This fic is a non-amnesia sequel to Lil' Sammy. Murphy's Law takes place just after Playthings in Season 2. You can thank (or blame) my partner in crime hotshow for this one. It was her idea! She is also the intrepid editor on this fic.
Murphy's Law
Dean strolled through the graveyard, using his flashlight to help him find the gravesite he and Sam located this afternoon. Sam mumbled behind him, carrying most of their digging equipment. Dean grinned into the darkness.
"Sam? Problem?" He squinted at the next headstone. Nope, not it either. He could have sworn it was right around here. Dean stopped to rub his eyes. It was getting harder to read the damn names. God, he hoped he didn't need glasses.
"I thought it was closer than this, Dean," Sam whined. His brother had been doing a lot of that lately. Whining. The music was too loud or too soft. The food was unhealthy or cooked wrong. The motel room was not clean enough or too bizarre. Dean had to admit their current motel was one of his all-time favorites. It actually had a Chevy theme. The Chevy bowtie was etched into the bathroom mirror and framed prints and photos of classic cars decorated the walls. The wall paper looked like stamped steel and the bedspreads were rejects from a kids' decorating department, covered with racing cars and bright red flames. Sam squirmed each time he had to pull back the bedspread.
"Gotta be right around here, Sammy." Dean squinted into the shadows. About time, there it was. He dropped down to check it closer, make sure they had the right grave. "This is it."
"About time," Sam grumbled as the bag with the shovels and weapons hit the dirt.
Dean held out a hand and waited. He heard another huff before Sam slammed a shovel into his hand. He used the shovel to push himself back into a standing position. The shovel bit into the rich graveyard soil with ease as Dean thanked his rare good luck. At this rate, they could be out of here and in bed in less than two hours. He said nothing as he dug, wondering when his brother would feel he had worked enough to pay off Sam carrying the supplies. After a good twenty minutes, Sam joined him. They dug in silence. When they hit the hard, hollow sound of a coffin beneath their feet, Dean waved Sam out of the hole.
As Dean lifted his shovel to break through the coffin, he felt a tightness through his chest. He could not catch his breath. He froze, eyes rotating to look at Sam. Sam was pulling the salt and lighter fluid out of the bag, not paying any attention to him. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but the tightening sensation squeezed so hard he felt like his chest was in a vice. Was that the sound of his ribs cracking?
Eyes riveted to Sam, silently pleading for his brother to look up, Dean struggled to simply take in air. It was like being underwater, in a vice. He suddenly had great sympathy for everyone organized crime had thrown into a river with cement overshoes. Finally he discovered the one thing he could still do. He dropped the shovel.
The shovel clattered against the top of the coffin. Sam looked up. "What? You want me to do that, too?"
Come on, Sam, figure it out, he pleaded silently.
"Dean? You messing with me?" Sam stared at him. Dean watched as understanding dawned on his brother's face. "Shit!" His brother lunged forward, grabbing him around the chest and hauling him out of the grave.
The results were instant. Dean could breathe again and his chest was no longer being crushed. "About time," he breathed weakly.
Sam stood, glaring down into the grave. Dean scrambled to his feet, pulling his brother back from the edge. No sense in both of them experiencing that.
"What do we do now?" Sam demanded, shaking off Dean's restraining hand.
"Give me your shovel," Dean replied, forcing air into his bruised chest.
"Why?" Sam asked, spinning around. "You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"
"Thanks, Sam," Dean said with a scowl. "But I don't see a whole lot of options here."
"Funny, I don't really see any, except to get the fire hot enough to burn through the coffin," Sam replied hotly, digging through the duffel again for more lighter fluid.
"No guarantees there, Sammy. Can't salt through the coffin." Dean picked up the second shovel. He did not relish the idea of going back down there, but it was the only way. "Here's the plan. I'm going to jump in, shovel first. Hopefully, with a little luck, that will be enough to break the lid. You pull me out and we knock the lid off enough with the shovels to salt the corpse. Ready?"
"Dean, that's," Sam paused, tilting his head to one side, "stupid. We can salt it after we've burned it."
"Easier to make sure if the lid is broken, Sammy." Dean poised at the other side of the grave, shovel in both hands. "Just pull me right out."
One foot on the shovel, he jumped down. The feeling of being squeezed to death in a vice gripped him immediately, but Dean kept his mind on the task at hand. He felt and heard the lid burst beneath him, but he could not move. What the hell was Sam doing, anyway? He tried to lean closer to the side Sam was on. After an eternity, he felt those huge paws of his brother grabbing his arms and hauling him up. Finally!
As his chest passed the edge of the grave, Dean was able to pull in a breath. His arms worked again and he helped pull himself the rest of the way out. With an arm wave, he motioned for Sam to get to work. With a huff, Sam tossed salt and lighter fluid down. Looking back, Dean saw he had been able to split the lid completely open. Lucky. That couldn't last.
A mist rose from the other side of the grave. "Uh, Sam?" Dean watched as the mist swirled into one area. "Sam? You brought the shotgun, right?"
"Uh, I think it's in the car. Why?" Sam shook the last of the lighter fluid into the grave.
The mist formed the shape of a man. A large man. A large, angry man. Shit! Dean found his feet under him as he surged forward, tackling his brother to the ground as the spirit made a dash through the spot Sam was just standing in. From his position holding Sam to the ground, Dean looked for the spirit.
"Okay, Sam. New plan. I'll distract it while you light it up." He patted his brother on the shoulder before jumping up.
"Hey, asshole!" Dean shouted, moving away from Sam. "You done picking on wussy jocks? Ready for a real fight?"
His answer was in the form of being thrown, oh, about twenty feet through the air to land quite solidly on a headstone. He really hoped that cracking sound was marble and not bone. Of course, if he really hit a marble headstone hard enough to crack it, that was not good either. Dean pushed himself to his feet, casting his eyes around for Sam. There was a something moving over there, but was it Sam or the spirit? Why the hell wouldn't his eyes focus?
"Sammy?" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the still graveyard. "Sam!" Dean tried running back, but he was turned around, unsure of which way to go. A bright light caught his attention, flames. Dean ran toward it, but his chest complained. Ignoring the waves of pain, he dashed toward the light where his brother should be. He arrived, breathless, to find Sam standing stoically next to the burning grave.
At that moment, Dean realized his brother must feel even more tired than he did, otherwise Sam would have noticed the shovel lifting off the ground. Dean charged ahead, knocking his brother to the ground. When he looked up from laying protectively over Sam's prone form, he saw that damn shovel. It was headed his way. Shovels should not behave like that, he told himself, it was just wrong. Then pain erupted along his jaw, shoving him into the dark recesses of unconsciousness.
It was pain that woke him. At first Dean wanted to crawl back into the darkness where the pain could not reach him, then he thought of Sam. He forced his eyes to open, see where they were and what was happening. Sam's damned puppy dog eyes were staring straight down into his.
"Dean? You awake?"
He felt something shift under his head and realized it was Sam's legs. His head was in Sam's lap, like some girl? Dean blinked hard, forcing the blurriness from his vision as he pushed himself up. "Yeah." His voice sounded harsh to his ears, and weak. Damn it.
"Dude," Sam's monster hands helped him up, "you look like crap."
"Right back atcha," Dean grumbled, getting his feet under him. He watched, feeling beaten and exhausted, as Sam gathered their equipment. Not wanting to appear so weak, Dean bent over to grab the stupid shovel that clocked him. The ground chose that moment to buck up, hit him in his outstretched hand.
"Dean?" It was Sam, pulling him upright. "Don't do that."
He felt downright helpless as Sam picked up the last of their equipment. When he tried to take the duffel from his brother, after all it was only fair for him to carry it back when Sam carried it out here, Sam slapped his hand away. His brother gave him a nasty look before spinning him around, a little too fast, and shoving him in the direction of the car.
Dean's feet were a slightly unsteady, he had to admit, but he did not fall once on the way. As he reached for the driver's door, he felt Sam pulling on his arm again.
"Now what!" he snapped, patience gone.
"I'm driving," Sam replied, tossing the duffel into the back seat.
"It's my car and I'm driving," Dean said. He clenched his jaw, intent to hold in the frustration and anger threatening to boil over, when a sharp spike of pain struck, shooting from his jaw straight through to the top of his head. It was enough to knock the wind out of him, send him reeling to the side, grabbing the car to prevent himself from falling.
"Like I said," Sam's hands held him up, again, directing him to the passenger door, "I'm driving."
Dean groaned as Sam fussed over him and even closed the freaking door, like he was a child or something. He rode to the motel in silence, his best weapon at the moment. Sam did not speak either. That was a simple salt and burn, it never should have gotten out of control like that. How did they let that happen? Actually, Dean knew exactly how it happened. They were taking too many jobs, too fast, never really recovering from one before heading straight into another. This breakneck speed was new. At first Dean had enjoyed it, reveling in the fact they could go after so many things that way. Then he realized that his bruises had bruises. Soon he was sleeping even less than Sam. This was not good.
Dean waited until they were safely inside their motel room and Sam was in the shower before acting on the plan he conceived in the car. He pulled out his cell, scrolling swiftly through his phone list.
"Hello?" The deep baritone was one of the best damn things he had heard in months.
"Hey, Bobby. It's Dean."
"Dean!" The reserved tones melted away into familiarity. "How you boys doing?"
"Uh, actually," Dean stole a guilty glance at the closed bathroom door, "not too good. We could really use a break."
"Okay. That why you're calling me? Want to hang out here and work on that car of yours?"
Dean felt the grin slide onto his face. That did sound pretty great. "Well, really Bobby, I'm calling to see if you can talk Sam into it. The last few times I've suggested taking a break, Sam just pushed even harder to pick up a new hunt. Hell, we've done about ten just this month."
A low whistle came through the phone. "Damn, Dean. You boys'll get yourselves killed that way."
"Tell me about," he mumbled, before hurrying to add, "but if you suggested a good enough excuse, maybe Sam would listen. He sure won't listen to me."
There was a long enough pause to make Dean worry before Bobby's voice plowed into his ear with, "No problem, Dean. I'll call Sam first thing in the morning."
Dean let out the breath he did not know he was holding. "Thanks, Bobby." He closed his phone carefully, mindful of the fact the sound of running water just stopped. Dean slid the phone back onto the endtable, shutting his eyes and pretending to sleep.
---------------
Sam frowned at the first rays of morning that crept across the ceiling through the split in the cheap motel curtains. He hated this motel, far more than he should. He knew Dean loved it with the car theme, but there was something just creepy about sleeping on kiddie sheets. Dean laughed at him every time he had to pull down the comforter. He wondered what his face looked like to make Dean laugh like that. That sound was becoming far too rare these days.
He knew Dean would never admit it, but they were exhausted. Even if he suggested taking some time off, Sam was sure Dean would want to use it to do something dangerous or stupid, or both. How could he possibly convince his stubborn brother to take some time to just relax – hell, just heal up?
Sam swung his legs out of bed, sitting up. His eyes rested on the sleeping form of his brother. Dark smudges lined the underside of Dean's eyes and his jaw was red and swollen, the dark red a promise of a nasty bruise coming to the surface. Dean fell asleep last night before Sam could really check his brother for further injuries, and since Dean never, ever complained, Sam could only hope he would be given the chance this morning to see that his brother was no worse for wear.
And they were worn. Sam ran a hand through his thick hair, wondering when the gray would start growing. He hated to admit it, but they needed a break. If he kept pushing them like this, Dean was going to get really hurt. The kind you don't walk away from. When his brother went soaring through that graveyard last night, that had been Sam's worst fear: Dean not getting back up. He was so relieved to be tackled twice in the space of five minutes by his big brother, Sam barely noticed when Dean had been knocked unconscious. The fifteen minutes Dean was out had been the absolute longest fifteen minutes in his life.
Sam headed for his laptop, wondering if there was a good excuse to make a side-trip to the Grand Canyon. His cell phone went off as he waited for the laptop to boot up.
Sam picked it up, checking caller id. It was Bobby. With a deep sigh, Sam answered, figuring the older hunter was calling about a job.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Sam! How the hell are ya?"
Sam frowned at the wall. Bobby sounded a little too upbeat. Something was up. "Fine, Bobby. What's going on?"
Dean stirred, rolling over in bed.
"Well, Sam. I was wondering if you and that brother of yours would mind doing me a little favor?"
"Sam?" Dean sat up, running a hand over that tired and bruised face. "Who is it?"
Sam mouthed 'Bobby' before answering, "What kind of favor?"
Dean's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't get up. That really showed how tired Dean must be.
"Just keep an eye on my place for a few days. It's my busy season and there's this little hunting problem that needs my attention. Shouldn't take more than two or three days."
Sam nearly asked what the hunting problem was when it struck him that this was exactly the kind of thing they needed. "Sure, Bobby. I don't think it'll be a problem. I'll talk to Dean about it and call you back."
"Okay, Sam. I need to know pretty quick, though."
"Right. I'll call you back in a few minutes." Sam snapped his cell shut, leveling his gaze on that stubborn brother of his.
"What does Bobby want, Sam?" Dean asked, standing. Sam did not miss the slight wince as Dean stretched or the quick grimace when his brother turned to the side. "I'm ready."
Yeah, right, thought Sam. "He wants us to house-sit."
Dean gave him that patented Dean Winchester 'you've got to be kidding me' look. "Excuse me?"
"Bobby says he has to go on a job for a few days and needs someone to watch his place and the salvage yard." Sam watched for some sign of interest. "The car could probably use a tune-up. You'd have time for it there." He thought he saw Dean's eyes sparkle at the suggestion.
Dean shrugged. "What do you think?"
"Well," Sam knew he had to choose his words carefully or he would have to start researching their next hunt, "we do owe him."
Dean nodded thoughtfully. "A lot."
"So we'll do it?" Sam asked.
Dean's eyes cut to the side to look at him. "If you want to."
Sam frowned. Those decisions were usually Dean's, but he had been making a lot of those kinds of decisions lately. Had he been making all of them? That made up his mind, more than Dean's swollen jaw or the dark marks of exhaustion under his brother's eyes. If Dean Winchester backed down from making a decision for his little brother, some serious R&R was required. Sam lifted his cell, calling Bobby back.
"Bobby? We'll do it."