Rush
By MagicsunbeamGenre: Dean hurt/ Sam angst
Rated: T
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. It and everything in it belongs to lucky old WB.
Summary: Set shortly after the second season finale. A faulty shotgun? Or was Dean Winchester getting careless?
Authors note: This is totally unbeta'd so the bad grandma and speeling mistakes are all mine. Sorry
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His body arched as a bolt of energy ripped viciously through it. His heart raced painfully in his chest, his head swam and every muscle in his body screamed in protest at the assault. Above it all, Sam Winchester was still aware of two things. The spirits stinking, decaying breath in his face and the fact that his brother seemed to be taking his time coming to his rescue.
"Dean!"
The cry was strangled and desperate, hardly sounding like Sam at all, but a second later it was answered with the boom of a shotgun. The spirit cried out in pain and anger before dispersing in front of Sam's eyes.
"Sam!" Dean cried, skidding to his knees in front of his brother.
Sam shook his head in attempt to clear the fog around his vision.
"Dude, that was too close."
Dean looked abashed. "Sorry, Sammy. I think the safety catch must have stuck. I couldn't get it unlocked. Are you okay?"
Sam rolled onto his side and began to push himself to his feet, allowing a small groan to slip out. Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders and held on as he swayed a little.
"Are you okay?" he asked again.
Sam nodded, wincing at the action.
"Yeah. Come on, let's get this over with." He said moving toward the open grave.
Before he had time to light a match, the now very angry spirit re-materialised and knocked Sam to the ground.
"Shit." Dean swore, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder and pulling the trigger.
The spirit was faster though, and shot missed its target. The next thing Dean knew he was hurtling through the air. A moment later, he felt his head explode as it connected with a tree and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.
In that three seconds worth of distraction, Sam took the opportunity to scramble to the graves edge, strike a match and throw it into the hole. A loud whoomph was followed by a flash of orange flame as the body of Dexter Wright ignited. Wright's spirit screamed in agony as it was licked by ethereal fire and a moment later it was gone leaving the graveyard in eerie silence.
Panting, Sam shook his head. "Too close." He repeated.
He then looked over to where his brother lay and realised Dean hadn't moved or made a sound. Scrambling to his feet, Sam ran to his brother's and dropped to his knees.
"God." Sam muttered under his breath.
Even in the pre dawn light, Sam could see how pale Dean's skin was. Blood streamed down his face from a cut on his hairline and already a bruise was starting to form.
"Dean?" Sam called, placing a gentle hand on either side of his brother's face. "Dean, come on dude, I need you to wake up now."
A soft moan belied the older man's stillness and Sam breathed a sigh of relief as a moment later, a pair of green orbs appeared from under heavy lids.
"Hey. You with me?" Sam asked, concerned.
"Sam?" the word was barely more than a whisper.
"Yeah." Sam smiled, moving back a little and giving his brother some space.
Dean tried to lift his head and found it to be an error of judgement.
"What the f…. ah God!" he whimpered as pain exploded behind his eyes.
Sam laid a hand on his brother's chest, encouraging him to stay where he was.
"Hey, take it easy. Looks like you hit your head pretty hard."
Dean lifted a hand to his head gingerly. "You think? The damned thing slam dunked me."
"Always thought you were a basket case." Sam grinned.
"Bite me!" Dean growled, holding out a hand for Sam to help him stand.
As Sam hauled his brother to his feet, the smile was wiped off his face when the older man closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness threatened to put him back on his ass. Swaying like a drunk, he groaned miserably as Sam clamped Dean's arm around his shoulders preventing his body from sinking to the ground.
"Come on," Sam urged softly, guiding his brother toward the waiting Impala. "Let's get out of here."
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The Impala pulled to a stop outside the door of room 8 at the squeaky clean Dewdrop Inn. It had taken some persuasion on Sam's behalf to get Dean to give in to a little one off luxury by spending more cash than usual on a room. The final sway was when Sam reminded Dean that it was his birthday. Dean had pulled a face, but agreed on the promise that when it was time for his own birthday, Sam was to come baring gifts.
"A blonde on each arm, Sammy Boy."
Sam had laughed and readily agreed, knowing that in even in Dean's own little universe that was never going to happen.
Thoughts of birthdays gone, Sam glanced across at his bleeding, barely conscious brother and congratulated himself. Just when they needed it they had a comfortable bed and clean towels and equally as important, the Dewdrop in had cable. He had a feeling that over the next couple of days, he was going to be eternally grateful for the latter luxury.
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Dean Winchester sat on the edge of the bed, staring through fuzzy eyes at the carpet under his feet. The pattern was one of swooping arcs and swirls, which at any other time would have seemed very nice. This time however, it made his head ache and his stomach lurch. Groaning, he closed his eyes against the onslaught and allowed his head to fall to his chest.
"Hey, hey!" The urgent tone made Dean jump.
"Huh?"
"Don't you fall asleep. Not yet."
"Sam…m tired…" Dean began to protest, his words slurring slightly.
"I know. I know you are, Dean," Sam answered sympathetically. "But you have to stay with me just a little while longer."
Dean sighed dramatically, making Sam smile despite himself.
"I'm going to be quick as I can, okay? Just a couple of stitches then I'll help you into bed."
Dean lifted his eyes to Sam's face, the ghost of a smirk crossing his lips.
"Why, Sammy…"
Sam shook his head and grinned.
"God, even with your brains half scrambled, you can still be a complete ass."
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Sam worked in silence and fifteen minutes later Dean sighed again, but this time in contentment as his head touched the soft pillow.
"You need anything?" Sam asked as he pulled the cover over his brother's torso.
"Nuh uh." Dean replied, barely having the energy to answer at all.
Sam watched as pain and exhaustion began to pull at Dean under. Then just as it looked as if sleep had claimed him…
"Sam?" The word was nothing more than a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"You okay?"
Sam smiled. "I'm good, Dean. Get some rest."
As his brother drifted away, Sam took out the bag and reached for the shotgun. The gun was well cared for, but had been in constant use for almost twenty years and had taken some rough knocks. Even best kept things would wear out sooner or later. In their game, a faulty shotgun was of no use. If it couldn't be relied upon to fire when needed, it would have to be fixed or discarded.
Sam took time, cleaning and oiling the gun thoroughly. Once he was finished he put the safety catch on and lifted the empty gun to his shoulder. He then flicked his thumb across the catch, fully expecting it to stick, but to his surprise it unlocked easily. He tried it again and again, each time the catch disengaged without any problem. Sam was puzzled. Dean and his dad had fired the gun a million times and they had never had a problem that Sam knew of. The gun had worked perfectly two days before at a haunted colonial mansion in Georgia. Then there was the week before that in Maine and a couple of days before that in Arizona.
It suddenly hit Sam just how much travelling and hunting they had done over the last couple of months. Rolling relentlessly through state after state chasing ghosts, demons and monsters, the boys had had little time to rest up. Sam glanced across at his sleeping brother and wondered. Could that have had something to do with what had happened earlier that evening? Had the gun really stuck? Or could it be Dean had been tired enough to make a mistake?
Sam had plenty of time to wonder about the gun as he sat up through the night waking his brother intermittently. Asking the same things repeatedly, he finally gave up just before five when Dean had told him where to shove his questions. Sliding gratefully between fresh sheets, Sam decided to address the question when Dean was well enough. His last conscious thought was of cable TV and how he was going to enjoy the next couple of day's relaxation.
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