Consumed

Chapter 5

and epilogue...

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Apologies for the briefness of my replies to your reviews of the last chapter. Had a hectic night on call last night, and I still haven't had any sleep.

Only finished work a few hours ago, been awake around 35 hours now,

and starting to feel it...

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It took a little longer than the allotted five minutes to retrieve a bag of rock salt from the Impala, but John had a feeling he knew where Dean was going with this, and decided to let the kid prove his point.

"Ya see," Dean explained, as he circled Sam's bed, pouring out a thick stream of salt. "He told me, remember? Something followed him out of that grave… I think that's where he is right now, in his head…" he babbled on, frantic to get the words out. "Sam's back in that grave. That's what's caused all this… the TB… how it, uh, spread so fast… why Sam fell sick so quickly…"

John felt his heart thudding painfully with excitement. "You think this is some kind of ghost sickness?"

Dean stopped what he was doing for a moment and raised his head. "That's exactly what I think, but it works more like a curse. Those corpses? I bet they all died of TB. One of the villagers even said as much. And the skeleton of the baby? Yeah, that pissed them off all right."

"Sam was the only one of us that got sick," John realised his oldest son was definitely onto something.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, angry guilt flashing across his young face. "Because he disturbed the grave…and I fucking sent him there."

And it was something he'd never forgive himself for.

"Dean…" John began, but stopped when he saw Dean's determined stance, and figured it could wait 'til later.

When Sam wasn't hovering on the brink of death, for example.

But now a decision had to be made.

The grave had collapsed that day, nearly taking the Winchester brothers with it. There was no way one man could excavate that grave before dawn, and someone had to stay with Sam. The youngster needed help, needed a voice to keep him afloat.

John thought hard about that.

"You stay with Sam," he announced, and headed for the door. "I figure this village owes us." A quick grin and he was gone.

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"Charles?"

The doctor stood slowly on hearing his name. "What can I do?"

John's mouth curled into an almost smile. "I want you to round up at least five able bodied men and women, all with shovels, pitchforks, whatever they can get their hands on, and get them to meet me at the cemetery gates. Pronto."

Charles frowned; looking a little confused, but didn't question the order.

"We have a phone tree for emergencies. I'll get right on it."

In fact the phone tree was so effective that what looked like the entire village was already waiting at the entrance to the cemetery, when he arrived.

John tried not to stare as he got out of the car and unlocked the gates, allowing the small swarm of people inside. Questions fired rapidly, and John did his best to answer each one.

"What do you want us to do?"

"Help me dig up a mass grave."

"Which one?"

"The one that collapsed nearly killing my sons a few days back."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Nasty business. They ok?"

"No. Sam, my youngest, is real sick in hospital." John refused to say anymore, but a tug on his sleeve brought him to an abrupt halt. It was the toothless wonder in his nineties, and he was mumbling something.

Suddenly getting the very strange feeling he needed to hear this, John reluctantly leaned closer to the old buzzard, doing his best not to breathe in the scent of what was very probably stale cat's urine and rotting vegetables.

"Yer son got sick... 'cos o' that grave… was cursed nigh on two centuries ago."

John stared at him, feeling more than a little pissed, but let the guy continue.

"My grandpappy… he tol' me… never go near that grave…. 'Was a rich family, but he, the father, was arrogant…thought he could buy anything he wanted…but the babe was jus' three days old when the sickness claimed him. Poor little mite din' stand a chance… his momma followed afew weeks later. The father learned the hard way that money couldn't buy everything… See… she was weakened by the birth… couldn't fight it…the father… buried her along with their son… and in a fit of fury, all of their money.…then it spread… sisters, brothers…then the father… he was last…cursed the grave before he passed on.

Anyone desecrating the grave… to get to his riches… would be consumed and die within days."

Poor old man was getting weak and breathless, and John wondered if this was the most he'd spoken in years. His story was a little mixed up, but the gist was easy to grasp.

Consumption.

An old term for tuberculosis.

Sam had said something followed him out of the grave. And now it was trying to drag him back. Maybe had already succeeded.

Dean was essentially right. A cursed grave and an angry spirit lying dormant for centuries, just waiting for the opportunity to take revenge, and Sam was its victim.

In John's experience, most spirits started out fairly benign, but after decades of being trapped, unable, or perhaps unwilling to move on, they grew angry and violent, sometimes laying down a powerful curse.

But in this case the spirit had already started out mean, bitter and angry, and that made his curse all the more potent because it built up as it lay beneath the ground for all those years, like a volcano ready to burst.

John was beginning to sympathise with the spirit. He was fuming.

"Why didn't you tell us this before?" he demanded of the old man. "You could have saved us a whole lot of trouble!"

Toothless scratched his head and shrugged pathetically.

"Memory… ain't what it used to be, son… only just thought of it," the old boy rasped out. Faded blue eyes began to water, and his mouth turned down in sorrow.

Feeling a little bad for almost losing it, John patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Let's just get this done. Sam doesn't have much time left…"

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Dean sat on the bed, and gripped both Sam's hands tightly.

"Listen to my voice, Sammy. You're safe, but you're gonna have to listen and do as I say."

Power of thought... it's our last stand...you once taught me that, Sammy, remember...?

You and your emo girl crap?

Sam coughed and moaned through the fresh blood, his body growing weaker with each passing minute.

"I know where you are, and I know you're scared, but I'm here. M'not gonna let anything happen to you."

But the kid's breathing sounded terrible, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing in more air to his damaged lungs.

Dean was pretty sure Sam's vitals were soon gonna drop, and the next thing would be the vent. He hoped like hell it wouldn't come to that…

"Sammy, you're safe," Dean repeated, fervently. "I'm here with you, and we're both safe inside a salt circle. Just keep holding on. Dad's gonna finish this, and you'll get better, just… remember the circle of salt!"

Dean squeezed the kid's hands gently.

"I'm gonna get you out of there, just hold on little bro."

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It took a frustrating amount of time to dig out part of the grave and set up a rough support structure before it collapsed again. People began shielding their mouths and noses with bandanas to avoid the dust.

Since Sam's accident the task was monumental, with what appeared to be several tons of earth to shift, made worse by the tangled roots of long dead trees.

John had explained the potential risks... that the TB curse could engulf the village should they fail.

But that didn't stop them... didn't scare them.

Other villagers made themselves useful, providing water and hot coffee, and one woman even set up an outdoor kitchen, heating up soup over an open fire and buttering bread.

John wasn't sure just how legal that was, and barely suppressed a grin when the village's one and only fire officer glared at the kindly woman, even as she handed him a steaming bowl of the nourishing broth.

But after two hours of gruelling work, John began to see progress.

"C'mon!" he roared. "Let's step it up here!"

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Sam pressed his back against the grave wall, trying to stay as far out of reach as possible.

'You! You will join us...' it rasped out again, voice seething with hatred.

He couldn't tell if the spirit was male or female, but he guessed at this stage it no longer mattered. Sam was all alone, and there's was no one there to save him…

"Sammy..."

Sam blinked, his breath coming in short, gasps, body wracked with pain. He could taste the metal in his own blood as he struggled to breathe.

"Dean..."

"I'm here… we're safe inside a salt circle…"

Something else was said but Sam couldn't quite make it out.

"…remember the circle of salt!"

He could feel someone holding his hands, gently squeezing, reassuring.

"I'm gonna get you out of there, just hold on little bro."

Sam glanced down and saw a thin sliver of something white, a pale shadow slowly surrounding him. Letting his head fall back against the grave wall, Sam smiled in spite of the pain.

The ghost wailed and threw itself at Sam, but screeched angrily when it thumped against an invisible barrier.

'You… how dare you! You come here and disturb our rest… want our money... should have been you!'

It was either mad or talking in riddles, and Sam just didn't care.

But the ghost backed off, bent double as though in pain... and began to blow, the cold air turning blue.

Sam stared in wide eyed fear as salt granules gradually detached themselves from the line…

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Dean kept up the whispering, kept in physical contact at all times. But out the corner of his eye, he saw something move on the floor.

The salt line was deteriorating…

"Shit!"

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They were making good speed though John glanced anxiously at the Eastern sky. A tinge of red was bleeding slowly through the clouds, reminding him of Sam's tears.

Someone started shouting.

The grave was opening up, dirt slithering down and trying to refill the hole. But the make shift support struts held nicely, keeping back the stubborn earth.

John readied the salt and gasoline.

"This is gonna have to be real quick, so when I give the word, you all jump the hell out of the way!" John glanced around to see his team nodding. "Ok… after three. One… two… GO!"

As one, the grave diggers jumped back. John leapt forwards, dumping an entire large bag of salt into the opening with one hand, and a split second later gasoline followed from the other.

Charles was the one who dropped the lit Zippo.

Salt, gasoline and fire. A heady combination against a powerful curse.

The grave erupted with a bright flash of light which winked out soon after, plunging the cemetery into darkness.

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The next thing Sam remembered feeling was the return of sheer terror. The spirit was advancing on him again, gaining speed and power.

Its grin was appalling, and grew more frightening when the rest of its family joined in.

The last Sam remembered was a blinding flash of light.

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Dean lifted his head, opened his eyes and blinked hard, trying to eradicate the after effects of the lightning.

"Sam?"

Dean had to blink again, because his little brother appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his breathing stabilised. Sure, he didn't look one hundred percent, but it was better than the alternative.

Removing the hated oxygen mask and tossing it on to the night stand, he turned to study his brother again, a faint smile on his face.

"Ya know, wasn't sure that was gonna work," Dean spoke quietly, so as not to wake him. "But I figured it was worth a shot."

The smile widened when Sam snuffled, wriggled around and let out a light snore.

A normal snore. Not a wheeze, not a desperate gasp, nor a blood flecked sputum producing cough.

Just his little brother. Sleeping peacefully at last.

Dean bit back a yawn, and figured that wasn't such a bad idea…

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John didn't even stop to help with the clean up and figured people wouldn't mind that he had more pressing matters. He broke the speed limit racing back to the hospital, left the Impala illegally parked with the driver's door wide open, and ran up to the ICU.

Pushing open the door to Sam's room he strode inside to be met with a sight for sore eyes.

Both sons were sleeping soundly on the bed. Sam lay contented and safe with Dean curled around him, chin resting on his younger brother's head.

John studied them both. Sam looked healthier than he'd seen him in ages, though the slight tinge of jaundice suggested he had a way to go before he was up and about.

"It's a miracle, huh?"

John turned to find the young nurse smiling fondly at the boys.

Daisy had already disconnected most of Sam's IVs by the time John arrived, and bandaged up the needle marks and bruises left behind.

John shrugged. "I guess they do happen."

It still seemed a little absurd to him that everyone in the village knew what the Winchester family business was, and accepted it pretty much without question.

"This place has been rife with folklore and tales of the supernatural since I can remember," the nurse stated as though reading John's mind. "It's as much a part of us as breathing. Unfortunately, some people panic, get an idea into their stupid thick heads, and use it for all the wrong reasons. Like keeping back the wheels of progress."

He gave a shaky smile when Daisy winked knowingly.

"That's something we can never slow down... at least, not like that..." she added quietly with a wisdom beyond her years.

Here, it seemed, was a person with some common sense.

Hopefully the people had learned their lesson and if not, there were always the likes of Daisy to remind them.

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Epilogue

It was another week before Sam got the all clear and his much yearned for release papers. Dr Fletcher wanted to keep him under observation until he was absolutely sure the drugs and antibiotics hadn't wreaked havoc with his immune system. His liver function was a cause for concern but there was no sign of tuberculosis. Right now, his body was suffering from the side effect of the treatment.

So it was a very impatient Sam Winchester who was wheeled from the hospital entrance to the back seat of the Impala, grumbling about how he could walk just fine.

"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "When you got out of bed this morning and the world tipped sideways? That was your body's way of saying you are not fine!"

Sam huffed but had no come back.

Yeah, sure he was feeling great, but then anything had to be an improvement on tuberculosis. His throat felt a little raw, he still had moments of dizziness, especially when he got up too quickly, but Dean could always be counted on to break his fall.

But more importantly...

The brothers hadn't stopped bickering since the moment Sam woke up.

Dean teased, Sam whined and bitched.

Dean stole Sam's toast, Sam whined and bitched.

Dean ruffled his hair and hid his comb, Sam whined and bitched.

The hospital staff shook their heads in bewildered amusement, completely missing the point.

No one spotted the subtle undertones, the grateful smiles, the worried glances, the silent thanks for saving me, the returned anytime little bro.

No one except their father, of course.

Nightmares still came and went. Dean never brought it up unless Sam was ready to talk, and then they chose the most roundabout and convoluted ways of doing so, even John couldn't keep up with them.

Dean tried to tone it down, but couldn't help casting sneak glances at his brother as he drove them back to their temporary home. He'd come so close to losing the little jerk that his heart still throbbed painfully whenever he thought about it.

Sam had agreed to staying on at Lewis Jenkins' house, partly because he liked the feeling of being settled for a while, partly because he genuinely liked the place, but mostly because his family insisted so he could attend his clinic appointments; Dr Green planned on taking bloods twice a month to continue monitoring Sam's liver function for adverse affects.

Of course, school was out. Until, that was, the bitching and whining started up again, and John grudgingly organised some home schooling.

They settled in nicely at the Jenkins house, Dean and John tending the cemetery, with Sam sometimes tagging along and helping with the lighter duties, such as weeding the flower beds of the newest graves. It was actually a very pleasant and peaceful place in the bright afternoon sun, and the Winchesters took great pride in their work.

The mass grave was once again filled in, seeded over and left to itself, its occupants finally at rest. No one had stopped to check whether or not there actually were any riches buried there. Apparently everyone had been scared enough of late without adding grave robbery to the mix.

Life went on for the small community.

But for Dean, there were a few things still left to be said.

Sam was seated on the veranda one afternoon, back against the wall, eyes closed and listening to the birds singing and chirping in the trees; basically the kind of thing Dean always warned him about.

"Careful, dude. Much more of that and you'll be reciting poetry," Dean spoke up right on cue as he sat down beside his little brother. "Then there'll be no stopping it. Next thing ya know, you'll be ball room dancing at the Blue Oyster bar."

Sam didn't open his eyes, but Dean could see his tired smile.

"What ya want, Dean?"

Dean frowned. His brother still sounded exhausted, but he was improving. That had to be something.

But now he'd figured out what he needed to say.

"Dean?" Sam lifted his head and finally took a good look at his brother. Dean had been silent for so long, he was starting to worry. "You ok?" he asked softly

"Sam I'm sorry," Dean turned his gaze downwards, appearing to study a tiny beetle crawling along the wooden decking. "I almost got you killed. You shouldn't have been the one to go through all that… should've been me…" his voice was just a little shaky by the time Sam let him off the hook.

A hand on his arm made Dean glance up in to Sam's compassionate and worried gaze. "Dean, stop that, ok? It wasn't your fault. And let's not forget it was you who figured out how to save me. As for being hit with the curse, it could've been any one of us," he shrugged reasonably. "I just drew the short straw."

Dean winced and fixed his brother with a grim smile. "Yeah well, next time I'm letting you win."

"Aw c'mon…"

"Seriously," Dean insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "I never would have let you dig that grave if I'd known what would happen. And… and I should've known, Sammy!"

It was the first time Sam had ever seen his brother so emotional, the first time he could recall seeing Dean's eyes fill with tears. But it didn't last long, because those tears were quickly wiped away by the sleeve of his leather jacket, and Dean got to his feet, holding out a hand.

"Food's ready," he announced, familiar cocky grin back in place, even if it was a shade watery. "Dad's cooked lasagne again." An eyebrow lifted in question. "You actually gonna eat it this time, TB boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes and accepted his brother's assistance. Still a little wobbly on his feet, but soon steadied with an arm round his waist, he trusted Dean to lead him safely into the kitchen.

Unbeknownst to the brothers, their father watched them from a discreet distance out the kitchen window, before heading back to check on dinner. He'd had a long talk with Dean whilst Sam was in hospital. So John hadn't quite managed to persuade Dean that none of this was his doing, and it seemed that Sam hadn't been any luckier in that respect. But his boys were alive and healing each other in their own special way.

John cocked an ear as he dished up the food, listening in on his sons with an amused smile.

Let the bickering commence...

"TB boy? That the best you can do, Dean?"

"You want me to go back to Baldy? 'Cos, ya know, that can be arranged."

"You want me to go back to Unibrow? 'Cos that can be arranged!"

"Dream on, Sammy. You can only catch me out the once…"

"Or twice in the case of Sally Fisher and her 'my parents won't be home for hours' line."

"Yeahhh…" Dean sighed contentedly. "But it was so worth it…"

"Her father chased you across town on a tractor, Dean. Twice…"

"Tractors don't move so fast. I got away."

"Yeah, and went back for seconds."

"What can I say? She was just that good!"

"Count it, dude. Once, was bad enough," Sam held up an index finger. "But Twice?" He held up a second finger. "Let the record show that one Dean Winchester was seen running bare foot in the park last year, in a pair of navy boxers… and a Queen T-shirt!"

"I couldn't find my shirt ok? So I took the one she gave me."

"Uhuh…" Sam didn't sound convinced.

"Zip it bitch."

"Make me Jerk…"

John chuckled, and set the table for dinner.

Yep, things were getting back to normal.

The End.

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Author's Notes:

Well, there ya go. Another story comes to a close. Hope you all enjoyed it and received the appropriate chills in all the right places. Many thanks for all your reviews.

Special thanks, of course, goes to Phx for the excellent beta skills, and to Sendintheclowns for all her love and support.

Kind regards,

ST xxx