Prompt: It's the first time that the brothers hunt something by themselves. Sam is somehow injured & Dean ends up using himself as bait & gets flung around until Sam can finish the monster off. hurt!dean, worried!sam ensues…? - Anonymous
"Easiest hunt you could get. Shouldn't take longer than a day."
John's words flashed in Dean's mind as he stepped through the entrance into the abandoned factory. It should have been easy. Two spirits were haunting the place and according to everything that their father had dug up about the brother and sister who died there, it was a sibling rivalry over the company that resulted in their simultaneous demise. A suspected murder-suicide but the identity of the murderer was unconfirmed. John assumed the brother had turned on his sister and then killed himself; implying that if he couldn't have the business, neither could she.
But none of that mattered when Sam went into that building first while Dean loaded his duffle and Sam's cry of pain hit Dean's ears. Sam was Dean's responsibility on this hunt and he'd be damned in anything happened to that kid.
"Sammy!" Dean's voice trailed through the empty building, the seemingly heavens-high ceiling swallowing the echoes. After a moment, Dean turned to where he heard his younger brother's voice and shoved the pallets and boxes aside until he found Sam seated on the dirty floor, resting his back against the wall. "Sam," he mumbled again, dropping to his knees in front of his brother.
"I'm fine," the 16 year old replied, shifting slowly and wincing as he did.
"What happened?" Dean asked, an edge of worry and urgency in his tone. He looked his brother over, from boots to hair. "You okay?"
Sam sighed loudly, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, just… I fell down the stairs." Sam nodded toward the metal staircase that Dean had just walked down. It led from the parking lot into the basement level factory. Dean's brows creased softly and he stared at his brother for a long moment before Sam finally huffed out a breath and raised his arms. "Say it."
"You-you fell down the stairs?"
"Yeah."
"Just now?"
"Yeah."
"And you hurt yourself?"
Sam groaned in response. "I think I twisted my ankle. It's fine, I can walk, I was just makin' sure it wasn't broken." Sam finally met his brother's eyes and Dean saw shame and disappointment. "Say it, Dean. Go ahead, just make fun of me and get it over with."
Dean hated that that was Sam's expectation. He stood, extending a hand to help Sam up. When his brother was standing, Dean asked him to put his weight on his ankle and check the damage. "Don't…" Dean glanced up to Sam when he didn't continue. "Don't tell Dad about this, okay?"
The 20 year old frowned. "Why?"
"Cause." Sam shrugged and straightened to his full height, finally matching Dean's. He grimaced when he shifted his weight between legs.
"Yeah, whatever, Sam. You're okay though?"
"Yeah, I'm fi-" One step was enough to silence him with a sharp inhale. "Dammit."
Dean glanced around, making sure that the spirits weren't nearby. "Alright, I guess I'll be doing this one alone. Come on, let's get you back to the car and then I'll come back and burn the bones." John's research stated that Molly and Frank Parker were buried under what was now the extended wing of the factory. Dean just hoped they were buried in the same grave or else this 'simple salt 'n burn' was going to take a lot longer - especially alone.
"No, Dean, I can help."
Dean crossed his arms over his chest, puffing it out to appear larger. "Well go ahead, Sammy. By all means, dig up those bones."
Sam's lip raised in a stubborn snarl and he blinked heavily, sarcastically. "I don't have a shovel."
The eldest Winchester gave an "ah" response before turning back to the doorway, where he'd dropped his duffel bag. Retrieving two short shovels, he held one out to Sam. "There you go."
"Thank you," Sam replied stiffly as he took the shovel and then a step. He bit back a hiss and leaned on the wooden workbench beside him for support. After a moment of struggling and becoming unable to mask the pain, he finally admitted defeat. "Alright, fine."
Dean hadn't moved from his position by the pallets, arms replaced over his chest and a smile on his lips. He didn't enjoy seeing Sam hurting but that stubborness would get him killed if Dean wasn't careful. Teaching him a lesson in humility was the best option. "Good." He walked to Sam, placed his arm under Sam's, and began walking, allowing his brother's weight to rely on him instead of his left ankle.
As they reached the door, suddenly it swung shut. The brothers stopped immediately and exchanged a look. Situations like this occurred more often than Dean would care to count; a spirit knew about their presence and intent and would try to prevent them from reaching the bones - or in this case, from getting out. But the difference was, in those situations, John was always there.
This was the first hunt that Dean and Sam had taken solo.
"Crap," Dean mumbled, biting his bottom lip hard.
"What do we do?" Sam didn't bother hiding his uncertainty. Without John's presence, he didn't care if Dean saw his fear.
Dean stepped away from Sam and tried the door, just in case dumb luck was on their side.
It wasn't.
Dean dragged a hand through his hair and over his face. "I don't know, man. I guess we get digging and start shootin' if we need to." He reached around and touched the gun that sat against his back. Dean glanced down to the leg that Sam was favoring. "Wait, I have an idea."
"Man I hate when you say that."
Dean's head fell back slightly. "You'd prefer I said that I have no freaking clue how to get outta here?"
"Well, when you put it that way -"
"Just shut up for a second and listen." Sam's eyes rolled quickly before he sighed and gave an 'okay, I'm listening' look. "Those spirits might not know you're here so if that's the case, I'll lure them away from you while you burn 'em."
Sam looked at his brother incredulously. "That's your plan?"
Dean was getting annoyed. "You got a better one, Einstein?"
"Yeah, something along the lines of let's just get the hell out of here."
Dean turned back to the door and jiggled the handle forcefully to no avail before looking at Sam. "Yeah. Good one."
"There's gotta be another way." Sam scanned the high windows, all of which were too high to reach.
"Well there isn't. So you start walking- well, limping, towards where the bones are and light 'em up." Before Sam could respond, Dean hefted the duffle off his shoulder and over Sam's and walked in the opposite direction, ignoring his brother's loudly whispered 'Dean'! Dean quickly continued until he came to another door on the opposite end of the building. Trying it and finding it locked too, he turned back and found Sam out of sight. He smiled to himself, glad to see the stubborn 16 year old finally following orders.
But as he stood by that door, with the unlit factory growing darker and darker as the sun's waning hues lost the battle against night, waiting for the right opportunity to draw attention to himself, Dean felt a slow shiver rise up him spine. Goosebumps poured over his skin and he shuddered.
They had found him.
He tightened his grip on the iron shovel in his hands and shouted, "Come on, you sons of bitches. You don't want me to leave? Then let's get this party started!"
His words were barely out before he felt an odd sensation. It took a second for him to realize that his feet had left the ground and he was falling backwards, but not really falling - more like if he were shoved back by the Hulk.
Dean's back hit the wall hard and all the air left his lungs in a loud gasp, his grip on the shovel lost. He slumped down onto his side when he made contact with the ground, covering his arms over his chest protectively. His lungs were screaming for air but deep breaths were out of the question with his lungs pressing against at least one broken rib, he assumed. So he dragged in quick, shallow breaths, each one more unsatisfying than the last. After a few useless gasps, he sucked in as much air as he could before the pain became unbearable.
The exhale came out as a cough and Dean's head fell forward at the stifling pain.
He tried to sit up but failed, his body throbbing and shaking. He balled his hands into fists and slammed one against the concrete floor, the added ache acting as a slight distraction from the mess of cramps and spreading pain in his chest. John would have been disappointed to see his son like this, Dean considered. He couldn't remember seeing his father floored so quickly in a fight and he fought to move again.
Pain burned hot down his back and shot to his leg. Dean grimaced, jaw jerking tightly, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Sam had better be digging as fast as was damn well possible, he thought absently.
He looked up, eyes widening when he noted the two spirits. Good, he thought. They were both focused on him, not Sam. The brother and sister were halfway across the building and then, within the time of a blink, they were directly in front of him.
Shifting his weight quickly, he sat up and yanked his gun from where it had been placed under his belt, shouting another curse at the searing pain that ripped through his shoulder when he moved. He got off two shots before the spirits could react, resulting in them both disappearing immediately. Iron bullets were a thing of beauty in his mind.
Dean lowered the gun, huffed a breath, and swallowed hard, his throat dry and burning. He stayed settled on the floor for a moment, allowing himself a chance to consider the damage and giving his body the chance to rest, before standing slowly on weak legs.
When he straightened, he hissed a breath when pain seized his back. His spine felt bruised from top to bottom and he wouldn't be surprised if dark coloring did blotch his skin.
Suddenly, he felt a hot, searing sensation on his arm. Dean's head whipped to the side and he found himself face to face with Molly Parker. Her hollow eyes were deeply shadowed and dark bruising surrounded her neck. Two bloody marks also dotted her torn dress. The sight surprised him just as much as her proximity. John's research that shown that Molly and Frank had been shot to death - or at least that was what several witnesses at the time suspected when they heard gunshots ring through the factory. So why did her neck bear witness to a hanging?
His left hand instinctively went to where the blade in her hand had sliced through his shirt and skin. This kind of pain was familiar. The number of times he had been cut was uncountable and that thought gave Dean a sense of pride. He was a Winchester. Sure, he could get the wind knocked out of him, and yeah, his body was screaming in agony, but he was a Winchester and he would get through this.
But when a thick cord dropped over his face and clasped tightly around his neck, he reconsidered his certainty.
"SA-" His brother's name fell abruptly silent when the rope constricted, an invisible force hefting him up effortlessly.
Dean grabbed and clawed at the noose, desperately trying to loosen it somehow, but he found no relief. Dark tunnels quickly surrounded his blurry vision and loud ringing filled his ears, coupled with his heart's deafening and erratic pounding. He could feel the blood rushing to his head and his legs kicked and fought uselessly for a footing.
His body struggled beyond its limits and the pain he'd felt earlier multiplied by the second as spasms rocked his muscles. He tried to shout, to get Sam's attention, but nothing came out. Or at least, if anything did, he couldn't hear it over the obnoxious ringing.
Dean's eyes squeezed shut in a last attempt to use every bit of his energy to get free, but when his trembling hands lost feeling, he realized numbly that it was over. They had lost.
But just as his sweat covered body and burning lungs were ready to give up, he felt the grip on his neck release and a hard impact awoke his senses. He didn't move; couldn't move. Every muscle felt torn, every bone felt broken, and every organ felt abused beyond repair. Dean's only abilities was gasping in much needed air. He felt like he was still floating and his head spun rapidly. Even though his eyes were closed, he felt as if he was watching the building twist and turn. Nausea added to the list of things Dean was barely fighting.
He slowly, almost imperceptibly, curled his knees up to his chest, his body exhausted, broken and worn.
"Dean? Dean!" He heard his name being called but it was so distant, like Sam was miles away. His ears were still ringing but the sound was quieting. "Dean, hey, hey, are you okay?"
Hands landed hard on his chest and Dean visibly jerked out of surprise. "Sorry," Sam added, softening. His hands quickly went to the noose still laying around Dean's neck and he carefully pulled it over Dean's head and tossed it aside, slowing when Dean groaned at the movement.
Dean's eyes wearily opened and he focused on his brother. "You… you kill 'em?" he asked, voice raw and weak.
Sam didn't try to move Dean, obviously knowing better from years of experience. "Yeah, yeah, they're gone. Sorry it took so long."
Managing a small smile, Dean rolled onto his back, the smile immediately disappearing into an open mouthed grimace. "Nick of time… award… brother," he ground out painfully.
"Shut up," Sam replied, insisting that Dean save his strength. "Can you walk?"
Dean gingerly touched his neck, the abrasions from the rope all too noticeable. He wondered how long until the bruises and indentations were gone. "Not sure," he mumbled. "No time like the… present though." Sam placed a hand under Dean's head and the other around his arm, balancing his weight against Dean's until the older brother was upright. Dean swore as his muscles cried out in disagreement with the motion. "Let's get this over with," he stated without any desire to actually do so.
Sam shifted so he kneeling beside Dean and helped his brother's arm over his shoulders. "Ready?"
"One thing," Dean began, gulping in another breath before continuing. "If I black out… don't you dare wake me up."
The sixteen year old gave a forced smile, the worry in his eyes deeply embedded. "Okay."
Sam stood carefully, lifting Dean's body with him, and after releasing a cry of new found pain, Dean fell into blessed darkness.
He awoke an hour later on a motel bed to the sound of TV static mingling with indistinct conversation. "Sam?" he asked, his voice still rough.
"Yeah, Dean, I'm right here." Dean slowly turned his head against the pillow and found Sam seated on the bed to his left. "How're you feeling?"
"Awesome."
"Yeah you look awesome," Sam replied quietly. Dean's eyes followed Sam's arms to where his hands were holding a blue ice pack around his ankle. Sam caught Dean's look and shrugged. "It's not so bad."
"You carried me out of that factory with it?" he asked, feeling selfish for not remembering his brother's twisted ankle.
Sam stared at the TV as if it was interesting. "Yeah."
Dean's body was aching all over and laying on his back was uncomfortable, but he was okay. And that was only thanks to Sam. "Hey… Sammy." He breathed in slowly. "Thanks, man. You did good."
When Sam said nothing, Dean glanced at him. Tears brimmed his brother's lower lids. "You almost died, Dean," he finally replied.
"But I didn't."
"Yeah but you almost did."
"You can't think of it like that, Sam. This was a win. Dad'll be proud." He couldn't be sure about that but he'd like to think that their father would be surprised by his sons' capabilities in the field. "And I owe you a beer."
Sam gave a small smile, the first genuine one since the day started. "I'll take a rain check."
Dean adjusted slightly, ignoring his brother's dismissal of something Dean enjoyed so much, and asked, "Did you find out anything about the spirits? I mean nothing in Dad's research indicated the hanging." The weight of that word was much heavier now. Dean swallowed, feeling the dull soreness that surrounded his throat.
"Yeah, actually I did. Turns out Frank Parker shot his sister twice and when he saw that the wounds weren't fatal, he hung her, and then shot himself. Molly stabbed his arm before he killed her though, so that would explain…" His voice trailed off as he motioned to Dean's arm. Dean glanced at the deep red stain on his sleeve. That was going to be a bitch to clean, he thought, considering the fabric's involvement in the sound.
"It was all witnessed by a dark skinned worker whose report was swept under the rug because the police thought she wasn't reliable."
The 20 year old smiled. Sam was damn good at researching and though he'd never admit to enjoying being apart of hunting, Dean was sure that he enjoyed that aspect of it. When he felt Sam's eyes on him, he turned his head. "We made a pretty good team back there."
Sam's lips curved slightly, thoughtfully. "Yeah."
"Alright," Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest slowly. His broken rib lay awkwardly in his chest and he felt the pressure of it with every breath. He was going to need Sam's full attention soon enough to fix the damage that his body had endured during the hunt, but not yet. "I'm gonna sleep and if I don't wake up to some alcohol and at least one woman who's real name may or may not be Jasmine, I'll be pissed."
Though his eyes were closed, he could still see Sam's smile and head shake. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean mumbled after a yawn and quickly drifted back into the painless release.