomorrow?”

Bobby nodded. “Unless we get rid of Agnes’s spirit before tomorrow night, we’ll have to wait a whole year before we can try again.”

Dean shrugged. “Would that be so bad? She couldn’t hurt anyone until then. We could just come back next……”

“No.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam’s interruption. His brother’s voice was soft but emphatic. “What’s the rush, Sam?”

Sam grimaced as he swallowed around the feeding tube. He shuffled uncomfortably in the bed as he looked from Bobby to Dean. “I owe Mary. We need to do it now.”

Dean frowned. “Mary? The chick spirit out in the woods?”

Sam nodded. “She’s trapped in this nightmare existence, Dean; chased by the man responsible for her death for more than a century. She deserves some peace.”

Dean noted the all-too-familiar stubborn set of his brother’s jaw. Now Sam had made up his mind to help this spirit, nothing and no-one would dissuade him. He sighed. “Look, Mary saved my butt too. I get that you wanna ride in and rescue the damsel in distress, even if this one’s already dead, but first we need to take care of the bridge bitch who put us both in the hospital.”

Sam shook his head. “They’re connected, Dean. We have to help them both.”

Bobby shoved his hands in his pockets as he nodded at Sam. “Okay. What about this. If I can track down Corrigan’s remains, we can get rid of him. If we can’t get to Agnes in time, Mary would at least be left alone.”

Sam shook his head again. “No, she’s been alone too long.” He had been lost in the woods for two days and his battered mind had conjured up an imaginary version of his brother to keep him company and keep him sane. He couldn’t imagine how Mary had coped over a century, especially with her killer perpetually in pursuit. By all rights, she should be a violent spirit, as angry as Corrigan if not worse, and yet she was far from it.

Sam glanced from Bobby to his brother, knowing this was the part of the conversation where he was in for a fight. “I, um…..I want to reunite Mary with her mother.”

Dean’s eyes widened. He grabbed the safety rail of the bed and hauled himself up to better see his brother. He inhaled sharply at the pain the sudden movement caused, his right arm wrapped around his torso, his breathing shallow and rapid. “You wanna do what?”

Sam looked at his brother worriedly. The color had drained from Dean’s face as he sat up and the left arm he’d locked onto the safety rail of his bed for balance was trembling noticeably. Sam pressed his call button before answering his brother’s question. “Mary’s been trying for 130 years to go home. Her home doesn’t exist anymore. But her mother does, in a manner of speaking. If she can see her mother again, I think she’ll be able to, you know, move on.”

Dean glared at his brother. “Damn it, Sam. You and that bleeding heart of yours. How many times do I have to tell you: Rule Number One - you don’t make friends with Casper, you shoot him in the face with rock salt?”

Sam tilted his head stubbornly. “I thought Rule Number One was we do what we do and we shut up about it.”

Dean pointed his finger at Sam. “Only room in this family for one smartass and the job’s taken.” His face contorted in pain. “Sonovabitch.”

Sam pressed the call button again. “Dean? What’s goin’ on with you?”

Dean closed his eyes, attempting a smile but failing miserably. “It’s just, um…”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Doc, now dressed in jeans, t-shirt and suede jacket, came in first followed by a night nurse. Doc’s eyes quickly settled on Dean, recognizing he was in distress.

Dean smiled grimly at her. “Good timing, Doc. I think I need a refill of that happy juice that seems to work so well.”

Doc frowned, lowering the safety rail of his bed and gently pushing Dean to lie down as she methodically began checking his vitals. She glanced over at Bobby as she pumped the blood pressure cuff on Dean’s arm. “What’s goin’ on here, guys? I was just about to leave because I thought you two had turned in for the night.”

Bobby smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Doc.” He glanced at the night nurse who had accompanied her into the room. “We have some, er, deadline issues with the project we’re currently working on.”

Doc’s frown deepened further as she noted Dean’s increased breathing rate and the more pronounced way he was favoring his ribs. She lifted his T-shirt and began gently examining his ribs through the bandages that supported them. Her frown softened as she looked up at Heather, the nurse. “When was the last time he got a dose of morphine?”

Heather checked Dean’s chart. “Just over four hours ago.”

Doc nodded. “Okay, let’s give him another shot but increase the dosage. I want him to sleep through the night.” She filled in the chart offered to her by the nurse, who then nodded and left the room to get the medication.

With the nurse gone, Doc’s smile vanished and her eyes flashed angrily as she reached for the oxygen tubing coiled on the wall behind Dean. “If you guys are trying to piss me off, it’s working.” She moved to place the oxygen canula under Dean’s nose but he batted her hand away.”

“What the hell, Doc? I’m done with that crap.”

“Not any more, you’re not.” She gently but firmly moved his hand out of the way and settled the canula in place. “Your oxygen levels are too low. This should help get them back where they should be while you’re sleeping.”

Worry tempered her anger as she moved again to examine Dean’s ribs. “I’ll need x-rays to confirm it but I think one of those cracked ribs is now broken.” She raised her eyebrows at Dean. “What happened to ‘I’ll be good?”

“I didn’t get out of bed,” he offered lamely.

Doc frowned at him. “You didn’t go to sleep either, which is what you were supposed to be doing.” She turned to glare at Bobby. “What was so all-fired important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

Sam answered before Bobby could. “Bobby found out we have to salt and burn Agnes before tomorrow night or she vanishes until next year. And we can’t let that happen because if Mary’s ever gonna find peace, we have to reunite her with Agnes first.”

Doc’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You boys have been busy. When did you figure all this out?”

Dean winced as Doc’s hands found a tender spot over his ribs. “Ow.” He looked up at Doc. “We don’t HAVE to reunite the spirits, that’s just Sam being a boy scout and wanting to do a good deed, but Agnes needs to go before she hurts someone else. And Corrigan – that bastard messed with Sam and he messed with my gun; I’m not lettin’ that go.”

Doc frowned. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious here, Dean, but you’re in no shape to take on Corrigan, Agnes or anyone else for that matter.” She glanced over at Sam. “And for the record, neither are you. If something needs to be done now, let Bobby and I take care of it.”

Simultaneous objections from Sam and Dean were quickly cut off by Bobby. “Right now, it’s kind of a moot point since we don’t know where either Corrigan or Agnes is buried.”

Sam frowned. “Dean told me Corrigan was buried in an unmarked grave, but how come you haven’t found Agnes?”

Bobby shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. “I had no problem tracking down her husband and sons. They’re buried in the old section of the town cemetery. Problem is, Agnes committed suicide. That’s a sin, at least according to the local pastor at that time who wouldn’t allow her to be buried on hallowed ground. Her nephews, who took over the family farm after she died, buried her near the orchard in the northwest corner of the property.”

Dean winced, holding his ribs as he tried to sit up again until a warning look from Doc stilled him quickly. “Fine then. We just need to find this orchard.”

Bobby scratched the top of his ball cap. “That’s where we run into another problem. The orchard was plowed under about 30 years ago when they cut the interstate through. I can’t find any records of them moving a body so, if they somehow managed to miss her, she’s buried under a few tons of asphalt on the I-90.”

Dean banged the safety rail on his bed in frustration. “Sonovabitch. Three freakin’ spirits and we can’t find one of them. Where is it written that Winchesters can’t catch a freakin’ break.”

“I know where Mary is.”

Three sets of eyes quickly turned toward Sam, but Dean was the first to voice his surprise. “Nice little nugget to keep to yourself, Sam.”

Bobby walked up to Sam’s bedside. “You wanna tell us how, since her body’s been missing for more than a century?”

Sam seemed puzzled by their surprise. Hadn't they seen her remains when they'd found him? “She showed me. Mary showed me where she died.”

At this point, Heather the nurse returned with the morphine, which she injected into Dean’s IV. Bobby and Dean waited impatiently as Doc and Heather exchanged further information about Dean’s medication and Doc scheduled Dean for further x-rays first thing in the morning.

As Heather left, closing the door behind her, Dean rolled his head across the pillow to face his brother. “So Mary knows she’s dead?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. She was hurt when Corrigan and his partner kidnapped her but, after she heard them talking about killing her, finishing the job, she managed to escape. She ended up hiding herself in this hollow and that’s where she died. I don’t know whether the head injury or exposure or something else was the cause of death but she never climbed out of that hollow – at least alive. At some point her spirit discovered her human remains – and I can only imagine what kind of head games that must have played with her. But she never turned violent. She just wants to get away from Corrigan and go home.”

Bobby nodded. “Poor kid, but that at least means we’re one for three on the spirit front. Just tell us where she is, then Doc and I will go and salt and….”

Sam cut him off. “No way, Bobby. I need to be there. I need to tell Mary….”

Now it was Dean’s turn to interrupt. “Are you nuts? You’re not goin’ out there. Look at you.”

Sam glared at Dean. “I’m not the one hopped up on morphine just to make it through the day.”

Dean returned the glare “And I’m not the one eating my lunch through a straw up my nose.”

Bobby held up his hands, trying to placate the two Winchesters. “Boys come on, you really need to….”

Sam interrupted again. “I need to be out there." However they had managed to miss seeing Mary's remains, it gave Sam a trump card - and he played it. " I’m the only one who knows where Mary is buried. I need to…..”

“Chill. You need to chill. Whoa.” Dean blinked owlishly, trying to force his vision back into focus. The morphine was kicking in and, while he was suddenly feeling way more comfortable, he was also feeling increasingly sleepy. He frowned at his brother’s stubborn glare. “Quit lookin’ at me like that, Sam. I’m fine.” His frown suddenly relaxed, replaced by a sleepy smile. “Few more minutes and I’ll be more than fine.” He rolled his head across the pillow to look at Doc. “You should give Sam some of this stuff. Might make him less cranky.”

Sam frowned. “I’m not cranky, Dean. I just wanna help Mary. I need to help Mary.”

Doc looked over at Sam. “Fine. Then let us help. Tell us where you found the body and we’ll go and take care of it.”

Sam shuffled uncomfortably. “I can’t tell you. I need to show you.”

Doc sighed. “Do I have to remind you the only way you’re moving around right now is on crutches. Crossing this room without landing on your ass is one thing, but maneuvering your way through the bush is a whole different ballgame.”

Sam’s frustration was clear. “I’m not being difficult, Doc. I just don’t think I could describe where she is well enough that you could find it, at least given the deadline we’re working against. But I’d recognize it if I saw it. Please. I need to do this.”

Doc had lowered Dean’s bed so it was completely flat, meaning the cabinet between the two beds now obscured his view of Sam. Dean smiled up at Doc as he listened to his brother’s plea. “He’s using the puppy-dog eyes, isn’t he?”

Doc bit back a smile, despite her worry. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’m immune.”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. No one’s immune. When Sammy gives you that look – you just can’t say no. Wish I could bottle the damn thing. Make me a fortune.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother’s ramblings then frowned when he realized Dean was humming – something that sounded suspiciously like Take Me Out to the Ballgame. “Is he okay?”

Doc smiled. “It’s just the morphine. It’s a slightly stronger dose than you’ve seen him on up to now because I want it to knock him out, let him sleep comfortably until morning. That’s the best thing for him.”

She raised her eyebrows at Sam. “Just like it’s the best thing for you. I don’t want to sedate you too, Sam, but I’ll do it if I have to. You need to get some sleep.”

Sam fisted the bedcovers as he looked from Doc to Bobby. “Fine, I’ll stay in bed, but only until Dean wakes up. Then….”

Dean’s voice cut him off. “I’m awake. Where we goin’?”

Doc smiled down at Dean. “The only place you’re going is to sleep. Just relax and let it happen.”

Dean nodded, his eyes slowly closing. “Kay. But I gotta look out for Sammy. Keep him safe.”

Doc raised the safety rail on the bed. She then reached over and squeezed Dean’s hand. “Sam’ll be fine, Dean. I’ll make sure he’s stays put until you wake up. Now please, get some sleep.”

Dean nodded, and within a few seconds he was asleep. With one Winchester now doing what was best for him, Doc turned her attention to the other. “Now, do I need to order a sedative?”

“Doc, I don’t….”

“Sam.” Bobby’s voice was a warning growl. “The only hope in hell you have of getting out of here to take care of Mary is with Doc’s help. I strongly suggest you don’t piss her off.”

Sam slumped back against his pillows. “Fine.” He frowned suddenly. “When you found me, did you see a necklace, a locket anywhere?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah. You had a pretty tight grip on it. I had to pry your hand open to take it from you. Why’s it so important?”

Sam looked from Doc to Bobby. “Mary had it with her when she died It’s the key to reuniting her with her mother. Where is it?”

Bobby reached inside his vest pocket, pulling out a tissue which he unfolded to reveal the gold locket inside. “This what you’re looking for? Dean asked me to keep it safe until he could ask you about it.” Bobby walked forward and dropped the necklace into Sam’s waiting hand.

Sam fumbled with it a few times before successfully pulling it open and revealing the old photos inside. He turned it so Doc and Bobby could both see. “This is Agnes and her husband, and Mary and her brothers.”

Bobby nodded. “I recognized Agnes from the bridge. Looks a lot friendlier in the photo but it’s definitely the same woman. Mary, I recognized her from out where we found you.”

Sam nodded. “Then did you see this?” He pointed to the tiny braid of hair that encircled the photograph of the three Graham children. “That’s Agnes’s hair, and hair from her three kids all braided together. If I can take this locket to the bridge, Mary should be able to transport herself there because a physical piece of her will be there as well.”

Doc frowned. “But if Mary can go where the necklace is, or Agnes too for that matter, why can’t you just call her here? Just tell her what you’re planning, then we can avoid you having to go all the way out there into the bush.”

Bobby shook his head. “Wish it was that simple, Doc. Neither Agnes nor Mary may know they have the ability to move around like that. It’s like most spirits can’t pick up solid objects but some, over time, learn to control them. Make it look like they’re picking them up – like Corrigan apparently did with Dean’s gun. Moving from place to place would be a learned behavior but Mary has to know she’s capable of it before she can even try.”

Sam nodded. “I asked Mary, in a foot-in-my-mouth kinda way, if she’d ever seen the spirit of her mom. She hadn’t. So, obviously, Agnes has never figured out she could move freely between the bridge and where her daughter died because of the physical link. On a subconscious level, however….”

Bobby nodded, following Sam’s train of thought. “That’s how she transported you from the bridge to a place almost a hundred miles away. Thinking you were Corrigan, she blamed you for her daughter’s death and that anger and hatred somehow fuelled an ability to toss you in the middle of nowhere, right to where her daughter died clutching that locket.”

Sam looked at the locket in his hand. “I think if I can explain that to Mary, then get the necklace to the bridge, she’ll be able to transport herself there. If she has a chance to see her mother one last time, say goodbye, then maybe that will be enough to put her spirit to rest.”

Doc folded her arms and considered the information Sam had presented. “But that won’t solve the problem with Agnes.”

Sam shook his head. “No. We need to find where she’s buried and salt and burn her remains, otherwise, even if I destroy the hair in the necklace, it won’t get rid of her.”

Bobby turned to Doc, motioning with his head toward Sam. “You really think he’s up for a trek into the bush?”

Doc’s eyes widened. “Of course not.” She cut off Sam’s objection before he could start. “But other than tying him to the bed or injecting him full of sedatives against his will, both of which tend to be frowned upon, he’s going to do it whether I want him to or not.”

“I have to, Doc,” Sam said quietly.

Doc’s worried gaze travelled from Sam to his sleeping brother. “And you know wherever Sam goes, Dean’s going to be right behind. There’s no way in hell I can keep him in here if Sam is off chatting up a spirit, especially with Corrigan lurking in the background.”

She frowned at Bobby. “How’re you gonna get there, anyway? Is Joe coming back?”

Bobby shrugged. “Haven’t asked him yet. Obviously, that would be the best and fastest way to get there and, given time is of the essence……” Bobby glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna go call him. I’ll be right back.”

Doc nodded, turning to Sam as soon as Bobby left the room. “Okay, here’s the deal. Officially, I am totally against this idiocy. You and your brother need rest, medication, even a little pampering, while you heal. You do not need another ghost busting trek through the bush, one that'll likely add new injuries to the lengthy list you already have.”

“But?” Sam smiled hopefully.

Doc shook her head. “Oh no. You take that puppy-dog look of yours, and stick it back in the doghouse where you belong.” She quirked an eyebrow at Sam. “You’re scheduled for a full exam in the morning, right before they take the feeding tube out. If there are no complications, well….” Her frown deepened at Sam’s hopeful expression. “Damn it, Sam.” She sighed. “Okay, but two things: one, you eat your breakfast and keep it down or you’re not going anywhere. And two; you take your crutches and make it from one end of the hallway outside to the other without breaking a sweat. If you can do that, we’ll talk.”

Sam nodded. “Deal.” He glanced over at his brother. “What about Dean?”

Doc looked over at the elder Winchester, still sleeping soundly “Like you, where he is now is the safest place for him. I’m concerned he may have broken a rib. If that’s the case, there’s no way he should be wandering around in the bush. Forget Corrigan; even a simple trip could send that broken rib into a lung and then he’d be in big trouble.” She sighed audibly. “Once I have a look at his x-rays in the morning, I’ll know more but if you’re determined to do this, stopping your brother from following you will be next to impossible.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah. He’s kinda stubborn.”

Doc rolled her eyes. “I’d noticed. And it runs in the family.”

Sam shrugged, his grin widening. “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

The door opened and Bobby walked back into the room. He wasn’t smiling. “We’ve got a problem. Joe’s out on job and won’t be available for 24 hours – which is about 8 hours too late on our schedule.”

Sam’s smile disappeared completely. “Now what?”

Bobby sighed. “I managed to catch him on a refueling stop. He made a couple of calls to friends of his in the forest service. There’s a ranger station about 30 miles from where we found Sam. We need to drive up there, then we can borrow one of the ranger’s vehicles that can handle the off-road trails in that part of the park.” He glanced from Sam to Dean. “It’s gonna be rough goin’ so I’d really rather you and Dean sat this one out.”

Sam shook his head. “No. No way, Bobby.”

Bobby shrugged. “Pretty much what I thought you’d say but it was worth a shot. What do you say, Doc?”

Doc gaze didn’t move from Sam. “Sam already knows my thoughts on this plan.”

Her jaw clenched as she turned to Bobby. “Both Sam and Dean have tests in the morning; the results will decide whether I turn my back when they leave here or handcuff them to the bed.”

Sam did a pretty good impression of a Dean grin. “You have handcuffs?”

Bobby smiled. “Sounds like a fair deal to me, but I need another favor Doc.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to handle the research while we go and take care of Mary’s remains.”

Doc shook her head. “No way. I’m not letting these two out of the hospital if I’m not close by to patch them back together when something happens, because it always does.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “We can look after ourselves, Doc. We’ve been doin’ it a long time.”

Doc sighed. “I know that, Sam. But I’ve had a hand in putting you and your brother back together this week and, trust me, you’re not ready to go back in the ring just yet.”

Bobby nodded. “I agree with you, Doc, and I’d rather you were with us too, but we’re running out of time. It’s gonna take us the better part of three hours by car to get to where we found Sam. That’s six hours of travel time out of the 10 hours we’ll have left by the time we get going tomorrow. We need someone to keep working on finding Agnes while we’re gone.”

Bobby checked his watch. “Library’s open for another 40 minutes. I’m gonna head over there now, see if I can talk them into letting me stay past closing time. See what I can come up with.”

Doc nodded. “I’ll come with you. Two heads are better than one and if we can find out something tonight, then I can keep an eye on these two tomorrow.”

Sam smiled softly. “Thanks Doc, for everything. You too, Bobby.”

Doc quirked an eyebrow at Sam. “Look, part of our deal was you get some sleep. I’m holding you to that.”

Sam wriggled down in the bed. “Hey, this is me: sleeping.” He ground his head into the pillow and closed his eyes. “But Bobby?”

Bobby stopped, his hand on door to the room as he started to pull it open. “Yeah?”

Sam’s eyes remained closed. “Just in case you were thinking of sneaking off without me, without us, I’ll hotwire a car and find my own way up there, if I have to. I have to do this.”

Bobby looked from Sam to Doc. “You got anything in your bag of tricks that will kill off that Winchester stubborn gene?”

Doc smiled. “Science isn’t that advanced, Bobby. But one day…..”

The two of them left the room, closing the door softly behind them.

Sam opened his eyes at the sound of the door closing, and stared down at the locket he was still holding. He ran his thumb gently over the surface then opened it, staring at the photo of Mary and her two brothers. They had been so close. Dean had told him how Mary’s brothers had led the search to find their sister. How they had broken Corrigan and Shepherd out of jail to try and force them to take them to Mary. How they had given their lives trying to save their little sister.

Sam looked suddenly from the locket to the sleeping form of his brother in the adjacent bed. That’s what big brothers did.

All his life, he’d had Dean looking out for him. When he was a kid and he fell down, it was Dean who picked him up and dusted him off. When he started school, it was Dean who walked him to class, and picked him up at the end of the day. When bullies threatened him, it was Dean who beat the crap out of them. When their Dad had handed him a gun at the age of nine to take care of the monsters in the closet, it was Dean who taught him how to shoot it.

Oh, they’d butted heads, hard, especially as Sam moved through his teen years and grew more and more unhappy living the nomadic existence their father’s quest for vengeance required but, until he left for Stanford, Dean was always there for him.

At Stanford, he’d got his first true taste of so-called normal life. He’d loved the classes and the dorm life. He’d never been happier than when he was starting to build a life with Jess, but not being able to share this new happiness with his big brother always made it seem incomplete. He feared, for a time, that the hunting world had driven a wedge between them that couldn’t be removed.

But it had been – slowly and painfully. They’d been through hell over the past year and a half – he’d lost Jess, they’d lost their Dad, he’d almost lost Dean on more than one occasion but through it all, through everything the hunting world threw at them, their fractured relationship was being repaired. He’d stood at Dean’s bedside after the demon-driven semi had plowed into the Impala, willing his brother to wake up from his coma. “You can’t go now,” he’d said. “We were just starting to be brothers again.”

He turned back to the locket and looked again at the picture of Mary and, for a brief moment, wondered what it would be like to have a little sister, or brother. Of what it could be like if he was the big brother. Could he handle the responsibility?

With Mary, he’d got a taste of it, of what Dean must have carried throughout their lives. In many ways, it was overwhelming. By helping Mary move on he was proving to himself, if no one else, he could handle it. That, while he wasn’t the big brother, he could be there for Dean too.

He turned again to face his brother’s bed. His words were soft but unmistakable as he drifted off to sleep. “Thanks Dean.”

xxxXXXxxx

It had been a busy morning. Both Winchesters faced a battery of tests when they woke up but the results had been promising. The crack in Dean’s rib had widened slightly but the rib was not broken. His lungs were almost clear, his oxygen levels were better and his temperature was only slightly above normal. Even the limp caused by his bruised hip was slightly less pronounced.

Sam’s vision was almost back to normal and his headache was well within the tolerable range. The swelling in his knee had started to subside and, after a lengthy discussion with Sam, his doctors had agreed to rehabilitation through physical therapy rather than surgery. He’d been told careers in the NBA and NFL were out but, eventually and with exercise, the knee would be almost as good as new. It the meantime, the bulky brace with Velcro straps would become a part of his daily wardrobe for the foreseeable future.

The best, and worst, part of the morning was getting rid of the feeding tube. Sam was thrilled it was gone but Dean hadn’t been kidding when he described the removal process as sucking out loud. Sam was a pale shade of green by the time it was done and shot Dean a few murderous looks as he enjoyed his own breakfast with relish deliberately exaggerated for Sam’s benefit. And then Sam had had to eat his own breakfast as part of his deal with Doc. The chicken broth wasn’t so bad but then came a bowl of orange Jell-o, and Sam had never been a big fan of Jell-o.

After a few more tests, Doc had ordered him one more course – a bowl of oatmeal. Sam turned on the puppy dog eyes full force. “Come on, Doc. I…..”

But Doc was insistent. “Uh-uh. You eat that or no deal. If you’re planning a trek through the woods, you need carbs. Now eat up. That'll stick to your ribs”

“Stick to my ribs?” Sam’s expression was suspiciously close to a sulk as he studied the bowl of thick oatmeal.. “We could patch a hole in the Impala’s tires with this stuff.”

But he’d eaten it, then Doc had made him fulfill his other promise from the night before; to walk the entire length of the corridor, using his crutches. When he’d done so, she’d reluctantly agreed to Sam, and Dean, leaving AMA. They were dressed and waiting in the hospital lobby by the time Bobby showed up in a rented SUV. Doc had insisted on the big vehicle knowing the extra space inside would lessen, if not alleviate, the misery the brothers’ faced during the six hours they were about to spend in the car. She’d re-bound Dean’s ribs and handed him a bottle of painkillers, insisting he take two before they even left the hospital.

Doc wasn’t going with them; she was headed back to the library. Bobby had been able to sweet-talk the librarian into allowing them to stay in the records room overnight and their research had yielded mixed results. They’d found out where Corrigan was buried but had yet to discover where Agnes was. Doc would keep digging through the cemetery records while they took care of Mary’s remains.

Sam slept for most of the ride up to the ranger station. Dean suffered in silence, only the perspiration on his forehead and upper lip giving away how much pain he was in. By the time they transferred to the ranger’s Jeep for the off-road leg of the journey, it was Dean’s turn to be a pale shade of green.

Thanks to compass co-ordinates Joe had recorded, Bobby was able to navigate to the clearing where the chopper had dropped them off three days earlier. When Bobby pulled the Jeep to a stop and turned off the engine, Dean quickly pushed open the passenger side door and slowly pulled himself out, his breathing still rapid and shallow.

Sam watched his brother worriedly as he opened the back door and prepared to pull himself out. “Dean? You okay?”

“No Sam, I’m not okay,” Dean snapped. “I feel like crap.” He regretted the tone the minute the words were out of his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s a bad reaction to the pills Doc gave me, or something. Let’s just get this done.”

Sam hauled himself to his feet and used the Jeep to keep him balanced while Bobby passed him his crutches. Dean limped to the rear of the Jeep and lifted the hatch to pull out their weapons bag. He loaded the shotgun in silence.

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances. Dean usually got quiet when he was pissed or in pain. It looked to Sam that, right now, he was both. “What’s eating you, Dean.”

Dean’s left hand holding the shotgun dropped to his side as his right hand wrapped around his tender ribs. He was fighting to get his breathing under control and his green eyes blazed with anger. “For a guy who practically lives in a car, those were three of the most miserable hours of my life. I hold Corrigan and Agnes responsible for that. The only thing that’s gonna make me feel better right now is if I get one more chance to blast him right between the eyes. Right before we head back and salt and burn his ass for good.”

Dean’s eyes flashed dangerously as he turned and yelled into the forest beyond. “Show your face you sonovabitch.”

CHAPTER 14:

Sam made his way carefully across the clearing and through the trees to where Mary’s remains lay. With the crutches and the bulky knee brace, it was hard going; the ground was uneven and root-covered, and an overnight drop in temperature had left ice-covered patches littered across the forest floor. Given the concentration it took just to remain on his feet, he was tiring quickly.

Dean limped closely behind Sam, fingers coiled tightly around the shotgun he carried. His eyes darted warily around him but always quickly returned to Sam. Thanks to the crutches, Sam’s gun remained stashed in the waistband of his jeans, useless in the event of unexpected attack, and that put Dean in full-on overprotective mode.

Bobby followed a few paces behind Dean, duffle bag slung over his shoulder and shotgun at the ready, routinely glancing around to make sure no attack came from behind.

Sam could hear his brother’s shallow, raspy breathing behind him, Dean’s still healing lungs protesting against the cold air they were forced to breathe and the workout they were far from ready for. But it was the anger radiating from Dean that Sam was most aware of. He’d been battered one too many times on this hunt and he was pissed, no question there. But, more than anything, Dean was angry with himself for letting Sam get hurt on his watch.

Sam didn’t blame Dean. He was grown man who could take care of himself, or take the blame when he let his guard down and paid the price. But there were some things so ingrained in Dean’s character through years of practice they were simply impossible to turn off. Looking out for Sam, and tearing himself a new one when he failed, would always top the list with Dean.

Experience had taught Sam to let his brother work through the anger. Blasting Corrigan would help but mostly Dean needed time; time to convince himself he hadn’t failed, that Sam would be fine, that they’d both be fine.

As they moved closer to Mary’s remains, Sam shook his head softly when he realized how history was repeating itself. More than a century before, two brothers had stalked these same woods in search of Mary, trying to save her from Corrigan and make him pay for the pain he’d caused; trying to return Mary home to her anguished mother.

He said a silent prayer their efforts would have a happier ending than those of Mary’s own brothers.

Dean was a pale shade of grey by the time Sam stopped. Sam glanced worriedly at him before pulling a hand from his crutch to point to the ground ahead. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Sam. Quit worrying.” Dean looked around then stared at his brother incredulously. “Mary’s remains are right beside where we found you? You couldn’t have described that for Bobby and Doc?”

Sam shrugged. “I needed to be here. I need to be the one to tell Mary about her mom, about the bridge.” He frowned when he realized Mary’s skeleton had been covered up again. “Something’s off Dean. I wondered why you guys didn’t call me on it, why you hadn’t seen the remains. I’d uncovered her, her head, and her arm – that’s how I found the locket. But now, it’s like someone covered her up again.”

Bobby came up beside them. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it was Corrigan. If he knew you found her, there’s a good chance he knows you could take her away from him. He wants her trapped here as part of his sick game of cat and mouse.”

Dean began the slow process of lowering himself to the ground to dig out Mary’s remains but Bobby laid a hand on his arm, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. You’re in no shape to be digging. Keep your eyes peeled for Corrigan – I’ll dig.”

The lack of protest from Dean told Sam all he needed to know about how Dean was really feeling. Dean caught Sam’s worried look and frowned. “Do your thing, Captain Emo. Call out Mary and give her the 411. Once we’ve had a little bonfire, we’re outta here.”

Before Sam had a chance to respond, Mary faded into view in front of him. She smiled shyly at Sam while glancing warily at Dean and Bobby. “You came back.”

Sam moved slowly toward Mary. “I had to. I think we can help you.”

Mary stared at Sam, puzzled. Her frown deepened as she realized Bobby was digging up her remains. “What is he doing?”

Sam’s tone was soft, gentle. “It’s okay, Mary. That’s my friend Bobby and this is my brother Dean. I told you about him. We’re all here to help.”

Mary studied Dean, eyeing the gun he carried suspiciously. She gestured to Bobby and repeated her question. “What is he doing?”

Sam had spent most of the three hours in the car trying to figure out how to tell Mary about her mother, but had yet to decide on the best way. He blew out a breath and opted just to follow instinct. “We want you to move on. We can get rid of Corrigan, that’s the man chasing you, but it’s more important that you find peace.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “I just want to go home.”

Sam nodded. “You died a long time ago, Mary. You know your home, your family – they’re not there any more.”

Mary’s eyes glistened as she nodded curtly.

Sam swallowed. “But I can help you see your mother again.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “My mother? How is that possible?”

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded, willing him to keep going. “Your mother had, um, a hard time when you were taken. She and your family did everything they could to find you.”

Mary nodded. “I knew they would not give up. Something must have happened for them not to have found me.”

Sam blew out a breath again. He still wasn’t sure how much of the tragedy that followed Mary’s disappearance he should share with her. He decided to keep things as simple as the complicated tale allowed.

“Your father, your brothers – I think they’re in a good place. At least I hope they are. But your mother couldn’t handle what happened. Your disappearance, your death. She was angry with the men who took you, with herself for letting it happen, I suppose. It all became too much.” Sam paused and Mary tilted her head expectantly. “When she couldn’t take it any more, when she lost all hope – she jumped from the bridge over the Crooked Arm River.”

Mary’s eyes widened in shock. “No. She would not take her own life.”

Sam moved a few steps closer to Mary. “Under normal circumstances no, but things kind of tumbled out of control after she lost you. The thing is, Mary, she couldn’t let go. That’s why she’s still here.”

Mary struggled to process the information Sam had just given her. “Still here? Like I am still here?”

Sam nodded. “In a way. But unlike you, Mary, she’s angry. She’s lashing out, blaming innocent people for hurting you.”

Mary shook her head. “No. My mother is not like that.”

Sam smiled softly. “In life, she wasn’t. But she’s been angry a long time and it’s….it’s changed her.” His smile faded at Mary’s horrified expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t say this to hurt you, really I don’t, she’s just not the, um, person you remember. But you might be able to help her…. Stop her from hurting people.”

Mary looked up at Sam, a single tear falling down her dirt-streaked face. “How? How can I help her?”

Sam took another deep breath. “If there’s anything left of the woman she was, of the wonderful mother you describe – I hope that you can reach her. Perhaps help her move on to a better place too.”

Mary nodded, reeling from all this new information. “But how? I am trapped here - with him.”

Sam pulled the locket from his jacket pocket and held it up for Mary to see. “The braid in this locket has your hair in it. It’s a physical link to you. If you concentrate, you can go wherever I take this locket. I need you to concentrate on the old bridge, concentrate on being there. If I take the locket to the bridge you should be able to move from this place to there……and see your mother again.”

Mary looked from the locket to Sam. “If what you say is true, my mother’s hair is also in that locket. Why did she not come here to me?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t think she knows she can. But after she attacked us, I think it’s how she sent me here, without knowing she was doing it.”

Mary’s expression turned horrified. “My mother is the one who attacked you. Who hurt your brother?”

“Like Sam said,” Dean limped closer to his brother, “she’s not the woman you remember. We can stop her hurting people, and we’re going to, but my brother here wants to give you a chance first. You interested?”

Mary stared again at the gun Dean held. Her expression saddened as she lifted her gaze to meet his. She nodded before turning to Sam. “But this man who chases me, this Corrigan, will he not follow?”

Dean answered before Sam could. “Don’t worry sweetheart, we’ll take care of him. We’ll…”

As if on cue, Corrigan appeared suddenly about 20 feet to Dean’s right. Dean turned and fired but the spirit dissipated before the shot found its target. “Sonovabitch. Where’d he go?”

As Corrigan appeared, Bobby had dropped the salt canister he’d been shaking over Mary’s remains and grabbed his shotgun, warily scanning the area. Sam, teetering unsteadily, reached behind him for his gun, brought it round and clicked off the safety as he tried to decide where Corrigan would next reappear. He glanced at the spirit beside him. “Mary?”

Her eyes widened as she looked at Sam. “He is still here. He did not leave.”

As if to prove her point, Corrigan reappeared suddenly, right in front of Dean. He grabbed the elder Winchester by the shirt, picked him up and threw him, sending his gun flying in one direction, and him the other, right into Bobby. The impact knocked them both off their feet. Landing on Bobby cushioned Dean’s fall but couldn’t stop the cry of pain as his injured ribs screamed at the abuse. Bobby struggled to roll Dean off him without doing any further damage, and point the gun he’d managed to hold onto at Corrigan.

Sam watched helplessly as Corrigan attacked his brother, unable to get a clear shot. He fired the moment Dean was out of the way but, again, Corrigan was faster. The bullet passed harmlessly through the air where Corrigan’s head had been just seconds earlier.

Dean, lying on the ground, cradling his injured ribs as he tried to catch his breath, looked on in horror as Corrigan reappeared yet again, right behind Sam. He grabbed the back of Sam’s jacket, pulling him off balance, before wrapping a meaty arm around Sam’s throat. Sam fell backwards against Corrigan, his crutches falling away as struggled to free himself.

Bobby was moving to the side, trying to get a clear shot, but Corrigan denied him by pulling Sam in front of him as a shield. The spirit glared at Bobby and Dean and gestured toward Mary’s remains. “Get away from there. The bitch is mine. She stays here with me.”

Sam fought to breathe, pawing desperately at Corrigan’s arm as it pressed down harder on his throat. His vision slid in and out of focus as he watched Dean unsteadily pull himself to his feet.

Cursing the fact he’d lost his shotgun when tossed into Bobby, Dean returned Corrigan’s glare. Fear and anger mixed equally as he watched Sam struggle to breathe, struggle to stay on his feet as Corrigan dragged him backwards, struggle to stay conscious. “Let him go you sonovabitch.”

Corrigan’s eyes narrowed and his smile twisted his face into something truly ugly. “No. I don’t think I’ll let him go. I think I’ll finish the job I started.”

“Hey, now.” Bobby lowered the shotgun he had pointed at Corrigan, holding his free hand up in a sign of surrender as he slowly bent down and placed the gun on the ground. He stood up slowly, both hands raised in the air. “Just let the boy go. No-one has to get hurt here.”

Corrigan scowled at Bobby. “You’re wrong, old man. The hurtin’……”

A shotgun blast cut off his threat. His eyes widened in shock in the moment before he vanished. Unseen by Corrigan, but in full view of Bobby, Mary had picked up Dean’s lost gun and unloaded both barrels into her tormentor’s back.

Corrigan took the brunt of the blast but the impact was hard enough to slam into Sam’s back, knock the air from his lungs and send him face down onto the forest floor, out cold.

“Sam!” Dean ignored the stabbing pains in his chest as he stumbled to his brother’s side.

Mary stared in horror at Sam, who lay unmoving on the ground. “Did I kill him?”

Dean pressed his fingers against Sam’s bruised neck, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he found a steady pulse. He shook his head. “No. He’s breathing. You just knocked the wind out of him.” He pulled up Sam’s shirts and jacket to see the skin on his back already reddening. His brother would be sore but his winter layers had saved him any more real damage. Dean grimaced, holding his ribs, as he turned to look at Mary. “Thanks”

Mary tilted her head, puzzled. “But I hurt your brother. You are not angry?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Given what that bastard was about to do, you did the right thing.” He felt Sam stirring under his hand. “Sammy? You okay in there?”

Sam blinked up at Dean. “What?”

Dean smiled. “Mary saved your butt again. You two are gonna have to start goin’ steady or somethin’.”

Sam frowned, trying to remember what had left him face down in the dirt with Dean hovering worriedly over him. The pain in his back opened the floodgate and the events of the past few minutes tumbled through.

“Mary shot Corrigan?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Impact of the blast knocked you over. From out here, it looks like you’ll just have a few new bruises to add to your collection. How’s it feel from the inside?”

Sam grimaced as he did a mental inventory of his aches and pains. “I don’t think the fall did my knee any favors but I’ll live. Help me up.”

Dean frowned. “You sure you’re okay? Your voice sounds like you’ve been smoking a pack a day.”

Sam rubbed his throat unconsciously, wincing as he found new bruises there, but shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Come on, give me a hand.”

Bobby had gathered up Sam’s crutches and between the two of them, they got Sam back on his feet. They each held on, offering additional support, until they were sure he was steady.

Sam looked over a Mary who still held Dean’s gun. “Thanks.”

Mary offered a small smile and a shrug. “I owed him – a lot more than that. I’m only sorry I hurt you in the process.”

Sam shook his head. “Uh-uh. Don’t be sorry. Corrigan would have killed me.” He winced as he took a few steps toward her. “Listen. We’re going to take care of your, um, your body. Then the only thing keeping you here, trapping you here, is the hair in the locket. You have to concentrate on the bridge. You have to be able to get there by tonight. If you don’t , well, we’ll still be able to help you move on, but I can’t promise you’ll be able to see your mother again.”

Mary shook her head. “I must be able to see her. To help her. Perhaps then she will stop doing these things you have told me of. Please, promise me you will not do anything until I have a chance to see her.”

Dean shook his head. He knew his brother too well. “Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You know what we have to do.”

Sam met his brother’s gaze then turned back to face Mary. He smiled softly. “We’ll wait as long as we can, I promise you that. But you have to be there before sundown. We can’t wait any longer than that.”

Mary nodded, glancing around her. “Then you should go; he is not far away.” She looked down at the shotgun in her hands. “I will keep this. Stop him from following you if I must.”

Dean’s eyebrows peaked as he looked at Sam and tilted his head at Mary. “Get a load of Annie Oakley here.”

“I’m ready.”

Sam and Dean both turned toward Bobby’s voice. He had emptied the gasoline container over Mary’s remains. He’d brushed away leaves and built up the earth around her as a natural firebreak. He held the box of matches up to Sam. “I think this part’s yours.”

Sam smiled at Mary and nodded, moving slowly to Bobby’s side. He pulled a match from the box, drew it along the side and watched it ignite. He smiled again at Mary as he tossed it into her remains. The gasoline caught instantly and burned hot and bright. Sam turned his head from the heat to see Mary staring at the flames. She looked up, meeting his gaze, and smiled sadly before fading from sight.

Dean watched her go but frowned when he realized his gun had faded with her. He turned to Bobby. “How’d she do that. Take my gun, I mean.”

Bobby shrugged as he gathered up their supplies. “She’s obviously gained some control over physical objects in the time she’s been a spirit. It’s probably something along the lines of what allowed Agnes to toss Sam here.” He shrugged again at Dean’s raised eyebrows. “I don’t have all the answers, Dean. We wouldn’t land in half the crap we do if I did.”

Dean turned to Sam who was staring into the receding flames. “That stuff you said to Mary, about her father and brothers being in a good place – you believe that?”

Sam smiled. “I want to.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Sam. “Her brothers, they killed two people – even if it was just Corrigan and his scumbag partner. Most would say that’s an engraved invitation to Hell.”

Sam sighed. “I know, Dean. But those old newspapers Bobby dug up: one of the stories mentioned a pastor visiting them in jail before they were hanged. And they’re buried in the church cemetery. Maybe they repented their so-called sins before they went to the gallows.”

Dean frowned. “You really think they regretted offing the bastard who killed their sister?”

Sam smiled tiredly. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m not really up to a theological debate right now.” He shrugged. “I’m just running on hope.”

Dean smiled, resting his hand briefly on Sam’s arm. “Yeah, and that’s what makes you, well……you. Come on, we’re running out of time if we wanna do this. Let’s get going.”

Once the fire was out, they began the slow trek back to the Jeep.

The ride home was a quiet one. Thanks to his encounter with Corrigan, Sam was starting to stiffen up. He took two of Dean’s painkillers and dozed for most of the trip. Dean’s pride and body were both hurting from Corrigan’s attack and, as much as he was grateful for Mary saving Sam, he was pissed it wasn’t him that had dispatched the bastard one last time. “Nobody salts and burns him but me,” he’d growled as they’d loaded the weapons and tools back in the car. He’d then taken two painkillers and, like Sam, tried to sleep.

Bobby’s phone rang when they were about an hour outside of Plymouth. “Yeah? Hey. No, we’re okay. We’re all okay. Really. What? Well thank god for that. Where are you?” Bobby checked his watch. “We’re about 45 minutes from there. Hang tight. We’ll meet up with you as soon as we can.”

He clicked his phone shut and glanced in the rearview mirror at Sam who, awoken by the phone ringing, was stretching in the back seat. He smiled over at Dean who was peering at him through one open eye, waiting for him to fill in the blanks in the one-sided conversation he'd just overheard. “That was Doc. She’s found Agnes.”

Just under an hour later, Bobby pulled into the parking lot at the pre-arranged rendezvous spot. Doc climbed out of her car walked over to the SUV, pulling open the back door next to Sam. She glanced from one brother to the other, not missing Dean’s grey pallor or the new set of bruises on Sam’s neck. She glared at Bobby, then at Dean and Sam in turn. “Fine, huh? What happened? Spill.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re good, Doc. Now what….” Another glare cut him off. Doc had already begun examining Sam’s neck. Dean sighed, knowing he’d get nowhere with Doc until she’d made sure they were alright. He waited patiently as she checked over Sam, listening closely to her questions and to Sam’s responses, watching her reactions carefully for anything she might not be saying.

When it came time for Doc to check him over, Dean was not quite so patient, at least until Sam shot him a look that reminded him his brother was equally worried about him. He protested loudly, however, when she pulled an oxygen cylinder from the medical bag she’d retrieved from her car and pressed the mask against his face.

He batted the mask away. “Doc, come on. I don’t need that. I’m...”

"Don't you dare say fine. You're far from it." Doc held out the oxygen mask. "Now, if you want to keep going, see this thing through, take this." She gestured with the mask again. "Just keep taking slow, deep breaths from the mask. Trust me, it’ll help.” She cut off another protest with a soft smile. “Please.”

Dean took the mask from her and clapped it on his face, taking as exaggerated a breath as his struggling lungs would allow.

“Thanks, Doc.” Sam smiled admiringly. There weren’t many people who could get Dean to do something he didn’t want to do – and most of them were in the car right now. He shook his head. “That’s quite the Mary Poppins medical bag you have there; something for every occasion.”

Dean shot Sam his best WTF look, pulling the mask from his face. “Mary Poppins? Guess you do watch more than porn when I’m out.”

Dean noted with a smirk his brother’s cheeks redden but cut off his retort by turning to Doc. “So where is she – Agnes I mean? Bobby said you found her.”

Doc nodded, grabbing a folder from her medical bag and sliding into the backseat beside Sam, lifting his injured leg so it stretched across the seat and over her knee. “They hid her in plain sight”

Bobby and Dean had both twisted around to face her fully. Doc smiled at Bobby. “You and I spent all night going through the records looking for Graham or Sinclair – Agnes’s maiden name,” she noted for Sam and Dean’s benefit. “I had no more luck today, until I took another look at the site plan instead of the cemetery rolls.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Why.”

She handed a piece of paper to Dean. “Check out the plot to the left of the Grahams’.”

Dean studied the paper. “Okay. It belongs to a family named Ness.” He raised his eyebrows at Doc. “You found the guy who nabbed Al Capone?”

Doc smiled, handing Sam a second piece of paper. “There’s only one occupant in that plot. No name. Only initials.” She nodded at the piece of paper Sam held. “Look at the entry beside No. 54.”

Sam traced his finger down the paper until he found 54, then slid it over to the accompanying notation. “Ness. Interred 1876. The initials are A.G.” He looked up at Doc when realization hit. “A.G. Ness. Agnes.”

Dean smiled. “Sonovabitch. Somebody did an end-run around the pastor who wouldn’t let her be buried with her family. Her nephews, I’m guessing. Told everyone she was buried in the orchard…..

“Then slipped her into the cemetery under an assumed name,” Bobby finished. He smiled. “Sounds like the Graham family had a thing for breaking the rules.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ we’re related.” He glanced at his watch. “So what’s our next step here? We’re kinda running out of time.”

Bobby nodded. “As much as I don’t like the idea, I think we’re gonna have to split up. Doc and I’ll go take care of Agnes, while you two head out to the bridge and wait for Mary to show up.”

Bobby cut off Doc’s expected protest. “You know these two aren’t up to digging up a grave, which means you and I get the short straw.”

Dean nodded. “And Sam’s gotta get that locket to the bridge if Mary has any chance of pulling Aggie back from the dark side. I don’t see any other choice, Doc.” He turned to his brother. “You up for this?”

Sam smiled. “Like you said, we don’t have a choice. Let’s just do it.”

xxxXXXxxx

Dean stood on the bridge he’d been thrown from six days earlier. He swallowed uneasily as he stared at the broken railing. His body, thrown by Agnes, had caused the damage now patched together with timber and chain-link fencing and marked off with caution tape until permanent repairs could be made.

Most of his last encounter with the spirit was hazy. Sam had filled in the blanks, but it was the ever-present aches and pains that were the loudest reminder he’d come out on the losing end. That wasn’t going to happen again.

“This plan of yours better work, Sammy,” he muttered, glancing at his brother who stood, balanced on his crutches at the end of the bridge, trying to hold on to a shotgun but looking like a stiff breeze could topple him, never mind a pissed-off spirit.

Sam gripped and re-gripped the shotgun in his hands, looking around him warily. When his eyes met Dean’s he offered a tight smile. “You ready?”

“Always ready, Sammy. Now where the hell is Mary?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Give her some time, Dean. She’ll be here.”

Dean shook his head. “We’re running out of time, Sam. We’ve gotta get this party under way.” He glanced at his watch. Barring unforeseen problems, Doc and Bobby had had plenty of time to get to the county cemetery and dig up Agnes. Bobby had promised to call when they were done and that call was due any second now.

Dean pulled the locket from his jacket pocket. “Now if Aggie would just…” The change in Sam’s expression caused him to whip around. Agnes was standing right behind him.

Dean flashed his mega-watt smile, his unsteady step backwards a counterpoint to his cocky demeanor. “Hey. Nice to see ya again. How ya been?”

He flinched, expecting her to lash out. At the sight of the spirit, images of their first encounter tumbled through Dean’s memory. She had appeared suddenly and attacked unprovoked, her face contorted by rage. She had charged at him and, as her energy hit, he had felt fury, bitterness and pain. Then there was nothing, until he woke in the hospital almost three days later with only hazy, snapshot glimpses of the events in between.

Dean was surprised this time that the attack never came. Agnes stood, unmoving, in front of him, staring at the locket dangling from his hand. “That is mine.” She glared at him. “My daughter had that. What did you do with her?”

Dean moved slowly, his eyes never leaving Agnes, but maneuvering her so she was between him and Sam, giving his brother a clear shot if necessary. “I didn’t do anything to your daughter, Aggie. We’re just looking after this for her. In fact, we’re doing her a favor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam raise the shotgun. The movement was slight but enough to catch Agnes’s attention. Deeming Sam the more immediate threat, she moved past Dean and focused her energy on the younger Winchester. Telekinetically pulling the shotgun from his grasp, she sent the weapon sailing over the side of the bridge into the river before picking up Sam and throwing him against the support pillar at the bridge entrance. Sam’s cry of pain ripped through Dean as he watched his brother crumple to the ground.

Anger lent speed to Dean’s reflexes. He reached behind him, pulling his Colt 1911 from his waistband and fired two rock-salt shots at Agnes. But she was quicker than the bullets, dissipating before they reached her. They sailed harmlessly over a fallen Sam and into the woods beyond the end of the bridge. Agnes reappeared suddenly, right in front of Dean, batting the gun from his hand. It slid across the bridge, disappearing into the shadows.

“Oh you bitch. I….,” Agnes choked off his protests, literally. She grabbed him by the neck, slammed him into a nearby pillar and held him there, suspended with his feet off the ground.

In a daze, head spinning and knee protesting painfully against this latest attack, Sam struggled to push himself upwards. His blurred vision suddenly focused on the sight of his brother being strangled, feet kicking desperately, arms trying to push Agnes away but finding nothing solid to lock onto.

“Agnes! Let him go.”

Agnes, choking Dean into unconsciousness, tightened her grip, ignoring Sam’s plea. She stared at Dean’s hand, the one still tightly clutching the locket, the gold chain spilling out between his knuckles. “Give me my locket.”

Sam grabbed the bridge railing and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. “Agnes, we found your daughter. Let him go or you’ll never see her again.”

Agnes froze, then whipped her head round to stare at Sam, a kaleidescope of emotions playing out across her face as she weighed his words.

She released Dean without warning. He collapsed onto the deck of the bridge, coughing and gulping down air, his face contorted in agony. Agnes’s spirit dissipated in front of Dean, then reappeared almost instantly in front of Sam.

The younger Winchester jumped, startled by the spirit’s sudden appearance so close to him. His grip tightened on the railing to regain his balance but he held his ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Dean struggling to push himself to his feet.

Agnes’s eyes narrowed and Sam knew she saw him as Corrigan. She leaned in closer. “You. What did you do to my daughter?”

Sam swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything to her. I’m trying to help. She’ll be here.”

“Where. Is. She?” Agnes repeated. Her voice was cold and vicious. Pain shot up from Sam’s knee as he stumbled backwards trying to get away from her.

A sharp whistle behind them suddenly grabbed the spirit’s attention. It was Dean, teetering slightly as he held the locket in the air to show Agnes. His voice was raw and thick.. “You want your daughter, Aggie? You need this.”

As she made a move toward him, Dean swung his arm over the railing, holding up the locket and threatening to drop it into the water below. “Uh-uh. You’re quick bitch, but quick enough? You can’t see your daughter without this so, unless you want me to drop it, get the hell away from my brother.”

To show her he meant business, Dean let loose some of the coiled chain in his palm. The locket dropped, but remained firmly in his grasp.

Agnes screamed, an ear-piercing screech that caused both brothers to wince. Her hand shot out as she reached for the locket telekenetically. But this time Dean was ready. He felt the pull on the locket, but closed his hand tightly, grunting at the effort it took to maintain his grasp..

Dean scowled at the spirit. “Cut it out, Aggie: you’re really starting to piss me off. But Mary I like and, for whatever reason, she wants to see you, so what say you play nice till she gets here?” The pull on the locket disappeared and he relaxed his grip. “Now get away from Sam. Then we’ll wait for Mary to show up and every……”

A blast of cold energy hit him in the chest and sent him sailing down the bridge. He landed hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs and sending the locket flying from his grasp and skittering across the bridge surface.

Dean was fighting to remain conscious, the pain across his ribcage threatening to pull him under. He could feel his heart racing and his his lungs struggling to keep up. He rolled his head to the side, holding his ribs protectively and concentrating on slowing down his breathing. As his vision cleared, he saw the locket, Mary’s connection to her mother and their bargaining chip, lying about five feet from his outstretched hand. His eyes widened as gravity grabbed it before he could, the chain disappearing between a join in the planks and picking up speed with each link that slipped below the bridge.

He pushed himself toward it, unable to stifle a cry of pain the movement caused. With Agnes’s scream echoing through his head, his hand snaked out toward the necklace, but the gold locket slid into the crack in the wood and disappeared from sight.

CHAPTER 15:

Agnes’s scream echoed across the bridge as the locket slid between the weathered slats and disappeared from sight.

Thrown by Agnes halfway down the bridge, Dean landed heavily. Pain flared in his right side and he groaned loudly as he rolled onto his left, struggling to draw in a deep breath.. His vision swam, then snapped into focus as he saw the locket slip from sight just out of his reach.. Heart racing, he dragged himself forward to the spot where the necklace had plunged from view.

Sam’s eyes darted between his brother and Agnes. The spirit seemed frozen in place, staring at Dean, horrified that her one chance to see her daughter again had just vanished beneath the bridge..

Dean lay on his side, still favouring his ribs as he squinted down between the planks. As Agnes’s scream faded, so did all other sounds until Sam was aware only of his brother’s harsh, shallow breathing.

Dean squinted down between the bridge planks. Daylight was fading and heavy shadows made it hard to see but……No. It couldn’t be. Instinctively, he reached in his jacket pocket for the small flashlight he always carried on a hunt then groaned loudly at the pain the sudden movement caused. Biting his lip to push back this latest onslaught of pain, he clicked on the flashlight and shone the beam between the slats.

His harsh breathing silenced momentarily when gold glinted back at him. The gap between the old bridge timbers, warped and twisted by time, was narrower at the base than on the surface. While he could see the chain dangling below the bridge, tossed about freely by the winds that chased the river, the locket itself was too fat to slip straight through.

Dean allowed himself a small smile of relief as he stuck his fingers between the boards to retrieve the necklace. The smile quickly disappeared when he realized his fingers were too wide, denying him a grip solid enough to pull the locket free.

“Dammit.” He reached for his ankle, groaning as the movement further tortured his injured ribs, and quickly pulled the knife from the holster he wore there. He slipped the blade between the planks of wood and it easily hooked the chain. Pulling the necklace free he rolled gingerly onto his back and held up the knife, shakily reaching for the locket hanging from the blade.

Agnes beat him to it. Materializing suddenly beside him, she reached out her hand. The locket slid off the knife blade, flew through the air and landed in her waiting palm. She clasped the necklace tightly before lifting her head to glare at Dean. “Where is my daughter.”

Dean lay on his back at her feet, his arm once again held protectively around his ribs, his face contorted in pain. His voice was angry but punctuated by loud wheezing. “Look lady, we told her to be here. If she doesn’t want to show up that’s…….”

His snarky response was cut off as invisible fingers clamped around his throat. He glared up at Agnes, coughing and choking as the hold tightened.

Sam, using the bridge railing for support, had been limping slowly toward his brother. The second he saw Agnes reach out and begin strangling his brother he knew keeping his promise to Mary was no longer an option. Dean’s life would always come first. Leaning heavily on the railing, fighting the dizziness that threatened to topple him, Sam reached behind him, pulled his Taurus PT-99 from his waistband and shakily leveled the gun at Agnes’s head.

“Mother, stop.”

Agnes whirled around at the sound of Mary’s voice. Her eyes widened as, for the first time in more than a century, she stood face-to-face with her daughter.

Mary stood at the end of the bridge, torn by raw emotion. Any doubts she may have had about the truth of Sam’s words earlier, when he had told her what her mother had become, had just been erased. With her own eyes she had seen Agnes strangling Dean; instead of the warm smile she had clung to in memory for so many years and prayed so ferverently to see again, she saw only rage and contempt in her mother’s face.

But as Agnes saw Mary, the anger, guilt and resentment melted away, replaced by the pure joy of being reunited with the child so cruelly taken from her.

The pressure on Dean’s throat disappeared suddenly when Agnes’s attention was pulled from him to Mary. He coughed violently. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult and he was fighting to stay conscious, fighting to watch the reunion playing out before him.

Sam’s finger relaxed on the trigger when Agnes released her hold on Dean, but his gun remained pointed at her as she walked past him and toward Mary. Huffing out a breath of relief, Sam’s knees buckled without warning and he slid down the bridge railing at his back, landing on his butt with his braced leg stuck out in front of him.

Hearing Sam’s grunt of pain, Dean’s eyes snapped from Agnes and Mary to his brother. “Sammy?” His voice was barely audible.

Sam grimaced as he dragged himself to his brother’s side, keeping his gun in hand and a wary eye on Agnes. “I’m okay. You?”

Dean frowned, rubbing his throat with one hand and cradling his ribs with the other. “No.” His vision slid in and out of focus as he stared at Agnes, who now stood right in front of her daughter. Dean winced at the sharp pain in his chest as Sam helped him sit up. Neither noticed he was listing heavily against Sam, or that Sam’s arm remained wrapped around his back to prevent him toppling over as they both concentrated on the mother-daughter reunion.

“Mary Elizabeth?” For the first time since they’d run into Agnes’s spirit, the brothers heard a softness in her voice, a warmth that hinted at the loving, caring mother she had once been. Her features softened as she smiled. “Darling….” She opened her arms wide, the locket dangling from her fingers as she beckoned Mary to come to her.

Mary choked back a sob. The bitter, twisted wraith she had just seen melted away leaving behind the mother she remembered. She ran to Agnes, wrapping her arms around her waist and burying her face in her mother’s shoulder. Agnes returned the hug, pulling Mary close to her and, for the first time in more than a century, revelling in nothing more than being able to hold her child.

Mary lifted her head and turned to gaze up at her mother. A smile lit up her tear-streaked face. “I thought I would never see you again. That I would never see my family, my home again.”

Agnes smiled, tracing her hand gently down Mary’s cheek.. “I could not give up. I waited for you. Stayed here, knowing you would one day find your way home. That you would need me here when you did.”

Mary frowned as she watched her mother’s face harden again as she turned to glare at Sam and Dean. Her eyes still burned angrily as she turned back to Mary and ran a hand lovingly over her daughter’s head, brushing her long hair back from her face. “These men who took you, they will pay. They had no right to take you from me.”

Mary recoiled. There was such bitterness in her mother’s face, such anger in her words. In an instant her mother had faded away, replaced yet again by the twisted being she had seen moments earlier choking the life out of Dean.

Mary shook her head. “No, you cannot hurt them.” She grabbed her mother’s arm. “They are not the ones who took me. In truth, they are the ones who helped me return here to you.”

Agnes smiled placatingly. “No. You are mistaken.” She turned and glared at Sam. “He took you from me.” She turned back to face Mary, grief now mixing with anger in her expression. “Your father, your brothers – they died trying to bring you home because of what he did. He has to pay for that. He must.”

Mary looked horrified. “Father, Thomas, James – they died trying to find me? But, I thought…..” She looked past Agnes to Sam, hurt and anger evident in her expression. “You did not tell me this. Why?”

Sam felt Dean tense at the accusation, his brother’s harsh breathing the only sound as Mary waited for an answer. “I wasn’t lying to you,” Sam said softly. “I was just trying to spare you more pain.”

Agnes turned to scowl at him but Sam kept his eyes locked on Mary. “Your father, his heart gave out. I think it was broken over what happened to you.” Sam heard Dean groan and wasn’t entirely convinced it was one of pain. “Your brothers should not have died, not then, but …..’ Sam glanced from Mary to Agnes and back again, “they have made their peace with what happened, with what they did, and moved on. Now you need to do the same.”

Mary’s eyes glistened but she nodded softly. She turned and smiled sadly at her mother. “He is right. We must go. We should not be here.”

Agnes frowned at Mary’s words, shaking her head and clasping her daughter’s face in her hands. “Do not listen to his lies. You are back with me now, where you belong. I will take care of you.” Her eyes filled with hatred as she turned to look at Sam. “I will take care of him.”

“Mother!” Mary’s voice was desperate, insistent. She clasped her mother’s hands as Agnes turned back to face her. “This is not the man who hurt me. Believe me. I know that man’s face all too well. He has haunted me from the day he took me from you.” She pointed to Sam. “This man, Sam, and his brother, they just tried to help me.”

She looked down at her mother’s hands, at the locket wrapped around her fingers. Gently opening Agnes’s hand, Mary picked up the locket and held it before her mother. “Without them, I never would have known this gave me the ability to see you again. To be with you again. This allows me to be here. Without them bringing it to this place, I never would have had this chance to see you again.” She smiled warmly at her mother. “But now – now we must go.”

Agnes’s smile slipped at her daughter’s words and she shook her head. “Go? No, we cannot go.” She stared at the locket. “Only here can we be together, so we shall stay.” She nodded at Mary, encouragingly. “We’re together now. I’m going to look after you – always, as a mother should.”

Mary shook her head, looking past her mother to Sam. He nodded, encouraging her to do what she knew she must.

“You don’t belong here, Mother, any more than I do. You have to move on. We have to. I……” She smiled sadly. “You can’t keep hurting people. It’s not who you are.”

A single tear rolled down Agnes’s face. She cupped Mary’s face in her hand and, once again, briefly, the anger melted away leaving only sadness in its wake. “It’s not who I was, but I had to make them pay. Pay for what they did to you. You have to understand that.”

Desperation now replaced the grief. She grabbed Mary’s face with both hands. “None of that matters now. We can stay here. Together. I’ll look after you. I’ll keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again. If they try to take you, I’ll stop them. I won’t fail you again.”

The spirit spun around to stare venomously at Sam, still sitting on the bridge, with Dean slumped at his side.

Dean fought to get his breathing under control. “Look Aggie, listen to your daughter. She’s ready to move on. She’s…..

Agnes’s angry gaze locked on Dean “You know I can’t go with her.”.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s beyond the light, if you believe in that sort of thing.” He smiled at her hopefully. “You should go check it out.”

Agnes shook her head. “I committed mortal sin. I took my own life. Even before that, I took the life of another.”

Dean raised an eyebrow as he glanced sideways at Sam: “This is new.” He turned back to Agnes. “Care to fill in the blanks?”

Mary was shaking her head. She walked forward, placing herself between her mother and the Winchesters. “Mother, what are you saying? In life you could never kill anyone. You….”

Agnes pushed past Mary to glare at Sam, a renewed hatred burning in dark eyes. “That man and his partner were here, on this bridge. He wouldn’t tell me where he took you. He said it was too late. We’d never see you again..” She turned back to Mary, grabbing her hands, desperate to make her understand. “I watched your brothers ask him over and over and over again, where you were. James even pleaded with him, begging him to bring you back, but he…” she pointed accusingly at Dean. “He just laughed.”

Her eyes darkened at the memory. “He said to forget you. Move on.”

Agnes took another step toward Dean, her face growing even colder as the tragedy that had haunted her for so long twisted her mind even further. “He said if we let them go, he’d give us 20 from the money they had taken from the bank.”

She glared at Sam, seeing in him the man she had hated for more than a century. “20 for the life of my child.” She turned to face Mary. “I pushed him. I pushed him and he fell off the bridge. He couldn’t swim…..”

Dean glanced back at Sam, whose eyes widened. This little nugget of information hadn’t turned up anywhere in Bobby’s research. Thomas Graham, the eldest son, had taken the blame for a crime his mother had committed. Accidently, yes, but in her puritanical beliefs, the cause didn’t matter. She had lost control and taken a life.

Then she had allowed her son to take the blame for her crime, a crime which ultimately cost him his life. Agnes turned to face Mary, desperate to make her understand. “I wanted to confess. I did not want Thomas to take the blame but he said I had to stay, for you. You would need me when you found your way home.”

But, gradually, Agnes’s guilt over killing Shepherd, over not being able to protect her daughter, over her role in her son’s death had eaten away at her, destroying the woman she had once been. The deaths of her son had been the final straw; irreparably broken she had taken her own life, committing another sin in the process and failing in her promise to be there for Mary when she finally found her way home. That had led her to the limbo she was now in, further compounding her crimes with each subsequent life she took in a misguided attempt to set things right.

Dean looked again at Agnes. He might feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so determined to kill him and his brother. Once again she was staring at the two of them.

He leaned heavily on Sam as he struggled to push himself to his feet. He teetered unsteadily when he was upright, but his stare was unflinching. “Look Aggie, whatever you did, you can’t stay here hurting innocent people.” He glanced down at Sam and rolled his eyes. “You need to – I can’t believe I’m saying this – walk into the light.”

Agnes’s smile turned icy. “I see no innocent people here. Only men who took my child from me. Took my children, my husband and left me with nothing.”

Mary moved quickly, again placing herself between her mother and Dean. “Mother, please, I beg you – you cannot hurt them. Please.” She backed away from her mother until she was beside Dean. She turned, clasped his hand and placed the locket she now carried in his open palm. She closed his fingers over the necklace, and held her hand over his. She turned and smiled sadly at Sam before lifting her eyes to meet Dean’s. Thank you. Do what you must.”

Sam’s eyes darted between his brother and Mary, and Agnes, who carefully tracked her daughter’s actions. Her eyes narrowed in anger as she saw Mary hand off the locket to Dean

Agnes knew the locket had allowed Mary to come to the bridge. It seemed pretty clear to Sam, she’d figured out if she kept control of the locket, she could also keep her daughter with her. Forever. But, especially given what she’d just revealed about killing Corrigan’s partner, if Agnes and Mary moved on, it likely wouldn’t be together. Mary was an innocent victim; Agnes was a victim of circumstance, but hardly innocent.

Sam wondered briefly if Mary could convince her mother to accept her fate but when Agnes dissipated, reappearing right in front of Dean and pushing Mary out of the way, he had his answer. Agnes knew the only way she could stay with Mary was here on the bridge, and the locket was the key to keeping them together. She also considered the locket in the Winchesters’ hands a major threat to those plans.

Agnes grabbed Dean’s arm and reached to pull the necklace from his hand. Dean held on tightly, even as Agnes smashed his arm down on the railing of the bridge. Dean let out a cry of pain, but didn’t let go.

Agnes ignored Mary’s horrified plea to stop. She smiled cruelly at Dean. “Give it to me.”

Before the smartass retort even formed in Dean’s head, Agnes waved her hand at Sam, picking him up and throwing him half-way down the bridge.

Dean’s eyes flashed with rage. “Don’t you touch him again, you bitch.” He glanced down the bridge at his brother. “Sammy?”

Sam groaned as he pushed himself to sit up. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Mary, horrified at her mother’s actions, appeared at her side and grabbed her arm. “Mother stop. They have done nothing to hurt you.”

Agnes glared at her daughter “He’s trying to take you away from me again. Don’t you see that?”

Still holding Dean’s arm, she smashed it again on the rail. Dean stifled a groan and glared again at Agnes but the attack loosened his hold on the necklace and, with a sudden grab, Agnes tore it from his hand.

She smiled triumphantly, wrapping her fingers around it and squeezing tightly. Turning to Mary, she clutched the locket even tighter. “Now no one can separate us. I can watch over you always.”

Mary grasped her mother’s arms. “No. We can’t stay. Please.. We must…..”

The shrill ringing of Sam’s cellphone pulled their attention to the youngest Winchester, lying on the bridge where Agnes had thrown him. He’d pulled his cellphone from his pocket and stared dazedly at the text message it displayed. He looked up, breathing heavily, and dropped his phone to the ground. He turned so his eyes met Mary’s and nodded.

Mary tilted her head, puzzled, than a look of sudden understanding crossed her face. Sam had told her they must salt and burn her mother's remains as they had done hers. His simple nod told her it had been done. Now the only thing stopping them from moving on was the tiny braid in the locket. She smiled at Sam then turned to her mother. She reached up and cupped her mother’s face in her hand, the anger and bitterness fading in Agnes’s eyes as they met the hope burning in her daughter’s. “These are not the men who hurt me. But, for us to truly stay together, you must find it in your heart to forgive those men, and ask forgiveness for what you have done.”

Dean, standing beside the two spirits, could see the emotions at war within Agnes; the woman she once was fighting a seemingly losing battle with the twisted wraith too long in control.

Dean glanced at Sam, who was reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a lighter and a folded piece of paper. Transferring the paper to his other hand, he flicked on the lighter and glanced at his brother. Dean nodded encouragingly, then turned a wary eye to Agnes.

Sensing Sam’s actions, Mary and Agnes both turned to face him. Sam watched Agnes carefully as he brought the lighter and paper together, setting the paper ablaze.

In Agnes’s face, there was anger and confusion as she stared at the burning paper. She turned as she felt Mary’s hand pull on her own. Mary smiled as as gently tugged the locket from her mother’s grasp. Prying it open she stared at the photos it contained. The faces of her family smiled back at her but, in sudden comprehension of Sam’s actions, she realized the tiny braid, made by Agnes just before Mary’s first birthday to symbolically link mother and children, was gone.

Mary turned to Sam and there was genuine gratitude in her simple words. “Thank you.”

The paper now burning in Sam’s hand contained the locks of hair once preserved in the locket. Sam had pulled them from the necklace on the way to the bridge, folded them inside a scrap piece of paper with some rock salt, and shoved them in his pocket, ready to destroy once, as he had promised, Mary said goodbye to her mother.

Mary had tried her best to reach out to Agnes, get her to repent, but too many years of anger, bitterness and guilt had eaten away the woman she once was. With the text message from Bobby, saying Agnes’s remains had been destroyed, there was no longer any reason to wait.

Mary tried one last time. She held up the open locket to her mother. “Please. For us – your family. Ask forgiveness so we might all be together again.”

But Agnes’s focus was solely on Sam. Whether she understood what his actions meant, he wasn’t sure but she definitely perceived them as a threat. She screamed as the paper caught fire, blinking out, then reappearing right in front of him. She pulled the paper from his hand, but it was too late; the flames caught fully, it blazed brightly for an instant, then fell as a shower of bright sparks onto the bridge in front of Agnes.

Mary reappeared suddenly at her mother’s side, grasping Agnes’s hand just as the two spirits dissipated one last time. Dark and light swirled together and then in one brief but brilliant flash, both were gone.

Left alone on the bridge, a few dying sparks from the burning paper tossed around them by the breeze, the battered Winchester brothers turned to face each other. Sam groaned as he tried, and failed, to stand up, his head spinning from the physical and emotional toll. Dean, cradling his battered right arm around his injured ribs, stumbled toward his brother. Reaching his side, he patted Sam on the shoulder.

“Don’t get up on my account, Sam. Besides….” He closed his eyes against the dizziness that suddenly washed over him. “I really need to sit down.”

He slid down wearily next to his brother, grimacing at the increasing tightness in his chest. He offered Sam a tired smile. “Your plan worked.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, classic bait and switch.”

Dean shot Sam a look. “Only next time, new wrinkle. We switch roles. You be the bait.”

Sam’s smile faded as he looked at his battered brother. “You know, you really didn’t have to try so hard to protect the locket. You knew I had the braid. Agnes could have done whatever she wanted with the necklace and it wouldn’t have mattered.”

Dean frowned at Sam. “What Agnes wanted was to toss our asses over the side. As long as she was concentrating on that locket, or Mary, she wasn’t fully concentrating on us. That’s what mattered.”

Sam’s smile returned. “Thanks

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…..” Dean waved off Sam, coughing as he fought to draw in a deep breath. He frowned suddenly. “She didn’t bring my gun back.”

“What?”

Dean gestured to where Mary had first shown up. “Mary. She didn’t bring my gun.”

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling. “What? You expected her to show up here, shotgun in hand, and blow away her own mother?”

Dean shrugged. “No, not really – but I wanted my gun back.” He stared at the spot where the two spirits had disappeared. “Which way do you think they went?”

Sam glanced at his brother who made an up and down gesture with his hand. He smiled tiredly. “Like I said before, Dean: all I’ve got is hope – that Mary has found peace. As for Agnes, I don’t know. If she….” He frowned as he saw Dean listing to one side “Dean, what’s goin’ on with you?”

Dean grimaced as the pain in his chest sharpened and he started to feel dizzy again. “I, uh, think I’m gonna lie down for a bit.” He slid down slowly, screwing his eyes closed.

“Dean?” Sam’s worry deepened.

Dean peeled one eye open to look at Sam. “Hard to breathe...”

The sound of running footsteps momentarily pulled Sam’s focus from Dean. He glanced up to see Bobby and Doc running toward them, each lugging a small duffle bag. He smiled down at his brother. “Hang in there. The cavalry’s here.”

“Sam?” Doc glanced worriedly from one brother to the other as she knelt down beside them.

Sam gestured to Dean. “He can’t breathe.”

Doc nodded. It didn’t take a medical professional to see Dean was in trouble. His eyes were glazed as he struggled to stay conscious. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he fought to pull in air. She frowned at the blue tinges around his mouth. She glanced over at Sam as she grabbed a stethoscope from her bag. “How you doin’, Sam?”

“I’m fine. Just help Dean.”

Doc frowned, glancing from Sam to Bobby. “There’s two canisters of oxygen in that bag you’re hauling. Pass one to me, then put the other on Sam there. Get him wrapped in a blanket, then check him out for me, will you?

Bobby nodded but Sam shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, just…..”

Doc cut him off. “Uh-uh. No arguments. You two and Bobby called the shots from the hunting end of things but, medically speaking, I’m pulling rank. When I’m not around, you two can patch up each other with Crazy Glue and duct tape to your hearts’ content, but, right now, we’re doing this my way. Got it?”

Dean offered a brief nod as Sam mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

As Doc listened to his heart, frowning at the too rapid beat, and rolled him gently onto his side to listen to his lungs, Dean peeled his eyes open to look at his brother. His voice was barely audible “And you….. call me bossy.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, you two are a lot alike.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Bite ……..me.”

Bobby pulled out blankets from the bag he carried and passed one to Doc before opening the other and wrapping it around Sam. “I take it you boys got the job done?”

Sam nodded. “Mary showed up. She was able to see her mom one last time. She….” His eyes snapped back to his brother as he heard Dean choking. “Dean?”

Dean’s face was contorted in pain. “I…..”

Dean was really struggling now, the oxygen mask fogging over quickly as he fought to pull in air. His eyes widened as he looked up at Doc, a silent plea for help.

Sam looked on in alarm, pulling the oxygen mask from his face. “What’s goin’ on with him? Doc?”

Doc pull the stethoscope from her ears after listening to Dean’s lungs again. “His rib is broken and it’s punctured his lung. It’s collapsing.”

She reached in her pocket, pulled out her phone and dialed 911. “Yes, My name is Dr. Kelly Caine. I need an ambulance for two patients at the old bridge over the Crooked Arm River.

Sam had been dizzy before Doc and Bobby arrived. Now his head was spinning. He listened with increasing horror to Doc’s conversation with the 911 operator, words like ‘tachycardic’ and ‘pneumothorax’ scaring the crap out of him. But nothing scared him like the look on Dean’s face. His eyes were losing focus as his struggle just to breathe grew harder and harder.

Dean looked at his brother and Sam was shocked to see fear in his eyes before they rolled back and slid closed. Now Sam’s heart was racing. “Doc…” There was a pleading tone to his own voice that Sam didn’t recognize. “Help him.”

“Damn it, his lung’s collapsed.” Doc reached into her medical bag and pulled out a large syringe with a long, large bore needle. She glanced at Sam as she ripped the plastic packaging from the syringe. “The air is building up in his chest. I need to relieve that pressure before it puts too much stress on his heart.”

Sam’s head was pounding. The safety lights on the bridge suddenly developed a strange halo around them. He heard Bobby say his name and he sounded far away. He wasn’t though, because it was Bobby who caught him as he slumped sideways. Against his will, Sam’s eyes slid closed but the last thing he saw was Doc kneeling over Dean and raising the needle over her head before plunging it into Dean’s chest.

CHAPTER 16:

Sam awoke in the ER, confused about where he was and what had happened. His head was pounding with a renewed viciousness and the pain in his knee was nauseatingly sharp. He squinted against lights that seemed overly bright and tried to shut out the cacophony of ER noises that did his headache no favours. He coughed, the sound magnified by the hard plastic of the oxygen mask strapped to his face. He reached up to pull off the mask but his hand became tangled in the blankets bundled around him.

He groaned in frustration, lacking the co-ordination to disentangle himself.

“Hey, Sam. I’ve got it. Just relax.”

It was Bobby’s voice. Sam forced his eyes open and saw his old friend standing beside the gurney he was lying on. Bobby reached over the safety rail and freed Sam’s hand from the blankets. “How you doin’”

Sam frowned. If he was in the ER, he couldn’t be doin’ that great. He certainly felt like crap. “Where’s Dean?”

Bobby motioned with his head to the right. “He’s in the next room. They’re taking good care of him.”

Sam’s eyes focused on Bobby. Why did Dean need taking care of? He screwed his eyes closed at the sudden memory of Doc driving a needle into his brother’s chest. His eyes snapped open and focused on Bobby. “What happened?”

Bobby tapped the gurney railing absentmindedly. “To you: concussion felled you. To Dean: one fall too many. His cracked rib broke and punctured his lung.”

Sam flashed back to the bridge. “He couldn’t breathe. Dean couldn’t breathe.” His own breathing sped up at the memory of his brother in distress.”

Bobby smiled. “Relax, Sam. Doc got him breathing again. And they’re putting a tube in his chest now to make sure he keeps breathing while his lung heals.”

“Really?” The need for reassurance made Sam sound far younger than 23.

Bobby nodded. “Can’t say he’s gonna be too happy when he wakes up, especially when he finds out he’s in for another extended stay in this place, but yeah. Looks like he’ll be fine.”

“I need to see him.” Sam tried to sit up but the room around him suddenly twisted and distorted, resembling a Salvador Dali landscape.

“Whoa there.” Bobby gently pushed Sam back down. “Doc’ll have my hide if I let you go wandering around before they’ve checked you out.”

“I’m fine, Bobby.”

Bobby shook his head. “Boy, you sure can tell who raised you. None of you has a lick of sense when it comes to realizing you’re beat to hell. Best thing you can do for your brother right now is take care of yourself. He’s gonna get better a whole lot faster if he’s not worrying about you.”

Bobby was right, and Sam knew it, but there was no way he could relax until he saw for himself his brother was okay.

Sam had been through a whole new battery of tests and was settled in his room before that happened though. He was pressing Bobby for an update when noise in the hallway grabbed his attention, followed soon after by a team of doctors, nurses and orderlies pushing a gurney into the room. Sam pushed himself up in the bed as he tried to get a better look at his brother. When the orderlies had transferred him to the adjacent bed, and moved out of the way, he finally had a clear view of Dean, and what he saw didn’t reassure him.

Dean was pale, making the dark circles under his eyes and the ugly purple and red bruises on his neck stand out even more. The oxygen mask was back, fogging up as Dean breathed out, and an IV once again delivered a painkiller-antibiotic cocktail to help him handle the pain of the broken rib and ward off further complications. The bandage around his right hand and wrist was new, supporting the sprain Agnes had caused when she slammed his hand against the railing as she tried to grab back the locket.

Sam couldn’t see it, but he also knew a tube had been surgically inserted into Dean’s chest cavity to prevent air from building up and causing his injured lung to collapse again. Doc had said it would stay in for about a week while his lung healed.

Dean was unconscious, or asleep – and in a weirdly random thought, Sam wondered if there was a difference between the two. Either way, he wanted Dean awake; he’d welcome smart-ass Dean, grumpy-as-hell Dean, even royally pissed-off Dean, because that meant Dean was okay. Quiet Dean scared him.

Doc had followed in the medical team and crossed the room to stand beside Bobby as they got Dean settled. Sam glanced from Dean to Doc but his attention quickly returned to his brother. “Doc?”

“He’ll be okay, Sam. He just needs time. Let him rest. What about you?”

“What?”

“How are you doing?”

Sam frowned. “I’m fine. Just look after Dean.”

Doc smiled. “Dean’s well looked after. Doesn’t mean we can’t take care of you too. How’s the headache – scale of 1 to 10?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno – 7, 8 maybe.”

Doc nodded, and walked to the bottom of Sam’s bed to check his chart. “I think we can give you something to knock that back a notch or two. Help you sleep through the night.”

Sam shook his head slightly. “I don’t wanna sleep. If Dean wakes up…..”

“Dean’s gonna sleep the night, trust me. Probably most of tomorrow too.”

Bobby rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You know Dean's gonna be pissed when he does wake up to find out he’s back in here. The staff is gonna need you at full strength to make sure he does what’s best for him.”

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. With the help of the medication Doc ordered, he fell asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes, and slept through the night and well into the next day. When he woke, Dean was still sleeping. When doctors gave Sam the okay to move around, and returned his crutches, he waited until medical staff cleared the room before hauling himself out of bed to stand at Dean’s bedside.

“Hey.” He looked down at his way-too-still brother. “You can’t keep doin’ this, man. It’s doin’ my head in.” He snorted, his eyes bright. “Dude, I feel a chick-flick moment coming on so I really need you to wake up and stop me.”

Sam had stood next to Dean’s hospital bed after he was electrocuted. He’d done the same thing after the crash with the semi. Both times he’d been told Dean was dying; here they’d said his brother would be fine – but until he woke up, until Sam heard his voice, heard a classic Dean smart-ass retort or loud complaint, he couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu and it was ripping him apart.

Dean had always been there for him; he was such a part of who Sam was that he’d never fully realized how much he leaned on Dean emotionally, drew strength from his brother’s frenetic energy until he left for school and it wasn’t there anymore. During his first few weeks at Stanford, still numb from the fight with his father, over the thought of not seeing Dean or his Dad again, he’d operated on autopilot. But as life became abnormally normal for him, the phantom pains of that missing part of his life routinely took his feet out from under him.

He’d worked hard to make his relationship with Jess a healthy one, never wanting her to become an emotional crutch for all he’d lost. And, gradually, as he built a life with her, the kind of life he’d envisioned for so long, his need for Dean diminished. His want for Dean to be a part of this new life, however, never did.

Sam smiled down at Dean, willing him to wake up. “You were such a jerk when you first met Jess……… that crack about the Smurfs?” He rolled his eyes. “But I really wanted her to get to know you. She would have liked you – once she got used to you, anyway.”

His smile disappeared. Jess was gone. Dad was gone. And he was terrified of what might happen if Dean was gone too.

“I can’t do this by myself, Dean. Please.”

Dean got stronger steadily. It took another two days, however, before he resembled anything like himself and was cognizant enough to hold a conversation. Before that, each time he opened his eyes, Sam would talk to him, offering words of reassurance to which Dean would smile, or frown, but he had energy for little more than sleep.

On the third day, when he finally came to enough to hold a brief conversation, his first words, rough and raspy as they were, were typically Dean: “This sucks.”

With each hour and each day since he’d become more aware, stayed awake longer and his complaints had become louder and more frequent. The pain from the broken rib made it virtually impossible to get comfortable and, when his appetite had returned and he learned that, thanks to the damage inflicted on his throat by Agnes’s latest attack, he was on the same soft-food diet as Sam, he’d elevated complaining to a whole new level.

Dean was becoming more and more himself but, for some reason, Sam couldn’t shake his worry. He listened carefully every time the doctors came in to go over the latest test results and, each time, they were more encouraging. His eyes stayed glued to his brother on Dean’s first foray out of bed; he was shaky but more pissed than anything that he needed help just to move about the room. Since then he’d needed less and less help.

Now, it had been a week since their showdown with Agnes. Dean’s eyes were closed but he could sense Sam’s eyes glued to him.

“Sam, quit watching me sleep. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m not watching you, Dean.”

“Yeah, you are. Every time I open my eyes you’re staring at me. I’d be flattered but you’re not my type.”

Dean rolled his head across the pillow to look at Sam who was stretched out on the hospital bed next to his. His frown softened when he saw the worry etched in his brother’s face. “Relax, Sam. I’m gonna be fine. We both are.”

Dean was feeling well enough to be convinced he was ready to be released. But the broken rib still required pain medication and the chest tube remained in place. Even though the tube was scheduled to be removed later that afternoon, doctors had told him it would be at least another couple of days before they’d consider springing him.

Dean scratched the right side of his chest, where the tube was inserted, and frowned at Sam “This afternoon can’t get here fast enough. If they don’t do it soon, I’m gonna rip the damn thing out myself.”

Sam matched his frown. “That ‘damn thing’ saved your life. And, as far as ‘freaking out’ goes, between seeing you tossed off that bridge and watching Doc plunge that needle into your chest, you’ve done your share of freaking me out since we landed in Plymouth.”

Dean cringed, rubbing his chest unconsciously. “Yeah,. Kinda glad I’m a little fuzzy on those details, especially with the needle thing.” He shuddered. “Guess I can understand why you fainted, though.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to scowl. “I didn’t faint, Dean.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, you did.”

“Did not. Doc says it was the concussion that caused me to pass out.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Pass out? That’s called fainting, Sam.” His expression softened again. “How’s your head?”

“Good. Next to no headache at all.”

Dean nodded. “Good. How’d therapy go?”

“What?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Earth to Sam: therapy? You know, that daily torture session, as you call it, to strengthen your knee.”

Sam glanced down at his injured knee, still encased in the bulky immobilizing brace. “It went fine, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. “Uh-uh, ‘fine’ doesn’t cut it. Spill.”

Sam looked at his brother incredulously. “Oh that’s rich, coming from you.”

“Sam.”

Sam huffed out a breath resignedly. “Really, Dean. It went fine. There’s some improvement, so if I….”

Dean cut in. “The docs, they’re not still pushing for surgery?”

Sam shrugged. “Pushing, no. They won’t rule it out but as long as I keep up with the therapy and the improvement continues, I can likely avoid it.”

Dean frowned. “What does Doc say?”

“Why?”

Dean’s frown deepened. “Because she knows what we do for a so-called living and can tell you if your knee is going to hold up on a hunt. If some ugly-ass sonovabitch is on our tail and we need to cut and run, I need to know you can cut and run.”

Dean’s concern was valid and Sam knew it. He also knew that if he was less than 100 per cent, Dean’s focus would never be fully on whatever they were hunting because he’d be worrying about Sam – and Sam would never allow himself to become that kind of liability. The risk, to both of them, was too great. He sighed. “Running, eventually, shouldn’t be a problem. Cutting, however, might be.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

Sam looked over at Dean and sighed. “Because of the damaged ligaments, I don’t have a lot of stability in my knee. In time, it should hold up fine for straight-on walking, even running. The problem is if I stop too suddenly or turn too quickly, there’s a good chance the ligament will tear again, the knee could dislocate or, if I’m really lucky, both.”

“What if you have the surgery?”

Sam shrugged. “Surgery will likely make the knee stronger but the recovery period is a lot longer. I don’t know if…..”

Dean shook his head. “Uh-uh, Sam. If surgery is the best thing for you, we pull ourselves out of the loop for as long as it takes. Hole up somewhere til you’re in fighting shape again. It’s not like the world’s gonna run out of bad guys.”

Sam smiled. That was Dean at his overprotective best. “Thanks, Dean. But I’m gonna stick with the therapy - as long as it’s working.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, then nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead on this one. But, and I mean it, Sammy, if surgery is what it takes, we’ll work things out.”

A soft knock on the door grabbed their attention and the brothers turned to find Doc standing in the doorway. She smiled. “If I’m interrupting something, I can come back later.”

Dean bit back a groan as he shuffled round to face her. “Nah, I was just grillin’ Sam here about his knee therapy. He says it’s going well.”

Doc smiled at Sam. “It is, although he’s about as patient as you when it comes to seeing results. Two sessions in he was asking when he can get rid of his crutches.”

Dean grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Doc turned her smile to Dean. “How about you. How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” Dean motioned to the chest tube. “And I guarantee you I’ll feel a whole lot better when I get rid of this thing.” He glanced up at Doc. “When’s your plane leaving?”

Doc glanced at her watch. “In a few hours. Bobby and I are gonna share a cab to the airport.”

Dean frowned. “Where is Bobby, anyway? I thought he was with you.”

“He’ll be here in a minute. He just went down to the cafeteria to get something to drink.”

Dean nodded, glancing over at Sam before turning back to Doc. “We, uh, owe you one, Doc. Big time.”

Doc smiled. “What you owe me is coffee. Half-caf latte, extra foam, hold the drama.”

Dean grinned. “Hey, if it was up to me, I’d pay up on that coffee debt right now, but I’ve got this tiny tyrant of a doctor who won’t let me drink coffee. And as for the ‘no drama’ part – sorry, not really our M.O.”

Doc nodded. “So, I’ve noticed.” Her smile faded as she looked from Dean to Sam and back again. “Seriously though, you two had a rough ride this time. Cut yourself some slack, okay? Give yourselves time to heal before you head off saving the world again.”

Dean shrugged. “No promises but, I gotta say, a little down time sounds kinda good right now. Whaddya say, Sam?”

Sam looked from Doc to his brother. “Huh?

Dean frowned. “What’s goin’ on in the freaky head of yours? If you’re not staring at me when I’m sleeping, you’re zoning out God knows where.” He turned to Doc. “You sure that latest whack on the head didn’t do any permanent damage?”

“Dean.” Sam scowled at his brother. “Really. I’m good.” He smiled at Doc. “Thanks. For everything.”

Doc watched his smile fade as he glanced over at his brother. Fear flashed briefly in his eyes; it was the same fear Doc had seen the first time she met him as a kid when doctors had cut him off from Dean and left him alone. The events of the past week had brought that child-like fear roaring back to life.

Doc smiled reassuringly. “You’re both over the worst. Life’s quickly going to get back to normal, or whatever constitutes ‘normal’ for you two.” She walked to the door then turned back to face them. “ Look out for each other, okay?”

Dean settled his head on the pillow. “Always do, Doc. Always do.”

Doc winked at Sam. “Next time you swing west, make sure you drop by The Farm and say Hi. Out there, the java’s on me.”

Sam nodded then watched Doc walk out the door and disappear down the hall.

Dean frowned. “That woman has never spent a day on a farm in her life. What the hell was that all about?”

Sam shrugged. “She means Stanford, Dean. It’s what students call campus.”

Dean rolled his head across the pillow, stared at Sam and frowned. He sighed audibly, before closing his eyes again. Sometimes his brother was just to damn easy to read. “Sam, you obviously want to talk to her about something. Get your ass out of bed and go do it. If I’m gonna be stuck in here with you, I don’t need your mopey-ass self making things suck even louder.” He opened one eye and motioned with his head toward the door. “Go.”

Sam looked at his brother, not sure whether to be annoyed by his pushiness or grateful for his perceptiveness. But he did want to talk to Doc. He pulled back the covers, grabbed his crutches and slowly made his way out of the room, almost colliding with Bobby in the doorway.

Bobby smiled. “Hey Sam.”

Sam nodded. “Doc says you’re headin’ out.”

“Yeah. I’ve got some things that need takin’ care of, but I’ll be back to help you take care of Corrigan.” He glanced over at Dean. “Unless you’d rather me get rid of him. I’d be more than happy to.”

Dean shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way, Bobby. Nobody but me gets to send his sorry ass to hell.”

“Okay then. Corrigan’ll keep. He doesn’t have Mary to torment any more and it’ll do him good to wander around out there alone for a while. Park’s still closed too, so there’s no one around for him to hurt.” Bobby smiled at Dean. “Consider it incentive to get well. The sooner you’re back in fighting shape, the sooner you get to send him on his way.”

Dean nodded. “Can’t happen soon enough.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks, Bobby. We, uh…..

Bobby rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “No thanks necessary, kid. That’s what family does.”

Sam nodded, then motioned down the hall. “I’m just gonna talk to Doc.”

Bobby nodded, moving into the room and standing beside Dean’s bed. “Tell her I’ll be right there, just as soon as I’ve had a word with Dean here.”

“Sure.” Sam shifted his crutches and moved off down the hall.

He found Doc at the nurses’ station. Her computer bag and overnight bag were pushed against the wall behind her. Her purse was open on the desk and, as Sam moved towards her, he realized she was staring at a photograph.

“Hey, Doc.”

There was a sad, faraway expression on her face as she looked up at Sam. “What? Oh, sorry, Sam. I was miles away. What’s up?”

Sam reached for the photograph. “May I?”

Doc passed it to him. It was a picture of her late husband Paul and their daughter Lily, who was about four months old in the photograph. Paul, his long, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, was staring over the top of his Ben Franklin glasses making a face at Lily, who was laughing in delight, the bright blue eyes she’d inherited from her mom sparkling over her toothless smile. Sam’s smile at the happy image faded when he recognized the source of Doc’s sadness.

“You’re nothing like Agnes, you know that right?”

Doc shrugged. “There’s a lot of parallels. I wonder, if put in the same position, if I would have acted like her.”

Sam shook his head. “You didn’t, Doc. You didn’t lash out after you lost Paul and Lily. You started helping people who fought against the evil who took them from you.”

Doc’s eyes glistened as she laughed. “You make me sound far more noble than I am. I was so angry when they died, when they were killed, I wanted to lash out - at anyone, anything. Thank God I had family, friends…” she smiled at Sam, “friends who put up with me until I found a healthy way to grieve. It would have been so easy to let that anger build, let it eat away at me until I became just like Agnes.”

“But you didn’t.” Sam knew that anger all too well. It had consumed their father his entire life. It had ripped Sam apart after Jessica was killed. He’d watched it eat away at Dean after their Dad died. And now, after almost losing Dean twice over the past week, he could feel it building inside him again.

Doc saw him teetering emotionally and reached out to squeeze his arm. His eyes were bright and she smiled, sniffing loudly as she wiped away her own unspilled tears. “Look at us. Dean would have a field day if he came out here right now.”

Sam looked again at the photo of Paul and Lily, before lifting his gaze to meet Doc’s. It had been seven years since they were killed. “You never really get over it, do you?”

Doc smiled at the photo as Sam handed it back. “Over it? No.You just get better at dealing with it.” She frowned at his troubled expression. “Hey. What’s goin’ on inside that handsome head of yours?”

Sam blew out a breath then looked down at his feet as he tried to sort through the onslaught of memories and emotions. “This past year, um, it’s been…you know…. Jess, Dad and then Dean….after everything, when I saw him thrown off that bridge, I…God, Doc..….”

“Hey, come on. Sit down.” Doc led him to the bank of chairs opposite the nurses’ station, pushing him gently into a seat. She took his crutches, leaned them against the wall then sat down beside him.

Dean would be okay, he knew that, but he was still wrestling with how close he’d come to losing the only family member he had left. He blew out a long, slow breath before he could look up at Doc. “Dean ….it was too close, Doc. Way too close.”

Doc grabbed Sam’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “You’re strong, Sam. Far stronger than you realize. God knows, it’s hard to find that strength sometimes, but it’s there and it’ll get you through.

“As for Dean….” She smiled softly. “I’m not going to insult you with platitudes. We both know what you two do, how dangerous it is, but right now Dean’s here and he’s fine…..well, maybe fine is pushing it, but he will be.”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “Just relish every day you have together. Don’t think about what ‘might’ happen – that’s just the express train to crazy.” Her smile brightened. “Just do what you do: save people, make the world a better place, have fun once in a while. I think Dean can help you with that one.”

Sam smiled. “It scares me sometimes how much I need him in my life. I mean, I want him around sure, even when he’s driving me nuts, but I thought I’d moved past needing him like that. But when I was lost, when I didn’t know if Dean was dead or alive, my imagination came up with an imaginary version of Dean to get me through.”

He snorted as he recalled some of the exchanges he’d had with his imaginary brother. “What the hell would I do if he’s not around?”

Doc frowned. “Have you two talked about how we managed to find you?”

Sam shrugged. “We started to. Dean said Bobby figured it out, but some nurses came in and then Dean fell asleep. We never really picked up the conversation again. Why?”

Doc’s gaze was steady. “Dean’s always been incredibly attuned to what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, especially when something’s wrong. But this week, when you were missing, it was like he could see you, see what was happening to you.”

Sam stared back at her. “What? But…..”

She smiled. “Talk to Dean. Now things have calmed down a bit, now you have time to go over what’s happened. I think he’s still trying to figure it out too.”

Sam nodded.

Doc stood up and reached for Sam’s crutches. “I meant what I said before. Please try not to get yourself banged up, bashed in or pulled apart, at least for next few weeks. Consider it a favor to my nerves.”

Sam smiled. “You got it, Doc.”

She ran her hand gently down his cheek before handing him his crutches. “Go on, talk to your brother.”

Sam used one crutch to steady himself as he hauled himself up. But before taking the second crutch from Doc, he reached out and pulled her into a hug, resting his chin briefly on the top of her head. “You know we’re there for you too, Doc. Whenever it gets to you, just call.”

Doc’s eyes glistened again as she pulled slowly from the hug. “Aaah. When it comes to you two, I have no resistance.”

Sam smiled. “I thought you said you were immune?”

Doc laughed. “I’m fooling myself.” She handed him his crutch and turned to pick up her purse from the nurses’ station counter. “Do you remember the time you dropped by the house shortly after Lily was born?”

Sam nodded. “I think so. It was summer break and we were meeting up with Dad in northern California. We had a barbecue, right?”

Doc nodded. “Lily had been fussy that day. Nothing serious, normal baby stuff, but she just wouldn’t settle. I went inside to get her a bottle, came out and you and Paul were talking but there was no sign of Dean or Lily.” She smiled. “I went round the front and found the two of them sitting in the Impala. Dean was holding her and explaining to her, very seriously, why classic cars could kick the ass – his words, not mine – of anything produced today. And she was smiling, just drinking in every word, completely captivated by him. I decided, right there and then, no woman, no matter what age, is immune to the Winchester charm.”

Sam smiled. "Dean doesn't show that side of himself very often. What'd he do when he saw you?"

Doc returned his smile. "Handed Lily back to me and told me she needed an oil change." She reached down and grabbed her bags. “Have you seen Bobby?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, he’s in our room, talking to Dean. Said he’d be along in a minute.”

Doc nodded, then hit the button for the elevator. “Tell him I’m down in the lobby. I’ll wait for him there.”

Sam smiled. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Doc laughed. “The trouble you two get into, no danger of that.” With another wink, Doc disappeared as the elevator doors slid closed.

After Sam left to talk to Doc, Dean’s eyes had quickly focused on the cardboard cup Bobby held. “Is that coffee?”

Bobby frowned at Dean. “Yeah.”

Dean’s eyebrows arched hopefully. “For me?”

Bobby shook his head. “I was in the room when Doc ran through that mile-long list of do’s and don’ts, can haves and can’t haves while you’re stuck in here – and we both damn well know which list coffee fell on.”

Dean breathed in as deeply as his recovering lungs and the nasal canula would allow, savouring the aroma of Bobby’s coffee. He smiled hopefully. “I’m pretty sure it was on the ‘if we don’t tell Doc, it doesn’t count’ list.

“Nice try, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes remained glued to Bobby’s coffee cup. “Come on, Bobby. Have a heart.” He flashed a pleading smile. “Besides, Doc’s not here. We’re safe. She’ll never know.”

Bobby snorted. “Doc’s no stranger to breaking rules, unless she sets them. I’m not risking her wrath by…...”

“Okay, okay, okay…….” Dean scowled, slamming his fist on the bed in frustration. “I am so over this place. I just wanna get Sam, get behind the wheel and take off. Find a crappy motel room where I can sleep without 60 people coming in and checking I’m still breathing every time I close my eyes. Find a diner where I can order a double cheeseburger, extra onions, without everybody lookin’ at me like I just uttered a bomb threat.” He glared at Bobby. “If I have to eat another bowl of freakin’ orange jello, I swear Bobby…..”

His old friend smiled sympathetically. “This hunt did a real number on you Dean. Everyone’s just worried, tryin’ to make sure there’s no lasting damage. ”

“I know.” Dean’s scowl softened into a frown. “Still doesn’t mean I like being stuck in here though - except maybe for Nurse Heather and her sponge baths.” The frown became an X-rated grin. “Great hands.”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Right. Well, at least I can head out knowing you’re acting more like yourself.” His eyes softened in concern. “Just don’t rush anything, okay? Seriously. I’m gonna drive back up here when they spring you, help you take care of Corrigan. I’m pretty sure gravedigging is on your ‘don’t’ list, so let me….”

“Thanks, Bobby.” Dean smiled but his eyes flashed angrily. “Trust me, the thought of sending that bastard to hell is about the only thing that gets me through those damn breathing exercises they force me to do every day.”

Bobby nodded. “Well, keep doin’ em. No offence Dean, but I’m not sure you could salt and burn a pork chop right now. You need….”

“I know, I know…..” Dean huffed out a breath impatiently, rolling his head away from Bobby to stare at Sam’s empty bed. “Sam……” he turned back to Bobby, “he seem okay to you?”

Bobby shrugged. “Yeah, at least as well as he can be given everythin’ that’s happened. Why? What’s botherin’ you?”

“He’s worried about me, all the time. Like he can’t grasp I’m right here and I’m fine. If I press him on it, he just shuts down….”

Bobby smiled. “When you weren’t lookin’, your little brother grew up. Spends as much time worrying about you as you do about him.

“You scared the crap out of him, Dean. He watched you get thrown off that bridge. He thought you were dead. He saw Corrigan and Agnes attack you and, let me tell ya, watching Doc jab that needle in your chest did Sam’s nerves no favours. Sure as hell didn’t help mine.”

Dean looked a Bobby but said nothing, allowing his words to sink in. Finally, he shrugged softly. “Old habits die hard, I guess. I worry about him, that’s my job. I kinda forget it goes both ways. He’s my little brother, you know….”

Bobby smiled. “Not so little, but yeah, I know…..” He walked to Dean’s side, placed the cup of coffee on the bedside table and winked at Dean. “He’s a good kid, Dean – no small thanks to you. Just give him time to wrap his head around things – he’ll come around.”

He nodded at Dean. “Get yourself well. Then I’ll see ya next week and we’ll take care of Corrigan.”

“Hey, Bobby.” Sam stood balanced on his crutches in the doorway of the room. “Doc’s waiting for you in the lobby.”

Bobby nodded at Dean before turning to walk out of the room, stopping to squeeze Sam’s arm as he passed him. Take care now, ya hear?”

Sam nodded. “See ya around.”

As Bobby disappeared down the hallway, Sam moved from the door back to his bed. He frowned as Dean wrapped his bandaged arm around his ribs, leaned over and picked up the untouched cup of coffee Bobby had left on the bedside table with his left hand. He clumsily pulled off the lid, pulled off his oxygen canula and inhaled the aroma, grinning widely. The coffee was black – Bobby took his with cream. “Bobby, you are a good man.” Dean’s voice still had no power but, in his mind at least, his raspy whisper became a yell. “A good, good man.”

Sam smiled at his brother’s exuberance. After all the drama of the past week, it felt really good to see Dean smile, really smile, over something as simple as a little contraband caffeine,

Dean held the coffee under his nose, relishing the smell. He peeled open one eye and looked over at Sam. “You talk to Doc?”

Sam nodded as he manouvered himself stiffly back into bed. “Yeah. I , uh, just wanted to make sure she was okay.” He shrugged. “Just figured everything with Agnes and Mary might have dragged up some bad memories, about losing Paul and Lily.”

Dean nodded. “And…..”

Sam returned the nod. “She’s okay or, like us, she will be. Dean…….”

Dean looked up from his coffee. “What?”

“When I was lost, when I thought you might be dead, that I might never see you again, you, um…….you kinda showed up, gave me a kick in the ass to hang in there, keep going until help arrived.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Scuze me?”

Sam shrugged. “I can’t explain it, Dean. It was like you were right there with me. You said you were a figment of my imagination.” He laughed. “A damn fine figment, actually.”

Dean nodded before taking another sip of his coffee. “Sounds about right. And…..”

Sam looked over at his brother. “I dunno. I never quite bought it was just my mind playing tricks on me. It was too you – with a few new quirks.”

Dean frowned. “Quirks? What quirks? I don’t have quirks.”

“Well, you did say you liked a girl’s iambic pentameter.”

“Iambic what?” Dean reached round for his call button. “I’m calling a nurse and telling her to switch your medication. You’re acting all weird.”

Sam’s face was serious. “Dean, come on. Doc said you saw me. Actually saw me – saw where I was.”

Dean sighed, putting down his cup of coffee. He turned toward Sam, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not the only one who can’t explain things, Sammy.” He blew out a breath. “It was like someone was playing snippets of video in my head. I saw you lying beside a fire, you talking to Mary – it was like a memory, but not one of mine.”

He dropped his head back on his pillow. “God, that sounds nuts even to me.”

Sam swallowed. “Not to me.” He shrugged at Dean’s puzzled response. “When you got there, to where you found me, did it look like what you saw in your head?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Kinda freaked me out, you know?” He looked at his brother. “Is that what it’s like when you get your freaky-ass visions?”

Sam shrugged. “Somethin’ like that, with the bonus of a blinding headache.” His eyes narrowed at Dean. “You think maybe you’re having visions too?”

Dean looked startled. “What? No.” He shook his head. “Bobby thinks maybe you’re the transmitter, I’m the receiver. Like you were able to move that cabinet at the Millers, you were able to ship out an adrenaline-fuelled SOS on your own psychic frequency.”

Sam fisted the bedcovers unconsciously. “God, Dean. What the hell’s happening?"

Dean didn’t know, didn’t have a freakin’ clue if he was being honest. But twice now Sam’s abilities had saved them; they’d saved his life when Max Miller threatened to shoot him and here they’d helped him save Sam.

“We'll figure it out, and you’ve gotta admit, Sam: these abilities, or whatever they are, they’ve kinda come in handy – a couple of times now.”

Sam didn’t answer and Dean studied his worried expression. “Like I said, Sam, we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Always?”

Dean smiled. “Nearly always, anyway.”

Sam’s voice was quiet. “I was scared, Dean. Really scared. I can’t handle losing you. I can’t…...”

And there is was. There was no dancing around the issue, no vague analogies, just raw, honest fear.

Dean smiled, and it took every ounce of big brother bravado he possessed to fuel it. “I don’t know what the future holds, Sammy, but I sure as hell don’t plan on goin’ anywhere. You’re stuck with me.” He pointed a finger at Sam. “And don’t think I won’t remind you of this conversation the next time you’re in one of your ‘Leave me alone, I need my space’ kinda moods.”

Sam had to smile. It was a classic Dean salvo: shoot down heavy emotion with humor.

Sam waited. The opening salvo was the rangefinder. It was the second which always hit the target. He wasn’t disappointed.

Dean reached for his coffee, took a sip, then flashed a grin that had trouble written all over it. Trouble for Sam. “In the meantime, I think we deserve a little R&R. Once we get sprung from this joint, and have taken care of Corrigan, we’re heading for Worcester.”

Sam frowned. “Why Worcester?”

Dean’s grin widened as he put down his coffee, settled his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “I hear the circus is in town. And I’m getting us front row seats.”

The End...

A/N: From the trivia file: as Kripke dictates, this story was inspired by a ‘real’ urban legend. While Agnes and Mary are original characters, and their back story fiction, they developed after I read the story of upstate New York’s White Lady. As that story goes, she haunts her former land near Rochester, now a state park. After her daughter disappeared, the mother became convinced she had been raped and murdered by a local farmer. She spent days, accompanied by her two dogs, searching for her daughter’s body but never found her. Overcome by grief, she ultimately threw herself off a cliff into Lake Ontario. Her dogs, pining for her, died soon after. Now, in death, she continues her search for her child, accompanied again by her dogs. She’s usually seen on foggy nights and is not considered friendly. She dislikes men, and will often make their lives miserable, but never touches women accompanying them. Hmmmmmm.

 

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