Summary:  Though he'd never flinched from his responsibility for Jess's death, the idea that she herself might blame him was an even more bitter pill to swallow.
Disclaimer:  Post "Bloody Mary".
A/N:  This fic is a Secret Santa present for Joella from the SFTCOL(AR)S board. She wanted a "Bloody Mary" add-on covering the next 24 hours in the boys' lives. Merry Christmas, Joella!
Disclaimer:  All thing "Supernatural" belong to Kripke.

"Dude, nothing in this town is that interesting."

Sam blinked, darting a glance at his brother before returning his gaze to the street corner. He swallowed, his dry throat clicking and his arms breaking out in gooseflesh.

Jessica was gone. If she'd even been there at all.

"Sam? Something wrong?"

"I'm fine. Just... Thought for a second I saw someone I knew, that's all."

"Okay." Dean's tone clearly indicated that he knew there was more, but he let it lie.

Sam scrunched down in his seat, fingers massaging his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the headache throbbing behind his right eye. Last night had been another in an endless string of mostly sleepless nights. By the time he and Dean had stumbled out of the antique shop, barely evading the slowly awakening cops ("Dean, you took out two cops?" "Dude, they were totally asking for it") it was well after midnight. Charlie had been asleep when they'd reached the motel, but wide awake and grilling Dean by the time Sam emerged from the bathroom cleansed of blood and grime, if not guilt.

To Sam's relief, Dean had managed to assuage Charlie's fears without going into detail about how they'd managed to get rid of Mary. Since Charlie's parents had believed she was spending the night with a friend, and it was still well before dawn, they'd all agreed to grab a few hours of sleep before driving her home.

Sleep that, for Sam, had remained elusive. For four hours he'd stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling and listened to the slow, even whisper of their breathing. It had been years since he and Dean had last shared a bed, and things were considerably more crowded this time around. While once he might have found the warm press of his brother's bulk comforting, when added to the relentless pounding in his head and the tendrils of grief wrapped tightly around his chest, it had only sharpened his misery.

Turning his face toward the window, Sam watched strangers move through their daily routine--striding briskly down the sidewalk, chatting with friends, sipping coffee and window shopping. Oblivious to the dark world that lurked beneath the sunshine of their everyday existence.

Why, Sam?

Sam shut his eyes but was unable to block the image of that pale, beautiful face. Despite Dean's assurances that he deserved no blame for Jess's death, the reproach in her eyes and the bitter accusation in Mary's voice said otherwise.

Jessica was dead. Because of Sam and his single-minded pursuit of a normal life. For the first time, Sam considered that Dad and Dean might be right. There was nothing normal about being a Winchester, and there never would be.

"If everything's peachy, how come you're making that face?"

Sam cracked open an eye to glare at his brother. "What face?"

"The one that looks like you smell something nasty--and let me just say up front, I didn't do it." Dean smirked. "Well, this time, anyway."

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a real way with words?"

"Words? No. But I can do this thing with my tongue--"

"Just...stop. That's more information than I need in this or any other lifetime." Sam tipped his head against the seatback and closed his eyes.

They drove in silence for several minutes before Dean's voice broke into his morose thoughts. "Migraine?"

It amazed Sam how well his brother could read his every mood and expression. It was only recently he'd come to appreciate that was something Dean had been doing all Sam's life. "Yeah."

"You need to stop? 'Cause if you puke in my car I'm dumping your ass."

Sam was both warmed and irritated by the thinly veiled concern. "I'll be fine. Just drive." Right now his only desire--other than decapitation--was to put as much distance as possible between himself and this town.

Though he could sense the weight of Dean's gaze, Sam kept his eyes shut. Eventually his brother huffed and turned up the music, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Curling his body into the seat, Sam rested his head against the passenger window. The cool glass eased a little of the ache in his head. Slowly the rumble of the engine, his brother's soft humming, and the steady vibration lulled him into a doze.

He stares into the depths of the mirror, a white-knuckled grip on the tire iron. Stomach churning from dread mixed with a sense of resignation, he draws a deep breath.

"Blood Mary. Bloody Mary... Bloody Mary."

His heart thumps faster when the last syllable leaves his lips, the words echoing in the silence. Then something flickers in the depths of the mirror, a gossamer wisp of gauzy white, and he leans in until his face is inches from the polished surface.

Mist and memory coalesce, and he jerks back, nearly tripping over his feet. A chill runs up his spine and his breath catches in his chest but he can't move, can't tear his eyes from the figure that now obscures his own reflection. Smooth skin, a golden tangle of long hair, wide blue eyes... Every beloved feature is exactly as he remembers, yet somehow the whole is nothing like his Jess. The feeling of wrongness is only reinforced when she pins him with an icy gaze and curls her lip back from her teeth.

"It's your fault. You killed me. You never told me the truth. Who you really were. But that's not the worst. You knew what was going to happen. You saw me screaming. Burning. And you left me alone to die."

The words cut like knives--his stomach, his chest, his head--until he doubles over, panting. "I'm sorry," he chokes, weeping scarlet tears. "I never meant to hurt you, Jess. I loved you."

"You never loved me." She hisses the words, hands curled into claws. "You loved an idea. You were so desperate to have your perfect little life, to be normal, you ignored the warnings that could have saved me."

"Sorry. So...sorry." He wants to beg her forgiveness, swear he'd do anything to take it all back, but blood clogs his throat.

And then she's there, so close he can feel her breath, and it smells like dirt, and betrayal, and tears. "Too little. Too late."

Her fingers, the nails torn and crusted with earth, wrap around his neck, and he sinks slowly to the floor...

Sam bolted upright, batting at phantom hands as he gasped and coughed. His headache ratcheted up to blinding intensity, fresh agony spiking with each spasm.

"Sam? You all--"

His stomach roiled, hot and liquid, and he grabbed hard onto the dash. "Pull over," he gritted out.

"Sammy, what the hell?"

"Pull over, Dean. Now."

His brother evidently got the message. Cursing under his breath, Dean swung the car hard to the right and slammed on the brakes. Sam threw the door open before the Impala stopped moving. He had a vague impression of honking cars and a flat, grassy field before he took three staggering steps and dropped to his knees.

Thank God he'd only picked at his breakfast; there wasn't much to come up. But his stomach seemed determined to turn inside out and there was a persistent buzzing in his ears. By the time the spasms tapered off, Sam was on all fours, so dizzy he was afraid to move for fear of landing face-first in his own mess. Strong arms guided him to a sitting position and a water bottle was pressed into his shaking hand.

He swished and spit several times, swallowing only when the nasty taste had left his mouth. Something tightened around his arm, digging uncomfortably into his flesh, and suddenly the buzzing in his ears resolved into Dean's voice.

"I mean it, Sammy. Start talking or so help me God--"

"'M okay." It came out a harsh croak, grating across his burning throat. Sam squinted at the blurry image of his brother crouched before him, one hand clamped onto his arm. For just an instant he thought he saw another figure just past his brother's shoulder, satin nightgown and blonde tresses stirring in the breeze. He blinked, something sharp twisting in his chest, and it was gone.

"Yeah? Well, you look like crap." Dean ran a hand down his face, then stood and offered his hand. When Sam just stared blankly at it, he wiggled his fingers. "Let's go. Unless you're not done puking, in which case you're fine where you are."

Sam swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Despite the gruff words, Dean's grip was gentle, steadying him when the world spun.

By the time they reached the car, Sam was leaning heavily into his brother's shoulder, an uncoordinated tangle of arms and legs. As Dean wrestled him into the passenger seat, he could do little more than sink gratefully onto the sun-warmed cushion.

"I'm gonna find us a room for the night."

Sam startled, surprised and a little perplexed to see Dean behind the wheel and hear the hum of tires on pavement. He must have faded out for a bit. Then his brother's words penetrated the fog and he was shaking his head despite the pounding.

"'S not that bad. I can keep going." Away from Toledo. From Mary.

From Jess.

Dean looked at him as if he'd suggested a threesome. With Missouri. "Are you kidding? You just about barfed up a lung, and you can barely keep your eyes open. You need to sleep this thing off in a dark room. Preferably near a bar with a pool table and plenty of hot women."

"At least get us out of Ohio--"

"Dude, Ohio was a hundred miles ago. We've been in Indiana for more than an hour." Dean flicked on his turn signal. "Conversation's over. We're stopping."

Too dizzy and hurting to argue, Sam leaned his head on the seatback and kept his mouth shut. He drifted in and out, only vaguely registering the car stopping and starting, the driver's door opening and shutting. Something nudged his shoulder and he popped open his eyes.

Dean gestured out the front windshield at a door bearing the number 23. "Home, sweet home--for tonight, anyway."

Somehow Sam dragged himself from the car, pulled his duffel from the trunk, and followed his brother to the room. Ignoring the burnt-orange shag carpet, fringed lamp shades, and psychedelic bedspreads, he shuffled to the bed farthest from the window and dropped onto it with a grunt.

Sam watched through slitted eyes as Dean drew the curtains against the afternoon sunlight, then rummaged through his own bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

"You want anything to eat?" Dean called over the sound of running water.

"God, no." Sam's stomach cringed at the thought.

The lumpy mattress felt like a little piece of heaven, and he was just slipping into a doze when the bed dipped and warmth brushed his leg.

"Sit up a minute."

When he opened his eyes Dean was holding a glass of water and small pink pill. "That's not Tylenol."

"You really are the brains in this outfit, aren't you?" Dean waited until Sam had a solid grip on the glass before letting go. When Sam fingered the pill, he sighed. "It's a Vicodin, and it won't bite."

Sam frowned. "This'll knock me on my ass."

"You got a social engagement I don't know about? Take it, Sammy. You'll sleep, the migraine will run itself out, and maybe by then I'll have something for us to hunt."

"Where did you get Vicodin?" He swallowed the pill.

"A poltergeist Dad and I tangled with last year threw me out a window. Three broken ribs."

Though his voice was matter-of-fact, Sam grimaced as he laid back. "Ow."

"Nah, wasn't that bad. The luscious young ER nurse kissed it and made it all better."

Sam snorted and closed his eyes. A moment later something blessedly cool covered them. Fingering the damp terrycloth, he smiled. "You used to do this for my headaches when we were kids."

"That's 'cause even then I was an awesome brother."

Sam listened to Dean move around the room--the clink of the empty water glass on the bathroom counter, the rustle of clothing as he stripped off his jacket, the rattle of the weapons bag. The sounds were comforting, cold cloth soothing, and he began to feel floaty as the pain receded to a more manageable level.

His thoughts wandered to Jess--now haunting not only his dreams, but his waking moments, as well. The Vicodin blunted the emotional ache almost as well as the physical--it was still there, but he could view it impassively, from a distance. Though he'd never flinched from assuming responsibility for her death, somehow the idea that Jess herself might blame him was an even more bitter pill to swallow.

"Think Jess hates me for what I did?"

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Dean answered, his voice sounding oddly rough. "No, Sammy. I don't."

Sam wanted to point out Dean would say that whether he believed it or not, but the words got tangled up somewhere between his brain and his tongue, and in the end it was easier just to sleep.

Why the hell did there have to be six million flavors of Gatorade? Dean stared at the rainbow-hued assortment, chewing his lip, before finally deciding to stick with the old standby--green. Switching the box of crackers, peanut M&Ms, and six-pack of beer to his left arm, he tucked the plastic bottle under the right, curling his lip at the frustrated guy trying to navigate his cart down the crowded aisle. Shopping carts were for wimps. And don't even get him started on those girly little plastic baskets.

He wove his way to the front of the store, nearly groaning aloud when he saw the "10 items or less" lane was closed, while shoppers pushing overflowing carts packed the remaining lines. Taking his place behind an elderly couple with a basket stuffed with canned soup, he glanced uneasily at the clock.

Damn. His twenty-minute trip for groceries and gas was already stretching to well over an hour.

Probably nothing to worry about. Sam had been dead to the world when he left the room, not even twitching when he spread the blanket from his own bed across his brother's sprawled body. It was unlikely he'd surface any time soon.

Dean grinned--Sammy was such a lightweight when it came to booze or drugs. He always passed out, usually after losing the filter between his brain and his mouth.

"Think Jess hates me for what I did?"

The smile faded from Dean's lips, replaced by an all-too-familiar sense of helplessness. He'd expected Sam to hurt over Jess's death--they'd been shacked up together, after all. He'd just never anticipated the depth with which his brother would grieve over her.

He and Sam had been raised to be resilient. Living the way they did--never staying too long in one place, constantly facing danger--you learned to roll with the punches. It was more than their father's conditioning; it was a matter of survival. But Sam wasn't bouncing back from this particular blow. And it was starting to worry Dean more than he cared to admit.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, drinking in auburn hair, twinkling green eyes, and a lot of chest in a tight little tee shirt. She gestured toward him. "Would you like to put your things in my cart?"

Maybe he wasn't in such a hurry after all. Dean raised an eyebrow, his lips curving slowly into a smile. "Well, sweetheart, I can't say I've ever heard it called that before, but I'm game if you are."

She blushed and tried to look indignant, but the dimples gave her away. "I meant your groceries. I thought your arms might be getting tired."

"Oh, the groceries. Nah, I'm good. But thanks for the offer." He tipped his chin at the lines. "Is it always this crowded, or did I miss an announcement of the impending apocalypse?

With a chuckle, she shook her head. "It's Saturday afternoon, prime time for grocery shopping. You're not from around here?"

"Nope, just passing through." He offered his hand and his best roguish grin. "Dean Winchester."

"Laura Flynn." Her hand was warm, fingers long and delicate. "So what brings to you to our boring little town?"

"Just making a pit stop." Dean shuffled backward as the line inched closer to the register. "I'm on a road trip with my brother and he's feeling a little under the weather, so we…" He trailed off, stunned to silence.

Across the store, by the frozen-food aisle, stood a young woman with long blonde curls and a white nightdress. Oddly still amidst the chaos of jostling shoppers and carts, she returned Dean's stare with disturbing intensity.

Jessica? Dean blinked, shaking his head as if to knock loose the vision. When he looked again, she was gone.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Laura's voice broke through his shock. She was staring at him, brow furrowed, while the shoppers behind her grumbled that he was holding up the line.

"I'm fine." Dean quickly closed the gap between himself and the person in front of him.

"Are you sure? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Hey, wouldn't be the first time." When Laura frowned, he plastered on a grin. "Really, I'm okay."

She smiled back, but there were no dimples and she didn't speak to him again. Which was fine with Dean. Seeing his brother's dead girlfriend didn't exactly put him in the mood for love. In fact, he had the strong urge to just dump the groceries and get the hell out of Dodge.

Once he'd finally paid, Dean stowed the bags in the back seat of the Impala and slid behind the wheel. He paused, key in ignition, and tried to sort through what had just happened.

Why would he suddenly be seeing Jessica? He hoped it was just a side effect of his worry for Sam. If there was more troubling his brother than bad dreams, things could get ugly.

Not that they'd been a bed of roses so far.

He started the car and shifted into gear, growling impatiently when a harried woman with five bickering kids and an overflowing cart trundled slowly past his bumper. By the time he pulled out of the parking spot and navigated through the busy lot, the muscles in his neck and shoulders were rock-hard with tension.

Traffic was a bitch, and he hit every light, but finally made it onto the main drag that would take him to the motel. When his eye landed on the gas gauge, he hissed a curse. He'd forgotten about stopping for a fill-up, and the needle was creeping toward empty. Spying a gas station in the distance, he flicked on his turn signal to change lanes and glanced into the rearview mirror…

Into Jessica's intent blue eyes.

Dean's mouth dropped open in astonishment. A silver Lexus loomed in front of him, and he slammed on the breaks, squealing to a stop mere inches from the bumper.

"Son of a bitch!"

Strident honking filled his ears, and a beefy truck driver flipped him the bird as he roared past. When Dean turned to look, the back seat was empty.

Sucking in a calming breath, he wrapped shaking fingers around the wheel and got the car moving, passing the gas station without a second glance. Though he kept his gaze fixed on the road, his thoughts flew in a million directions. What the hell was going on?

One dead girlfriend sighting might be a fluke--two was a pattern. But why? What did Jessica want? And why was she appearing to him and not Sam?

Or was she?

"Just… Thought for a second I saw someone I knew."

Damn it, Sammy.

Dean navigated around a slow-moving minivan, his once nebulous sense of worry now full-out anxiety. Spirits didn't just keep popping up without a reason, and in the case of someone who'd died a violent death, that was rarely a good thing. He thought of Sam spread bonelessly across the bed.

Drugged.

Helpless.

Screw the speed limit. He pressed down hard on the gas, hoping he was wrong.

Praying he wasn't too late.

He flops onto the bed, hands linked behind his neck, eyes drifting shut. It's been a long day--a long weekend--and the soft mattress cushions his aching bones and muscles.

Something tickles his forehead, once, twice. Warmth and wetness. He opens his eyes and feels gut-punched, all the air rushing from his lungs. She's flattened against the ceiling like a bug pinned to cardboard, impossible to believe, impossible to deny. White nightgown--his favorite, which hugs every sweet curve. Hair a wild tangle, eyes dark and liquid.

"Jess?"

"Why, Sam?"

He has to reach her, hold her, save her. Any minute now she'll burst into flames and it will be no use.

Too little.

Too late.

But his body has turned to stone, and all his struggling accomplishes nothing. "No." It's meant to be a scream, but his throat locks down till it's little more than a whisper. "No, God, please. Jess."

"Sam." She watches him squirm, sorrow etched in every line of her face. "You could have told me."

Another drop hits his forehead, then his cheek, and suddenly she's gone, obliterated by a ball of fire.

"No!"

As if a leaden blanket has been torn from his body, he can move. Floundering upright, he swipes a hand across his face and stares at the clear beads of moisture.

Not blood.

Slowly, he touches his tongue to one trembling fingertip, tasting salt.

Tears.

Sam woke with a blanket tangled around his legs and wetness on his cheeks. Fear tingled down his spine and he jerked his gaze upward, half expecting to see Jess pinned to the ceiling. When all he found was cracked and watermarked plaster, he crooked an arm over his face and tried to slow his panicked breathing.

The headache was blinding, more painful than any he'd ever experienced, and he'd been dealing with migraines since the age of eight. Steeling himself against the pain, he moved his arm and squinted at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock.

3:30. Too soon for another pill, not that the last one seemed to be helping. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, making it clear that he needed to get to the bathroom. Soon.

"Dean?" He winced at the sleep-roughened rasp of his voice.

His brother didn't answer, and for the first time Sam registered the absolute stillness. Pushing himself upright, he clutched the edge of the mattress until the room stopped spinning. A scrap of paper lay next to the clock, and he picked it up with clumsy fingers.

Sammy,

Went to get some of that green shit you drink when you're sick. You puke on your bed, I'm not giving you mine.

Back soon.

One corner of Sam's mouth turned up. Only Dean could make insults feel like a hug. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he gritted his teeth and eased slowly to his feet.

For a moment all he could do was double over, one hand braced on the night table, the other pressed to his temple. His brain felt as if it might just explode and leak out of his ears, the pain a white-hot, pulsing agony. When he could finally move, he shuffled toward the bathroom, hunched over and weaving like an elderly drunk.

Turning on the fluorescent light was unthinkable, so he navigated by touch and the illumination spilling in from the room. He fumbled with the cold water, splashing handfuls onto his face and running damp fingers through his hair. Something, a flicker of movement, caught his eye, and he lifted his gaze to the mirror.

Jessica stared back at him, pale, perfect. Shining like a beacon in the heavily shadowed depths.

Sam took two staggering steps backward, his shoulders slamming into the wall. Suddenly too weak to support him, his legs folded and he slid slowly down until his butt hit the floor. When he looked again, the mirror showed only the indistinct reflection of tile walls and the towel rack.

He crawled to the toilet bowl and threw up, moaning and spitting bile with each spasm. Things got hazy and confused--Jess, pain, Dean, dark-haired figure in a mirror, Jess in a mirror, Dad, Dean… He had to call Dean.

Something cold and hard pressed the length of his back and he scrubbed his sleeve against bleary eyes, straining to see in the nearly nonexistent light. He was lying on the floor near a sink. As he looked around, the room undulated gently, as if he were underwater.

Panic spiked. He hurt. He hurt and he didn't know where he was, and where was Dean, and how did he get here, and why couldn't he remember? Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't think. Everything was all jumbled up in his head and it hurt.

"Dean." He licked dry lips, his eyes burning. "Dean!"

The cry spiked through his head and dark blossoms sprang up at the edges of his vision. His lips moved soundlessly--Dean, help--as his fingers scrabbled uselessly against the tile. Then his eyes slid shut and, mercifully, he didn't feel anything at all.

The first thing to catch Dean's eye was the rumpled, empty bed. He moved cautiously into the room as he pocketed his keys, senses on high alert. Though nothing appeared out of place, he saw no sign of Sam, and his nose detected the faint, sour odor of sickness.

"Sam?"

He headed for the bathroom, breaking into a sprint when he saw his brother's long legs splayed across the floor. With a curse, he flicked on the light, immediately searching for signs of violence. The fist around his heart loosened a bit when he found no blood or broken bones. Sam had just passed out.

Moving around to his brother's head, he crouched down and tapped his cheek. "Sam. C'mon, Sammy, naptime's over."

Sam's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. Turning his face from Dean's fingers he moaned softly. "Lemme alone."

"Sorry, no can do. Your freakishly huge body is cluttering up the whole bathroom, and I need to take a piss." Dean grabbed his brother's chin and used his command tone. "Open your eyes, Sam. Right now."

Sam's eyelids cracked just enough to reveal a sliver of hazel, and he grimaced. "Don't wanna go to school. Head hurts."

The back of Dean's neck prickled. "What the hell are you talking about? Snap out of it, Sammy." Worry sharpened his voice, making the words harsher than he'd intended.

Sam blinked. "Dean? Why're we on a bathroom floor?"

"Your idea, Einstein, not mine. Ready to stand up?"

Sam didn't answer. His unfocused gaze drifted over Dean's shoulder, and his body tensed. "You said she didn't hate me...but why else 's she following me?"

Dean froze, glancing behind him. The fact that nothing was there only assuaged a small part of his worry. He'd nursed Sam through plenty of migraines over the years, and this felt all wrong. His brother was slurring his words, disoriented--hell, if he didn't know better he'd think Sam had a concussion...

"Doc's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm. Something burst up in there, that's for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Intense cerebral bleeding. The guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen."

Oh, god. How could he not have considered that?

"Sam? Sammy, look at me!" He held his brother's face steady, peeling back each eyelid with his thumb while Sam squirmed and made incoherent sounds of protest.

Dean's stomach plunged to his toes. Sam's right pupil looked blown, definitely larger and more sluggish than the left.

"Shit, Sammy, don't move." He pulled his cell phone and punched in 911.

"Nine-one-one. Please state the nature of your emergency."

"I need an ambulance at the Lake View Inn near Decatur on Route 27. I think my brother's having some kind of brain aneurysm."

"Paramedics are on their way." The woman's voice was calm, soothing. "What's your name, sir?"

"My name? What the hell difference does--" He caught himself, forced a deep breath. "Dean. My name is Dean. How long till they get here?"

"ETA is about seven minutes, Dean, so just stay on the line. What are your brother's symptoms?"

"Headache, dizziness, and he's not making much sense. And he was puking earlier." Sam's eyes were drifting shut. "Sam? Stay awake, Sammy." Terrified, he reached out and pinched his brother, wincing when Sam groaned.

"Dean, it's okay. It's more important you keep Sam from moving around than keep him awake. How's his breathing?"

Dean watched the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. "It's okay."

"Good. Now there are a few things you should know about--"

Sam's fingers snagged his sleeve. "Dean? Something's...I don't feel--" His eyes rolled back in his head and his body stiffened, then began jerking and twisting.

"Shit!" Dean dropped the phone, stripping off his jacket and slipping it under Sam's head as a cushion. He made sure there was nothing near Sam's flailing limbs, watching helplessly until the seizure stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Sirens wailed in the distance as he carefully rolled Sam into the recovery position, checking heartbeat and respiration with shaking hands.

"Don't you do this to me, Sammy," he choked, smoothing shaggy bangs from his brother's pale face. "You hang on, or I'm gonna kick your ass. You hear me?"

Flashes of red light seeped around the edges of the curtains, and a moment later someone banged on the door.

"Paramedics!"

With an agonized look at his brother, Dean went to let them in.

Dean sat in the empty waiting room, a cold cup of coffee cradled between his palms. In the last three hours he'd progressed from knee bouncing to pacing to out-and-out yelling. Exhausted, he was reduced to staring blankly at the television bolted to the olive-drab wall.

When the EMTs had kicked him out of the ambulance, he'd tailed the them to the hospital, arriving just in time to see his brother whisked through double doors while a rent-a-cop ordered him to move his car. When he'd finally made it back into the ER, a nurse built like a linebacker had shoved insurance forms into his hands and "suggested" he take a seat.

Since then he'd tried bullying, bargaining, coaxing, and downright flirting, all earning him the same speech: Sam was being treated, undergoing tests. A doctor would fill Dean in as soon as there was anything to tell.

So here he sat, slowly but surely going bat-shit while his little brother...

"How 'bout a trade?"

The Styrofoam cup was plucked from his fingers, a warm mug deposited in its place. Dean pulled his gaze from the television screen, surprised to find Nursezilla gazing kindly at him for the first time all evening.

"We save the good stuff for the staff lounge," she confided, sinking into the chair on his left. "There's cream and sugar, if you'd like."

"Black is good." Dean took a sip, then several swallows, grateful for the warmth that spread to his belly. He cocked an eyebrow. "You have been holding out on me. So what did I do to deserve this--" He eyed her nametag. "--Ruby?"

Her smile softened all the hard edges, revealing a kind woman bone-weary from a difficult day. "Guess I'm feeling generous. The shift from hell ends in ten minutes, and I'm still alive and kicking."

"Well...thanks. It's been a pretty crappy day on my end, too."

"He's in good hands, Dean."

He nodded, taking another sip. "You may be right. But they're not my hands."

"Ah. Used to looking out for him, is that it?"

Dean stared into the depths of his cup, lips curving. "Our mom died when Sam was six months old. He's been mine ever since."

"And he will be again. We're just borrowing him for a little while." She patted his knee and stood. "I'll check with his doctor on my way out."

Suddenly his throat felt alarmingly tight. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

He'd finished his coffee and was considering whether it was time to find a bathroom when a man in a white lab coat pushed through the double doors.

"Dean Agnew?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Dr. DePaola, your brother's neurosurgeon."

Dean accepted the handshake, inwardly cringing. The guy had long hair and an earring, and he wore the same dumb-assed baggy jeans Sam did.

His thoughts must have shown on his face. DePaola folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead. Get it out of your system."

Dean bristled at the condescending tone. "Fine. You look like you should be studying for finals or playing in a garage band, not poking around in my brother's head."

DePaola remained unruffled. "Dude, I'm nearly thirty. Not to mention I'm a frickin' prodigy. Believe me, your little bro is lucky to have me."

Not exactly convinced, Dean moved on to more important matters. "So how is he? No one will tell me a damn thing."

DePaola straightened from his comfortable slouch and consulted the chart in his hands, suddenly the consummate professional. "He's got a subdural hematoma--that's a pooling of blood on the surface of the brain. Freaky thing is I can't seem to find an injury. Did he hit his head?"

"We were in a bit of a bar fight. He got tossed around."

"Well, whatever the reason, the increasing intracranial pressure caused the headache, dizziness, disorientation, and eventually the seizure."

Dean licked his lips, his mouth dry. "Can you fix it?"

"Fortunately, it was a slow bleed that had nearly stopped by the time he arrived in the ER. I'm treating him as nonaggressively as possible, with diuretics to relieve the pressure."

"What if that doesn't work?"

"Then I'll have to drill a small hole into his skull to drain the fluid."

Dean held up both hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're gonna treat my brother's head like a two-by-four? I don't think so."

"Chill, man. It's not as invasive as it sounds, and I'm pretty optimistic that the drugs will do the trick."

Somewhat mollified, Dean backed off. "So...he's going to be all right?"

"Pretty loopy until he adjusts to the antiseizure meds. But if all goes well, and with a little time, yeah. He should be fine."

Hours of tension drained out of Dean in a rush, leaving him lightheaded with relief. "When can I see him?"

"Neuro ICU's on the fourth floor." DePaola smirked, once again the wiseass. "I've already warned the nurses to expect you."

"Thanks." Dean headed for the elevator, pulled up short when DePaola called after him.

"Yo, Dean?"

He turned. "Yeah."

"The ICU nurses make Ruby look like a pussycat. Pull any of your shit on them and they will kick your ass to the curb."

The guy was the strangest freakin' doctor he'd ever met, but Dean felt too good to worry about it. "Thanks for the advice."

DePaola tipped him a salute. "Later, dude."

The neuro ICU was a series of glass cubicles surrounding a nurses' station. Most were unoccupied. Dean passed several empty beds, then a young woman who looked to be in her late thirties. When he came to Sam, he paused, overwhelmed by a surge of emotion.

"He's doing fine."

Dean looked at the gray-haired nurse standing by his side. Damn, he was really off his game when a woman old enough to be his grandmother could get the drop on him. She gently took him by the arm and steered him to Sam's bedside.

"He was a little dehydrated from the vomiting, so that--" She pointed to an I.V. bag. "--is giving him fluids as well as medication. This monitor is keeping tabs on his heart rate, and the clip on his finger measures the level of oxygen in his blood."

Swallowing hard, Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "He looks like hell."

She smiled. "He's had a rough time of it, and I know all the equipment can be intimidating. But he's stable and seems to be responding well to the meds." She pulled a chair up close. "My name's Donna. Press the call button if you need anything, otherwise I'll be back in a bit to check his vitals."

Dean nodded, eyes scanning each piece of equipment and readout before he sank wearily into the chair. Sam's face was turned toward him, washed of color but peaceful. Dean reached through the side rail and, after a brief hesitation, laid his hand over his brother's.

"This is what you get for offering yourself up as bait to a psycho bitch ghost with anger-management issues," he murmured, rubbing his thumb back and forth over reassuringly warm flesh. "Next time we do it my way."

Easing back in the chair, he stretched out his legs and let the steady beep of the monitors and Sam's breathing lull him into a doze.

"You could have told me."

He's lying on his back in their big bed; she's propped on one elbow and pressed along his side. Her hair is caught back in a loose ponytail, stubborn wisps breaking free to curl around her face. She's wearing the ridiculous Smurf shirt and blue bikini underpants, and he thinks it would be impossible to love someone more.

Her words wrap around his heart and squeeze.

"I know." He levers himself up, wanting so badly to make it right. Knowing that's impossible. "I'm so damn sorry, Jess. It should've been me. I wish it had been."

She pushes him into the pillow with a firm hand on his chest. "Shhh. Don't, Sam. You'll make the headache worse."

And just like that he realizes his head does hurt, throbbing persistently over his right eye. Jess smoothes her fingers across his forehead, trailing them down his cheek.

"Sam, don't say that ever again. Don't even think it," she says, her voice steel. "I don't want that. I never could."

He nuzzles her soft hand, his eyes stinging. "You said it yourself. I should have told you."

"Hey." She doesn't let him hide, guiding his face until he meets her gaze. "I said you could have told me." She strokes his cheek with her thumb. "Did you really think it would make a difference?"

"It did make a difference--to me. I didn't want you to think I was some kind of freak."

"You are a freak." She chuckles, but there's deep affection beneath the mirth. "Sam, you had a knife that looked like something straight out of a horror movie hidden in your drawer, a thing for pouring salt in strange places, and the weirdest taste in reading material I'd ever seen." She kisses him, slow and deep, and rests her forehead against his. "I loved you, freakiness and all."

He lifts an unsteady hand to cup her cheek. "What about now?"

She presses a kiss into his palm and lies down, drawing his head onto her chest. "I'll always love you. But it's time for you to let me go."

He feels the phantom warmth of her skin, listens to a heart whose beat he knows has stilled. It's only a dream. But oh, God, he wants it to be real. "I'm not sure I can."

"You can. I want you to be happy, Sam."

He relaxes into the rhythmic stroking of her fingers through his hair and the low, soothing timbre of her voice. "I miss you, Jess," he slurs, eyelids growing heavy. "So much."

"I'll be here." Her fingertips skim his temple. "And here." Her palm presses against his heart, the touch like a brand. "I promise."

"'S not the same."

"Shh. Sleep now. You'll feel better when you wake up."

He fights to stay awake, to hang on to this moment. He wants to memorize everything about her, from the feel of her arms to the smell of her skin. But it all begins to blur, colors fading, edges growing indistinct, and eventually, without even realizing it, he's let go.

Sam was dreaming.

Dean leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and watched his brother's eyes dart back and forth behind closed lids. He waited for the inevitable signs of distress--restless movements, rapid breathing, perspiration--prepared to calm Sam before the nightmare got out of hand. Considering all the tubes and wires his brother was hooked up to, the last thing he needed right now was to wake disoriented and in a panic.

But minutes ticked by, and eventually Sam slipped into a deeper sleep. Dean leaned back in his chair, not sure whether to be pleased or worried. He'd like to believe that after the encounter with Mary, Sam was finally getting off the guilt trip he'd been on since Jessica's death. But his brother's incoherent ramblings just before the seizure didn't seem to back that theory.

With a sigh, Dean ran a hand down his face and around to massage the back of his painfully stiff neck. It'd been a helluva long night. Though he'd managed to grab a few z's, his hunter's reflexes woke him every time Donna stopped by to monitor Sam's vitals. Not to mention the damn chair must have been designed by the Marquis de Sade.

What he needed was a jumbo-sized cup of coffee and a chance to stretch his legs, but the last time she'd checked, Donna had been optimistic that Sam would surface soon. Though Sam had opened his eyes a few times during the night, he'd never really been coherent. No way was Dean going to risk him waking alone in a hospital.

He heard footsteps, and a moment later Dr. DePaola slouched into the cubicle. "Dean. How's it shaking?" He frowned as he moved to the opposite side of Sam's bed. "Dude, you look worse than some of my patients."

Dean stood, grimacing when his back muscles complained. "I'm hurt. I thought we really had something last night."

DePaola grinned as he flipped through the chart in his hands and scanned readouts. "Your brother's looking good. Meds seem to be working. Pressure's dropped and his vitals are all stable. I'm going to get one more CT scan, but if it looks good I'm shipping him down to a regular room."

At DePaola's words a stray knot deep in Dean's chest unraveled. "Guess that means you can hang up your drill, huh?"

"Looks like. Damn, I hate it when that happens." He scribbled a note on the chart and tucked the pen behind his ear. "I've got to finish my rounds, but I'll be down to see Sam once he's settled, and we can discuss his recovery."

DePaola had been gone nearly half an hour, and Dean was seriously considering making a coffee run, when the heart monitor sped up and Sam's fingers twitched.

"Sam?" Dean stood and leaned over the rail, intently watching his brother's face. "Open your eyes, Sammy."

Sam furrowed his brow, lashes fluttering as he blinked, then slowly opened his eyes.

"Hey. 'Bout time you decided to wake up, Princess." Dean chased his brother's unfocused gaze, smiling when it sharpened.

"Dean." Sam's voice was a dry croak. He turned his head to take in the various machines. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Sam licked his lips. "Headache. Got sick and--" He tensed, scanning the room as if looking for something. After a moment, he relaxed. "Still don't get why I'm here."

"That headache? Wasn't just a headache. Turned out to be a lovely parting gift from your girlfriend Mary."

"Mary?"

It was obvious Sam wasn't firing on all cylinders. Inwardly rolling his eyes, Dean took a deep breath. "You were bleeding into your brain, man. Sound familiar?"

His brother's jaw dropped. "I... You okay?"

"Other than having the crap scared out of me? Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam grimaced. "Head still hurts."

"Doc said it would for a while, but you'll be fine. And don't worry about your hair. I'm sure it'll grow back in no time."

"My hair--" Sam's hand flew to his head and he scowled. "Asshole."

"Bitch."

As Dean watched, Sam searched the room again. But before he could question his brother, Sam's eyes slid shut. Dean was surprised by the flare of panic that sizzled through him.

"Sammy!"

His brother jerked awake. "Huh?"

Feeling a little guilty and a lot foolish, Dean fumbled for something to say. "Uh..." His gaze landed on a pitcher of water. Donna had said Sam might want some when he woke. "You thirsty?"

Sam blinked, thinking about it for too long before he nodded. "Yeah."

Dean was helping him sip from a paper cup when Donna materialized at his side. Damn crepe-soled shoes let her sneak up on him every time.

"Look who's awake. Hi, Sam, I'm Donna. I've been taking care of you," she said cheerfully, then narrowed her eyes at Dean. "You were supposed to call me."

"I forgot. Sorry." And he really was. Donna had been great to him last night, letting him stay with Sam when the rules said he should be kicked out. He owed her, big time.

She slipped the blood pressure cuff around Sam's arm, sending Dean a wink that said all was forgiven. "How are you feeling, sweetie?" she asked Sam.

"Okay." When she raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turned up. "Well, my head hurts. And I feel a little...hazy."

"It's the Dilantin." She pressed her stethoscope to the crook of his elbow. "We'll be able to cut that back once we're certain you're not going to have another seizure."

"Seizure?" Sam looked wide-eyed at Dean, who shoved his hands in his pockets and evaded his gaze, turning to Donna instead.

"Doc said something about a CT scan."

"Someone will be by to take him down to diagnostic imaging in a few minutes." She patted Sam's leg. "You're doing well, Sam, much better than last night. You gave your brother quite a scare."

"When can I get out of here?" Sam addressed the question to Donna, but his gaze was on Dean.

Donna chuckled. "How about we concentrate on getting you down to a regular room first? Doctor DePaola can give you a better prognosis once he sees the results of the scan. Until then, you just rest. Right now, that's the best thing for you." She gave Dean's arm a reassuring squeeze and returned to the nurses' station.

Dean fiddled with the I.V. tubing to be sure it wasn't kinked, checked the wall clock--6:52 a.m and still no coffee, no wonder he felt like crap, and checked to be sure he'd put the bogus insurance card back in his wallet.

And damn it, Sam was still looking at him.

"What?" It came out harsher than he wanted, but the gentle sympathy in Sam's gaze made his throat feel tight.

"You didn't say anything about a seizure."

"Yeah, well, it's not going in my scrapbook of happy memories."

Sam snickered, then groaned and pressed a hand to his temple.

"Dude, take it easy," Dean growled. "What's so damn funny?"

"I was just picturing what would make it into that scrapbook. 'Dear Diary--today I banished a crazy psycho bitch ghost with anger-management issues back to hell.' Life is good."

Dean looked sharply at Sam when he giggled. "You are such a little girl."

Sam's laughter turned into a yawn and his eyes drooped. "You're the one with the scrapbook."

"Whatever." Dean sat in the chair and propped his feet on the bed.

Sam went quiet, his eyes shut and breathing steady, and Dean was certain he'd drifted back to sleep. He gazed at the brightening patch of sunlight from the lone window. Looked like it was going to be a nice day.

"Dean?" Sam's voice, slow and drowsy, startled him.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for scaring the crap outta you."

"Go to sleep, Sammy. I'll be here."

No matter how hard he squinted, the letters wanted to blur together. Sam snapped the book shut and dropped it on the bed table with a sigh. Reading was only making his head hurt, anyway.

He turned on the television and flipped through the channels: soap, soap, Dr. Phil, soap, Judge Judy. Daytime TV sucked. With a disgusted growl, he shut it off.

After a little squirming, he finally found a comfortable position that eased the throbbing in his head. Dean was due back any minute, hopefully rested and bearing the milkshake Sam had requested with the kicked-puppy expression he'd been using on his brother since they were kids.

Silence pressed in on him, and for the first time he missed his roommate, who had gotten his get-out-of-jail-free card yesterday afternoon. Though the guy had done nothing but complain, now it felt too quiet. He missed Dean reading him excerpts from The National Enquirer, providing running commentary on the talk shows, and generally making a pain in the ass of himself.

Too easy to think.

Sam popped open eyes he hadn't realized he'd shut, glancing carefully around the room. No splash of gold. No flicker of blue or wisp of shimmering white.

No Jess.

He wished he knew how he felt about that. There was a piece of him that longed for her, that sought any hint of her presence like a flower unfurling toward the sun.

That would accept any crumb from her, even blame and accusations, if it meant he could just see her face.

Sam closed stinging eyes. Jess had been there as he lay dying on the bathroom floor. Watching. Waiting. The implications of that curled sickly in his stomach and wrapped like an iron band around his chest.

He heard footsteps and smelled a mixture of leather, cologne, and fresh air. "Hey, you awake?

Sam sniffed and swiped a hand under his nose, opening his eyes. "If I wasn't, I would be now."

With a flourish, Dean set a large Styrofoam cup on the table. "There you go, your highness. One strawberry shake. Enjoy, 'cause I had to stand in a friggin' line for ten minutes to get it."

Sam took a sip and mustered a smile. "Thanks. You didn't have to."

"Right. Like I had a choice after you whined like a little bitch." Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." When Dean looked skeptical, Sam insisted, "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well, excuse me for doubting you, but the last time you told me that you wound up going all 911 on me."

Choosing not to answer, Sam drank his shake and let his gaze wander around the room.

"You're doing it again."

Sam frowned at Dean, puzzled. "Doing what?"

"Looking around the room. You've been doing it off and on ever since you woke up. It's like you're expecting to find something." Dean sat on the edge of the bed and was watching Sam's face intently. "Or someone."

His hands suddenly icy, Sam looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. You know, you asked me a strange question right before the seizure. You said, 'If she doesn't hate me, why is she following me?'" Dean paused. When Sam didn't respond he continued, his voice soft. "Level with me, Sammy. You've been seeing Jessica."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard. "Dean, don't--"

"You want to know how I know? Sam, look at me."

He couldn't resist Dean when he was like this--brother and parent, firm and oh-so-gentle. Dean was watching him with such affection Sam's gaze blurred.

"I saw her, too."

It was the last thing Sam had expected to hear, and it stole all his breath. "You... When?"

"First at the grocery store, and then again in the car. Nearly drove up the ass of the guy in front of me."

Sam bit his lip. "On a street corner in Toledo. And in the hotel room." He shivered. No way was he telling Dean about the dreams where Jessica accused him of causing her death, then burst into flames.

His brother nodded slowly. "I can guess what's going on in that freaky brain of yours. You think she's angry with you. That she blames you for her death."

Eyes flooding, Sam tipped his chin up and forced words out his constricted throat. "It's not like she doesn't have a reason."

With a sigh, Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not even going there, because you already know how I feel about that. I just want you to think about something. If she was trying to hurt you, why appear to me?"

Though he tried hard to come up with an answer, Sam couldn't think of one. Jess barely even knew Dean. That she'd seek him out made no sense.

"I'll tell you what I think," Dean said. "I think she knew what Mary had done to you, sensed you were dying. I think she was trying to warn you. And when that didn't work, she came to me."

Shell-shocked, Sam shook his head. "I...I don't--"

"Listen to me, Sammy. The paramedics said another ten minutes, and I'd've been too late. If I hadn't seen Jessica, I might have taken longer at the store, and it's for damn sure I'd've stopped for gas." He leaned in closer. "She doesn't hate you. She saved you."

Flashes of a forgotten dream hit, hazy and indistinct:

"I'll always love you. But it's time for you to let me go."

"I'm not sure I can."

"You can. I want you to be happy, Sam."

"I'll be here." Her fingertips skim his temple. "And here." Her palm presses against his heart, the touch like a brand. "I promise."

"Sammy?" Dean was studying him, his expression wary.

"I'm okay."

"You sure? 'Cause the doc did mention the high probability of brain damage. 'Course, I told him that might be pretty damn hard to detect."

"Shut up." But he laughed in spite of himself.

With a smirk, Dean picked up the remote for the television and settled himself in a chair. "Hey! Jerry Springer's on."

Sam stared at the screen. "'My Man Is a Woman.' Huh. Now that's scary," he muttered.

"Dude, I told you. Monsters, I get. People are crazy."

Sam settled back against his pillows, content just to listen as Dean heckled the show. For the first time since Jess's death, he felt a small measure of peace.

It wasn't over. The demon was still out there, somewhere, and killing it wasn't going to bring Jess back. Or erase his part in her death. But just the possibility that she might have forgiven him was worth something.

Sam wasn't sure he could accept the idea of Jess as his guardian angel. Wasn't sure he was worthy. But he desperately wanted to be.

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There’s always one reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
Oh beautiful release
Memory seeps from my veins
Let me be empty
And weightless and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight

In the arms of an angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort there

So tired of the straight line
And everywhere you turn
There’s vultures and thieves at your back
And the storm keeps on twisting
You keep on building the lie
That you make up for all that you lack
It don’t make no difference
Escaping one last time
It’s easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees

In the arms of an angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort there
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

--- "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan