Snake Eyes
"Read me the case again?"
"Sam, this is the fiftieth time."
"I can't remember," Sam insisted.
Dean glared at his brother. "You're just doing this to make me talk 'cuz you're bored, aren't you?"
He caught a hint of Sam's smirk before his little brother solemnly shook his head.
"I have a better idea." Dean tossed a book into Sam's lap. "I got you this."
Sam's mouth couldn't help curving up this time as his fingers traced over the title. "A cookbook? Really?"
"It was the only Braille one they had."
"How to make meatloaf," Sam read aloud. "Yeah, no thanks. How 'bout that case?"
Dean sighed and flopped onto Sam's bed. "I dunno, dude, I think we might pass this one on to someone else."
"What makes you say that?" Sam's body looked stiff with uncertainty, and Dean reached out, matter-of-factly sitting up and beginning to dig into Sam's shoulders, massaging the tension out. "We discussed it. People disappearing, probably the road stop where people say an old witch lives. What's so hard about that?"
"Well, I hate witches. But also it sounds like there are wards, enough that no one's been able to get close for years. We're not risking that."
"What's her mojo?"
Dean grumbled, kneading Sam's tense neck. "I don't know. Something about looking at her and getting turned into stone."
"Medusa."
"Gesundheit."
Sam went still in a way that only happened whenever he was thinking about something Dean wouldn't like. Dean stopped massaging Sam's shoulders and peered forward to see Sam's face. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking this is actually probably the best hunt."
"I'm not following."
For a long moment, Sam said nothing, before— "you're not gonna like it."
Dean hated when Sam said that.
"I told you once and I'll tell you again. We're going in together."
Sam narrowed his eyes. "Since when are you Dad?" They both winced at the unfortunate phrase before Sam plowed on. "It would be idiotic for you to go in. We both know that I'm the logical choice. Her powers can't do anything to me."
"No, but if she's armed, she could just get you that way," Dean argued. "And I'm gonna die anyway, so what's the big deal?"
Sam took a large, calming breath. "I want to eat. Let's discuss this later."
"Sure, Sammy." He could hear the pleasure in Dean's voice from learning that Sam actually wanted to eat for once—a common enough point of contention between the two of them.
He took a bite of his breakfast sandwich, listening as Dean swallowed some of his coffee.
"Where's my coffee?" he checked.
"Eleven o'clock."
Dean drank his coffee. Sam ate his breakfast. Five minutes.
"Sammy. I don' . . . somethin's wrong."
He moved forward, finding Dean's shoulder and waist with his arms and cradling him as his brother collapsed.
"S'm, wha—"
"Shh, it's okay. You're gonna be fine." Dean's weight was heavy against him as he lifted him over to the bed, settling him back against the covers.
"No, y'can't," Dean slurred, fingers trying and failing to grip Sam's forearm.
"I can do this, Dean. You stay safe." He pried Dean's hand away and tucked his brother in.
Getting to the house was a little more difficult that Sam had anticipated; the cab driver had refused to go there, and the bus only made it half the way there. It was all Sam could do to keep from getting lost until he stumbled into the statue-ridden yard.
The first statue was a woman, her mouth open in a scream. Sam pulled his fingers back and swallowed.
The door was unlocked. The hinges creaked. Sam ducked inside, hefting his shotgun in his hands. The original myth was a sword, but Sam figured blowing her head off would have the same effect.
"Who are you?" The hissing came from ahead of Sam. He deliberately kept his eyelids closed so that she would think he might be able to be killed that way—no need for her to grab an ax just yet.
"You've killed too many," Sam said.
"Ah, hunter," Medusa hissed. Sam heard her take a step forward. "Do you fear me?"
"Yes."
"Intelligenccce. So rare." Medusa glided closer. "Won't you look at me, hunter? I am beautiful to those with the strength to endure it."
"Beautiful in that you kill people."
"Not ssso. I did not choose my curse, but had it inflicted upon me and my sssisters."
"I have been cursed as well, but I don't use it to kill people," Sam snapped. The hissing noise that had been continuous since he had entered the house was throwing off his ability to tell where Medusa was.
"Hunter."
Sam froze as an icy hand clamped down in the same place Dean had been working knots out of his neck.
"I cannot suffer you to pass." Medusa's voice was sibilant hiss. Were Sam able to, he would obey her. "Look at me."
"That can't happen," he whispered. He carefully moved his finger to the trigger. Medusa was in front of him, probably. He just needed her to say one more thing to make sure . . .
"Open your—"
Sam tilted the gun up and shot. The awful sound of the inflicted shot was too close, and he tried to pull back, only to find Medusa's claw dragging him down with her body. Awkwardly falling to the side, Sam shoved ineffectually at her stiffening corpse.
Sharp pain dug into his hand. He yelped, yanking back and pulling out something . . . snake head—so that part of the myth was true—that had somehow bit him. For good measure, he aimed at the place where the remaining parts of Medusa's head should have been and pumped a couple more shells out.
"Get back to Dean," he muttered to himself.
Sam nearly went the wrong direction down the dusty road. He was rather . . . off. Something was . . . it felt tilting. The world was tilting.
"Hey man, you need a ride into town?"
"Yes, please," Sam said. Or tried to. His voice dragged low and rough, and he only barely managed to get into the car.
"Where to?"
"The motel. On the right."
"Okay. You okay?"
"Mmm, yeah. Gotta . . . get back to Dean. He'll be worried," Sam mumbled.
"Who's Dean?"
"M'brother. Can't let him die. Gotta save 'im."
"Okay, whatever you say. The motel's right here, do you need me to get out and help you to your room?"
"Tha's fine." Sam stumbled out, the ground moving sickeningly beneath his feet. He counted the doorknobs slowly as he walked by—one, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.
Sam giggled to himself and shoved uncoordinatedly at the lock with his motel room key.
"Dean, I'm back," he mumbled. There was no response, and fear shot through the haze of dizziness. He shoved past the first bed, half-collapsing onto the further one. A warm body met his searching hands, and Sam fumbled for a pulse.
Dean was alive. That was . . . good. Good.
It was like fighting a swamp monster. Dean would know, he had fought one before. The lassitude of sleep pulled at his senses, but Dean managed to screw open his eyes, demanding them to focus.
"Gaah."
Dean flopped and grabbed at the covers and at the weight on his chest—
"S'm?" He blinked down at his little brother, who was flushed and sweating and prone against Dean. Had it been a dream? What was going on?
"Sammy," Dean said, a little clearer. Sam groaned and rolled a little, but not much. Fear swept the rest of the drugs out of his system, and Dean frantically pushed his fingers into Sam's neck. Sam's pulse was rabbiting, far too fast. Dean pushed himself up while pulling Sam—who was almost falling off the bed—all the way up, laying him down and beginning to check him over. The only thing he found were two small puncture wounds on Sam's hand, the skin around it inflamed and swollen.
Dean grabbed his cell phone and dialed Bobby's number.
"Dean?"
"Bobby, Medusa's poison, what does it do?"
"Whoa, slow down. Medusa? Snake-hair lady?"
"Yeah, Sam went after her. Looks like he finished her off, but there's a bite on his hand, and he's unresponsive."
"That's . . . Medusa was never mentioned having venomous snakes. I don't know, Dean. Can you go to the hospital, or—"
"Henricksen's still after us," Dean growled.
"Alright, well, keep him hydrated, I guess. I don't really know, Dean."
"Great."
Dean hung up the phone and stared at Sam. "You don't like making this easy, do you kiddo?"
"—and after I'm done with that, I'll move on to your hair. I will chop off all your hair, and leave you with just a mohawk. I will braid that mohawk, and you won't be able to stop me. And then after that I'll paint your nails and I won't let you get any of that stuff that takes the nail polish off. Yeah, and oooh, after that, I'll give you a pink t-shirt and you won't even—"
"Dean?"
Strong hands gripped his shoulders too hard, and Sam winced. The motion triggered his realization that he was naked and freezing, and he started shivering from cold instead of pain.
"Dean, wha—"
"Temperature," Dean growled. In contrast to his harsh voice, he gently tipped Sam forward and manipulated Sam, dragging an old sweatshirt over his head.
"Temperature?"
"You were burning up." A heavy palm flattened against his forehead, and Sam curled into the touch as much as he could. The hand suddenly smacked him, and Sam flopped weakly back onto the pillow.
"Ow," he whined.
"What were you thinking, you son of a bitch?! You could've died, and you friggin' drugged me. How dare you—"
"I'm sorry for that," Sam replied, as calmly as he could. He was still feeling a little lightheaded, as well. "But it was the only way."
"Screw that! Don't do that ever again."
Resentment built up, and Sam didn't have the strength to keep it back as usual. "What, so when you die I should just sit around? You're such a hypocrite. You tell me that I'm useless and a burden, and then try to hold me back like some child. Well guess what, you're gonna be gone and what am I supposed to do, huh? What am I supposed to do?"
"Hey, Sammy, hey." A rough finger swiped under Sam's eyes, warm wetness appearing out of nowhere. "I'm sorry. You're fine, we're fine, c'mere." Dean's familiar figure came in close behind Sam. Everything hurt too much for Sam to be proud; he pressed into Dean's chest and gulped in air so he wouldn't sob. Strong fingers carded through his hair, holding him close. Above him, Dean kept repeating that they would be fine, like a mantra, like if he said it enough, it would be true.
Sam knew all too well, though, that it was a lie.
A/N: This was a response to the prompt over on Day By Day: Mahsati: a case in which Sam's blindness is actually an advantage, like in complete darkened spaces where he's the best at moving around, or if the monster they're hunting is kind of Medusa type and being blind makes him unaffected. :)
I felt it best that this one got its own separate section in the 'verse. Loved the prompt, and Medusa is such a controversial character, I love it.
Thanks for reading!