Glass Pieces
Canton, Ohio and the weird Paris Hilton hunt are three days behind them. It went well, all things considered. They've been separated before and they always come back together like a well-oiled machine, but they've never parted on such rocky terms before. But it was good, normal, even. Or at least it was until the inevitable bomb dropped.
"One of the reasons I went off with Ruby...was to get away from you."
Dean had been equal amounts pissed, betrayed, and hurt at Sam's admission. Being purposefully left behind has always been a bit of a stinger with him and yeah, Sam's done it before but this was different. This was Sam needing to get away from Dean specifically. At least with Sam going to college, Dean knew he was leaving the life, not necessarily leaving him. He didn't really get that kind of reassurance this time around.
Despite the initial hurt and anger, he got it. Sam can't be smothered and he hates taking orders, and unintentionally, that's what Dean did. He took charge because he's the oldest and he feels it's his job because dad's gone. He took charge because it helped him focus on things other than hell, death, and panic. He did it to keep Sam safe. Of course, in the end, all it did was make Sam feel like he was dealing with dad all over again, and Dean was just too scared and determined to care. So Sam went off and did something that he had control of, something that made him feel like he was the one in charge for once. Dean doesn't like how he did it but he understands why.
It can't be like that anymore. Things need to change if they expect to get on the same ground again and save the world. The problem is Dean has no idea how. Yeah, he made a good first step letting Sam drive the Impala, but what now? What does he do when all his life he's stood in front of Sam to keep him safe? How the hell is he supposed to just step aside? He really has no idea. He doesn't know what's safe anymore and what's not, what he can or should do. But he knows he has to figure it out. He needs to let Sam fly from the nest, koo-koo-ka-choo, or whatever.
But it feels like chopping off his good shooting arm.
So when they roll into Michigan and catch wind of an angry spirit in Novi, they take it head on, eager to get into their old rhythm and start over.
The case is easy enough. One of the builders who had worked on the house about ten years ago took a header off the roof and died on impact. The reason he fell was because someone broke protocol and left their tools lying around up there, and a one Mr. Justin Concord was unfortunate enough to find them with his feet. Now his spirit is raising hell in the house any time someone leaves something out of place, something that is a daily occurrence with a family of five. So far no one has died but two of the members have landed in the hospital with varying degrees of injury. Thankfully this means that the family isn't under a shield of denial and skepticism, so it was easy for Sam and Dean to convince them to let them do their job.
The house is a large, modern home with floor to ceiling windows carved into the huge A-Frame. The porch is held above ground by pillars and wraps all the way around the house, with a staircase leading up from the ground level. Below the porch is a second entrance that leads to a walk-in basement. The inside is of course just as beautiful, with rich wood, fireplaces, and grand lofts.
Dean whistles as they take in the grandness of the house, "Damn."
The family is already out of the house so the plan is to check for EMF, lay down some salt for temporary protection, and then salt-n-burn the bones.
Dean doesn't know if it's because they are too eager to make things as normal as possible or if it's because they are both genuinely distracted, but somehow they both manage to be wrong about what they are dealing with. Oh, it's definitely Justin Concord but he isn't just a spirit anymore. Apparently, he got pissed off enough to cross over into poltergeist territory.
They don't even get to do the EMF sweep before both of them feel the air shift. Sam glances at Dean and Dean meets his gaze. The silent communication that has been dead static for that past year sparks as they both convey the same thing: something's not right. This isn't normal.
At that moment a remote control goes sailing through the air on a path right for Dean's head. He ducks it with a curse and he and Sam separate from each other, both of them taking cover from the objects now being launched across the house. Sam ends up crouched between a large piano and a wall and Dean flings open a closet door to use as a shield.
"Sonuvabitch!" Dean growls as a particularly large vase crashes right over his head on the other side of the door, "Sam, we need to bail!"
And did they ever. They were expecting a garden variety spirit and no activity because it's broad daylight. So all they have is an EMF reader and one shotgun between the two of them, both of which are useless right now. They are way under-prepared for a poltergeist.
Sam nods in agreement from his spot, even though Dean can't see it, and scans for a way to get out of the crap situation they've found themselves in. A fire poker catapults through the air and embeds itself in the wall inches away from Sam's body.
"Jesus," Sam breathes as he stares at the poker with wide eyes.
Making a run for it is their only option and they both know it.
"On three?" Dean shouts, making sure that they're both on the same page so that they can get out relatively at the same time. No one left behind.
"On three!" Sam confirms and tenses, waiting for Dean's countdown.
"One!"
Sam hears another loud smash and he winces, thinking about how hard it's going to be to dodge all the expensive pottery and trinkets.
"Two!"
Sam moves onto his haunches, preparing to make a run for it and faintly, he can hear Dean shift a few feet away as he does the same.
"Three!"
They both spring from their safety spots and sprint, arms up for meager protection against flying objects. Sam can see Dean reach the door and yank it open before busting through it, seeking the haven of the porch outside. The small knot in Sam's chest eases a little as he sees his brother reach safety but it doesn't dissipate, because he still needs to get the hell out. The door's within reach. Two more steps and he'll be home free. Just as he takes one of the final steps to the doorway, an unimaginably powerful force flings him backwards, tossing him like a sandbag. He hits the floor hard and he gasps as the air from his lungs is momentarily stolen. Sam can hear Dean call his name and he knows, just knows, that Dean is about to come crashing back in the house. Sam tries to sit up and yell to his brother to not be a moron and stay out, but the words come out as a wheeze. Panic turns to fear as he feels an icy chill wash over him, and energy surrounds him like a cloud. He feels himself being picked up again. Despite the fact that he doesn't want Dean to come back and get hurt trying to save him, Sam can't help but yell for him.
"Dean!"
He doesn't get to hear Dean's response or even see if he comes back in the house. As soon as the last syllable leaves his lips, he's hurled through the air, crashing through one of the huge windows like a wayward baseball. Sam doesn't even have time to panic as he free falls and then crashes to the ground. Everything goes black.
Dean barrels out of the house and catches himself on the railing of the porch. Then he whips around to make sure that Sam comes through the door too. He can still hear things smashing inside and every sound is like a needle to his heart, feeding his anxiety as the doorway remains empty.
"Come on, come on," Dean mutters and shifts impatiently on his feet, "Sam!"
His brain is starting to scream at his body to move, warning him that he needs to go back in because something's wrong. It shouldn't be taking Sam this long to exit the house. But he knows that going back in would not only endanger himself but it would distract Sam, and distraction means injuries. So he stays still, eyes darting around frantically as he tries to catch sight of Sam.
Any logic he has telling him to stay put goes out the door when he hears his little brother shout his name in panic. Dean's pushing off the railing in a flash, ready to charge back into the house. His blood is humming with adrenalin, pulsing to the beat of 'get Sam out, get Sam out, get Sam out.'
It's the huge, earth-shattering crash that stops him cold.
There's only one thing that could cause a sound like that: a huge object going through a window. Dean's feet change course and in seconds he's running down the length of the porch.
"Sammy!" Dean calls as he gets closer to the living room windows, hoping that Sam will answer him and ease the panic that's threatening to send him to an early grave.
Dean rounds the corner and briefly freezes in shock. The pause only lasts a second before he's skidding to his brother's side. Glass litters the whole side of the porch, looking like diamonds as the shards reflect the sun. Sam is balancing dangerously on the edge of the porch, his eyes are closed, and he's not moving. When Sam was thrown, he was thrown hard enough to not only go through the window, but hard enough to skid across the porch and bust through the protective railing as well. Now the wooden beams that held the railing are snapped in half, some are even missing, and half of Sam is hanging out of the gap that he created. If Sam moves the wrong way he's going to fall off the porch, and drop a good twenty feet to the ground. That wouldn't be ok on a normal day but right now Dean doesn't even know how injured his brother is, which means he needs to get Sam away from the edge now.
Dean puts a restraining arm across Sam's chest so that he can't roll, and works on waking Sam up. He doesn't want to move him until he knows how bad Sam's hurt.
"Sam? Sammy, you with me?" Dean asks as he gently pats Sam's cheek, wincing as he looks at the cuts on his face.
Sam makes a muffled groan as his eyes open into slits. Then he shifts a little, grimacing as he crushes glass underneath him. Alarm races through Dean and he puts his hands on Sam's shoulders, forcing him to stay still.
"Don't move yet, ok? You're dangling off the edge of the porch like a worm on a hook. Just stay still for a minute. How bad are you hurt? Anything broken?" Dean asks as he scans Sam over quickly from head to toe, trying to see any major injuries.
Sam's eyebrows scrunch as he blinks slowly, "Huh?"
Dean sighs, "Bones, Sammy, are any of them broken?"
Dean watches as Sam frowns and shifts his eyes back and forth as he does a mental inventory.
"No," Sam says, "I'm bleeding."
"Yeah, nice observation, Sherlock," Dean says and takes Sam's face in both of his hands, trying to get a good look at his eyes to check for a concussion.
"Are you going to kiss me?" Sam asks and actually looks worried, so yeah, Dean's thinking that Sam took a pretty good knock to the head.
"No dofus, I'm checking to see how hard you knocked your big head. Besides, you know prudes aren't my type," Dean says and lets go of Sam's face to put his hands back on his shoulders.
Sam's pupils are equal and reactive so Dean's not too worried about the head injury. He figures that Sam's just a little out of it and that it'll pass soon.
"You slept with an angel."
"Shut up, Sam," Dean says without fire, "Ok, we need to get you up. Work with me here, ok? Swing your leg up first."
Dean keeps his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders so that the weight shift doesn't send Sam tumbling, and he keeps his eyes on Sam's movements, standing guard in case anything starts to go wrong.
Sam grunts against the weight strain that he's putting on his injuries as he slowly drags his leg up from over the edge of the porch. Once both of his legs are firmly on solid ground Dean clenches Sam's shirt in his hands, and prepares to haul. He wants nothing more than to drag Sam away from the looming edge but doing so would only add more cuts to Sam's already battered body, and dig the glass in further.
"Ok, you ready?" Dean asks and waits for Sam's nod, "Right, here we go."
Dean plants his feet on either side of Sam, glancing nervously over the side of the porch and pulls, slowly hauling Sam up to his feet. They both groan, Dean because of Sam's weight and Sam because of the pain. Finally, Dean has Sam upright and he quickly tucks his brother under his arm, keeping a firm hand around his waist as he brings Sam's arm up over his shoulder.
"Ouch," Sam says through clenched teeth.
"I know, I'm sorry," Dean apologizes sincerely as they start the long trek down the stairs and to the Impala.
"Gonna have to tell the family what happened to their house," Sam says and then yelps as they stumble, knocking his various cuts.
"Shhh, easy," Dean reassures and works to get them upright again, "You ok?"
Sam nods even though his teeth are clenched.
"You gonna need a hospital?"
An immediate and frantic headshake 'no' kills the idea.
"Alright, ready to start moving again?" Dean asks and tightens his grip on Sam's side.
"Yeah." Sam shifts closer to Dean, resting more of his weight on his brother.
It's slow goings but they finally make it to the car. Dean leans Sam against the side of the Impala and snatches a few towels from the trunk. He lays one out on the seat so that Sam doesn't bleed all over the interior and then hands the other one to Sam.
"Here, put this on the worst of it, we'll be at the hotel soon," Dean says and Sam takes the towel.
Thankfully the motel is only about five miles away and Dean makes it there in just as many minutes.
"Still gotta call the family," Sam mutters as Dean helps him out of the car.
"Yeah, Sam, we will," Dean replies, not really putting much thought into anything else besides getting Sam inside and stitched up, "Let's get you sorted out first."
Sam makes some kind of a sound that was probably an agreement as they pushed their way into the motel. The town they're in doesn't exactly have the cheap and questionable digs they usually take up, and for once Dean is thankful that they're being forced to stay in a nicer place with guaranteed cleanliness, heat, and hot water.
Dean eases Sam onto the furthest bed from the door, "Lay on your stomach, we're going to have to cut off your shirt. Tell me if you get nauseous or light-headed."
Sam grunts as he eases onto his stomach and then mutters, "I know."
Dean leaves to get the first aid kit and is back in an instant. He sets the kit down and eases onto the bed next to Sam, his hip touching Sam's thigh. He gets to work cutting off Sam's shirt, cataloging all the nicks, cuts, and deep wounds that become visible as he does so.
When Sam's back is fully exposed, Dean curses, "Shit."
"How bad is it?" Sam asks, his voice muted because half his face is buried in the pillow under him.
"At least two of them need stitches," Dean says and narrows his eyes at Sam's skin, "There's still glass stuck in you."
"Figured."
"You need anything? Whiskey? Tylenol? Both?" Dean asks as he retrieves the tweezers from the kit and rubbing them down with alcohol and few times.
"No."
Dean takes his lighter to the tweezers just to make sure that all the bacteria is killed.
"Alright," Dean breathes, "Here we go."
The first piece of glass comes out easy enough, so does the second. It's the third that has Sam's fingers clenching in the bedspread and hissing through his teeth.
"Easy, bro," Dean soothes, "It's almost out. Just relax, it won't hurt as bad if you're not tensed up."
Dean works on glass, resisting the urge to wiggle loose.
"I'm surprised you're letting me do this at all," Dean comments and then immediately he tenses. He didn't mean to say that. He didn't even realize the thought was in danger of coming out of his mouth. If he's lucky enough, Sam will be too distracted by the pain in his back to be paying attention to anything Dean's rambling about.
"What are you talking about?"
No such luck, then.
"Nothing, Sam. Forget I said anything," Dean replies and concentrates extra hard on the task in front of him.
"Why wouldn't I let you patch me up?" Sam demands, shifting.
Dean frowns in irritation, "Stay still!"
Sam settles again but he doesn't relent, just like a pit bull with a bone, "Why would you say that?"
Dean sighs, wishing that he hadn't opened his damn mouth, "We have to do this now?"
"Yeah cause otherwise we won't do it at all, so start talking," Sam says and then grunts as Dean finally gets the third piece of glass free.
"There's a few more," Dean says, effectively dodging Sam's persistence.
Sam swallows, "Please, Dean?"
Dean's lips tighten into a thin line, irritation flowing off him in waves as he stares at Sam's back. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to open old wounds, create new ones, and hear how Sam doesn't want him holding him back anymore. But Sam's right. Not talking earned them an apocalypse.
Dean sighs again and takes the plunge, both metaphorically and physically as he searches out the next piece of glass, "Just figured you wouldn't want me patching you up anymore. Mr. Independent and all."
He tries not to sound bitter but it's hard, and he doesn't think he succeeds. Sam's sigh tells him he's right.
"Dean, that's…"
"It's ok, Sam, I know. Forget I said anything," Dean interrupts, cutting off Sam's response so he can cut off any pain that's about to be unintentionally dealt.
A heavy and awkward silence falls over them for a long time, one that's only disturbed a few times by a low grunt from Sam or from the sick squelching of glass being pulled from flesh.
"When you were gone," Sam starts, "I got into this really bad bar fight."
Dean's surprised that Sam is talking about what had happened with him when he was dead, but he lets him keep going as he continues to tend to Sam's injuries.
"It must've been about five weeks after the hellhounds came and I was in some backwoods town in Arkansas, just wasted. Anyways, I was in this bar and I pissed off some dude, I don't really remember how. He smashed a fifth of vodka on the back of my head, knocked me out cold."
Anger struggles with anguish in Dean's chest. He hates the idea of Sam hurting that badly and not being there to make him feel better, or watch his back. Except for the actual hell part, leaving Sam alone, unprotected, and riding solo was Dean's biggest fear about going to the pit.
"I woke up in the hospital. They told me they pulled out a whole bunch of glass from my head n' neck, and that they pumped my stomach. I guess the guy I pissed off kicked me a bit when I was down because they told me that my ribs were bruised up pretty bad. It was the first time I ever woke up in a hospital without you there. For a minute, I didn't remember that you were dead and when I did…"
Sam's breathing hitches and he stops. Dean stares at the back of his head with wide, sad eyes.
"That was when I knew I had to get you back and that I didn't care what it took. Cause you would've taken out the glass and you would've called me a girl for not holding my liquor. Then you would've found the guy who kicked my ass and repaid the favor. I needed that, I didn't need the hospital."
Dean swallows a few times while fighting a suspicious burning feeling in his eyes. He doesn't respond because he's pretty sure that if he tries to talk, his voice will squeak with unshed tears. And Dean Winchester does not squeak.
"When I told you to let me grow up, I didn't mean stop being my big brother. I'd never want that. I just need you to treat me like a partner too, not like a soldier and not like a kid. But I still need you, Dean, always will," Sam says softly with resolve.
Dean thanks God that Sam's been on his stomach this whole time because if he wasn't he'd see the raw emotion on Dean's face. Somewhere inside him Dean already knew everything that Sam told him. But it's been so long since he heard it that he'd almost forgotten it, especially after the last few oh-so reassuring conversations they've had. For a while, he even convinced himself that he didn't need to hear it and that it didn't matter. Of course, that was just a lie to cover up how bad it hurt to see Sam pulling away from him.
Dean huffs and clears his throat, "Jesus, Sam. The apocalypse is really turning you into a chick." It's a terrible joke but it's much better than continuing the Hallmark moment. Dean's pride does have its limits.
Sam huffs out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like tears as well but he doesn't reply.
Silence falls again but this time it's comfortable and familiar until Sam breaks it again.
"Hey, Dean?"
"What?' Dean replies, squinting as he attempts to thread the needle to stitch Sam up.
"We need to call and explain to those people about their house."
Dean rolls his eyes, "We will, Sam."
"They're gonna be pissed," Sam continues.
Dean snorts, "Not as pissed as they'll be when you tell them we have to put holes in their wall tomorrow to get rid of their ghostie."
"Who says I'm gonna tell 'em? You tell them," Sam fires back and then winces as Dean makes the first tiny hole in his skin with the needle.
"You tell them, bitch."
"Make me, jerk."
Dean's chest catches as he clings onto this moment because it's been so freaking long since things were easy like this between them. Dean knows Sam feels it too because his back stutters under his hand.
"Sammy?" Dean says hesitantly.
Sam makes a sound of acknowledgment, "What?"
"Thanks. For…you know," Dean says and then clears his throat uncomfortably.
"You're welcome," Sam replies softly.
Dean makes it a point not to notice the huge smile on Sam's face because this chick flick moment has lasted long enough as it is.
As if sensing Dean's awkwardness, Sam continues with, "But you're still going to tell them."
Dean rolls his eyes, "You're such a pain in the ass."
"You wouldn't have it any other way," Sam replies easily.
Yeah, Dean thinks silently, I know.