Chapter Ten:

"Quiet, they'll hear us…," repeated Dean, low and just like he had in the dream, in that same dourness yet gentle tone.

Keeping his eyes on his brother, time seemed to slow down. This wasn't right, Sam thought to himself. He could feel it so deep in his bones; the air was off, denser. He could feel the wrongness surrounding them, can almost forebode the disaster up ahead. His heart was pounding through his two front teeth, his sweaty palms tight, gripping his knees.

This wasn't right.

Hazel eyes dart wildly for something – anything. Holy water… where is the holy water? Bible – Jesus, what verse would he have to read? Sam was breathing hard as his thoughts and emotions flooded him, overwhelmed him to the point where he was motionless as well as speechless.

This didn't make any sense. Why was Robby back? What would it prove? Fuck, they nearly killed each other for the little bastard's closure and now he was using Dean's body again, fucking with his mind and for what? Frank was paying the price now. Sam didn't understand.

The younger Winchester went for the dash, hands not even making it to the glove compartment before Dean snagged his wrist, fingers encircling tightly, halting him. "When you said that…" Dean started, loosening his grip when Sam goes tense as if he were afraid. "I remembered," Suddenly his eyes were wide, imploring and maybe even a little scared. "Don't you remember?"

And all Sam could do was shake his head, while his chest continued to constrict. What could have his brother recalled that would cloud his eyes with such horror? So Sam stayed quiet; he needed to know and Dean obviously needed to tell him.

"I passed out, didn't I?" He asked rhetorically, a hand to his head like all of this recapping hurt. "I had a dream," explained Dean, looking pointedly at Sam now. "I just remembered it."

Sam watched closely, looking concerned when he felt Dean's hand was shaking as he still held his wrist in a vise-like grip, like he needed that connection, needed it like a lifeline.

"They both took pills, a lot of 'em," Dean clarified and he could feel Sam's pulse racing through his wrist. "But— but Robby threw up, they both did so they had to take more but Robby didn't want to, he didn't understand."

"Please, Frankie. I'm sorry. I don't wanna take more, please. It hurts," Dean pleaded hoarsely still panting as he feebly continues to pull his shivering battered body across the threshold of the bathroom.

"Then they were there, downstairs, and Robby wouldn't be quiet, he was crying so loud and they were gonna hear us—" Dean's face crunched up and he shook his head, "I mean them. Them. They would hear them."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam asked gently, his free hand on Dean's shoulder, trying to calm him down because his brother was on the verge of hysteria.

The touch didn't help because Dean ranted on. "They touched them - or the man did and the woman didn't stop it. Kind of like Max's step-mom, only this chick was much more fucked up." He paused, finally meeting his brother's worried eyes. "Fuck, Sammy, he molested those kids." He said, shaking his head with disgust.

For a brief moment, he was quiet and he released Sam's hand, letting it drop. His own hands moved to the steering wheel, white-knuckled as he gripped it tightly as if he wanted to strangle the damn thing. "He was little, he didn't know it was wrong, but Frankie knew and he wanted it to stop but there was nowhere to go and he was scared. It was gonna be so easy; they would take the pills and just go to sleep… but Robby wouldn't stop crying when he got sick."

The words poured out of Dean's mouth, his eyes were darting as if the information was circling around his head, floating aimlessly in the car's interior. His chest was starting to heave, making Sam worried; he needed to calm his brother down.

"Okay, okay," Sam coaxed, his flat palms rising in a halting manner. "Just relax; it's alright."

"Alright!" Dean suddenly snapped and Sam couldn't help the resulting balk. "Jesus Christ, Sam, we just sent a man to fucking jail for something he did when he was twelve! It wasn't murder. It was like a suicide pact gone wrong."

"A pact, Dean? He was seven! A little boy!"

"And so was he!"

Dean's wild eyes had finally stopped but now they were simply furious. His erratic breathing changed but only for the worst, slow shallow breathes. The wheezing was like thunder in Sam's ears. Slowly, as if he were dealing with a wild, wounded animal, Sam inched closer to his brother, rested a hand on his shoulder while the other went for the dash again.

Dean mistook the gesture for something else. "I'm not possessed, you fucker."

"I know that," was the quick almost witty retort. Now he knew that. There was a small pause and than Sam threw out a comically chirped, "Cristo?" and was happy when Dean's lips curled into something of an amused smirk.

"You need your inhaler." Sam said a moment later and Dean, of course, rolled his eyes but didn't verbally object, knowing his brother was right. Giving Dean's arm a pat, Sam moved back for the dashboard again...

"I got it," huffed Dean as he reached across himself. He fumbled with the knob for a moment but didn't allow the thing to fly open, letting everything within disperse the way Sam had done a few nights before. Snatching out the plastic piece as he moved back into his seat, Dean shook it, getting ready.

Sam looked away when the mouthpiece, ridded of it's cap made a beeline for Dean's pursed lips because Dean has always fucking hated it when Sam watched this process though he never actually voiced it. It was just a screaming vibe that Sam always got, so he always managed to 'busy' himself as this part happened. Dean was thankful for the hugely small gesture.

There was a hiss, when the canister was depressed and Dean let out that expected gagging choke like he always did because apparently, it tasted nasty. After all these years you'd think he'd get used to it. Another hiss followed and soon Sam jumped an inch when the inhaler was tossed carelessly into his lap.

"There," Dean sighed, annoyed, and then started to drum his fingers against the steering wheel, anxiously.

The back of the train just barely crawled enough for Dean to pull through but the guardrails had yet to go up so they wait, stare straight again and hate the silence. Dean drew in a deep, even sounding breath to the left while Sam pretended to be very interested in his nail cuticles to the right.

Suddenly, they both say they're sorry at the same exact moment but Dean, ever-so-persistent, continued on.

"You're right, I guess… he made him take more, forced the fucking pills down his throat…" he trailed off at the end. "He choked, I think… Frankie panicked and took more himself. The kid was already dead when… they found Frankie just in time. Saved him. Thought they saved him." Sam couldn't help but think how sad his brother looked as he said this. Thought they saved him. Apparently they were wrong.

Sam nodded as if he understands it all and then offered nervously, shakily: "You know as well as I do that ghosts usually don't see in black and white, Dean. Murder is murder; there's no gray. And the fact that he was a kid and didn't know better about what was happening probably didn't help matters in the afterlife either." Sam averted his eyes as his hand absently moved to his lower abdomen, palming the tenseness that was knotting his muscles. His stomach was and has been in tangles for the past three days now. Everything that's happened was weighing down, heavier, heavier right on his shoulders and they slumped.

Honking of a horn from behind made them both jerk, startled. In the rearview mirror, there was a powder blue truck, a Ford, and it was tailgating the Impala. Without them noticing, the guardrails had finally gone up. Ford Guy honked again from behind, just to be a dick. Dean got the hint and eased the Chevy over the bumpy tracks, pulling back onto the road again.

Like clockwork, Sam heard Dean smacking his lips together, and he looked over to see his brother's face twisted in a grimace, his tongue lapping up the lingering mediciney taste coating the inside of his mouth.

"Ugh, do you have any gum or something?"

"Um…," mumbled Sam, leaning forward for the dash again. "Lemme see." He popped it open... with caution this time, and rummaged around for a while. Sam froze at what he uncovered. "Dean!"

Dean's eyes bulged. "What!"

"What the hell are these?" Demanded little brother and in his hand he held (more like crushed) three dime width, five inch Manolete Thompson cigars.

Dean flinched and felt like a teenager again, only his old man would not look half as pissed off as Sam did right now. "Uh, I was holding them for a friend?" He offered jokingly and Sam just looked even more livid.

When said person drew in a deep, lungful of air, Dean cringed, knowing a full fledged lecture is about to come. And… now!

"This isn't funny, Dean. Are you trying to kill yourself! Here I am freaking the fuck out because I got you sick, because I wanted to come here in the first place. And this whole time you're smoking cigars behind my back!"

"Are you done?" Monotone, bored.

"Yes!" Sam sputtered. "I mean no! What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"They're dads," explained Dean.

"You saying you've never smoked one?"

Dean frowned. "I might have… dabbled."

"Dean!"

"Simmer down, it was only once and I learned my lesson. Trust me, they're dads." A moment later, he risked a glance to his kid brother and noticed the way he was holding his stomach and the way his shoulders were tense yet at the same time they were drooping in defeat. Dean knew this body language all too well…

"None of this is your fault, Sam."

Sam looked over with brows to his hairline, caught off guard, he spat, "I know that—" He really didn't.

"You sure? Because what you just said right now… about getting me sick, about coming here. Plus you've got that 'I'm to blame about anything and everything goin' on throughout the whole fucking galaxy' vibe radiating off of ya…" A beat, "…I know you."

That 'I know you' somehow made Sam want to cry. Dean did know him, was probably the only person in the whole world that ever really did… or wanted. So he smiled and meant it and nodded back ruefully. "Yeah, I know, Dean." And it had countless interpretations.

Big brother seemed to back off and was paying attention to the road ahead of them now. Sam scoffed, shaking his head. This had to be the most talking they've done in a god damn week. But why ruin the roll they've got going now?

"I can't believe Dad let you smoke one of those…," he trailed off, looking pensive suddenly. "I always wondered why he never seemed angry or annoyed at the fact— your asthma, I mean. Knowing him, I always wondered why he never told you to suck it up or some shit like that. He was always so… patient about it." He laughed, bitter and low. "I mean, jesus, he told me to suck it up when my appendix nearly burst and I was nine."

Dean answered in a whisper. "I think mom had it…"

And it made perfect sense now. Sam felt warm and squishy feelings toward his father and almost felt jealous of Dean for having that connection with their mother. Dean had her eyes, nose, and hair and what the fuck did Sam have? Her death dangling over his head? Literally. It wasn't fair.

All Sam can whisper back was, "Oh."

They go about five miles in less-tense silence and end up having to stop at a red light this time, a four-way intersection and they both think it's ridiculous because the only other car in sight is behind them, that stupid fucking Ford again.

Sam looked down and noticed for what it seemed like the first time that Dean's inhaler was still in his lap. Bringing it up, he popped out the canister to read along the fine print. He gave a curious, "Huh" Making Dean turn to look over at him.

"What?"

"It's just," began Sam, looking thoughtful, "I noticed that you updated your prescription." When he cast a look to Dean, he saw that his brother looked almost confused. "I mean…" Sam looked worried, "Did this happen a lot while I was gone – your attacks? Enough for you to be…" Then he looked horrified, "precautious?"

Dean had to think for a moment though he knew exactly when the last one occurred. It was right before his dad pulled a Houdini, right before he came and got Sammy. Dean was laying low after an attack physically wore him out in New Orleans. He was sleeping it off when he got his father's call. The voicemail he showed Sam at Stanford, the very one that started it all.

"Nah, just the weather or something. You know how it goes."

Sam did know, knew too much.

Dean paused, smiling when the damn light finally turns green. "Anyway, you always rode my ass about it," explained Dean with a small shrug of the shoulder, as his foot eased down on the gas pedal. "It's habitual now, kind of like making sure the shotguns are loaded at all times."

Sam couldn't help but smile at this. "Right," he said, mockingly. "Well habitual or not, I'm glad you do. It's about time you listened to me"

Dean's arm flailed out to Sam, his hand swatting at him annoyingly and playfully though his eyes stay glued to the road. "You're such a know-it-all, you know that, don't you?"

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders, keeping them up near his ears for a little longer then usual, and where stated as a matter-of-fact, "Well, you know, Dean… Samuel knows best."

Dean snorted, orbs flickering heavenward into a quick eye roll at the reference. "Says you," He shook his head. "I hated that fucking Father Knows Best show you used to watch religiously."

"I didn't watch it religiously." He totally did. "It was just the only thing that ever came on in all the cable-less, five channel motels we stayed at."

"Yeah but you loved it. The normality, I bet. Even Dad kind of liked it after a while and started using that stupid phrase whenever you bitch at me to take care of myself." His face scrunched and he mimicked in a whiny, nasally voice. "Samuel Knows Best, Dean."

Sam gaped with mock astonishment. "Did you just use a four syllable word?"

Dean smiled all cheesy, eyes rolling again. "Hardy har-har."

Pointing a finger to the ceiling, Sam turned and looked knowledgeable. "Ya know, Jim Anderson was ranked number six in TV Guide's list of the '50 Greatest TV Dads of All Time' a few years ago."

Dean quirked a brow. "Do I wanna know why you know that? That show was so stupid."

Sam chuckled. "Hey, I didn't hear you complaining when they showed the teenage daughter, Princess. You had a total crush on her and you know it."

Dean licked his lips and soon they were pulling into a flirtatious grin. "You gotta admit that she rocked those short bangs, man. Virgins are hot."

Now it was Sam's turn to snort. Ah, things were back to normal again. Whatever 'normal' was for them. The sun was setting perfectly and the stench of cowshit was long gone now.

"So where to now, college boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. At first he didn't know what to say. A finger made it's way to his lips in thought but suddenly, he smirked as he remembered their deal from before. "Vegas?"

Giving his young brother a sideways glance, Dean puckered his lips attentively. "Vegas," he agreed, then his eyes abruptly narrowed in a playful manner.

"And, dude? Where's that gum I asked for?"

The End.