Set season 2, post "Usual Suspects"
"Fuckin' hospitals," Dean mutters, then raises the volume a notch. "Would it kill somebody to tell me what's goin' on?"
He wipes a hand across his mouth and tosses the ragged magazine on the waiting room table. It hits with a loud slap. The looks he's getting from the room's other inhabitants are edgy and it's no fucking wonder. He knows what he looks like: face and hands striped with cuts and scratches, clothes dirty and shredded. Let 'em think what they want. Dean's too tired to care.
The orthopedic surgeon's explanation was pretty detailed: open fracture of the right ankle with dislocation, complications of which might include arthritis, ankle deformity and even delayed amputation if it happens to get infected, which the doctor implied is a distinct possibility. This registers an order of magnitude higher on the assault and battery scale than the crap they routinely limp through with a field med kit and a bottle of Jack. And how fucked up is it that there's such a long list of bodily damage they file under "routine"?
It should be a routine job. Tip from one of Bobby's contacts, another wendigo. It's not supposed to be this far west, but apparently Colorado's lousy with the damned things. They're not even seriously hunting it when it happens. They're just scouting, tracking it by its bloody spoor, when everything goes south. Yeah, it's all routine—right up until Sam screams.
Pure animal pain is all Dean hears. The sound hits him low in his back and rockets up his spine like an electric shock, jolts him into overdrive. He runs, crashing through the thick brush, branches slapping at his face, thorns tearing at his clothes. He comes to the drop-off; the sound came from here somewhere. Dean can hear Sam's sobbing breaths. Thank fuck, he's alive. Conscious even, it sounds like.
"Sam!" Dean shouts down the slope. He can see him now. Sam's wedged on his side between a tree trunk and the hillside. He's looking up, toward Dean's voice, but Dean doesn't think he's seeing much. Sam looks panicked, and that's bad.
"Don't move!" Dean barks, but he can already see there's no way Sam's going anywhere. Dean starts down the steep grade, boot heels digging into the dirt, down-slope foot spraying pine needles as he brakes next to his brother.
Dean gives him a quick once-over, trauma assessment kicking in automatically—breathing and circulation first, then work your way down from head to toe. Sam's breathing, that's clear—it's loud, the air moving in and out in pained gasps and grunts, like he's trying not to move any more than he has to. There's blood, enough that Dean can smell it, some across his face. Cut on his forehead. More blood soaked through Sam's shirt over his left ribcage and Dean peels the wet fabric back. There's a ragged gash. Dean can't tell how bad it is, but the blood's oozing, not squirting or gushing. Good enough for now.
Dean works his way down and sees the real problem— left ankle, twisted back at a sickening angle. He lifts the leg of Sam's jeans up and away from his lower leg. Sam's shaking and swearing. Dean's seen a lot of nasty injuries, but this…he can't…oh, fuck…can't lose his shit right now, but he's so close. There's a half-inch of bone sticking through the skin of his brother's lower leg.
"Mr. Smith?'
Dean looks up, hitching only a split second before recognizing the name. The tired-eyed doctor looks like ten miles of bad road, but he's a specialist, supposed to be good. He'd better be.
"How's my brother?" he asks, voice rough with fatigue and too much coffee.
"He'll be in recovery for the next hour or two, but he's doing fine. Got everything nailed back together." He shakes his head. "Nasty injury, that. But he's young and in good shape. He'll heal well as long as he takes care, doesn't overdo it."
"Thanks, doc," Dean says, swallowing hard and extending a hand. The doctor takes it and nods, then turns and walks away.
Dean wasn't surprised when they said Sam's ankle needed surgery. He knew this wasn't something you could fix with a splint and an Ace bandage, or they wouldn't even be here. Sam might've been able to hunt with his arm in a cast—and how the kid had managed to break another damned bone so fast, Dean can't figure—but he won't be hunting again for a while.
The thing is, Dean's not wild about interfacing with the healthcare system and its obsession with documentation at the best of times, and this isn't even remotely one of those. Events have been moving fast and ugly—arrested in Baltimore, for fuck's sake— and the last thing they need right now is to blip the grid. Still, laying low for a while might actually be a good thing. It makes Dean's skin itch just to think about it, but he has to face it. Sam's hurt. Dean's off his game.
**
"Okay, on three," Dean says.
He's got Sam sitting with his legs turned out of the passenger door of the Impala, his forearms hooked under Sam's armpits. He's just hoping Sam's got his good foot braced on the ground, that he's going to be a little help here, because his brother's roughly the size and weight of a refrigerator and just about as awkward to move. Sam has crutches, but he can't really use them because of the stitches in his side. This ain't gonna be pretty.
"One, two, three…" Dean counts, and heaves Sam to his feet. Sam does help a little, but the sound he makes when he does it just about unlocks Dean at the knees. It's somewhere between a groan and a grunt, bitten-off expression of pain, even though the anesthesia probably hasn't even completely worn off yet. It pisses Dean off. He's not mad at Sam; of course he's not. Sam should be in a hospital bed right now, but hell, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it? The "Smith brothers" had to get out of the hospital before somebody came looking. Sam was barely awake from the surgery when Dean took him. They made Dean sign him out AMA—Against Medical Advice. Yeah, no shit. Fuckin' FBI.
Dean's propped the door of the motel room beforehand, and they finally manage to limp inside. The whole procedure is a mess of flailing limbs and staggering, stumbling and swearing. Dean knows he's hurting Sam, no way he can't be, so he just makes it as quick as he reasonably can, tries to ignore the way Sam's breathing sounds like sobbing, the sweat that breaks out across his brother's forehead. He half-carries him to the nearest bed and lowers him onto it. Dean gets the bottle of Vicodin from his bag, looks at the label. It says one or two, but Sam's not even supposed to be out of the fucking hospital bed and Dean knows what he needs better than any doctor. He digs out three.
He gets the pills down Sam and settles him in the bed. God, Dean hates this. And they're just getting started.
Sam falls asleep in a couple of minutes, but he's restless, keeps muttering, occasionally flailing an arm. Dean's tired, too, but he doesn't try to sleep. They've been here before and Dean knows he won't be resting much for the next few days. He sets out his whetstone and goes to work on the knives. Switchblade, Bowie, machete—one follows another, and he loses himself in the rhythm. The quiet rasp of the blade, white noise of his childhood, always makes Dean remember drifting off to sleep to the sound of steel scraping stone. He works for a while and then it quiets Sam, too.
Dean's finished the knives, re-fletched a couple of arrows and moved on to sharpening the broadheads, when the retching starts. He checks the clock; it's been about three hours. Sam's right on schedule.
**
"Here…take it easy…not too fast," Dean says, handing Sam a glass of water and a damp washcloth.
Dean flops back in the chair and rubs the back of his neck tiredly. Should have let the hospital keep Sam a little longer. It's always fucking like this. Sam takes days to get over anesthesia, always has. The puking and whining and pissing and moaning has been going on for three days now, and Dean is here dealing with it in a damned motel room, when he could be flirting with some cute nurse while somebody else cleans up the mess.
Typical.
Christ, Dean would rather sew up a dozen wounds than deal with puke, although it's looking he might have to pull out the needle and thread pretty soon anyway, the way it's going. All the throwing up hasn't exactly been easy on Sam's stitches, and the wound was a shredded mess in the first place—courtesy of a tree branch, best Dean can figure. He pulls the trashcan closer to the side of the bed as Sam moans and flops back down against the pillow. He's six-foot-five-inches of pathetic misery—stringy hair, pale, sunken cheeks covered with three-day stubble, and stink rising into the air so thick it's almost visible.
Dean shakes his head. They need a better place than this long term. Shit, the smell alone is gonna drive them out of here before long. He sits down at the table and fires up the laptop.
"Dean," Sam says hoarsely. Dean has to force his teeth to unlock from the clench the word initiates before he answers.
"What d'ya need?" Dean grates, biting the word "now" off the end of the sentence before it can escape.
"I'm sorry," Sam says.
Dean flicks him a sideways glance before pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. He's getting a headache. Great.
"It'll stop pretty soon."
"No, I mean sorry for all…this," Sam gestures weakly and Dean gets it. He's apologizing for getting hurt, for tying them down and giving the FBI a chance to catch their scent. Dean shakes his head, looks away. Christ.
**
Castle Rock, Colorado, population 35,745. It's less than an hour from Denver, where Sam's doctor is, and it's as good a place as any to hide out from the feds. The house Dean found them is small but cheap, and they don't need much space. They eat when they're hungry and sleep when they're tired, usual downtime drill.
Sam's still a little sore but at least he doesn't feel like swearing every time he moves. The cut across his ribs has healed up pretty well. It's still ugly, but the stitches are out and it looks like he finally managed to keep enough of the antibiotics down to clear any incipient infection. It's been about two weeks since his fall. Stupid accident, no monster at fault, but they're out of the game now for at least another month. He should be sorry about that with everything that's going on, but he can't really make himself care about what they might be missing. His visions—psychic abilities, or whatever they are—seem to have let up for a while and he's grateful for the break. They need it.
Sam's trying to read, an activity he hasn't had time to do for pleasure in he can't remember how long, when something hits him in the temple.
"Ow." Sam frowns at Dean irritably. Dean's sitting at the table with the laptop open in front of him, acting like he didn't just fire another damned peanut M&M at Sam's head.
"Seriously, Dean, are you four? Never mind—don't answer that."
Sam picks up the candy and flicks it back with his thumb and forefinger, but Dean's ready for it and he dodges. It hits the window with a crack and Dean laughs. Bastard.
Dean's quiet for a minute and Sam goes back to his book. Then Dean gets up from the chair abruptly and the noise starts. Dean's bouncing a tennis ball against the floor and the wall—over and over and goddamn over again. Sam's trying to ignore him, and seriously, where did Dean even get a stupid tennis ball? Sam knows he should just stay quiet, but Dean can keep this shit up for-fucking-ever when he wants to be a pest, which is usually, and finally Sam can't stop himself.
"Dude. Seriously," Sam says, glaring at him.
"What?" Dean says innocently.
Dean's got that smirk on his face that makes Sam hand itch with the urge to slam his fist into it. He grinds his teeth together instead.
"If you don't stop that, I swear to God…"
Dean chuckles. "What are you gonna do, gimp-boy? Beat me to death with a crutch?"
"It's a thought," Sam mutters.
"Like to see you try," Dean laughs. "It'd be the shortest fight you ever started. Although it would be something to do, I guess. Kind of hard up for entertainment around here."
Sam can't really argue with that. They are stuck here with nothing to keep them busy, and it is Sam's fault, more or less. But Dean's tone is easy, without accusation, and Sam decides to just let it go. Dean sits back down and Sam starts to read again. Just about the time he finds his place in the book, Dean lets one rip.
"Shit, Dean." Sam literally gags, it stinks so bad. "Oh fuck…seriously, man, what is that? Damn…smells like a skunk crawled up your ass and died, Jesus."
Dean's laughing harder with every word and Sam reaches for his crutches and stumps out the front door, muttering under his breath, "God, we gotta get some decent food, eat something besides burritos, holy shit…"
Sam eases his way down the porch steps and out into the scrap of front yard. He's taking deep breaths of fresh air and trying to stretch his legs, or his good one anyway. The toes on his left foot are permanently cramped from the cast. He's trying to move them without much success, when he hears the door on the neighbor's house open and shut.
There's a girl, looks about his age. She comes down the steps and heads his way. She has a dog on a leash—or maybe he has her; it's kind of hard to tell. The dog is spotted brown and white and rawboned, twitching and jerking on the leash, stump of a tail wagging frantically as he tries to sniff everywhere at once. The girl is nice-looking in the fresh-faced, outdoorsy way of so many Colorado girls Sam's seen. Dark blond hair, lightly tanned face, tight little body...and Sam puts a lid on that thought, because she's walking/getting dragged toward him now, and he'd rather not make an idiot of himself the first time he meets their nearest neighbor. Girl next door.
She manages to haul the dog to a stop just short of Sam's feet. He smiles at her and she smiles back, and right then he starts to think he might be in trouble, because she was pretty from a distance, but that smile…Jesus.
"Jax, seriously," she says, grabbing the dog's collar. "Sit, come on…sit, already."
"Jax?"
"Oh, yeah, my mom was a big Jackson Browne fan, and…" she stops with a small chuckle. "Sorry, you probably don't care…I get carried away talking about my boy here. I'm Kelly Marshall."
"Sam," he says and nods back at the house. "I guess we're neighbors," he adds, wincing slightly. Good job, lame-ass.
"Yeah, I guess so. It's nice to meet you, Sam."
She keeps smiling at him, and he notices her eyes. They're shining bright green and maybe it's just a trick of the light, how gorgeous they are, but he only realizes he's staring when he hears something behind him on the doorstep. Sam turns to look, and Jax suddenly jerks the leash out of Kelly's hand. The dog lunges toward the house, shooting between Sam and his right crutch, knocking it out from under him.
"Jax, you idiot…" Kelly shouts.
Sam's going down, he's going to go sprawling and look like a total idiot right now…but Kelly's quick.
"Whoa, careful there," she says, as she forgets about the dog and jams her shoulder into Sam's right armpit. He staggers, hops and catches himself before all of his weight falls on her, but it's a near thing. They steady, and he notices how she just fits right under his arm, like she belongs there. His face is in her hair, and he takes in a breath and God, she smells incredible, and it takes a lot longer for him to straighten up than it really should, but he takes another deep breath and he's okay. He's got it now.
Then Kelly looks up at him. She's right there and he really doesn't want her to move away. He hasn't been here in a very long time, this close to a woman. Something tightens in his chest, makes it hard to breathe. Maybe it's the Vicodin.
Kelly breaks the look first, eases back and picks up the fallen crutch. Sam gets it situated under him and then they're both talking at once.
"God, Kelly, I'm so sorry, are you all right? I didn't mean to fall on you, I…"
"Don't apologize, Sam, geez, it was my idiot dog's fault in the first place. I'm just glad you're okay..."
They both stop. But Sam's not in trouble here, he's not, because this is such a bad idea and he's totally not going there.
Kelly looks away then, directly behind Sam. Sam turns to see Dean laughing and playing with the dog, teasing him with the tennis ball from earlier.
"Who's your friend, Jax?" She asks, nods at Dean.
"Kelly, this is my brother, Dean," Sam says. It doesn't bother him that Dean turns his megawatt smile on her then, not at all.
"Hi, Dean. Sorry about the monster, here." Kelly smiles back, then leans down to grab Jax by the collar. "Hey, buddy, found your ball, huh?"
Sam makes a face at Dean. Dean smirks. "He's no trouble. Are you, boy?" Dean says, reaching down to pet the dog. "What breed is he?"
Sam rolls his eyes, knows damned well Dean cares less than nothing about what kind of fucking dog it is; he's just looking for the shortest route into Kelly's pants.
"German shorthaired pointer. Got him from the shelter," Kelly says, then laughs. "It was kind of an impulse. If I'd done my homework, I'd have known he wasn't going to grow out of being so twitchy. He's a handful."
Dean chuckles. So fake, Sam thinks, and now he wants to hit him again. But Kelly smiles and says, "Speaking of, I'd better get going, let Jax run for a while, or I'll never get him settled down for the night. It was nice to finally meet you guys, though. Guess I'll see you around." She waves and turns back toward the street. Jax gets the idea and tears off, dragging Kelly behind him.
When they're out of earshot, Dean gives a soft whistle. "Man. I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go."
"Wow. Did you think that up all by yourself?" Sam says.
"Shut up."
**
When Sam wakes up that night it takes him a minute to shake off the dream. Jo was in it, or maybe it was Kelly, he's not sure, he just remembers long blond hair. Just a dream, though—no visions since they've been here and Sam's hoping it stays that way. He checks his watch—two-thirty a.m., damn it—but his foot's throbbing too hard for him to go back to sleep. He gets up to find the Vicodin. There's a light coming from the other room. Dean's up, probably with the laptop, and Sam definitely doesn't want to know what he's doing with it.
Sam falls back into a drugged sleep pretty quickly. He's surprised when he gets up at 7:30 the next morning and Dean's already up. Then he takes a second look at Dean's red eyes and wonders if he slept at all. Dean's reading a newspaper.
"Dude, why do you even bother?" Sam asks. "I mean seriously, how often has a case ever conveniently come to us?" Sam tripods himself to the refrigerator, checks inside. "Is that today's paper?"
"Yeah," Dean grunts, his usual charming morning self.
"Why didn't you get some milk while you were out? I told you we were out yesterday."
"Uh, cause there's no cow in the front yard?"
Sam frowns at him. "What—you stole someone's paper?"
Dean ignores that, says, "And anyway, I'm not looking for a case; I'm looking for a job."
Sam's confused about the difference at first, then he gets it. "A job? An actual civilian job?"
"Gotta keep your giant ass in groceries somehow."
"Yeah, like I'm the one eating everything in sight," Sam says, with attempted sarcasm, but he's not really feeling it. It's true that Dean usually does take care of most of their upkeep even when Sam's not out of commission, but hearing Dean say it like that is different. Sam's never felt like such a dead weight in his life.
**
There's a reason why Dean doesn't work regular civilian jobs more often. Somehow the classifieds just aren't full of ads that read: "WANTED: Ninja warrior. Knowledge of demons and Latin a plus." His skill set, impressive as it is, really isn't that marketable. About the only other thing he knows is the inside of an engine, and he'd have to drive to Denver for that. He's only found one job in town he's even remotely willing to consider, working behind the counter of a locally owned auto parts store. It'll suck, Dean's sure, but he figures he can stand anything for a few weeks. They'll also pay him cash off the books, a nice bonus he hadn't counted on.
Dean rubs his hand over his face and looks at Sam, stretched out on the couch. He's sleeping like a baby, or he is if a baby snores like a chainsaw with a bad sparkplug. Dean lifts one of his own feet, holds it about two inches from Sam's face. He's been wearing these socks for three days and he knows how bad they stink, but Sam doesn't react. He is out. Must be nice. Dean's just about desperate enough to try some of Sam's drugs himself.
Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. They're dry and gritty and sore. It's been like this pretty much every night since they moved in. He sleeps in short naps here and there during the day, but as soon as the sun goes down, Dean starts ramping up. The hunting life is nocturnal, mostly. They do work during the day, sure, but the heavy shit all goes down after dark. There's nothing to hunt here, but his body hasn't gotten the memo. Night falls and the darkness hits him like a shot of caffeine, sensitizing him until every sigh of wind through the trees ties his stomach in knots, every creak of the building settling makes him jump and itch for a weapon in his hand. Usually it's no big deal, or it's even a good thing. Only now he has to get up and go to work in the morning.
Fuck this. Dean gets up and hauls his bag out of the small hall closet, rifles through the nonessentials he hasn't bothered to unpack from it. Finally he just dumps it out. Something clatters loudly to the floor—his spare pocketknife probably—he doesn't bother to lift the old T-shirt off of it to see. Sam mumbles and turns over, but doesn't wake up, the little bitch.
Dean finds what he's looking for—an old pair of running shoes that probably saw their best days some time in the late 90s; Dean doesn't really remember. He pulls them on, noting their basically intact condition. There's a nasty-looking stain on the toe of the left one, the nature of which is probably best left unexamined, but the soles are still hanging on, so he calls it good and heads for the door.
The night is clear, but there's not much moonlight. It's cold enough that Dean can see his breath in the glow of the streetlights. It's a fairly small town; they practically roll up the fucking sidewalks at ten every night. No sirens, no gunshots, not even a damned dog barking to break the quiet.
Should have gotten a night job; I'm gonna be up anyway.
Dean runs into the dark.
A/N: This is a work in progress (my first), but it's fully outlined and I know exactly where it's going. I plan to post a couple of times per week and it should only run about six chapters, give or take an epilogue, so it'll be finished before the end of hiatus. Reviews are coveted.