Wayward Son

Chapter 13

"Stay behind me," Dean ordered. He and Ruthie climbed the front porch steps, guns held down in front of them in hopes the neighbors wouldn't notice. He tried the handle—it was unlocked. He turned it slowly, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

He'd tried Sam twice more as they raced to the house, with no luck. Now he spotted Sam's unanswered phone on the coffee table. He strained his ears, listening for Sam's voice, something to reassure him his brother wasn't already a shriveled, dried-out mummy. He couldn't get the image out of his head. But he heard nothing.

He and Ruthie soundlessly crossed the front room, guns extended. Everything was still perfectly in place; no signs of a struggle. At least not in here. He moved farther into the house, toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. Then he heard it: not Sam's voice, but a woman's. The murmur came from the bedroom. Too soft to make out the words. He glanced back at Ruthie, whose wide eyes told him she'd heard it, too. She'd turned pale outside the hospital while they ticked off Sam's symptoms. Her face was even whiter now. She was as scared as he was of losing Sam.

He crept down the hallway, hugging the wall. The bedroom door was open. He inched closer, Ruthie right behind him. The whites of her eyes shone in the dim light. The murmuring had stopped. He heard only a faint scrabbling noise. Closer, closer...

Dean burst through the open doorway. His heart plummeted into his stomach. Sam lay facedown on the floor. His legs stuck out from under the bed; the rest of him was hidden underneath it. Amy stood there with her arms crossed, looking down at Sam.

Dean advanced on her, gun leveled. "Get back. Get away from him!"

She shrieked and stumbled backward, hands up, shielding her face.

Ruthie rushed to Sam and knelt beside him, reaching under the bed to drag him out. "Sam!"

Sam's feet kicked. He wriggled out from under the bed, gaping at Ruthie, then glaring at his brother. "What the hell, Dean?"

Sam sure looked and sounded like himself, right down to the double wrinkles between his eyebrows—the ones he always got when he was exasperated with Dean.

Dean glanced at Amy, who was cowering at the foot of the bed, her brown eyes huge in her china doll face. He looked back at Sam. "So, you uh, you're okay?"

Sam pushed himself to his feet. "I'm fine. What are you doing?"

Prickly heat crept up the back of Dean's neck. He realized he was still pointing his gun at Amy. He lowered it. Ruthie did the same, looking sheepish. "You didn't answer your phone." He realized as he said it how lame he sounded. He raised his voice. "What were you doing on the floor?"

Sam waved his flashlight, and raised his voice to match Dean's. "Looking for hex bags."

"Wait, what?" Amy squeaked. "You said you were looking for toxins. What's a hex bag?" Her eyes jumped among the three of them; her hands still raised and trembling. "And why does Ruthie have a gun?"

Ruthie's cheeks went pink. She holstered her 9mm and turned to Sam. "We're sorry. When you didn't answer your phone we got worried, thinking about how you've been acting the past few days. How tired you were this morning—"

"I stayed up late looking for leads!"

"You acted like you had a headache, too."

"I got three hours of sleep," Sam growled.

"And you downed my water in one gulp," Dean added.

Sam threw his hands in the air. "I always drink water!" Then he glared and jabbed a finger at Dean. "Since when do you drink water?"