Tecumseh
By Tidia & MOG, May 2006
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Chapter 3/18
Sam’s eyelids fluttered open and his back arched slightly as his body
took in a deep breath. A sharp exhale brought on rasping coughs, but
purged his lungs of residual smoke.
He stared upward, watching rolls of black smoke stretch an ugly veil
between him and the pinpoint stars of the night sky. He coughed several
more times and brought a hand up to his forehead. He sensed he should
be feeling for something, but he didn’t know why, or what that
something should be.
His fingers touched on drying blood but further palpitation of the area
revealed no injury. His last memory was of the sudden, intense chill
that filled the small room he’d been searching. Had Dean called his
name?
He lifted his hand from his forehead and stared at it, bringing the
other up so that he might look it over as well.
‘No blood here. No cuts, bites or
claw marks - always a good thing.’
In an attempt to shake off the hazy web enveloping him, Sam pushed
himself into a sitting position and gave his clothes and body the same
once-over. Everything appeared to be in good working order.
He ran a hand down his face and rubbed at his eyes, suddenly aware of
the smoke-induced stinging. He swung his head to the right and his eyes
widened as he took in the vision of the second story of Lincoln Beets’
house engulfed in flames and the lower portion of the old home rapidly
succumbing to fire.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Guess that’s one way to burn the bones.” He
was aware of his brother lying close by. “Dean? Man, I thought…”
Sam’s words died on his lips as he realized Dean wasn’t just taking his
own time to recover. His brother lay face down in an odd position, as
if his body had just given out.
“Dean? Dean!”
Sam scrambled to his brother’s side and gently rolled him over. An ugly
gash on his forehead was the first thing that caught Sam’s eye.
‘What the hell happened?’
Sam’s fear intensified with the frustration of being unable to remember
how the hunt dissolved into Dean’s injuries and Beets’ house on fire.
The wood of the old home screeched and popped as the flames chewed
through the structure. The heat was growing to a painful intensity and
Sam knew it would only be a matter of time before someone responded to
the fire.
A piercing shriek ripped through the night and several windows on the
second floor exploded outward. Sam threw his body over Dean’s in an
attempt to protect him and felt debris sprinkle down.
“I’m getting you out of here.” Sam stated firmly, while struggling to
haul his brother up into some sort of standing position. The sound of a
groan lifted a dark weight from Sam’s heart and he smiled. “Good. Let’s
get ourselves out of here.”
Dean pushed away from his brother and leaned against the front quarter
panel of the Impala.
Sam watched him to make sure he was steady. “There’s a hospital about
thirty-”
Dean’s chest ached but he forced air into his lungs in order to relay
his wishes. “No hospital.”
“Dean, you’re hurt. . .” Sam maneuvered his brother’s arm so that he
could support him and hoped he wouldn’t cause Dean pain as he guided
him to the passenger’s seat of the car.
Dean felt sweat beading on his forehead even as he relaxed into the
vinyl-covered seat, but he repeated his decision. “No hospital. I mean
it.”
Sam’s mouth tightened in a frustrated frown, yet he said nothing. He
scooped up the shotgun from where it lay in the dirt, flicked on the
safety and slid it gently onto the floor of the backseat, then closed
Dean’s door and circled around to the driver’s side.
He settled in behind the wheel before realizing his brother still had
the keys. Wordlessly, Sam retrieved them from Dean’s coat pocket and
took a moment to study the forehead gash he’d noticed earlier. Shadows
caused by the house fire rippled through the Impala, and Sam swore it
looked as if the jagged edges of Dean’s cut were knitting together.
He reached out and gingerly brushed at the healing wound. Dean’s eyes
flew open and he jerked away from the unexpected touch.
Sam pulled his hand back. “Jeez, man, relax. What happened in there?
What’s going on?”
Dean’s gaze grew glassy and he rolled his head to the side, letting it
rest against the cool glass of the window.
“Dean?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, closing his eyes. It was as if he’d not
intended for anyone to hear the words.
Sam strained to see the cut in the faint light, but nothing was
visible. He raised his fingers to the same spot on his own forehead and
touched dried blood. Abruptly, he faced forward, slammed the key in the
ignition and gunned the engine to life.
He drove silently to the motel, splitting his attention between the
road and his brother. He let his mind click over the details of the
evening, hoping that if he focused on every little thing, it would help
him fill in the gaps.
He remembered the cold of the dark room, Dean casually calling his
name, a violent vibration that shook the huge oak bookcase he’d been
standing next to, the apparition of Lincoln Beets, and then he
remembered the pain.
The lights of the motel’s parking lot glowed a pale, sickly green and
Sam couldn’t help but think it was a fitting beacon to welcome the
Winchester boys home. He looked at his brother, sleeping now in the
passenger’s seat.
“You got some ‘splainin’ to do,” he whispered.
He moved efficiently, stowing the shotgun in the trunk before gently
opening Dean’s door. The sound of the latch woke Dean with a start and
Sam waited for his brother to see him through the car window.
“You need help?” Sam’s voice was muffled through the glass.
Dean pressed a hand to his chest and breathed deeply, shaking his head.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Sam allowed his brother to move unaided to their room, but he stayed
close behind until they were safe inside and Dean lowered himself onto
the bed he’d earlier claimed as his.
Sam crossed to the bathroom, eager to clean the dried, itching blood
from his face. Staring in the mirror, he realized he didn’t look much
better than Dean. He washed his own face before soaking a second
washcloth in warm water and bringing it to his brother.
He resisted the urge to drop it from a height onto Dean’s face. The
irritation that sprang from his confusion had not faded much. He laid
the dripping rag across Dean’s forehead and sat on the edge of the
other bed.
Dean responded slowly. One hand rose to take control of the cloth and
rub it cautiously over the dried blood. Sam gave him a moment before
speaking.
“What happened back there?”
“I lost my Zippo.”
The statement took Sam off-guard. “What?”
“My Zippo. Ya know, the one with Betty Page on it. That son of a bitch
Beets locked it in the closet. But we got the last laugh, didn’t we?
Lit his own damn shirt on fire, stupid ghost.”
Sam was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake by not taking Dean
to the hospital. He tried to prompt his brother. “I remember being
hurt, and then I wasn’t, but you were. And now you’re fine.”
“I’ve always been fine.”
Sam stared at his brother. “I’m serious. The blood on my face was in
the same place as that cut on your forehead. You healed me.”
Dean lifted the washcloth away from his eyes and met his brother’s
gaze. “No, I didn’t.”
“Really?”
Dean let the damp rag fall back into place. “Really.”
Sam wasn’t sure if his brother was brushing him off or if he honestly
didn’t remember. Regardless, Sam was determined to have his brother be
a witness. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a water glass from the
nightstand and held it firmly between both hands over the waste basket.
“Really?” he repeated sharply.
He bore down on the glass, squeezing tightly. The resulting pop and
shatter got Dean’s attention instantly. He abruptly sat upright.
“Shit, Sammy!”
Sam opened his hand and let the broken shards of glass fall into the
garbage. He stared at one deep slice on his left palm, waiting for the
blood to ooze to the surface. Within seconds, rivulets of red flowed
freely.
“Put your hand on it,” said Sam.
Dean looked at him with an uncomprehending expression. “Put this on it!” He forced the
washcloth into Sam’s palm and rose to get their first aid kit.
Sam dropped the rag and grabbed his brother by the wrist, pressing
Dean’s hand against his own, palm to palm. Sam gasped slightly at the
pain brought on by the rough contact, and at the sound, Dean’s brow
furrowed with concern. At that moment, their attention was drawn to
their hands, and a sudden warmth pulsing through their palms.
A few seconds passed before Dean pulled his hand away and dropped down
onto the bed. He cradled his left hand close to his body as Sam picked
up the washcloth and gently pressed it against Dean’s palm until he
felt his brother take it.
“It’s there, isn’t it,” asked Sam, “on your hand now?”
The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down. “Okay, so maybe I can heal
you.”
“Maybe?” Sam sputtered.
“Exactly what happened in Beets’ house that I missed out on?”
“Nothing,” Dean stated sharply. He didn’t want to verbalize what he so
strongly suspected.
“Then how?”
“I don’t know.” Dean propped up a pillow against the headboard and
leaned back. “You take an educated guess, Sammy.”
“It could be a number of things.” He paused as a disturbing thought
struck him and he cautiously began murmuring in Latin. “Dominus
vobiscum et cum spiritu tuo-”
Dean cast a tired look at his brother and simply frowned. “Knock it
off, I’m still me…” His eyes widened suddenly. “Damn…Uncle Frankie.”
Sam’s brow wrinkled. “You mean when we were in Oklahoma last time?”
His brother nodded, but Sam shook his head. “I dunno, man…are you
saying he was the real thing?”
Dean closed his eyes, trying to recall the events from four months ago
in Oklahoma.
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