And of Things That Will Bite (1/2)
Title: And of Things That Will Bite
Prompt/Summary: Written for the spn_reversebang, for a prompt by the lovely and talented becc_j. Set mid-season 1. Sam and Dean investigate a case in which the victims suffer from debilitating nightmares before lapsing into comas from which they never wake. Soon, the brothers find themselves trapped the same nightmare, with only each other to rely on in order to come out alive.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 16, 159
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alas.
Warnings: No spoilers. Mild swearing. Show-levels of violence.
Art Link: Master Post
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I lucked out spectacularly in my prompt. becc_j's three-panel comic is eerie and atmospheric, and just beautiful in the quality of its lighting and composition. It was a real joy to work from in terms of building a plot around it.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Many, many thanks to the the lovely and talented faithburke, who beta'd this monster for me in record time. In fact, her turnaround was so fast I pretty much got whiplash.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Thank you to the spn_reversebang mods for all their hard work putting this together! This has been a hell of a challenge. :)
NOW
It's not the first time he's had to sleep in his car. It's cold, though, and there's a thin layer of frost on the Impala's windshield, pretty crystalline patterns glowing by the cold light of the moon. Dean sits up, shivering a little in the chilly night air, and pulls his legs out from where they're wedged under the steering wheel. He's cramped and uncomfortable, his stomach sour, his mouth flooded with a bitter taste that makes him wonder just how much he had to drink last night. He stumbles out of the car, swallows hard to prevent himself from throwing up, then stands up and stretches, feeling the joints of his neck and shoulders pop and crack in a satisfying way.
He doesn't recognize the road, he realizes after a moment. The moon is hanging low and huge in the sky, and fields stretch to either side of him, silent in the silvery light, frost-covered and entirely devoid of life. It's the stillness more than anything else that tells him that something is wrong. It's too cold for insects, but there's no sound of scratching or scrabbling in the remaining stubble of corn stalks, no hint of the nocturnal creatures that habitually come out to root around for sustenance. No sound of birds, either, no owls out sweeping the skies for prey, but he can't shake the feeling that there's something... something he's missing. He shivers. He doesn't remember driving out here, doesn't know where this is. Was he working a case? He digs the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to rub away the remnants of the fog that's permeating his brain, and to gather his thoughts.
Sam. The name occurs to him a moment later, and he's amazed that he wasn't thinking it the whole time. Where is he? Dean fumbles in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone, flips it open. Nothing. The screen glows, bright blue against the midnight blue of the star-lit sky, but there are no bars on the little cell tower icon. No signal at all, which is damned weird. There's nothing here to block the signal, he thinks, looking around. Then again, maybe there just aren't any cell towers around to provide signal. He's never really bothered to figure out just how these things work, since it doesn't impact his job much. Then the phone rings, the tinny tones of 'Smoke on the Water' loud in the eerie stillness, startling him so badly he actually drops the phone onto the half-frozen asphalt, sending it skidding.
“Shit!” his own voice sounds unnaturally loud, and he drops to all fours, reaching for the phone where it has slid behind the Impala's front wheel. He fumbles with the phone for a moment, finds it mercifully undamaged, accepts the call. “Hello?”
“Dean?”
“Sam!” he doesn't bother keeping the relief out of his voice. “You all right? Where are you?”
“I'm fine. Freezing, but I'm okay otherwise. I think. I have no idea where I am,” Sam's voice sounds remote, strangely distorted. “A road somewhere. I can't see anything for miles. I don't even remember how I got here ―I just woke up out here, and everything's all fuzzy. Hell, I almost forgot about you for a couple of minutes, which is just weird. Dean, what the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know,” he rubs the back of his neck, trying to figure things out. “I don't remember much either. Look, we need to figure out where we are, first, and how to find each other. We'll work out the rest afterward. Look around, see if there's anything useful. A house, a landmark, anything.”
“Uh...” there's silence for a moment. “There's a tree. Fields. That's about it. I don't even recognize any of the stars. Come to think of it... woah,” Sam trails off.
“What?”
“You don't see it?”
“See what?”
“The moon.”
“Sam, this isn't exactly the time for that.”
“Yeah, okay. Tell you later, then. How can I even tell what direction to start in?”
Dean's already opening the trunk of the Impala, rummages around for a flare gun. “I'll send up a flare. At least tell me if you can see it, okay?”
A moment later his nostrils are tingling with the acrid smell of combusting chemicals, and the flare is streaking up into the sky. He coughs a bit, scrubs at his nose, and on the other end of the line Sam lets out a muted whoop of triumph.
“I see it! I don't think you're far from me at all. Maybe a few miles.”
He blows out his cheeks. “Okay, that's one thing in our favour, at least. You got a compass?”
“I should. Lemme check my pack.” There's a faint rustling sound, then Sam comes back on the line. “Got it. According to the compass, you're South-Southwest from me. Which, conveniently, seems to lie mostly along the same direction as this road.”
“I can work with that,” Dean pulls his own compass out of the Impala's glove compartment. “I'm heading toward you. Just stay put, I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Uh, can you hurry? ”
Dean snorts. “Gettin' soft there, Sammy. Time was a little cold would have been nothing for you to take.”
“Screw you, you didn't have to sleep on the frozen ground half the night. Besides, I think there's something... Look, just get over here, okay?” Sam's tone turns anxious, and Dean feels his own stomach twist unpleasantly.
“On my way,” Dean is already sliding into his seat, fumbling with cold-numbed fingers with the keys in the ignition. “Hang tight.” He flips the phone shut, takes off with a squealing of tires on the icy pavement.
He doesn't dare push the Impala too hard. A sudden bend in the road could prove fatal at these temperatures, and Sam is counting on him. He crests a small rise, and it feels like the moon is dipping down from the sky to meet him, huge and luminous, practically filling the windshield with its glow. A broken fence lines the road to his right, sagging listlessly toward the ditch. Up ahead he catches sight of a gnarled tree, twisted and dying, its branches snaking up into the night sky. It glows briefly in the flare of the Impala's headlights, casting grotesque shadows on the dead grass of the slope behind it. That's when he sees Sam's familiar silhouette, shoulders slightly slumped, pack slung over one shoulder. The headlight illuminate his face, and for a moment Dean imagines that his brother's expression is wistful, almost longing, his face pale. He looks like a ghost, Dean thinks uncomfortably.
The moment vanishes. Sam smirks, and makes a show of sticking out his thumb. Dean grins, pulls up alongside him and rolls down the window. “I don't usually stop for strangers,” he quips, “but since you're so purty and all...”
Sam yanks open the door and drops into the passenger-side seat. “Now, mister, I'm not that kind of boy!” he grins, then socks his brother hard in the shoulder. “Took you long enough. I thought I was going to freeze to death out here.” He gives an exaggerated shudder, but even in the car's dim lighting Dean can see that his lips have turned blue and that he's shivering, teeth chattering slightly.
“Shit, you really are freezing,” he puts the car into neutral, cranks up the heater, then gets out to fetch a blanket, tossing it at Sam's head upon his return. “Come on, wrap up. I don't want to have to cuddle you if you turn hypothermic on me.”
“Bite me,” but Sam is already pulling the blanket gratefully around his shoulders with fingers numbed from the cold. “Can you get pneumonia if the place you're in isn't really real?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Did you hit your head?”
Sam shakes his head, trying to fit most of his six-foot frame under the blanket, which is easier said than done. “Didn't you notice the moon?”
“Uh, no, Sam. I don't really moon-gaze when I have other problems to worry about. Like, oh, the fact that we're lost and have no idea how we got here. The only thing I noticed about the moon is that it's full and bright enough to see by. What else is there to see?”
Sam snorts. “That's your problem. You only see what you expect to see. Look again.”
“Smartass,” but Dean does peer out through the windshield again. “Holy shit.”
He can't understand how he failed to notice it before, except maybe that the moon he's glanced at once or twice is so huge and bright, but the smaller, dimmer orb behind it is unmistakeable. Sam grimaces.
“See what I mean? Since when does Earth have two moons?”
“Weird,” Dean agrees. “So what is this place, then?”
He can't make out Sam's expression even in the bright moonlight, but his brother's voice is low, and his tone sends a chill up Dean's spine. “I don't know, but wherever we are... we're not alone.”
TWO DAYS AGO
“So that's how many victims?” Dean's mouth is full of eggs, bacon and hash browns all at once, but that apparently doesn't prevent him from trying to talk anyway. It comes out sounding more like “O ah ow ay itims?”
Sam cringes. “I swear it's like you were born in a barn. How the hell I ended up with good table manners is anyone's guess.”
Dean washes down his mouthful with a swallow of coffee. “I have good table manners. I just don't bother using 'em if I don't have to. So. How many victims?”
“Eight so far in the last two weeks,” Sam flips through the notebook full of clippings he’s compiled about the case so far. “Symptoms are all the same: disturbed sleeping patterns, insomnia, nightmares or night terrors, and then one day they just didn’t wake up. Two are dead, six still in comas.”
“Sounds like you, except for the not waking up part,” Dean is eyeing Sam’s untouched omelette with an expression of disapproval. “If you’re not going to sleep, you need to at least eat something, Sammy. Preferably with meat.”
“It’s Sam, and I’m fine.” Sam takes a sip of his second cup of coffee, then makes a point of picking up a forkful of omelette. “See? Eating. Now, can we get back to the case please?” he puts his fork back down in order to smooth down the papers on the table.
“So you're saying I hallucinated having to wake you up from yet another round of screaming nightmares last night?”
“Sorry,” Sam mutters, feeling his cheeks flush. He thought the nightmares were getting better, but last night they were back with a vengeance, and he remembers Dean shaking him awake more than once as well as waking on his own a few more times, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He spent the rest of the night fighting off the same strange, half-remembered dreams, and the other part staring at the ceiling and trying not to alert Dean to the fact that he was, yet again, not sleeping. Apparently he wasn't fooling anyone.
Dean sighs. “I don't want you to apologize, Sam. I want you to sleep. You're off your game lately, and you know it.”
“Well, I'm sorry if the quality of my work isn't up to your standards.”
“Geez, touchy. Maybe if you slept more you wouldn’t be so grumpy.”
“The case, Dean,” Sam rubs at his eyes with the fingers of the hand not currently occupied with his cup of coffee. He’s too damned tired to put up with Dean’s shit this morning.
“Okay,” Dean shovels another forkful of eggs and bacon into his mouth, swallows, then wags his fork in Sam’s general direction. “So we have a mystery illness which is apparently not due to the abuse of Ambien. Theories?”
Sam shrugs. “No idea. Dad’s journal doesn’t have much on predators that attack you in your sleep, except for succubi, and there’s no evidence of a sexual aspect to these attacks. Could be an energy vampire of sorts, I guess.”
“No such thing as vampires.”
“I know that,” Sam knows he's being unnecessarily testy, but Dean is dancing on his very last nerve, and his head hurts. “I just meant something that feeds on life energy. Wouldn't have to be sexual.”
“Okay, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. What did the doctors at the hospital have to say? Since you stuck me with the boring part this time.”
“We'll have to research some more. And definitely interview the witnesses on a one to one basis.”
“CDC again?”
Sam nods. As much as he loathes this aspect of their job ―the constant lying, pretending to be someone he's not, abusing innocent people's trust― it remains an unchangeable fact that they can't exactly go around broadcasting that they are, in fact, looking for a vengeful spirit or a flesh-eating creature of the night. Civilians just don't react well to that kind of revelation.
“The victims are all in the hospital, no apparent connection between them that I could determine. But get this ―I overheard one of the nurses mentioning to another that she's been sleeping badly. Could be nothing, but it's enough of a coincidence that I think it's worth interviewing her solo.”
“Is she hot?”
“Dean.”
“What? I didn't say we wouldn't go if she wasn't hot. Just think of it as a really nice bonus.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “One day, we'll find a case that you won't think of as an excuse to troll for phone numbers. Is there any coffee left?”
“Dude, you drink any more of that stuff and you'll be levitating right out of your seat. Besides, you have a hot nurse to introduce me to. Let's go, chop chop!”
“Hospital first. I want to get into the morgue, maybe talk to the pathologist who performed the autopsies, see what he has to say.”
“You sure it's a guy? Maybe it's a really hot female pathologist.”
“You really do have a one-track mind.”
Dean smirks. “Hey, I'm compensating for you. You're pretty much a monk,” he says, then looks immediately guilty, because they both damned well know why Sam hasn't been looking for female companionship. Sam brushes it off. The last thing he needs is Dean getting all awkwardly sympathetic. Just thinking about Jess... the wound is still too fresh, too raw to tolerate much exposure, no matter how well-intentioned his brother is.
“Fine,” he crumples his napkin, flips his notebook closed, and gets up from the table, . “After you, Fabio.”
Recovering swiftly and visibly grateful for the easy out, Dean leers and winks exaggeratedly at him. “Don't you know it.”
*~*
The pathologist turns out to be pretty cute by modern standards, but male, much to Dean's disappointment. He's much shorter than they are, thinly built, and the rest of him is obscured by the blue hospital scrubs that are ubiquitous in all the hospitals Sam has ever been in. At least the uniformity allows for decent cover ―hospital staff tend to respect and trust authority figures. The pathologist gives them a vaguely friendly nod as they come in, or at least Sam construes it to be friendly, since it's kind of difficult to tell what his expression is like behind his mask and protective goggles. He's in the middle of stitching the 'Y' incision back up on what looks to be the corpse of their latest victim, Martin Sheffield.
"You must be the guys from the CDC. I was told to expect you. Normally I don't like sharing my little kingdom here, but I'm willing to make an exception. Glove up, grab some masks, and step on up. Name's Nicholas Valente, but call me Nick. Make any Simpsons jokes, and you lose all your morgue privileges."
"Uh, right," Sam is a little taken aback, but manages to recover his poise a little bit. "Good to meet you. I'd shake hands, but, well..."
"I'm up to my elbows in a cadaver, I get it," Nick nods again, which is just about the only thing he can do in his current position. "Well, metaphorically, anyway. If you'd come by a few hours earlier, I could have used a bit of help on this one. It's got me stumped, anyway."
"You couldn't determine a cause of death?" Dean steps forward, flashes his fake badge in a perfunctory way, peers at the body with carefully practised clinical detachment before pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves, letting them snap exaggeratedly against his wrists. Sam bites back a snort. Dean has always gotten far too much of a kick out of making rubber gloves snap like that. It must stem from an early adolescence spent watching way too much television.
"Oh, no, I found a cause of death. It just doesn't make any sense."
"How so?"
"Well, you know the patient history as well as I do. This is the second one I've had on my table this week, and the second death of an apparently completely normal, healthy adult. The symptoms presented are completely inconsistent with the cause of death, which looks to be severe anemia."
"Anemia? As in blood loss?" Dean makes a face.
"No, anemia as in too few red blood cells. There's no evidence at all of exsanguination: no wounds, no puncture marks, heck, not even a pinprick between the toes. It's like the patients ―both of them― spontaneously got rid of all their red blood cells. Well, not all of them, but certainly enough to deplete their brains of oxygen and their blood of iron, all that jazz."
"Any theories?" Naturally, because he's wearing rubber gloves that shouldn't be contaminated, Sam's nose itches. He keeps his hands clenched in front of him.
"None that make sense, like I said. Have you talked to Neurology yet?"
"Neurology?"
"Yeah. Weirdest thing ever," Nick warms to his subject, gesticulating with one blood-spattered hand. "We didn't catch it in the first patient, because we weren't looking for it, but I found lesions on her brain, poor girl. So we've hooked up the others to test brain activity, and it is wild in there. The brain activity is off the charts, particularly in the area of the pons."
"Isn't that the part of the brain that regulates dreaming?" Sam asks, ignoring the startled look from his brother.
"Hard to say, with the human brain, but yeah, that's the prevailing theory. This subject presents with the same lesions as the first, and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that if I was to open up any of the others, I'd find the same thing. Not that I would do that," Nick adds hastily, as though realizing just how ghoulish he just sounded.
"Of course not. That would be really, really wrong," Dean says drily, and Sam carefully steps on his foot under the autopsy table, leaning on him with all his not-inconsiderable weight. Dean grunts softly, and Sam is very grateful that the table is low enough that Dean can't jab him surreptitiously with an elbow.
"So you're saying that the abnormal brain activity was likely caused by lesions to the brain, but that both patients died due to severe anemia?" Sam is still trying to wrap his mind around the contradiction.
"Wild, isn't it?"
"Yeah, not the word I'd use, but yeah, it's strange all right," Sam confirms. "Any ideas what might have caused it?"
"Not a clue. There's nothing in the patient histories that would indicate it, and you've probably already heard that they didn't exactly run in the same circles, even if the population around here isn't booming or anything. That mostly rules out an environmental factor. But that's where you guys come in, right?" he grins at them as he strips off his gloves and tosses them into a waste receptacle. "Us poor schmoes don't have the time and certainly aren't paid enough to go running around trying to find the one obscure little thing they all had in common that'll allow us to crack the case. We're not exactly House, M.D. over here. That's why they pay you the big bucks."
"Right," Sam tries to look as convincingly professional as he can manage. Dean doesn't bother answering, just gives him a look that suggests he might actually be an idiot masquerading as a pathologist. For the first time today, Sam finds himself wishing Nick had been a hot chick. Dean is better with women, or at least doesn't insult them to their faces. Nick clears his throat.
"Right, well. I'll be writing up my report this afternoon, so I guess if you want the official copy you can put in a request, okay?"
"That would be great, we'll do that," Sam promises, slipping off his own gloves and steering Dean back out of the room before he can get them into trouble. As soon as they're clear of the door, Dean elbows him in the stomach, and Sam, caught off-guard, practically bends double as all the air comes out of his lungs in a surprised whoosh. "Oof! Dean, come on! You could at least have waited until we were clear of the building, couldn't you?"
"Quit stepping on my foot, then! It feels like you crushed every one of my bones."
Sam snorts. "Don't be so melodramatic. I barely touched you. Anyway, you feel like going up to Neurology, taking a look at the neural activity of our victims?"
Dean shakes his head, heads toward the elevators. "Nah. What's looking at the brain scans going to tell us that Dr. Nick over there hasn't already told us? The brain activity is consistent with dreams going all screwy, right?"
"Right."
"But the cause of death is definitely physical. Something's messing with the blood count, or whatever. Basically sapping the life right out of the victims."
"You've summed that up really nicely. Want a bow to go with it?"
"Bite me. I'm just saying that since it's not medical, we don't need to screw around the hospital anymore. I say we hit the books, or better yet, go interview that really hot nurse, see what she has to say about how she sleeps. I bet she sleeps naked," Dean gets a slightly dreamy look on his face.
"Dude, come on!" Sam is horrified. "You haven't even seen her and you're ―not that you should be even if you had seen... God. Just... quit it, okay? You're seriously making me worry about you."
The elevator dings cheerfully, and Dean digs an elbow playfully into Sam's ribs. "Come on, lighten up, Sammy! It's a natural human urge. No shame there."
"Oh my God," Sam feels his cheeks flame bright red. "I can't believe we're related sometimes."
"So, we interviewing her here?"
Sam shakes his head. "No, her shift is going to be over pretty soon, and they're all overworked here what with the influx of new patients. I think our best bet is a house call later on tonight, that way she won't be distracted and we won't be keeping her away from her patients. I'll snag her address and telephone number from reception."
"Snag the receptionist's number while you're at it," Dean calls after him. "She was totally checking you out!"
Sam cringes, and prays to every god that will listen that the receptionist didn't overhear what Dean said. The girl gives him a friendly smile, though, and a few minutes later he's got not only the contact information for one Katherine Kowalczyk, but of all the other nurses working in the Neurology wing of the hospital, and the receptionist's number too. "Just in case," she says with a wink, and Sam finds himself blushing all over again. He stammers something he hopes is at least vaguely polite, and beats a hasty retreat back to Dean, who's leaning against the wall by the main entrance, looking smug.
"Way to go, champ!"
"Shut up," Sam mutters. "We have time to do some research before we can even think of going, anyway. You know where the library is?"
Dean groans. "God. Fine. But tell me we can at least get some food first? And you need a nap," he adds, practically out of the blue. "You look like shit, Sam, and you're going to scare the hot nurse into not putting out."
"Dean!"
Dean raises both hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. "You are such a prude."
"You can't talk like that," Sam gives him a not-so-delicate shove through the sliding doors into the visitors' parking lot. "Women aren't there for your personal gratification."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Francis," Dean rolls his eyes, fishes the Impala's keys out of his coat pocket. "Give me a little credit, would you? My point, though, is that you look even worse than this morning, which has got to be some kind of record. You still got a headache?"
"Who says I have a headache?" Sam allows himself to wonder briefly if his brother has developed mind-reading powers.
"Says the squint you've been rocking since you got up this morning. There's aspirin in the glove compartment. And you need a nap more than you need the aspirin."
"Let's just get this done, and I'll sleep tonight, okay?" Sometimes the best way to get what you want is to pretend to negotiate first. Dean sighs, apparently not fooled one second by Sam's apparent willingness to negotiate.
"Sure, you'll sleep tonight. Like you have for the past week? Is that it?"
"Dean..." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we please not have this conversation now?”
Dean snorts, but rummages through the glove compartment of the car and drops the bottle of aspirin pointedly into Sam's lap. “All right, let's hit the books.”
*~*
The library is overheated and filled with dust, making Sam happy that he remembered to take his allergy pills before leaving the motel this morning. The last thing he needs is to spend the next few hours sneezing into the books, leaving himself open not only to Dean's mockery, but to disapproving glares from the librarian. He does regret having dressed in too many layers against the early winter chill once he was no longer forced to wear the suit for the sake of appearances, but there's very little he can do about that now. He strips off his denim jacket but keeps his hoodie, never entirely comfortable being around strangers without at least a couple of layers of clothes to shield him. The only exception he ever found to that rule was Jess, and... he shakes his head, banishing the thought before it has time to finish forming in his mind. This isn't the time for that.
Dean is already heading off through the stacks, wandering and simply pulling out the titles that catch his interest. It's not exactly a foolproof method of research, and Dad was always on his case about his haphazard methods, but it works for him, somehow. Dean always seems to function mostly on instinct and intuition anyway, leaving Sam eating his metaphorical dust when it comes to understanding a case. In fact, it's pretty much how their entire lives have been: Dean breezes by on charm, good looks, and a brain that's so damned flexible that he never had to study a day in his life. For Sam, on the other hand, nothing has ever come easy. Oh, sure, he's bright, everyone knows that. It's just that he's worked his ass off for every single A that has come his way, spending hours on homework and studying and on extracurricular projects. He's lost count of the number of all-nighters he's had to pull in his life to keep up his grades, though now it seems like a pretty big waste. Maybe he should have taken a page out of Dean's book. He sighs, leaves Dean to his own peculiar methods, and goes to hit the library computers before going through the stacks with his list of relevant titles. By the time he finds Dean at a table in an isolated corner, his arms are full to capacity with books and obscure journals.
"Jesus, Sammy. How long were you planning to spend here?"
"Shut up. And it's Sam. It won't take that long if we just read through the relevant sections. These are reference books, not novels."
Dean waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever, geek-boy, knock yourself out. No way I'm doing your research on top of mine." He holds up a book on dream lore. "Already finding some pretty cool stuff in here. Did you know cats can totally steal your breath when you sleep?"
Sam drops into a chair, settles as comfortably as he can manage and cracks open a tome, sighing. "That's a myth."
"I dunno, man. Cats are evil little sons of bitches. Glad we never had one."
Sam doesn't bother answering that particular piece of nonsense, just pulls out a pad and pen from his bag to start taking notes. The library has gotten even warmer since they arrived, almost stifling, and he's half-tempted to pull off his hoodie. It's almost impossible to concentrate on the tiny text, and he blinks and scrubs at his eyes more than once, finds himself nodding off, the lack of sleep over the past few days finally catching up to him.
The next thing he knows when he opens his eyes, the library is gone, and he's standing on a road he doesn't recognize, surrounded by half-frozen fields. He shivers a bit, and pulls his jacket closer around him. There's no sign of Dean, no sign of any other human life for miles around. He takes a few tentative steps forward along the road, the thin film of ice crunching under his feet, and another shiver crawls up his spine. There's something out here, he can feel it even if he can't see it, right behind him. He can't bring himself to turn and look at it, feels its icy breath on the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end, and his own breath quickens into short, hitching pants. All he can think of is to get away as fast as he can.
He starts out at a slow jog along the road, then gradually speeds up, sees his breath misting in the cold air before him. He runs, faster and faster until he's all-out sprinting, but the thing behind him is keeping pace with him effortlessly, close on his heels but never quite touching him. At last he stumbles on some unseen bump on the ground, tumbles gracelessly head over heels on the asphalt, and as he rolls onto his back a great black shadow looms over his head, obscuring the great bright moon above, and lunges for his throat.
"Sam!"
He comes awake with a half-stifled yell, Dean's hand clamped firmly over his mouth, his heart hammering painfully against his ribcage, breathing hard. He can feels sweat trickling uncomfortably along his hairline, dripping down the back of his neck and down his spine, and he shivers, breathing hard, and sits up from where he was half-slumped against the library wall.
“Sam, what the hell?” Dean hisses.
"Sorry," he mutters, wiping at his face with one hand, trying to get his heart rate to slow down even a fraction. "Must've dozed off."
"Yeah, no shit," Dean drops to a crouch by his chair, unable to keep the worry off his features. "You okay? You were moaning pretty loudly, there, and it wasn't the happy kind of moaning."
He shakes his head, trying to clear it, looking around in case he attracted the attention of the librarian, but they seem to have lucked out on that front. "I'm fine. Just a nightmare."
Dean wipes his mouth with his hand. "Sam, you can't keep this up," he starts, but Sam holds up a hand.
"Look, I get it. Just... I'm not doing this on purpose, okay?"
"I know that!"
"Can we just drop it, please?"
Dean huffs out a sigh, rolls his eyes, but he goes back to his seat across the table from Sam. "You're not going to be able to dodge this forever, you know. Eventually, this is going to come back to bite us both in the ass, because whatever happens to you? Happens to me."
Sam ducks his head, feels blood rushing to his face, partly out of anger, partly out of embarrassment. Because whatever else Dean might have said, he's right about this.
*~*
“You don't strike me as typical of the CDC,” Katherine Kowalczyk eyes them with an expression that, while not exactly suspicious, isn't entirely trusting either, when she's opened the door and they've introduced themselves (or reintroduced, in Sam's case).
She's a striking woman, Sam thinks a little distractedly, fidgeting with his newly re-knotted tie. He already misses his more comfortable clothes. She's tall, with black hair pulled into a braid and then coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck, and features that, while not conventional, certainly make her beautiful. She's still in her nurse's scrubs, blue and faded in places from multiple washings, but obviously well-kept. They're rumpled from a long day's work, and there are dark circles under her bright blue eyes, hinting at fatigue that's been building over a long period of time. Still, she's obviously strong, perhaps as a result of having to lift patients in and out of beds all day.
“You get CDC agents out here a lot?” Dean flashes her one of his trademark smiles, and her expression thaws a bit. Sam fights the urge to shake his head at yet another demonstration of his brother's mind-boggling ability to get women to practically undress for him.
She laughs. “No, I suppose not. But I'm pretty sure they don't pay house calls,” she takes a step back from her front door. “Come in. I just got home myself, so you'll forgive me if I work around you while you ask your, um, follow-up questions.” She doesn't quite make air quotes around the words 'follow-up,' but Sam is pretty sure it's a close thing.
Dean follows her inside without being asked twice. “Nice place you got here,” he says, eyeing the sensibly-furnished living room with approval.
It's a small house, cosy and inviting. The furniture in the living room is practical, mostly brown and beige, and looks incredibly comfortable. Sam is tempted to try taking a nap on the sofa, then banishes the thought from his mind.
“Thanks. Do you drink tea? If not I can make coffee,” she's already heading into the kitchen, yanking the pins out of her hair, and Sam watches Dean watching it tumble gracefully around her shoulders, all the more attractive for still being a little tangled.
“Uh, tea is fine,” Dean lies through his teeth, still following close on her heels. He hates tea, but he's learned to drink it when offered by well-meaning civilians. It's an ice-breaker. Sam likes tea, so it's never been an issue for him. “So we were wondering ―oh, uh, hi there.”
Sam hurries after him to see just what caused his brother's abrupt change in tone and demeanour, and stops short when he sees an elderly woman seated at the kitchen table, dressed in what looks like about fifteen layers of black lace. She's obviously related to Katherine, the eyes make that obvious if nothing else. She nods regally at Dean, but doesn't say anything.
“We're sorry to interrupt, ma'am,” Sam digs around in his memory and finds his manners.
“It's all right,” Katherine says from the stove. “Babcia, these young men are here from the CDC, asking questions about all those poor people who've fallen ill. Do you want to take your tea here instead of the living room?”
“Nie,” comes the imperious response, in heavily-accented English. “I will have my tea as I always do.”
“Babcia, are you sure?” Katherine comes to lean over her chair. “There isn't room for all of us to sit in the kitchen, so we'll have to sit with you, and they'll be asking questions―”
“You think they are worse than the Nazis?” the old woman scoffs. “Their questions do not bother me.”
Dean clears his throat. “Uh, we don't mind, as long as your ―grandmother?” he turned the word into a question, “doesn't find it too, uh distressing, Miss Kowalczyk.”
He gets a smile. “Please call me Katie so I don't have to hear you butcher my last name again. It'll be fine. Milk, sugar, or lemon?”
Dean flushes a bit, then grins. “Uh, nothing, thanks. Katie, huh?”
Sam steps forward as Katherine's grandmother plants her cane firmly on the kitchen floor in order to rise to her feet. “Allow me, ma'am,” he offers an arm, and pointedly ignores Dean's eyeroll. He knows he's never going to hear the end of the ribbing about being popular with little old ladies at the end of this, but apart from being the right thing to do, helping here will bring Katherine ―Katie, he corrects himself― to view them more favourably.
He definitely gets an approving nod from the old lady. “A well-brought-up boy,” she pats his cheek, and Dean makes a noise that sounds like he's trying very hard not to laugh, snort and choke all at the same time. Sam glares at him over the old lady's head. “You may accompany me to the living room.”
She walks steadily for someone her age, back ramrod-straight and head held high, although she leans heavily on her cane and doesn't hesitate to clutch his arm so hard that her fingers leave marks on his skin. He helps her stiffly into a winged armchair, and at her direction pulls up a small table on which Katie sets the tea tray.
“You may pour, Katja.”
Katie doesn't hesitate, pours the first cup and hands it to her grandmother, then pours out three more cups for the rest of them, motioning to Sam and Dean to sit. Dean immediately slides next to her on the sofa while Sam makes a superhuman effort not to roll his eyes and takes the only remaining chair in the room. “What is it you wanted to know that you couldn't find out at the hospital?”
“We're just trying to get a feel for the environment around here,” Dean cuts in smoothly, ignoring his tea while Sam sips at his, taking advantage of the distraction to study Katie's reactions. “It's a small community, and this sort of outbreak is pretty uncommon. We're trying to work out patterns, common ground, that sort of thing. Doing the equivalent of when the police go knocking on neighbours' doors after a crime. I understand you knew some of the victims personally?”
She nods, unconsciously smoothing her nurse's scrubs with one hand. “Not well, but yes. Like you said, it's a small community. Everyone knows everyone around here. Rollie Oates worked at the lumber mill where my father worked, and I buy my coffee from Maria Watt every morning. Used to, I mean,” she amends, mouth twisting.
“Did they have anything in common that you can think of?” Sam asks. “The same friends? Maybe they shopped at the same places? It would help us narrow down our search, see what common elements might have led to the contagion.”
Katie shrugs. “It could be any number of things, I suppose, but I can't think of anything they'd all have had in common. We're a small town, but none of them are what I'd call close. In fact, they don't have all that much in common except for the fact that they're all roughly the same age and they live in the same area of town.”
“So you didn't know any of them well?”
“I'm sorry, no. If I'd known that was why you wanted to talk to me, I could have pointed you to some of the people who knew them better, spared you the trip.”
“No, no, you're being very helpful,” Dean places a hand very carefully on her arm. It's a neat trick, one Sam hasn't quite mastered. A gesture that at once suggests intimacy and yet doesn't make the woman feel threatened. Sam can do it, but never with the underlying suggestion that it's only a sense of propriety that's preventing him from sweeping the woman off her feet and whisking her off into the sunset. How Dean can do it without coming off as a total sleaze is beyond Sam as well. Katie, predictably enough, blushes a bit, and smiles. “The more you tell us, the sooner we'll be able to pinpoint the cause of these comas.”
Sam clears his throat. “I overheard you saying you've been having trouble sleeping. Bad dreams.” He notes, from the corner of his eye, the old lady straightening in her seat, her attention fixed on her granddaughter.
“Katja, is this true?”
Katie's eyes darken. “Eavesdropping, were you? Not exactly professional”
He shrugs. “Not on purpose, but we need to follow every lead that comes our way. Is this new, or have you always had trouble sleeping?”
She doesn't answer right away, her expression turning anxious. “No,” she confesses finally. “It's new. It can't be related, though. I mean, it's probably just the stress of having all these people get sick, too, you know? Psychosomatic, or something. Like I said, I don't know any of them well, we don't have anything in common, and if it's an airborne contagion the other nurses would be showing symptoms too, right?”
Dean makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Sam hurries to fill the awkward silence.
“We're just exploring every lead we have.”
The old lady snorts. “She cannot help you.”
“No?” Sam shifts awkwardly in his chair. He's too tall to fit comfortably on most straight-backed chairs, and always feels a bit like an insect on its back, all flailing limbs and waving antennae. “What makes you say that, ma'am?”
Katie gives her grandmother an exasperated look. “Babcia, I already told you that those people are ill. Those old stories are just that: stories. There's no room in America for your old-world fairy tales. I'm sorry,” she says sheepishly to Sam. “She's just convinced herself that there's something evil in the town. It's superstition.”
“Katja, I am not some mad old woman that you can dismiss,” her grandmother snaps. “It is the same as it was in the camps at the end, I am telling you.”
Sam leans forward in his chair, as much to ease the cramps that are threatening in his legs than anything else. “What about the camps?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle. “Did the men who imprisoned you do something...” he gropes for a word, can't find it.
The old woman stares him down, eyes glittering with an emotion he can't identify. “It was not the men we were afraid of. During the day, at least, we knew who the monsters were. At night, the real monsters would come, and they did not distinguish between Polak, or Jew, or Nazi.”
*~*
Part 2
Prompt/Summary: Written for the spn_reversebang, for a prompt by the lovely and talented becc_j. Set mid-season 1. Sam and Dean investigate a case in which the victims suffer from debilitating nightmares before lapsing into comas from which they never wake. Soon, the brothers find themselves trapped the same nightmare, with only each other to rely on in order to come out alive.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 16, 159
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alas.
Warnings: No spoilers. Mild swearing. Show-levels of violence.
Art Link: Master Post
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I lucked out spectacularly in my prompt. becc_j's three-panel comic is eerie and atmospheric, and just beautiful in the quality of its lighting and composition. It was a real joy to work from in terms of building a plot around it.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Many, many thanks to the the lovely and talented faithburke, who beta'd this monster for me in record time. In fact, her turnaround was so fast I pretty much got whiplash.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Thank you to the spn_reversebang mods for all their hard work putting this together! This has been a hell of a challenge. :)
NOW
It's not the first time he's had to sleep in his car. It's cold, though, and there's a thin layer of frost on the Impala's windshield, pretty crystalline patterns glowing by the cold light of the moon. Dean sits up, shivering a little in the chilly night air, and pulls his legs out from where they're wedged under the steering wheel. He's cramped and uncomfortable, his stomach sour, his mouth flooded with a bitter taste that makes him wonder just how much he had to drink last night. He stumbles out of the car, swallows hard to prevent himself from throwing up, then stands up and stretches, feeling the joints of his neck and shoulders pop and crack in a satisfying way.
He doesn't recognize the road, he realizes after a moment. The moon is hanging low and huge in the sky, and fields stretch to either side of him, silent in the silvery light, frost-covered and entirely devoid of life. It's the stillness more than anything else that tells him that something is wrong. It's too cold for insects, but there's no sound of scratching or scrabbling in the remaining stubble of corn stalks, no hint of the nocturnal creatures that habitually come out to root around for sustenance. No sound of birds, either, no owls out sweeping the skies for prey, but he can't shake the feeling that there's something... something he's missing. He shivers. He doesn't remember driving out here, doesn't know where this is. Was he working a case? He digs the heel of his hand into his eye, trying to rub away the remnants of the fog that's permeating his brain, and to gather his thoughts.
Sam. The name occurs to him a moment later, and he's amazed that he wasn't thinking it the whole time. Where is he? Dean fumbles in the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone, flips it open. Nothing. The screen glows, bright blue against the midnight blue of the star-lit sky, but there are no bars on the little cell tower icon. No signal at all, which is damned weird. There's nothing here to block the signal, he thinks, looking around. Then again, maybe there just aren't any cell towers around to provide signal. He's never really bothered to figure out just how these things work, since it doesn't impact his job much. Then the phone rings, the tinny tones of 'Smoke on the Water' loud in the eerie stillness, startling him so badly he actually drops the phone onto the half-frozen asphalt, sending it skidding.
“Shit!” his own voice sounds unnaturally loud, and he drops to all fours, reaching for the phone where it has slid behind the Impala's front wheel. He fumbles with the phone for a moment, finds it mercifully undamaged, accepts the call. “Hello?”
“Dean?”
“Sam!” he doesn't bother keeping the relief out of his voice. “You all right? Where are you?”
“I'm fine. Freezing, but I'm okay otherwise. I think. I have no idea where I am,” Sam's voice sounds remote, strangely distorted. “A road somewhere. I can't see anything for miles. I don't even remember how I got here ―I just woke up out here, and everything's all fuzzy. Hell, I almost forgot about you for a couple of minutes, which is just weird. Dean, what the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know,” he rubs the back of his neck, trying to figure things out. “I don't remember much either. Look, we need to figure out where we are, first, and how to find each other. We'll work out the rest afterward. Look around, see if there's anything useful. A house, a landmark, anything.”
“Uh...” there's silence for a moment. “There's a tree. Fields. That's about it. I don't even recognize any of the stars. Come to think of it... woah,” Sam trails off.
“What?”
“You don't see it?”
“See what?”
“The moon.”
“Sam, this isn't exactly the time for that.”
“Yeah, okay. Tell you later, then. How can I even tell what direction to start in?”
Dean's already opening the trunk of the Impala, rummages around for a flare gun. “I'll send up a flare. At least tell me if you can see it, okay?”
A moment later his nostrils are tingling with the acrid smell of combusting chemicals, and the flare is streaking up into the sky. He coughs a bit, scrubs at his nose, and on the other end of the line Sam lets out a muted whoop of triumph.
“I see it! I don't think you're far from me at all. Maybe a few miles.”
He blows out his cheeks. “Okay, that's one thing in our favour, at least. You got a compass?”
“I should. Lemme check my pack.” There's a faint rustling sound, then Sam comes back on the line. “Got it. According to the compass, you're South-Southwest from me. Which, conveniently, seems to lie mostly along the same direction as this road.”
“I can work with that,” Dean pulls his own compass out of the Impala's glove compartment. “I'm heading toward you. Just stay put, I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Uh, can you hurry? ”
Dean snorts. “Gettin' soft there, Sammy. Time was a little cold would have been nothing for you to take.”
“Screw you, you didn't have to sleep on the frozen ground half the night. Besides, I think there's something... Look, just get over here, okay?” Sam's tone turns anxious, and Dean feels his own stomach twist unpleasantly.
“On my way,” Dean is already sliding into his seat, fumbling with cold-numbed fingers with the keys in the ignition. “Hang tight.” He flips the phone shut, takes off with a squealing of tires on the icy pavement.
He doesn't dare push the Impala too hard. A sudden bend in the road could prove fatal at these temperatures, and Sam is counting on him. He crests a small rise, and it feels like the moon is dipping down from the sky to meet him, huge and luminous, practically filling the windshield with its glow. A broken fence lines the road to his right, sagging listlessly toward the ditch. Up ahead he catches sight of a gnarled tree, twisted and dying, its branches snaking up into the night sky. It glows briefly in the flare of the Impala's headlights, casting grotesque shadows on the dead grass of the slope behind it. That's when he sees Sam's familiar silhouette, shoulders slightly slumped, pack slung over one shoulder. The headlight illuminate his face, and for a moment Dean imagines that his brother's expression is wistful, almost longing, his face pale. He looks like a ghost, Dean thinks uncomfortably.
The moment vanishes. Sam smirks, and makes a show of sticking out his thumb. Dean grins, pulls up alongside him and rolls down the window. “I don't usually stop for strangers,” he quips, “but since you're so purty and all...”
Sam yanks open the door and drops into the passenger-side seat. “Now, mister, I'm not that kind of boy!” he grins, then socks his brother hard in the shoulder. “Took you long enough. I thought I was going to freeze to death out here.” He gives an exaggerated shudder, but even in the car's dim lighting Dean can see that his lips have turned blue and that he's shivering, teeth chattering slightly.
“Shit, you really are freezing,” he puts the car into neutral, cranks up the heater, then gets out to fetch a blanket, tossing it at Sam's head upon his return. “Come on, wrap up. I don't want to have to cuddle you if you turn hypothermic on me.”
“Bite me,” but Sam is already pulling the blanket gratefully around his shoulders with fingers numbed from the cold. “Can you get pneumonia if the place you're in isn't really real?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Did you hit your head?”
Sam shakes his head, trying to fit most of his six-foot frame under the blanket, which is easier said than done. “Didn't you notice the moon?”
“Uh, no, Sam. I don't really moon-gaze when I have other problems to worry about. Like, oh, the fact that we're lost and have no idea how we got here. The only thing I noticed about the moon is that it's full and bright enough to see by. What else is there to see?”
Sam snorts. “That's your problem. You only see what you expect to see. Look again.”
“Smartass,” but Dean does peer out through the windshield again. “Holy shit.”
He can't understand how he failed to notice it before, except maybe that the moon he's glanced at once or twice is so huge and bright, but the smaller, dimmer orb behind it is unmistakeable. Sam grimaces.
“See what I mean? Since when does Earth have two moons?”
“Weird,” Dean agrees. “So what is this place, then?”
He can't make out Sam's expression even in the bright moonlight, but his brother's voice is low, and his tone sends a chill up Dean's spine. “I don't know, but wherever we are... we're not alone.”
TWO DAYS AGO
“So that's how many victims?” Dean's mouth is full of eggs, bacon and hash browns all at once, but that apparently doesn't prevent him from trying to talk anyway. It comes out sounding more like “O ah ow ay itims?”
Sam cringes. “I swear it's like you were born in a barn. How the hell I ended up with good table manners is anyone's guess.”
Dean washes down his mouthful with a swallow of coffee. “I have good table manners. I just don't bother using 'em if I don't have to. So. How many victims?”
“Eight so far in the last two weeks,” Sam flips through the notebook full of clippings he’s compiled about the case so far. “Symptoms are all the same: disturbed sleeping patterns, insomnia, nightmares or night terrors, and then one day they just didn’t wake up. Two are dead, six still in comas.”
“Sounds like you, except for the not waking up part,” Dean is eyeing Sam’s untouched omelette with an expression of disapproval. “If you’re not going to sleep, you need to at least eat something, Sammy. Preferably with meat.”
“It’s Sam, and I’m fine.” Sam takes a sip of his second cup of coffee, then makes a point of picking up a forkful of omelette. “See? Eating. Now, can we get back to the case please?” he puts his fork back down in order to smooth down the papers on the table.
“So you're saying I hallucinated having to wake you up from yet another round of screaming nightmares last night?”
“Sorry,” Sam mutters, feeling his cheeks flush. He thought the nightmares were getting better, but last night they were back with a vengeance, and he remembers Dean shaking him awake more than once as well as waking on his own a few more times, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He spent the rest of the night fighting off the same strange, half-remembered dreams, and the other part staring at the ceiling and trying not to alert Dean to the fact that he was, yet again, not sleeping. Apparently he wasn't fooling anyone.
Dean sighs. “I don't want you to apologize, Sam. I want you to sleep. You're off your game lately, and you know it.”
“Well, I'm sorry if the quality of my work isn't up to your standards.”
“Geez, touchy. Maybe if you slept more you wouldn’t be so grumpy.”
“The case, Dean,” Sam rubs at his eyes with the fingers of the hand not currently occupied with his cup of coffee. He’s too damned tired to put up with Dean’s shit this morning.
“Okay,” Dean shovels another forkful of eggs and bacon into his mouth, swallows, then wags his fork in Sam’s general direction. “So we have a mystery illness which is apparently not due to the abuse of Ambien. Theories?”
Sam shrugs. “No idea. Dad’s journal doesn’t have much on predators that attack you in your sleep, except for succubi, and there’s no evidence of a sexual aspect to these attacks. Could be an energy vampire of sorts, I guess.”
“No such thing as vampires.”
“I know that,” Sam knows he's being unnecessarily testy, but Dean is dancing on his very last nerve, and his head hurts. “I just meant something that feeds on life energy. Wouldn't have to be sexual.”
“Okay, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. What did the doctors at the hospital have to say? Since you stuck me with the boring part this time.”
“We'll have to research some more. And definitely interview the witnesses on a one to one basis.”
“CDC again?”
Sam nods. As much as he loathes this aspect of their job ―the constant lying, pretending to be someone he's not, abusing innocent people's trust― it remains an unchangeable fact that they can't exactly go around broadcasting that they are, in fact, looking for a vengeful spirit or a flesh-eating creature of the night. Civilians just don't react well to that kind of revelation.
“The victims are all in the hospital, no apparent connection between them that I could determine. But get this ―I overheard one of the nurses mentioning to another that she's been sleeping badly. Could be nothing, but it's enough of a coincidence that I think it's worth interviewing her solo.”
“Is she hot?”
“Dean.”
“What? I didn't say we wouldn't go if she wasn't hot. Just think of it as a really nice bonus.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “One day, we'll find a case that you won't think of as an excuse to troll for phone numbers. Is there any coffee left?”
“Dude, you drink any more of that stuff and you'll be levitating right out of your seat. Besides, you have a hot nurse to introduce me to. Let's go, chop chop!”
“Hospital first. I want to get into the morgue, maybe talk to the pathologist who performed the autopsies, see what he has to say.”
“You sure it's a guy? Maybe it's a really hot female pathologist.”
“You really do have a one-track mind.”
Dean smirks. “Hey, I'm compensating for you. You're pretty much a monk,” he says, then looks immediately guilty, because they both damned well know why Sam hasn't been looking for female companionship. Sam brushes it off. The last thing he needs is Dean getting all awkwardly sympathetic. Just thinking about Jess... the wound is still too fresh, too raw to tolerate much exposure, no matter how well-intentioned his brother is.
“Fine,” he crumples his napkin, flips his notebook closed, and gets up from the table, . “After you, Fabio.”
Recovering swiftly and visibly grateful for the easy out, Dean leers and winks exaggeratedly at him. “Don't you know it.”
*~*
The pathologist turns out to be pretty cute by modern standards, but male, much to Dean's disappointment. He's much shorter than they are, thinly built, and the rest of him is obscured by the blue hospital scrubs that are ubiquitous in all the hospitals Sam has ever been in. At least the uniformity allows for decent cover ―hospital staff tend to respect and trust authority figures. The pathologist gives them a vaguely friendly nod as they come in, or at least Sam construes it to be friendly, since it's kind of difficult to tell what his expression is like behind his mask and protective goggles. He's in the middle of stitching the 'Y' incision back up on what looks to be the corpse of their latest victim, Martin Sheffield.
"You must be the guys from the CDC. I was told to expect you. Normally I don't like sharing my little kingdom here, but I'm willing to make an exception. Glove up, grab some masks, and step on up. Name's Nicholas Valente, but call me Nick. Make any Simpsons jokes, and you lose all your morgue privileges."
"Uh, right," Sam is a little taken aback, but manages to recover his poise a little bit. "Good to meet you. I'd shake hands, but, well..."
"I'm up to my elbows in a cadaver, I get it," Nick nods again, which is just about the only thing he can do in his current position. "Well, metaphorically, anyway. If you'd come by a few hours earlier, I could have used a bit of help on this one. It's got me stumped, anyway."
"You couldn't determine a cause of death?" Dean steps forward, flashes his fake badge in a perfunctory way, peers at the body with carefully practised clinical detachment before pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves, letting them snap exaggeratedly against his wrists. Sam bites back a snort. Dean has always gotten far too much of a kick out of making rubber gloves snap like that. It must stem from an early adolescence spent watching way too much television.
"Oh, no, I found a cause of death. It just doesn't make any sense."
"How so?"
"Well, you know the patient history as well as I do. This is the second one I've had on my table this week, and the second death of an apparently completely normal, healthy adult. The symptoms presented are completely inconsistent with the cause of death, which looks to be severe anemia."
"Anemia? As in blood loss?" Dean makes a face.
"No, anemia as in too few red blood cells. There's no evidence at all of exsanguination: no wounds, no puncture marks, heck, not even a pinprick between the toes. It's like the patients ―both of them― spontaneously got rid of all their red blood cells. Well, not all of them, but certainly enough to deplete their brains of oxygen and their blood of iron, all that jazz."
"Any theories?" Naturally, because he's wearing rubber gloves that shouldn't be contaminated, Sam's nose itches. He keeps his hands clenched in front of him.
"None that make sense, like I said. Have you talked to Neurology yet?"
"Neurology?"
"Yeah. Weirdest thing ever," Nick warms to his subject, gesticulating with one blood-spattered hand. "We didn't catch it in the first patient, because we weren't looking for it, but I found lesions on her brain, poor girl. So we've hooked up the others to test brain activity, and it is wild in there. The brain activity is off the charts, particularly in the area of the pons."
"Isn't that the part of the brain that regulates dreaming?" Sam asks, ignoring the startled look from his brother.
"Hard to say, with the human brain, but yeah, that's the prevailing theory. This subject presents with the same lesions as the first, and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that if I was to open up any of the others, I'd find the same thing. Not that I would do that," Nick adds hastily, as though realizing just how ghoulish he just sounded.
"Of course not. That would be really, really wrong," Dean says drily, and Sam carefully steps on his foot under the autopsy table, leaning on him with all his not-inconsiderable weight. Dean grunts softly, and Sam is very grateful that the table is low enough that Dean can't jab him surreptitiously with an elbow.
"So you're saying that the abnormal brain activity was likely caused by lesions to the brain, but that both patients died due to severe anemia?" Sam is still trying to wrap his mind around the contradiction.
"Wild, isn't it?"
"Yeah, not the word I'd use, but yeah, it's strange all right," Sam confirms. "Any ideas what might have caused it?"
"Not a clue. There's nothing in the patient histories that would indicate it, and you've probably already heard that they didn't exactly run in the same circles, even if the population around here isn't booming or anything. That mostly rules out an environmental factor. But that's where you guys come in, right?" he grins at them as he strips off his gloves and tosses them into a waste receptacle. "Us poor schmoes don't have the time and certainly aren't paid enough to go running around trying to find the one obscure little thing they all had in common that'll allow us to crack the case. We're not exactly House, M.D. over here. That's why they pay you the big bucks."
"Right," Sam tries to look as convincingly professional as he can manage. Dean doesn't bother answering, just gives him a look that suggests he might actually be an idiot masquerading as a pathologist. For the first time today, Sam finds himself wishing Nick had been a hot chick. Dean is better with women, or at least doesn't insult them to their faces. Nick clears his throat.
"Right, well. I'll be writing up my report this afternoon, so I guess if you want the official copy you can put in a request, okay?"
"That would be great, we'll do that," Sam promises, slipping off his own gloves and steering Dean back out of the room before he can get them into trouble. As soon as they're clear of the door, Dean elbows him in the stomach, and Sam, caught off-guard, practically bends double as all the air comes out of his lungs in a surprised whoosh. "Oof! Dean, come on! You could at least have waited until we were clear of the building, couldn't you?"
"Quit stepping on my foot, then! It feels like you crushed every one of my bones."
Sam snorts. "Don't be so melodramatic. I barely touched you. Anyway, you feel like going up to Neurology, taking a look at the neural activity of our victims?"
Dean shakes his head, heads toward the elevators. "Nah. What's looking at the brain scans going to tell us that Dr. Nick over there hasn't already told us? The brain activity is consistent with dreams going all screwy, right?"
"Right."
"But the cause of death is definitely physical. Something's messing with the blood count, or whatever. Basically sapping the life right out of the victims."
"You've summed that up really nicely. Want a bow to go with it?"
"Bite me. I'm just saying that since it's not medical, we don't need to screw around the hospital anymore. I say we hit the books, or better yet, go interview that really hot nurse, see what she has to say about how she sleeps. I bet she sleeps naked," Dean gets a slightly dreamy look on his face.
"Dude, come on!" Sam is horrified. "You haven't even seen her and you're ―not that you should be even if you had seen... God. Just... quit it, okay? You're seriously making me worry about you."
The elevator dings cheerfully, and Dean digs an elbow playfully into Sam's ribs. "Come on, lighten up, Sammy! It's a natural human urge. No shame there."
"Oh my God," Sam feels his cheeks flame bright red. "I can't believe we're related sometimes."
"So, we interviewing her here?"
Sam shakes his head. "No, her shift is going to be over pretty soon, and they're all overworked here what with the influx of new patients. I think our best bet is a house call later on tonight, that way she won't be distracted and we won't be keeping her away from her patients. I'll snag her address and telephone number from reception."
"Snag the receptionist's number while you're at it," Dean calls after him. "She was totally checking you out!"
Sam cringes, and prays to every god that will listen that the receptionist didn't overhear what Dean said. The girl gives him a friendly smile, though, and a few minutes later he's got not only the contact information for one Katherine Kowalczyk, but of all the other nurses working in the Neurology wing of the hospital, and the receptionist's number too. "Just in case," she says with a wink, and Sam finds himself blushing all over again. He stammers something he hopes is at least vaguely polite, and beats a hasty retreat back to Dean, who's leaning against the wall by the main entrance, looking smug.
"Way to go, champ!"
"Shut up," Sam mutters. "We have time to do some research before we can even think of going, anyway. You know where the library is?"
Dean groans. "God. Fine. But tell me we can at least get some food first? And you need a nap," he adds, practically out of the blue. "You look like shit, Sam, and you're going to scare the hot nurse into not putting out."
"Dean!"
Dean raises both hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. "You are such a prude."
"You can't talk like that," Sam gives him a not-so-delicate shove through the sliding doors into the visitors' parking lot. "Women aren't there for your personal gratification."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Francis," Dean rolls his eyes, fishes the Impala's keys out of his coat pocket. "Give me a little credit, would you? My point, though, is that you look even worse than this morning, which has got to be some kind of record. You still got a headache?"
"Who says I have a headache?" Sam allows himself to wonder briefly if his brother has developed mind-reading powers.
"Says the squint you've been rocking since you got up this morning. There's aspirin in the glove compartment. And you need a nap more than you need the aspirin."
"Let's just get this done, and I'll sleep tonight, okay?" Sometimes the best way to get what you want is to pretend to negotiate first. Dean sighs, apparently not fooled one second by Sam's apparent willingness to negotiate.
"Sure, you'll sleep tonight. Like you have for the past week? Is that it?"
"Dean..." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we please not have this conversation now?”
Dean snorts, but rummages through the glove compartment of the car and drops the bottle of aspirin pointedly into Sam's lap. “All right, let's hit the books.”
*~*
The library is overheated and filled with dust, making Sam happy that he remembered to take his allergy pills before leaving the motel this morning. The last thing he needs is to spend the next few hours sneezing into the books, leaving himself open not only to Dean's mockery, but to disapproving glares from the librarian. He does regret having dressed in too many layers against the early winter chill once he was no longer forced to wear the suit for the sake of appearances, but there's very little he can do about that now. He strips off his denim jacket but keeps his hoodie, never entirely comfortable being around strangers without at least a couple of layers of clothes to shield him. The only exception he ever found to that rule was Jess, and... he shakes his head, banishing the thought before it has time to finish forming in his mind. This isn't the time for that.
Dean is already heading off through the stacks, wandering and simply pulling out the titles that catch his interest. It's not exactly a foolproof method of research, and Dad was always on his case about his haphazard methods, but it works for him, somehow. Dean always seems to function mostly on instinct and intuition anyway, leaving Sam eating his metaphorical dust when it comes to understanding a case. In fact, it's pretty much how their entire lives have been: Dean breezes by on charm, good looks, and a brain that's so damned flexible that he never had to study a day in his life. For Sam, on the other hand, nothing has ever come easy. Oh, sure, he's bright, everyone knows that. It's just that he's worked his ass off for every single A that has come his way, spending hours on homework and studying and on extracurricular projects. He's lost count of the number of all-nighters he's had to pull in his life to keep up his grades, though now it seems like a pretty big waste. Maybe he should have taken a page out of Dean's book. He sighs, leaves Dean to his own peculiar methods, and goes to hit the library computers before going through the stacks with his list of relevant titles. By the time he finds Dean at a table in an isolated corner, his arms are full to capacity with books and obscure journals.
"Jesus, Sammy. How long were you planning to spend here?"
"Shut up. And it's Sam. It won't take that long if we just read through the relevant sections. These are reference books, not novels."
Dean waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever, geek-boy, knock yourself out. No way I'm doing your research on top of mine." He holds up a book on dream lore. "Already finding some pretty cool stuff in here. Did you know cats can totally steal your breath when you sleep?"
Sam drops into a chair, settles as comfortably as he can manage and cracks open a tome, sighing. "That's a myth."
"I dunno, man. Cats are evil little sons of bitches. Glad we never had one."
Sam doesn't bother answering that particular piece of nonsense, just pulls out a pad and pen from his bag to start taking notes. The library has gotten even warmer since they arrived, almost stifling, and he's half-tempted to pull off his hoodie. It's almost impossible to concentrate on the tiny text, and he blinks and scrubs at his eyes more than once, finds himself nodding off, the lack of sleep over the past few days finally catching up to him.
The next thing he knows when he opens his eyes, the library is gone, and he's standing on a road he doesn't recognize, surrounded by half-frozen fields. He shivers a bit, and pulls his jacket closer around him. There's no sign of Dean, no sign of any other human life for miles around. He takes a few tentative steps forward along the road, the thin film of ice crunching under his feet, and another shiver crawls up his spine. There's something out here, he can feel it even if he can't see it, right behind him. He can't bring himself to turn and look at it, feels its icy breath on the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end, and his own breath quickens into short, hitching pants. All he can think of is to get away as fast as he can.
He starts out at a slow jog along the road, then gradually speeds up, sees his breath misting in the cold air before him. He runs, faster and faster until he's all-out sprinting, but the thing behind him is keeping pace with him effortlessly, close on his heels but never quite touching him. At last he stumbles on some unseen bump on the ground, tumbles gracelessly head over heels on the asphalt, and as he rolls onto his back a great black shadow looms over his head, obscuring the great bright moon above, and lunges for his throat.
"Sam!"
He comes awake with a half-stifled yell, Dean's hand clamped firmly over his mouth, his heart hammering painfully against his ribcage, breathing hard. He can feels sweat trickling uncomfortably along his hairline, dripping down the back of his neck and down his spine, and he shivers, breathing hard, and sits up from where he was half-slumped against the library wall.
“Sam, what the hell?” Dean hisses.
"Sorry," he mutters, wiping at his face with one hand, trying to get his heart rate to slow down even a fraction. "Must've dozed off."
"Yeah, no shit," Dean drops to a crouch by his chair, unable to keep the worry off his features. "You okay? You were moaning pretty loudly, there, and it wasn't the happy kind of moaning."
He shakes his head, trying to clear it, looking around in case he attracted the attention of the librarian, but they seem to have lucked out on that front. "I'm fine. Just a nightmare."
Dean wipes his mouth with his hand. "Sam, you can't keep this up," he starts, but Sam holds up a hand.
"Look, I get it. Just... I'm not doing this on purpose, okay?"
"I know that!"
"Can we just drop it, please?"
Dean huffs out a sigh, rolls his eyes, but he goes back to his seat across the table from Sam. "You're not going to be able to dodge this forever, you know. Eventually, this is going to come back to bite us both in the ass, because whatever happens to you? Happens to me."
Sam ducks his head, feels blood rushing to his face, partly out of anger, partly out of embarrassment. Because whatever else Dean might have said, he's right about this.
*~*
“You don't strike me as typical of the CDC,” Katherine Kowalczyk eyes them with an expression that, while not exactly suspicious, isn't entirely trusting either, when she's opened the door and they've introduced themselves (or reintroduced, in Sam's case).
She's a striking woman, Sam thinks a little distractedly, fidgeting with his newly re-knotted tie. He already misses his more comfortable clothes. She's tall, with black hair pulled into a braid and then coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck, and features that, while not conventional, certainly make her beautiful. She's still in her nurse's scrubs, blue and faded in places from multiple washings, but obviously well-kept. They're rumpled from a long day's work, and there are dark circles under her bright blue eyes, hinting at fatigue that's been building over a long period of time. Still, she's obviously strong, perhaps as a result of having to lift patients in and out of beds all day.
“You get CDC agents out here a lot?” Dean flashes her one of his trademark smiles, and her expression thaws a bit. Sam fights the urge to shake his head at yet another demonstration of his brother's mind-boggling ability to get women to practically undress for him.
She laughs. “No, I suppose not. But I'm pretty sure they don't pay house calls,” she takes a step back from her front door. “Come in. I just got home myself, so you'll forgive me if I work around you while you ask your, um, follow-up questions.” She doesn't quite make air quotes around the words 'follow-up,' but Sam is pretty sure it's a close thing.
Dean follows her inside without being asked twice. “Nice place you got here,” he says, eyeing the sensibly-furnished living room with approval.
It's a small house, cosy and inviting. The furniture in the living room is practical, mostly brown and beige, and looks incredibly comfortable. Sam is tempted to try taking a nap on the sofa, then banishes the thought from his mind.
“Thanks. Do you drink tea? If not I can make coffee,” she's already heading into the kitchen, yanking the pins out of her hair, and Sam watches Dean watching it tumble gracefully around her shoulders, all the more attractive for still being a little tangled.
“Uh, tea is fine,” Dean lies through his teeth, still following close on her heels. He hates tea, but he's learned to drink it when offered by well-meaning civilians. It's an ice-breaker. Sam likes tea, so it's never been an issue for him. “So we were wondering ―oh, uh, hi there.”
Sam hurries after him to see just what caused his brother's abrupt change in tone and demeanour, and stops short when he sees an elderly woman seated at the kitchen table, dressed in what looks like about fifteen layers of black lace. She's obviously related to Katherine, the eyes make that obvious if nothing else. She nods regally at Dean, but doesn't say anything.
“We're sorry to interrupt, ma'am,” Sam digs around in his memory and finds his manners.
“It's all right,” Katherine says from the stove. “Babcia, these young men are here from the CDC, asking questions about all those poor people who've fallen ill. Do you want to take your tea here instead of the living room?”
“Nie,” comes the imperious response, in heavily-accented English. “I will have my tea as I always do.”
“Babcia, are you sure?” Katherine comes to lean over her chair. “There isn't room for all of us to sit in the kitchen, so we'll have to sit with you, and they'll be asking questions―”
“You think they are worse than the Nazis?” the old woman scoffs. “Their questions do not bother me.”
Dean clears his throat. “Uh, we don't mind, as long as your ―grandmother?” he turned the word into a question, “doesn't find it too, uh distressing, Miss Kowalczyk.”
He gets a smile. “Please call me Katie so I don't have to hear you butcher my last name again. It'll be fine. Milk, sugar, or lemon?”
Dean flushes a bit, then grins. “Uh, nothing, thanks. Katie, huh?”
Sam steps forward as Katherine's grandmother plants her cane firmly on the kitchen floor in order to rise to her feet. “Allow me, ma'am,” he offers an arm, and pointedly ignores Dean's eyeroll. He knows he's never going to hear the end of the ribbing about being popular with little old ladies at the end of this, but apart from being the right thing to do, helping here will bring Katherine ―Katie, he corrects himself― to view them more favourably.
He definitely gets an approving nod from the old lady. “A well-brought-up boy,” she pats his cheek, and Dean makes a noise that sounds like he's trying very hard not to laugh, snort and choke all at the same time. Sam glares at him over the old lady's head. “You may accompany me to the living room.”
She walks steadily for someone her age, back ramrod-straight and head held high, although she leans heavily on her cane and doesn't hesitate to clutch his arm so hard that her fingers leave marks on his skin. He helps her stiffly into a winged armchair, and at her direction pulls up a small table on which Katie sets the tea tray.
“You may pour, Katja.”
Katie doesn't hesitate, pours the first cup and hands it to her grandmother, then pours out three more cups for the rest of them, motioning to Sam and Dean to sit. Dean immediately slides next to her on the sofa while Sam makes a superhuman effort not to roll his eyes and takes the only remaining chair in the room. “What is it you wanted to know that you couldn't find out at the hospital?”
“We're just trying to get a feel for the environment around here,” Dean cuts in smoothly, ignoring his tea while Sam sips at his, taking advantage of the distraction to study Katie's reactions. “It's a small community, and this sort of outbreak is pretty uncommon. We're trying to work out patterns, common ground, that sort of thing. Doing the equivalent of when the police go knocking on neighbours' doors after a crime. I understand you knew some of the victims personally?”
She nods, unconsciously smoothing her nurse's scrubs with one hand. “Not well, but yes. Like you said, it's a small community. Everyone knows everyone around here. Rollie Oates worked at the lumber mill where my father worked, and I buy my coffee from Maria Watt every morning. Used to, I mean,” she amends, mouth twisting.
“Did they have anything in common that you can think of?” Sam asks. “The same friends? Maybe they shopped at the same places? It would help us narrow down our search, see what common elements might have led to the contagion.”
Katie shrugs. “It could be any number of things, I suppose, but I can't think of anything they'd all have had in common. We're a small town, but none of them are what I'd call close. In fact, they don't have all that much in common except for the fact that they're all roughly the same age and they live in the same area of town.”
“So you didn't know any of them well?”
“I'm sorry, no. If I'd known that was why you wanted to talk to me, I could have pointed you to some of the people who knew them better, spared you the trip.”
“No, no, you're being very helpful,” Dean places a hand very carefully on her arm. It's a neat trick, one Sam hasn't quite mastered. A gesture that at once suggests intimacy and yet doesn't make the woman feel threatened. Sam can do it, but never with the underlying suggestion that it's only a sense of propriety that's preventing him from sweeping the woman off her feet and whisking her off into the sunset. How Dean can do it without coming off as a total sleaze is beyond Sam as well. Katie, predictably enough, blushes a bit, and smiles. “The more you tell us, the sooner we'll be able to pinpoint the cause of these comas.”
Sam clears his throat. “I overheard you saying you've been having trouble sleeping. Bad dreams.” He notes, from the corner of his eye, the old lady straightening in her seat, her attention fixed on her granddaughter.
“Katja, is this true?”
Katie's eyes darken. “Eavesdropping, were you? Not exactly professional”
He shrugs. “Not on purpose, but we need to follow every lead that comes our way. Is this new, or have you always had trouble sleeping?”
She doesn't answer right away, her expression turning anxious. “No,” she confesses finally. “It's new. It can't be related, though. I mean, it's probably just the stress of having all these people get sick, too, you know? Psychosomatic, or something. Like I said, I don't know any of them well, we don't have anything in common, and if it's an airborne contagion the other nurses would be showing symptoms too, right?”
Dean makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Sam hurries to fill the awkward silence.
“We're just exploring every lead we have.”
The old lady snorts. “She cannot help you.”
“No?” Sam shifts awkwardly in his chair. He's too tall to fit comfortably on most straight-backed chairs, and always feels a bit like an insect on its back, all flailing limbs and waving antennae. “What makes you say that, ma'am?”
Katie gives her grandmother an exasperated look. “Babcia, I already told you that those people are ill. Those old stories are just that: stories. There's no room in America for your old-world fairy tales. I'm sorry,” she says sheepishly to Sam. “She's just convinced herself that there's something evil in the town. It's superstition.”
“Katja, I am not some mad old woman that you can dismiss,” her grandmother snaps. “It is the same as it was in the camps at the end, I am telling you.”
Sam leans forward in his chair, as much to ease the cramps that are threatening in his legs than anything else. “What about the camps?” he asks, keeping his tone gentle. “Did the men who imprisoned you do something...” he gropes for a word, can't find it.
The old woman stares him down, eyes glittering with an emotion he can't identify. “It was not the men we were afraid of. During the day, at least, we knew who the monsters were. At night, the real monsters would come, and they did not distinguish between Polak, or Jew, or Nazi.”
*~*
Part 2