A/N Thanks for all the awesome comments you guys left me. I hope I got back to everyone :)

Well, this is the final part. I really hope you like. Not quite the 5,000 words it was supposed to be, but I like to talk far too much. Once again a thanks to Kat for purchasing this :) and a huge thanks to Leigh for betaing this -- even on vacation :)

On a side note, my other SN story, The Watcher, is currently being made into an Audio Book by Jenilee (who I cannot thank enough for doing so). It's still a work in progress but you can download the first five chapters from my website, the link for which is on my FF profile page :D

Anyway, enough shameless pimping. Enjoy :D

Phantom Hitchhiker: Chapter Two

Moving was harder than it should be but, as long as Dean kept looking straight ahead, he could handle it. His neck ached badly and his back felt as if someone had taken a sledge hammer to it, but none of that shit mattered. All that was running through Dean’s head was Sam.

Sam was gone.

Where the hell he was, Dean wasn’t sure but he was going to find his little brother. Nothing was going to stop that.

“What the hell do you mean - Sam’s gone?” Dean demanded of his father, injecting as much bite into the tone as he could as he fumbled with passenger side door. “Gone where?”

“It took him. I saw the damn thing,” John murmured, his voice slurring a little.

“Saw what?” Dean’s fear was growing for his brother. That didn’t sound good.

“The... uh… hitchhiker…”

Dean frowned. He hadn’t seen a damn thing. “What hitchhiker?”

John scowled, worry fuelling his anger. “It a ghost, Dean, we’re dealing with a damn phantom hitchhiker.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. He’d heard of them and knew the legends well. It was another one of those things that civilians got wrong about the supernatural realm. Stories emerged all over the world about drivers picking up a hitchhiker who would ride with them and then disappear. The driver would then discover the passenger was dead and had been for quite some time.

It was bull. Most people who had genuinely seen a phantom hitchhiker never lived to talk about it. The apparitions were usually violent spirits who had died in some kind of traffic accident, or along the stretch of road they were haunting. They’d force the driver off the road and while the driver was looking for the body of the hitchhiker they hit, the ghost would strike.

Phantom hitchhikers, vanishing travellers, woman in white… they were all the same sort of thing, and they weren’t looking to reach out and greet the corporeal world.

Dean stared unseeing out the window. “You think it has him?”

John shifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. All I know is that your brother was here before we crashed, and now he’s goddamn vanished.”

Processing that information made Dean’s head hurt and his stomach constrict. God, if this thing had his brother… Dean didn’t even want to think about it. “Did you know it was here?”

He didn’t need to be able to turn his neck towards his father; he could feel the glare being directed at him.

“Do you think I would put you or Sam in the way of this thing without telling you?” Even laced with pain, John’s tone managed to sound just about as pissed as Dean had ever heard him. “I had no idea this frigging thing was out here.”

And Dean believed him. If this had been a hunt, there would have been briefings and plans. John never walked into a hunt blind, and he certainly wouldn’t let his sons do so either.

With a low breath, Dean returned his attention to the door. The car itself was on a forty-five degree angle which put Dean lower than John, and the whole driver’s side was jammed up against the trees. Dean’s side seemed to have avoided most of the damage during the crash.

Shoving the door with his shoulder, ignoring the spike of pain that ran down his side, it swung out with an unearthly creak. Carefully, mindful of his back, Dean pulled himself out of the seat using the car itself to lever his injured body.

Dean gently tested each of his limbs, using the Impala for support; his legs hurt and were stiff, but they held his weight. His spine, though, felt bruised to hell and every twist and pull made him feel nauseous. His head was bleeding too, the gash in his temple the result of smacking into the window. But he was in one piece and, considering how damaged the car was, that was nothing short of a miracle.

“Dammit,” he groaned as his eyes roved over the mangled frame of the Impala. She was a mess. He pushed that thought aside, and focused on his father.

John was slowly starting to move, fingers curling around the door handle. The driver’s side of the car was so twisted that Dean knew before John even tried that there was no way in hell he was getting the door open.

“Dad, you’re gonna have to climb over my seat.”

John raised rheumy eyes towards him and for the first time, Dean noticed the sheen of perspiration layering his pallid skin. His father was hurt… and lying about it.

“Where?” was all Dean said but John seemed to grasp what his son was asking.

“I’m OK.” Dean’s brow pulled down into a ‘V’-shape. John scowled, dragging the keys from the ignition and handing them to Dean. “Instead of watching me getting out of this damn tin box, make yourself useful and grab some supplies from the trunk.”

Reluctantly, Dean complied. He didn’t want to leave John but he also realised time was a luxury they did not have. His brother was in the clutches of a potentially psychotic spirit and every minute that passed was a minute longer Sam was gone.

With shaky hands, Dean shoved the key into the lock and pushed the trunk open. The frame work was caved in on the left side, but other than that it was relatively undamaged. Lifting the panel that revealed the hidden stash of weapons, Dean’s mind raced.

His brother had to be OK. Sam was smart; Dean tried to convince himself that his brother would be able to hold on till they reached him, but Sam had never gone solo on a hunt, had never had to face this sort of thing alone before. Dean hoped the kid had enough sense to run rather than try and take it on. His insides felt like they were twisted into knots. Fumbling, he grabbed a shotgun and handgun, sliding the latter down his waist band, before snatching up a box of rock salt ammunition.

John appeared suddenly at the side of the trunk, hunched around the shoulders a little, one hand curled around his side. He held his other hand out for a gun and, obediently, Dean provided him with the pump-action Browning he had just picked up, taking the sawed-off Remington still in the trunk for himself. John took the weapon wordlessly, but Dean’s eyes lowered to his father’s mid-section and the guarded hand wrapped around it. Even in the poor light, he didn’t fail to notice the dark patch staining John’s shirt.

“Dad?” Dean raised worried eyes.

“It’s just a flesh wound, son,” John said, then, as if to emphasise the point, he leaned into the trunk and grabbed a box of ammo.

A flesh wound in Winchester speak could be anything from a cut to a full-amputation, Dean knew that. With that in mind, he wanted to push further about his father’s injury, but he also wanted to find Sam. The fact his father was talking and walking suggested it wasn’t that bad. That was enough, for now. He would deal with John’s wound later once his brother wasn’t in the hands of a psychotic ghost.

Loading salt rounds into the shotgun, John’s eyes shifted around the shallow ditch before coming back to Dean’s face. Anger and worry lined John’s fine but underneath that Dean saw determination. Determination that they would get Sam back in one piece, determination that nothing – not even an injury - was going to stop him..

“Let’s find your brother,” John said, snapping the barrel back into place and starting up the incline.

Sam awoke trembling, his body shaking with cold and barely aborted adrenaline. He was lying face down on the ground, his legs curled into his torso, the smell of damp wood infusing his nostrils. Taking a ragged breath, he tried to open his eyes and was rewarded with a sharp, stabbing pain through his head that momentarily blinded him.

Once his vision had cleared enough, Sam dragged his swollen face across the floor and tried to figure out where the hell he was.

The room was lit with a spluttering candle, balanced unsteadily on the window ledge casting a murky orange glow that was struggling to push away the darkness. Shadowed trees wavered outside the small latticed window like silent giants, the leaves rustling in the cold air.

Thick dust layered the bare wood floors and a stone hearth lay on the far wall. Although there was not a stick of furniture in the room, aside from a rack of fire stokers and a wood bucket, Sam suspected he was in what must have been the living area.

Off the main room there was a set of double sliding doors, pushed back to reveal a second room – possibly the bedroom. The left door had come out of the runner and hung precariously by a thread, threatening to fall at any point and the wood was as rotted as the rest of the building.

A cabin… he was in some kind of cabin. It was like something right out of a horror movie which didn’t ease his fear at all.

Groaning and wincing simultaneously as a wave of dizziness swept over him, Sam squeezed his eyes shut until the nausea abated. Every inch of him hurt, burned with the ferocity of his beating, of the crash and of god knows what else Jed Ellis had done to him while he’d been unconscious.

Carefully, Sam shifted his tied hands so he could probe his side. The gesture hurt more than he could have envisioned but he didn’t halt his self-examination, holding his breath through the pain. He had to know how bad it was.

After a moment of skimming over his torso, the fourteen-year-old concluded that nothing was broken – although it sure as hell felt like it should have been. Each breath was like inhaling shards of glass, and his chest felt so tight that he could barely manage to drag air into his abused lungs. Thankfully, there was no blood. Bruising, he could cope with – no matter how painful it was – but blood… that indicated a serious injury and Sam couldn’t deal with serious out here.

His head and face were another matter entirely. Sam wasn’t surprised to feel something warm and sticky plastered down his left cheek. It was coming from a deep gash on his temple, a deep gash that was still spouting blood like a burst water pipe, dripping off his chin onto the ground. His too-long hair was matted into the viscous liquid, crusted into his skin. Sam’s lip was also twice its normal size and split like a watermelon.

Eyes closed, Sam pushed himself onto shaking hands and managed to get onto his knees. The world spun around him for a moment before righting. One hand firmly planted into the ground, Sam risked prising his heavy lids to half-mast, grateful that everything was holding still again.

Gathering what was left of his muddied pride, Sam somehow managed to stagger to his feet, ignoring the pain in his legs and the way they trembled under his weight. His tall frame swayed with the change in altitude. The ground beneath his feet felt like it was shifting and rolling, and the sensation only added to his nausea. Where the hell was the frigging ghost?

Eyes scanned frantically but the house was completely deserted. For Sam that was enough incentive to get the hell out of there. Escape now, question later. He moved as quickly as he could manage with his injuries towards the front door and reached for the latch. He’d barely grazed it when the air in the room suddenly went cold as ice.

A chill ran up Sam’s spine as if something had just brushed its fingers down his back making him shudder. The sense of being watched intensified until the only sound was his own shallow breathing and the protesting creak of old wood that hadn’t been walked upon for a long time.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and tightened around Sam’s throat. It was followed by the wavering apparition of Jed Ellis himself. Sam couldn’t help the whimper that slid from his lips as he was slammed against the nearest wall, his head smashing against the wood. His spine erupted in an explosion of pain, spots spilling across his eyes.

Jed’s icy grip held him tightly, squeezing with such force that breathing was becoming impossible. Sam struggled against the crushing grasp, his eyes locking with the angry pools of the spirit holding him, staring into the rage behind them. Jed Ellis meant to kill him. Sam recognised that look in his eyes: hatred, pure and unforgiving.

Tied hands clawed at the watery grasp, but his efforts were futile. The pressure against his windpipe was increasing painfully and Sam’s vision flickered. He tried to drag air down to his lungs but nothing moved past the hitchhiker’s grip. His chest burned with the need to inhale, to get in even a small amount of oxygen but he couldn’t. It was like a cork had been shoved down his throat. He was suffocating. God, he was dying.

Suddenly, a loud bang rang out, echoing around the small house. Sam recognised the sound immediately, even on the edge of consciousness. He wasn’t sure who was more scared by the gunshot; him or the ghost. Jed Ellis shrieked and winked out of existence completely as the salt round hit him. Without the spirit’s hold, Sam’s legs folded beneath him. His knees barely grazed the floor before strong hands were fisted into his sweatshirt, holding him up.

“Sam!” The voice was familiar but Sam was having real trouble focusing on anything. “Sammy?”

Blinking, Sam raised his heavy head towards the voice, his lids struggling to stay open as he was gently lowered onto the floor. His brother pulled him into his chest, his head resting on his shoulder as he tried to get a look at his torn back.

“God, Sammy, I know I said chicks dig scars, but you didn’t have to put that to the damn test.”

“D-Dean?” How the hell was his brother here? The last time he’d seen Dean he’d been unconscious, now he stood before him, the proverbial white knight, riding in to save his little brother.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Dean pulled back from him, one hand clenched around the neck of his sweatshirt, the other on the side of Sam’s face, steering his jaw to the side to check the extent of his injuries. After a moment he let out a low breath. “Your face looks like it went through a meat grinder.”

It felt like it too. Sam kept that thought to himself, however.

“How’d you… find me?” Sam asked, his bound hands moving of their own volition to twist his fingers into his brother’s jacket, reassuring himself that Dean was really there.

“You left tracks a blind guy could have followed, Einstein,” Dean said quietly, examining Sam’s head.

“You… you were –“ Sam broke off, his voice hitching, his emotions frayed. “I thought you were both-“

Not dead, no; Sam hadn’t ever thought that. He couldn’t think that, couldn’t wrap his head around the magnitude of such a thought. He had thought he was screwed, however. His sudden salvation wasn’t doing anything for his shaky nerves.

Dean gave him a sombre look. “Me and Dad…? We’re fine, Sam.” When Sam favoured his older brother a sceptical glare, Dean shrugged. “We’re doin’ a helluva lot better than you, Rocky Balboa.”

“The car… it…it… we crashed,” Sam was surprised by the awe in his own voice. He couldn’t help it. He felt safe with his brother here and, as he started relaxing, his adrenaline fled and shock set in.

“Don’t worry ‘bout the car, Sammy,” Dean said softly, fingering Sam’s head. The touch, despite being gentle, stung badly. Sam pulled back from his brother, instantly listing to one side. Dean wound his fingers more tightly into his sweatshirt, straightening him.

“Easy, short fry,” Dean said quietly, pulling Sam against his chest once more to settle him. The world was spinning around the fourteen-year old and Sam was finding it difficult to focus on anything other than the roiling room.

“Short?” Sam pushed the word through barely parted lips, his eyes open no more than a crack, his voice breathy. “Taller than… than you, dude.”

Dean snorted, his breath warm against Sam’s neck. “Hair height doesn’t count, Dolly Parton.”

Sam swallowed hard, letting his head relax on his brother’s shoulder, breathing in the reassuringly familiar scent of him. His whole body throbbed with pain, and the swirling in his head was beckoning him, wanting him to give into the pull of the maelstrom. Safe in his brothers arms, Sam gave into that desire.

“Hey, hey, eyes open, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean’s palm grazed Sam’s cheek roughly as he pulled back from the embrace.

“Sorry…” Sam muttered thickly, trying to open his eyes fully. He didn’t manage it.

“Where else you hurt?” Dean asked, his eyes searching Sam’s abused body. “Apart from the obvious face-job the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man gave you.”

“My… my little finger doesn’t hurt,” Sam said with a crooked, wan grin.

His brother didn’t return the gesture, his fingers moving instead to fumble with the ropes circling Sam’s wrists, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to loosen the knots.

It took a couple of seconds, but finally Sam was freed from his bonds. Lowering his hazel orbs to his wrists, he couldn’t help but grimace at the markings the ropes had left. The skin was raw, painful and weeping a little. The bandage on his sprained wrist had absorbed most of the burns that should have adorned the skin, but there was still a small amount of blood staining the dirty material.

“I’m guessin’ that didn’t help your sprain much,” Dean said giving him a sympathetic glance.

Sam shrugged tiredly. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

Sam left out the fact that was because the rest of his body was thrumming. His brother was already in protective overdrive; there was no need to add to it.

“What ‘bout you?” Sam asked, wincing as Dean continued to probe his wrists.

Dean glanced up, his brow pulling tightly. “Dude, you’re sitting here looking like you went ten rounds with Mohammad Ali and lost, and you’re asking if I’m ok?”

Sam scowled. “Well…? Are you?”

Sighing, his brother shrugged. “I’m fine.”

If lies could be sold, the Winchesters would be millionaires. Sam could tell his brother, despite what he said, was in pain. There was a stiffness in his posture and a tightness around his mouth every time he moved, but no amount of probing was going to get his brother to admit to anything. It was Winchester code: anything short of death required an ‘I’m fine’ response.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asked, changing the subject realising his brother wouldn’t admit to a damn thing. He vaguely recalled there had been blood on John’s face, remembered his father hadn’t been moving the last time he saw him.

“He’s checkin’ the perimeter,” Dean replied, his voice tightening as he carefully eased Sam against the wall, one hand locked onto his shoulder to keep him from listing again.

“He OK?” Sam asked running his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, worried by Dean’s tone.

“You know Dad,” was all Dean said.

“Meanin’ what?” Sam pushed, letting his head drop back against the wall, his wobbling gaze trying to focus on the shifting, cobwebbed ceiling. It was becoming more difficult to keep his eyes open and Sam was battling the twin demons of exhaustion and pain.

Dean merely grunted, but there was a hint of irritation in the gesture. “Dad’s OK, Sam.”

For some reason, Sam didn’t believe that, but didn’t have a chance to push it as the man in question appeared. Framed against the velvet darkness outside and the spluttering candlelight from inside the cabin, he shadowed the doorway like a silent sentinel. A shotgun in his hand, John crossed the dusty floor in three steps, dropping down onto one knee next to Sam.

“Sammy…” John breathed his name with relief that Sam had never heard so unguardedly before. The weapon came to rest on the floor, a hand moving to cup Sam’s bruised face. “You ok, son?”

It was comforting to have both his brother and father here now. There was a certain amount of relief in knowing he no longer had to fight these things alone, in knowing that someone else would take this off his shoulders.

Sam nodded slowly, his vision fracturing a little with the movement. “M’ok, Dad.”

John evidently didn’t believe what he was being told because his next words were directed at Dean.

“Is your brother ok?”

“He’s just peachy, Dad,” Dean muttered. Sam didn’t need to be able to see to know the look John was directing at his brother; he could practically feel it cutting through the air. Dean sighed resignedly. “He’s pretty banged up. His head’s a mess and his face… I dunno.”

Sam wanted to point out that the doom and gloom attitude was unwarranted and that he was fine – well, not fine, but not ready to cash in his chips yet – but his damn mouth wouldn’t work. Instead, he made some kind of sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Dean turned back to him, his expression grave.

“I think he needs a hospital,” Dean said quietly, but the words reached Sam’s ears and made his apprehension jump up a notch to fear. They rarely did hospital visits… it had to be goddamn serious for a hospital visit.

“One problem at a time, Dean,” John murmured, his eyes shifting around the all too quiet house.

Sam’s overwrought brain suddenly remembered what the hell had been hunting him.

“It’s a ghost,” Sam murmured through barely parted lips.

“Yeah, we know, Sammy,” John replied, his eyes still scanning the room. “It’s a phantom hitchhiker. I saw the thing… before I hit it,” was all John said by way of explanation.

“Not to mention the fact that there was only one set of tracks from the car – yours – and they didn’t exactly look like you’d gone for a stroll,” Dean said with a grunt. Sam could truly believe that. Jed Ellis had dragged him up to the road. That had to have left some pretty interesting markings. “Wasn’t too hard to put two and two together and figure out that something had gotten a hold of the huge beacon of trouble that you are.”

“How’s any of this my fault?” Sam demanded, trying to inject an indignant tone into his voice. He didn’t think he managed it. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, making it difficult to speak without tripping over his words.

“Trouble’s attracted to you in the same way that girls love puppies, Sam,” Dean said. “You’re irresistible.”

“Did it speak to you?” John asked, finally halting his scanning of the room and returning his attention back to Sam. He took over Dean’s examination of his injuries, but unlike his all-too-expressive brother, John didn’t let a single emotion slide across his face.

“He thinks I’m someone called Jenkins-- that I killed him,” Sam said. “He really doesn’t like this guy,” Sam hissed as his father probed his wrists. John raised liquid brown eyes to his youngest as he concluded his exam of the swollen limbs.

“He say why?”

“Thinks… Jenkins killed him.” Sam grimaced as John pushed the hem of his sweatshirt up uninvited to examine his torso. Dean let out an audible gasp as he noted the extent of the bruising.

“Shit, Sam,” Dean breathed.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Sam tried to assure him even as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. It felt like he’d been smacked by a truck, not that it looked much better. Sam didn’t need to lower his eyes, he’d seen the mix of black and purple that mottled his inflamed skin. It wasn’t pretty. The sceptical, raised brow from his brother said more than any words ever could.

“Yeah, well, it looks bad, Sam,” Dean said seriously, his green eyes locked onto his younger sibling’s body.

“It’s mostly bruising,” John confirmed, pulling Sam’s sweatshirt back down and pulling the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “Son of a bitch won’t stay hidden long,” John said, grabbing for his shotgun as he climbed back to his feet.

Sam blinked the haze from his sight and managed to battle through the fog to see his father’s imposing figure. John was blood smeared himself and hunched over a little, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakeable.

“You’re hurt.”

John didn’t get a chance to reply. The only warning Sam got that the hitchhiker, Jed Ellis, was returning was a severe drop in the temperature and the bristling of the hair on the back of his neck.

Dean instantly raised his handgun, leaping to his feet without Sam having to warn him of what was coming. God knows his older brother had dealt with enough spirits in his lifetime to recognise the early warning signs. John had also stopped moving and had gone as still as a rabbit caught in a hawk’s eye line. Sam’s heart pounded frantically, his skin too hot as the spirit suddenly appeared in front of him.

John and Dean both fired simultaneously and Jed vanished with a blood-curdling shriek. Eyes darting frantically, John moved over to Dean and fisted his fingers into his jacket, shoving him a little towards Sam.

“Get your brother back to the car,” John barked the order.

“What about you?” Dean asked, a hint of apprehension in his tone.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Sam saw Jed reappear first, his watery figure shimmering before becoming solid.

“Look out!” Sam barely managed to shout the warning before his father and Dean were air bound.

He didn’t see them land, didn’t see anything other than Jed’s face inches from his own, his ripped out throat spewing blood like a geyser once more. Icy fingers curled around his throat but the spirit barely applied any pressure.

“Brought sum friends, boy? Think they can save yer?” Jed snarled. “Ain’t no one gonna get the better of Jed. Not this time. Not again.”

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around Sam’s throat appeared in his rippling sight. Jed was clutching a length of chain, one end wrapped around his hand, the other hanging vertically nearly to the floor, swaying alongside his leg as he kept his gaze firmly locked on Sam’s face. Bile crept up Sam’s throat as he shifted pain-filled eyes towards the interlocking rings.

Where the hell did Casper get that frigging thing from?! Sam tried to shrink further into the wall, his head twisting to the side, his eyes closing of their own accord as if he could block out the ghost.

“Please…no…” He knew he sounded pathetic begging, knew his father would have looked down on such an act, but Sam didn’t care. His father wasn’t the one facing a psychotic ghost with a chain.

“Yer dead, Jenkins,” Jed growled and flicked the chain back.

Sam braced himself for the hit, braced himself for the explosive pain he knew was going to come. It never did.

Dean came out of nowhere and threw himself towards the spirit of Jed Ellis. The ghost winked out of existence and Dean, met with empty air, slammed into the floor heavily. Even as the spirit reappeared, Dean was moving towards his gun; he must have dropped it when the ghost threw him.

“Yer wanna die too, boy?” the ghost barked as he pulled the chain taut between his hands.

Ignoring the taunt, Dean half-staggered, half-ran, twisting and scrabbling across the floor for his weapon. He wasn’t going to make it; Sam could tell. The ghost was faster and his brother was hurting from the car accident or from being thrown, Sam wasn’t sure which. He tried to move, tried to get up to help his brother, but his hurt body didn’t want to comply. Eyes shifted quickly towards their downed father. John was sprawled in a heap and wasn’t showing any signs of getting up.

In a split-second, Jed Ellis had Dean by the front of his jacket, dragging him onto the tips of his toes. He looped the chain around his throat and pulled the two loose ends in opposite directions in a movement so swift that Sam hadn’t even had time to register it. Dean wheezed as it tightened, his lips starting to tinge blue as his airway was blocked. He clawed pathetically at the chains, trying to loosen them but to no avail. Jed was stronger.

“Dean…” Sam blinked at the scene playing out in front of him, his mind rolling. “No… no…”

Pushing his own pain aside, Sam somehow managed to get to his knees. He could see his brother’s gun lying on the dusty ground; he just had to reach it. Blocking out Dean’s choked gasps for breath and the darkness encroaching in his peripheral vision, Sam attempted to stand. Using the wall to support his shaking legs, Sam half turned towards the spirit.

“Let him go, Jed…” Sam attempted to growl it, hoping the palpable fear coursing through him wasn’t evident. “You wanna kill me? Then kill me.”

Sam cautiously removed his hand off the wall hoping he’d stay upright and straightened as much as his aching chest would allow, which, as it turned out, wasn’t much. White hot fire exploded through his torso like he had never experienced. He clenched his teeth together, his brow knitting tightly. It was all he could do to stop himself from blacking out. That was not an option right now; to do so would only lead to his own death and possibly his brother’s.

The ghost twisted his head towards Sam, his stormy eyes dark. Dean collapsed suddenly onto all fours as Jed released him and vanished like morning mist. Gasping and panting desperately for air, his forehead pressed against the floorboards, Dean raised watery eyes, seeking out his younger sibling.

“Sammy…” his voice was quiet and raspy, barely more than a whisper but Sam heard the desperation in the tone.

Jed moved towards Sam, his teeth bared, the chain loose in his hands again.

“Yer think yer can take me on, boy?” the ghost snarled, moving closer to Sam, his footsteps echoing around the suddenly too small room. Sam’s hand found itself pressed against the wall again as his legs wobbled beneath him.

“Sam… no…” Dean was trying to rise but his own body was not complying, weakened from being strangled.

A cold hand shot out and wrapped around Sam’s chin, pushing him back against the wall. His neck was forced back, hyper-extended to the point of being painful as hell. Perspiration was trickling between his shoulder blades and his stomach was twisting into solid knots of fear.

“Enough games, boy,” Jed growled, his mouth inches from Sam’s face. “This ends here.”

What happened next, Sam wasn’t sure. Pain erupted through the back of his skull and for a moment everything went dark. When his vision finally came back online, the blackness was still curtaining the edges of his sight.

His hearing faded, his ears stuffed full of cotton balls but he heard the gunshot clearly – if not muted. Sam’s heavy eyes slid towards where the sound of the gunshot had come from.

Dad…

Dad was awake… His father had rolled onto his side, his shotgun raised and pulled against his body, but it was his expression that scared Sam. Angry…? Dad was livid.

The spirit disappeared… and then Sam was falling. His legs folded beneath him and he hit the floor hard. The smell of musty, damp wood infusing his nostrils was the last thing he remembered.

Sam felt his mind reboot slowly, and was immediately aware that something wasn’t quite right. His face was numb… actually so was the rest of his body. It was masking an uncomfortable dull aching that seemed to thrum underneath the haze he was feeling.

“Sammy?”

At the sound of his name, Sam prised gritty eyes open. For a moment everything was blurry and Sam tried to blink the fuzz from his vision.

“Sam? You with me, man?”

Dean… it was Dean.

Sam rolled his gaze towards his brother’s voice, a task which was a hell of a lot harder than it should have been, and tried to focus on the dark, familiar shape at the side of him.

“Think…so,” Sam managed to say, although he sounded hoarse and his throat burned.

Dean moved closer and finally his face sharpened. His cheeks were littered with cuts and bruises and his lip was split. He was wearing a sling on his left arm too but other than that he seemed unscathed. Rolling his head across the pillows behind his head, Sam took in the rest of the room.

A machine beeped at the side of him, keeping a steady rhythm and the walls were white-washed and clinical. There was an IV coming out of the crook of his left arm and his right was in a shiny cast. The bottom half of his body was covered with a bobbled blue blanket, leaving his heavily bandaged chest exposed. Even without the smell of antiseptics, the tell-tale equipment and sterile environment, Sam would have known without even looking that he was in hospital.

“Thank god. Didn’t think you were gonna come round before Attila the Hun made me leave.”

Sam was sure nothing about that sentence made sense, but he was too tired to debate it.

“You OK?” Sam asked, attempting to sit up. Dean’s hands were instantly on his shoulders, gently pushing him back into the pillows.

“Moving around is a big no-no, Sammy,” Dean said softly, “Not unless you want Attila to kick my ass.”

Sam frowned. “Dean…?”

His brother sighed and sank into the chair next to him. “I’m fine.” When Sam gave him a sceptical look, he held his hands up defensively. “Seriously, dude, I am. The doc said I’ve got some bruising to my back, a busted arm and a concussion, but that’s it.”

Sure that his brother was telling the truth, Sam let out a long breath. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

“He’s down the hallway. Got a nasty-assed slash down his side that earned him a couple of days in ‘Hotel Hell’. Attila was worried he was gonna get gangrene or tetanus.”

“Who the hell is Attila?” Sam asked, confusion splaying across his swollen face at the mention of the name for the third time.

“The frigging doc, dude,” Dean muttered sourly, but Sam noticed his brother glanced towards the open door before he continued to speak. “She’s vile.”

Sam wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. There was something else more pressing that Sam did want to know about, however.

“How long was I out?”

“Six hours.”

Sam blinked at that revelation.

“Six hours? What’s wrong with me?”

“You mean apart from the facial reconstruction Jed Ellis attempted?” Dean’s tone sobered suddenly, the grin sliding from his face. “A couple of broken ribs, a bruised kidney and a concussion.”

“What happened?” Sam licked his lips, his eyes sliding shut. Everything was a little hazy, images and events careening through his brain in no particular order making it difficult to put everything into some kind of chronology.

Dean’s tone sobered. “Officially… Dad lost control in the storm and totalled the Impala. Unofficially… you got mashed by South Dakota’s first hitchhiking serial killer spook.”

That made even less sense when Sam repeated it in his head. “W-what?”

“Do you remember anything at all?” Dean questioned, his brow furrowing.

“Some…” Sam admitted. His head felt stuffy and he was finding it hard to pull anything out of it. “I remember the crash… the ghost… last thing I remember is being in that cabin.”

“You remember Casper the psychotic ghost trying to kill you?”

Sam nodded slowly, wishing he hadn’t as his head throbbed with pain.

“You OK?” Dean asked worriedly. “You want me to get the doctor? Attila’s not that bad.”

“No… I’m fine.”

Dean snorted. “Sure you are.”

Sam let out a weary breath. There was no point arguing his well-being with Dean. It wasn’t an argument he would win anyway

“What about Jed?” He sounded so small, his voice cracking and hitching as he spoke the spirit’s name.

“Gone. Dad called Bobby as soon as the EMT brought us here. He and Caleb are stopping by to salt and burn the son of a bitch. Apparently, Jed was around in the forties. He used to hitchhike and when they stopped to give him a ride, Jed’d kill them off one by one. From what Bobby said he killed half a dozen people before Jed took on someone stronger.”

“Jenkins,” Sam said, fitting the last piece of the puzzle together. “Jenkins killed him.”

“Seems that way. They never found his body at any rate. Anyway, no one else went missing off the road until six months ago. Something must have disturbed Jed’s body, but I’m guessing that he’s been searching for Jenkins ever since.”

Sam nodded slowly. At least Jed wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again. Bobby and Caleb would have done a thorough job.

“The car’s screwed, isn’t it?”

Dean sobered. “She’s in a bad way but a little TLC and she’ll be fine.” Dean must have been worried about Sam. Any other time and the car being totalled would have had his brother distraught. The fact he was brushing it off suggested Sam’s injuries were bad. Not that it surprised him. He suspected it was only whatever drugs that they were pumping through his IV that was keeping him from feeling every cut and bruise.

Sam closed his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners, “She? Dean, you do realise it’s just a car, don’t you?”

“Hold your tongue, heathen!”

Sam laughed, in spite of the muted pain it caused him. Dean smiled at his younger sibling before sighing.

“You know, we’re gonna have to fit you with a crash-helmet or something before your brains actually get beaten out of your skull.” Dean shook his head. “What the hell were you thinking antagonising the pissed-off spirit of a crazy son of a bitch?”

“He was going to kill you, Dean,” Sam said quietly. Even though Dean was fine, Sam couldn’t prevent the stab of fear that thrust into his stomach at the reminder of Jed attacking his brother. It had been a close call. Too close. The bruising to Dean’s neck was avid now; stark purples and blacks standing brightly against his pale skin. Sam wondered absently how the hell his brother had explained the markings. No way in hell would any doctor believe they were caused by the crash.

“Yeah, he very nearly killed you, Sam,” he snapped. “And I can take care of my goddamn self.

Sam sighed. “I know you can, but you’re my brother and you were in trouble. I did what I had to. I did what you would have done.”

Dean frowned, his jaw twitching. He couldn’t argue with it because he had done exactly the same thing and the angry black bruising across his neck only highlighted that fact. Dean held his hand up, shifting uncomfortably.

“No chick flick moments, dude.”

Sam smiled wearily, letting the drugs coursing through his body take a firmer foothold. It was tempting to give into them. “Whatever, jerk,” Sam muttered, his eyes shut.

Dean snorted. “You’re the idiot who was in two car accidents in as many days, jinx.”

Sam cracked an eye. “Says the guy who got us lost on the highway to Amityville.”

“Hey, it was you who attracted the Phantom frigging hitchhiking serial killer.”

Sam shot back another retort half-heartedly. They had survived and they were all, more or less in one piece. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

End...