Enjoy The Ride 5/6

[soncnica]

Title: Enjoy The Ride 5/6
Author: soncnica
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Pairing: Sam, Dean, gen
Wordcount: cca. 7.000 words (this part)
Summary: Dean gets cursed, because he can't keep his paws to himself, when Sam says so. But Sam finds a cure, one which Dean will definitely not enjoy the ride on. So Sam has to play dirty.
Warnings: gross, icky, disgusting imagery (the usual from me, LOL), season 2, language and if you suffer from Chaetophobia, please do not read this!
Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
A/N: Can be found in Part 1.

CHAPTER 4:

"S'm?"

The word was a whisper, Dean's mouth probably too dry and too tired to form the word properly; three letters and Dean couldn't say them. Fuck, but this night would be never-ending.

"Yeah?" Sam sighed and turned to his left to look at his brother. Miserable. It was the only word that described Dean at that moment.

Miserable.

Sam twisted his fingers where they were hanging down between his knees, rubbed his left forearm, feeling nerves and excitement and sheer terror shoot through his body. It felt just like the adrenaline that he always felt before a hunt, going up and down his veins, but this wasn't that. This wasn't a hunt, this wasn't him having to shoot or burn something to a crisp and powder. No, the hunt was over already. This … this was the after hunt party. This was adrenaline mixing with fear for his brother. This was … this was his little brother cells gearing up for protection. This was his little brother heart and brain battling for domination; heart would comfort, while the brain would do tasks their Dad had installed in it.

First aid. Field medicine. How to handle your stubborn big brother and handle him well. How to make Dean comfortable without actually making him know what you'd be doing.

Sam could do that. For Dean? There was nothing he wouldn't do.

"Sss'my?"

Dean didn't look as if he was in pain; which was good, really good, because the 'curse starts working' mark had come and passed three minutes ago and Dean wasn't screaming in pain yet.

Good. Good. Okay. Sam could work with that. Could work with that just fine.

But Dean looked … blue. The glow from the lamp on the table made Dean's skin look as if all air had been sucked right out of his body and left only so much that he was still functioning.

Dean's face looked … ashen. The blue light combined with all the blood leaving Dean's face … it was as if looking at a ghost. And Sam had seen a lot of ghosts of all kinds of varieties, he'd seen bodies of people who'd been choked to death of who had drowned and Dean? Dean looked just like that. Blue. Gray. The skin around his eyes sunken, and with bags there as if his brother hadn't slept for days. Which probably, come to think about it, was the case.

But Dean wasn't a ghost or one of those bodies on cold slabs at the local morgue; the rapidly moving chest, the twitchy fingers trying to grab hold of the sheet and eyes squeezed as tightly shut as they could be were proof of that. Not a ghost.

Good, good. Sam could work with that too.

What he couldn't work with was a tear that slipped out of Dean's left eye – his brother probably didn't even know it happened, otherwise he'd already try to bat it away and pretend it was sweat.

What he couldn't work with was the strongest grip Dean had ever used on him; a hand clenched around his forearm, fingers probably leaving bruises on his skin that he'd wear for days. Apparently the threadbare sheet wasn't enough.

What he couldn't work with was Dean bleeding from his nose again.

"Yeah, man?"

Stupid question. Stupid, stupid, meaningless question, but Sam had to fill the silence somehow. And what better way to do so, than ask a trivial question that he wasn't even sure he wanted an answer to. He knew Dean was pissed, could see it written all over Dean's body, knew his brother would have some very good choice words for him when all of this would be over, knew that maybe Dean would throw some punches too for good measure, knew Dean would probably even make him clean up the Impala or something.

Fuck. But what else was he supposed to have done? What? Watch Dean be in pain? Listen to his brother scream? Die? He couldn't do that and he'd take any anger Dean would throw at him and take it with open arms. And after Dean would exhaust himself over this, Sam would just tell him that he would do it all over again if it would meant sparing Dean pain.

Dean would have to see reason in that. Right? The warlock had been good, damn fuckin' good, but Bobby had been better and Sam'd been better and Dean would be as good as new after the diluted – now that the cure was working – curse would leave his body.

"What," Dean licked his dry, blue lips, "hell, didja do?"

The words came out stuttered, choked on the need to know. On a need to not it be what Dean thought it was - his little brother poisoning him.

Sam hissed at the accusation in Dean's words - oh it was there all right, hidden in the tone of voice and the way Dean's lips curled. Were they in really such a horrible mess, that Dean would actually think that Sam would poison him? Really? After everything?

Sam swallowed and looked straight into Dean's tightly shut eyes; even if his brother couldn't see him, he had nothing to lie about and he'd say that to his brother's face, eyes open or closed, it made no difference, as long as Dean's ears were working just fine.

"'m sorry, I really am, but just trust me okay. Bobby came up with a cure, said it should work, so just ... just lay there 'n calm down."

He knew he wasn't giving Dean any reasons whatsoever to make his brother really calm and relaxed and take what would happen, but he just couldn't tell Dean what awaited him in the next few hours. But it sure as hell beat howling in pain that was for sure.

"What did you..."

And then it started. Out of the blue. No warning. Nothing. No full body shudder. No gasps. No groans and no whimpers. Nothing to give them both a warning that the cure would really, really start working at that precise second.

Nothing at all, but Dean raising up from the cot with Sam's arm as leverage, bending himself over until his head plopped down into Sam's lap and screaming: "Saaaaaaam!" as if a black dog tore off half of his torso.

Sam was ready for a lot of damn things, but this? Dean shouting his name into his lap, was certainly not one of them. No.

"Dean?!"

He tried to help, grab Dean somehow, somewhere, but his hand just hovered uselessly over Dean's arched back. He didn't know if he should touch, if he should pull his brother away from his thighs that were already getting wet with Dean's spit. Or maybe blood. Sam couldn't see, not with Dean being bend over like this.

It was all kinds of awkward and if anyone would've come into the cabin right this second, they'd have something to see.

And explaining to them that they were brothers, would probably just make people huff and say 'yeah, sure' in that way people do when they didn't believe a word you said.

Well, fuck them. Fuck them and fuck their Dad and fuck the warlock and fuck this whole case. This was exactly why he left and went to Stanford, all the way to damn California. So that he wouldn't have to watch his family die, watch them be hurt and bleed and listen to them grunt and groan in pain. Because his life was nothing but worry every second of every day and learning lessons he hadn't wanted to learn. He didn't want to go from case to case, hunt to hunt and be ordered around and when all that failed, be the one to pick up the pieces. He deserved better. His brother deserved better than this. Dean deserved so much better than lying on some moth eaten sheet on some shaky cot in some seventies reject little cabin, gripping his little brother's hand and drooling or bleeding onto his little brother's thighs. Dean deserved a family; a girl and a kid and a normal 8-5 job.

Sam placed his hand on Dean's back, right between two shaking shoulder blades and tried not to wince at the heat and the sweat there.

Dean deserved so much better than this. They both deserved better, but he'd learned the hard way that this, this was always going to be their lives.

Just them. The Impala. The road.

He pulled his fingers into a fist, bunching up Dean's shirt. It was all he could do to stop himself from punching the wall.

He took a deep breath and whispered: "Dean?"

When all failed, saying his brother's name was something that never, ever failed. It was a name Sam'd said so many times, more times than there were stars up on the sky. It was something that made things move, speed them up or make them either stop or start. Made Dean stop or start, depending on how his name was said. Especially if it was said by Sam.

And even now, it made things move. Pulled them from their stalled position and got the ball rolling.

Sam watched with wide eyes and a tremble in his hands as Dean slowly rolled to his right side, hiding his face, hiding himself, trying to spare Sam seeing whatever the hell Dean was going through.

It made something in Sam's heart pinch at that, at how his brother moved away from him, away from his little brother, away from the little kitchen, away to escape and hide his body and head into the darkest corner of the cabin, where the blue light hadn't spread its glow yet. Away to the corner with a huge spider web up on the ceiling, one that was so big the spider must've been the size of a truck to have made it.

Having Dean's back to him shouldn't hurt this much, because a Dean must trust him enough to leave his back unguarded and b Dean must trust him enough to have Sam watch his back. But really, it just hurt, because Dean hid. He hid his body into a wall, and even if Sam knew this would happen, because duh, this was Dean, it still hurt. They've been through so much together in these two years since Dean got him from Stanford, so much when they'd been kids, that … his brother shouldn't feel as if he needed to hide. Not from Sam of all people.

Or from Sam exactly, of all people.

Damn it Dean.

Sam was just grateful that Dean hadn't escaped into the outhouse.

Yeah, small miracles, because how the fuck would Sam get him out of there then short of tearing that thing down?

So he watched, not knowing what to do, how to help and if to help at all, when Dean suddenly got up on all fours – knees and forehead, swaying his ass left and right – and wrapped an arm over his stomach as best as he was able to in that position.

"Dean!"

Sam didn't know what to do, where to touch, if he should get up from the cot, if he should stay. Yeah, sure Bobby said it might hurt a bit, when the cure would really start to kick in and start to defuse the curse, but this … seeing Dean's whole body sway like a twig on a really windy day, back and forth was … not something he expected. Hell none of this was what he expected.

He hadn't expected the warlock to be … all that. He hadn't expected the hunt go as it had, he hadn't expected his brother to get damn cursed, he hadn't expected their Dad to die. He hadn't expected his life to be as it was, but hey, here he was now. So …

"Dean?"

He really didn't know if he should touch his brother, if the touch would hurt, if it would even be wanted.

Dean craved touch, Sam knew that, it was just a matter of delivering it. It had to be done sneakily, covered with other things, disguised. Like giving a kid broccoli disguised with potatoes. Or something like that. He wouldn't know anything about that. He always ate his veggies.

But maybe he should steady Dean in some way, because all that rocking and moving, couldn't be good. Could throw out Dean's hips … or something.

He – carefully and as slowly as he could – placed his hands near Dean's ribs. His left one on the left side, his right one on the right side and thanked all those veggies in the past that he had grown up to be tall and strong and that his arm was able to reach all across Dean's swaying back.

He didn't touch, though. Just half sat, half stood there like a moron with his hands inches away from his brother's sides, as Dean rocked back and forth on his forearms, forehead and knees making sounds Sam was sure Dean had never made. Not when they'd been hunting together, that was for sure. They were a mix of grunts and groans and whimpers and something in between. There was an occasional huff of air, that was probably meant to be a deep breath and a long exhale, but it all just came out like Dean was hyperventilating while having a whistle between his lips. There were no coherent sounds coming from Dean, no words or – what Sam really wished for – an explanation of sorts what the hell was going on and how he could help. There were just sounds; moans and drawn out letters 'a' and 'h' and some 'g's mixed in there.

Sam just hoped really hard that the cot would be able to handle the abuse it was so very surely gonna get tonight and not fall apart somewhere along the way.

That would suck, but hey … what in their lives had ever not suck? What in their lives had ever gone down smoothly? What? When?

And then Dean keened out an almost hopeless: "Sssssaaaam," groaned for as long as there was air in his lungs and when that was gone, fell down to the cot. Face down as if someone just cut off his legs and arms and left his torso to fend for itself.

The cot shuddered and made the exact same noise those damn doors do in the Impala and that probably wasn't good. But it held, though. Small mercies or maybe it was just sturdier than it looked.

Sam's hands were still hanging in mid-air, when Dean rolled on his right side, away, away, away further to the wall and the dark corner, away from his brother, pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could and hung his head off the edge of the cot.

It all happened so fast, so sudden, Sam was stunned. One second he was this close to get his brother to stop swaying, and the next he was looking at Dean's back and how the muscles were working under the shirt as if they were pushing a train up a hill.

"Dean?"

When in doubt, say your brother's name.

It was like a rule, a rule that he came up with in the darkest of the nights years ago and a rule he still went by until this very day. No matter how old he became and would become, Dean would still be named Dean.

Either six feet under or right there in the driver's seat, Dean would be Dean.

The old cot groaned and creaked under the weight then, the iron holding it together probably rusty and ready to give, but fuck it. If the cot would break, then so be it, but he wasn't leaving his brother. Not like this and not through this.

"Shit, Dean?"

Even if he knew exactly what would happen next – Bobby explained in great, disgusting details - panic still gripped his insides, because this was his brother and it wasn't normal. None of this was normal. It never was normal, ever since Dean was stupid enough to touch the warlocks stick or staff or what-the-fuck ever and get cursed.

With pain.

Only Dean could get cursed with pain. Jesus, but their luck just ...

Dean gasped. Groaned and coughed, as if he'd been smoking sixteen packs a day since he was three hours old.

"Dean?"

Sam stood up and leaned across his brother's body that was curled up to the extreme; it looked like a small turtle was lying on the bed and not his big brother. There was heat coming from Dean's back, the trembles shaking his brother visible like waves in the sea, and Dean's teeth and eyes were clenched together so tightly Sam didn't know how that was even physically possible. But it was.

He didn't like it, because if Dean would chip a tooth, his brother would make sure it would all somehow be Sam's fault. Which okay, yes, it kinda was Sam's fault.

Fuck.

He sneaked his right hand under Dean's head, supporting its almost dead weight and put his palm on his brother's forehead.

"Damn it." Dean was burning up, shivering and completely soaked with sweat.

Fever.

Swell. If the fever wasn't a part of the cure, then they were in big trouble. But it probably was a part of the cure.

Fuck. As if they didn't have enough problems already. Seriously.

He put his shins on the bed, straddling Dean's hips, the way his brother was curled up into himself there was absolutely no other way, and let Dean's warm forehead settle nice and cozy into his palm.

"You ain't gonna fall, man, I gotcha. Just cough it out."

He whispered to Dean, but mostly to no one in particular because he was pretty sure that Dean was in his own land at the moment. There was blood trickling out of Dean's nose, smearing all over his lips and chin and the smell of all that iron made Sam's stomach roll.

But only for a moment, because if there was something Sam was used to, besides Dean's crappy taste in music and food, it was the smell of Dean's blood. The feel of Dean's skin under his hand whenever his brother was hurt.

He put even more strength into his hand, ordering his muscles to get with the program, as Dean's whole head went limp and his head fell into his palm.

Sam really hoped Dean didn't just pass out, because if so, then they were in so, so much trouble.

But it began then; the cure working. It jolted Dean out of his little passed out spell he had going on there for a second, made his whole body arch as if he'd been struck by lightning and he began coughing. If Sam thought the little coughing thing Dean had a little while back ago was horrible, this … this was nothing compared to that.

Deep, bone rattling coughs, like someone who's been smoking for hundreds of years and had asthma on top of it. Dean's whole body shook and shuddered but Sam couldn't do anything about that. He could only hold on tight to Dean's heavy head, preventing his brother to crack open his skull on the iron sides of the little cot, or worse ... him choking on all the shit that he was starting to cough out.

And there was a lot of crap being coughed up and weakly spat to the floor. It would've been wise to get a bucket, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, so ...

But Sam was sure, the small, shaggy carpet could take it.

Shaggy? Who the hell decorated this place? T'was like they ended up in the seventies mixed with the eighteen hundreds.

Rufus must be some very odd cookie to have a place like this. But hunters really weren't well known for going all comfy about places they stay at. It's all about just bare necessities and this cabin obviously was a cabin used only for hunting or if someone in the nearby needed a safe place to crash. Comfort was mostly in having a cot and some sheets. And apparently a shaggy carpet. Okay, then. He didn't want to think about the fleas and the lice that maybe, perhaps lived in there.

He had more pressing matters to attend to, like the red sludge that was slowly dripping out of Dean's slack mouth down to the brown shaggy carpet.

Drop by drop by drop until there was a steady stream running down and whoah.

He was able to deal with the drops that Dean was obviously spitting down to the floor while he was coughing. The red sludge wasn't blood exactly; not the right color, not the right odor, not the right texture.

No, it was clearly the curse, the poison making its way out of Dean.

Good. That was really good.

"Good, Dean, come on, spit it all out."

Dean wheezed in a long breath, his throat burning and clogged with something that was seriously starting to piss him off. He couldn't breathe damn it, and he wanted to breathe thank you very much, because his lungs were already starting to burn and squeeze his chest into a sharp pain. And then Sam's words penetrated his brain, warm breath at the side of his face and a warm, steady hand against his forehead and he coughed. Used all the air he still had in him and coughed, dislodging whatever it was that was stuck in his throat. He groaned when it came up and then got stuck again.

Fuck.

He opened his eyes a crack, just a little bit, trying to see what exactly it was that was hanging out of his mouth, but all he could see through tear-filled eyes was a … girl.

He tried to push his body back, instinctive move – get away, get away – but Sam the fucker was too solid, too strong holding him in place.

The girl smiled, her head wet with blood, her hair standing up in tufts at some places and completely bald in others. He could see on her left side that she'd been scalped, and oh damn it.

He coughed again, trying to hack the fucking thing out of his mouth, push it out any way possible, sucking in some more air through his nose and coughed again, gagging on the red almost mud like stuff that started to run freely over his parted lips.

The girl smiled a toothy smile, blood running down her nose and cheeks, down into her mouth, smearing her teeth red.

"Jesus, Dean!"

Sam leaned even further toward Dean's hanging head, bracketing his brother's body with his legs, because there was no way he would let Dean or himself fall into the disgusting mess of a carpet.

And then he saw what it was that was giving his brother so much trouble.

There was … hair … hanging out of Dean's mouth, like a … a ponytail, all tangled together in small knots, wet from all the sludge that was pouring, literally pouring out of his brother.

"Jesus Christ."

Bobby said shit would go down and that Dean would be hacking up all kinda stuff, but this? This? Hair? What the …?

But he didn't have time to even think about it, couldn't, not with the way Dean's face was turning from blue to red to blue and all the veins on his neck were starting to bulge out. He grabbed the hanging hair and pulled, tugging on it and praying that it wasn't wrapped around anything vital inside of Dean, because he didn't want to pull out an organ or anything.

The hair was wet and slippery and it was like holding hair dipped in mucus, which sadly, he had experience with. Sadly. But that had been his own hair, which he himself washed. But this was … someone else's hair going out of his brother's mouth and the gooey stuff was a mix of saliva and god only knew what else and it was making him gag.

He grimaced and wrinkled his nose when his fingers gripped the ponytail tighter, really praying that he wouldn't pull any vital organ out of his brother and yanked.

Once.

Twice.

The fourth time was when it all came slithering out of Dean's mouth like a snake. He let go of it and it fell on the carpet with a wet squelch.

"Ugh, man..."

He wiped his hand in the cot's stained sheet and tried to take a look at Dean's face. It was a bit hard to do that, because of the way Dean's head was hanging down to the floor, but he saw his brother's eyes being open and his breathing was … kinda okay. A bit quick and wheezing, but better than no breath at all.

"Dean?"

He just wanted to know how Dean was doing. If he was still alive in there and if he would cough again, because he really should be conscious for that. Otherwise ... well hacking out another chunk of hair while barely conscious would really not be awesome.

But Dean didn't answer. Just coughed some more and puked some more red bile on the floor.

And then his muscles went on vacation and he became jell-o under Sam.

"Damn it man, next time keep your paws off things I tell you not to touch."

Damn it.

"Dean, hey! Wake up! Hey!"

He gripped Dean's left shoulder and shook, making his brother move on the bed like a rag doll. It would've been funny under any other circumstances, but these.

Dean passed out was not good. He could choke on the stuff that was clearly wanting to get out, he could stop breathing and he could …

"Dean!"

He ran his free hand all over Dean's face, wiping off sweat and tears and oh God, red spit and strands of hair that strayed from its path to the floor and got kinda stuck to Dean's lips. And chin.

Glued there with the quickly drying slime.

"Dean, wake up!"

But his brother was breathing, there was cold air hitting his hand when he wiped Dean's slack mouth, so that was good.

"Dean, damn it!"

He didn't want to panic, he really didn't, because he was a hunter, panic was never an option, because panic could get you killed. Or worse. But Dean wasn't responding. Wasn't making any noise, wasn't moving and Sam was practically laying on top of him, which should at least make Dean grumble and fight him off, but ... there was nothing.

It was eerie. The lamp with its stupid blue light wasn't strong enough, didn't give enough light for him to really asses if Dean was okay or what. He could've rolled Dean to the other side, to the side that was illuminated more by the light, but what if moving him would just cause more problems?

He raised his head up to the ceiling and looked at the spider web. It didn't give him any answers, just hung there in the corner. An unmovable death trap.

He sighed and looked back down; the floor was splashed with red bile, saliva and hair. Red hair. So much of it. Sam gagged and looked at Dean's face again, digging his chin into Dean's shoulder a little, because the floor ... the floor would need to be burned. Carpet first and then the wooden planks. Just burned into ash. They would need to get the axes from the trunk, hack the planks out and burn them. He didn't quite know how they'd tell Rufus that, but he'd jump over that hurdle when the time would come. Or maybe he'd just tell Bobby and hang up the phone.

He breathed and leaned his forehead on Dean's wet shoulder. When this would all be over, he'd need to go get Dean some dry, fresh clothes.

"Dean, wake up." he whispered and rubbed his forehead on Dean's shirt, to wipe away his own sweat.

And that's when Dean sucked in a huge gulp of stale air, leaned back over the side of the bed, dislodging Sam from his shoulder, nearly beheading him and nearly hitting his own head against the wooden wall.

If Sam hadn't locked the muscles in the arm that was holding Dean's head, Dean would split open his skull on the logs.

Shit.

"Dean!"

His brother was coughing and choking again. The sounds were deafening in the otherwise completely silent cabin.

Dean started to grab air with his left hand, Sam didn't know what he was trying to touch, push away, pull closer. What?

"Dean!"

Dean was like a fish thrown out of water, gasping and flailing, flapping his whole body up and down the bed, nearly making Sam fall off him and the cot. There was a clanking sound from somewhere underneath the cot and he tightened his hold on Dean's forehead, wrapped his other hand around Dean's middle and let his whole weight fall on Dean's left side, pinning him to the mattress.

He felt bad for not allowing his brother any freedom of movement, but Dean really couldn't escape this, even if he tried. The cure would keep on working until everything would be out of Dean. Bobby said so. And he needed to believe Bobby, otherwise ... there would be nothing to hold on to, no hope, while his brother was thrashing all over.

"Come on, man, just don't fight it, come on!"

He yelled into Dean's ear, hoping that his brother could hear him over the roar of blood in his ears. He knew what Dean was going through, he had his share of puke fests caused by spells and curses and other non-weird things.

All he could do was hold on ... hold on tight to his brother.

There was another girl standing before him this time, her head completely without skin. Scalped entirely and her whole face bathed in blood. She was smiling, though and he tried to smile back, but he couldn't do it around all the coughing and the choking he was doing. Couldn't do it around the damn thing hanging out of his mouth.

"Come on Dean, come on!"

He awkwardly hit his brother between his shoulder blades, one, two, three times and hissed when Dean groaned long and loud and coughed again.

"'s it, come on!"

He leaned back down to see what Dean was struggling with now and saw a long, thick stream of bright red something hang out of Dean's mouth.

It looked like it was kinda solid, although when he touched it, it felt like goo full of silky hair. It reminded him of crazy thin and long capellini no. 1, overcooked and left in the water for too long.

He was definitely not eating spaghetti anytime soon. Or any other kinda pasta.

"Oh, ugh, god Dean..."

He wanted to puke himself, but swallowed down the bile, gripped the wet hair hanging out of Dean's mouth and yanked. This was pure action now and action he was good at. Act, act, act, hunt, hunt, hunt, spy, protect, search, gun, knife, lighter. And hope it would be enough.

Dean groaned and coughed, trying to help somehow, in some way to get that thing out of him.

"'kay man, 'm here, I gotcha, I gotcha."

He needed to get that thing out of his brother, before Dean would strain himself too much and pop a blood vessel or something, because that would be just fantastic.

Sam tugged on the slippery thing again, cringing at how his fingers just went through the slime, and touched the gooey hair. It wouldn't budge, as if it was held back by something inside of his brother and he really, really hoped it wasn't an organ or something, because God knew where this stuff was coming from.

He really was going to puke.

That goddamned sick son of a bitch of a warlock. If he wasn't already dead, he'd kill him again.

He pulled again and hissed at the sound Dean made around the tail coming up his throat. Horse's tail.

Fuck his imagination.

"'m so sorry man, so sorry. Ugh, god 's disgusting, man."

He let himself fall completely on Dean's hip and side, not even caring if he'd break a rib or two. It was like CPR; break a rib its fine, as long as it gets the person back to life. Broken ribs were easy to fix, having his brother choke to death, not so much.

He tried to pull on the mass of hair again, but before he could pull, Dean's fingers weakly wrapped themselves around his wrist. They were cold, shaky and covered with slime.

"Dean, we have to get this out of you, okay? You hear me? I know it sucks, but come on, okay. I gotcha, I gotcha man, okay. Now come on, come on."

Dean made a noise Sam understood as a hell yeah, lets end this bitch and he tugged when he felt Dean's tug on the wrist.

The pile of hair moved a little, but it was still not budging enough for Sam's taste. He didn't like it. All of this needed to be done faster.

"Come on Dean, cough it out!"

They both tugged when Dean gave a 'go' sign by tightening his fingers around Sam's wet, slippery wrist.

"Come on, man!"

"Aaaaaaaaaagggggggghhgghhhhhggggg, fuuuuuck!"

The hair slipped out of Dean's mouth like it was oiled up (and it sure felt like it) and fell to the floor with a plop to mix with the other chunks already there.

The floor would burn. Burn.

"Okay, okay it's done, it's done now."

And he was sure of it, because that was the biggest and the longest chunk of hair ...

... it was done. It had to be done, because they didn't have the strength for more. Dean was spitting to the floor, big globs of red spit trying to get rid of it all although it would be awhile for him to totally get rid of the taste or the feeling of hair sliding up his throat.

"Dean, talk to me man."

"geroff."

"Okay, okay..."

He slipped his arm from beneath Dean's head and raised himself up on all four, hovering above his brother's shaking body for a bit and then he crawled off the cot.

And that was enough physical contact for the year. Maybe two years.

He went to find a trash can but all he found was a rusty pan and a small cracked ceramic cup that he filled with water. It would have to do.

He crouched before Dean, being extra careful not to step in or even look at the crap on the floor and placed the pan on the disgusting pile of disgustingness that had crawled up Dean's throat.

"Here man," he gripped Dean's shoulder and pushed a little, just enough to get his brother to look at him, "drink this. Can you hold it?"

"mmh yeah."

Dean's hand was trembling, his voice was hoarse, scraped raw by all that crap.

"Just spit it out, 'kay?"

Dean nodded and gurgled the water and spat it out. It came out pink, but it wasn't blood.

"'s not blood, Dean, okay? Just ... do that again a few times."

Sam knew that Dean wasn't all that present just yet, that he was still a bit out of it, maybe still in a bit of a shock, because one just doesn't spring back up after that kinda mess.

"Dean, you good?"

Dean's eyes when he looked at him were glazed over, glossy and red and so was his entire face.

"Okay man, come on, lie down, gurgle the water and spit in here."

He pushed Dean back to bed and gave him another pan that he found in the kitchen's drawer.

"Just lay there, okay? How you feeling?"

"'kay."

It was whispered.

"'kay as in all is well or 'kay for now?"

"Think ... 's done."

"Great, 's great man. Just drink the water, we got plenty, okay."

Dean nodded and drank sixteen of the small cups of water by the time he passed out again sometime at dawn only to wake up choking on more hair.

For hours. Hours. Dawn to late morning, late morning to midafternoon. There were spots of time; fifteen minutes, half an hour, twenty minutes, five minutes, when Dean could lay down and breathe and tremble his way into preparing for the next round. Somewhere along the way, they managed to get him into a new T-shirt, Sam had even found him a pillow. It had some yellow stain on it, that neither of them wanted to know what the hell it was, but it was soft and didn't smell all that bad and it allowed him to lay his head onto something softer than Sam's hand.

He was sweating, he was tired, he was hungry, he was thirsty, he was sleepy, he was so done with it all. He hurt and he ached and his stomach was trying to escape right out of his bellybutton - or so it felt like - and he couldn't stop moving on the cot, trying to ease the pressure and the ache he could feel - everywhere. Every muscle hurt, his fingernails hurt, his throat was on fire, his mouth was filled with short, thin strands of hair that he couldn't spit out fast enough. Some of it even got stuck between his teeth ... and he was done. He wanted to be done.

But the hair just kept on coming. Out of nowhere. Out of him.

Around four or so in the afternoon, he was humming Metallica while lying on his side, rocking back and forth, digging the fingers of his left hand into Sam's forearm, while he dug the other five into his stomach. Wishing to all that was holy that it would stop hurting. Stop making more hair, stop making him puke and choke and all but suffocate himself on the goddamn hair.

He felt the muscles in Sam's forearm shift whenever his little brother ran the wet, cool T-shirt down his face and neck, cleaning him of the red spit and stray hair that got stuck on his chin or lips.

He wasn't ashamed of how he was clutching at his brother. He was okay with it and he would live though the merciless teasing he'd get from Sam about it, but fuck it. One doesn't go for hours and hours, from night to shining sun to twilight puking up strings of red hair.

He had enough. He really had enough of this.

"samsamsamsamsam…"

There does come a time when even Metallica doesn't cut it anymore, and something more familiar has to take its place.

"I know, man."

And he was hacking up another string of hair, spitting it out in the pan that was already full to the brim, hair spilling out the sides of it and down to the already ruined carpet.

The girls wouldn't leave him alone, either. Every time he felt the need to puke, a girl appeared, smiled at him all bloody and happy and then puff, disappeared.

For getting rid of ghosts, this … this was so fucked up. He'd rather be out there, shoveling dirt from their graves and salting and burning them. That was his job, he was good at it. But this? This was completely fucked up and he'd told Sam that whenever he had enough air in his lungs to spare for words other than Sam. Samsamsamsam.

"But, hey man, this is better than dying of pain, right?"

He could only muster up one short glare and a: "Fuck you." before he was upchucking again.

But this time, the girl looked different. Newer. The last one. The last victim.

The very last one.

He absolutely did not allow a sob to escape after he let Sam pull out the last ponytail. He didn't. But he did groan and laid back on the cot, kicking Sam off it so that he was able to stretch. It wasn't fun being curled up so tight, for so long. His muscles were protesting, his bones were cracking when he moved his legs, his stomach was still rolling and felt as if someone had stitched half of it to his spine. But it was done.

"'s done." He gasped.

"Dean? You sure?"

"'s done."

He was sure. The last girl. It was done. He was done.

He fell asleep hugging weird-stain pillow and with the image of the last girl's peaceful smile, or as peaceful as a smile could be when a river of blood flows over small lips.

This was why they did this. The family business, saving people. Hunting things. No matter the cost.

Dad's dead.

He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy.

No matter the cost? Really, Dean?

His brother was annoying whether he was in his head or out in the real world.

CHAPTER 3 _II_ EPILOGUE