Not The Demons You're Looking For - (24 Parts)

[ID2006]

KFHGFUKDUJKHDS:KIBCFHJDBSK.... HOT!!!!!!

[shygreeneyes]

Oh, happy day, my Forum is back, I got 2 new parts (missed 6 before the outage) and the thought of Dean in the diner, Sam taking care of him without a word and Andy pretending he sees nothing?

I will sleep well tonight, oh yes.

[W.I.N.]

KFHGFUKDUJKHDS:KIBCFHJDBSK.... HOT!!!!!!

Uh, I take it that means you liked it?

Oh, happy day, my Forum is back, I got 2 new parts (missed 6 before the outage) and the thought of Dean in the diner, Sam taking care of him without a word and Andy pretending he sees nothing?

I will sleep well tonight, oh yes.

I know!!! I'm so happy the Forum is back! I'm sad that I can't comment on the Admin thread to thank the mods and everyone for working so hard to bring back the Forum so quickly.

I really enjoyed writing that diner scene. I'm glad it came out the way I wanted.

~W.I.N.

[Fae]

love it!!

[W.I.N.]

love it!!

Glad to hear it! There's more coming, never fear.

~W.I.N.

[obsessed]

I don't think I've commented before, and I'm not quite sure why. *hits self on head*

Absolutely, freaking adorable, and the character interactions are so well thought out.

[W.I.N.]

I don't think I've commented before, and I'm not quite sure why. *hits self on head*

Absolutely, freaking adorable, and the character interactions are so well thought out.

Hey there, and thanks for commenting! It's hard to get to all the stories and comment, so no worries, I do understand. Although comments are like crack, so I will NEVER complain about feedback.

~W.I.N.

[W.I.N.]

Thanks for all the lovely comments, everyone!

The story continues apace, although I will confess to not knowing exactly how it's going to end. I have a pretty good idea, but it's already taken a couple of turns that I hadn't exactly expected, so thing have changed. It's sort of exciting, actually, but a little scary. I'm used to having more control over my stories than this.

~W.I.N.

*****

Part 8

True to form, Dean resisted all of Sam's attempts to get him to go back home, to get some rest before he did himself in. Sam huffed out a breath in exasperation, felt his mouth compress into a disapproving line, and barely put up with Dean's comments about “Bitchface number seventy-three.” Andy wisely backed up out of the line of fire, and instead directed them to the address of the relatives of the woman who'd burned alive the previous day. They did stop at the house to change out of their wet jeans and don more official-looking suits, Dean declaring that, mind-control powers or not, they'd be more convincing as FBI agents investigating a strange death.

“I swear to God, Dean, if you make one more joke about Scully...”

“Sab, you wound be. You look so fetchig id those power suits. Esbecially the well-tailored sgirts,” Dean smirked, then hastily buried his face in a tissue, breath hitching erratically. “Hih... heiih.. HISHOO! HEISHOO! Uh... hih! ISHOO!”

“Bless.”

“Can we just go already?” Sam could feel his temper fraying at the edges, knew this was probably the worst mood to be in to go interview grieving witnesses, and didn't that thought help oh so much to sort out his temper.

“W-wait...” Dean held up a hand, still frozen in the same position. “G-gonna... HEITCHUH! Huh... HUISHOO! God... ESTCHUH! Nnngh...” he groaned softly, out of breath, wiped uselessly at his nose, started up again. “For the... HEISH! HEPTCHUH! HAAISHOO!”

Sam watched him pant for a few more seconds, pretty sure it was over this time. “You good?”

A brief nod. “Led's jusd go before by head explodes.”

At least Dean didn't insist on taking point on the interviews. Sam was grateful for small mercies. He stepped up to the door, Andy just behind him, and Dean standing to the back, looking so much like an extra from The Matrix in his suit and sunglasses (“In the rain, Dean, really?”) that Sam felt vaguely ludicrous. A man in his thirties opened the door, and Sam put his best game face on.

“Mr. Birch?”

A vague, almost blank look. The look of someone who hasn't quite encompassed his loss, the enormity of it all. “Yes?”

“I'm agent Holly, from the FBI. This is my partner,” he motioned to Dean, who flashed his fake badge with the flair worthy of a Hollywood movie.

“I'm sorry to intrude during this difficult time, but we have some questions concerning your wife's death. May we come in?”

“Yes, of course,” Birch stepped back automatically, the dazed look never leaving his face. He didn't so much as glance in Andy's direction, and when Sam looked, he saw a faint look of concentration on Andy's features, almost pained. He remembered Andy mentioning that doing his thing without talking gave him headaches, and he had to fight not to wince in sympathy.

They stepped into a living room that looked like the dozens of living rooms they'd been in before: homey, accommodating in its own way. This one had green curtains and a brown leather sofa, worn with age and use, scuffed where kids had bounced on it and drummed their heels against it and lounged on it. There was a fireplace with family portraits: Birch and his wife, a boy and a girl who looked to be just shy of eight and ten years old in the most recent photographs, pictures of the kids and various grandparents, impossible to tell which side of the family just by looking. There was a large television in a corner, an older model but still hooked up to a gaming console, the controller left on the floor in a tangle of wires, as though whoever had been playing it last had been interrupted and had just left it there after switching off the game. They probably had, Sam thought sadly.

“The kids are with my parents,” Birch said in answer to their unanswered questions. “Lauren's parents... they aren't too strong to begin with, and now...” he trailed off, and he looked so damned lost that Sam was tempted to just leave this man to his grief.

Behind him, he could hear Dean trying to stifle another volley of sneezes, only partially successful in his attempts. “HKPHH! HHGFFH! Hih... HHPTSCH!”

Birch didn't so much as flinch, and so Sam unobtrusively nudged him into a chair and pressed forward with his questions. “I need you to tell me everything that you can remember about the days before your wife's death. Did anything unusual happen? Did she seem different, preoccupied, maybe?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. At least, I didn't notice if she did. I keep trying to figure out if I missed something. I mean... Lauren... she seemed happy. I never saw it coming. How do you go from happy one day to —to that?” he asked, his face a mask of misery and confusion.

Sam tilted his head. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“It's bad enough she committed suicide, but to do it like that? Like that woman in January?”

Huh. Well, it made sense that they'd have passed it off as a suicide. No other explanation, and Andy's biological mother would serve as a good precedent. Sam glanced at Andy, but other than a tightening of the jaw, he appeared to be holding up.

“I know this is hard,” Sam said gently, “but I need you to bear with me. Did your wife see anyone new in the last little while?”

“No, not that I... wait, yes.” Birch looked up, a flicker of something more than despair finally in his eyes. “She mentioned that she met up with the father of a new family in town whie she was at the park with the kids last weekend. Wanted to invite them over for a barbecue when the weather turns nicer.”

“What was the name?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I don't remember. Frank, I think. She didn't tell me his last name, or if she did I wasn't paying attention. I haven't been paying enough attention lately,” his breath hitched in a sob, and he pressed a fist to his lip, making a visible effort to hold himself together. “I'm sorry...”

“It's all right,” Sam soothed. “I know how hard this is,” he repeated, “but you're being very helpful. Did she say what they talked about?”

“It was pretty inconsequential, I think. Kids, schools... I think our daughters are the same age. Something about them having to replace all the smoke detectors in the place because of some weird insurance clause about fires. I remember that because it seemed like such a random thing to talk about with someone you've just met.”

Sam could feel Dean perking up like a bloodhound that's just picked up on a scent behind him, tried not to betray his own excitement. It was nothing, was probably nothing. Talking about potential fires was absolutely not an indication of being a demon, but the woman had burned to death less than a week later, and it was just weird. Weird warranted their attention, always.

“Hiih... HEISHUH!”

“Bless you,” Birch seemed to notice Dean for the first time, without much interest in his gaze. Probably for the best, as Dean simply nodded his thanks and kept sneezing, backing to the furthest corner of the room, not that it did much good.

“HEPKSCHUH! Huh... HUPTSCHUH! HEISH!”

“So, uh...” Sam tried to collect his thoughts. “No one came to the house? You never met this Frank?”

Another shake of the head. “Afraid not. Sorry.”

“No, that's fine. You've been very helpful, Mr. Birch. Thank you for your time. We may come back if we have more questions, if that's all right with you.”

“Yes, sure,” he escorted them to the door, answered mechanically. “Whatever I can do to help.”

Andy was exultant as they left, for reasons that Sam couldn't quite identify. “Dude, you are totally like the horse-whisperer! That was awesome. How d'you get him to talk to you like that?”

“Sab is taledted that way,” Dean was wiping his nose on yet another tissue, fishing the Impala's keys from his pocket. “Bakes people feel all cobforted and stuff. Gets 'eb t-to... hih.. to op- HEISSHH! Sud of a —ISHOO! HISHOO! Gets 'eb to oped up,” he concluded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sam rolled his eyes and didn't answer, decided that it wasn't worth arguing with Dean over driving back, since it was only about ten minutes away and it was just a cold, albeit a bad one. Having a cold didn't mean Dean was incapable of driving safely, and he was pretty sure it would trigger a really, but really bad argument. Dean was on edge, and feeling like crap, and Sam was just as on edge, and for once he was going to be the grownup in this relationship and not pick a fight with his brother, even if it was for his own damned good. Dean's breath was hitching again, his left arm up, the back of his hand hovering near his mouth.

“Heh... HEPTSCHUH! Huh-EISHH-uh! HEIITSCH!” he growled deep in his throat, as though that might just scare the cold into submission. “Christ, I jusd wadt to sdop sdeezig for five secods, is thad too buch to asgk?” he inquired, seemingly of the universe at large.

That was Sam's cue to say something soothing, or maybe something acerbic or at the very least smart-assed, except that he missed his cue entirely as pain slammed into him out of nowhere, rocking him forward in the passenger seat of the Impala, both hands pressed to his temples.

“Sam!”

He felt the Impala lurch to a halt, felt the pain try to crush his skull like a vice —flash— glass breaking —flash— rain pouring in through the shattered window —flash— the woman screaming, hunched over to protect the child —flash—

“Sam!”

The car was stopped, the door opened, and he was digging into his scalp with his fingernails —flash— the baby crying —flash— a figure in the doorway —flash— and then he was falling, on the ground, water soaking through his clothes —flash— “No! You can't have him!” —flash— back arching, heels scrabbling against the asphalt, and Dean was on top of him, holding him down by the shoulders, his eyes wide in a face that had drained of all its colour, trying to pull his hands away from his face. He pulled back —didn't Dean realize his hands were all that were keeping his brains inside his head?

“Sam! Dammit, come on!”

Was he the one making that whimpering, keening sound? He tried taking a breath, and the sound stopped, so it had to be him. “'M okay,” he managed, forcing his eyes open. He could feel Dean practically vibrating next to him, all nerves and anxiety, and he reached out to pat his sleeve awkwardly. “'M okay,” he repeated, unable to form anything more coherent.

His fingernails were bloody, he noted with something like clinical detachment. He must have scratched himself pretty hard. The pain hadn't faded, exactly, but it felt as though it had somehow moved aside, wasn't entirely part of him anymore. Rain was pouring onto his face, and for a split second he thought it might wash him away entirely. He tried to get up, found that nothing worked quite the way he remembered.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” A voice he couldn't quite place.

“No. Help me!” he heard Dean snap, and he felt two pairs of hands grasp him under his arms, lift him bodily back into the passenger seat of the car, and he let his eyes close, his head roll back to rest against the seat. Then they were stopped again, and Dean was talking to him, something about getting up, about going inside, but he felt so damned heavy, like his limbs were made of lead, and everything hurt, and finally he felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged up some stairs, into a place that was a lot warmer and dryer than before. Then it was up more stairs, in spite of his protests, in spite of how much it hurt, and then he was lying on something soft, and his wet clothes were being tugged off. Someone tucked a blanket around him, smoothed the hair from his forehead, and he heard Dean whisper, “It's okay, Sammy. Go to sleep.”

And with that, he let the darkness claim him.

*****

[Lady Blessington]

Is there anything cuter than soup-switching Sam? Or hotter than massively snotty Dean?

“Christ, I jusd wadt to sdop sdeezig for five secods, is thad too buch to asgk?”

Much too much, Dean.

*snuggles him*

Mod Note: Merged posts ~Mute

[crazy_cat_girl]

I. Love. This. :-)

Your descriptions are so perfect. It reads just like an episode.

[ID2006]

Yay, I love helpless Sam as well as sick Dean.

[snuffles]

I finally got the time to sit around and fully absorb this new masterpiece

And I'd just like to say: LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!!!

This makes me soooooo happy Your characters are always just great, I totally love their interaction. And OMG PLOT!!

[obsessed]

... FREAKING ADORABLE.

Sammy, I have a soft spot for this one here.

[W.I.N.]

Is there anything cuter than soup-switching Sam? Or hotter than massively snotty Dean?

Umm... not that I can think of off-hand.

I'm glad you liked it!

“Christ, I jusd wadt to sdop sdeezig for five secods, is thad too buch to asgk?”

Much too much, Dean.

*snuggles him*

Dean's wishes have a way of backfiring on him, don't they? *wince*

I. Love. This. :-)

Your descriptions are so perfect. It reads just like an episode.

Thank you! I'm trying for an episodic feel to this story, as though it was a "missing" episode between "What Is And What Should Not Be" and "All Hell Breaks Loose." So I'm glad it reads that way to you.

Yay, I love helpless Sam as well as sick Dean.

Limp!Sam is one of my favourite flavours, although I do sort of prefer it when he mans up and takes care of Dean. He just does limp so well, the darling boy...

I finally got the time to sit around and fully absorb this new masterpiece

And I'd just like to say: LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE!!!

This makes me soooooo happy Your characters are always just great, I totally love their interaction. And OMG PLOT!!

Yeah, OMG! It always startles me when plot happens, although I'm not sure why, as I have never been able successfully to write plotless fluff. Go figure. I'm glad you're enjoying it now that you've gotten around to it.

... FREAKING ADORABLE.

Sammy, I have a soft spot for this one here.

Aww, I have a soft spot for Sammy too. Hence why I apparently feel the need to torture him on a semi-regular basis. Umm... I got nothin'.

~W.I.N.

[Aprilcot]

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Does happy dances and grins madly*

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's so much too say!

i know the attention is meant to be on Dean, but I can't help but be distracted by Sammy's vunerability at this time!!!!!!

I love it!!!!

Dean is just annoyingly funny, and, how does that even work?!

Andy... I don't know why but I like him! He's definately funny and clever enough to keep quiet when Dean's in a bad mood, and I really like that for some unknown reason lol!

I definately am not being brought down off of my high, and my exclamation marks are in full health and raring to go!!! Lol!!!

I love this soo much and I agree with all the others who have said they can't believe you are french, It's unbelievable.

I totally agree with you, french is a beautiful language as I have been learning it for three years and am in my fourth. Next year, I will be doing my GCSE's in french, and I am dreading them, but I really don't mind them that much! If I hadn't been forced into learning the french anyway, I'd have opted to do it, I want to lear several other languages aswell, but first, i'd love to read the next part of this story! Please continue!!!!

[W.I.N.]

The exclamation marks are back!

The problem with Sam and Dean is that it's almost impossible to torture only one of them at a time.

Dean is annoyingly funny. It's how he is. He's kind of a jackass and he picks on his kid brother —right up until Sam needs him, and then he goes all protective and it's really sweet.

I like Andy too. I was always a little sad that we didn't see more of him in the show.

And yes, French is a gorgeous language.

~W.I.N.

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Does happy dances and grins madly*

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's so much too say!

i know the attention is meant to be on Dean, but I can't help but be distracted by Sammy's vunerability at this time!!!!!!

I love it!!!!

Dean is just annoyingly funny, and, how does that even work?!

Andy... I don't know why but I like him! He's definately funny and clever enough to keep quiet when Dean's in a bad mood, and I really like that for some unknown reason lol!

I definately am not being brought down off of my high, and my exclamation marks are in full health and raring to go!!! Lol!!!

I love this soo much and I agree with all the others who have said they can't believe you are french, It's unbelievable.

I totally agree with you, french is a beautiful language as I have been learning it for three years and am in my fourth. Next year, I will be doing my GCSE's in french, and I am dreading them, but I really don't mind them that much! If I hadn't been forced into learning the french anyway, I'd have opted to do it, I want to lear several other languages aswell, but first, i'd love to read the next part of this story! Please continue!!!!

[W.I.N.]

Thanks for all the lovely comments, everyone! You totally make my day.

~W.I.N.

*****

Part 9

Dean was going to lose his mind. Go completely off his rocker, around the bend, absolutely batshit crazy. Either that, or he was going to have a heart attack. Overall, freaking out and having a meltdown in Andy's living room seemed like a better option. Only he couldn't really do that either, and so he let Andy pour him a really big glass of Jack Daniel's and kind of shove him until he went ass-first into the sofa, the amber liquid sloshing in the glass. He downed it in three gulps, focussing only on the burning sensation as it went down his throat and into his stomach. He pressed the empty glass to his forehead, elbows resting on his knees, kept his eyes closed, willed his breathing to go back to normal.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Jesus.”

Andy settled in the armchair next to the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat, stretched out a hand and put it carefully on his knee. “You okay?”

He shook his head. “Christ.” For the first time in —he couldn't remember how long— he felt completely incapable of rational thought, of doing anything except sit here and try not to freak out because what the hell had that been? Nightmares he could deal with, freaky prophetic visions he could deal with, killer headaches he could deal with. Sammy convulsing on the ground? Sammy with blood gushing from his nose like a freaking extra on the set of Exorcist? Sammy ripping at his own face with his fingernails because of the pain? So not dealing. Sure, Sam seemed all right now, but for how long? How long until this all blew up in their faces? His father's words echoed in his head, over and over, the way they had been for months, ever since that day in the hospital, and the surge of panic he'd felt before came back with a vengeance. He willed his hands to stop shaking.

“You want another drink?”

He shook his head. “Not on top of all the meds,” but he held out his glass anyway. Amazing how getting the scare of your life made short work of congested sinuses. Best cure for the common goddamned cold. He drained that glass, too.

Andy nudged him in a way that was so like Sam that he almost had to turn and check that it wasn't Sam sitting there, looking at him with those puppy-dog eyes of his. “You're soaking wet. We both are, but you're sick. Go change,” he said gently, “get into something dry. Check on Sam. The JD'll still be here in fifteen minutes.”

Okay, it was weird, having Andy suddenly go all big-brother, but it wasn't Sam making bitchfaces at him, and he was unsettled, and wearing wet clothes was freaking uncomfortable. Not to mention that he was going to ruin Andy's sofa. He nodded, got up unsteadily, thumped the kid on the shoulder as he went by. He was freezing, he realized as he got back to the room he was sharing with Sam, his fingers like blocks of ice. He left the room dark, feeling his way in carefully, not wanting to disturb Sam. His kid brother was dead to the world, his breathing a little faster than Dean liked it, but even and not obviously in distress. Bonus. He perched on the edge of the bed, listening, but there was no indication that Sam was doing anything other than sleeping soundly, traces of blood still drying on his face.

He stripped off his wet clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and rummaged in the dark for clean ones. He was running out of those, he noted with something like chagrin, pulled on a pair of jeans that he thought were okay, then thought to hell with it and stole one of Sam's ridiculously gargantuan hoodies —the brown one from the feel of it. He immediately felt warmer, pulled the sleeves down over his hands, and tugged on a pair of dry socks, swearing under his breath as they stuck to his still-wet feet.

Halfway down the stairs his cold decided to make a reappearance after the tiny respite it had given him while he was busy trying not to have a coronary or a full-blown panic attack. He grabbed the railing, settled for sinking to a seated position on the stairs, one hand still on the railing, the other poised to catch the sneezes that threatened.

“Huh-ISHOO! HEPTSCHUH! Sniff! Huh... HEISHOO! HEKTSHUH!”

“Bless,” Andy surprised him by coming up from behind, clad in dry clothes. Of course. “You okay? Better, I mean?”

Dean nodded. “Fide. Cold's still here, though.” He followed Andy back down the stairs and into the kitchen, wondering if it was too early to take more of those decongestants. It was ridiculous: he'd survived ghosts and demons and werewolves and vampires and mind-control and a freaking djinn, and now a simple cold was knocking him on his ass. He accepted another glass of whisky, decided at that very moment that the rest of the day was a write-off. May as well take advantage of the presence of alcohol, in that case.

“It's getting kind of late, anyway,” Andy said, as though reading his mind. “I figured I'd call in for a pizza, and we can wait for Sam to wake up.”

Dean shot him a suspicious look. “You haved't developed mind-readig powers, have you?”

“No,” Andy laughed. “Have you?”

Dean snorted, then coughed as it made his lungs seize up. “Fair edough.”

Andy's face grew serious, suddenly. “Uh, this thing with Sam... I don't remember it being this bad when you were here last time. I mean, yeah, he almost passed out last time too, but...”

“He did't stay udcodscious,” Dean confirmed. “Yeah, I kdow.”

“So... whatever it is, it's getting worse?”

He nodded, feeling yet another damned sneeze building, pressed the back of his wrist to his nose. “HETSCHUH!” He bit back a groan of frustration. The last time he'd asked for a respite from this, the universe had granted it to him the form of making his little brother practically have a seizure in the car. Wishes had a way of getting him in serious trouble. So, no more asking the universe for favours. “What's it feel like?” he asked instead.

Andy started, as though he hadn't been expecting Dean to talk to him, despite the fact that they'd actually been having a conversation. “Uh, what?”

“What's it feel like?” he repeated. “Whed, you kdow, you do your... thig,” he made a vague circular motion with the hand that wasn't holding onto his glass.

“I don't know. It doesn't feel like much, really. It just... it's like singing, is the closest I can explain it. I just focus on making my voice do something different than what it usually does, but sort of within what it can do. Uh... I'm not explaining this well.” Andy looked at him, head tilted to the side, his expression suddenly shrewd. “But that's not what you're asking, is it? You want to know if... if it hurts.”

Dean nodded, swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. When had he gotten so damned transparent, anyway? “Yeah.”

“It doesn't. Not like... like that. It hurts if I try to do it just with my mind, though. Like Weber said to me before... yeah. So I tried, just to see what it was like, and I can do it, but it feels like someone's stabbing me through the head with an ice pick, so I don't do it much. Did it a bit today, with that guy.”

“Birch?”

“Yeah. I just basically told him I wasn't there. Not too hard, but I would have killed for some Tylenol. Look... I don't know what to tell you. My thing, whatever it is, it's not involuntary. I can turn it on and off. Sort of. I mean, it's always there, but I can choose not to use it. I don't know what it's like for Sam. I mean, random visions of death? That's like my personal definition of suck.”

Dean gave a bark of laughter at that. “You cad say thad agaid.” Surprised at how bitter he sounded. Then again, he figured he had good reason to be bitter about this. Bitter and freaked the hell out, if he was honest with himself.

“I don't know how you guys deal, to be honest. It's some pretty heavy stuff to take in, you know?”

“Practice.”

“Even so. I mean, I worry all the freaking time about this. I've practically tripled how much pot I smoke,” Andy flushed a bit, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue, and Dean decided to let him ramble. His own throat hurt too damned much to talk, anyway. “I mean, yeah, I've got an awesome superpower that gives me migraines if I misuse it, but... I mean... you told me it came from a demon. A freaking honest-to-God demon, and that makes me wonder, you know, how anything good can come of it. I'm one guy that no one pays attention to, you know, and here you guys are like freaking badass superheroes and you attract the attention of all sorts of weird shit, and I'm practically losing my mind because I'm so afraid that maybe someday it's all going to go south and I'm going to do something terrible, and then you guys are going to fill me full of lead for my good and the good of all humanity.” He laughed, a little hysterically, took a breath, drained his glass. “Okay, maybe I'm freaking out a bit. Sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “Joid the club.” He coughed hard, pressing one hand to his sternum, because God that hurt, then took another sip from his glass to try and quell the fit.

“You suck at offering reassurance, dude.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.” Andy blew out the breath he'd been holding. “I think I'd feel better if I just knew what the hell it wanted from us, you know? If it really has a plan, like you said, for this army of psychic kids, or whatever, or of it's just getting off on jerking us around, or what.”

“Thad's a really gross betaphor.”

“You never struck me as the prudish type.”

“Just sayig.” He jerked his head aside. “Hiih...ISHOO! Uh. God.”

“Okay, that's it,” Andy said mildly, but the determination in his voice was unmistakable. God, how could this kid be so much like Sam? It made Dean's chest clench for no reason he could determine. “Wait here for a couple minutes, okay? I'm going to my van. Be right back.” Before Dean so much as had time to open his mouth, he was up and out of the kitchen as though someone had lit a fire under him. A couple of minutes later he was back, looking a bit damp from having run out into the rain, a plastic bag in one hand. He put the bag on the table, began emptying it, lining up what looked like an entire pharmacy's worth of cold medicine. “I keep most of my stuff in the van, and that stuff my... that Holly kept upstairs isn't all that good.”

Dean felt the corners of his mouth tug into a smile. “You're worse thad Sab.”

Andy shrugged. “You sound like crap, and Sam is passed out upstairs. I need one of you functional, at least, and even if he's not here to guilt-trip you into taking this stuff, I figure you have enough common sense to do what you need to do. Better living through chemistry, man,” he grinned disarmingly.

“Amen to that,” Dean did in fact know how to admit defeat gracefully. He just chose never to do it when Sam was in the room. He picked up the packet of NyQuil —in caplet form, thank God, the taste of the syrup was gross— and chased two of the pills with another swallow of whisky. Okay, not the best plan, but it beat sitting here and being miserable.

“I'm going to call for that pizza now. Do we let Sam sleep, or try to wake him up? This isn't exactly like a concussion, but... yeah. I'm sort of out of my depth.”

The sound of Sam's voice from the doorway startled them both. “Yeah, that won't be necessary.” He gave them a shaky grin, leaning against the doorjamb, looking pale but at least as though he'd made an attempt to clean himself up. “Got any Tylenol in that stash, Andy?”

*****

[obsessed]

Aww.

[ID2006]

Yay more awesomeness. I love how Andy picked up on how to deal with Dean from Sam.

[W.I.N.]

Aww.

I'm glad you liked it. Poor Dean. He's having a crappy day.

Yay more awesomeness. I love how Andy picked up on how to deal with Dean from Sam.

Andy's a sharp kid. They establish it clearly in "Simon Said," when the boys find all his philosophy textbooks in his van. If he can read Kant and Wittgenstein for pleasure, then it means he's very, very bright.

Based on that, I decided that he was probably pretty observant, and would pick up on how Sam was dealing with Dean: don't make a big deal, just do what needs to be done.

Thanks for the lovely comment!

~W.I.N.

[iluvsneezes]

Aww, what a wonderful chapter! I can't wait for more.

[W.I.N.]

Aww, what a wonderful chapter! I can't wait for more.

Thank you!

I have another chapter or so of "buffer," but then I'm going to be back writing these things as I go. So I'll be putting up the next part tomorrow, and then I'll do my best to keep "on schedule" as it were.

~W.I.N.

[Lady Blessington]

*purrs and purrs*

Andy taking care of Dean is aghghhghhh. <3

I love too your take on what it feels like for Andy to use his powers of manipulation, and his nervous rambling with Dean all exhausted and sore-throat-y and bear-ish, just sitting back and letting him talk. Also, Dean reminded me of John in this chapter for some reason.

Sam coming in at the end was surprisingly... I had this surprising "Yay, Sam!" reaction, which is weird because I was really enjoying myself with just Dean and Andy, and, Dean girl here.

[W.I.N.]

*purrs and purrs*

Andy taking care of Dean is aghghhghhh. <3

Hee! Thank you. Andy kind of surprised me when I started writing him, but it made sense once I got a feel for his character. He's sharp as a tack, but he's also scared out of his mind, and he really REALLY wants one of the Winchesters at the very least to be in good enough shape to help him. They swooped into his life like superheroes, then vanished into the sunset, so now he's got a weird case of hero-worship combined with this vague doubt about his first impression of them.

Basically, he's a good kid. I think he'd want to try and help if he thought there was something he could do. Even if it means plying Dean with alcohol and NyQuil.

I love too your take on what it feels like for Andy to use his powers of manipulation, and his nervous rambling with Dean all exhausted and sore-throat-y and bear-ish, just sitting back and letting him talk. Also, Dean reminded me of John in this chapter for some reason.

I spent a lot of time thinking about what Andy must suddenly be wondering about these powers of his. Yes, having Jedi Powers is awesome, but then someone comes and tells you that you got them from an evil demon whose motivations no one knows or understands. That HAS to put a damper on your enthusiasm, right? Especially after that "Be good, or we'll be back," quasi-threat from Dean, back in the day.

Dean is too busy trying not to freak out right now to prevent Andy from rambling, and anyway I think he's kind of reassured that he's not the only one freaking out.

He *does* remind me a bit of John. I think it was the thumping-Andy-on-the-shoulder by way of thank you. Having a sore throat means non-verbal communication (there'll be more of that in coming chapters), and John has always been very physical in the way he communicates with his sons: shoulder-thumps, back pats, palming the back of their heads, it's all to show affection. He doesn't really talk unless he has to.

Talking ALWAYS gets the Winchesters into trouble.

Sam coming in at the end was surprisingly... I had this surprising "Yay, Sam!" reaction, which is weird because I was really enjoying myself with just Dean and Andy, and, Dean girl here.

Aww, I'm so glad! I'm a Dean girl too, but I have a real soft spot for Sammy. He tries so hard, poor bunny, and it would go so much better for him if he didn't. As much as I adore Dean, personality-wise I'm a lot more like Sam: I overthink things, second-guess myself all over the place, and end up wallowing in guilt and self-doubt. On the plus side, I've never unwittingly unleashed the Apocalypse.

Have I mentioned how glad I am you're enjoying this?

~W.I.N.

[W.I.N.]

Dear God, but this fic is turning into a beast! At this rate it's going to be even longer than my last one. Eesh. Uh... sorry? On the plus side, lots and lots of Sick!Dean, so maybe it's not so bad.

I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but I've poked it to within an inch of its life and I'm afraid of doing it irreparable harm, so I'm just going to post it as is, cross my fingers, and hope for the best.

Uh, also, I'm really mean to Dean in the next couple of chapters. *cringe* I kinda feel bad for him now...

~W.I.N.

*****

Part 10

Dean was out of his chair in a flash, stopped short when Sam held out a hand. “Dude, relax. I'm okay.”

His looks belied his words. He was sweating a bit, deathly pale, his whole face drawn with pain, and Dean could see his hands were still shaking, but he was upright and talking, and that was the important part. The marks where he'd scratched his face hard enough to draw blood stood out starkly against his skin, and Dean winced when he saw them. They'd have to clean those out before long, make sure they didn't get infected or scar.

“Jesus, Sab, scare a guy, why dod't you,” he kicked a chair in his brother's direction. “I thought you were goig to have a stroke or sobething.”

Sam let himself fall into the chair, leaned on the table, picked up the bottle of painkillers Andy had produced as though it was the answer to all his prayers. “You do have Tylenol. Awesome.” He glanced up as Andy handed him a glass of water. “Thanks.” He tipped four pills into his hand, swallowed them without hesitating. “You okay?” he directed the question at Dean, a glance allowing him to wordlessly take in the fact that Dean had borrowed one of his sweaters. Damn. He should have known that would be a dead giveaway.

He looked disbelievingly at Sam. “You wadt to kdow how I'b doig?” He shook his head. “Thad's rich.”

“That good, huh?”

He couldn't answer, an all-too-familiar tickle building at the back of his nose. Just awesome. Exactly what he needed to convince Sam that he was fine: another sneezing fit. He pinched his nose shut with as much force as he could muster, his eyes watering, but his breath hitched anyway, eyelids fluttering, and he began a mental run-down of every single swear word he knew, just because. “Heh... heh-ESH-uh! HEPKTSCH! Huh... huh-ISH-uh! HISCHUH!”

“Was it a... y'know, a vision?” Andy asked, and Dean could have kissed him for the distraction, except, of course, that was kind of gay, and it would be weird with someone Sam's age anyway. Sort of. Why the hell was he thinking that anyway? Had to be the NyQuil. God, being sick sucked ass.

Sam nodded carefully, as though he was afraid his head might fall off if he moved too fast. “Yeah.”

“You okay?” It was kind of cute, actually, the way Andy was dancing around the subject. Not that Dean used words like “cute,” ever, except maybe to describe puppies. Occasionally.

A careful shrug. “Yeah. Not exactly a picnic, but I'll live.” He glanced at Dean, gave him a rueful smile. “We're kind of a mess, aren't we?”

“Speak for yourself, freak-boy.” It wasn't the right reply, but damn it he felt like he'd been run over by a truck and he didn't need his giant freak of a little brother to remind him of it. Sam's face closed off, and Dean just didn't have the energy to deal with His Bitchiness tonight. Just... not after everything. Why the hell did everything have to be so complicated, anyway? “Did you see adything dew?” he asked instead, wishing the meds would kick in already.

“Actually, I did. I still didn't get that good a look at the woman, but I can probably narrow down the list some more. Also... I saw someone else there.”

That caught his interest. “Debod?”

“I don't know. Looked like a man, standing in the doorway. I could only see the silhouette, but it was definitely male. Hard to tell if he was possessed or not, though.” His face screwed up in frustration. “I still couldn't tell what was happening.” Unconsciously one hand reached up to one of the scratch marks near his temple, worrying at it.

Dean batted his hand away. “Dod't do that, you'll get it idfected.” He got to his feet, thankful that he was at least still steady on his feet. Who knew how long that would last? “Stay put. We should clead those out.”

He fetched the first aid kit from his duffle bag, hanging onto the railing going up and coming back down the stairs, feeling as though he was about eighty years old. With a long-suffering look Sam let him fuss, dabbing at the scratches with a cotton pad soaked in peroxide, while Andy looked on with a mixture of fascination, horror and admiration. Most of them were pretty superficial, but he applied butterfly sutures to the two deepest, which looked as though they would probably scar otherwise. While he was working the pizza arrived, and he was pretty sure he didn't see money exchange hands. Sam was too busy wincing under his ministrations to notice, which was probably a good thing, as otherwise both Dean and Andy would have had to deal with Bitchface # 47, which was Disapproval of the Taking Advantage of Others. It landed in roughly the same column as fake credit cards, insurance scams, and hustling pool. Dean had no problem with any of it, but it offended Sam's delicate sensibilities for some reason. Made Dean wonder just who had raised the kid to have those kinds of scruples.

The pizza was a meat-lovers' with extra cheese, and in spite of the fact that Dean couldn't taste much, it was warm and greasy and didn't hurt too badly when he tried to swallow it. By some unspoken accord they stopped talking about the case, mostly stopped talking entirely. Sam was somewhere else, Dean's throat hurt too much to really want to hold a long conversation, and Andy seemed pretty content not to talk. After two slices, Dean's stomach let him know just how much it didn't enjoy the combination of alcohol, pizza and NyQuil, and he called it quits, knowing that Sam was watching him anxiously and he wanted nothing more than to snap at him to quit it, already, except that Sam would give him that kicked-puppy look, and and then he'd feel even crappier than he did now. Snarling at Sam when Sam was already hurting was a guaranteed one-way trip to Guilt Town, population: Dean.

“I'g goig to turd id. We cad pick up where we left off toborrow,” he shoved his chair back under the table with maybe a little more force than was strictly necessary. At least the decongestant was starting to take effect. He felt a little light-headed, but that wasn't going to be an issue in a minute, when he'd be in bed, which was sounding awfully inviting right about now.

The stairs looked steeper than he remembered. He rolled his eyes at himself, jogged up without stopping just to prove he could, and regretted it when he doubled over in a fit of coughing, catching hold of the wall so as not to face-plant. Awesome. He sat down on the bed without bothering to switch on the light, scrubbed his hands over his face, sneezed wetly into the sleeve of Sam's hoodie. He allowed himself to list to the side, to put his head on the pillow, just for a second before he got ready for bed, he told himself.

The next thing he knew hands were prodding at him. Under normal circumstances he'd have had his knife buried up to the hilt in the offending party, but for one he felt sluggish and oddly disconnected from his body (stupid NyQuil), and for two he was pretty sure it was Sam. He tried to bat his baby brother's stupid gigantic hands away, grumbling a protest that he didn't think was very coherent, but there was no resisting Sam when he got determined. Sam manhandled him like he was little more than a rag doll, and the thought was vaguely insulting, only he didn't really have the energy to care. He let Sam pull his sweater and t-shirt over his head, shivering a bit as his bare skin came into contact with the chilly night air, balked at letting Sam take off his pants —some things a man really had to do for himself— didn't resist too hard when Sam tucked the blankets around him and then climbed into the bed next to him.

He sank back into his exhausted stupor, except that now he was partially awake and very aware of just how badly he was congested and just how hard it was to breathe. His whole body ached, his head and throat worst of all, and he wished he'd had the foresight to put a glass of water next to the bed. He tried not to cough too hard, knowing Sam needed sleep just as badly as he did if not more so, but his lungs had very different ideas on the subject. After twenty minutes of this he concluded that it was ridiculous to keep doing this, and he slipped out from under the bedclothes, grabbed a spare blanket from their gear, was about to sneak out of the room when Sam's voice stopped him.

“Where you going?”

Busted. “Sofa. No use in both of us spending the night awake.” His breath hitched as he spoke, as though to illustrate his point. “HEPTSCHUH!”

Sam sat up, pulled back the bedclothes. “I'm up anyway. Don't be stupid. You'll freeze with just that blanket, and then you'll get even sicker.”

“I'm going.”

“Dean...”

He paused, not sure what he was hearing in Sam's voice. “It's just a cold, Sam.”

Sam was plucking at the blanket with one hand. “Would you... would you just stay? Please?”

The puppy dog eyes were not supposed to work if he couldn't see them in the dark, damn it. “I'll k-keep you up... hih... HEISHH! I'm hacking up a lung, here.” It sounded half-hearted, even to him.

“It's fine. I don't care.”

Sam sighed, obviously hesitating over something, and Dean suddenly had the firm conviction that if he didn't do something right now he was going to have to deal with his little brother insisting on some emo chick flick moment, and that was just about last on his list of things he wanted to do at that moment. He took the blanket with him, crossed the room back to the bed.

“Fine. But you don't get to bitch tomorrow that I wrecked your beauty sleep, got it? Shove over,” he nudged at Sam's legs with a foot, and his brother obligingly slid further away on the bed. He settled back down, pulled the new blanket around him, wedged himself against Sam's back, enjoying the warmth seeping from him. It was like having a living hot water bottle, which right now was just about the best thing ever.

He still slept badly. Somewhere around one in the morning the NyQuil stopped working, and he coughed and wheezed miserably until Sam got up, poured two glasses of water into him and fed him more decongestants, and he was too groggy to resist much. He tried to be quiet, but it was next to impossible, and if the cold wasn't bad enough he felt a pang of guilt with every cough that he was keeping Sam awake, Sam who'd all but had a stroke the previous day, who never got an unbroken night's sleep under normal circumstances, and then he felt even more wretched. He curled into a ball, closed his eyes, and prayed for the night to be over.

*****