Title: Time is on Our Side
Summary:One-shot. Dean and Sam are on the road again, and Sam ponders his brother's perfect timing. The title has nothing to do with the Season 3 episode of the same name. I just thought that it worked well.
I've been battling writer's block, trying to sit down and write anything, when suddenly, last night as I'm supposed to be studying for a very important test, BAM! an idea for a one-shot hits me. So of course I blew off studying and wrote it down, ha ha.
Enjoy!
Somewhere in Texas, 2010
Sam Winchester closed his weary eyes, and leaned back against the Impala's passenger seat. It hugged him perfectly, like an old friend, his shape molded into the leather after all these years. He released a quiet groan, and rubbed gently at the rope burns encircling his wrists. The skin was pink and tender.
"How you feeling, Sammy?"
"I'm fine, Dean, just tired."
"Yeah, well that's to be expected. This last hunt sucked." Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. It had been a close call, closer than he cared to think about. Tragedy a mere second away. Those demons, man, they were a sick bunch. And obnoxious as hell. They just kept coming back, like damn cockroaches. He almost hadn't made it in time...had almost let Sam get killed.
"Dean? Are you okay? I mean, you don't look so good." Sam's head was turned, and he gazed at his brother questioningly.
"I'm the hottest bastard I know," he answered, forcing an unconvincing laugh. It didn't answer his question, but Sam didn't push it. Instead, he gazed out the window, and continued to massage his wrist.
The girl had seemed harmless enough, until it was too late that is. Batting those long eyelashes of hers, he couldn't possibly have denied the gentlemanly task of helping her carry her bags to her car. He had been bending into the truck, when his world went black, and he had woken up in an unfamiliar room. She was there, beside him, her seductive blue eyes rolling back into her skull, exposing the black of pure evil.
Sam felt so stupid, being fooled like that. Yet while he fought and struggled, escape proved useless and exhausting. So he waited, listened to her lengthy speech, more agitated than anything else. Dean would be there soon, he'd just patiently wait it out. If she had waited this long to kill him, waited until he was awake, she'd probably hold back a few minutes longer.
But suddenly, unexpectedly, she was finished mid-sentence. She glared at him, and stepped forward menacingly. He wouldn't have been too concerned if the light hadn't glinted off the knife in her hand, if his heart hadn't clenched in his chest.
Fear had overtaken Sam's mind, and he tried lashing out, blindly. But she was on him then, and the smell of sulfur and silver burned his nose. A sharp prick ignited on the side of his neck, and he yelped in pain. A thin line of burning continued across his skin, and he may have started to lose consciousness. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the blade was removed, and Dean was there. Dean was there, and his words whispered in the empty void surrounding him.
Sam absently touched the cut on his neck, the memory all to real, and winced. The scabbing was still sensitive.
"Hey, quit picking at that!" Sam's hand dropped obediently. "Do you think maybe you'd like to wear a scarf or something over it?"
"We don't own any."
"Oh, right." Dean fixed his eyes back on the road. He couldn't stand to look at the angry mark on his brother's neck – the half ring starting at one side, and ending near the center. Guilt knotted his stomach, and he wanted to vomit.
He had successfully killed that bitch, but not before the damage had been done. When he entered she was taking her sweet time slitting Sam's throat, and it disgusted him. He flew at her in blind rage, got the job done, and called an ambulance. The wait, no more than three minutes, had seemed like an eternity, with Dean applying just enough pressure to slow the bleeding. He was very careful not to push too hard, and was excruciatingly aware of Sam's trachea, which thankfully was intact.
Dean had stood there, blood dripping from his hands, as he watched in horror as the EMTs worked. It had been far too big for him to tackle. He could remove bullets, and elegantly knit stitches, but this was more than he cared to handle.
A few days in the hospital, and the careful avoidance of police and the crafting of explanations to tough-questions, and they were out of there. The bandage, which had been taped into place, was now gone, and the wound screamed accusations at him. If he kept from looking at it his sanity would remain in tact, for now. Although there was going to be a small scar. Just what he needed - another reminder of just how horrible their lives were.
"Hey Dean?"
"Mmm?"
"How do you do it? How do you always make it in time? You have like impeccable timing."
Dean chocked, and had to be careful not to swerve off the road. Yeah, he had been expecting this, known it was coming, but he'd hoped Sam might be a bit gentler about it. Not make him audibly admit it, not beat around the bush.
He didn't say anything.
"Dean? C'mon, how do you do it? I want to know?"
He risked a glance at his little brother, who looked completely serious. "Are you kidding me? You almost died back there, Sam!"
"Yeah, but I didn't. You got to me in time." Sam looked thoughtful. "Ever since I was a kid, every time I found trouble or danger, you were always there to bail me out, to save my hide. You were always there. It's like you're psychic or something."
Dean scoffed, now that was ironic. "Yeah, I've got a sixth sense."
"Dean..."
"Sam, what do you want me to say? I don't know what it is. It's like older brother intuition or something. I can just tell something's wrong, and then this alarm goes off in my head. There's this urgency that drives me. I don't know. It's like 'Sammy sense.'"
"'Sammy sense'?"
"Sure, red flag goes up, and all I know is 'I've got to get to Sammy. Got to get to Sammy.'"
"Hmm." And then, surprisingly, Sam shut-up. It was a ridiculous and ludicrous concept, but he seemed to accept it nonetheless. Dean sighed, hoping the awkward conversation was finally finished, when Sam asked, "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"This sense...when I killed Lilith and..." he paused, "and started the Apocalypse, you weren't there in time. You didn't arrive until after..." Sam regarded him with sorrow-filled eyes. "What happened then?"
Dean didn't reply immediately, although he had pondered this question himself many times. He reached for the radio volume, hoping it would drown out his words as he said, quite clearly, "You weren't 'Sammy' to me then."
End