Six Months To Go
Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to "Supernatural" characters or plots. This is a story written for fun.
Author's Note: Usually, I work alone, but my husband Aaron is co-writing on this one. I'm giving credit where credit is due.
Story takes place six months after Dean made his deal with the crossroads demon. This includes spoilers up through Season 3's episode "Fresh Blood".
It was late, or early, depending on one's viewpoint. To Sam, it was definitely late. He had yet to get under the scratchy, hundred-count thread sheets of the Little River Inn. He and Dean were on their way to Harrisonburg, Pennsylvania, to investigate a possible vengeful spirit in an old hospital. They'd stopped for the night somewhere in the middle of Ohio. For a small state on the map, it took forever to get across.
Sam glanced over at his sleeping brother. Dean was sound asleep, hand unconsciously on the knife under his pillow. I'm gonna get him out of this. He turned his attention back to one of the books he'd gotten from Bobby. For the past six months, it was like he was back at Stanford, with all the reading he'd been doing. But this time, the reading was serious. It wasn't an A or B at stake if Sam didn't study hard enough—it was his brother.
He felt like he was close. Like if he just read one more page of one more book, he'd be able to get his brother out of the deal. Shooting the Crossroads Demon hadn't done a thing, except piss off his brother, and, undoubtedly, other demons. Sam ran a hand over his eyes, and took a drink of water from one of the motel's plastic cups. He shifted in his chair, and moved the curtains aside. It would've been completely dark, if not for the strobe-like flickering of a fluorescent street light in the hotel parking lot. The Impala was one of only three cars.
Sam flipped the page of his book just as the bedside clock hit four o'clock a.m. A sharp, sudden pain slammed him hard in the lower back. He cried out, and dropped to his knees on the floor. Dean jumped out of bed to rush to Sam's side.
"Sammy! What's wrong? What happened?" Dean blinked hard, trying to wake himself up.
"My back."
"Show me," Dean said. He knelt beside Sam and helped him remove his gray t-shirt. Sam groaned. A black bruise, the size of one of Muhammad Ali's fists, covered the small of his back where Jake had knifed him.
Dean grimaced and looked away. His eyes fell across the open book on the motel table. He stood straight up. "Jesus, Sam! I've told you over and over to stop trying to interfere with this deal! See what happens? You see?" Dean picked up the book and hurled it against the wall.
Sam tried to stand up.
"I give my life up for you, and this is what you do? Stay up all night reading?"
Sam braced against the chair and pulled himself up. He got in Dean's face. "I didn't ask you to sell your soul for me. I would rather be dead than have to deal with this pain."
"If I'd known you were such a selfish pussy, I would've left your dead ass in that ghost town!"
"I'm selfish?" Sam paused. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the argument was getting out of control, but it was like a semi truck speeding down a steep grade—unstoppable.
He cocked his head to the side. "I'm selfish because I don't want my brother to die."
"No." Dean kicked the chair; it toppled across the shag carpeting. "You're selfish because you can't accept that I didn't want you to!"
"So it's a chain of guilt, right?" Sam moved closer, hemming Dean between the table and fallen chair. "You feel guilty because Dad died for you, and now I feel guilty for your death. How can you leave me here alone?" He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and turned away from Dean.
Dean stared at the bruise.
"Damn it, Dean! You're my brother!"
"Oh, Jesus." Dean righted the chair and flopped onto it. "It's been a sausage party way too long."
Sam clenched and unclenched his fists. He took a deep breath before turning back to Dean. "That's right, joke. Joke about dying."
Dean shrugged. "Did you hear the one about the nun at her brother's funeral?"
"Six months." Sam towered over Dean in the chair. For a moment, he felt like his father. He took a step back. "To the day, I might add. And you're still making stupid jokes." He stopped, forehead crinkling. "Six months." He glanced at the digital alarm's bright crimson numbers: 4:09. "What time did you see the crossroads demon?"
Dean shrugged and shook his head.
"Was it four a.m.?"
Dean stood up. "Maybe."
"Shit. That's why this is happening." He snatched the book off the floor. "Not because I'm reading these books. It's a warning, Dean. For you."
"Oh. Really. Way to go, Professor. I may make jokes, but you go all geek-boy on me. Mr. Stanford's gotta figure everything out."
Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder, forcing Dean to look at him. "When are you going to stop playing the badass and talk to me?"
"Shut up, Sammy." Dean closed his eyes.
"Fine, Dean, I'll shut up."
The tension eased from Dean's neck.
"I'm done talking." He started back to the table. "Now, can I get back to trying to save your life?"
Dean grabbed Sam's arm and spun him around. "I'm trying to save yours!" He slammed Sam against the wall. Dean's anger blinded him to Sam's wince. "You're right, Sam, that bruise is a warning. A warning for you to stop whatever the hell you're doing."
Sam sloughed off the pain and shoved Dean's hands away. "I won't stop till I know you're safe."
Dean stared hard into Sam's eyes. His face had gone dark red, as though all his capillaries had burst at once. "And I'm not gonna watch you die. Again!"
They held each other's glare for a long moment; then, Sam tightened his jaw. He pulled his duffel bag from under the table. He shoved his books and t-shirt into it. "Fine." He swung the door open; it rattled on its hinges. "You don't have to watch." Sam stormed out.
Dean watched the corner long after Sam had rounded it, waiting. "Come on." His voice was soft, a prayer. "Come on."
Sam didn't come back.
"Damn it!" Dean punched the wall, cracking the cheap plaster. He turned and slid to the floor. "Sam."
To Be Continued…