A/N: This takes place right after Hook-Man
By the time Sam and Dean got to the centre of the forest, it was nearly midnight. They were in Seattle, further West than they usually went, deep in Evergreen forests that would have been beautiful had they not been tracking a creature that had killed 5 hikers in the past two weeks.
Not wanting to attract anything – at least not yet – they hiked by the phlegmy light of moon. Sam could just make out his older brother's form ahead of him. Dean had been a good hunter even as a teenager, but the extra years of hunting, perhaps especially the times hunting solo, had increased his skills to the point where Sam sometimes wondered if he was holding Dean back.
Sam was cold, tired, and he had forgotten that hunting could simultaneously be painfully difficult and boring. At Stanford, he'd be at his desk, reading. He might even have a mug of hot coffee beside him.
Dean had increased his pace. Despite the duffel bag, jeans, and the single peanut butter sandwich consumed hours before, he showed no signs of fading. He stepped over the branches and rocks easily, leaving Sam to scramble behind like he was a kid again.
Sam felt a stitch starting in his left side. He had done his best to stay in shape at school, but without the urgency of the hunting life, without his Father to train him and his brother to compete with, he had turned into a civilian, gotten soft.
Dean raised an arm and Sam stopped. He knew where he fell in the hierarchy when hunting, behind John, behind Dean. He chaffed at being told what to do at home, but he had been raised a soldier just as Dean had been, and in the field, he followed direction.
Dean gestured to the ground in front of him. Fresh tracks. Sam would have missed them completely, didn't even know how Dean had managed to spot them in the dark. Hook marks.
Sam stared at Dean and tried not to feel a flicker of triumph. He was right. Dean had been so sure they were hunting a Stick Man. It was Sam who wasn't sure. He thought there were hunting Phika: small woodland creatures that paralyzed their victims with toxic venom then ate them.
They had debated about it fiercely, Sam bringing up that the geography wasn't quite right for Stick Men, Dean arguing that the attacks were too vicious for Phika. They arrived at an impasse and Dean won, because Dean would always win.
But Stickmen did not have hoofs. Phika did.
Sam was right. He turned to grin at Dean. He deserved a moment to gloat. He –
"Sam! Look out!" Dean shoved Sam behind him as he yelled, putting himself right between Sam and the Phika that had jumped out of the tree.
Sam raised his gun, but Dean had grabbed the Phika by the throat and was rolling in the dirt with it. Phika were small, gray and furry – Dean had once called them Ewoks – and aside from their paralyzing bite and cloven hooves, Dean wasn't too far off. Any shot would be just as likely to hit Dean as the creature. Sam yanked his knife out of his pocket and charged at it, stabbing it in the throat.
The Phika let out of a squeal and immediately fell to the ground. It was too late. Dean was bleeding from two identical pin-picks on his neck. He looked at Sam, then crashed to his knees.
"Dean!"
Sam managed to catch his shoulders before he face-planted, which was a good thing. Dean wouldn't have been able break his own fall. Paralysis had started the moment the creatures' teeth had broken Dean's skin. By the time Sam had rolled him onto his back, Dean no longer felt his feet, calves or hands.
"Can't move," Dean said trying to sound less scared than he felt.
"It's the Phika venom," Sam said. "It's not permanent. You're going to be fine."
Sam's eyes, wide and bright with anxiety, did not fill Dean with confidence. Sam took a bandana out of his pocket and pressed it against the puncture wounds.
"Venom will leave the system in about 24 hours," Sam said. "It's not fatal." He didn't add that, while people didn't die from the poison, they did perish when the Phika ate them alive. The last victim had been so mutilated, DNA testing had been necessary to confirm ID. They had to get out of the wood.
"Not permanent?" Dean clarified. "You sure."
Sam was almost irritated – he had done the research, had been right and Dean was still questioning him. Sam was tempted to tell his brother he wasn't sure and have him panic through 24 hours of paralysis wondering if he'd ever walk again, but realized the cruelty of such a plan a moment later. Plus, while he was no longer as expert at reading his taciturn brother as he once was, he didn't need to be to see the naked fear on Dean's face and to know that he would be silently panicking until he could move again.
"It's not permanent, I'm sure," Sam said, squeezing his brother's numb shoulder for good measure. "I'll get you out of here."
Dean's paralysis, thankfully, would not be total. He would be able to swallow and breathe, though there was an outside worry of an allergic reaction or complications. More concerning was the fact that they were several miles – hours of hiking – deep into the woods and that one Phika usually meant a nest of them were nearby.
Resolutely, Sam used rope from their packs to tie some branches together and create a make-shift sleigh. He secured Dean with a rope and tied the contraption around his waist. John had taught them this. One of Sam's first survival lessons. What would his Dad think of retreating?
Sam looked back at Dean frightened and immobile and decided he didn't care.
"OK, let's get out of here," Sam said. Dean's eyes followed him. He was able to blink though it looked like it took great effort. His lips moved and Sam could tell he was struggling with all his might to move.
Sam pulled his jacket off and tucked it around Dean.
"Try to relax" Sam said. "Keep watch." He wasn't expecting Dean to actually keep watching, but knew that his brother was not going to be able to sleep and hoped that focusing on something would take his mind off the current situation.
They were far past the wide, easy trails favoured by stroller-pushing parents and hand-holding couples. The train was thin, more of a line then a meaningful path. Dean kept getting wacked by branches and as soon as one got perilously close to taking out Dean's eye, Sam put the packs on the sled instead and put Dean over his shoulder.
It wasn't comfortable for either of them. Sam was objectively strong and had been trained on proper fireman's carry technique, but Dean was a big guy, their hike was long, and Sam had to remain attuned to possible attack from another Phika.
Still, it was reassuring to feel his brother's rib cage expand and contract against his shoulder. Most people who were poisoned by a Phika died from the attack, and Sam was leery of taking survivors' stories of the paralysis as fact. Despite his assurances to Dean, he was so worried that Dean's basic functions -breathing, swallowing, blinking – might be impaired that he kept stopping to check. Now, even with Dean being heavy, Sam was making better time through the trails.
It was black. The roots and burrows underneath Sam's feet were a constant source of aggravation and danger. He had tripped twice. The trees blacked out the meager light of the stars and Sam was no longer completely certain they were headed in the right direction. Fifteen year old Sam would have been disgusted with him. His Father would be horrified.
What if he couldn't do this?
He thought of the smile he had aimed at Dean. The one time he had been right to Dean's thousands and trying to rub it in Dean's face almost got him killed, had resulted in Dean having to save him. Again. He was a fucking failure. The little brother in every sense. Weak. Stupid –
"Stop." Sam said out loud. He was being self-indulgent, drowning in self-loathing instead of focusing on the hunt. His Dad -
Sam banished the thought from his mind. No more self-pity. He tried not to think of Stanford anymore, but he desperately needed to remember a time when he was in control, not his Dad's youngest son or his brother's protectorate, but his own independent man.
He thought about acing his LSAT even though he couldn't afford prep courses, getting into Stanford despite having gone to 17 different high schools. He had worked two jobs in college while keeping his place on the Dean's List. Most of his classmates didn't have to work. He had figured out student loans and bursaries and had done it alone, without John, without Dean.
Sam took a shaky breath. Then another. His heartbeat slowed.
"Don't worry, Dean," Sam said. "I've got you."
He found a break in the leaves and checked the stars. They were only slightly off-course.
Sam found a different trail. Soon, the trails expanded and there were cheery signs for camp sites along with garbage cans and requests to keep dogs leashed. Sam breathed. The closer they were to civilization, they less likely Phika were to roam.
Sam lowered Dean back in the litter with the packs. His brothers eyes were closed, but a slight frown and thick swallow told Sam he was still awake.
"Almost there, dude," Sam whispered. "Only 45 minutes-or-so left until we're at the car. You're safe."
Safe. It was a stupid thing to say, something John Winchester had trained Sam never to think, not in life and especially not in the middle of the hunt. And just as Sam wished he could take it back, a furry beast jumped out of the trees.
Sam planted himself between the creature and Dean.
Dean had closed his eyes. Or rather, Sam had. After about 30 minutes, Dean had lost the ability to blink easily, so he had kept his eyes open allowing the wind and to sting and dry them. When Sam stopped to check on him, his face twisted in horror.
"Dean," he said, more of a gasp than anything, then shut Dean's eyes.
Dean was too paralyzed to react to the loss of vision, but he somehow telegraphed his anxiety to Sam who clamped a hand on his shoulder as he settled him back into the make-shift sleigh.
"It's OK," said Sam. "I've got you."
It wasn't that Sam wasn't capable. At 13, he knew more and did more than some professional hunters. At 16, he would have been able to take down a Navy SEAL. But Sam was still Dean's little brother, and when Dean looked at him, he saw the toddler with cereal on his face, the boy who had given up hunting and spent years at college. Sam was the protectee. Always. Not the protector.
So, when he heard Sam's screams, heard the sounds of fighting, he struggled with all his might against the terrifying invisible pressure immobilizing him. Sam wasn't making full use of his range-of-motion choosing instead, Dean could tell from the screams and vibrations on the ground, to make himself a wall between the creature and Dean.
Move. Dean thought. Move. If Sam died for him, there wouldn't be much to save.
Dean had just gotten his little brother back. They were still a little stilted with each other. The rhythm of living in each other's pockets hadn't completely returned, but between Sam's nightmares, their concern for their Dad, and the sheer amount of time spent together, they were starting to remember how to be brothers
Dean would never tell Sam how much better it was with him around, how the loneliness had been nearly unbearable, that Dean hadn't been able to get out of bed some days, that he had been so reckless on a few hunts that anyone with half-a-brain would have called him suicidal. Even Dad, after one reckless accident, had been worried enough to stick close until the –
There was an awful howl. Dean couldn't tell if it was the Phika or Sam, and he couldn't lift a finger to help either way. Dean strained, calling out for his brother in his mind if not externally, his heart racing. He was able to open his eyes, to take in the blurry trees and sky above him.
"Dean!" Sam was at his side, his eyes wild, his face streaked with blood. "You OK?"
Dean couldn't answer, so Sam patted him down, checking his eyes and breathing and limbs.
"I got it." Sam said. His eyes fixed on Dean. "You're OK. I got it."
Sam himself sounded bemused, like he couldn't believe he had done what he did. Dean eyes were starting to water and Sam hesitantly put his hand up to close Dean's eyelids. Dean felt his panic swell again. He didn't want to be helpless, sightless, at the mercy of the woods and whatever Phika were still out there.
Sam's hand lingered over Dean's racing heart for a moment, the only way Dean still had to communicate. Ever since Sam could remember, his older brother had faked calm for him. He had lied about his pain, his own fear, when Dad would be home. Once when Dad was away and they both lay in bed waiting and hoping, Dean gave his traditional everything's-fine-speech, Sam had put his little palm against Dean's chest.
"You're scared," he had whispered, listening to the rapid thumping. Dean hadn't been able to deny it. His heart had betrayed him then as it did now.
"Try to take a deep breath," Sam said, his hand still splayed on his chest. "We're nearly there. I've got you."
I've got it.
I've got you.
Those weren't Sam's lines, Dean thought. He was the one who was supposed to keep Sam safe. The other way around just wasn't kosher.
But soon, Sam's presence and Dean's sheer determination to take slow, even breaths calmed Dean to mild panic.
"OK, I'm getting us out of here," Sam said. He gave Dean's chest a final pat and carried him back to the litter.
30 minutes later, Dean heard cars and a relieved "we're here," from Sam.
Suddenly, Sam was picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder. Then there was the smell of the Impala, of oil and leather and Dad as Dean was manhandled into the car. The door shut near his head.
"Thank fuck," Sam said, sitting heavily beside Dean. Dean felt Sam's fingers circle his wrist and check his pulse then, satisfied, clap him on the shoulder.
"Let's get you home," Sam said. He turned the radio on, fiddled with the stations under NPR came on. "Hey, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."
Sam's voice was light with relief and, as the car peeled out of the parking lot, Dean figured he deserved it.
Back at the motel, Sam gently levered Dean towards him, still grateful to feel the puffs of his brother's breath against his neck.
"We're here," Sam said. He wasn't sure if talking would annoy or reassure Dean, so he settled on periodic updates and going about life in a louder manner than necessary so Dean knew he wasn't alone without the overt chick-flic comfort his brother purported to hate so much.
The motel of the month was, thankfully, road level and Sam was able to park right next to their shabby little room and carry Dean in without being seen or questioned.
His brother was dead weight and floppy as Sam eased him out of his clothes.
"Your feet stink, dude," Sam said as he removed Dean's well-worn boots. Then he cut off Dean's jeans, stopping for a moment when he realized Dean's present state had left him unable to control his bladder.
Sam hesitated. Close quarters and a lack of shame on the part of the elder Winchesters meant that Sam had seen both his Father and brother naked more times than he wanted too. All had been hurt enough that they needed help to go to the bathroom and bathe. Usually, when it came to Dean, that was something John took care of with parental matter-of-factness.
John wasn't there. And Sam wasn't just the little brother. He was in charge right now, the one responsible for keeping his brother's incredibly vulnerable body safe, clean and comfortable. With that realization, a sudden swell of protectiveness washed all the discomfort and hesitation from Sam's mind.
Sam turned the television on, hoping the noise would provide some distraction as he efficiently wiped Dean down and replaced his torn hiking clothes with clean sweatpants and an over-sized t-shirt.
His brother's eyes were closed, but he knew Dean would still be awake, frozen under his closed eyelids, trapped in his own body. The thought was horrifying especially for someone like Dean who so hated being vulnerable and out of control.
To make sure Dean knew that someone was there protecting him, Sam picked his battered copy of Catch-22 off of the side table and started to read-aloud.
Despite his own tiredness, hunger pangs and soreness, Sam kept his place by his brother's side, his arm casually leaning against Dean's arm or a leg, reading as his voice got progressively hoarser.
Dean seemed to fall asleep for awhile. At least Sam thought he did. His face went slack in a way it hadn't been when he was awake and paralyzed. Sam kept reading just in case.
After an hour Dean's eyes opened to slits. Sam grinned at him and, with effort, Dean blinked in response. The paralysis continued to fade, Sam's stomach loosening with every twitch of Dean's fingers as they watched old horror movies on the rickety television.
"Sucks," Dean finally said after a few moments of working his jaw. Because he couldn't pull away, Sam rested what he hoped was a comforting hand on Dean's arm.
"I know. Does anything hurt?"
Dean breathed a "no". Sam felt another knot release in his gut
"Good," he squeezed Dean's arm. "You're almost done. Hang in there a little longer, ok?"
He may not know everything about his brother, but he knew that nothing scared Dean more than the inability to defend himself except, perhaps, the inability to defend his little brother..
Dean swallowed thickly – Sam still wasn't willing to risk letting him drink – tried to shift, couldn't, and let out a huff of annoyance and discomfort. There was no way he was getting back to sleep.
Sam knew that, deep down, his brother didn't really think Sam was up to the task of taking point, of being the one responsible for their defence. Sam let go of his self-pity and smiled at his brother again.
"Wanna play a game?"
Dean somehow managed to shoot him a look of disbelief.
"What? Like you have something better to do?"
Sam wasn't sure, but it almost seemed like Dean smiled. Sam picked a state and they went back and forth naming as many towns in that state as they could, a game they had played in the car since childhood, John sitting in the front as referee when they disputed over details. The longer they went, the more specific they got – motels they stayed in, people they fought, monsters they fought, room numbers. Dean almost always beat Sam at it and Sam figured exercising his mind would distract Dean from his current paralysis and make him feel slightly more in control. It would also force Dean to exercise his face, to allow Sam to see how fast the paralysis was receding.
They were on Wisconsin, Dean beating Sam handily after spending three more years criss-crossing the country, when Dean was able to move his hands. An hour later, he was able to sit up and drink small sips of water. A few hours after that, they had abandoned the state maps for cards, which Dean handled clumsily but ably. Finally, Dean was able to shuffle to the washroom and back, Sam taking most his weight.
"I need a shower," Dean muttered sniffing Sam as Sam helped him settle onto the bed. "You need a shower."
"I know." Sam said with the lack of embarrassment of someone who has spent years sharing a small space with another.
"Go on, you're impeding my recovery here," Dean said. Sam hesitated. He really, really wanted a shower. The sweat and mud were caked on him. But Dean was still stiff and slow. Dean smirked and grabbed the .22 from the side table.
"I'm fine."
How likely was it that something would blast through the door and attack Dean in the five minutes he would take to not smell like a toilet? Very unlikely, Sam concluded, but still he hesitated. This new weight sitting uncomfortably on him.
But he couldn't go through life unwashed and arm's length from his brother. He picked up his shave kit and headed towards the bathroom.
"Hey Sam," Sam turned around at his brother's hesitant call. "I'm sorry."
Sam felt himself blush. He didn't need or expect an apology. "Dean - "
"You did good today, Sammy," Dean said, cutting off his protests. "I should have listened to you. I'm sorry."
Two apologies. That had to be some sort of record. Winchesters were not known for their apologies. A teenage Dean had once ditched Sam an Illinois so he could meet a girl in Iowa. Sam had to endure a 12 hour Greyhound bus ride with no money to buy food. The only apology he got was Dean's slightly bashful shrug and a burger.
"It was my fault," Sam said. He hesitated, then stepped towards the bed. "I'm rusty, man. I nearly got us lost out there. I –" I am so out of my mind with grief I am more of a liability than an asset. "I was grinning at you, that's why the Phika got the drop on me."
"That's why you should never try to mock me," Dean said. He was smiling, Sam knew, to let Sam off the hook.
"When you were paralyzed out there, were you certain you could rely on me to get us back?" Sam asked in a burst of little brother insecurity. Part of him needed his brother to say Sam was the best he'd ever been, the best partner Dean had ever had. Feeling 9 years old again, Sam away from his brother to the window.
Dean was watching him calmly. Sam hadn't quite gotten used to his gregarious brother's newfound ability to be still, to listen so intently.
"No one else would be able to do what you did today after 3 years away," Dean said. Sam noted he avoided the question and was about to say so, but quickly realized that being a needy
"Sammy you've been out of the game for years," Dean said. "And you're doing good. You are.
"As long as you remember I'm always right." Sam smiled wanting Dean to know there was no hard feeling. Getting bit and paralyzed was punishment enough.
"You were right once, Sam," Dean said, chagrined, but smiling as well. Sam rolled his eyes and went back to the bathroom, a little surprised himself how little he cared about being right. If this had happened before Stanford, if this had happened because Dad had decided they were hunting Stick Men not Phika, Sam would have been furious.
Perhaps he had gotten older, more mature now that he could see for himself how difficult it was to run a hunt. John had been great at training them on weapons and lore, but had been leery of teaching either of them, especially Sam, how to lead. It would have thrown off their dynamic as a three-person team.
It was different with Dean. A partnership. An imperfect one, certainly, but they always discussed and strategized as a team. Sam saw how hard Dean worked not to see him as just a little brother.
Sam turned the water off, changed and returned to the bedroom. Dean was asleep, exhausted from the hours of tense wakefulness, his hand still loosely curled around his gun which was…not safe.
"It's me," Sam said softly, not stupid enough to reach for the gun without warning. Dean cracked an eye open and nodded. Sam reached for the gun and for a moment thought Dean was going to resist his attempt to take it from him, but his fingers were lax and Sam pulled the weapon away.
Before Sam could tell Dean to go back to sleep, his eyes slid shut again, his face still turned towards Sam.
Dean might have been to out-of-it to realize what he was doing, but Sam liked to think the surrender of weapons, the willingness to turn away from the door, was Dean's way of showing his faith in Sam's ability to handle things, to take watch. The weight of that trust was surprisingly comforting.
Because Dean wasn't awake to see, Sam tucked the blankets a little more firmly around his brothers shoulders before sitting back in his chair to keep watch.
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