Fic: Clatter and Keep, Part II

[4422shini]

Part II

An indeterminate amount of time later, Dean awakes to a nurse standing over him. She's looking at the readout on the machine with a frown. She sticks a thermometer in his ear, and continues to frown at the reading.

“Bad news?” Dean asks, his voice barely a whisper. He could really use a glass of water.

“Your temperature keeps rising,” she answers.

“Oh,” Dean says. He was about to say something, but he can't really remember what he was going to say.

“You thirsty?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

She gives him a cup of water and he takes it with trembling hands. He can't quite get it to his mouth though, his limbs feel like jelly. The nurse helps him hold the cup up to his mouth and he drink deeply. He immediately feels better and gives her a small smile as she takes the cup from him.

“Thanks,” Dean says and he falls back to sleep.

There are people standing over top of him, talking in rushed tones. The words slide over him and they hold no meaning. Dean can see a horde of nurses and doctors, descending on him. One flashes a pen light in his eyes and it really hurts. He puts it away and then pulls the blankets off Dean.

Dean's very hot.

A nurse pulls away the bandages from his leg and it looks red and angry, oozing some fluid.

That's not my leg, Dean thinks. My leg doesn't look like that at all.

A mask gets fitted over Dean's face. He doesn't like how claustrophobic it makes him feel and he tries to pull it off, but a nurse bats his hands away gently. She's got pretty short brown hair and big eyes and talks to him but all Dean can hear is a whirr of air and a distant roaring.

Someone puts something shockingly cold between his legs and Dean does not like it at all. Two more cold objects are placed under his armpits and Dean struggles to get them away from his body, but no one lets him move and when he tries to lift his legs, it hurts terribly.

The heat in his body is burning him away, sucking out all the senses until all he can hear, see, and breathe is heat. He opens his mouth, tries to expel the volcano erupting inside of him, and a surge of liquid acid floods his mouth, fills his nose, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe!

Hands roll him on his side and hot fluid that tastes like fire flows out his mouth, nose and eyes, burning his skin and making his stomach churn violently as it tries to be rid of it.

When there's nothing more to expel out of his body, Dean's stomach continues to heave and quake, until it's not just his stomach but his whole body and oh God he's burning all over.

Hands are everywhere and nowhere and nothing makes sense. There's yelling and machines beeping madly and all Dean wants is to not be here.

So he lets himself fade away into black. And it's a little bit cooler there.

Someone is sitting beside him, and Dean wonders who it is. He'd know, but his eyes are closed. He opens them, and sees a blurry version of Bobby. He's saying something to Dean, but he's drowned out by the loud beeps of the many machines beside Dean's bed.

Dean falls back asleep.

Someone's wiping his face with a cloth and it feels good but also leaves Dean's skin itchy. He brushes a heavy hand up and feels an unfamiliar face under his hands. It's damp and there's more than a week's worth of beard growth. There's a nasal cannula attached to it too, and Dean tries to take it off, but a hand gently redirects his hand back to his sides.

He cracks his eyes open and sees a chestnut brown haired man with hazel eyes. It's Sam and he smiles at Dean and continues to wipe Dean's face with a cloth.

A crow lets out a loud screech from somewhere close and it hurts Dean's head and pulses through his eyes so he shuts them and falls asleep again.

There's a sensation in Dean's leg and he doesn't like it at all. He cracks an eye open and watches as some hands move cautiously over his over his leg, swiping the incisions with gauze, coming away with red and yellowish fluid.

It hurts a great deal and Dean lets out a groan from deep in his chest. The hands stop their actions on his leg, and the person attached to those arms bends over him and says something.

Dean can't see the face very clearly, but it must be Sam because Sam was just here. It feels so good to know his brother is there, close to him.

“James,” Sam calls, “How are you feeling?”

Dean groans, throat to sore and mouth too dry to even try making words. An ice chip edges to his mouth and Dean sucks it in gratefully. He lets it roll around his mouth until it's melted, and then swallows the cool water.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, voice still weak. “Where 'ave you been?”

There's a pause, and Sam sighs and picks something up. Dean can hear the sound of pen scratch against paper. “Still feverish I see.” The pen stops writing. “I'm not Sam. My name is Ron, and I'm helping you fight the nasty infection you've got going. I bet you feel pretty rotten right now.”

Why would Sam say his name is Ron? Is Sam in disguise like Dean is?

This bothers Dean on a level, it doesn't make any sense. But he can't really do anything about it because he's suddenly falling back into darkness.

Dean stays away for a long time. When he finally surfaces, the room is bright with sun shining through the windows, warming his face and arms. A blanket is pulled up to his stomach and his arms lay limply outside the blankets, heart monitor attached to a finger and a catheter in his wrist vein. The room's only occupants is Dean, and the equipment surrounding his bed.

And Bobby.

Dean didn't notice him right off because he's sitting in a chair to Dean's left, arms crossed, chin tucked up to his chest, asleep. He breaths deeply and looks awful.

Dean wants to let him sleep, but he wants answers more than he wants to be respectful, so he swallows and tries to clear his dry throat. Bobby awakens quickly and blinks wearily at Dean.

“You're awake,” Bobby says gruffly. Dean nods and tries to speak but he can't get out more than a soft growl.

“Here,” Bobby says as he hands Dean a cup of water with a little straw. Dean takes it with wickedly weak arms that shake as he brings the straw up to his lips. The water feels amazing in his mouth and throat and he finishes it all gratefully.

“What,” Dean licks his lips. “What. What happened?” He asks, feeling rather foolish but not knowing what else to say.

“You got an infection in the surgery spot. You got really sick and a nasty fever. You haven't really been coherent for a while,” Bobby says.

“How long was I out for?” Dean asks.

“About a week and a half.” Bobby says. “Scared the shit out of me,” he adds quietly.

“Am I okay now?” Dean asks.

“You're on the mend. Your temperatures down and your conscious, so there's that. Probably set you back in healing, though,” Bobby says.

Dean nods. Wishes he had another cup of water.

“Any sign of Sam?” Dean asks.

Bobby's face falls, and he swallows. “Well, about a week ago, I went up the mountain to deal with our Sasquatch.”

“Bobby, are you crazy?” Dean asks incredulous. “You should have had a partner.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bobby nods. “I nearly got the shit kicked out of me. Damn thing was fast. As fast as a Wendigo and just as cunning. After some trial and error, I found out they react badly to iron. Shot it up and then removed the head. Burned the body for good measure. Bastard won't be coming back.”

“Bobby, did you see Sam?” Dean asks. He's so scared of the answer, but he has to know, he has to.

“No I didn't. But there was also two and a half feet of fresh snow, so it's hard to say.” Bobby says sadly.

Dean looks down, blinks rapidly as his vision begins to blur. “You think he's under that?”

Bobby takes a moment to look away, face pinched. When he looks back to Dean he says, “If he was all right, we would have heard some news of him by now. I've been checking the hospitals, the morgues, for anyone matching Sam's description. Nothing so far. I also checked all the cards and the phone records for both of you. There's been no activity. Sam's,” Bobby stops. He swallows and looks at Dean with so much emotion that it makes his heart want to explode. “Sam's probably dead. I'm so sorry, Dean.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. That's not true, it can't be true. They can't go through all this shit only to die in some stupid hunt in a backwater town that Dean can't even remember.

“Dean,” Bobby says softly. “Even if Sam was up on the mountain, there's been sub zero temperatures and blizzards. He wouldn't have survived it.”

A little whimper escapes Dean's mouth and he tries to hold it in, because fuck how embarrassing. He swallows convulsively and feels a tear run down his cheek, which he quickly wipes away.

“Fuck,” he says quietly to himself, not really knowing what it means but it feels good to say it. “Fuck,” he repeats.

“Dean...,” Bobby begins, then lets it trail off. He looks away.

“I'd like to be by myself,” Dean asks, voice horse.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Bobby begins.

“Please, Bobby. Just for now,” Dean says as another tear runs down his bearded cheek.

Bobby nods sombrely. “I'll come back tomorrow. Hang in there.” He places his hand on Dean's shoulder, careful of his wounds. Then he gets up and leaves Dean in his room, the only company the quiet beeps of machinery and the whir of oxygen in to his nose cannula.

Dean cries quietly to himself for a long time and then falls asleep.

Bobby shows up the next morning and helps Dean eat some plain toast. It's humiliating, but he's still really weak, and the idea of eating is somewhat overwhelming. But Bobby doesn't take any of Dean's shit and bullies him into eating his breakfast.

It sits in him like a led bullet and that's exactly what Dean's going to eat if Sam is still up that mountain.

After Bobby left the previous day, Dean came to a decision. He'd get better. He'd get out of this hospital. He'd find Sam. Whether it's Sam or his remains, Dean will find him and if need be put him to rest. Then he'll eat his gun.

The idea of living in a world without Sam, knowing he failed his one job, is just unbearable. But if there's even a chance that Sam's still alive, he's not going anywhere until he knows what happened.

Dean gets better, his strength starts to return, so they move him out of the ICU, which he'd been brought to when he got so sick and back into the recovery ward. He has to share a room again, but Dean doesn't pay it much mind. This time, he has a television over his bed, so he spends his day flipping through the channels and halfheartedly reading the auto magazines Bobby brings him.

Nothing really catches his attention and he knows he's sinking into a deep depression, but he doesn't really give a shit. The nurses and doctors come in and out. Feed him, clean him, medicate him, poke him and help him with embarrassing bowel movements. It's all necessary, but none of it really matters because Dean's probably not going to live much longer than it takes to get out of this hospital.

Five days after Dean regained full consciousness, a young couple walks in that Dean immediately would choose to describe as 'yuppie'. They're wearing a matching running outfit, complete with fanny pack and vizors, and they look like they're looking for him.

“Hi James,” says the woman. She looks about late twenties with blonde hair and an easy smile. “So glad to see you awake.”

“We wanted to come sooner, but we knew you were still recovering,” says the man, who looks similar in age, maybe a little older but with black hair.

“I'm sorry guys,” Dean says. “I'm having some memory problems since the accident. Do I know you?”

“Oh,” the woman exclaims with a hand over her mouth. “I guess you wouldn't remember us. Sorry. I'm Peggy and this is my fiancé, Stewart. We were the ones who found you on that logging road.”

Dean blinks. He has no idea what these people want, maybe a thank you? But he'll take this opportunity, maybe they saw something that would help tell him what happened to Sam. “That was you? Wow, I mean. Thanks. I didn't really know who found me.”

Peggy beams. “Yeah, you looked in pretty rough shape. Stewart thought you were a goner,” Stewart opens his mouth to object, but Peggy continues, “I knew you'd pull through. And you look so much better.”

“Yeah. So where did you find me?” asks Dean.

“About two miles up the old logging road that runs up the mountain,” replies Stewart. “We were driving up for a hike in snow shoes, and you were on the side of the road, face down.”

“You didn't happen to see anyone else up there, did you?” Dean asks.

“No, just you,” says Peggy.

“Nothing weird? Out of the ordinary? Any big animals moving in the bushes?” Dean prods.

“No. nothing weird. Well, aside from you passed out on the road. Do you know how you got injured?” Peggy asks.

“No idea. I have a pretty bad concussion and I can't really remember much of anything of the last month,” Dean says, unsure why he's sharing this with these strangers, but it feels good anyways.

“You know, you're pretty lucky,” Stewart says. “I nearly missed you. Only saw you when a bird nearly flew into my windshield and I slammed on my breaks.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgement, doesn't really know what to say. There's an awkward pause.

“Well, we should get going. We're headed for our morning run and just thought we'd stop in to see how you were doing. We'll be on our way now. Hope you feel better soon, James,” Peggy says.

Dean nods, feels like he should be saying something more, so he does. “Okay, yeah. Wait. I don't really know how to say this, but you two saved my life. I would have died up there for sure. So thank you.”

Peggy brightens and Stewart smiles. They wave good bye and exit out Dean's hospital room.

A few hours later, Dean tries to read a magazine article about recent imported carburettors, but this fucking crow keeps sitting outside his window and caws at him. At first Dean tries to ignore it, but its beady little eyes watching him, and Dean feels somewhat like he's being judged when it continues to squawk at him relentlessly.

After twenty minutes of trying to ignore it, Dean throws his magazine at the window and it scares off the bird.

Two weeks later, Dean's ribs heal up enough for him to not be hurting all the time, and his concussion dampers down to a light throb, and he's taken off the good stuff and given less good stuff, but still enough to dim things around the edges.

He gets a cast on his leg and the physical therapist comes in and gives him a pair of crutches. Dean's doctor goes over Dean's schedule and his prescriptions. He needs to get his cast removed in six weeks, and then come back for extensive physical therapy.

Bobby's present at the meeting and pays more attention to what the doctor says than Dean does. He takes notes and asks questions, making sure there will be therapy available for Dean in Sioux Falls. He acts like a devoted caregiver, and Dean feels horrible that Bobby's investing so much energy into him when it's not even going to matter soon.

They make their way out of the hospital slowly, it's a bit surreal to be outside. Dean's only been out a handful of times in a wheelchair with Bobby for company, and he enjoys the early spring air.

Bobby brings the Impala around, and Dean is ridiculously overjoyed to see his baby until he realizes he's not the one who's going to be driving her. After a lot of painful maneuvering, Dean slides into the backseat, leg extended out beside him, crutches on his lap. He's panting and his body throbs, but at least they're out of the hospital.

“You want to get some lunch?” asks Bobby as he slides in behind the wheel and turns the engine over. The Impala roars to life, welcoming Dean back, and he runs a soothing hand over her upholstery in an apology.

“Sure, burger sounds good,” Dean says. He's not hungry at all, hasn't really been hungry since before his memory lapse, but it makes Bobby feel better, so why not eat?

They pull into a small diner and take a booth. Dean has to stretch his casted leg out onto the other side, but otherwise it goes smoothly with only minimal pain. Dean takes a Percocet with his water anyways.

When their burgers arrive, a silence falls over them as they eat, but it's not entirely comfortable. Halfway through, Dean can't eat any more and he's done playing nice.

“Bobby,” Dean starts, “I want to go up.”

Bobby puts the burger down that was halfway to his mouth. “Dean-”

“I've got to see for myself,” Dean states.

“There probably won't be anything up there to see. It won't be good for you. Besides, there's no way you can go up the mountain with a busted leg and some crutches.”

“Bobby, I can't just leave. I can't leave Sam-” Dean's voice abandons him and he looks away. His meal churns unhappily in his stomach. After a moment, Dean continues: “You said more and more snow was melting up there. It'll be mostly clear by now. If I go slow, I can make it.”

Bobby shakes his head, “This is ridiculous, Dean. You'll ruin your body past the point of fixing it. I'm not going to help you destroy yourself.”

“You can come or you can stay. I'm not leaving town before I find Sam. If you try to stop me, I'll just find a way around you,” Dean says softly but with conviction.

Bobby curses quietly under his breath. He looks out the window for a moment, then back to Dean. “We'll go tomorrow morning. But only if I think you're up to it.”

Dean lets a tight smile grace his lips. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Damn fool,” Bobby mutters as he sips his coffee.

They sleep at the motel. None of it looks familiar to Dean, but none of his other memories have come back to him, so why would these?

It's small, hasn't been renovated since the Seventies, with shag orange carpet, wood panelled walls, and avocado green bed spreads. Dean lowers himself carefully to the bed closest to the door and looks around.

There's newspaper clippings on the wall in the web pattern Sam and him have been using lately for cases, and sticky notes with Sam's near illegible handwriting on them. On the kitchenette table is Sam's laptop, Bobby's old to go coffee cups are stacked messily around the table on books and papers. In the corner of the room beside the bathroom door, is Sam and Dean's duffel bags. They're partially open, and Dean suspects Bobby shoved all clothes in them that was chaotically spread around the motel room like usual.

A pang hits Dean's chest and he has to force himself to swallow. Sam's clothes, still here, never to be used again. He's going to have to throw them out. Or give them away. Do something with them.

“You want something for the pain?” asks Bobby.

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. He's not actually in pain, but he doesn't want to feel either. He swallows down two Percocets, and lies down on the bedspread. Bobby fusses, tries to get Dean to change out of his clothes, but all Dean wants to do is sleep and forget this nightmare.

Like usual, Dean dreams of Sam.

They're in a forest, snow partially covers the ground, and it's very peaceful.

Sam's lying on the ground below where Dean stands, and he's trying to scoop his intestines back into his body. They're spilled around him, impossibly red and dark against the white snow. Thick coils of his innards make squishing, moist noises as Sam pushes them back inside the open well of his stomach, but they just uncoil and fall out again.

Despite the gruesome situation, Sam looks up to Dean with a serene expression and smiles.

“Sasquatches don't kill people, Dean,” Sam says, voice floating softly over the wind. Then a black beetle scurries out of Sam's mouth and runs off into the snow.

Dean wakes with a start, heart hammering in his chest, Sam's name on his tongue.

The motel room is quiet, early morning light streams through the slits of the window drapes. Dean can hear road traffic distantly and Bobby's soft snores in the next bed. He feels very hot, so he throws the blankets away from his body, except they get stuck on his cast and he spends a minute of wrestling the blankets while his leg pulses with pain at the movements.

After, he lays back on his bed panting, and stares up at the ceiling. There's a brown watermark shaped like Rhodes Island on the ceiling.

On a nightstand beside Dean's bed is a bottle of pills and a glass of water. Dean swallows down three, despite the label stating to take only one. He can handle the pain. It's the thinking he doesn't want to do.

Because today is the day. He's been waiting for today for the last three weeks. He's going to find Sam and know once and for all what happened to him. This means that when he finds him, he' going to have to accept Sam's probably gruesome death and know that he was there and couldn't stop it, or he abandoned Sam to his fate. Either way, today is the day Dean will see the results of his failure.

He's been wanting for this day, but now that it's here, he just wants to go back to sleep and pretend none of this is happening.

His chest aches with emotion, and Dean has a hard time keeping his breathe, not wanting to wake Bobby. He pulls a pillow over his face, and although he does not cry, his face feels hot and his body shudders.

After a while, the painkillers kick in and Dean feels loose and pliant. He lets go of his grief and allows himself to drift. Thinks about the time Sam was thirteen and built a fort in Bobby's junk yard out of metal scraps and tarps. He got a bad cut on his hand and had to get a tetanus shot. Still has (had) the scar on his hand to this day, faint white lines snaking around his thumb and palm.

Bobby's snoring stops, and he lets out a snuffling cough. Dean hears him shift around in bed and sit up. Can feel his gaze on Dean, but Dean keeps his eyes closed. Doesn't want to see what expression is filling Bobby's eyes right now.

After a moment, Dean hears him get up and turn on the bathroom light. The door shuts and a moment later the shower starts up.

When Bobby comes out, freshly scrubbed, he helps Dean sit up, dizzy and slow with medication. He must be able to tell, but he doesn't comment. He hands Dean his crutches, but after a few uncoordinated moments, it becomes apparent that Dean can't walk by himself right now. Bobby helps Dean limp into the small bathroom, and awkwardly helps him remove his clothes, and get a sponge bath.

Bobby has to help him a lot. Dean kind of just slides the cloth along his skin, too limp to be effectual. Dean would be embarrassed under normal circumstances, but he just can't bring himself to care.

Bobby helps Dean dress in a flannel shirt and sweatpants, which is awkward with the cast, but at least more comfortable than the open backed gowns he'd been wearing in the hospital. Getting the pants on make Dean's head swim and he feels a drop of sweat slide down his spine, despite the cool air of the room.

Bobby heads down to the continental breakfast and brings Dean back a coffee and a donut. Dean drinks the coffee, it helps clear his mind. After a bite of the donut, he puts it down, stomach rolling.

Bobby sits out on the edge of the opposite bed, hands clasped in his lap, concern written all over his face. “Dean, we don't have to go today. It's going to be icy and there's still snow up there. You could fall and screw yourself up a whole lot worse than you already are. Have to spend more time in the hospital.”

Dean shakes his head. How he wishes he could do that. Put this day off. But the idea of waiting, having this float over his head for more days is unbearable.

“Dean,” Bobby starts.

Dean interrupts him, “I'm going Bobby. Today. Either help me or go home.”

Bobby scowls softly but nods. “Okay. Let's get ready.”

Bobby packs a large backpack with the necessities: a shotgun, some first aid supplies, a water bottle, some black garbage bags (which Dean refuses to think about why Bobby's packing those), and finally salt and kerosene. Dean spends the time struggling into his jacket and putting socks on. He has a slipper-like shoe he got from the hospital to go over his casted foot, and he struggles to put it on, until Bobby finally slips it over for him. The coffee helps sober Dean up enough to coordinate his limbs, and he slowly makes his way to the car on his crutches.

Bobby carries the backpack out and tosses it in the trunk. He helps Dean slide into the back seat and then starts up the engine. The Impala roars to life, and they're on the road.

The drive to the mountain takes about forty five minutes. Dean spends the time zoning out, trying not to think of anything. He takes another Percocet to help with the pain that came with jarring Dean's leg while getting into the car. It keeps him loose and numb.

When they reach Bear Top Mountain, Bobby takes the Impala up a logging road, partially overgrown with weeds. The land is unfamiliar to Dean, sparks no memory, even though this was the same route he had taken with Sam before. The Impala climbs a steady hill as the narrow road takes them up the mountain. The bushes give way to smatterings of melted snow in areas, and icy streams of water just starting to melt. When the reach the area the Impala had originally been pulled off on, their ears pop from the altitude change.

Dean slowly gets out of the car, breaths the cool mountain air and watches Bobby watch him from under the brim of his hat. Bobby puts on the backpack and helps Dean limp away from the car, and they're up the hiking trail.

“I think the best place to start looking would be where I found the Sasquatch and then widen our perimeter,” Bobby says.

Dean nods, too focused on making his limbs cooperate. Maybe that extra painkiller wasn't such a good idea, because the landscape is tough. Loose gravel and dirt make the pathway and it's difficult for the crutches to gain purchase. He avoids lumps of un-melted snow, but it makes the trip slow and tiring. They're only one hundred feet from the car when Dean's armpits start to hurt, his leg pulses with pain, and he's out of breath.

Dean can admit that going up here while he's still this injured was a stupid, stupid idea. But he doesn't care. He's going to find Sam today.

Bobby keeps his pace slow, stays beside Dean with an arm out ready to catch him if he pitches too far in any direction. He has a worried expression in his eyes and his mouth is shaped in a grimace. Dean shoots him a cocky, yet shaky smile, which does nothing to fool him, yet it seems to relax Bobby a little.

They continue to walk, Dean focuses on moving forward, but after another few minutes he can't go any further. His limbs shake and his arms feel like jello. Bobby helps lower Dean down to sit on a large log clear of snow. Dean abandons the crutches and lets them fall to his feet, closes his eyes and gasp for breath through the pain that shoots through his leg, ribs, and spikes at his brain.

He tries to keep his head blank, keeps his eyes closed and listens to the word around him. He hears the sound of the zipper of the backpack peel away and rustling as Bobby brings out a water bottle.

“Drink this,” Bobby commands.

Dean opens his eyes and takes a swig of water. He looks around, for the first time really taking in their surroundings. They're in what is probably a small field. A flat area before the land gets steep again. There are a few shrubs, boulders, and new grass peaking up from in between sparse clumps of snow. The mountain must have been clear cut at one point because there are old tree stumps that jut out of the ground sporadically. Other pine trees are spread out around him, none higher than two stories. Dean wonders if that has to do with the elevation, or the fact that they're the recipients of an attempt to regrow the mountain.

A few birds flutter around in the light breeze from tree to tree. Dean watches a mouse poke its head out of a hole, nose testing the air. A large crow floats over head, letting out a lyrical call.

All in all its rather peaceful.

Another crow lands on a stump not far from Dean and Bobby. It peers at them with a tilt of its head and lets out a little call.

“Friendly crow,” Dean mutters.

“Hmm?” Bobby asks, glancing away from the scenery he'd been studying.

“Friendly crow,” Dean repeats with a nod towards the crow.

“Raven,” Bobby corrects, “It's a raven, not a crow.”

“How can you tell?” Asks Dean.

“Size mostly. It's bigger than a crow is. But mostly by the noises they make.”

Dean nods. “There was one that kept hanging around the hospital window. Was driving me crazy with its cawing.”

“They're everywhere, but they're also pretty popular on the west coast.”

Dean takes another sip of water, then passes it back to Bobby, who takes a drink himself, then pops the cap back on and stows it in the pack. Getting Dean back on his feet is a production in itself. His leg, which had stopped throbbing with the beat of his racing heart, causes another spike of pain to go flying down to his toes all the way up his thigh and shoots up his spines. Dean has to clench his teeth to keep any noise from passing his lips, but he wants to scream it hurts so much. It must reflect on his face, but Bobby says nothing. Probably know it'll do no good.

Dean does a cautious hop on his crutches, and it hurts, but he ignores it. The raven on the stump cocks its head and watches him. It lets out a deep chirp and fluffs its wings. Dean turns his attention away from the bird and slowly makes his way across the clearing to a line of trees.

“That's where I found the Sasquatch,” Bobby says with a nod towards the pines. “It was one ugly son of a bitch. Fast too.” He looks around cautiously, like he expects trouble.

When Dean gets to the clutter of trees, most of the ground beneath the trees is clear of snow. Some large rocks cover the ground, scattering dead grass and making it hard for Dean to get up close. There are even a few early wild flowers poking out of the ground here.

It's not very exciting, and it doesn't look like the place you'd find a man eating monster. But Dean knows these things work.

Dean turns his head to look further up the trail, but something catches his eye in the light. Twenty feet off something metallic reflects a tiny spark of sun to Dean, and he hobbles towards it.

In between two knee high rocks is a half melted pile of snow. A belt buckle is what caused the light. Under the buckle is what looks like worn pieces of fabric. As Dean gets closer, ten feet away, a bubble of dread fills his chest and his heart beat erratically.

It's definitely someone's clothes.

When Dean stands three feet away and looks down, he can see strands of hair, partially frozen in snow. And bits of skin. Human skin.

At first, Dean's eyes don't really know what they're seeing, it's just things, and not something that makes a whole. There's some blue jean materiel, a familiar brown wool coat, a cluster of hair frozen into the snow, a patch of skin here, a fleshy bit mostly covered in ice there.

It could be anything, Dean tries to rationalize. This small pile of frozen fabric and flesh couldn't ever be something human. It's not human shaped, just a round mess of bits. There's no distinct body shapes or features, just skin, hair, and clothes.

“Shit,” Bobby says softly from behind Dean's shoulder.

But then Dean's brain catches up to his eyes, and the incoherent bits of flesh, clothing, and hair become human, remains.

That's Sam's chestnut brown hair, lying in a clump, partially frozen.

There's a whine from far away. It's obnoxious and Dean doesn't like it. It stops when he sucks in a breath and he realizes it's his own.

The world tunnels away until only Dean can see. Sam's remains.

Sam.

Jesus Christ, Sam's dead.

A sob escapes out of Dean's throat and it sounds something a victim would emit, not him. He trembles and Bobby's arms are under Dean's arm pits and catch him before he falls. Bobby drags his limp body to a boulder fifteen feet away and sits him down on it. He can't take his eyes off of Sam. What's left of Sam.

There's a ringing in his ears, and Bobby's face is in his own, and he's saying, “Dean, Dean, Dean,” over and over.

Dean's not really breathing properly. It's erratic and shuddering and he can't breathe. Bobby's hands are on his chest and back, holding Dean up saying, “Breath, Dean. Jesus, breath. I'm so sorry Dean.”

Dean focuses on inhaling and exhaling. His vision brightens a bit and it's all too much so Dean shuts his eyes.

He just focuses on breathing for a long time. He knows he's crying, hot streams of tears are running down his face. He can feel snot too, bubbling with each gasp of air. He must look awful, Dean thinks abstractly.

Fuck.

Sam dead.

Dean had one job, and he fucked it up. He should be the one there, a mess of skin and hair, not Sam.

And he will, once he cleans up.

Dean lets himself calm down. He stops crying and opens his eyes. They hurt and the world is too bright, but Dean welcomes the sting. He needs something to focus on.

Bobby stand beside him, continues to rub his back like he's a little kid with a cut on his knee. Concern is written all over his face, and grief fills his eyes. Dean's not sure if it's for Sam or for him, and then feels bad because he knows Sam meant a lot to Bobby too. They used to spend weeks at Bobby's at a time in their childhood before Dad and Bobby had a falling out. They played and grew up in amongst the broken cars that surrounded Bobby's house. Bobby was 'Uncle Bobby' before adulthood made the title awkward on everyone's lips.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” Bobby whispers, voice rough.

Dean nods, doesn't trust his voice.

“Do you want to do it here? Or at the yard?” Bobby asks, and Dean knows exactly what he's asking. He's asking if he wants to burns Sam's leftover parts here, on this goddamn mountain, or back at Bobby's.

The idea of spending a car ride with the remains of Sam close by is painful and sickens Dean's stomach. But the idea of leaving Sam up here on some stupid mountain where they did a stupid case that just went wrong is incomprehensible.

“Your house,” Dean whispers hoarsely.

Bobby nods. He carefully takes his arms off Dean, and waits to see if he's going to pitch over. When he doesn't, he opens the backpack and takes out the plastic bags. He walks slowly over to Sam and looks down at him for a moment. Then he bends down and grabs a handful of clothing and skin and pulls it into the bag.

It makes Dean want to vomit, and he nearly does. His stomach churns violently and he takes a gasp of air, heart fluttering madly in his chest.

“Wait,” Dean gasps. Bobby looks over, pity written on his face.

“I'll help,” Dean says. He slowly grabs his crutches and maneuvers himself to a standing position. It hurts, a spike of pain slices through his body and takes up residence in his chest, like a tight knot.

He hobbles over to Bobby and Sam, slow but not really in a hurry anyways. The rocks between Sam's body are low and it will be difficult to get back up again, but Dean lowers himself down anyways, legs splayed out in front of him and around Sam's pile of flesh.

Dean's hands tremble as he grabs a fistful of jacket and hulls it into a garbage bag. Under the jacket is a large clump of hair, and a big piece of skin, of what part of the body, Dean doesn't know. They're frozen slightly, attached by ice. Dean grabs on carefully and pulls up.

A black beetle falls out of the hair and scampers away. Dean drops the flesh and slams his good foot down on the beetle and it squirts out black beetle guts underneath his shoe.

Dean's breathing hard and he doesn't know why.

He runs a hand over his knee, rubbing away anxiety. Bobby's watching him, clearly upset but not knowing what to say.

Dean reaches down and grabs the flesh again and throws it in the bag with haste. Underneath that the flesh is a familiar gun. Sam's gun. Dean picks it up. It's got hair on it, and it's red from blood and flesh lying on it for weeks, a little abused from the weather, but otherwise okay.

Bobby hands him a little towel he pulled from somewhere and Dean wipes off the gun carefully. He checks the clip. Silver bullets, four are missing.

Dean clamps his eyes shut and let his fist tighten around the clip. He doesn't even know what that means. If they knew it was a Sasquatch or if they thought it was something else that reacts to silver.

But four bullets are gone. Sam tried to defend himself, but he died anyways.

Jesus Christ, these bits are Sam's fucking flesh and hair and clothes and his gun and he's dead, he's dead, he's-

Dean only realizes he's wailing when Bobby gets right up in his face and starts yelling. He pulls Dean up, taking all of his weight, which must have been very hard, and drags him away to the boulder again. Dean can't even sit; he just slides down until he's sitting in a puddle of snowy mud, cold wetness soaking into his sweatpants.

“Dean! Damn it, Dean. Snap out of it,” Bobby says. He gives Dean a light slap on the cheek, and Dean stops screaming and gasps for breath.

“I'm sorry,” Dean says when his breathing is more under control.

“Ain't nothing to apologize for,” Bobby says, sadness laced through his voice. He sounds old. Dean feels old. Two old guys, one dead not old guy.

Dean lets out a slightly hysterical laugh even though he knows it's not funny.

He opens his eyes, looks at Bobby, and then looks over to Sam.

There's something on Sam's remains. There's a flutter of movement and a pair of black beady eyes look at Dean while standing right in the pile of Sam's flesh.

Jesus Christ, is that why these fucking birds have been hanging around? Have they been gorging themselves on Sam's body while he slowly thawed out in the spring sun?

Hot fury burns through Dean's veins and his heart hammers. He screams incoherently at the raven, letting all his anger, guilt, anxiety, and grief pour through his throat. He pulls Sam's gun up and takes a shot at the bird, only to remember he's still holding the clip. He fumbles the clip into the gun and aims at the raven, only to have it hop behind a rock out of view.

Dean shoots the rock anyways. A couple shards go flying off, and Dean can hear the birds alarmed squack. He waits for it to take to the sky so he can shoot it down, but it doesn't. He can see rustling of black feathers peaking around the rock, but never enough to shoot at.

A hand covers the gun and pushes it down onto his lap. Bobby is looking down at him, and Dean knows what he must look like. Sitting in sweatpants in the frozen mud, waving a gun around. Probably looks like a nut. Which wouldn't be far from the truth.

“Help me up,” Dean grunts as he tries to get his weight under him. Bobby pulls him up and rests him against the rock, catching his breath. He hands Dean his crutches, and Dean slides them under his aching armpits. He puts the gun in the elastic of his pants and takes a hop over to the rocks the raven hides behind.

The bird comes into view, slunk down to the ground, cocking its head up to look at him.

Dean pulls the gun out into his grip, aims for the bird, when Bobby says, “Wait!”

Dean stops to look over at Bobby. Bobby's face is ashen and he looks a little lost. “Dean, look.”

Dean looks to where Bobby is looking, which happens to be at the raven. He can't see anything out of the ordinary. Or anything more out of the ordinary than this whole fucked up situation.

“What?” Dean growls. He's in no mood for games.

“Turn your head sideways. Look at the raven from the side of your eyes.”

Dean huffs, but does what Bobby asks. He can see the bird out of the corner of his eye, head twitching as it looks between Bobby and Dean. It lets out a little caw.

Then there's a little flick. Something dances across the air, there so fast and then gone. Dean looks full on at the raven, but sees nothing.

“What was that?” Dean asks, wearily. Could this get any more fucked?

“Look again,” Bobby says, so Dean does.

He sees a flutter of wings, no motion of the animal, and then a blip of a person there. For less than a second, there's a person there, naked, instead of the raven.

It's Sam.

Dean lets out a gasp, doesn't really know how to react.

“Bobby,” He asks softly, “Do you see-”

“Sam? Yeah, I see him,” Bobby nods, face full of wonder.

“Is he,” Dean stops, licks his lips. “Is he a spirit?”

“I dunno. I don't think so. I think he is the raven,” Bobby says slowly.

The raven hops up from behind the rock to on top of it. It eyes Dean cautiously.

Dean licks his lips again, chapped in the cool spring air. His heart beat furiously, with hope. Hope that he really, really hopes isn't false.

“Sam?” He asks.

The bird continues to stare at him, but doesn't react otherwise.

“Sam, is that you?” Dean kind of feels stupid, asking a bird a question, but he's so desperate he doesn't care. The bird doesn't react further than to rub his beak on a wing.

“There were other myths about Sasquatches,” Bobby begins, “that talk about animal transformation and spirit walking.”

Both of them stare at the raven, not really knowing what to say.

“Sam? Sam, if that's you, you need to let me know, man,” Dean pleads. He can't bare the thought of this not being Sam, but this whole situation reeks of ridiculousness.

The raven takes flight and lands on a pine tree branch not far from Dean. It's not exactly a sign, but when Dean turns his head, he can see Sam on the tree, watching him.

“I can see him. But why isn't he giving us a sign? Why doesn't he spell his name out or something?” Dean says quietly, almost to himself.

“Maybe he can't,” Bobby offers. “If this is what happened to all the missing locales, maybe they all turned into animals. But I certainly didn't see any articles about bizarre or smart animals. Maybe they can only react in a natural way that their instincts allow them.”

Dean frowns. “You sure?”

“Hell, I don't know! I'm making this up. One thing's for sure. That raven is or is attached to Sam's spirit. We need it and we need to do some research.”

Dean nods, agreeing. Then they both stand quietly and stare at the raven, who stares back down at them, then lets out a little caw, caw.

How does one capture a raven?

Bobby and Dean review the course of events over the last few weeks. They're sitting on a fallen log, discussing whether this raven is Sam. The absurdity of it kind of makes Dean want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Dean tells Bobby about the raven who hung around his hospital room window. Tells him about the gruesome dreams he's had of Sam, that may have not been just dreams. After all, there was a black beetle in Sam's flesh pile and in his dreams.

“Maybe Sam's the raven. Maybe he was transformed into a raven by the Sasquatch, and still retains some of his human memories, but not all. That's why he knew to hang around you, but not enough to send you a clear message,” Bobby theorizes.

“Makes a bit more sense on why the only thing left of Sam is his hair, skin, and clothes,” Dean says. He has to stop and shudder. After a moment, “maybe the bird literally bust out of his body.” And wasn't that a pretty mental picture.

Bobby strokes his beard thoughtfully and looks up at the raven. It's been hanging about, flying from tree to tree, never too far away from Dean. “I'm going to need to do tests. And research. We need that bird to come with us.”

“Do you think he'll just fly in if we open the car door?” Dean asks, hopefully.

Bobby shakes his head. “I doubt it. He seems friendly enough, but I think he's too 'bird' to let us get that close or to go into an enclosed space like that. I think we'll need to net him.”

Dean nods.

Bobby gets up and stretches. Dean can hear his joints pop from here and he winces in sympathy.

“I'm going to go into town. There's a hunting and wilderness store I saw. I'll get some supplies and come right back.” Bobby says and grabs the garbage bag that is now full of Sam's... body, and gently puts it in the backpack, out of Dean's sight, which he's somewhat grateful for.

“You want me to come?” Dean asks, although the thought of moving right now is very uninviting. He can feel how stiff and sore he is and how his leg is starting to really throb again. He needs another Percocet.

“Nah, you should stay here. If we're right, birdie here will stick around you. We don't want him getting confused and flying off. I'll be back in an hour max.” Bobby says. Bobby hands Dean the shotgun and pulls on the backpack and heads down the mountain towards the car.

After a few minutes, Dean can hear the Impala's engine reverberate off the mountain and roar off down the hill.

It's just him, the raven that may be Sam, and nature.

What a day.

He takes a Percocet and a swig of water. Watches the raven preen it's feathers while balancing on a  tree branch.

“You in there, Sam?” Dean asks. The bird lets out a throaty caw and puffs up its feathers. Dean smiles despite himself. His brother is a bird. This is hysterically funny. Except for the part where it's not.

Part III