Bonus 2

Title: Bonus 2
Author: tarotgal
Fandom:  Supernatural (Season 1, technically, because that’s all I’ve seen at this point)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my 'verse. I don't get paid a cent to play. Please don't sue and make things worse.
Summary: Why you shouldn’t hunt ghosts when you’re sick.
Note: Part of the 12 Ficlets in 12 Days project 2011-2012.


Bonus 2

The mournful, howling scream was deafening. Sam felt its nails dig stingingly into his neck. He resisted the urge to clap his hand to the area, needing to keep the guns raised and aimed at the doorways. One vengeful spirit in the room was all he could handle at a time. “Deeeeeean?” he called over his shoulder. A simple salt and burn shouldn’t take this much time.

“Got it!”

The howl died down and the sound of crackling fire behind him was immensely reassuring. The pain in his arms vanished as he lowered them. “Finally.” He touched his neck and grimaced slightly at the drops of blood upon his skin. “Man, took you long enough.” He turned and saw Dean cupping his hand to his nose. “What’s the matter? Inhale some smoke?”

Dean shook his head, snuffling. “Let’s just go, all right?” His eyes fell upon Sam’s neck. A flash of guilt crossed his face. “Shit, did the ghost—”

“Yes, the ghost did. Where were you?”

“I was…”



With a deep breath, Sam closed his eyes. “I knew it. You’re sick again, aren’t you?”

Dean pushed past him. “C’mon. Got bandages in the car.”

This time, Sam heard him quite clearly as it echoed down the hallway.


Yelling after him, “Yeah, we’ve got tissues there as well.” He started to follow, but the sting in his neck suddenly intensified. “De—“ He tried, but he couldn’t get his brother’s name out. The sting wrapped around, seizing his neck, squeezing it. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t cough, couldn’t move. Alarmed, his fingers scraped at his neck, as if trying to pull whatever it was free, but nothing was there.

The world started to go dark around him. His head spun. He lost his footing. His eyes closed.

And when he opened them, he jumped to find himself in the passenger seat of the car. Dean was driving, like usual, and shot him a look. “Had another nightmare?”

Sam’s heart raced, thumping hard in his chest. A dream. Or a vision? “Dean, are you sick?”

Dean glanced sideways. “No.”

Sam took a few slow, deep breaths to calm himself. He noticed Dean’s nostrils flaring a little. And he saw Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes.”

“No.” His insistence was for shit as his breath caught. He lifted a fist to his nose and mouth. “hertchhh! Heh-hept-Tchhhh!

“Pull over.”


“Pull over. Motel. Vending machine snacks. Day-old coffee. And a bottle of Nyquil. You’re not driving ‘til you shake this.”

Dean glanced down at the journal. “What about that house in Philly?”

 “The family died in 1813. Something tells me they can wait until you get over a head cold.”

“It’s not a heh… a huh… h’ptchuhhh!” The car swerved. “hetchshhh!” He sprayed the steering wheel and jerked it back into place.

“No, it’s a head cold. And the last time we took something on when you were sick, I could’ve been killed. I’m not doing that again. So either let me out right here or pull over and—”

The wheels screeched as Dean made a sharp turn off the highway, taking the exit at the last available second.