Title: Metallica, Universal Cure to All Headaches
Author: nao_asakura
A/N: Set in season 7, somewhere between Hello, Cruel World and Slash Fiction. No spoilers.
ooo
The hunt was supposed to be cut and dry, but was it ever the case, anyway? That one involved a pissed off ghost, flying rocks, mud and rain. Lots and lots of it.
Long story short, Dean ended up unconscious, and Sam had to carry his sorry ass all the way from the cemetery to the car. After burning the ghost's remains all by himself. Of course, it rained the whole time, lightening tearing the dark sky periodically.
By the time Sam put Dean in the passenger seat, his brother was coherent enough to bitch about the upholstery. Blood, Sam realized, was flowing from Dean's right eyebrow. His eye looked bloody as well, and Sam had to crouch outside the car, despite the pouring rain, and gently stabilize Dean's head to examine his battered face. Luckily, the eye was fine.
Sam grabbed a flannel shirt from the back seat, grabbed his brother's hand and had him put pressure on his head wound. Then, he closed the door and got in the car.
"Never tell a ghost he throws like a girl," Dean mumbled, eyes closed, the uninjured side of his face pressed against the cold window.
Rain, mud and blood mattered his short hair, making it look dark. He was way too pale, Sam thought, but he grit his teeth and said, "Hold on, I'll patch you up when we get to the motel."
The purring of the engine was comforting, and there was practically no-one on the road at this hour.
Thank God for small mercies, Dean waited for Sam to stop and open the passenger door before he lost his battle with his stomach.
He muttered something that looked suspiciously like an apology, another indication that the ghost's stone had rattled his skull pretty bad, and he let Sam half carry, half support him to their room.
ooo
"Dude, is Metallica playing?" Dean was lying on his bed with his eyes closed and the bloody shirt still in his hand. "Cause there's a beating in my head."
"Which song?"
"Uh..." Dean opened an eye, looking blurrily at Sam. "My Friend of Misery."
"How appropriate," said Sam with a quick laugh. "Hang in there, okay? I'll be right back."
Dean said something, a mangled sentence Sam didn't quite hear. He had to retrieve their first-aid kit, tend to his brother wound, and then he could listen to his half-assed attempts at humor while suffering from a brain concussion.
ooo
The trunk of the Impala was full of weapons, mostly. The kit – a bag full of drugs and medical stuff stolen from various hospitals and clinics on the road – was nowhere to be seen. They had a false bottom, and Sam began fumbling to open it.
He wasn't expecting the sight that met him.
There, hidden from sight, folded neatly, were John's jacket and Castiel's coat. The old leather jacket that Dean never wore anymore, for whatever reason, was there, next to his lost friend's garment. There was a baseball ball, in the corner, and Sam wondered if Ben used to play.
That was odd, and yet that made sense, Sam thought, his fingers hovering above the leather. It looked almost like the remnants of some kind of twisted trinity, father, son and holy ghost. The three of them were gone now, and Dean was left with memories, a bottle of scotch, and a fucked up brother.
ooo
They left town the next day, with Dean "resting his eyes" in the passenger seat, and Sam behind the wheel. In the belly of the purring car, in Dean's secret stash, Sam had added the amulet the pile.
The amulet he had retrieved years ago when his brother threw it in the trash. The amulet he thought lost, forgot about, and found again at Bobby's, where it had stayed hidden for nearly a year.
They probably wouldn't talk about that, about any of it. So Sam said nothing, cranked up the volume and let the road unfold.