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It occurred to him more often than not that he’s been in that same position twice. Dean didn’t believe him, nor did his father. But he remembers. It’s faint and he could never hold on to the memory long enough to recall anything important, but he almost saw the fire. Small hands holding him tight. It didn’t matter how many times he told Dean that growing up. Dean always said he was only saying that because he had nothing else to go on. That he was mixing up dreams and stories into memories. The nightmares were too real though and it wasn’t like he could just forget them. No, they came back at night, a constant stream of images and voices until the sun would rise again.
He remembered watching as his mother die.
Something about the way the car drove-- the way it hummed, the way it buckled-- was soothing and familiar enough to Sam that somehow he managed to fall asleep. It had been weeks since he managed to even close his eyes. Every time he does, he sees her. How she stuck to the ceiling, staring at him, scared and dying. It’s the scared part that shakes him the most. How terrified she looked. Sam couldn’t even move. He was frozen, shocked. Shocked because he knew. He knew it was coming. He had such strong dreams and he would pushed into the back of his mind, no matter how many times they came back. Even when he would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, trying not to scare his girlfriend laying right next to him, he would choke the fear down and try to move closer to her. She would wake up a little, never angry, just concerned, and he would pretend to be asleep while she pushed back his hair from his sweaty forehead. She always knew. She never had to ask. Never even made fun of him for being twenty-two and having nightmares like a scared little kid. Little did she know what he was dreaming about. She wouldn’t understand. She had never experienced death before so she wasn’t the type to understand death. So she would just lay next to him, wrapping her arms around him until he stopped shaking and fell back asleep. And yet, he should have just told her.
All growing up, he had a sense of dread following him. He was in the room with his dead mother-- why couldn’t he offer any clues on how she died? Dean would just tell him he was feeling guilty and tell him he couldn't have done anything, he was a baby. But he wasn’t a helpless baby anymore. He could have done something about it this time.
The longer he listened to the car drive-- the longer he listened to Dean’s AC/DC cassette tape, the easier it was to slip into such a simple sleep that he wasn’t even aware he was staring right up at Jessica’s face until it was too late to slip out of it.
Sam...Sam..
He went to respond or move his arms out towards her-- to grab her, and hold her, and save her-- but he couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t even talk-- no apologies or goodbyes-- just endless silence that stretched over his whole body. He was pinned to his bed. She was pinned to their ceiling. She was staring at him, calling for him, bloody and hot and terrified and—
“Sammy, wake up!” Dean grabbed his shoulder. Sam practically shot up out of his seat, whipping his head around to see what the trouble was. The car wasn’t moving anymore. Dean looked at Sam with concern, his hand still grabbing his shoulder. “Dude, you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry." Sam caught his breath. His chest hurt, his head hurt, and he could still feel the fire all over his body. “Why-- Why’d you pull over?”
Dean stared at him for a moment. “You were restless. Mumbling and tossing around. Didn't want to get pulled over if you're distracting me."
“Don’t let me fall asleep again,” Sam mumbled, rubbing his pounding head. “Why’d you let me do that?”
“Because you haven’t in weeks . Can you remember the last time you got more than two hours? ‘Cause I can’t,” Dean said.
Sam scratched the back of his head and shivered. “Doesn’t matter. If I sleep, I’ll just wake up again.”
“Then maybe next time I’ll drug you. Sometimes you just need some good shit.”
Sam chuckled. “No drugs. I’m crazy enough as it is.” The smile faded as the pounding his head grew greater and he groaned audibly.
Dean turned the car back on, his lips thin. “I swear, you’re making yourself sick. You look like hammered crap.”
Sam sighed. “I’m fine.” Dean glared. “I’ll be fine, alright?”
“You’re flushed,” Dean replied.
“Okay, mom,” Sam mocked. Dean pulled the car back on the highway. “Where are we now?”
“Just about to enter Boston. When’s the last time we’ve been to New England? Boy, we could have some fun this week.”
“Mind focusing on the case first?”
“No. Can we go to a Red Sox game?”
“If we gank the monster first, sure.”
Dean grinned. “Cool.”
Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the newspaper from the backseat. “Patrick Dyer, 30. Died two nights ago with his throat slit and— get this— his hand chopped off, in his own home. Found dead but his five year old daughter.”
Dean winced. “Poor kid. Lemme guess, no sign of forced entry?”
“None. Just him and the kid. Wife, Claire Dyer, 29, was at work. Got home to see her daughter screaming her head off at the sight of her dead dad.”
“That’s a lot of therapy.”
“No kidding.” Sam frowned. “This might be the saddest case we’ve worked yet.” He threw the newspaper back and then rubbed his still pounding head.
“You thinking ghost?” Dean asked, despite how worried he looked.
Sam nodded. “That’s what I figure? We should talk to the kid. Her name is Beverly. Kids usually tell it has it is.”
“Yeah...I’ll leave that to you. Kids scare me,” Dean said, half-joking.
Sam rolled his eyes fondly. “Fine. You talk to the widow.”
Dean nodded and kept on driving, noting the way Sam shivered every now and then despite it being the tail-end of May, as well as the way he muffled coughs in his jacket, thinking Dean didn’t notice.
The Dyer house was old, brick, and in Sam’s opinion, the perfect place for a haunted house. It was two stories, with creaky floors and windows that wouldn’t open. Old, dirty curtains were wrapped around the window frames which seemed to be covered in spider webs. There were cobwebs hanging from the corners and the front door was broken. Sam didn’t think much of it when he noticed the front yard was littered in leaves, grass, and trash from the neighbors. This neighborhood really needed some attention.
Claire Dyer handed them both a black coffee, her eyes sad as she sat down across from them on the couch. She was blonde, pretty in the motherly kind of way. Her plain black dress was wrinkled, her hair down and styled for the funeral, but slightly frizzled. She was obviously grieving.
“Agents, I appreciate your help, but I didn’t think Feds meddled in stuff like this?” she said, crossing her legs and taking a sip of her own coffee.
Sam smiled sadly. “My partner and I caught wind of the situation. We thought we could help.”
She returned the same smile. ”Well, thank you, but...there isn’t much I can tell you. I wasn’t home.” She looked sadly at Beverly Dyer, who was slowly playing with legos a few feet over. Her blonde hair, like her mother’s, was in pigtails. Her face was filled with both youth and confusion at the prospect of FBI being at her house, and for a brief moment, her blue eyes locked onto Sam’s-- bright but haunting in the way only children who have seen the worst things on Earth could manage.
Sam turned back to the older woman. “Mrs. Dyer—”
“Please, call me Claire.”
“Claire. Would you mind if I asked your daughter a few questions?” Sam pointed to Beverly.
Claire shrugged. “I don’t see why not. But please, I’ll remind you that she’s only five.”
“Why is that?” Dean spoke up.
“She was seeing things. She’s traumatized,” Claire said, lowering her voice in attempt to keep her daughter from hearing her.
“Of course,” Dean agreed, motioning to the doorway. “Claire, would you mind if I ask you some questions while my partner talks to Beverly?”
“Sure. Join me in the kitchen?” Claire stood up and laid a hand on her daughter’s head. “Tell Agent Duncan the truth, alright, darling?”
Beverly looked up and nodded. “Okay, Mama.”
With a light smile, Claire and Dean disappeared into the kitchen. Sam moved quickly to the floor, fighting back the nausea that came from the sudden movement. He sat cross-legged across from the five year old. She didn’t look up at first, instead focusing on her Lego set and placing her blocks together. When she finally did look up, it was that same, sad look he’d seen before.
“Are you here because Daddy’s dead?”
The bluntness in her voice startled him. “Yeah, uh, I am.” Sam started, placing his hands in his lap. “My name’s Sam.”
“I’m Beverly,” she stated. “Are you a policeman?”
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Kinda. I’m like a bigger police officer. I can do more stuff.”
“Oh. That’s cool.” Sam watched as she absentmindedly reached into her pocket and pulled out a copper-y band. She seemed to be looking at it herself very intensely, forgetting Sam was there.
Sam moved his head to see better. “What’s that?”
Her eyes snapped up to his. “It was Daddy’s. The policeman gave it to me.” She hastily put it back into her front pocket, then handed Sam some of her Legos. “Help me?”
Sam smiled at her. “Sure. Can I ask you some questions while we’re at it?”
“Okay.”
Sam waited a couple minutes before he started grilling her, giving her time to get comfortable. He thought about his last Christmas, where Jess invited him to her family dinner at her grandparents. Jess’s whole family was there—aunts, uncles, cousins, her parents, her siblings. Her brother had a four year old daughter who hung around him the whole time. Showed him her entire sticker collection. Really, the whole family loved him. Her father even asked when he was going to “pop the question.” He said hopefully next Christmas. He never got the chance.
“You’re sweaty.” Beverly’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Are you sick? Mama makes me soup if I’m sick. She can make you some?”
“I’m okay, Beverly. I’m not sick,” Sam said quickly. “Beverly, when you saw your dad, what did you see?”
She stopped playing with her Legos for a moment. “His neck had a cut. There was blood everywhere.”
“Were you scared?”
She shook her head. “I was sad at first. Not scared. And then…”
“Then what?” Sam asked.
Her lip quivered. “Then the bad guy came.”
“Bad guy?”
“He looked so mad at Daddy… and then he took Daddy’s hand off,” she responded. She dropped her Legos in favor or rolling her father’s ring between her fingers.
“You saw the bad guy take your Daddy’s hand?” Sam asked.
Beverly nodded. “The other policeman didn’t believe me. Mama didn’t believe me either.” She sounded sad, and slightly defeated.
“Well, I believe you, Beverly. Did the bad guy see you?”
She shook her head. “No. He turned everything so cold I could see my breathing! And then he was gone.”
“What happened after that?” Sam prompted. “Can you tell me?”
“It… it was cold,” she replied, seeming to shiver slightly. “Then I saw the bad guy. He looked like…” She trailed off at stared at the floor.
“Looked like what?”
She looked up, tears rolling from her rosy cheeks. “Like a ghost, Sam.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. Sam watched in sympathy, dumbly reminded that most five year olds don’t know about ghosts and monsters. Him and Dean weren’t so lucky.
“It’s okay to cry,” Sam said. “You lost your Daddy. It’s okay to cry.”
“Only babies cry, and I’m not a baby,” Beverly sniffled. “I go to Kindergarten. I’m a big girl.”
“Everyone cries when they’re sad, Beverly,” Sam told her, unsure of what else to say to make her feel better.
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you cry?
Sam nodded a few times. “Yeah. I do.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “Then I guess it’s okay.”
She resumed her Lego position, no longer crying, but still sad. Sam pulled out a piece of paper and pen, writing his number out in large print. “Beverly, do you know how to use the telephone?”
She lit up. “Yes! I can do 911 and Mama’s number.”
Sam grinned and handed her the paper. “How about if you see anything weird again, or feel it, like it gets cold again, you call me. I’ll come help you, I promise.”
She took the paper and folded it into the pocket of her overalls. “I will, Sam.”
“Good. You’re pretty brave, you know that?” Sam meant it. “You saw something very scary.”
She beamed. “Here.” She placed a blue 4x4 piece in his hand. “I’ll give you something, too.”
Sam chuckled. “Oh, uh, thank you.”
He stood up, swaying as the room turned into dancing black spots. It took every bit of strength he had to keep from falling flat on his face in front of the little girl.
“Well, agents,” Claire Dyer’s voice entered back into the room. “I hope we could give you some help. I...I would like to know what happened to my husband someday.”
Dean placed a careful hand on her shoulder. “We sure as hell will try, ma’am. Just give us a call if you hear anything else.
She sighed. “Of course, agents. Beverly, say goodbye to the agents?”
Beverly stood up and waved slightly. “Bye, agents.”
“Bye. Remember what I said,” said Sam, nodding towards her.
She nodded swiftly. “I will.” And with a quick wave and nod to Claire, they were out the door.
“What did the wife have to say?” Sam asked, rubbing the pain away from behind his eyes.
Dean pursed his lips and scowled at Sam before he answered. “Nothing major. Patrick’s birthday was the day before his death. Had a pretty stable marriage. Ups and downs, but all around healthy and loving.”
“We can probably rule out her for anything, then,” Sam suggested.
Dean nodded. “Yeah, probably. Patrick was a stay-at-home dad, and Beverly’s best friend. Nothing unusual about him. Thick Boston accent. That’s about all I’ve got.”
“Poor kid. She saw more than she should have,” Sam sighed.
“What’d she say?”
Sam sighed and stared at the Lego in his hand. “She saw whatever it was chop of the hand. She saw his neck sliced, and she said the whole room was so cold, she could see her breath.”
Dean nodded. “Sounds like a ghost to me.”
“That’s what she said she saw,” said Sam. “She was pretty adamant about it, even for a five year old.”
“Right, and why are we at a resource center?” Dean asked as he pulled into the parking lot.
“We need to see if anyone who owned that house ever…I don’t know...lost a hand? Or anything about that house that seems shady,” Sam replied, opening his car door.
“I knew kids were your weakness.”
“Kids are everybody’s weakness, Dean,” Sam retorted. “I feel bad that she has to know about all this stuff so young.”
Dean made a puzzled face. “We were that young.”
“Yeah, but we weren’t exactly nuclear,” Sam said.
“To hell with nuclear,” Dean mumbled under his breath.
Sam went to laugh, but instead broke into a coughing fit, doubling over in the parking lot. For a moment his lungs burned, the coughing made him dizzy, and the whole world started to sway.
Dean grabbed he shoulder. “O-kay! You’re officially sick. And sitting this one out.”
Sam groaned and stood back up. “Not happening.”
“Sam—”
“The kid trusts me, Dean. I told her I would help her.” Sam wrapped his jacket a little tighter around himself.
Dean scowled but kept walking. “Fine. But the second—and I mean second — you feel like you’re about to go sideways, you’re leaving this to me. Got it?”
~
Dean slammed a newspaper from 1976 down in front of Sam. “Check it out.”
Sam lifted his head up from his own pile, blinking away the black spots in order to read. “Russel Connor, age 30, has died in his home after supposedly being stabbed to death by...32 year old Scott Dyer.” Sam looked up with a nod. “Any relation?”
Dean grinned. “Oh yeah. If you read further, it says Scott Dyer went to prison and died there, leaving behind his three year old son and wife.”
“You thinkin’ Russel is out for a little revenge?” Sam inquired, muffling a cough in his elbow.
“Most likely,” Dean agreed. “But why would he wait so long? The couple’s been there since Beverly was born.”
“You said earlier Patrick turned 30 the day before dying?” Sam asked, putting the pieces together in his mind. “And Russel was 30 when he died…”
“So he was waiting until Patrick was the same age to kill him. Like Scott did to him.”
“Right,” Sam replied, yawning.
“But the hand,” Dean said. “That’s what I don’t get.”
“Maybe the hand’s got nothing to do with it. Maybe Russel did it just ‘cause,” Sam threw out, shrugging. “Who knows why ghosts do what they do?”
“We do, Sammy. That’s our job.”
Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “Oh, yeah.”
Dean rolled his eyes and gathered the papers and books from his station. “D’ya think he’ll go for Claire and Beverly next?”
Sam shrugged. “Don’t think so. He killed Patrick because his father killed him. Hopefully he leaves the girls alone.” Sam curled his jacket in tighter. He was freezing.
Dean definitely noticed. “Okay, sicko, what’s the next step?”
“Do we know where Russel was buried?”
“Read on. Says he was cremated,” Dean replied, slightly bitter.
Sam sighed, exhausted, not really in the mood to go hunting for a haunted object. “Great.
Dean leaned back in his chair. “Let’s go back to the motel, okay? I’ll do some research, you catch some z’s. Then we can go talk to the Dyer’s again.”
“Dean, I don’t need to sleep,” Sam insisted. “I need to work this case.”
“And we will , but you’re about five minutes away from falling flat on your face. You’re overworked, you’re exhausted, and you’ve got a fever,” Dean pointed out, starting to put the stuff from Sam’s station away.
Sam scowled. “Stop smothering me. I’m okay.”
“Whatever you say, Sammy. But I’m grabbing some Tylenol on our way back to the motel.”
The drive back was quiet, and Sam could feel Dean’s eyes on him. Sam wasn’t well-- he knew that, Dean knew that, anyone who passed by him would know that-- but it was starting to not matter as much to him. His brain was telling his body that he needed to lay down; his legs felt like jelly, his chest hurt, and he couldn’t breathe. It took everything in him not to cry out. A few times Dean glanced at him, frowning slightly, shaking his head and turning away, and Sam felt a sudden pang of guilt and sadness. Why couldn’t he be more like Dean? Why couldn’t he take care of others? Why couldn’t he take care of himself? Why couldn’t he fight things like sickness or the cold? His whole life seemed to revolve around fighting monsters, trying to protect people; and now here he was, sick like a dog because he couldn’t do something as simple as keeping up with his brother.
Once they reached the motel, Dean practically shoved water down Sam’s throat.
“Dude, quite hovering,” Sam mumbled, letting himself be basically carried to bed by his older brother. All embarrassment had gone out the window the minute he stood up out of the car and nearly feel flat on his face.
“No-can-do, Samuel. Been doing it for 22 years,” Dean said, tossing a pillow at his little brother.
“It’s just Sam.”
“What? You don’t like Sammy. Samuel is much more mature.”
“It’s stupid. Call me Sam.”
“You’re stupid.” Dean stood at the foot of his bed, his arms crossed. “I’ll be right back, all right?”
“I still think I should come with you,” Sam said, despite already being practically asleep.
“I’m literally just checking out the case files, okay? I’ll be maybe an hour. Just making sure there is nothing shady we missed,” Dean told him, moving over to Sam with the thermometer they’d bought at the drug store.
“God, you’re not taking my temperature are you? What am I, five?” Sam’s voice was slightly slurred, and there was no bite to his words. He was bone-tired, couldn’t even fine to strength to sit up and let Dean mother him to death. It was drifting in and out, suddenly staring at Jess’s face at out of nowhere, but she’s not on fire, it’s the time they were lying next to each other in bed because Jess forced him to go to sleep. He had been studying for hours—big test coming up. In that moment, he felt the same tiredness in his body he felt now, his eyelids were heavy, Jess pushing his hair back, Jess whispering that his puppy dog eyes didn’t work quite as well when he was sleeping, Jess lugging all 6’4 of him into their bed, Jess—
The thermometer beeped in his mouth. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flying open. Dean pulled out the cool metal from underneath his tongue, which he hadn’t even noticed was there.
“Woah! 103.2. Yep, that’s a fever. You have a big fat fever,” Dean said, placing a cool hand on his forehead. “You are, without a doubt, sitting this one out.”
“No,” Sam croaked out. “Beverly—”
“Will be okay. Sammy, c’mon, you look like someone hit you with a plane!” Dean cried, walking over to the sink and pulling out a cup.
“I can manage, Dean.”
Dean handed him a cup of water, which he barely held on to. “Nope. Honestly, you should be in a hospital.”
The pounding in his head returned, causing him to groan into the pillow. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic, Sam. You’re being…in-dramatic,” Dean replied, crossing his arms.
Sam smirked. “Go, then. Bring me tea.”
“ Bring me tea,” Dean mocked.
Sam didn’t even hear the door slam, he was already falling into the static.
~
“Sam.”
Jessica’s voice rang through his brain. His eyes popped open, his dead girlfriend staring him right in the face.
“Jess?” he asked, confused. “You’re dead.”
She smiled at him, lightly touching his cheek. “Yeah, baby. I am.”
Something in Sam’s throat quivered. “I’m so sorry.”
She stared at him, still smiling softly. “You should be.”
And she’s gone. And everything is on fire.
~
Adrenaline kicked in just in time for him to throw himself out of the bed and wobble into the bathroom, chucking out anything that could have been in his stomach. He practically collapsed into the wall, letting his back slide down the tiles. He could feel the tears sliding down his face, and he embarrassingly thought about how grateful he was that Dean was gone. There he was, heaving into a toilet and crying over his dead girlfriend. He stood up carefully, leaning over the sink in order to wash the bile out of his mouth. A glimpse into the mirror, and he looked horrible. His face was pale and clammy, his eyes sunken in. His hair was sticking up in every which direction. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
(C’mon, Sam. Get your fucking act together.)
He was too old for this. Too old for the nightmares and the tears. Too old for puking and fevers and the self-hate. He needed to grow up. Get tough. Get like Dean.
The clock read 6:36pm.
He clammered out of the bathroom to the table near his bed, where the notepad had scribbled handwriting on it.
Sammy—
Went to grab some grub. I’ll get ya your tea, don’t worry. Take your temperature for me, and if you lie, I’ll skin ya. Left the crime scene pics on the kitchen table and the file from the Dyer/Connor case. Didn’t take a whole lotta persuasion if you know what I mean. Go ahead and look. Drink water.
Dean
Sam rolled his eyes, grabbing the thermometer next to the paper. He stuck it in his mouth. He didn’t like the way it tasted against the sensitivity of his teeth. Left a bad taste in his mouth. He walked over to the kitchen table, his hand brushing the lamented crime pictures. Patrick Dyer was sitting up-right in his desk chair, his neck tilted backwards, the slash deep across his neck. The next picture was of the hand, lying a foot over on the desk. There was a ring on the ring finger. A copper band, he guessed. It seemed familiar to him, and then he remembered— Beverly had the ring.
“What would Scott Dyer kill Russel Connor for?” Sam whispered to the empty room. He was suddenly aware that he never found that out. He pushed the pictures out of the way, pulling out the manila folder. He flipped through the contents.
Victim’s copper wedding band removed, presumably after being killed.
Sam reread the line over and over again, slightly praying that it wasn’t the same ring Patrick Dyer had on. There was nothing written down about what the motive was, barely anything about the case at all, but Sam was smart enough to give a lot of the open ended questions answers. The thermometer beeped again. 102.2. Good enough for him. He was just about the call Dean when his phone rings itself.
“Hello?” Sam’s voice was hoarse.
There was shaky breath on the other end. “S-Sam?”
Sam’s blood ran cold. “Beverly? Beverly, what’s wrong?”
“The bad guy. He’s back,” she said, tears in her voice.
“Beverly, are you hiding?” Sam rushed up out of his seat, grateful that adrenaline was behind the wheel. He pushed his feet into his shoes and threw his jacket on.
“Mama and I are. He’s looking for me.” Her voice was a whisper.
Sam became increasingly more panicked. “Beverly, where’s your mother? Give the phone to her.”
There was rustling on the other end. “Agent? What’s going on?”
“Claire? Listen to me—”
“What the hell is in my house?!” she cried in a loud whisper.
“Claire, your husband’s ring, the copper one, the one Beverly has, where did it come from?” Sam asked frantically, breathing a small sigh of relief when the Impala headlights lit up the room from outside.
There was stammering on the other end before, “What’s that got to do with this?”
“Just trust me!” Sam yelled into the phone. “Where’d it come from?”
“Patrick’s father,” Claire stammered. “His father gave it to him before…”
“Before he went to prison?” Sam offered, glad to hear the sound of Dean slamming the car door in the background.
Claire was silent. “Yes.”
Dean’s head poked through the door open. “Sammy! You look—what’s wrong?”
Sam pushed Dean back outside. “Dyer house. I know what’s going on.”
~
“Grab the blow torch! We’re gonna need it!” Sam shouted.
Dean looked alarmed but still grabbed it. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the ring!”
“What ring?”
Sam shook his head. “No time. Let’s go.”
Sam ran into the Dyer house first, his shotgun at the ready. Dean trailed behind, confused but trusting his brother. Sam was trying not to stumble, with the whole world going sideways, but he did manage to make it into the living room.
In the corner was Claire and Beverly, shaking silently as the ghost of Russel Connor wandered aimlessly around the living room, looking for something.
“Hey!” Sam shouted, just as the ghost caught a glimpse of Claire and Beverly. “Hey! Come and get me!”
The ghost whipped his head around to Sam, practically hissing before throwing him up against a wall. All the air in his lungs pushed out of him, stars dancing across his vision, his body suddenly aware just how sick he really felt.
“Sam!” Beverly yelled, blowing her cover. Sam cracked an eye open to see the ghost turn his head back around and start heading towards them. Dean came running at it, shooting the rock salt straight through him. He disappeared with a shriek.
Sam gasped for breath. “The ring—give me the ring, Beverly.” Sam stood up, swaying clumsily and walking towards them. “He’ll be back — he’ll be angry, but I can’t get rid of him, okay?”
Beverly wrestled out of her mother’s arms and stood up slowly, fear deep within her blue eyes. “But...but it’s my daddy’s.”
Sam’s heart melted a little. “I know. I’m so sorry.” Sam met her half way across the room, bending to her height. He caught Dean out of the corner of his eye blocking Claire defensively with his shotgun. “I wish it was something else.”
Beverly looked up to him, tears streaming down her face. “I’m scared, Sam.”
The room went cold. He was coming back. Sam sighed. “I know. But I can fix it.” He held out his hand, and Beverly slowly placed the ring in the center.
Suddenly, the ghost appeared in front of both of them. Distantly, he heard Claire call out for Beverly, but his head hurt and everything sounded muffled. There was some instinct inside him, however, that prompted him to curl the trembling Beverly into his arms, protecting her.
“Dean! Now!” He tossed the ring at the ground beside Dean, who, with his other hand, lit the blow touch and aimed at the ring.
Russel shrieked, quickly moving towards Sam and Beverly as Sam pulled her in closer and Beverly screamed. He felt a chill, and looked up to see the ghost convulsing and burning—and then nothing.
Slowly, Sam untangled his arms from around the little girl, who looked up with wide eyes. “Is he all gone?”
Sam swallowed and blinked away the pain in his—well, everywhere. “Yeah. Yeah, Beverly, he’s all gone.”
With that, Beverly ran straight back into her mother’s waiting arms, who rocked her and kissed her forehead a million times. Claire looked up to the brothers. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Sam nodded. He started to stand but stumbled, causing Dean to steady him.
“Gotcha. Back to the motel with you, sicko,” Dean said, smirking at Sam.
Sam didn’t smile back. The back of his head was pounding as well as behind his eyes. He felt nauseous and dizzy, and suddenly the black spots were too heavy to just blink away.
He swayed within his brother’s grip. “Dean—”
His legs buckled and the ground rushed up to meet him all too quickly.
~
There was a pinch in his arm. He felt both freezing and sweaty, but better than he had felt in awhile. The pounding in his head was barely there, besides the heaviness in his eyelids. He carefully cracked them open.
He was greeted with the white, clean ceiling of what must have been a hospital. He turned his head to see Dean asleep in a chair right next to his bed; his face resting on one knee that was pulled up on the chair, his neck bent at an angle he’d complain about later.
Sam tiredly swung an arm over and shook his brother’s knee. “Hey, Dean.”
Dean’s eyes popped open and quickly made their way to Sam. “Sammy!” He repositioned himself to face Sam more. “There you are!”
Sam smiled. “Where’d I go?”
“You tell me, kiddo. You, little brother, have the flu. And the ghost gave you a pretty nasty concussion.”
“The flu?” Sam asked, confused. “That explains a lot.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Dean asked, tilting his head.
Sam thought hard for a moment. “Um...the ghost at the Dyer’s...you torched the ring, then nothing.”
Dean’s lips made a thing line. “That was four days ago, man.”
“Four days?” Sam’s eyes went wide. “I’ve been here for four days?!” When he tried to sit up, his body didn’t follow, and he winced when his head rushed.
“Sammy, chill. The doctor’s will kick me out if you freak out.” Dean settled him with a hand on his shoulder. “We ganked the ghost on Monday night. It’s Friday, Sam.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” Sam admitted, trying real hard to think about the last four days.
“You’ve sick and delirious, didn’t expect you to,” Dean said, shrugging. “Your fever broke about four hours ago. They’ve been pumping you full of the good stuff.”
Sam’s eyes trailed back to his other arm, to where IV was set up. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t notice that till now.”
He looked back at Dean, who looked a bit on edge. He would meet Sam’s eyes then look away quickly, and Sam couldn’t figure out why. “What’s up with you?”
Dean looked at him and huffed out a long breath. “Aw, I don’t know, dude. I’m just worried about you.”
Sad felt his face get hot. He couldn’t really avoid the conversation. “I’m fine.”
“Not from what I saw.” When Sam didn’t understand, Dean continued. “The things you were saying—“fine” people don’t just say them.”
“What did I say?”
“You called out for Jess and me a lot. Even Dad a couple times. But mostly me and Jess,” Dean began.
“Okay...what’s so crazy about that?” Sam wondered, finding a bit of strength to sit up slightly on his elbows.
“That’s not just it, okay?” Dean continued. “The things you were saying— how you could have stopped whatever killed her, how you should know more because of Mom, how you failed her—Sammy, that’s not fine.”
Sam flinched. “Dean—”
“Have you wondered why you got the flu? It’s not like you haven’t been exposed to every germ under the sun your whole life,” Dean asked, fuming slightly. “Your immune system is too weak. Wanna know why? Because you don’t sleep!”
All Sam wanted to do at that moment was disappear. “What happened to not freaking out?”
“Just admit you’re not fine!” Dean cried, getting to his feet. “Because I can’t help you get better unless you want to! You’re friggin’ lying in a hospital bed because of this! That isn’t fine!”
“I-I…” Sam stammered, lost for words due to embarrassment. “Okay. Fine. I’m not doing well, alright? But I can’t just rest. That thing is out there.”
“And we can’t kill that thing if you’re dead, too. You’ve got a death wish, Sammy. You loved that girl, she’s dead, and unless you let me help you out, you’re as good as dead, too.”
It was like a bus hit him. He knew it all along—he wasn’t stupid. He just chose to ignore it. Death wish. Jess was his everything, couldn’t Dean see that? Then again, perhaps he did.
Sam swallowed, but didn’t say a word. Dean sighed as he sat back down, and Sam let his head sink back into the pillow.
“Sammy.” Dean’s voice was abnormally comforting. “We can fix this.”
“Can we?” Sam muttered.
Dean sighed again. “I have to have hope that we can.”
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I want to think we can too.”
“I know you miss her, man,” Dean said softly. “But she wouldn’t want you to be like this.”
He thought about Jessica, but this time didn’t see her stuck on the ceiling. He saw he laughing with him when they watch Saturday Night Live. He sees her dancing with him to Dire Straits in their tiny dorm kitchen. He sees her kissing his cheek and telling him how many good things he’ll do. She was beautiful.
“I know,” Sam said, hating how his voice broke slightly. “She’d probably think I was a loser. She was way out of my league.”
“Oh, little brother, that’s for sure. Didn’t know you had a thing for blondes anyway.” Dean smiled that Dean-original grin.“Hey, we saved that kid, didn’t we?”
Sam found it in him to chuckle. “Yeah. Tough girl.”
“Oh! While you were out, I learned some things.”
“And what were those things?” Sam asked,
Dean grinned. “I asked some locals about Russel Connor. Apparently, Scott and Russel were buddies, but Scott was in love with Russel’s wife, Daniele.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I can see where this is going.”
“Yep,” Dean said, popping the ‘p’. “Scott was over for a few beers, got a bit too drunk...then there was some throat slitting.”
“And ring stealing,” Sam concluded. “Then Scott somehow slipped the ring to baby Patrick? That’s just...cruel. Poor Patrick.”
“Yeah, well. It’s over now,” Dean shrugged. “Think Beverly will be okay?”
“Yeah, eventually. We turned out okay, right?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Dean said. “We’re the picture of mental health.”
“Shut up, Jerk.”
“Never, Bitch,” Dean replied.
And for the first time in weeks, Sam felt at peace.