There were very few times on a hunt that Sam and Dean split – and they never ended well. So why should now be any different?
This was a Secret Santa fic for Annj over at CWESS (Hey, check us out!) with many, many thanks to my Soul Sister BlueEyedDemonLiz (who I adore! She is awesome!) and dedicated to all the wonderful writer's there: Annj, BlueEyedDemonLiz, Vonnie836, Rozzy07, and SupernaturalSammy67. You all are awesome! BTW ~ We should all do a Round Robin again in the Spring!
Annj, hun, I hope you like!
BTW ~ I tried so hard to be good, honest I did. But Santa still didn't bring me Sam and Dean, so next year … I'm being as wicked as I can!!
XXX
There were very few times on a hunt that Sam and Dean split up – not for sake of covering more ground, but because one totally didn't agree with the other. Sam could only remember a handful of times that his brother did not trust his judgment. There was that time he was thirteen and dad was off hustling pool; Dean hadn't believed him that the motel was haunted, didn't listen until they were shooting up the place with salt rounds. There was the time when he was fifteen and they were hunting a werewolf; Dean (nor dad!) had believed him when he thought there was two of them, not listening until the second one almost had Sam for werewolf chow. He was sixteen when the chupacabra nearly ripped him apart, seventeen when the poltergeist used him as a ball to toss all over that library (Sam still swore he had bruises!) and eighteen when that spirit had manifested itself inside a tractor. Needless to say, it was but a few times … each with near deadly consequences.
That was why, as he snuck into the museum just before closing at five (made it so much easier than picking the lock) that Sam's gut did flips with his lack of big brother to watch his back. Dean has always been there, and the fact that he wasn't didn't go unnoticed.
XXX
"I'm telling you, Sam, we need to ask around more, do more research."
Those words spilling from his brother's mouth had Sam Winchester's brows furrowing. Dean was a rush in with guns blazing and ask questions when the smoke cleared sort of guy, so why he chose now to be the logical one, well, that was beyond Sam's comprehension.
"But every one of those people visited this Museum of Native American History first. Maybe there's some artifact, some…"
"I think something doesn't smell kosher here, Sam."
"Since when does what we hunt ever smell good?"
"Come on, Sam, it's not like you to run in half cocked…."
"As opposed to you, mister fully cocked?!"
Sam realized his mistake as soon as the words left his lips. Dean's snarky smile vanished, his mask of pissed-offedness lingering in its place.
"Fine. Check the museum." Sam nodded, thinking Dean relinquished, until… "But I'm asking around town. Find out what's really going on while you go and play Hardy Boy."
XXX
That had been this morning, and Sam hadn't seen (or heard!) from Dean since. But he was determined to solve this case, so, as the museum shut down for the evening, Sam was thankful that it was such a small town that their alarm system was easy enough to overcome. So flashlight in hand, he started through the rooms the beam of light breaking through the darkness as he scanned over the items, looking for anything a spirit might attach itself to. He expected almost anything – a temperature drop, some artifact to shake and hiss until some spirit popped out – what he didn't expect was the, "Hey! What are you doing in here?" to come from behind him. Startled, Sam turned, the flashlight's beam hitting the museum owner, Jeffrey Whitehorse, right in the eyes. Eyes that, with that beam of light, glowed yellow … like a cat's eyes.
"Shit…."
XXX
"So what yer telling me is, that these people … unlocked some key and that's why they ended up looking like parts to Night of the Living Dead?"
The red head (and by red, it was bright, fire engine red!) paused with hair caught up between his fingers, scissors poised to cut as he looked at Dean with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, one hip jutting outward in a way no self-respecting man should ever stand.
"Did you not hear me? I sssaid they were ssnooping where they ssshouldn't belong!" The scissor hand started waving as if the man could not talk without enunciating each lisp with a movement of his hand. Dean almost expected him to do the one time only Zorro Snap from In Living Color.
"Yeah … I heard you. I just … where were they exactly?"
Frederick, who Dean decided swung only one way, and it wasn't on the side Dean buttered his bread, paused once more on the ladies (the term was used loosely here as her hair was even redder than his, and her mascara so thick he wondered if Tammy Faye gave her makeup pointers) hair to turn to Dean, one finger waving while his head bobbed in an angry bitch move – and the elder Winchester's brother's lip twitched to hide a laugh that was trying to break free.
"Weren't you lissstening at all?! I told you it sounded like sssome tiger broke loossssse at the mussseum!"
At least until Freddie-girl said that. Then Dean's brow was arching, a sudden flash of Sam parts strewn across a museum Dean knew he'd snuck into over an hour ago had his blood run cold.
"Shit…"
XXX
Sam leaned against the display of some battle, his back against it as he carefully tied one sleeve of his torn shirt to try and staunch the blood that dripped down one bicep, pooling off his fingers to drip onto the floor. Courtesy of that skin-walking prick, thank you very much! Once it was tied, he picked up the shotgun left handed, thanking (for once!) John Winchester and all his demands – because right now, without his right hand, Sam would be thoroughly fucked!
With a deep breath (his own shot of courage) Sam rose, shot gun hoisted just as the once man came charging into the display room he was currently hiding in. It was his third hiding place, and with the now catlike creature he faced, he very much had to fight against an animal's senses.
A blast rang out, the cat howled in pain – though honestly, all Sam was doing was pissing it off. Consecrated iron wasn't what he needed. What he needed was silver. And the silver was in the trunk of the Impala – with Dean. And Dean was God knew where. But at least he was safe! Unlike Sam, who was currently running with a gimp arm while trying to outmaneuver a pissed off skinwalker! This sucked outloud!
XXX
The black car raced through the small suburban town in a crash course for the museum, Dean's boot pressing the gas pedal near to the floor. "Sam, I swear to God if you are hurt, I am so killing you!" Said in an offhand remark to the empty passenger seat. A seat his geeky brother with all his weird knowledge and annoying habits (because he was his brother, and all brothers were annoying) should have been occupying. Not in some closed museum because they were too damn stubborn to give the other a little credit at times.
Peeling around a corner, the vintage car nearly skidded into several trash cans before its hell-bent driver caught control and straightened the wheels to get her on the road again. But that's exactly what attracted suburbia's own version of Barney Fife. And as the lights flashed in the rear view, Dean Winchester groaned at the sight of Smokey behind him. "This sucks outloud!"
XXX
Another shot rang out, the blast followed by a howl of pain as Sam Winchester rounded a corner of what he was now referring to as the Skinwalker Offensive. It certainly looked like a war zone – what with crashed over displays, bullet casings, his blood – and that damn thing just kept coming and coming. Should have been a fucking bunny! But, then again, who the hell would be scared of Jeffrey the Skinwalking Rabbit?
Sam took advantage of the cat-like scream of pain and rounded the corner, the exit finally in sight. Not one to normally flee, Sam lacked what he needed to win this battle, and without silver, his chances were slim and none – and Slim just left town. So he broke out into a run that was starting to sway with his loss of blood, but Sam was determined to live to fight another day. Well, until the weight of the cat creature barreled into his back, sending him into some awkward Superman-like sprawl along the floor. Only … Sam was hardly flying. Skidding was more like it.
As he came to a stop just a few feet from the door, the growl right next to his ear let the youngest Winchester realize one thing – he'd lost his paddles and the shit was deep!
"Sonofabitch!"
XXX
Dean's fist hit the wheel as he sped down the streets, hoping to lose the cop that was on his tail, though Johnny Law seemed to cling like one of those damn simpering women that won't even let you take a piss without needing to know how long you'll be gone. Another corner rounded and the museum was in sight, and while Dean hated the fact he had a tag-along, he skidded to a halt and was out of the Impala before it even fully stopped. The yell behind him ignored as he took aim at the window, the shots shattering glass, though the alarm remained ever silent, something he was certain Sam had already taken care off. As a bullet resounded behind him, Dean dove through the broken bits of glass just in time to see a Skinwalker dig its claws into his brother's side.
"Hey you ugly…"
But Dean never got all the words out as the cop charged through, the ruckus diverting the supernatural being from its Winchester prize to the cop now shining a light and aiming a gun at it. It moved with lightning quick reflexes, and before Dean could finish it with a rapid fire of silver bullets, the claws and teeth had done its job on the cop.
"Sonofabitch!"
But Dean wasn't moving toward the gruesome sight of the shredded cop, he moved toward his bloody, fallen brother, a hand hesitating before laying on his shoulder and giving him a hesitant shake.
"Sam…?"
"What took you so long?" Came the murmur before the shaggy head slumped, Sam finally passing out.
XXX
There were other times Dean had come for him. The time he was twelve and that Harpy had decided Sam looked delicious. The time when he was fifteen and that werewolf had gone for him. Dean had abandoned their father on his own to cover Sam's ass. When he was eighteen and the spirit driven tractor had come right for Sam, it was Dean that had tackled Sam out of the way. And more recently there was those hillbilly bastards that decided Sam looked a little like a target. So Sam wasn't at all surprised when he woke up, back at the motel, his head splitting, his side and shoulder burning in pain – and Dean telling him he was going to be okay.
Their time apart taught Sam one thing, but it was their time together that drove it home – they were better off as a team. And as Dean cleaned his shoulder, and pain flared like fire across his flesh – Sam Winchester couldn't help but smile.
XXX
Original prompts to this story were: Place: a museum full of local old stuff about Indians and a bunch of dead people who've been disemboweled by a "big animal".And Sam makes the mistake of finding out that the owner is a skinwalker... the hard way. Oh and Dean, who of course wasn't convinced about Sam's method, is too busy fishing for information from a gay hairdresser.Too detailed? Too little information? Too complicated?
Merry Christmas everyone!!!