FIC: Supernatural - Shades of Comfort: 8- 14
Title: Shades of Comfort
Author: ghost4
Disclaimer: Not mine. *is sad*
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Chapter 8
Sam rubbed at his raw throat.
Everything hurt. Everything. His back ached, his head was throbbing, and his throat was on fire. Seriously. It felt thick and swollen and inflamed. He kept spiting because swallowing the saliva in his mouth was agonizing - and he was spitting red more often than not.
"Dude, you keeping up?" Dean asked. Sam was trailing him and the girl, his head still swimming with the after-effects of being tied down for hours and then having a seventy-year old tube jammed down his throat.
The shadows flickered and Sam's balance flickered with them. He staggered, automatically reaching for the wall…but Dean was there, catching him and keeping him upright as the world rolled lazily… then settled back into place.
"You okay?" Dean asked, his hands solid and supportive.
Sam nodded, not opening his eyes. He leaned against the wall, feeling nauseous. He really didn't want to get sick with his throat messed up. He really, really didn't.
"You are not okay," Dean said in a flat, almost resigned tone.
Sam opened his eyes, returning the flat look. He took one of Dean's hands, turning it over to display the raw cuts around his wrists. You're not either.
Dean jerked his hand away. "Yeah, but I didn't have the crew from St. Elsewhere trying to debark me."
Sam arched his eyebrows incredulously. Debark? Dude, seriously, where do you get this stuff?
"Well, you know what I mean. You're walking wounded."
Sam glared at him, opening his mouth to snap a reply. What came out was only a torn kind of noise - and Sam felt the fire in his throat burst like a bottle full of napalm, coating everything in liquid flame. He leaned over, gratified but not surprised to find Dean waiting. He leaned against his brother, listening as Dean chanted: "Breathe, just breathe," quietly.
Sam thought that was pretty good advice.
After a couple of seconds, Sam pushed away, taking his own weight. Dean watched him cautiously. "So… want to tell me how you're really doing?"
Sam sighed. He held up a hand and waggled it, not meeting Dean's eyes.
"Check. It's just the throat? Your head's okay? You breathing all right?"
Sam rolled his eyes. Worry-wart.
Dean got his stubborn look. "Just tell me."
Sam held a hand to his head, and shrugged. He touched his chest and flashed a thumbs up. Laid a hand against his throat and winced.
Dean nodded, automatically checking the hall. "Okay, so no speaking, Sam."
Sam canted his head, glaring a bit. I'm not an idiot, Dean.
"Yeah, well, you're not exactly the silent type, either," Dean groused. Then he glanced up, looking serious. When he spoke, it was quietly, keeping his vice from carrying to the girl who was nervously picking through the debris a couple of feet down the hall. "They took me, you, and the chick's boyfriend. The geek who was leading the ritual. She took off from the morgue to find him. She's pretty shaky."
Sam nodded his understanding, biting his lip. She was flighty, and emotionally on edge. She was a walking accident in an environment like this, where the supernatural was active. Dean was warning him that they had to look out for her… and watch out for her.
Dean turned anxious eyes on him again. "So those things that had you, they were shades, right? I mean, you think so too?"
Sam nodded.
Dean's eyes slid along the hall, then came back. When he spoke, he kept his voice low again. "So if they were just shades, how the hell are they moving things and taking people?"
Sam started to shrug… then hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he made a connection.
"What?" Dean asked. "What's gong on in that freaky head?"
Sam pulled a face, realizing that there was no way to tell Dean what he was thinking. He knew what he was gong to have to do… and he knew, once this was over, Dean would never let him live it down.
But he had to communicate somehow.
Sam made an irritated nose, gave Dean a warning look - then closed his eyes, letting his mouth fall open and his head lull. Then he looked back at Dean.
Dean smirked. "You trying to show me what your last date looked like?"
Sam rolled his eyes. He took a breath and tried again, tapping his chest and going through it all a second time.
He opened his eyes to find Dean gazing at him with impatient incomprehension. "Dude, I'm glad you got that acting crap out of your system in high-school, because you kind of suck."
Sam flipped him off. He struggled with his own frustration for a moment - then he turned to the wall. He ran his finger through the years of encrusted grim and got an obvious line.
That would work.
Quickly he sketched a stick figure, marking the eyes with an 'x'. For good measure he drew its tongue sticking out.
He looked at Dean expectantly.
"A dead guy?"
Sam blew out a rough breath. He added a squiggly line above its head and surrounded it with stars.
Dean grinned. "Like the cartoons. The guy is out cold."
Sam nodded, relieved. He touched his own chest. Then looked his question at Dean.
"Yeah, you were out; so was I. So was the Goth, according to his girl. The shades took us because we were unconscious. But how? Shades aren't supposed to be able to affect things physically. And why? Why would they? Shades never break pattern."
Sam snapped his fingers, pointing at the stick figure on the wall.
"Yeah? And?"
Sam wiped the figure off, then drew another one. This time with no eyes, and a pointy little hat.
"I don't get it," Dean confessed.
Sam sighed. He opened his mouth, but as soon as his throat tightened to engage his larynx the pain amplified to uncomfortable levels. He let the breath out in a frustrated huff. Sam bit his lip, thinking, then added an elongated 'y' shape with a circle at the bottom to his person. He watched Dean try to figure it out, willing him to understand so hard that he could feel his body tensing.
"Is that a stethoscope?" the girl asked, wandering up behind Dean, a long piece of sharp metal in her hand.
Sam nodded, the relief at being understood completely out of proportion to the message. Sam hated not being heard.
"So that would be…a nurse?" Dean asked.
Sam nodded again, willing Dean to go a step farther, and knowing that he had no way to help unless he used his voice. Aware of how bad it was going to hurt, Sam pulled a breath and spoke, forcing the word through the razor blades in his throat: "Patterns."
*
Dean watched as Sam grabbed at his throat like something was trying to tear its way out, his eyes closed against the pain.
Dean started forward, ready to take his arm, "Sam…"
Sam jerked away, glaring. He smacked the drawing.
He was right. Dean needed to focus. As much as he would have like to just walk on out of here, collect Sam and head back to the motel and nurse his headache and his brother - they just couldn't. If these shades could interact on a physical level, and if they never faded away - then this place would become a deathtrap to any homeless person or curious kid who wandered through the doors.
Dean knew he couldn't live with that on his conscious…and neither could Sam. Which meant they had to get this solved now. Which meant Dean had to focus.
Dean took a breath and turned his attention to translating what Sam had been trying to tell them. Sam had said 'patterns'. Nurses and … "Patterns. The shades are filling the ruts left by medical people. So when we were knocked out, when we needed medical assistance, we moved into their patterns. We became real to them."
Sam nodded, looking relieved.
"And something happened that made them go all Angel of Death on you?"
Sam pulled a face. He knotted up a fist and mimed coughing.
"You coughed," Dean realized. "When you woke up, you coughed. And one was in the room?"
Sam nodded.
"So, being that they took care of tuberculosis patients, when you coughed you fit into a new pattern. Not just unconscious patient, but patient with breathing issues."
Sam's mouth tightened, his eyes direct and steady. That's my guess.
"Sweet," Dean muttered, meaning anything but.
"But how can they touch us - you - at all?" Gillian looked between them with frightened eyes. "Didn't you say that they can't touch things?"
Dean gave Sam a wry look. "It's a good question. Any ideas?"
Sam huffed at him, giving him a look that Dean easily translated.
"Hey, watch your language around a lady," Dean smirked.
Sam glared, obviously not amused. Then he put both palms together, before rocking them open like they were hinged.
"It's a book!" Gillian exploded in his ear. Dean winced at the volume. Sam smirked this time, arching an eyebrow.
"Shut up," Dean muttered.
Sam's smirk got larger.
"Okay," Dean said. "Whatever spell the kid recited from the book, it flooded this place with enough energy that the shades are able to physically interact with anyone who crosses into their established patterns. Sound about right?"
Sam nodded, leaning against the wall.
"So what do we do about it?"
Sam met his eyes… and shrugged.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Super."
"Let's find Owen!" Gillian said. "We need to find him. He's an expert in this stuff! He'll know what to do! Let's find him, and he'll fix this. You said we would."
Dean met Sam's gaze with a questioning look. Sam shrugged again in response.
Can't hurt.
Dean nodded, a brief jerk of his head. He doubted that Owen was an Occult Expert… but he would know what spell he used. And hopefully he would know how to stop it.
Dean turned to Gillian. "Let's go find Owen."
*
Chapter 7 Chapter 9