First appeared in Hunting Trips 2 (2007), from Neon Rainbow Press
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Anniversaries
K Hanna Korossy
He probably should have seen it coming, but Dean had been divorced from the ebb and flow of life for so long, he didn't even think to look for it. It wasn't the first time he would be an outsider to the world Sam had been living in those last three years, and, unfortunately, he knew as he dragged his bleeding brother home, it wouldn't be the last, either.
In fact, it was Sam entering Dean's world that should have been his first clue. The listless moping that morning was nothing new; the end of a hunt often made Sam restless as another job passed without their finding their dad, and they were faced with picking through a hundred different suspicious news stories in hopes of finding the one that would also lure John Winchester. Dean expected his brother's moods, and they didn't faze him. He had his own quirks Sam had to live with, like the time he'd woken Dean from a bad dream and gotten a knife at the throat for it. The less said about what they had to put up with from each other, the better.
But when Sam had asked to go barhopping with him that night, a red flag had gone up.
"You hate bars."
"I don't hate bars, I just don't like hanging out in them as much as you do, or hustling."
"Hey, it keeps food on the table," Dean had said defensively.
"And I'm grateful for that, really. It's just not my thing."
"But tonight it is." He'd tried not to sound skeptical because, really, despite all the time they spent together, he did enjoy Sam's company, and he was the first one to say his brother needed to loosen up a little. But that didn't get rid of his unease as Sam had given him a look.
"I am old enough, you know."
Dean had peered at him a moment more, then finally shrugged. Sam was old enough, both to drink and to decide for himself if he wanted to. "Suit yourself." Sometimes wanting a beer was just wanting a beer, right?
He really should've known Sam better and seen it coming.
"Two," Dean said, raising a pair of fingers to the dealer, then glancing past him at the table in the corner of the bar where a figure sat alone. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but it looked like there were a pair of empty bottles sitting on the table in front of Sam, along with the one he was currently working on. Dean swallowed a sigh and turned his attention back to the game.
There was a round of bets, and he threw a few bills into the pot, already guessing this would not be his hand. The fact was that Sam was distracting him, or rather, Dean's worry over Sam was distracting him, which was not a good way to be playing poker, especially if you were doing it to raise some money. He should've told Sam to stay back in the room and drink some tea instead and do some research. Research usually made Sam happy. He'd get over his funk; life would go on.
Or he'd slip out once Dean was gone and go to another bar instead, where his older brother couldn't keep an eye on him. Dean grimaced faintly and pretended it was at his cards. Yeah, that was a plan. Better Sam get drunk here, where at least Dean could cut him off when he'd had enough and drag his sorry behind home afterward. At least he'd have something to rub in Sam's face the next time Dean had a little too much and Sam was returning the favor.
Smiling faintly, he threw two more dollars into the pot and glanced over at the corner table again.
Where three empty beer bottles sat on a deserted table.
Dean frowned, glancing around the smoky bar. It was a little less crowded than it had been most of the evening, but it still took him too many seconds to make the sweep. Not at the bar, not at the jukebox—bathroom?
"Your bet, buddy."
Dean glanced back at his fellow players. "Fold," he said, and threw down his cards. He swept the rest of his money into his pocket and stood with a wistful smile; he barely had more than he'd come in with, but family called. "Sorry, fellas, gotta go."
He strode through the thin crowd toward the bathroom and looked inside. Only one guy was at the urinals, Sam's height but twice his width and wearing a cowboy hat, and the stall doors were all open. Dean gave the man a halfhearted wave as piercing eyes turned his way, and backed out again. Not the bathroom. Could Sam just have gotten tired of the scene and walked home? Their motel was only two blocks away, so they'd decided to walk instead of taking the Impala, and maybe he'd wanted some fresh air to clear his head. Which made a little more sense than Dean was willing to credit his brother with after three beers. No, something was wrong here, something other than the fact that Sam was gone without a word, and Dean wanted to know what.
He pushed his way out to the bar entrance and stepped into the cold Oklahoma air, taking a lungful as he looked down the street toward their motel. It wasn't too late, and there were people on the street, but he could have recognized Sam's lanky build and walk from two hundred feet away. Nothing. Dean turned the other way, scanning the street with rising anxiety for any sign of his brother.
And heard something instead.
He couldn't place the soft sounds at first, but they were coming from the alley to the left, one he presumed led around to the back of the bar. Dean headed toward the corner of the building, then pressed himself against the wall as he slid around it, slipping effortlessly into hunting mode.
The sounds grew sharper as he neared the back of the building, soft smacks and thuds and oofs. Sounded like a fight, actually, and when he nearly tripped over an unconscious body by the back corner, Dean rolled his eyes at being proved right. Forty-nine different states' bars he'd visited, and it was always the same, guys hopped up on too much alcohol and testosterone. He just hoped Sam hadn't gotten caught up in the fight, Dean thought as he peered around the corner.
His brother wasn't caught up in it. He was at the center of it.
Two additional bodies lay stretched out on the filthy concrete, one moaning, one motionless. But that left three more on their feet, loosely grouped around a fourth who swayed on his hands and knees. Even as Dean took in the scene, one of the three launched a kick at the downed man's side, sending him crashing against the fence behind him with a groan.
Sam.
Another of the three remaining attackers raised a pool cue in menacing intent. The one who'd kicked Sam gave a quiet jeer, and Sam coughed, hair hiding his face but not the blood that dripped from it.
Pure adrenaline-laced fury shot through Dean's veins. He moved swiftly and silently out of the shadows, stalking his prey like the hunter he was.
Pool-cue guy went down without so much as a gurgle, his stick now in Dean's hands. He immediately moved between his brother and the threat, and Pool Cue's two friends turned from their downed friend to gape at the new arrival, offering Dean a perfect target for his confiscated weapon.
One man got it in the face, audibly cracking cheekbone and nose, and he went down keening. The last attacker, taking advantage of the split-moment warning, managed to dodge Dean's next swing. With Sam still softly gasping behind him, all that achieved, however, was to make Dean angrier. He reversed the cue so its wider end was pointed out, then jammed it into the man's stomach. Too diffuse a surface area for penetration—even in his rage he didn't want to kill the guy, or rather, wanted to but wouldn't—but concentrated enough that there would be internal damage, possibly even a ruptured organ. The hospital visit would suck.
The man crumpled, whimpering, his arms clenched around his belly, and Dean promptly ignored him.
He did cast one last look around the scene, a part of his mind impressed the three men Sam had managed to dispatch were still down. Not bad for his little brother, let alone his little brother under the influence and outnumbered six to one.
Sam moaned again. His moment's pride forgotten, Dean turned away from the neutralized threat and dropped to his knees beside his hunched brother.
"Sam?"
Sam jerked from his touch, still in fight-or-flight mode, and Dean stilled. A wounded animal was more dangerous than an uninjured one, and until Sam recognized him, he had to be careful.
"Sammy? You with me? It's Dean."
Not quite focused eyes tried to find him through a fringe of sweaty hair. "D'n?" Sam repeated thickly and spit blood.
Dean made a face: good enough. "You mind telling me what happened?" he asked, not even trying to hide his exasperation as he took Sam's chin in hand and examined his face. It was hard to tell what was alcoholic haze and what was the beating, but at least the pupil's were equal and reactive to the meager alley lighting. What he could see in the swelling face, anyway.
"Fight," Sam enunciated carefully, and Dean shook his head. Definitely drunk. But also bleeding from nose and mouth, and favoring the side Dean had seen kicked.
He kept one hand under Sam's head to keep it from dropping forward and yanked his shirt up with the other. "Yeah, dude, I can see that," Dean said tersely, feeling ribs and hot skin. The bruises would be impressive, but no bones shifted under his touch even though Sam hissed and squirmed. "What I'm just a little curious about is why. You're usually the people-person, making nice with everyone and dragging me away from fights. Was it the beer?" He hadn't been with Sam long enough yet to know how he reacted to alcohol these days.
"No." Sam blinked painfully, body starting to tremble under Dean's hands. Natural reaction to the adrenaline drop, but it still wasn't making Dean feel any better. He pulled his jacket off, transferring the knife in one pocket to his jeans, and swaddled it around Sam, waiting for more of an answer.
But none came, and Sam wasn't looking him in the eye anymore.
Dean chewed his lip, considering. Despite appearances, it seemed they'd gotten lucky. Sam would be scaring small kids for a few days, but the damage wasn't serious, nothing broken. Not on the outside, anyway. The way his brother was reacting, Dean wasn't so sure about inside.
But the inquisition could wait. He glanced up, considering the distance back to the motel and the time it would take to bring the car over. The six men littering the alley were still no threat, but Dean was reluctant to leave Sam with them. He looked back at his brother. "Can you walk?"
Sam just nodded, hooking a hand in Dean's sleeve.
He helped his brother to his feet, then slipped Sam's arm around his shoulder. "Okay?" he asked again, studying what he could see of Sam's face, and got another nod. "Tell me if you need a break—I'm not carrying you back."
Sam made a quiet scoffing sound, but he seemed to have sworn off words.
Dean filled the gap for him. "One minute, Sam, one minute I look away, and you get yourself cornered in an alley with Stallone and his five brothers. I swear, one of these days I'm gonna tie a bell around your neck. Did you get in trouble like this at school, too? 'Cause I'm just wondering who saved your skin then."
Sam stiffened beside him.
Dean didn't care. "It's not even like they shoved you out back—I would've seen that. What, did they pull a knife on you? A gun? Say 'pretty please'?"
"I started it."
It was slurred and a whisper, and Dean almost thought he'd heard wrong at first. He jolted to a stop, ignoring Sam's wince as he did, and turned to stare at his brother. "Tell me you did not just say that. Six guys? The job not enough for you—now you like getting beat up on the side, too?"
Sam glowered at him, defiant and not saying a word.
And Dean felt his anger shift into fear, because of all the things he'd considered having to protect Sam from, himself had never come up. And Dean didn't know how to do that one.
He started walking again, dragging Sam silently along beside him, and for the first in a long time, had no clue what to do next.
They didn't talk again until they reached the motel, Dean afraid of what he'd say if he opened his mouth, and God only knowing what Sam was thinking. Dean unlocked the door with jerky motions and plopped Sam down on the nearest bed, which happened to be his own.
"Stay there," he said curtly, and disappeared into the bathroom, returning less than a minute later with water and towels and the first aid kit from his bag. Then, with tight-lipped silence, he started cleaning Sam's face.
"Dean—"
"Unless it's an explanation for this, I don't wanna hear it, Sam," he said, rubbing at the blood until Sam flinched, then forcing himself to take a breath and ease off. He was gentler as he raised Sam's hand to his face to pinch his still-leaking nose, then moved lower to wipe the blood off his lip and jaw.
Sam didn't say anything, just watched him with what Dean knew would be silent misery. He didn't check to confirm it.
The right side of Sam's face had gotten the most abuse and would need an ice pack if he didn't want to look like the elephant man in the morning. The whole left side of his body could have used one, too, but Sam wouldn't get a lot of sleep if he was hypothermic. Dean checked the developing bruises in the indoor light and, satisfied they weren't life-threatening, lowered Sam's shirt again.
"Aren't you going to ask how bad it is?" Sam asked softly.
His eyes flitted up to his brother's face and aching eyes, then away again. "I know how bad it is," Dean said roughly.
Sam's mouth twisted. "You know everything, don't you?"
Dean's motions slowed, stopped. "Not what's going on in that freaky head of yours," he finally admitted. One last offer to listen, one last risk of vulnerability in front of his brother, who seemed as intent on cutting that evening as being cut.
Sam hesitated, fighting some kind of internal war with himself. Then turning his head away in defeat.
So much for brotherly trust. "I'm gonna get some ice. Lie down," Dean said, tone bland. He knew he wasn't fooling Sam, but appearances had to be kept up anyway. He turned away and walked out of the room.
And stopped in the hallway, hand curling into a fist. Dean stared at the striped wallpaper for a long minute while he silently ran through every single curse he knew and made up a few new ones. Then he continued down the hall toward the ice machine.
He came back to find Sam tucked into bed, already dozing. His brother roused briefly when Dean laid the icepack as gently as possible against his cheek and eye, but was soon slipping back into sleep. Dean flicked off all but the bathroom light, then sat in the chair in one corner, facing Sam's bed, watching and thinking.
Minutes ticked by. Sam murmured something despondently in his sleep before going quiet again.
Dean's stony expression melted by degrees into concern, then compassion.
After a while, he stood and went back to Sam's bed, picking up the jacket that lay on the floor beside it. He dug his brother's phone out of the pocket before letting the jacket fall again. With a final glance at Sam, Dean retreated into the bathroom and shut the door.
He had used Sam's phone enough to move through the menu with sure fingers, and soon found a name he vaguely remembered. Dean dialed it, then belatedly glanced at his watch. A little late, but…
"Hello?"
Dean took a breath, suddenly a little less sure of what he was doing, then took the plunge. "Hello, Cathy? This is Dean Winchester, Sam's brother."
00000
He lay in bed, happy to be home again, to have seen his brother, to be back with Jess.
Something dripped on his face. Once, he shrugged it off. Twice, and he opened his eyes, annoyed, to see what it was.
Jess, bleeding and trapped on the ceiling, opened her mouth to scream, and burst into flames.
Sam jolted awake, her scream trapped in his throat.
The room was dark, the bed unfamiliar, the ceiling empty. He gasped twice, willing his heart to slow, and wondered belatedly why half his face felt hot and the other half icy and tight.
His fingers encountered lumpy coldness. Icepack. Sam pushed it away and let out the air in his lungs on one long breath, then squinted through the gloom of the room to find his brother.
Dean sat in a chair not far away, still dressed and alert, one arm stretched along the table. His face was inscrutable, his eyes managing to catch and reflect the little light in the room, rendering them opaque. Sam wondered how long he'd been sitting there watching him. No, watching over him.
"Just so I know," Dean started conversationally, "how many of these anniversaries are there? I mean, I figure besides the day you guys moved in together, you've probably got the day you two met, first date, Jessica's birthday—lots of candidates, right?"
Sam's heart sank a little further. "How did you know?"
"Then there's good old November second—we can't forget that one, double whammy and all. What're you gonna do then, Sam, huh, jump off a bridge? Lie on some railroad tracks?"
He turned on his side, away from Dean, ignoring how much both the movement and the words hurt. "Shut up."
"I'm just asking. Can't blame me for not wanting to hang around to see my little brother get himself killed."
Dean was quietly furious, but there was something else in his voice, and that was what Sam responded to in a bare whisper. "It wasn't like that."
"Then tell me what it was like, Sam, because it sure looks like some kind of crazy death wish from where I'm sitting."
Sam blinked back sudden tears, wondering when everything in his life had turned on him. He rolled back to look up at the ceiling. "I just… It hurt, okay? We'd spent a year together, and I'd been planning this surprise party." Sam smiled wincingly. "I had a gift for her in the closet—the fire took that, too."
Dean sat silent, waiting.
"I know it was stupid, just, the beer wasn't doing anything, and I thought maybe if I had something else to focus on, even a bar fight and a couple of bruises, it wouldn't…" He shook his head, hearing the lameness of the words coming out of his mouth and knowing they wouldn't satisfy Dean any more than they did him.
When Dean spoke, it was in more measured tones. "Six against one—that's more than a couple of bruises, Sam."
"Yeah, well, the two I ticked off had friends," Sam said wryly.
Dean digested that and leaned forward. "So, no repeat performances? Because you pull something like this again, and I'm gonna beat on you myself."
Sam almost laughed. "Promise?"
They both sat in the quiet. Sam's side ached but he tried to relax.
"How did you know?" he finally asked again.
A pause. "I called somebody."
"Who?"
"Cathy."
Sam didn't ask how Dean had come up with Jess's best friend, having some idea. And was curiously unbothered at what would have another time been a rankling invasion of his privacy.
"I'm sorry about Jessica," Dean said quietly.
"Yeah." Sam nodded. "I know. Me, too."
Dean finally cleared his throat. "You know, it's only been, what, a month? There's no shame in still grieving for her, Sam."
He swallowed, nodded again. It wasn't something he'd really worried about, falling apart in front of Dean; his brother had seen worse during the days following Jess's death. But the understanding was comforting somehow.
"How's the head?"
Sam latched onto the change of subject gratefully. "Sore."
Dean stood. "I'll dig you up a couple'a Advil, then get some more sleep."
He helped Sam up long enough to swallow the pills, pulling the blanket to his chin and giving his leg a pat as he moved off.
Sam watched him drowsily as Dean sat down again and picked up a magazine, flipping through it with little interest. He tossed it down a minute later and drew a hand over his face. Dean only noticed Sam's gaze then, and nodded at him with mock sternness, just like Dad used to.
"Go to sleep, Sam."
And for that night, at least, he obeyed.
00000
They exorcised a demon in an airplane soon after, went on to defeat the original Bloody Mary, fought a bunyip and a nest of Wi-lu-gho-yuks, and checked out an Ogopogo sighting and a suspicious fire in the following weeks. Sam noticed the Christmas lights in passing, the decorated trees in town squares, and the live nativity in front of a city hall. Still, when the date came up on his phone, he stared at it in disbelief and a sudden plummet of spirits.
"What?" Dean asked from next to him, glancing from him to the road and back again. They hadn't been together even two months after a separation of over two years, and already Dean was tuned to him as much as he'd ever been. Sometimes even more.
Sam started to shake his head. And reconsidered. "Tomorrow's Christmas."
"I know." A pause. "You wanna celebrate somehow? Go to a service or a concert or something?"
The offer surprised him, but he shook his head. It was a lot harder to open his mouth a second time, however; Dean could be brutal at any hint of sentimentality. Sam tried for casual. "You remember what you said, about anniversaries?"
It took a moment to connect, but then Dean looked at him. His expression was thoughtful and knowing, and derision-free. Sometimes Sam forgot how gentle his brother could be with injuries, too. But all Dean said was, "Christmas, huh?"
Sam nodded, turning away to stare out the side window and pretend he didn't care or wasn't near tears yet again.
"I've got a cure for that, you know."
He turned, face scrunched, to meet Dean's earnest gaze. "What?"
"A cure. For Christmas. Three words, Sam: Twilight Zone marathon."
Even the burning of his eyes faded in his complete bafflement. "What're you talking about?"
"It's on DVD now—we rent a season and a player, hole up in a motel room in…" Dean glanced out the window. "Walkersville, make some popcorn, day'll be gone before you know it."
Sam stared at him. "Is that how you two spent Christmas while I was at school?" When the three of them had hunted together, they'd at least made an effort to celebrate the day with a nice Chinese restaurant dinner and a few newspaper-wrapped gifts.
Dean smiled faintly at the road. "Last Christmas we were in the middle of a Louisiana swamp hunting a Creature from the Black Lagoon-wannabe. I don't think Dad even noticed the day. We had Christmas before because of you, Sam."
And apparently that hadn't changed. He hadn't even known, and Sam's eyes pricked with a different emotion now. He finally cleared his throat and smiled. "How about Buffy? It's out on DVD, too. You can pick apart the fights, I'll make fun of the research…"
Dean looked interested. "Cool. We can do shots every time Giles gets beat up." He cocked his head at Sam with a softly teasing smile. "Coke shots."
Sam shook his head, feeling some of his melancholy lift. "Sounds like a plan."
"Sounds like a plan," Dean echoed theatrically. Sam kept shaking his head, but he was grinning.
And one more day, one more anniversary would pass, leaving a better memory in its wake.
The End