My Hands © M.Kena (this is like a spin off from a side story in The Bandage Cuts Me Deeper, but in the original version it took place in a house and Sam and Dean were meant to be much younger, but I changed it.:) Hope no one minds.) It's pretty much crap, but I needed something to break my writer's block. No flames please. Thank you.
WARNING: Language, violence, that's about it. Dean's POV
I've got a gentle hand.
I could touch a woman's cheek with my gentle hand and she would move into the touch.
I can pull a trigger with my gentle hand and save the fucking day.
I can wield a knife with my gentle hand and kill things you've never even dreamed about.
I've got a gentle soul.
I've just got a fucking hard shell to protect it.
My father was more of a sergeant, a mediator, than a father.
I held Sammy's bottles. I tied his shoes. I cooked him breakfast. Me. All me.
But Dad saved our lives each day he left us alone at those goddamn motels, leaving me with an ungrateful Sammy Winchester who was blessed with an attention span equivalent to that of a bug.
"I'm bored." I'd hear him say. I swear sometimes, Sammy's voice could worry me more than any other bump in the night.
"Watch T.V." That was my grand solution.
"Day time T.V. sucks." He whined back to my grand solution.
"Deal with it, Sammy."
"It's Sam."
"Yeah, whatever."
"What are you doing?"
"Reading the newspaper, Sam." I fished out the comics and handed them to him. "Tell me what Good Old Charlie Brown is up to."
That worked for a grand total of nine seconds and then he was chirping at my ear again. "I'm bored, Dean. There is nothing to do."
"Jump on the bed." I said exasperatedly. He looked at me, his eleven year old eyes shining and for a minute I almost wanted to start in on the fun. I missed seeing Sam like that. Seeing him looking like a normal eleven year old.
"We'll get kicked out." He repeated in monotone. I snorted. Dad had told him that the first, and only, time he'd ever jumped on a motel bed. He took a deep breath and I noticed his exhale was ragged. I folded the paper down and looked at him.
"You feeling okay, Sammy?" I asked gently. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. I rolled mine. "Sam?" I corrected my mistake. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I've got a little cold." He explained and gave a slight cough, for show or not, it got me concerned. I got to my feet and didn't miss his small groan of annoyance. "I'm fine, Dean." He assured me.
"Yeah well, let's make sure. Dad will kick my ass if you come down with some weird disease that I could have prevented." I fished through the first aid for the thermometer, which was utterly unneeded, my touch was more accurate.
I walked over to him and pressed the back of my gentle hand to his forehead. His skin was warm… too warm. I flipped my hand over and felt his face, rubbing his forehead with my thumb. "You're warm." I said absently and stuck the thermometer in his mouth. "Under your tongue." I instructed.
"If I'm sick…" He started and got a glare from me in return. "You should stay away." He said quickly.
He was right. Nothing could knock down Dean Winchester faster than the common cold… and the flu? I'd be out for weeks. I normally could avoid sicknesses, but if I got them, I got them good… and by good I mean really bad.
"Are you hungry?" I asked. Sam nodded. "How does a burger sound?" He groaned. "Chicken?" I asked and got a happy nod. "Okay, I'll be back in a few minutes. Lock the door behind me and don't open it unless I give the password."
- - -
"Thank you, have a nice day." The waitress said with an uninterested smile. Normally I'd make her interested, but I was too concerned about Sam.
Damn my mothering instincts.
I'd be a great father. A horrible husband, but a great father. Not that I'll live long enough to get the chance. Yeah, it's sad. And I used to deny it, but every injury, every near death experience makes me realize I will not survive life. Each hunt could very well be my last.
But I'd knowingly throw myself into death's hands for Sammy. Ever since Dad handed me Sam that night, I knew. I knew it was my job to protect him forever. As long as there was a breath in my body I'd use it to protect him.
It took me less than ten minutes for a round trip to the local Sonic burger place. I pounded on the door. "Salt." I said quietly, looking around making sure no one was hearing me. Partially to protect the password, but mostly to save myself some supreme embarrassment.
Sam opened the door and took the bags from me. I smiled. "Hungry?" I asked. He nodded.
"Now." He explained. "I threw up…" He said quietly. I paused and looked at him. "I made it to the bathroom." He added and shoved some french-fries into his mouth. I nodded and tried to mask my concern. "I feel better now, Dean. I really do." He explained. I nodded.
"Good, that's good Sammy." I handed him a drink. "But after you eat I want you to get some rest, okay?" He nodded.
"Why isn't the door locked?" John Winchester had a voice that could make me jump out of my skin. I whirled around.
"Oh, sorry…"
"Sorry doesn't cut it kiddo." He said as he set down the grocery bags. His voice was gentle, but both Sam and I winced at the underlying anger there. He looked at me. "You know better than that."
"But he…" Sam jumped to my defense. Dad looked at him.
"There are no excuses. Do you really think an attacker cares whether or not you just got home?" He asked. We both bowed our heads and shook them. "No of course not." He said gruffly.
"Did you kill it?" I asked hopefully. Dad looked at me.
"Think so." He explained and titled his head towards a vase on the table. "Mr. Marshal paid me with that."
"Gross…" Sam whispered and regarded the puke colored vase thoughtfully. I looked at Sam and we both smiled.
"Its worth a lot… apparently." Dad didn't believe it either, but he was never one to be rude, or refuse a hand out. He looked at me. "You want it?" He asked. I shrugged.
"I guess I could use it for… for something." I picked it up and instantly a feeling of dread washed over my body. I set it down quickly and found myself sitting on the closest bed as my knees lost their strength.
"Dean?" Dad asked questioningly. "Are you okay?" I nodded, not peeling my eyes from the vase.
"Yeah, fine."
"Are you getting sick, too, Dean?" Sam asked innocently. I wanted to throw the puke tinged piece of pottery at his head. Dad looked accusingly at me.
"What does he mean, too?" He asked.
"Sam threw up earlier." I explained. Dad felt Sam's forehead, and Sammy smiled, damn that kids strong immune system.
"I feel much better, Dad." He explained and bit into his chicken sandwich, kicking his legs under the table. Dad nodded.
"You're not running a fever." He looked at me and started to reach out for my forehead as well. I dodged his hand and hit it away.
"I'm fine, Dad." I assured him. He put his hands on his hips.
"You lost your footing, Dean." He reminded me and I submissively let him feel my forehead. He let his hand drop.
"No temperature."
And that was what worried him.
His eyes fell on the vase and I watched them narrow in thought. He sighed, shook his head and then walked back to the table.
"Get some sleep, Dean." He ordered. I groaned and looked at the clock on the bedside table.
"It's only eight, Dad." I whined. He looked at me and I sighed. "Fine."
- - -
Sam hates hotel beds. He always have, and he always will. That's why Dad always gets one of those roll away beds for him. So I get a bed, Dad gets a bed and Sammy gets the roll away.
That's the way it always is.
I hope it will always be that way.
The three of us, as messed up as it is, we're a family. Families stick together. I don't know how I could handle it if we broke apart… if me and Sammy broke apart.
Hotels are normally sticky hot. Even in the winter. The sheets don't breath and the AC never works and the heaters always work too well.
Yet I found myself waking to chattering teeth. It also felt as though something was pushing down on every inch of my body, quite painfully I might add. I was being squashed into my bed and I couldn't make a noise.
I opened my eyes with an impossible amount of difficulty and gasped.
Of course.
This was the way my life worked.
The same poltergeist my father had been trying to defeat this past week was now hovering over my head, holding my prized knife in its spectral hands. It was the ghost of a young woman, pretty, in a ghoulish way of course.
"You'll pay…" She whispered in his ear, the words splitting in my ears. It felt as if I was having massive, record breaking, brain freeze and it was moving to my chest. My eye stung with unshed tears.
Damn, that hurt!
I wanted to yell for Dad's help. I couldn't believe it was going to end like this, right next to my father's bed. If only I could make a noise. Just please let Dad find me. Don't let it be Sammy.
The brain freeze became a full on body freeze, each muscle tightening painfully and my head felt like it was splitting into eighths.
Then suddenly someone was yelling. I could barely hear them over the pounding in my ears. The ghost lunged with the knife and I felt the blade break the skin on my neck, I couldn't be sure how deep the cut was because after the first stab of pain it all went numb. But I could feel more and more blood running down the side of my neck.
Oh shit, this was it. I was going to bleed to death, by my own knife of course. God really hated me.
"Dean!" Sam yelled. And instantly I felt hope was over me.
Someone was still yelling. It took me a while to realize that it was me.
I heard a crash that sounded distinctly like the shattering of puke colored pottery, and I was lifted from the bed and flung against the wall. My arm hit first, I heard a sickening crack that resonated through my whole body. Then I landed on the table, breaking it with my dead weight.
Once I was still I felt the pain of my broken arm and I whimpered.
"Dean!" Sam yelled and ran towards me. Dad grabbed him and pushed him on the bed. I wanted to yell at Dad for touching Sam like that, but my voice betrayed me and instead I cried out in pain.
"Stay back, Sam." Dad ordered and knelt at my side. He was grabbing my neck and I panicked for a minute, was Dad choking me? Why the hell was he grabbing my neck so damn tightly? "You're bleeding a lot, Deano." He explained. He turned to Sam. "Go get a towel, now Sam!"
Sam didn't question. And I swear he has superhuman speed because he was back in an instant.
"Sam, hold this hard on Dean's neck. Really hard."
"Won't it choke him?" Sam asked, pushing hard, but not nearly as hard as Dad had been.
"Might make breathing harder, but he won't bleed out." Dad explained. "I don't think she hit his jugular, but we need to get him to the hospital." Sam was pressing harder than Dad had been now.
Dad looked right at me, smiling gently. "Dean, I'm going to straighten you out."
He was going to discipline me, now?
But when he moved my legs and white pain flashed through my body I understood, and I whimpered. Damn my mouth. I saw worry on Sam's face and all I wanted to do was tell him it was going to be okay, but I was scared I would scream or do something equally stupid if I opened my mouth.
"It's okay, Dean." Sam whispered, forcing me to look at him. He put his free hand on my shoulder and he accidentally jarred my arm and I cried out. His hand flew back as though it had been burned. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." And I knew he was. The way his voice cracked and his eyes grew frantic and his hand fell from my neck.
"Sam!" Dad scolded. God, Sam looked like he was going to cry and I wanted to tell Dad to shut the fuck up and let Sam calm down.
Just let him calm down.
He'll be okay.
But everything went black before he calmed down.
- - -
I hate the way Sam looks at me when I'm sick or hurt. It's like he thinks the world is ending. He won't eat, he won't sleep, he won't move from my side unless Dad makes him. I don't mind the not moving from my side part, but when I should be resting and recuperating, I lie there trying to wake up so Sammy will just eat a sandwich or take a power nap.
"Sam, he's going to be asleep for a while. You should follow suit." Dad whispered. He sounded tired too.
Maybe you should follow suit, sir.
"You haven't slept either." Sam said gently and I swore I had to have smiled. His hand touched my forehead and I wanted to move into the touch, but my muscles disobeyed. "I'll sleep when Dean wakes up."
Liar. If I wake up you won't sleep until I eat. And then you won't eat until I sleep. And then you won't sleep until I wake up. I know you Sam. He knows you.
"I didn't ask you, Sam." Dad said sternly.
Just listen to him, kiddo.
"You won't be much help to Dean if you're passed out on the floor and weak from malnutrition."
Play that guilt card, Dad.
Sam sighed. "Yes, sir." He muttered and set my hand back on the chest. As an automatic instinct I groaned when it jarred my had-to-be-broken ribs. "Dean?" Sam whispered, grabbing my hand again.
Dad's feet shuffled over to the bed and he grabbed my other hand. "Hey, Slugger. You're in the hospital. It's okay." He whispered and stroked my forehead with his gentle hand. Obviously they didn't know I'd been awake for the past few minutes.
I forced my eyes open and shut them instantly. The light was blinding. Sam left my side for a moment. "There, open your eyes." He whispered. And when I did the room was darker. I looked at Sammy, he was a little blurry and there were two of him, but it was Sammy. I blinked and he came into focus, that big goofy smile taking up his whole face. "Hi." He whispered.
"Morning Sunshine." I rasped. He and Dad smiled even more, if that was possible. I turned my head, wincing, and looked at Dad. "What happened?" His smile disappeared.
"The vase… the poltergeist attached its spirit to the vase." Dad explained.
"He went back and kicked that man's ass for giving it to us." Sam whispered. Dad shot him a stern look.
"Apparently your father has a few enemies." He said gently. I frowned. "But don't worry about it, Dean." He whispered. "Your arm is broken, and you fractured a few ribs, kid." Sam cleared his throat.
"Don't forget the twenty seven stitches on his neck." He said coldly. "And the day he spent in a coma."
"A coma?" I asked.
"You were having seizers as a result of some of the medications and the stitches kept tearing… it was induced." Sam explained.
Why did he have to know this? God, the kid was eleven-fucking-years old. He shouldn't know what the hell he is talking about.
But he knew by the time he was five. He knew when it happened the first time.
"I want you to go get some lunch, Sam." Dad said softly. "You know where the cafeteria is."
"No." Sam said strongly. They stared at each other for a while. I could see the daggers in Sam's gaze, and I could see the stubbornness of many years in Dad's. I squeezed Sam's hand and he looked at me.
"It's okay. Go." I whispered. He hesitated but I nodded and he left slowly, glancing back at least three times before leaving. As soon as he was gone, Dad sat down and sighed, massaging his temples.
"Dean, I am so sorry." He whispered. "I should have known…" He was shaking his head. "I'm so sorry…"
"Dad, it's okay." I assured him, trying to sit up, trying to mask the pain attacking my ribs. He looked at me.
"No, Dean, it's not." He whispered. "I'm your father, I should make mistakes like that."
"We all make mistakes, Dad."
"Well I shouldn't!" He yelled, standing up and flipping the chair onto the ground. He paced around the room, tearing at his hair. "I don't make fucking mistakes like that! Mistakes that could get you boys killed!"
"Dad." He turned and looked at me, his eyes fighting those tears who so badly wanted to make an appearance. "I forgive you." I said slowly. He let a smile touch his face.
"I know you do…"
I wasn't the one he was worried about. He knew I'd forgive him because I love and respect him without question.
It was Sam who'd hold the grudge. It was Sam who'd blame this on him forever. Sam would see the scar on Dean's neck and remember their father's carelessness.
Dad would see it and remember how he had failed.
I would see it and remember how they had both held my hand and stayed by my side. I would see this scar and remember a time when we were all together. I would see it and remember a time when we were a family.
He picked up the chair and sat down next to my bed and took my hand against, bringing it to his face, and pressing it against his cheek.
I've got a gentle hand.
I can squeeze my little brother's hand and reassure him that I will always be there to save the day.
I can touch my father's cheek with it and make him understand that everything will be okay.
I can save the day with my gentle hand.
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