Summary:  When bodies start disappearing in Flatt Plains, Iowa, Sam and Dean search for the truth. After Sam is injured, Dean is faced with a difficult choice. Stay to protect his brother or save an entire town from an ambitious Necromancer.
Spoilers:  Set sometime between “Hunted” and “Heart.” May contain spoilers for Season 2.
A/N:  Thank you to Charlie Girl 79 and Wysawyg for beta’ing.
Disclaimer:  It’s true, they belong to someone else. Sigh.

Allamakee County Hospital

Pulling his truck to a stop inside the small parking garage at the hospital, the flannel clad man pulled his cap down further over his eyes and stepped out of the dusty cab. He strode towards the stairs at a quick, even clip covering a quarter the length of the garage before the door slammed closed. His boots pounded on the concrete.

It did not take him long to find the post surgical unit or the nurses desk. “Sam Elden,” He snapped out.

“Of course,” a younger blond nurse muttered not looking up from her charts.

“Room 319,” an older, gray-haired nurse replied pointing down the hall. “He’s not awake yet, but…” She stopped when the rough-looking man walked away before she finished. She sat down with a huff and muttered, “Well, he’s definitely related to those boys.”

Dean looked up as the door to Sam’s room slowly creaked open. “Come on in, Bobby,” Dean called in a hushed voice. “He’s still out.”

Bobby squeezed into the small room and tried to fit into the corner nook. He managed to essentially fall into the window and took a seat on the sill. “How is he?” He asked gruffly. Bobby seemed to lack the ability to whisper unless he was hunting and Dean frowned.

“They have him on some massive painkillers,” Dean informed him. “He hasn’t even moved in the two hours he’s been out of surgery.” Dean paused. “For the second time.”

“They had to go back in?” Bobby asked, pushing his cap further up on his forehead. While he always had an easier time relating to Dean because of their shared passion for cars and hunting, he had a soft spot for both of John Winchester’s boys. Bobby preferred his mountain of books to Sam’s Internet research, but it had always been common ground for them. He remembered many a time, a young Sam had worn him out with his insatiable desire for knowledge. “What happened?”

“That’s part of the problem,” Dean replied. The absolute exhaustion in Dean’s voice registered with Bobby. “The first doctor missed a bleeder,” Dean continued rubbing his hand along the stubble on his chin. “Sam was hemorrhaging, but luckily his nurse at the time reacted quickly or I might have lost him, Bobby.”

“He’s fine now?” Bobby asked. He was not convinced. Sam looked extremely pale.

“So they say,” Dean replied softly. “He was attacked in the cemetery by, jeez I can’t believe I’m going to say this, by some sort of ghoulish zombie creature.”

Bobby frowned, took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair causing it to stick out wildly in all directions. He was tempted to ask Dean if he was kidding, but he knew Dean didn’t joke about anything pertaining to his brother’s safety. One of these days, Bobby was afraid Dean would do something stupid or incredibly foolhardy to keep his brother safe. “Are you sure?” he asked unable to find another way to voice his doubt. He was tired after covering two hundred miles in less than three hours.

“I’m not sure of anything right now,” Dean admitted tiredly. “Sam seemed pretty sure and he told me something was wrong before they took him back to surgery.”

“Something was wrong,” Bobby stated. “Let me finish,” he said at Dean’s look of frustration. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t something weird going on here, just means it may not be as bad as you think.”

“It was the way he said it,” Dean contradicted. “Sam sounded like he knew something and after everything that’s happened I’m inclined to believe his hunches.”

Bobby nodded in agreement. “Thing is, ghouls are considered mythical monsters, not real supernatural entities. Course, by definition a monster is born, not a person who’s been turned so we should be safe there.”

“Safe from a mythical monster that actually does exist and that ate a hunk of Sam’s chest?” Dean asked his voice growing in volume. “That doesn’t seem like the delightfully paranoid Bobby I’ve come to know and respect.”

“Calm down, Dean,” Bobby replied, shoving his cap back on his head. “I mean safe from Sam turning into one of those things. If he really is being affected by it, I’ll have to do some research of my own. Everything I’ve ever read simply says they kill by ripping and devouring. Theoretically, Sam should be safe, but you know I…” Bobby stopped short when he noticed Sam stirring.

“Sam?” Dean asked. “Are you awake?”

“Who could sleep with you two bickering like an old married couple,” Sam replied weakly in a raspy whisper. He opened his eyes and flicked them in Dean’s direction. “Thirsty.”

“Let me grab a nurse,” Bobby offered, standing up and squeezing back through the small room. “They’ll want to know he’s awake.”

“Thanks,” Dean replied, shooting Bobby a grateful look. The second shift nurse had delivered a cup of ice chips for Sam about half an hour ago and left it with strict instructions not to give Sam more than a couple of small spoonfuls. Any more and Sam might get nauseous and vomit. That was more than enough incentive for Dean to obey her orders.

He grabbed the cup and scooped up a spoonful of ice chips. “How about if I help you with this one?” he asked, relieving Sam of the burden of asking for help.

Sam cast Dean a look of gratitude, but otherwise made no comment. Instead he compliantly opened his mouth and allowed Dean to spoon feed him ice chips. He avoided eye contact with Dean, ashamed of his weakness.

“You’re awake,” Jean the gray-haired nurse from the desk stated. “How are feeling?” she asked slipping into the room, easily avoiding the major obstacles.

“Still tired,” Sam replied. He shifted in the bed and licked his lips. “My throat is sore.”

Jean nodded and explained, “They had to intubate you during surgery. Your throat may be a bit sore for awhile.” She quickly took his temperature and read the display. “Temp’s still at 101.2, but that should start to come back down. Do you have any other pain?”

“No,” Sam replied not reassured by that fact. He had been pain-free the first time he woke up.

“Good,” Jean said, fussing with Sam’s pillows and blankets. “You let me know when that changes. I’m going to bring in an incentive spirometer for you to start breathing exercises. The next time you wake up you should have enough energy to use it. I’ll show you how when I bring it in. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed. He waited until the nurse left the room before he relaxed back into the pillows.

“Sam, how are you really feeling?” Dean asked, his eyes probing into Sam’s soul seeking out the truth.

“I’m not hurting,” Sam evaded in a scratchy voice. He fiddled with canula tubing that ran down beside him avoiding Dean’s questioning gaze.

Dean sighed. He hadn’t wanted to ask this question. “Do you still feel like something is wrong?”

“I think maybe,” Sam began, resting one hand lightly on his stomach. “I don’t know. I don’t feel much of anything right now except for this pit in my stomach.”

“Damn, Sammy,” Dean quipped with a slight grin. “Those are some pretty good drugs they have you on.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam replied, closing his eyes. His breathing gradually evened out and slowed and his fingers fell away from the plastic tubing and softly back onto the bed.

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. He did not believe for a moment that Sam was okay. He didn’t even need to recalibrate his Sammy radar to know that. It hung in the air, the heavy weight of apprehension bearing down on him. Dean needed to figure out what was going on with Sam and he was beginning to think the place to start was at the cemetery. Now that Bobby was here to watch over Sam he could leave to complete the salt and burn. While he was there, he was getting back his phone and wrangling the truth from the old caretaker. It was then Dean registered the fact Bobby had not returned.

Dean sighed in frustration. Bobby was supposed to be here to help and he disappeared? That was not like him. Dean rested his head in his hands and contemplated his next move. It was still only late afternoon and too early for a salt and burn. He could start with the caretaker, knock that know-it-all attitude out of him and find out what he thought was wrong with Sam. The more he thought about it, the more he figured it was the best way to start. He must have dozed off for a minute because when he heard a thud near his feet it startled him awake and he jumped in his chair.

“Checked you out of that motel on my way through earlier,” Bobby explained. “Figured you boys didn’t need any extra attention and besides you might want your gear. What I hadn’t counted on, was you.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, puzzled.

“Don’t know why the pretty little ladies around here didn’t tell you,” Bobby explained. “But you stink. How long has it been since you changed clothes – or showered?”

“I’ve had other things on my mind,” Dean replied with shades of annoyance.

“Yeah, well you need to shower and change,” Bobby replied. He continued when he saw Dean was about to protest. “Before your brother is less out of it and catches sight of your clothes.”

Dean’s expression of confusion changed to understanding as he took a good look at his clothes. His shirt and jeans were both covered in bloodstains. He couldn’t leave here with these clothes on, it would draw too much attention to himself. He tossed Bobby a grateful look and picked up his duffel bag, dragging it into Sam’s microscopic bathroom.

He was pleasantly surprised to discover a small shower tucked into the corner. He knew it was for patient use, but he could shower, shave and change into clean clothes in less than five minutes when he needed to. Dean would not get caught with his proverbial pants down.

True to his predictions, Dean emerged from the bathroom four and a half minutes later with wet hair, minus the stubble on his chin and wearing a clean set of clothes. “Better?” he asked Bobby opening his arms wide to afford Bobby a full view.

“Well, at least you don’t stink anymore,” Bobby conceded. He figured Dean had only showered and changed for the practical reasons of blending in to the crowd and not drawing attention to himself, but Bobby was pleased he had done that one small thing to take care of himself. He swore when there was something wrong with Sam, Dean forgot to do anything but fight and defend.

“Hey, I’m adorable,” Dean protested with a grin. He took a good look at Sam and his grin faded. He was still very pale and to Dean’s practiced eye, his breathing seemed labored despite the oxygen. “I’m going to have to leave,” Dean stated tearing his eyes from Sam and towards Bobby. “I need you to stay here with Sam.”

“I figured that’s why you called me,” Bobby asked. “That and my famous bedside manner.”

“More like infamous,” Dean corrected his grin making a token reappearance. “I don’t think, ‘what they hell are you doing up?’ or ‘stay put you’re going to bust open all my hard work’ count as good bedside manner.”

“Never said it was a good bedside manner,” Bobby agreed good-naturedly. He tapped a stack of books sitting on the windowsill. “I brought in some resource books on monsters and creatures. I may be able to find out something while you are gone.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean replied. He shouldered his duffel bag and said, “Tell him I’ll be back soon.”

“And where should I tell him you went?” Bobby asked. He had a feeling he was not going to like the answer.

“Try to avoid answering him,” Dean replied. “Let him think I went to the motel to sleep or something. I don’t want him worrying and you know he will.”

“Right, that’ll work on that brother of yours for about ten seconds,” Bobby replied sarcastically. “He questions everything and you throw me the unbelievable excuse of you going back to the motel to sleep? Where are you really going?”

“The cemetery,” Dean replied simply. “And you’re right, he’ll never buy anything else. Just, just try to keep him here and focused on getting better. I’ll be back soon.”

“Saddling me with the impossible task I see,” Bobby joked and moved to the folding chair previously occupied by Dean. “His example growing up was never much one for sitting around recovering when there was still a job left to do.”

“Dad always was stubborn,” Dean agreed. “I’ll call you if I find out anything.” With a head nod of assent from Bobby, Dean turned on his heel and left.

“Never said I was talking about your daddy,” Bobby muttered under his breath.

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop behind the cover of the brush and trees. He pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and slid out of the car. Grabbing his gun out of the trunk and tucking it into his waistband, Dean slammed down the trunk lid and turned to search the cemetery for the caretaker. He had considered simply calling his own phone, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to give the old man the advance warning.

“Where’s Sam?” the voice of the caretaker chirped behind Dean.

Dean whirled around and pulled out his gun on reflex, his flashlight aimed with his gun. “How do you know who Sam and I are?” he demanded angrily.

“I don’t,” the caretaker said, blinking against the light in his eyes. “Some of the dead know who the Winchesters are.” He took two steps closer to Dean, stood on his toes and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. “They tell me.”

Dean jerked his head in surprise and took a good look at the caretaker. The caretaker’s blue eyes registered his sincerity. That meant he either really did speak to the dead or he was crazy, Dean wasn’t sure which.

“It could be both,” the caretaker nodded amiably. “They aren’t mutually exclusive possibilities.”

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “So what, now you read minds too?”

“No,” the old man replied knowingly, but he did not elaborate further. Instead he stated his oft repeated refrain, “Where is Sam?”

“He’s at the hospital. Where he belongs,” Dean snapped. He reached out to grab the collar of the caretaker’s overcoat, but the caretaker was spryer than he appeared and he evaded Dean’s grasp.

“You really should trust me,” the caretaker replied, a pout on his lips. “It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

Dean stared at him incredulously for a moment. “It’s starting to hurt your feelings?” he spluttered. “We’re talking about my brother’s life and I’m supposed to be concerned about your feelings?”

“You should always be concerned for others’ feelings,” the man continued. “It’s only polite.”

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration. The caretaker’s ever-present dog chose that moment to make an appearance and placed its forepaws on Dean’s chest, soiling his clean shirt. The scent of wet dog assaulted his nose and Dean sighed. “Let’s start over. What do you know about Sam?”

Allamakee County Hospital

“Looks like you’re going to have to leave town without me this time.”

“Did he say anything to you…about anything?”

“It’s a tough gig. I drew the short straw.”

“Whatever you do, don’t make her angry.”

“I’m dying and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Watch me.”

The next time Sam gasped awake, his brother’s voice did not call to him in reassurance. That alone was enough to make Sam pry his eyelids open and focus his bleary eyes on the room around him. The figure next to his bed took solid form and Sam recognized the smell of oil. “Hey, Bobby,” Sam croaked.

Bobby looked up from his book. “Sam, good to see you awake,” Bobby said, moving the side table closer to Sam so he could get a drink if wanted one and hitting the call button. He was not the best nursemaid and it was time to call in the pros. He could see the pinched look in Sam’s eyes and knew the painkillers were wearing off. They would no doubt be weaning Sam off the really strong stuff that seemed to knock the kid out.

He watched as Sam struggled to lift the water glass. Sam tried three times to lift the mug and in the end opted for pulling the table closer and bending down to sip out of the straw. Bobby noticed the wince when Sam bent over. The drugs must be more worn off than he originally thought.

“Where’s Dean?” Sam asked trying to sound casual. Please don’t say at the cemetery, Sam chanted in his head several time.

“Uh, he’s,” Bobby hesitated. He caught the knowing look on Sam’s face and the glint in his eye and confirmed the Sam’s hunch. “He’s at the cemetery.”

“He’s finishing that salt and burn by himself, isn’t he?” Sam asked in a harsh whisper. “Why aren’t you with him?”

Bobby sighed. Heaven spare him from the Winchesters. Each one unwilling to acknowledge they needed help, but both willing to sacrifice themselves for the other. “Dean needs his wits about him to finish that salt and burn. The only way he can keep his mind focused on that job is if he knows you are safe and the only way he knows that is if I stay here,” Bobby lectured.

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but stopped short when a nurse entered the room. “Good to see you awake again, Sam,” Jean said, stepping into the room. “I’m just going to take your vitals and watch you try out the incentive spirometer. We’re going to give the anesthesia another two hours or so to work its way out of your system before we have you up and ambulating.”

Sam nodded, but Bobby asked, “Come again?”

“Oh, sorry,” Jean replied, tucking stray gray hair back into her bun. “I need Sam to work on his breathing exercises, but we won’t get him up and moving around until the next time.” Jean pulled out the ear thermometer, popped on a sanitary cap and placed it in Sam’s ear. When it beeped, Jean looked at the readout and frowned. “Sam, how are you feeling?”

“A little cold,” Sam admitted. He shivered and pulled his blanket up tighter with shaky hands. He hated the drugs they were giving him. Between the vivid dreams and the physical side effects he was feeling out of control.

“Not surprising,” Jean replied, pocketing the thermometer. “Your temperature is up to 101.8. We’ll have to keep an eye on it.” Jean picked up the incentive spirometer and held it out for Sam. “Give it a try, Sam. I’d like to see you keep the indicator up here for all three tries,” she said, pointing to the target lines.

Sam attempted to hit the target lines all three times and all three times he failed miserably. Jean frowned and checked his O2 levels. Everything checked out normal. “You keep working on it,” Jean stated. “It’ll improve.” She patted Sam on the shoulder and walked out of the room.

Sam and Bobby shared a look of confusion over her abrupt departure. “She was certainly…” Bobby started, but stopped when the door to Sam’s room swung open again.

Jean walked in carrying two additional blankets. She shook them open and laid them over the top of Sam. “That should help with the chills,” Jean stated, straightening the blankets and tucking them tightly around the foot of Sam’s bed. “You’re cold because of the fever and the effects of the anesthesia leaving your system. You should start to warm up in a couple of hours.”

She turned to Bobby, placed her hands on her hips and said, “He’ll probably fall asleep again soon. Call the nurses’ desk the next time he wakes up. We need to get him up and walking around soon.” Jean left the room again, but this time the door remained closed and she did not reappear.

“She’s a bossy one,” Bobby remarked once he was certain she was not coming back.

Sam grinned weakly and raised one eyebrow. “You’re afraid of her.” It was a statement, not a question. He kicked with his feet attempting to liberate them from the cotton prison, but he lacked the strength and the movement caused the staples in his legs to pull skin taut and send ripples of pain from his hips to his toes.

“Damn straight,” Bobby replied, pulling the blankets loose. “That woman has ruler-wielding nun written all over her.”

Sam chuckled lightly which caused a mild attack of coughing to ensue. The pit in his stomach grew until he heaved in short gasps trying to catch his breath. The recently repaired lacerations on his chest and stomach protested against the punishment and grew hot in intensity. Spots appeared in his vision and Sam recognized the signs of an impending blackout.

He felt the icy rush of medication enter his veins and a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Sam struggled to control his breathing and when he finally succeeded, he flopped back against the pillows. He laid there for several minutes with his eyes closed, simply enjoying a few moments of easy breathing and the relief it brought. The feeling that he could not quite catch his breath and that he was unable to sustain his own life was not one Sam relished. It reminded him too much of being strangled.

When Sam finally opened his eyes he was not surprised to see Bobby leaning forward in his chair keeping a close watch on him. There was more wrong with him than physical injuries, Sam was sure of it now. Although the coughing fit had spurned on a fresh round of pain it only amplified the feeling that something was somehow off, not disguised it. Whatever was going on, he could no longer afford to sit around doing nothing. Dean was risking his life out in the cemetery by himself. The least Sam could do is figure out the riddle of the amulet.

“Bobby, is my laptop in here?” Sam wheezed, the coughing having aggravated his already abused throat.

“Yeah, but don’t worry about research right now,” Bobby insisted, tapping his stack of books again. “I got it covered.”

“I need to check my email,” Sam protested, struggling to sit up fully. “I sent a picture of the amulet Dean and I found at the necromancy church to an anthropology professor. I’m hoping he knows the significance of the engravings on it.”

Bobby shook his head, muttering something about stubborn mules or fools, Sam was not sure which. Bobby placed the laptop on Sam’s side table and positioned the table in front of Sam. He used the buttons on the bed rail and after a test of trial and error managed to elevate the head of Sam’s bed. “Don’t know how you are going to check your email. I’m betting the hospital’s internet connection is password protected,” Bobby predicted.

“It is,” Sam replied, his eyes searching the monitor screen. His white, shaking fingers still flew over the keyboard. “Or rather, it was. I’m in.”

Bobby lifted the brim of his cap and ran a hand across his forehead. He had to hand it to Sam, he was a crackerjack on the computer. “That was fast.”

Sam did not move his eyes from the monitor screen, but flashed a small lopsided grin, very reminiscent of his brother in Bobby’s direction. “It was easy.” Sam opened his email account and was pleased to see a return response from the professor. He popped open the email and skimmed the reply quickly.

Bobby watched as the grin slowly faded from Sam’s face only to be replaced by a frown. “What? What did he say?”

Sam looked up at Bobby with a look that conveyed he was almost surprised anyone was in the room. Bobby held back a chuckle at how quickly Sam could lose himself to the thrill of the hunt for information. “It’s ancient Hebrew pictographs,” Sam stated simply.

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery

“Sam is in danger,” the caretaker replied, turning on his heel and walking away from Dean. His old overcoat billowed behind him as the caretaker walked briskly towards the Impala.

When did he get so fast? Dean wondered. “So you’ve said,” Dean called after him and moved to follow. “How about we cover some new ground? How is Sam in danger?”

The old man stopped so abruptly Dean had to side-step quickly to avoid running into him. “Because he was chosen,” the caretaker explained patiently.

Dean rubbed his temples and stared at the caretaker through hooded eyes. He was definitely getting a headache talking to the man. “Chosen?” he asked. Of course he was, Dean thought. Supernatural freak magnet, that’s my little brother.

“Yes, exactly,” the caretaker replied. He picked several leaves out of his wild, white hair and examined one in particular quite closely.

Dean grew frustrated with the old man once again and snapped, “Chosen for what?”

“To help the Necromancer,” the caretaker replied with a frown. “That’s why we must get Sam and bring him back here. I can help your brother, but we must hurry. According to the wind, we have only a few hours before it is too late.”

“According to the…” Dean began in disbelief. He stopped when the caretaker stooped to talk to the dog.

“Bojangles, you stay here. We need to keep an eye on those who attempt to control the dead,” the caretaker admonished. Bojangles whipped his tail about and it hit the side of the Impala with several hard whacks.

“Watch the tail,” Dean muttered, pushing the dog away from his car.

“Yes, time to go,” the caretaker agreed and pointed towards the cemetery. Bojangles ran off in the direction the caretaker pointed and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there he was sure the old guy was planning to take the dog with them. Not that Dean was necessarily allowing the caretaker in the car either.

“We’re not going anywhere until you explain exactly what is going on with my brother,” Dean stated, stepping between the caretaker and the passenger door to the Impala.

“Oh dear,” the caretaker moaned, pointing to something behind Dean. “It appears we won’t be going anywhere right away.”

Dean spun around quickly and found himself face to face with a ghoul who was crouching on the roof of the Impala. Its claws clicked on the roof as it edged its way closer to Dean. With an inhuman growl the muscles in its haunches bunched and it leapt at Dean, claws extended and teeth bared.

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery

Dean twisted sharply as the weight of the ghoul connected solidly with his shoulder. He fell to the ground and rolled quickly to his feet. The ghoul’s momentum had carried it past him and it was now circling back around. Dean could feel the blood trickling down his arm and into the crook of his elbow as he reached for the knife safely tucked in his inside jacket pocket. He realized, as he turned to face the ghoul that his right arm was not going to hold up to a battle of strength. It was a good thing his dad had taught him how to fight with both.

“Be careful, they’re fast,” the caretaker warned, waggling a finger at Dean.

“Would you get in the damn car?” Dean snapped, opening the passenger door for the thin, old man.

“I could help,” the caretaker offered, moving to stand between Dean and the ghoul.

“You can help by staying out of my way,” Dean commanded. “Now, get in the car!”

The little man jumped at Dean’s tone and dove into the passenger seat. Dean slammed the door shut and was broadsided by the ghoul knocking him into the side of the Impala. The force of the collision caused Dean’s shoulder to hit the passenger door followed quickly by his head impacting the window with a sickening crack.

Dean moaned as he steadied himself by resting his hand on the car. He noticed the crack in the passenger window and muttered, “Son of a…” Dean was hit again by the ghoul, knocking him once more against the Impala causing the fractured window to spider web outward in a spiraling loop.

Shaking off the disorientation of yet another knock to the head, Dean switched the knife from his right hand to his left and frantically scanned the area for the creature. A blurred shadow to his left had Dean reacting before he could fully register what he was counter-attacking. He swung his arm in a wide arc neatly slicing through the ghoul’s neck in one smooth action.

The ghoul’s spongy flesh made a wet sucking sound as the long blade sliced through it. Its head did not immediately detach, but sat for a moment as if still connected to its host. Its unseeing eyes wide and mouth open in a silent howl, before it dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

The head landed with a splash in a dirty puddle spraying droplets of mud on Dean’s boots. The body followed the head only seconds later, but by then Dean was already safely on the other side of the Impala and slipping into the seat. He slammed the door shut and gunned the engine. It was then Dean noticed the caretaker was no longer in the car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel in frustration wincing as his shoulder reminded him of his poor choice. Pressing his foot to the accelerator he drove off kicking up gravel. It was time to go get Sam.

Monroe Family Mausoleum

Ezra Umholtz leafed slowly through a tattered, worn grimoire searching for the proper ritual. Everything needed to be perfect before the final chosen one arrived. He heard the scratchy sound of shuffling feet behind him, but he did not deign to acknowledge the other’s presence just yet. Why could they not understand the simplest of instructions? He needed time to prepare and there was precious little time left to do so.

Finally and with great reluctance he spoke. “Why do you disturb me?” he asked coldly.

“The protector, he has left the grounds again,” the timid voice behind him replied. “And another one of your pets is dead.”

Ezra sighed loudly. “While that is troublesome it is hardly worth disturbing my preparations for. The protector will return and when he does he will have the chosen one with him.”

“They have called in another,” the voice whispered, almost afraid to be heard.

“Is he a threat?” Ezra asked, his voice showing interest in the other for the first time.

“No one is a threat to you,” the other responded with the proper words.

“Let us make certain of that, shall we?” Ezra replied, turning to face the black-robed man behind him. “My newest addition should be ready for his first assignment.” He turned back towards the altar and continued to leaf through the book. He listened as the feet shuffled away. “Oh and see to it that I am not disturbed again,” he commanded.

“Of course,” the small reply came before the heavy marble door closed once more.

Allamakee County Hospital

Bobby paced in front of the door to Sam’s room. He had been evicted from it no more than fifteen minutes ago when Sam’s doctor had been summoned by the head nurse. When Sam had awakened the second time since Dean’s absence he was having trouble breathing and he was sweating profusely. Bobby had called for the nurse immediately. Sam was not going to come to harm on his watch.

Jean had arrived in a flurry of activity, announcing Sam’s temperature was up again to 102.6. She had left mumbling something about fetching the doctor. When Jean and the doctor arrived Bobby heard her tell him the patient was febrile and diaphoretic as well as suffering from tachypnea. That was when he’d been told in no uncertain terms to leave the room.

Bobby had considered protesting. Dean would expect him to stay with Sam. However, he was not truly family and he knew they could not afford to draw attention to themselves. He had left the room, but he was not about to go any further than the doorway. Bobby was debating on whether or not to barge back in when Jean appeared.

“You can go back in,” Jean informed him. “The doctor has ordered some tests. We’ve upped Sam’s oxygen mix and he’s breathing easier.”

“What does the doctor think is wrong?” Bobby asked gruffly.

“That’s really for the doctor to explain to Sam and his brother,” Jean replied in a tone that left no room for argument. She walked off without a backwards glance and Bobby slipped back into the room.

“We’ll know more when the tests come back,” Dr. Chadwick was explaining to Sam. “Right now, I’d say you’re battling an infection, but I really can’t be certain until I see the test results.”

Sam wasted not a breath on answering, but simply nodded his head in understanding. He tried to focus on what the doctor was saying, but it took entirely too much effort. When he realized he was having trouble comprehending was when the fear took over. He looked over at the man who had entered the room. Sam knew he knew who the man was, but putting a name to him seemed an insurmountable task.

“Sam, how are you holding up?” Bobby asked. He caught the wild look in Sam’s eyes and tried to sound reassuring. He failed miserably.

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Sam wheezed breathlessly. Bobby. That was his name.

“Sam, I’ll leave you alone with your uncle,” Dr. Chadwick stated, turning to leave. “But I’ll be back when we have the test results.”

“How long do you think that will be?” Bobby asked in a clipped voice and added for good measure, “His brother will be back soon and he’s going to want some answers.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will,” Dr. Chadwick replied. He focused his attention back on Sam and said, “Your brother seems to have built up quite the reputation with the hospital staff.”

Sam snorted lightly, the only response he had the energy to make. “Where’s Dean?” he managed after a pause, panic edging its way into his voice.

“He’s getting some sleep, remember?” Bobby prompted. Sam’s behavior concerned him. No matter how poorly he was feeling he would not intentionally blow Dean’s cover story.

Sam knitted his brow in confusion. That didn’t seem right. The doctor caught Sam’s expression and decided to intervene. “Sam is probably a little confused and disoriented right now, partially due to his fever. The test results should be back within the hour. I’m having them rushed at the lab.”

Dr. Chadwick started to walk out the door when he was stopped short by Bobby’s next question. “If it is an infection, how bad is it? He’s been steadily getting worse since I’ve been here.”

The doctor took a deep breath and turned back towards Bobby. “Frankly, the sudden onset of symptoms and the rapid progression do have me concerned. I really can’t speculate further without evaluating the test results.” When Bobby offered nothing further other than a head bob, Dr. Chadwick took it as a sign of dismissal and quickly left.

Bobby turned his attention back towards Sam. Sam was still pale and sweaty, but his breathing seemed a little easier with the increased oxygen. He was looking about the room with unfocused eyes and Bobby knew that even in his confused state Sam was searching for his brother. “He better get his butt back here soon. This is way beyond my job description,” Bobby remarked as Sam closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to be Dean for you.”

The Impala skidded to a stop on the third floor of the hospital parking garage. Dean reached across the wheel and shoved the car into Park with his left hand. Blood had continued to run down his arm on the trip back from the cemetery, but Dean had managed to keep it from soiling the interior of his car by pulling his hand into his shirt sleeve and holding it closed with his fingers. He knew he would have to get his shoulder looked at, but right now he was only concerned with getting Sam back to the cemetery.

Dean still was not sure the caretaker was the answer, but he was more afraid not to take Sam to the cemetery. He had tried several times to reach Bobby from the car, but each time he had reached only voicemail. It seemed highly unlikely that Bobby had turned off his cell phone for any reason, although it was possibly he had decided to follow the rules for once. It was also possible Bobby had sprouted wings and was regaling the hospital staff with a little fairy dance, though neither seemed very likely. Dean’s imagination had run amok over the thirty minute made twenty, trip back to the hospital from the cemetery.

Hard footfalls pounded down quiet hospital hallways mindless of the disapproving looks they generated. He breezed past the nurses’ station and burst into Sam’s room. Bobby’s stack of books still sat in the windowsill. Sam’s shoes still rested in a plastic bag on the floor near the foot of the bed where Dean had deposited them earlier after his search for a cell phone. The only things missing from the room were Sam and Bobby.

Dean dashed back out to the nurses’ desk. “Where’s my brother?” he demanded. He was greeted by blank stares and questioning looks. “Where is my brother?” Dean asked again, slowly and carefully pausing after each word. “Sam Elden? Where is Sam?”

“Calm down, Mr. Elden,” Jean replied from behind him. “Sam is in his room.”

“And do you think if he was, I’d be wasting my time out here with you?” Dean asked sharply, turning to face the older nurse. “Sam is not in his room and neither is our uncle.”

Jean placed a hand on Dean’s arm. “Sam may have been taken down for some tests,” she explained. “He is experiencing symptoms of an infection and we are trying to isolate the cause.”

“Where would they have taken him?” Dean asked, not acknowledging her statement. It wasn’t an infection, Dean was sure of that now.

“Give me a minute to call around and I’ll find out,” Jean replied, with a small smile. She walked around Dean and stood behind the desk. “We have a pretty modest facility. I shouldn’t have too much trouble tracking down Sam.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, flashing her a genuine in appearance but all too false smile. He drummed his fingers on the desk waiting for answers. He ignored the look of annoyance Jean shot at him. He was impervious to her stern schoolmarmish glares.

After several phone calls Jean had to concede defeat. She looked up at Dean and said, “I’m sorry, no one seems to know where Sam is at the moment.”

“You’ve lost him?” Dean asked angrily.

“No, of course not,” Jean replied defensively. She tapped her pen on the open charts in front of her in a steady beat. “We just don’t know exactly where he is at the moment and…” Jean huffed in annoyance when Dean turned away from her and shot back down the hall towards Sam’s room. If he was not going to stick around for her explanation she was not going to trouble herself over him.

Sam sat huddled in the dark. The strong smell of antiseptics, ammonia and bleach filled the air aggravating his dry nasal passages. The cleaning agents made it harder to breathe and he was so cold. He wrapped the cotton blanket around him with shaking arms and hugged his knees. He fought against the shivers that wracked his body sending fresh shoots of pain across his chest and stomach. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.

Bobby had cautioned him to remain quiet and to stay hidden no matter what happened. Sam was not sure what Bobby was so concerned about, but he would do what Bobby had asked him to do. He lacked the strength to do much else anyway. He knew he would be hard pressed to defend himself despite the knife he still clutched in one hand.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside his door. Sam could see the shadow of a passing figure through the slats in the vent at the bottom of the door that let sound and light into the small confines of the closet. Who it was Sam did not know, so he concentrated on quieting his breathing, but he had to fight hard to get enough air, despite the portable oxygen tank Bobby had dragged in here. Wherever Bobby had gone, Sam hoped he came back soon.

“Dean, I’m glad I ran into you,” Dr. Chadwick said, stopping Dean in the hall. “I need to talk to you about Sam’s condition.”

“Nurse Ratched already filled me in. She said you think Sam has an infection,” Dean said barely pausing long enough to look the doctor in the eye.

“I did,” Dr. Chadwick replied, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

The past tense statement did not elude Dean. “What do you mean, did?” he asked, shrugging off the doctor’s gentle grip. He was thankful Chadwick had not grabbed his other shoulder or he would have had a whole other round of questions to field.

Dr. Chadwick pulled back his hand and explained, “His white blood cell count is normal. With an infection, we would expect it to be much higher especially with how pronounced his symptoms are. His hemoglobin and hematocrit tests came back irregular, but not markedly so and that is easily explained by the recent blood loss and transfusions. Strangely none of that explains an apparent decrease in renal function.”

The perplexed look on Dr. Chadwick’s face angered Dean. “So, essentially what you’re telling me is you don’t know what’s wrong with Sam?” Dean asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Dr. Chadwick corrected.

“Do you at least know where he is?” Dean asked, his annoyance growing.

“Sam should be in his room,” Dr. Chadwick replied. “I didn’t schedule him for any tests that would have required him to be moved. Did you check with the nurses? They may have been forced to do a room change.”

“Yes, I did check with the nurses and they seemed to think he was off having tests done. His stuff’s still in his room, it’s Sam that is missing,” Dean explained with what he felt was a great deal of patience considering the circumstances.

Dr. Chadwick took an involuntary step backwards at the sight of Dean’s clenched fists. While he did not honestly believe the man in front of him would hit anyone unless it was necessary, he was a little afraid of what Dean would consider it necessary to fight for and he was beginning to fully understand Sam was on that list. “I’ll check with the nurses again,” Dr. Chadwick offered. “Wait here.”

“Like hell,” Dean murmured to Dr. Chadwick’s back and headed off to search for Sam and Bobby.

Bobby moved slowly down the stairwell checking carefully in the hidden alcoves at the bottom of each flight. He was sure he had seen the creature enter the stairwell and so far at each flight he had found the door back into the hospital to be locked. That meant that somewhere between here and the ground floor he was sure to run into the ghoulish creature.

The knife in Bobby’s hand was one of his favorites. A long, sharp machete he had picked up from an antique dealer at the Snickersnee Shack. The handle of polished wood was the perfect heft and strength for the blade-length. Bobby appreciated fine workmanship in the tools of his trade from the perfect machete for hunting to the perfect wrench for removing an air filter.

Shadowy movement on Bobby’s right caught his attention and he paused on the stairs. He stood frozen with one foot hovering above the step and one hand resting on the railing. He had patience and whatever this thing was it had not demonstrated a great deal of patience or intelligence.

Bobby did not have to wait long. The ghoul moved out from under the stairs and made a mad dash towards him. He could see the wild gleam in its eyes and the saliva dripping from its teeth as it charged. Bobby raised the machete high and swung.

Dean tapped his hand impatiently on his leg waiting for the elevator. The stairs may have been quicker, but he knew Bobby would not be able to get Sam down the stairs so it was pointless to head that direction. At least with the elevator there was a random chance he would bump into them.

He had checked and Bobby’s truck was still in the garage so Dean knew Bobby and Sam were still here somewhere. He was also convinced Bobby had either moved Sam or someone had forced them both to leave. Neither option boded well for their current situation. If it was the former option that meant Sam was in more danger from something than he was from his injuries and if it was the latter option there was no telling what the reasons were.

At this point Dean was assuming they were missing because something or someone had made Bobby think they were in danger. If he knew Bobby, Bobby would have stashed Sam somewhere relatively safe and then gone after whatever it was. Strategically, it made the most sense even if Dean would not have done it that way himself.

The question remained, where was somewhere relatively safe when Sam’s own hospital room had proven not to be? It would have to be close to Sam’s room to avoid being detected, but somewhere not too many people would be in and out of all day. Preferably it should be locked, limiting the chance of being discovered even more as the lock would be no problem for Bobby when he returned.

Dean mentally traversed the hall near Sam’s room on the elevator trip back up to the third floor. The nurses’ station was on the west side, Sam’s room three doors south from there on the east side. Bobby would not have taken Sam towards the nurses’ desk so Dean walked further down the hall in his mind. Two more rooms on the west, one of the east, a unisex bathroom and fire extinguisher on the east.

When the elevator doors opened again, Dean took off at a fast clip. There was a utility closet not four doors down from Sam’s room.

Sam struggled to stay conscious. Bobby had drilled into him the importance of staying awake. Sam wiped his sweaty hand off on the cotton blanket and renewed his tenuous grip on the knife. He could no longer hold himself upright and lay down on the cold tile floor. He would stay awake, but he could no longer fight.

Footsteps sounded outside his door again and Sam tried to focus on the shadows through the vent. When the door opened, a shaft of light pierced Sam’s eyes and he blinked owlishly at the figure before him. “Dean?” he whispered.

“Sorry, Sam,” the deep voice above him spoke. “Dean’s not here right now.”

Sam felt hands lifting him and moving him into a chair. The knife was gently removed from his hand and the blanket tucked in around him. He heard the oxygen tank being secured to the chair and when the door was opened again, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of florescent lighting.

“Hold on Sam,” the voice reassured him, pushing the chair forward. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Sam struggled to focus and to identify the man behind the voice, but his fevered brain refused to make the connection.

Dean rounded the corner in time to see Bobby’s quickly retreating form disappearing around the corner at the other end of the corridor. He picked up the pace and rushed to intercept him. Dean would have been amused by the sight before him had the circumstances not been so dire. Bobby was pushing Sam in a wheelchair with one hand as the other arm was burdened with Bobby’s stack of books. The arm that was pushing the chair had Sam’s messenger bag thrown over a shoulder. The plastic bag of shoes was wrapped around the handle of the wheelchair.

“Bobby,” Dean called softly once he was within earshot.

Bobby stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around to face Dean. “Keep your eyes sharp,” he cautioned by way of greeting. “I’ve already killed one of those damn things and I don’t know how many there are out there. I didn’t see any signs of more than one, but you never can tell. I can tell you this much, Sam is right. That creature was definitely a ghoul of some kind.”

Dean nodded and remarked, “We need to get Sam out of here.” He tried to get a good look at Sam, but Bobby was steadfastly in his way. He finally bumped Bobby none-to-gently to the side and knelt down beside Sam. Dean took in the pale, waxen complexion and shallow breathing. “Sammy?” Dean placed a hand on Sam’s arm hoping to garner a reaction from his brother. Sam furrowed his brow, but otherwise did not respond.

“Come on, Dean,” Bobby said at last nudging Dean with his boot. “You were right, we need to get Sam out of here and the longer we are in the hall, the greater the chance of being discovered.”

Dean stood up quickly and assumed control of the wheelchair. “We’re going to have to move fast,” Dean stated, starting down the hall. “According to the caretaker at the cemetery Sam was chosen by the Necromancer for something and Sam is…I think Sam is dying,” Dean choked out.

Bobby remained silent. His brief research had revealed the same thing. What he was lacking was an answer to the unspoken question. How were they going to save Sam?

Getting Sam out of the hospital and into the parking garage was disturbingly easy considering Sam did not look like someone who should be leaving the hospital. They had done their best to avoid anyone, but those they did meet did not question why they were pushing a very obviously ill man down the hospital corridors. Dean wondered how many people took their family members out for strolls in the halls long after all hope for recovery had past. That would explain the lack of reaction from the hospital staff.

“I’m going to need your help getting him into the back seat,” Dean stated opening the rear doors to the Impala. He knew he could and had managed to wrestle Sam’s lanky and unconscious form into the car himself before, but he could not guarantee he could do it now without hurting Sam.

Bobby had pulled Sam off the floor in the utility closet and he knew how heavy that boy was despite how lean he appeared to be. Bobby opened the opposite door and leaned through the Impala to guide Sam across the rear seat. Sam moaned once, but did not awaken. They had to bend his knees up towards his waist to fit his long his legs into the seat.

Dean removed his jacket and bunched it up under Sam’s head as a makeshift pillow. Reaching through to the front seat he opened the glove box and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Three large strips of tape later, Dean had the oxygen tank secured to the rear seat. Sam was going to be busy getting adhesive residue off the leather interior later. Dean refused to believe for even a moment that Sam would not be around later to do so. He wrapped the stolen blankets around Sam and gently closed the rear door at Sam’s feet.

“Keys,” Bobby stated holding out his hand in a tone that left no room for argument.

“My car,” Dean replied, not relinquishing the keys. “We need to get to the cemetery quickly. I know the road and I know my car.”

“And despite what you seem to think, I know you,” Bobby replied. “Do you even realize you have a concussion? That shoulder of yours,” Bobby continued nodding his head towards Dean’s right shoulder. “Is bleeding pretty bad. Now, I ain’t gonna be stupid enough to suggest we fix that right now, but you aren’t driving.”

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Dean quoted with a horrible British accent. He tossed Bobby the keys with his left hand.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and huffed, “What? You’re kidding me with this?”

“But, I’m letting you drive,” Dean quipped climbing into the passenger seat and turning around to the rear seat to face Sam. “Just try to keep it at sixty will ya?”

Bobby closed the rear door near Sam’s head and slid in behind the wheel. “I’ll try, but it’s gonna be hard to drive that slow.” He backed carefully out of the parking spot and headed out.

Dean tried sitting in the front seat twisted around and facing Sam, but in the end he just felt too far away, as if the seat itself was too much of a barrier between him and his brother. He opted instead to sit on the axel well on the floor in the rear seat, his legs bent and crammed into the floor space beside Sam. If Bobby had any thoughts on Dean choosing to ride on the floor in the back seat he did not comment.

Sam moaned and furrowed his brow. “Hey, are you awake, Sam?” Dean asked, though he was not expecting a response.

“Dean?” Sam asked so quietly Dean barely heard him over the road noise.

“Sam?” Dean asked again. He leaned forward and brushed Sam’s wet bangs off his forehead. Sam was burning up.

Sam’s eyes slowly opened and roamed the interior of the Impala before settling on Dean. “Where are we going?” he asked softly, awareness shining in his eyes.

“To get help for you,” Dean replied. He rested a hand on Sam’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be okay, Sammy. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” Sam whispered, trust reflecting in his eyes before they fluttered closed again.

“Hey, are you still with me, Sam?” Dean asked, giving Sam a gentle shake. Sam did not respond, not a moan not even an eye twitch. “Bobby?”

“Yeah?” Bobby asked, looking at Dean’s urgent face through the rearview mirror.

“Drive faster.”

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery , Caretaker Residence

The caretaker finished his final preparations for the ritual. He knew Dean was on his way back here and this time he had Sam in tow. He had drawn the appropriate symbols of healing on the long, wooden table and purified the area with sage. The olive oil, lavender and many assorted herbs were next to the table waiting for the ceremony to begin. Candles burned brightly in the small room and the chimes in the doorway tinkled in the slight breeze. All that was needed was Sam.

Gravel crunched and doors slammed announcing the arrival of the Winchesters plus one. The caretaker grabbed a small lantern and scurried out to lead Dean to the correct place. Dean and the other man were carefully carrying Sam along the uneven ground. The wind picked up briefly and the caretaker tilted his head, listening. Singer.

“This way, this way,” the caretaker urged them. He waved his hand, beckoning them closer to his home. “Hurry.”

Dean looked up at the caretaker and frowned. He was not entirely sure he could trust the slippery little man, but at this point he did not have much of a choice. The trip from the hospital to the cemetery seemed to take an eternity. After Sam lapsed into unconsciousness, he had watched Sam’s breathing became even shallower and labored and his face impossibly more pale. Sam no longer responded in any meaningful way to Dean’s pleas.

Now he was carrying his little brother into the dilapidated home of a cemetery caretaker looking for a miracle cure. The medical professionals could not help Sam; they were not able find anything wrong with him other than the obvious symptoms, but not the cause.

Dean and Bobby laid Sam on the wooden table and Dean carefully positioned Sam’s arms and legs. He set the oxygen tank under the table and stepped away from Sam only far enough to allow the caretaker access to his brother. He stood at Sam’s head watching every move the caretaker made.

The wizened man smiled at Dean and started chanting while he worked. Dean listened carefully. “And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live,” the caretaker intoned.

The caretaker repeated the incantation as he cut open Sam’s hospital gown from his neck to his waist, laying bare his chest and stomach and exposing the many staples used to repair the lacerations from the ghoul. He poured olive oil on Sam’s stomach and chest, drawing a symbol in oil on Sam’s body.

He repeated the incantation a third time when he sprinkled the herbs over the oil. “And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.”

Dean watched the ceremony with trepidation and little hope. It certainly seemed like a very simple ritual that was designed to offer solace for the family, but little help for the sick. As the incantation drew to a close for the third time, Sam drew in a long shuddering breath and then – nothing. His chest was no longer moving.

Dean was not sure how it was that he was still standing. He knew he wasn’t breathing and that his heart wasn’t pumping any blood. He had felt the blood rush from his face and his chest, pooling in his useless hands and wooden feet. He could not possibly be breathing; his heart could not possibly be beating. That was why it surprised him that he could hear the echo of his heartbeat resounding in his ears and pounding in his brain. That was why he could no longer hear anyone around him and why the world took on a watery, blurry appearance. That was why he did not even hear the whispered prayer uttered from his own lips.

“Come on, Sammy, breathe.”

Whispered voices beckoned him down the corridor. The corridor was dark and unfamiliar, but Sam was not afraid. He knew who was at the end of the corridor and he was looking forward to seeing them again. He wondered if that meant he would not see Dean for awhile, but when he turned back around he found the corridor behind him was no longer there. There was only black, swirling mist and silence.

He continued walking towards the end of the corridor. Light now shone through the darkness sending shafts of illumination through the closed door in front of him. He could hear the voices louder now and knew he would find the door unlocked when he approached.

Sam turned the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. He closed his eyes against the intense and sudden onslaught of light. After his eyes adjusted to the light Sam opened them, smiled and started to walk through the door when it abruptly slammed closed and he felt himself being pulled quickly backwards through the corridor.

Sound came rushing back when Dean saw Sam’s chest expand with life. It hit him with such force he staggered under the sheer volume of it. “Dean!” Bobby yelled, his face looming in front of Dean’s and his fingers gripping Dean’s arms painfully.

Dean did not tear his gaze from Sam. The shallow but beautiful rhythmic breathing of his little brother mesmerized him as he stood silently watching. “Dean!” Bobby shouted again. This time the sound penetrated Dean’s awareness and he spared Bobby a quick glance. Hands tried to steer him away from his vantage spot, but Dean resolutely stood his ground.

A chair hit the back of his legs and he felt a push on his shoulders urging him to sit down. “Is he okay, really?” Dean asked no one in particular. He leaned forward and grasped Sam’s arm. It was still very warm from fever.

“He is no longer dying,” the caretaker replied cryptically, patting Dean on the shoulder. “But he still needs to fight to live.”

Dean did not even look up at Bobby when he felt his shirt cut open. “You couldn’t just ask me to take it off?” Dean grumbled.

“It’s a total loss, trust me,” Bobby replied, not pausing in his task.

“What do you mean he still needs to fight to live?” Dean asked. He scanned Sam’s face hoping for some sort of reaction. “Is he still in danger?”

“Not from death,” the caretaker replied. “Only from not living.”

Dean growled deep in his chest and the caretaker stumbled backwards. Even Bobby stopped poking Dean’s shoulder and eyed him warily. “Would you stop speaking in riddles like some damn Chinese fortune cookie and tell me what is happening with Sam?” Dean snapped.

“Death is no longer coming for Sam,” the caretaker explained. “But your brother was dying and he needs time to fight the poison in his blood and for his body to repair itself and be whole again.”

Bobby sighed and clapped his hand down on Dean’s shoulder as he started to rise, forcing him to remain seated. Dean groaned lightly. “Dean, he’s just sayin’ Sam needs some time to get better. Now sit still and let me stitch you up,” Bobby explained.

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly it,” the caretaker agreed bobbing his head. “But he was very close to death; he could hear it calling him. It is going to take quite awhile, if it happens at all.”

Dean grunted when Bobby flushed the cuts on his shoulder. “Quite awhile? If it happens? Is he going to be okay soon, or should we be finding medical supplies?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

“It is impossible to say,” the caretaker replied moving about the table and stepping into the small space between the brothers, temporarily obscuring Dean’s view.

Dean moved to get up a second time and Bobby pushed him down again. “You mind, movin’?” Bobby asked. “You’re blocking the view.” He bobbed his head in Sam’s general direction and then back to Dean.

“Oh,” the little man replied, moving out of the line of sight. He tilted his head to the side and gave Dean an appraising look. “You are this one’s protector?”

“I’m his brother, yeah,” Dean replied, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. “We look out for each other.”

“But you, you are the oldest?” the caretaker asked.

“Ow! Yeah,” Dean replied, temporarily tearing his gaze from Sam to glare at Bobby.

“Sorry,” Bobby murmured insincerely, pulling through another stitch.

“Oh dear,” the caretaker moaned. He flitted around the table, fiddling with the items around Sam and arranging them in a precise order. “Oh dear.”

“What?” Dean asked, grumpily. He was about two seconds from tearing the blasted needle out of Bobby’s hand and poking the strange caretaker in the eye with it.

“I knew you were brothers,” the caretaker said moving closer to Dean again. “I just didn’t realize how close you were to matching what he is looking for.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He really was too tired for this. “You done there?” Dean asked, looking up at Bobby. “I’d like to get Sam moved to a bed.”

“No!” the caretaker shouted.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You mind explaining why?” he asked.

“Sam should stay in the area of healing until he is stronger,” the old man stuttered. “He is safer there and he will heal faster.”

Dean stood up and staggered towards the only bed in the one room abode. He pulled the blankets off the bed and grabbed the pillow. Stalking back to the table he placed the pillow under Sam’s head and covered him up to his waist with the blankets. Dean looked up at the caretaker when he put his hand over Dean’s preventing him from pulling the blankets up any further. “Sam needs to be kept warm to prevent shock and to help him stay comfortable so he’ll rest and heal,” Dean said.

“You need to leave the oil undisturbed until he is stronger,” the caretaker explained. He moved towards the small stove and poured boiling water into three tea cups. “We will keep him warm with heated rice bags. When he does awaken, I have a special tea for him. It is important you are both ready when the time comes.”

“When the time comes for what?” Bobby asked, walking up beside Dean and pulling out a pair of scissors. In one quick movement he snipped the thread and retrieved his dangling needle from Dean’s shoulder. Slapping a bandage over the top he pressed down all four pieces of tape securing it in place.

“I’m not the only one who speaks to the dead,” the caretaker moaned. “The Necromancer does too. He must know. I’m sure he knows.” He handed Dean a cup of the tea and moved back to the oven. He pulled three cloth bags out of the oven and juggled them to keep the heat from burning his hands. He placed them around Sam’s head and chest.

Dean drained the cup of tea and sat back down in the chair near Sam. He was so tired and this game of, ‘riddle me this, riddle me that,’ the caretaker seemed hell bent on playing was wearing. “Know what?”

“Excuse me?” the caretaker asked from his position near the stove. He was pouring Dean another glass of tea.

“The Necromancer knows what?” Dean asked, blinking his eyes rapidly to keep them open. Wild, white hair appeared in his vision and Dean swatted at the wiry strands. Voices swirled in vibrant color and sound slowed and lengthened until individual words could no longer be distinguished. He looked up at Bobby’s blurry form and tried to focus his thoughts. Someone needed to watch out for Sam and he was afraid he would not be able to.

“I got it covered, Dean,” Bobby replied, reading the naked need on Dean’s face. “Don’t worry about Sam.”

Something of what he said must have made it through to Dean despite the fact his eyes looked unfocused and glassy before they closed. Dean slumped forward and Bobby caught him by the chest, holding him in place on the chair.

“Did you drug his tea with something?” Bobby demanded angrily, grasping Dean under his good arm and steering him drunkenly towards the rumpled bed.

“He needs rest,” the caretaker replied unapologetically. His blue eyes flicked between Dean and Sam. “They both do.”

“You’re right, but I ain’t taking the heat for you when Dean finds out you drugged his tea,” Bobby replied, his tone softening a tad.

The caretaker’s eyes widened at the thought before he turned away from Bobby and placed three more rice bags into the oven.

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Monroe Family Mausoleum

The Necromancer howled in frustration and slammed his fist onto the altar. He had been so close, so very close to success. He had planned for this and worked for this for so long. The amulet had been reclaimed after the debacle that had caused it to fall into the hands of the chosen one. The attempts at the hospital had been thwarted, but in the end he knew he would be successful. Even when the protector arrived and returned the chosen one to the cemetery, he believed victory would be his.

Now, however, the chosen one had been ripped from him at the last moment. He could still feel the residual trail left by the other in his wake. Even now it led him directly to the chosen one, if only he could follow it to the source. But something was blocking his efforts and preventing him from gaining access to the chosen one.

He considered himself a patient man, a true spider carefully spinning a meticulous web in which to catch the perfect prey. What he had not counted on was how far the protector would go to save the other. He had not realized the power he hoped to bottle for his own consumption was too strong to be captured so easily. It was not a mistake he would make again.

Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Caretaker Residence

Dean crawled out of his subconscious and back to awareness as the sun was setting. He blinked lazily out the window from his spot on the bed trying to clear his muzzy mind. The time of day seemed wrong and in a moment of lucidity Dean recalled the events leading up to his sudden departure with reality.

He sat up quickly and scanned the room for any sign of the caretaker. He instantly regretted the action as his stomach rebelled and rumbled loudly in protest. He felt light-headed and the room spun wickedly out of control. He supported the weight of his head in his hands and breathed deeply willing the world to right itself. It was just his luck, a hangover without the fun that came the night before.

“You okay?” he heard Bobby ask. Dean lifted his head and this time managed to keep everything in the room in its rightful place. He did not immediately see Bobby, but finally spotted him wedged in between the stove and the back counter on the other side of Sam.

Dean did not answer, but pushed himself to a standing position on unsteady legs. He waited until he suppressed the shaking in his limbs before attempting the fifteen foot trip to the table. He rested his hands on the table to balance him and took a good look at Sam.

Sam had regained a small portion of color in his face. He seemed to be breathing easily and deeply even though someone had removed the nasal canula. “He hasn’t been awake yet,” Bobby remarked from his chair.

Dean looked over at Bobby. “How long?” he asked simply.

“Nearly ten hours,” Bobby supplied. “If you’re able to take over here, I’ll liberate some medical supplies from town. The charms and herbal satchels hung around here should ward off anything that may come around.”

Dean nodded and flashed Bobby a brief look of gratitude. “Thanks.” Dean jutted his chin in the direction of a stack of books balanced precariously on the edge of the counter. “Did you find anything?”

“Sam found out the markings on the amulet were ancient Hebrew pictographs. The symbols for life on one side and death on the other,” Bobby answered.

“Hebrew? That’s different,” Dean remarked. He took a seat in his former chair and straightened Sam’s blankets as best as he could from that position.

“This is old time necromancy,” Bobby said. “We’re talking old enough to be hinted at in the Old Testament, King Solomon and the witch of Endor old.”

Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore, but Bobby seemed to be headed the right way for a lightning bolt to strike him. “Isn’t necromancy considered demonic in origin?” he asked finally.

“Sure - now,” Bobby agreed. “But in its earliest incarnation it was considered a valid way to talk to the dead and to gain wisdom from the dead. It was later the belief switched to demonic forces having a hand in it and even later that a spirit could be forcibly fixed in the body of someone who had recently died.” Bobby stood up and walked over towards Dean on the opposite side of the table.

Dean did not look up as Bobby’s shadow fell across Sam, but asked, “Did you have anything to do with spiking my tea?” The words were calm and precise, a sure sign that Dean was upset.

“Nope,” Bobby replied. “But I can’t say I was entirely against it either.”

Dean did look up now and shoot angry green sparks in Bobby’s direction. “I can’t watch out for him if I’m drugged to the gills, Bobby.”

“Can’t disagree with you there,” Bobby replied. “Course, you can’t watch out for him if you collapse from injuries or exhaustion either. I’m here to help share that load.”

“He’s mine to protect. He’s my brother,” Dean stated, giving Sam’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“Dean, sharing the load doesn’t make it any less yours, it just makes it lighter,” Bobby replied. Sometimes Bobby was chock full of homespun wisdom. Other times he was chock full of bullshit. It seemed to even out over a period of time.

“Whatever, Bobby,” Dean grumbled, managing to sound quite a lot like Sam. He brushed Sam’s too long bangs off his forehead and rested his hand there for a bit. His temperature was still warm, but it was not radiating heat as it had in the Impala on the trip over.

Sam stirred under the gentle pressure of Dean’s hand on his forehead. “Sammy?” Dean asked, removing his hand. “Come on, Sam open your eyes for me.”

Dean was rewarded with the sight of Sam’s expressive hazel eyes slowly opening and turning their gaze on him. Sam silently mouthed Dean’s name and his eyes filled with fear. “It’s okay,” Dean said. “You’re gonna be okay. You’re just having a little trouble right now because you were hurt. You remember, don’t you?”

Relief flooded Sam’s eyes and he nodded almost imperceptibly. He struggled weakly to sit up, but Dean easily held him in place. “Sam, lie still,” Dean commanded. He softened his tone and asked, “Do you think you could drink something?”

Sam made a face. He certainly did not feel up to drinking anything. He felt different somehow, not bad or sick, just different. It took him a moment to place the feeling. The pit in his stomach was gone. Sam moved his hand to his stomach and pulled it away with a surprised look on his face. He held it up for Dean, questioning the substance on his hand and stomach.

“Olive oil and herbs,” Dean replied at the look of confusion on Sam’s face. Dean chuckled at the disgusted look on Sam’s face. “I think he got the cure out of a Betsy Cooker book,” Dean said, trying to make light of the situation to put Sam at ease.

“That’s Betty Crocker, Mr. Stewart,” Bobby quipped. He looked down at Sam and added, “Let’s get you sitting up a little more.” Bobby bunched up one of Sam’s blankets and Dean carefully lifted Sam’s torso so Bobby could slip the blanket under Sam.

Dean rearranged the pillow and stepped back to evaluate their handiwork. Sam was slightly inclined on the table, enough to allow him to drink, but not so much that it would pull on his staples. Sam was gripping the table and it was obvious the movement had hurt him despite how careful they had been. “I’m going to get you something to drink and Bobby is headed to town,” Dean stated both to explain the situation to Sam and to effectively dismiss Bobby.

Taking his cue, Bobby said, “I’m going to stop and get supplies, if you think of anything other than the obvious, call me.” Bobby started to walk out the door when he called over his shoulder, “I left my machete on the counter for you. Take care of it. It’s my favorite.”

“Bobby!” Dean called to the empty doorway. “Take care of her and we’ll consider it even!”

Bobby chuckled on his way to the car.

The grizzle-haired caretaker knelt down next to the black lab engaged in conversation. “Bojangles, those boys are in danger from that group of miscreants. I want you to stay here and guard the house. I’ll be back,” the caretaker instructed. The lab whined sadly and tapped the caretaker’s knee with his forepaw several times. “No, stay here,” the caretaker insisted. “I’ll be back soon.”

Bojangles moped back to the house and the caretaker walked off towards his herb garden. The younger boy would definitely need a pain relieving and healing tea. They would also need more satchels of herbal protection for the entry points into his home. He scurried off as fast as he could to the garden. His cupboard was terribly under stocked for necromantic invasion emergencies.

The caretaker quickly picked the herbs he needed for the tea and the satchels and headed back to the house. He moved stealthily through the brush and trees, not pausing until he was almost to his home. He pulled up short and squinted through the lengthening shadows of dusk. The others were here. He was too late.

Dean steeped the tea that had been clearly labeled with block letters, ‘FOR SAM.’ He was distrustful of the tea labeled, ‘FOR DEAN’ after his Rip Van Winkle impersonation earlier today and opted instead for a glass of straight tap water. Once the tea was sufficiently cooled he took a seat in the chair near Sam.

“Hey, Sam, wake up,” Dean urged, gently shaking his little brother.

Sam aroused easily which led Dean to believe he had only been resting and had not truly fallen asleep. “Drink up, pup,” Dean teased with words he used on Sam when he was small. He tipped the cup slowly allowing Sam to drink at his own speed.

Sam frowned over the brim of the cup. He was annoyed with his dependence on Dean and frustrated by his inability to relay words from his brain to his mouth. He drank slowly and stopped several times as his stomach protested the introduction of liquids after remaining empty for so long. Sam could feel his eyes growing heavy and the pain that wracked his body lessened considerably.

Dean was putting the cup into the sink when the first thud against the door occurred. At first, Dean thought it was the caretaker or that Bobby had somehow made it back without Dean hearing the Impala, but when the thud happened again, Dean suspected the truth.

The next knock was against the wall by the bed and Dean saw the boards bend inwards before snapping back to their original position. One of the satchels strung along the walls fell off onto the bed and another knock against the wall shook the dishes in the kitchen.

Glass shattering in the bathroom catapulted Dean into action. He grabbed the machete from the counter and the salt shaker from the back of the stove. Dean did not think salt would repel a ghoul, but at this point he would try anything to keep Sam safe.

He was laying a circle of salt around the table when Sam grabbed his arm. Dean read the emotions that moved through Sam’s eyes and face. He was scared and confused. No doubt in his semi-drugged state he felt he could not defend himself.

Sam was scared. He knew Dean would protect him and he had complete faith in his brother to do so. He also knew that Dean would put himself between Sam and the evil trying to break in and that he stood a very good chance of getting hurt. Dean seemed to collect knocks to the head the way some people collected state quarters. Sam knew one day even Dean’s hard head would not withstand the blow.

“I got it covered, Sam,” Dean reassured him. “Trust me.” He pulled Sam’s fingers loose from his arm and peered out the kitchen window. He could see the gray, clawed creatures in the small amount of light remaining. There seemed to be only two of them, but they were taking turns running towards the house and smashing into the walls and door testing for weakness.

Another thud on the door sent Dean’s last nerve dancing. “That’s it,” Dean announced. “We’re not going to sit around here waiting for them to come and get us.” He walked over to the kitchen drawers and started pulling them out and slamming them closed searching. Finally, he pulled an Ulu knife out of the drawer. It wasn’t ideal at all, but he was not leaving Sam completely defenseless either.

“Here,” Dean said, placing the handle of the knife in Sam’s palm. “You’re not going to need it,” he reassured him making eye contact with Sam and willing him to believe. Sam nodded and Dean turned back to the door. “Are you ready?” he asked looking back at Sam. Sam nodded again and Dean swung the door open and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

The two ghouls rushed together towards Dean within seconds. One ran at Dean from behind a rose bush. It swooped in close with rose petals flying, but made the mistake of running past Dean on the left, the hand in which he tightly held Bobby’s prize machete. One swing of the long blade later and the ghoul’s head neatly fell to the ground and rolled under the foliage.

The ghoul on Dean’s right made it all the way to him, knocking him back into the door. The wood creaked and before Dean could fully recover, it was back for a second strike. Claws grazed his shoulder pulling loose some of Bobby’s hard work and opening the wound anew. The third knock into the door caused the door to splinter and Dean’s ribs to burn.

Dean squared his shoulders and prepared for another assault. The ghoul rushed him again, but despite its greater speed, it was outmatched and it too fell in a headless heap on the ground. Dean stood there with eyes scanning the yard for any traces of activity and his chest heaving. The smell of death permeated the air and the wind tinkled the chimes in the doorway, but there were no signs of any more ghouls.

Once Dean was sure it was safe, he went inside and rejoined Sam. He wiped the blood that was trickling down his arm and off his fingers onto his jeans. “Told you, you wouldn’t need the knife,” Dean quipped, tossing Sam a smile.

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, when his eyes opened wide and he stared at something in the doorway. “Dean,” he whispered. Dean whirled around to face six hooded figures in black cloaks.

“There’s only supposed to be one Sith Lord and one apprentice,” Dean remarked, gesturing to the lot of them with a sweeping arm movement. He moved closer to Sam. “This is awkward,” he muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. Why was Dean’s first line of defense always to poke the bear? “Dean,” Sam whispered again.

Dean took two more steps towards his brother and raised the machete. “Stay back,” Dean ordered in a clipped, military style reminiscent of the eldest Winchester.

Sam saw the arm of the man closest to Dean raise his arm and the springs from the taser gun hit Dean in the chest. Dean fell to the ground, unconscious, his arms and legs still involuntarily twitching in small shivering bursts. Oh God, Dean!

Sam lifted his eyes when one of the hooded men stood in between Sam and Dean. “I’ve been waiting for you,” the pale-faced man stated. He reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’ve been chosen.”

The caretaker crouched in the bushes, his arm wrapped around his lab, watching as the men carried the Winchester brothers out of the house and deeper into the cemetery. “Follow them,” he whispered in the dog’s ear. The black dog ran after the men and disappeared into the night.

The lights from the Impala shone on the house and Bobby could plainly see the door was ajar. Dean would not leave the door wide open, inviting danger into the house. Bobby killed the lights and turned off the engine. He sat in the car for several moments debating his next move. The best reaction was action he decided and slipped from the car and headed for the house.

“They’re gone,” a quiet moan came from inside the house.

Bobby stepped over the threshold and found the caretaker sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. “Where’s Dean?” Bobby asked harshly. “Where’s Sam?”

“They’re gone,” the caretaker moaned again, looking up at Bobby. “He took them.”