I wondered what the evening after Born Under a Bad Sign was like. This is where my imagination took me.
Aftermath
The drive to a crappy motel felt like it took forever. Sure, Dean had teased and joked about Sam being possessed by the demon they called Meg, but that did not ease Sam's mind much. All he really believed was that Dean did not blame him for what happened, which helped a little. What bothered him was not the memory of watching a man die by his hands, and that alone was disturbing, it was the fact even with all that evidence Dean refused to kill him. And he promised.
Yeah, yeah, Dean wanted to save him. Sam was not sure that was even possible. He rubbed his aching jaw. Dean had not pulled that punch. He suspected it was more for putting Dean out of his mind with worry than asking a stupid question, but he would never know for sure. Dean being Dean, he would never discuss it. Sam doubted Dean would fess up to any deep emotion even on his deathbed. Come to think of it, he didn't. But his eyes – Dean could not hide his own eyes.
When Sam looked into those deep green pools right after the demon left him, he saw the intense fear and worry. He could almost feel what Dean had been through the past week, all reflected in the pain of his brother's eyes. It was that pain that made him ask the stupid, stupid question, "Did I miss anything?" Whenever his mind groped for something to ease his brother's panic, which was so rare and always his fault, it usually grabbed the dumbest thing available. How the hell did he get into Stanford in the first place?
Sam let out a deep sigh as he waited for Dean to return with a room key. He did not feel like being around people, not right now. He knew Dean was not going to let him out of his sight for a while, and he could not really blame his brother for that. Had Dean been possessed and forced to commit murder, Sam doubted he'd let his brother out of his sight either. He fiddled with the charm Bobby had given him, wondering if he should wear it on a chain or leather strap like Dean's necklace. It was cool and comforting in his palm. Maybe he could hook it onto his bracelet. It should still work on a bracelet.
A knock on the window startled him from his thoughts. Dean was waving a room key at him. Sam nodded, unfolding his large frame from the car and grabbing both duffel bags from the back seat. Dean had not said anything about what Sam did to him while possessed, but his face was a little pale and he looked dead on his feet. Surprisingly, Dean did not even complain about Sam carrying his bag to the room. Sam shrugged it off, Dean probably figured it was the least his little brother could do after putting him through a week of hell.
Dean rifled through his bag, coming up with a large clean shirt, before disappearing into the bathroom. Sam frowned. Dean was not usually so modest. What was going on? He heard the water running for a long time, then Dean came out, tossing his dirty clothes on the floor by his bed. Dean flung himself onto the bed before motioning with his right hand. The bathroom was all Sam's now.
Sam frowned to himself. He took his toiletries with him as well as a fresh t-shirt to sleep in, though he doubted he would be able to sleep much tonight. If Dean was going to be modest, so was he.
"Hey!" Dean shouted as Sam stepped into the bathroom. He turned around. Dean threw something at him. Sam caught it with his free hand. It was burn cream from the first aide kit.
"Thanks," Sam closed the door behind him.
"Better use it. It's good stuff!" Dean's voice bellowed through the door. Sam cringed a little as he examined it. It was the same brand Dean had used after their run-in with the Benders. Sam spread some on his forearm, wincing as he made contact with the new burn that had released the demon. But Dean was right, the soothing properties of the cream started working almost immediately. It felt so much better Sam was able to push it from his mind as he prepared for bed.
As he expected, Sam did not sleep well. Actually, he barely slept. When he did he was plagued with disturbing dreams of violence and killing. Dean woke him several times, worried he was having a vision. He had protested that it was just a dream, for Dean to go back to sleep. That was why Sam did not worry when Dean slept so late this morning. Sam went out for coffee, leaving a note behind and taking his fully charged cell phone with him. He was little surprised his phone did not go off at the coffee shop. When he returned to their room, Dean was still out cold.
Sam kicked his brother's bed. "Dean! Coffee!"
Dean did not move. Concerned, he set the coffees on the small table before moving to the side of his brother's bed. "Dean!" Sam knew better than to grab his brother while sleeping, Dean's reactions were usually of the lethal variety. He tried kicking the bed again, but his brother still did not move. Sam slipped a hand under Dean's pillow, feeling around until he found the hunting knife. He pulled it out and set it on the bedside table.
Sam grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook. "Dean!"
"No. Please. No more," Dean's voice was a groan. Horrified, Sam released him. The only light was the sunlight filtering through cheap but thick motel curtains. Sam snapped on the bedside lamp. Dean's skin was pale with a sickly gray tinge even where there were no bruises and beads of sweat covered his brow. What the hell was going on?
Dean's sudden modesty last night sprang to Sam's mind. Suspicious, Sam tried lifting up his brother's shirt to check for injuries. "Butcher," Dean mumbled, half asleep. "Who taught you how to remove a bullet, Mengele?" Wait, did Dean just make a real historical reference? He must be running a fever. And what bullet? Determined now, Sam gently forced the shirt up. There were bruises on his brother's abdomen, but no sign of being shot.
Confused, Sam stood, walking around the bed and surveying his brother. His eyes caught the jacket and shirt Dean wore last night carelessly tossed in the floor. If he were shot in the upper body, that should provide the evidence. Sam held up the jacket to the light. There was a hole in the left shoulder. His stomach twisted. He picked up Dean's shirt. The left sleeve was gone, ripped away. Blood stained the back and top of the left shoulder, and there was an entry hole in the front, also heavily bloodstained. Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat. He had shot Dean. Again.
Sam sat on Dean's bed, careful fingers peeling the t-shirt back. There were blood-soaked bandages covering his left shoulder. Sam shook his head. "Dean, I need to check your bandages. You're bleeding." Dean mumbled something unintelligible, which Sam took as permission. There was no way to get to the wound without taking off the shirt, and Dean did not appear to be in any shape to help with that. Sam grabbed the knife from the table and slit the shirt off Dean's shoulder. Now he could see the fabric in back was also soaked with blood. How much had Dean lost?
Sam retrieved the first aide kit. He rolled Dean on his side, careful not to touch his shoulder.
"Gonna kill Meg," Dean muttered. "Bitch is goin' to hell."
"You already sent her there, Dean," Sam told him softly.
"Bitch needs to stay put this time," Dean shot back. Sam leaned over his brother, but Dean's eyes were still closed and his breathing returned to a deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Sam shook his head. That figured. Dean fought demons in his sleep, too. Sam peeled back the blood soaked gauze. It looked like someone had stitched him up, probably the butcher Dean had been complaining about, but most of the stitches had been pulled out. Sam could only assume it happened when Dean took that pounding to the face.
Sam removed a package of sterile silk thread. With a well practiced hand, he stitched up his brother's wound, first in the back and then in the front. He grimaced when his fingers brushed against the burn scar the Benders had left. He soaked gauze in alcohol before applying it over the area, hoping to kill any infection that may have set in overnight. Then he applied fresh gauze and tape in case of any bleeding through the stitches, though he trusted his work.
Sam cleaned his mess, tossing the bloodied t-shirt in the trash as well. He stood over his brother's bed, sipping his coffee, wondering what he should do next. Dean was still sleeping on his side, which Sam fervently hoped was uninjured. He examined Dean's jacket again. Biting his lip, Sam searched his bag for the small travel kit he had picked up in one of the nicer places they stayed last year. It had about eight different colored threads, two buttons, a needle, and it used to have two safety pins which were long gone, used for something Sam could not even remember now. Sam threaded the needle with the thread closest in color to Dean's jacket. He assumed it would be easier than stitching human skin and was very surprised at how different it was. Instead of worrying about tearing the skin, you fought with the fabric, forcing the needle through each time. No wonder Dean usually just tossed anything that ripped or tore. He heard something rattle as he worked.
Sam checked the pockets, coming up with a bottle of pain pills. Now that was a surprise. Whoever patched Dean up cared enough to send him on his way with a whole bottle of pain meds? An image of Jo, tied to a post, flashed in his mind. Oh, well, that would make sense, if it was Jo. And while she may have seen many bullets removed, she probably did not have that much practice herself. Yes, Dean would have called her a butcher to her face if it were bad enough. He caught himself smiling at the image of Dean snapping at Jo, who was probably flirting the entire time. Sam shook his head. He had never seen Dean refuse a girl's advances before Jo. Was his Peter Pan older brother growing up, or was the girl just not his type? Well, since Sam had never seen a girl who was not his brother's type, maybe the Peter Pan phase was actually over.
Sam scoffed at his own musings. Well, time would tell, assuming they lived through this. He hoped Dean did, at any rate.
"I'd rather die first," Dean mumbled.
What the hell was that about? Sam moved closer, whispered, "Why would you rather die first?"
"Gotta save Sammy," Dean answered, rolling onto his back.
Oh. That must have been when the demon was begging Dean to kill him. Sam shook his head. He still thought Dean should have shot him, kept his promise.
"Wasn't you, Sammy," came the mumble. Sam looked down in surprise. Was Dean reading his thoughts now? "Sammy'd never do that. Wasn't him. Gotta protect him." He was starting to toss and turn now.
Sam set his coffee aside. He leaned over, careful to hold Dean by the biceps. "It's okay, Dean. Relax. Go back to sleep."
"Never do that," Dean's voice grew louder. "No! Sammy!" His eyes flew open as he jumped up to a sitting position.
Sam was still holding him by the arms. "Easy, Dean. You'll rip your stitches."
Dean's eyes roved the room wildly, sweat pouring down his face. "Where am I?"
He said I, not we. "We're in a hotel, Dean. It's okay." Sam felt the muscles under his hands tense. Glancing down, he saw his brother's fists clench into fists. Sam jumped backward, hands in the air. "Whoa!"
Dean was up on his feet in a swift, fluid movement. "You leave my brother alone!"
"Dean, it's me," Sam's mind raced.
"You're not getting him! You hear me?" Dean was screaming at him, fists raised menacingly. His face was taut, his eyes blazing.
Sam's eyes searched for their father's journal. He spotted it poking out of Dean's duffel. He snagged it and held it out to Dean. "Here, Dean. Exorcise me. So I'll leave Sam alone." Dean had never really scared him before, but he had a pretty good idea why that demon wanted revenge now. He might even need a change of shorts before this was over.
Dean frowned at him, suspecting a trick. Sam held out the journal, as close as he dared to get to his brother. Dean snatched the book from his hand and Sam hopped backwards. Sure enough, Dean's infamous right cross zinged through the air. Sam wondered if he shouldn't have just taken it, but then he saw the look in Dean's eyes. It would not have been just one.
With a wary eye on Sam, Dean flipped through the pages until he found the exorcism ritual. "And you're just gonna stand there? Let me do it?"
Sam wished he could have foreseen this; he would have drawn a Key of Solomon on the ceiling just to put Dean's mind at ease. "Yep." Sam sat cross-legged in the floor. "Go ahead."
Dean recited the Latin. He usually made Sam do it so it felt strange to hear Dean doing what he considered his job. Sam waited patiently for Dean to finish. At least Dean had always taken studying Latin seriously; he was doing a great job.
"Feel better?" Sam asked from the floor, not daring to move.
Dean scowled at him, his face pale and sweaty. Sam imagined he could see the wheels in his brother's head spinning, which was enough to send a jolt of panic through him. "Locked yourself in, did you, bitch?" he growled.
Oh, crap. Sam held up his burned arm. "The demon is out, Dean. I swear."
Dean deflated like a balloon with a leak. The journal dropped from his hand as he sank down to the bed. "Sammy? That really you?" His eyes still had a feverish, glazed look, but at least his fists had dropped.
Sam pushed off the floor. "Yeah, it's me, Dean. You need to get back to bed." He waited until Dean nodded before stepping closer. "You do believe it's me, right?"
Dean squinted at him, his brow furrowed. He studied Sam for the longest time. "Smoke menthols?"
"No, Dean."
"You drinking malt liquor?"
"No, Dean."
"Stealing piece of shit chick cars?"
Sam could not help but laugh at that one. "No, Dean."
Dean let out a long sigh. "Okay, I believe you." He allowed Sam to push him back into bed and cover him up. "Gonna read me a story, too?" he mumbled.
"No, but I need you to take a few pills," Sam grabbed the bottle of pain meds before he searched the first aide kit for aspirin. Sam always bought the extra large bottle. He shook out a few aspirin into his palm and added a pain killer to it. With a glass of water from the bathroom in hand, Sam approached Dean cautiously.
"Here," he held out his hand, "take these. It'll make you feel better." Dean took the pills and swallowed them without comment. "Think you can go back to sleep?"
"Think you can quit being a mother hen?" Dean shut his eyes. "Ought to get some sleep yourself, Sammy." His voice sounded distant.
"Nah, I'm good," Sam promised, sitting on the other bed. Dean's soft snores reached his ears and Sam smiled. No matter how bad he felt, Dean still worried about him. Well, at least he still had that going for him.