Penumbra
K Hanna Korossy
They drove in silence, not meeting each other's eyes since the alley in Chicago. Dean could feel Sam glance at him as he stared at the road, and Dean looked over sometimes when his brother was turned away, but there was no contact. Dean, for one, was grateful. He would've had no idea what to say, and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Sam was thinking, or see it in his eyes, either. Driving was safe. Driving away from Meg and the daevas and Dad was even safer.
But his every instinct fought against it. He hated running from fights. And Dad… Even though Sam had doubted it sometimes, Dean had been as anxious to find Dad as he was. To then walk away from him had gutted Dean, despite the confidence he'd forced into his voice when he'd argued for it. No, that hadn't been what he'd wanted. But Dean's black-and-white world had just gotten a lot greyer, and he knew his father had wanted them to separate again so he'd argued for it. He should have been used to giving up what he wanted and loved by now, right?
The feelings still roiled inside him, however, hence the quiet. No point in speaking up when you couldn't even sort out what you felt, and Dean didn't believe in talking things out. That left him the silence, and a silent brother.
Which wasn't like Sam, actually, Mr. Do-We-Need-To-Talk-About-This? Apparently, finding and then losing Dad again in one night had knocked even Sam into shocked, liquid-eyed silence. He'd sat chewing on his lip, staring out the window, and probably thinking too much as usual, until exhaustion had finally gotten to him. He slept now with the side of his head propped against the glass. Dean was grateful for that, too. At least one of them had found a little peace.
They did have one decision they needed to make, however. They were both clawed up pretty badly, Sam's face beyond Dean's basic stitching skills, and would need a hospital and a real doctor. Not in Chicago, Dean had thought flatly, but they were in thinner northern territory now, more trees visible than houses. An animal attack was plausible here, and he reluctantly turned to his brother to ask his opinion.
"Sam."
No response. The last two days had really done a number on them.
Dean reached over, giving Sam a backhanded swat on the side. "Sam, wake up."
Sam didn't so much as twitch. And there was blood on Dean's hand when he pulled it back.
The Impala jerked to the side of the road in a squeal of brakes.
"Sam!" Dean insisted more severely, bloody fingers moving up to check Sam's pulse at the neck as he slid over to give his brother his full and close attention. His brother who'd been slumped next to him unconscious, not sleeping, for how many miles without Dean noticing?
Sam's skin was cool, his heartbeat strong but too fast. Blood loss?, Dean wondered, and flicked the Impala's interior light on. There was barely any stain on Sam's jacket, but where it had slid away from his side, his shirt was soaked red. Dean cursed under his breath as he carefully rolled the material up. Deep claw marks bled sluggishly underneath.
"Sam," he breathed, dismayed. Why hadn't he said anything? Dean was pretty sure this had happened in the first attack in the warehouse, too, not in their room. He'd heard Sam cry out right before Dean's own world had gone fuzzy, and Sam had taken a lot longer to come to. But he'd said he was okay on the way back to the motel, and then Dad was waiting for them, and Dean had gotten distracted. Sam had been knocked around pretty hard that second attack, too.
Dean reached into the back and grabbed the first soft thing his hand found, a towel. He threaded it between Sam and the seat and tied it off, and worried more when Sam didn't even wince.
Dean's hand moved up to pat the pale and clammy face. "Sammy, you in there?"
There, a faint stir. Dean exhaled, checking pupils and scalp, and found no sign of a head injury besides a small lump on the back of his skull. Probably blood loss, then, and early shock. This time Dean leaned over the backseat, digging until he found Sam's heavier jacket and a blanket. He bundled his loose-limbed brother in both, and wedged a folded shirt under his head for a pillow.
Hospital now, definitely. The back of his hand against Sam's cheek, Dean pulled out his phone and called information. Percy Memorial was less than ten minutes away. "Hang in there, Sam," he ordered, the tone one his brother usually obeyed. Instinct or trust? Dean had never wondered until that night. "Trust me, Sammy," he added more softly as he started the car again.
He drove the whole way with one hand wrapped around Sam's wrist, making sure his brother didn't also take off on him that evening. And maybe letting Sam know he hadn't been completely deserted, either.
The hospital was small but seemingly competent. They'd taken one look at Sam slumped against Dean's chest and leapt into action. A gurney and a doctor had been procured, a plastic surgeon called in from the neighboring county hospital. Better yet, they'd let Dean stay while they'd stripped and examined Sam, finding more cuts and bruises Dean hadn't known about. He hovered at the sidelines, intently watching, until they took Sam away for some tests. Then he finally let himself be treated.
"Animal attack, hmm?" The nurse had a nice figure, and, even distracted and worried, Dean couldn't help appreciate it as she leaned in to clean his face.
"Uh, yeah. Couldn't really see what it was—it happened too fast." He poured on the traumatized victim act, although that last part had been true. His eyes kept straying to the corners of the room, checking the shadows.
She nodded, sympathetic, dabbing something on his forehead that made the scratches sting. Dean winced only when she wasn't looking. "There have been a lot of those around here lately. You're lucky—most of the victims haven't survived."
Dean forgot about how well her uniform fit and focused on what she was saying. "Wild animal?"
"They're not sure, actually. Nobody seems to be sure what kind of animal it is, but all the attacks have been out in the woods and rocks near the lake, claw marks like yours, so what else could it be, right?"
"Right," Dean murmured. "Uh, what lake?"
She pulled back a little, gave him a surprised look. "Weren't you out there, too? I mean, I thought—"
"No, right, of course," Dean nodded quickly, "I was just, you know, making sure. The lake, right, that's where we were, too. Sam—that's my brother—he's been working on this project for school—"
"Oh!" she brightened. "Illinois State?"
"No. No, uh, UC." The last thing Sam needed was to wake up to a nurse who wanted to reminisce about their alma mater. The lies came more smoothly to him than to his brother. "Environmental studies. He was looking at the lake…ecosystem." That sounded right. "At night."
"Huh." She seemed impressed, anyway. Maybe he'd even score Sam a date with a non-psychotically supernatural girlfriend. "I loved school," she sighed.
Dean's momentary lift of mood plunged back into its earlier depression. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Sam does, too."
His examination didn't take long, even when the doctor came in and insisted Dean be x-rayed. He could have told the guy his ribs were only bruised and not broken. Some scrapes and bruises, the scratches on his forehead that were now closed with steri-strips and covered with gauze, and a very sore side and arm: he'd had worse and probably would again. This little hospital detour hadn't been for his sake. Dean was soon dressed and back out in the small waiting area, a prescription for painkillers wadded into a ball in his pocket, waiting for news on Sam.
He forgave them the half-hour he spent pacing, when they took him to see his brother instead of just filling him in on the dry facts.
"There's still some internal bleeding, but we think that'll resolve itself without surgery," the doctor said behind him.
Which was good to know, because Sam looked like something even a Reaper wouldn't touch, almost grey in his paleness and body curled forlornly on its side. Dean resisted the urge to reach out, with their audience, then decided he didn't really care and laid a hand on the dark hair. "So he's gonna be okay?" he asked, rough and low.
"I think so. We've started him on antibiotics in case of infection, but mostly he was suffering from blood loss and shock, and we've treated both."
Score one for Dr. Winchester. Dean leaned in to examine the gauze amply covering his brother's cheek, grimacing in empathy. He could imagine the stitches they hid and how tight and sore that would feel when Sam woke up. "What about his face?"
"Those should heal up with minimal scarring. Dr. Phillips does terrific work."
Sam would probably care about that less than Dean would have. But the kid had enough reminders of this life he didn't want to be living without adding some he would see every day in the mirror. Dean nodded, turned to give the man a sincere look. "Thanks, Doc." A glance around the room, a private one only because it seemed the hospital was too small for doubles. "Uh, you mind if I stay here with him tonight? I mean, the attack, it was pretty traumatic…"
That was only a partial lie, but whatever it took. The doctor's eyes softened. "I don't see why not. I'll have them bring you a blanket and pillow. You look like you could get some rest, too."
Dean's mouth pulled to one side. Rest, right. Wonder what that felt like?
He was soon in a semi-comfortable "v," head propped against the back of the chair, feet on Sam's bed, a blanket cutting the chill Dean hadn't felt until then. Not exactly a motel bed, but it beat a night in the Impala. And with Sam down, this was exactly where Dean belonged.
His brother felt patronized by the protective big brother act sometimes, and Dean knew it. What Sam didn't seem to get was that it had nothing to do with how capable he was of taking care of himself. This was the guy, after all, who had recently taken out three cannibalistic hunters while unarmed, when Dean had only managed to get himself captured, and who had saved them from the daevas twice the day before. He was as formidable a hunter as Dean had ever wished or relied on him to be. But nothing would change the fact he was also Dean's little brother and responsibility, and Dean would always watch and worry over him. Even when Sam made it hard; their Dad wasn't the only one who'd made covert trips back to Stanford to keep an eye on the youngest Winchester.
And, apparently, Dean would be doing it again before long. The thought cut more cruelly than the daevas' claws.
Dean stayed awake for a while, kept watch, watched Sam sleep. He only let himself succumb after dawn, when he finally noticed the first signs of blush creeping back into his little brother's face.
With every single light in the room turned to its brightest.
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Thank God for coffee. Dean blew steam from the top of the cup and took a careful sip, enjoying the bitter burn. He'd woken up like the hunter he was, immediately and alert, but large quantities of caffeine never hurt, especially when his body wasn't at its peak. Muscles had stiffened overnight, and wounds throbbed with heat and pressure. Dean shrugged them off as unimportant details and pushed the door to Sam's room open.
The dark head rolled his way at the sound, and, for the first time since Chicago, Sam opened his eyes.
They were less muddy than Dean had expected, and he gave them a careful grin. "Hey, look who decided to wake up. It's about time," he said in greeting. Anything kinder would have freaked Sam out, even though there were still remnants of a lump blocking Dean's throat.
Hazel eyes, shaded with emotion, swept the room before returning to Dean. Checking the shadows, too? "What happened?"
Dean sat on the edge of the chair and took another sip of coffee, but his eyes were glued to Sam. "Which time?" he hedged.
The hint of exasperation was welcome. "I got clawed by a daeva, Dean, not amnesia."
"Oh. Good." He really hadn't wanted to rehash the whole scene with Dad. "You blacked out in the car."
Sam's hand was gingerly feeling the bandage on his side. "Blood loss?" he guessed.
"And shock. You should've told me you were still bleeding."
Sam's head dropped back to the pillow. "I didn't know I was," he murmured.
Dean's mind came up with a few choice words in wake of that little revelation. If Sam had been so distracted that he hadn't felt the warm wetness or the lightheadedness…
"And we had to get out of Chicago," Sam continued even more quietly.
Something he wanted to talk about even less. Dean cleared his throat. "So, how do you feel?" he asked with saccharine cheer.
Sam rolled his head to give him a look. Exhaustion didn't dampen any of the sarcasm.
Dean made a face. He knew how lousy blood transfusions were, even without the whole sliced-to-ribbons effect. He gave Sam's nearest forearm a squeeze. It felt both awkward and not. "Yeah. You look like you went twenty with Edward Scissorhands."
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Sam shot back. He seemed exasperated at Dean's grin, but Dean could see the momentary glimmer of amusement in his eyes. It went out again as he turned to stare at the ceiling, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "Do you think Dad—"
Dean drank some of the cooling coffee—it made for a good diversion as well as a wake-up. "Dad can take care of himself, Sam." He winced as he followed the train of that logic to the unintended, unlike you, and cleared his throat, hurrying on before Sam thought of it, too. "Listen, I think there's something from our line of work in the woods near here."
It took a few seconds for Sam's mind to engage, and Dean wondered if that was still physical aftereffects or a reluctance to let the subject—and Dad—go. But finally, Sam turned back to him. "What?" he asked wearily, or maybe warily.
"I don't know, but they didn't seem surprised at how we looked when we got here. One of the nurses said they've had a lot of local 'animal attack' deaths lately."
"It could just be a wild animal that got a taste for blood, Dean."
He shook his head. "She said it wasn't like any animal they were familiar with."
Sam's eyes were back on the ceiling. He scoffed softly. "Yeah, okay. I need to get out of here anyway before they figure out our insurance is a sham, right?" He made a move to throw the blankets off.
Dean's fingers curled around his, halting him. "You're staying here."
Sam frowned at him. "You just said it was—"
"I can check it out on my own. They just replaced half the blood in your body, Sam—even if they let you out soon, you have to take it easy for a few days."
"You're not going out after this alone, Dean." It was half statement, half disbelieving question. "We don't even know what it is."
Dean almost laughed, and pulled his hand away. "What, now you're worried about me hunting alone? I seem to remember someone saying the other day he was taking off as soon as we got the demon—how do you think I'm gonna hunt then, huh, Sam? You can't have it both ways."
Hurt flashed in Sam's eyes. "I didn't mean I was going to run out on you, Dean. Dad—"
He did laugh then. "Dad? Dad's had his own agenda for a while now, bro. We've been handling jobs separately for most of the last year, regrouping after to patch each other up and make sure we were both still alive. And you know what? It sucked, Sam. An adlet up north had me trapped for a week and no one even knew to come looking."
Dean hadn't meant to say that. He'd never wanted Sam to stay out of pity or condescension, and that was exactly what shone in his kid brother's eyes now. "You didn't tell me," Sam said quietly.
Dean drained his coffee and tossed the cup as he stood. "Yeah, well, I have now. So don't worry about it, little brother—I can hunt this thing just fine without you, and I'll be fine after you've gone. Be ready by six—I'll be back to pick you up for dinner."
He almost made it. His hand was on the door handle before Sam's softly insistent "Dean" stopped him. Dean didn't want to, but he turned back, never having been able to refuse that call.
"What, Sam?"
A dozen things flowed through Sam's face as he watched, some warming Dean, some hurting. The helpless, "Be careful," Sam finally settled on was both.
Their unspoken rule: you didn't go hunting with unfinished business. Trouble was, they weren't going to settle this any more today than they had the day before, but…he appreciated the effort. Dean held his brother's eyes for a moment, then nodded and walked out.
And wondered bleakly if he'd be able to choose the job over Sam a second time.
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He shouldn't have told Sam.
Jaw set, Dean stepped around a dry branch and tightened his grip on his shotgun, his senses alert and trained on the area around him, his head miles away at Percy Memorial. He bent to examine some crushed moss, then kept moving.
Sam hated hunting, had done so ever since they were kids, no matter how much Dean had tried to deny or change it. He'd let himself hope for a while things would be different after Sam returned to the road with him, but they weren't. Sam still hated the life, still wanted to be "a person." Revenge had simply become more powerful than hatred. Revenge, not the desire to be with Dean. He should've known.
A deceptively dry pile of leaves crackled under Dean's feet, and he winced and crouched lower. Nothing reacted, however, and after a moment he carefully crept on.
As much as Sam's new gifts still freaked Dean out, however, they'd also brought the hope back. Visions weren't "normal," after all, and Dean had figured they would be proof enough of Sam's destiny. Only, Sam hadn't seen it that way. Dean wondered now which of them had been fooling themselves.
Wind creaked through the branches, and he glanced up at the setting sun. He'd have to start back if he didn't find something soon. Sam would be waiting on him.
He shouldn't have told Sam the truth. Dean was both selfless and selfish enough to want Sam to stay because he wanted to be there, his head fully in the game, not because of some wrong sense of guilt or pity. Dean also wanted him to be happy, and if school would do that for him, Dean would give up his own dreams and let him go again like he had once before. He just didn't believe that was the answer for his brother, not anymore, and not just because he didn't want it to be.
Dean had never thought about the future before Sam had come back into his life. Even now sometimes he forgot to consider it, like when he'd electrocuted himself. He'd been ready to go then, until he'd seen Sam's face. It wasn't fair: Sam wouldn't let him go, but wouldn't stay, either. Now who was hanging on to whom?
The wind picked up through the branches once more. Dean stilled, waiting it out so he could hear the sounds around him again before he proceeded. Five more minutes and he would turn back. He could always come out again tomorrow, leave Sam sleeping in a motel room instead of at the hospital.
The wind grew even stronger, and a small frown carved itself into Dean's brow. He looked up, gauging its direction.
Realizing suddenly it wasn't wind at all.
Dean shot a glance around him, and dove under the lowest-limbed tree, flattening himself against the trunk. With a shattering screech, the dark shape descended from above like a falling rock, and Dean automatically raised his arm in defense.
The tree didn't help at all; the creature had a long reach. Even as Dean raised the shotgun, the creature grabbed his arm, razor-sharp blades of pain skewering its whole length. Dean gave a wordless yell as he felt his feet leave the ground.
Really not good.
Dean struggled to re-aim the gun, ignoring a wash of dizziness as the ground plunged away from below him. "Take this, Big Bird," he growled, jammed the shotgun into the underside of whatever it was that had him, and pulled the trigger.
The thing screeched again, momentarily deafening him. Dean opened his eyes at the feeling of freefall, to see the ground rebounding toward him.
This was gonna hurt.
He managed to bend his knees, but he hit the ground hard. Even though he'd only been up about twenty or so feet, knees and ankles weren't meant to take that kind of force. His left leg buckled under him with a flare of agony as it took the brunt of his fall, and Dean cried out.
But it was landing on his blood-soaked arm that swept away consciousness in a frightening rush of blackness.
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"…and here are your pills. You can take them as needed for the pain."
Sam finished sliding gingerly into his jacket and smiled at the nurse. He took the offered bottle, slipping it into his pocket. They kept the first aid kit restocked with such hospital freebies, and, knowing Dean, he'd already swiped some gauze and alcohol earlier. Sam himself preferred charm to larceny. "Thank you."
She smiled back at him, despite the fact he'd ignored her implied offer to share her phone number. "You said your brother was coming…?"
"He'll be here soon," Sam nodded, adding another gently hinting, "thank you," when she didn't seem inclined to leave. She did then with a blush and final smile.
Sam sighed, shifting on the edge of the hospital bed. He still felt shaky and sick from the blood loss and transfusion, and his body ached even aside from the throb of his face and side. He would be happy to get out of there, relocate to a nice, quiet motel room with a soft bed so he could go back to sleep.
Dean still hadn't shown up yet, though, and that was what really made Sam restless.
Even though he trusted Dean's skills, Sam still didn't like him hunting alone. How that would work when Sam returned to school, he didn't know yet, but it was something they needed to talk about. Dean, being Dean, wouldn't want to, but the unspoken was piling up between them like a wall, and Dean had nearly been sacrificed to a god the last time they'd let things close off between them. Sam wasn't anxious for a repeat. Besides, after what Dean had let slip before, clearly he had more on his mind than he would admit. They'd have dinner, maybe even get a good night's sleep first, because Dean looked as tired as Sam felt. But then they had to get a few things straight so Dean would stop looking at him with that quietly haunted look, and Sam could maybe stop thinking of Dad every time he saw his brother.
Sam rubbed at suddenly burning eyes. He hadn't even really had time to think about Dad yet, still reeling from their brief reunion. It had all happened so fast, and then Dean had been a virtual fortress in the car afterward, daunting and unapproachable. Sam needed his brother to help make sense of this one, though. Sam had always needed him, even when he'd been at school. Just because he didn't share Dean's dreams didn't mean he didn't love the guy more than those dreams. Why couldn't Dean see that instead of abandonment?
The ring of his cell phone startled him, and Sam dug through two pockets before he found it. Dean. Relieved, Sam pushed a button, lifted the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"
"Sam." It was a weak rasp.
Sam's hand clenched around the phone, and he slid off the bed. "Dean, what's wrong?"
"Don't think I'm gonna make it back in time… I got in kind of a mess here, Sammy."
"Where are you?" he demanded without hesitation. Anything else—what happened, are you hurt, I'm coming—seemed unnecessary.
"Off Gilmoure Road, east of town." There was a rustle of movement, and a breathy grunt. "'Bout a mile in, north-northwest." A small laugh. "Watch out, Sam—this thing flies."
Sam was already at the hospital's main entrance, striding past surprised nurses without giving them a second glance. Outside, he looked both ways, grateful beyond belief to find an idling cab at one corner of the hospital. His body ached with the sudden movement, but Sam was way beyond caring. "What flies?" he asked. He opened the cab door, slid in, and told the driver tersely, "Gilmoure Road."
"Didn't see it, but whatever it is needs a manicure."
Claws again. Sam shut his eyes for a moment, then forced them open. "Okay, Dean, did it have feathers, scales, skin, what?" The cab driver gave him an odd look in the mirror, and Sam dug out his wallet and a pair of twenties, dropping them over onto the front seat.
"Feathers, I think…Happened fast. I hate flying."
Flying? "Sharp?" Sam asked.
"Huh?"
"Sharp feathers, Dean—were the feathers sharp or was it the claws?"
"You still on drugs, Sammy?"
Okay, he'd take that as a no. Not an achiyalabopa. And Dean hadn't mentioned a smell, which probably ruled out a chupacabra.
Dean's breathing was labored over the open line. Pain, or something more serious? Sam swallowed. "Okay. Okay, Dean. Is it gone?" No answer. "Dean!" he called sharply.
"Quit yelling," came the petulant answer. "Geez, Sam, you were such a quiet kid…unless you had questions, then we couldn't…" Dean trailed off.
The trip down memory lane wasn't what either of them needed just then. "Dean, focus. Is it gone?"
"Yeah. It's quiet."
"Good." Sam breathed out hard. "Try to stay under a tree, or a cave if you can find one. It sounds like maybe it's a thunderbird, or it might not be too far from the mountains to be a nunyenunc. Either way, they're corporeal and can be killed. Do you have a gun?"
"Dropped it when the thing dropped me. It's around here some—" Dean groaned, probably from trying to move.
Sam flinched. "All right, try to find something else you can use for a weapon in case it comes back. If it is a nunyenunc, the Shoshoni used to kill them with poisoned arrows."
The answer was slow but all Dean. "Gee, I must've left those in my other jacket."
Sam made a face. "The point is, they can be killed. Find a weapon, and I'll be there soon."
But it was already too late. It took Sam a moment to realize the background whoosh wasn't just the wind picking up. Even as he frowned, trying to figure out the noise, he heard his brother curse.
"It's back. Can't find the gun—"
"Can you see it?" They were talking over each other, Dean's mutter climbing frantically in pitch, Sam's following it in agitation. "Try to get under something, Dean. What does it—"
Dean screamed.
Dean didn't scream. He endured in silence to the point of scaring Sam with his stoicism. But this terrified him more.
"DEAN!" Sam leaned forward to address the cabbie. "Floor it, and I'll double the forty."
"You got it," the cabdriver said. The car lurched forward.
In the tinny distance of the cell phone, Sam heard a primal yell. Dean was still alive, at least. There was an inhuman screech, then the indistinct clatter of movement. Sam held his breath, not wanting to distract his brother but desperate to know what was happening.
The silence that fell wasn't a lot better.
"Dean," Sam said intently. "Talk to me, Dean."
A few soft scrapes of movement. Sam's fingers ached from squeezing the phone so hard. He was about to speak again when the cab's headlights picked up the glint of a parked car ahead. Black.
"Stop up there," Sam indicated, and awkwardly burrowed into his pocket again, his side aching with every movement. He thrust the money at the driver and scrambled out of the cab.
The driver didn't waste any time in leaving, nor Sam in watching him go. He dashed to the Impala's trunk, grateful anew for the set of keys Dean had made him a while back.
"Dean, talk to me," Sam repeated as he dug through the Impala's armory. His curved axe he stuck into the edge of his jeans; the buckshot-loaded shotgun went under his arm, and the heavy Maglight fit solidly in his hand. "Dean!"
More soft movement, and then that blessedly harsh breathing. It was another few seconds before the murmur came. "Sam?"
He smiled stingingly. "Dean, thank God. I'm at the car, coming in for you. Hang on, man."
"Think I had…'nuff of hanging on…for a while."
North-northwest, Dean had said. Sam gauged direction and checked for his brother's trailblazing, and started walking. "What happened? Is it dead?"
"It took my best knife with it—better be dead."
He knew that gruff bravado; Dean was scared and trying not to show it. Then he probably should have picked a hunting partner who hadn't known him since he was four. Sam flicked his light on. "I'll be there soon, Dean. I've got my flashlight on—tell me when you see it."
"Sammy…" Dean's voice, still weak and breathless, grew suddenly sober. "That luggage thing—I never meant to drag you anywhere you didn't wanna go."
That couldn't be a good sign. Dean didn't usually open up unless things were dire. "I know that," Sam said quietly, and walked faster. His head throbbed with every step and his limbs felt rubbery, but he didn't pay any attention. "I was just complaining to Meg because I was mad—I didn't mean it." He laughed darkly. "I probably shouldn't've said anything to her, as it turned out."
"'Cause if that's what you're telling people…"
Sam frowned; had Dean even heard him? "What? No—Dean, I don't go around badmouthing you to my friends. I barely even told Jess about you. It was just…I don't know, easier that way. It kept me from thinking about how much I missed you guys."
Dean coughed, a wet, painful sound. Sam's mouth tightened, but he didn't dare go faster and miss signs of the path Dean had taken. He wasn't sure his body would've been able to speed up if he'd wanted it to.
"Dean? Stay awake for me, okay? I need you to tell me when you see the light."
"Head for the light, Sam?" There was unmistakable humor under the effort.
Sam found himself smiling. "Not the big tunnel one, jerk." He needed to keep Dean talking, and since they were being honest… He took a deep breath, which cleared his head a little. "You know, you could've gone with Dad last night. One of us could have helped watch his back without slowing him down."
"No. I couldn't've." There was iron even in the slurred voice.
"Dean…just because you're not together doesn't mean you don't love somebody. Even when I went off to school, it didn't change how I felt about you. It just meant I needed something different."
There was a long pause. Sam almost called out to his brother to make sure he was there when Dean spoke. "That count for what I said about Dad not coming with us yesterday, too?"
Sam's turn to consider. "Yeah. It does. I don't know if I agree, but it doesn't change anything."
"Sam…" Another wet cough, followed by a groan. "Family," Dean whispered a moment later, as Sam broke into a trot despite himself, stumbling in the dark and his weakness. "That's what all this's been about. You've got that an'…"
Sam waited for the rest, but it didn't come. "Dean!"
A soft huff of laughter. "Either that's you, Sam, or some freak giant lightning bug's coming."
His heart lurched. "Where? What direction?"
A pause. "Eleven o'clock." Then a gasp. "God…Sam…"
"I'll be right there," Sam promised fervently, veering toward the left. "Where are you?"
"Tree."
Which wouldn't have been so helpful, except he could see now the slowly shifting dark heap under spreading branches. Sam shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed himself to cross the last few dozen feet at a run, falling on his knees next to his brother. "Dean."
Dean was a mess. He slumped in broken, unnatural angles, his face white under the blood and dirt, his arm wet and dark. He tried to sit up, only to get dizzy and fall back against the tree.
Sam shakily gathered him up instead, trying to quell both their shivers. He heard more than felt Dean's snort of laughter against his sweatshirt.
"If you say, 'I told you so,' dude…"
"I think we both get to this time," Sam muttered, wrapping his arms around him. Dean buried his face sickly against Sam's chest, and he was quite willing to help slow the world down a minute for Dean. His brother had done the same for him more than once. Sam still hadn't quite figured out the part that came next—getting Dean to the hospital—but a moment to revel in the fact he'd found his brother alive was all he was asking.
Family. Dean had it right. Sam rubbed his face against his brother's tacky hair and felt the beat of his stubborn heart. They would just have to find a way for Dean to have his dreams without Sam needing to give up his own, because Sam wasn't sure he could walk away again if he wanted to.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly, let his brother take that as he would. Sam meant it with all his heart.
Dean didn't answer, breath slowing in fading consciousness. But when Sam shifted to find his phone and call for help, he realized Dean had hooked one of his sleeves and wasn't letting go.
Sometimes their dreams and wishes weren't so far apart, after all. And their feelings never had been.
Sam smiled faintly, and dialed.
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By the time Dean opened the car door and maneuvered the cane out, Sam had jogged around to help him. Dean considered, yet again, how very long the two weeks before he was fully back on his feet would be, but he let Sam help him to his feet and steady him before shrugging him off.
"Dude, I'm fine."
"I know." That same smile, unapologetic and embarrassed at once. Only his brother. "I just don't want to have to take you back because you fell over and busted up your face again."
Only his brother. Dean cast him a sour glance he didn't mean, then shuffled toward the door. With an arm in a sling, crutches had been out of the question, but the cane at least let him keep most of the weight off his sprained ankle. It also looked kinda cool, like that doctor on TV. The whole invalid bit was an occupational hazard, and Dean accepted it. "Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy, too?" he asked over one shoulder.
Sam hurried to open the door for him. "I'm okay," he said. It was true he'd slept a lot while keeping Dean company in the hospital, the thatch of dark hair often the first sight Dean woke to. He didn't feel a pressing need to tell Sam how reassuring that was amidst the pain and drugged confusion.
Sam moved on to their door. He'd managed to get the room nearest the back entrance, which Dean was silently grateful for as he eased his battered body onto the bed. He wouldn't have admitted it, but even the short trip from the hospital had left him feeling nauseated and wrung out. The bed he stretched out on with a groan felt heavenly.
"Not yet, Dean." Sam's hand was on his arm, trying to coax him back up, and Dean swatted at it.
"Lemme sleep."
"Not yet," and this time there was that note in his voice that even Dean knew better than to cross. He groaned again as he let Sam pull him back up, his brother's arm across his back to keep him upright.
"You gonna have your way with me, Sammy?" he asked wearily. The heavy fatigue was no act; he probably couldn't have fought off a cannibal babe just then, but he wasn't really trying, either. He trusted Sam to take care of whatever was needed.
He mostly trusted Sam.
His brother's snort was soft in his ear as his jacket was tossed aside. Sam's hand slid up to the back of his head to lower him onto the turned-down bed. "The way you look now? Don't flatter yourself—Alison Carpenter wouldn't want to have her way with you."
The laugh that bubbled up in him at the unexpected reminder hurt, but Dean didn't care. "Hey, Alison Carpenter might have had a butter face, but her body was a thing of beauty, Sam." The fresh pillow cooled his dizziness fractionally.
Sam stilled. "You didn't."
Dean didn't open his eyes, but he grinned.
"I give up," came the resigned mutter. The blankets were pulled up to his chin, and Sam's voice was farther away when he spoke again, echoing. In the bathroom, Dean figured. "What about Officer Amy? Am I gonna come back one day to find you two've run off together?"
Dean's smile slipped. "No," he said flatly.
Soft footfalls returned to his bed. "The cops were pretty grateful you killed the thunderbird. I thought they were gonna give you a medal." Sam folded some pills into his hand.
Dean sighed but swallowed them, let Sam lift his head enough to chase them down with water. "Yeah, engraved 'Dean O'Brien.' You know I don't like going Irish, Sam."
"It was the first insurance card I could find," Sam answered absently, settling him back on the bed. "At least you got your knife back."
Dean was startled by the wet washcloth settling over his forehead and eyes. His second sigh was an exhalation of pleasure and released tension, and he heard Sam's quiet chuckle.
"So, you found us a new job?" he asked drowsily after a minute, listening to Sam move around the room.
"For two weeks from now, yeah. Little farm up near the Canadian border that's had half its livestock and two family members disappear without a trace."
Dean cocked his head fractionally. "Maybe dad ran off with the cow?"
"One of the victims was two years old, Dean."
He made a face; the cases with kids were different somehow. Harder to pretend it was just another job, or to enjoy. Dean pulled the washcloth off and peered at Sam. "Hey, maybe we could—"
"No. The doctor said two weeks and that's what you're taking. You nearly died out there." Hands on his hips, jaw jutting rebelliously, Sam looked every bit the stubborn Winchester he could be. Dean recalled similar body language when that letter had first come from Stanford. It had become defensive crossed-arms and pleading eyes by the time Sam had actually left. Sam had wanted his understanding then, too, and hadn't gotten it, and they'd barely spoken for the next three-plus years.
Suddenly melancholy and unbelievably weary, Dean slumped back on the bed. Maybe Sam was right about the two weeks.
The washcloth was slipped out of his hand, and returned a half-minute later freshly wet and cool on his face. Dean's mouth twitched despite himself.
He half-dozed, listening to Sam's puttering. Something had lightened in Sam since they'd seen Dad. Dean hadn't realized the full weight of the burden his little brother had carried, wondering if their dad would want to see him again or even still loved him, that doubt inconceivable to Dean. But in the hospital, he'd seen the straightening of the usually stooped shoulders, saw some of the light he remembered return to Sam's eyes, and had realized how much of the sorrow he'd written off as grief for Jessica had really been grief over their father. Grief Sam had probably been carrying those last four years, and Dean shook his head, regretting again the lost time. And his lack of understanding over Sam's desperation to find their dad.
Dean cleared his throat. "No calls while I was in the hospital, huh?"
Sam stopped unpacking. "You mean Dad? No."
"Yeah, I guess it's not safe." Dean rolled carefully on his side toward his brother, letting the tepid washcloth fall away. "I'm sorry it wasn't the demon, Sam, but…I'm glad you're not leaving. I…" made that break once and don't know if I can do it again, he couldn't manage to finish. It wasn't anything Sam didn't know already.
His brother sank down on the edge of the other bed, facing him, long arms propped on his legs. "The rate we're going, you might be stuck with me for years," he joked weakly, twisting what looked like a pair of socks in his hand. "Dean, I shouldn't have said what I did about being a person again—I'm sorry. What we do is important and I know it's your life—"
"Sam—"
"And I admire that. It's just not what I want."
"Yeah," Dean said stiffly. "You've made that plenty clear."
"That doesn't mean I'm just gonna run out on you the second this is over. We'll find a way to make it work, I swear."
He studied Sam with tired eyes, seeing the hope for more than just understanding. Sam had missed his family, too, in ways Dean hadn't gotten until recently. Dean just wished he'd stop fooling himself into thinking he could have it all. Nothing good came of wishing for what you couldn't have. Dean breathed out heavily, stopped working to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "Wake me for dinner." He closed his eyes.
The fresh washcloth soon draped carefully over his raw skin cooled the sting of his eyes.
00000
He was alone in a place he didn't know with no memory how he'd gotten there.
Dean pivoted in place, the cold metal of the shotgun barrel in his hand not as reassuring as it usually was. You couldn't shoot an enemy you couldn't see, and the malice in the place seemed to ooze from the walls itself. It creeped him out in ways he didn't often scare, and Dean kept turning sharply to make sure there was nothing sneaking up on him.
There was no one there to watch his back. He couldn't even remember who he was expecting.
The onslaught began without warning, a psychic force rather than a corporeal one. Rage, terror, hatred: the emotions battered him like physical blows. Dean threw up an arm, curling into himself to defend against the attack.
But it kept coming, and he was starting to weaken under the assault.
Something tangible behind him made him whirl again…to the sight of Sam standing there. Dean's breath stuttered, steadied. His brother's face was set with determination, his stance a fighting one. "Ready?" was all he said, and Dean nodded dumbly.
They moved in tandem, trained together until they could have predicted each other's every move. Back-to-back, they dug in, stronger than their sum against the forces determined to break them. Dean felt his strength shore up, his fortitude re-knit itself, and raised his chin. "Give it up, you freaks," he threw back at their unseen attacker. "You're not beating us."
The blitz grew worse, until he couldn't see, couldn't feel anything except Sam solid at his back. Sam was always solid at his back. Dean growled in rage and held his ground.
The offensive started to slow, dying out in wails and spent energy. Another few moments, and it stilled completely.
Dean jolted awake.
He blinked in the dimness of the room, for one jarring second unsure where he was or why he ached. He pulled in a harsh breath, wiped sweat off his face as memory filtered back.
At his movement, an arm came out of nowhere, settling heavily across his chest. Dean blinked at it, all the more confused at recognizing the leather tie on its wrist.
That was when he realized his pillow was breathing.
A glance up confirmed what his scattered mind was finally putting together: Sam was asleep behind him, half-propped against the headboard, Dean's head resting on his stomach. Since he had no recollection of their agreeing on that sleeping arrangement, and Sam didn't usually volunteer to be bedding, Dean assumed this wasn't his first nightmare. He breathed out shakily, torn between waking Sam—still himself recovering—and sending him back to his own bed, and not disturbing the guy. He was no Freud, but Dean had his suspicions why Sam had shown up in his dream like that and turned it around.
Sam's love was so obvious sometimes. Dean knew it, appreciated it, even quietly counted on it. He just couldn't reconcile it with Sam wanting to leave.
But Sam had always lived in the future. Dreams, ambitions, plans: they were as important to his brother as they were alien to Dean. He'd always been content with the present, until Sam had started him thinking about what lay ahead. Worrying about a shapeless enemy he couldn't face down with a gun. It wasn't his way, and it was eating at him. Even Future Boy had tried to tell him as much.
Dean listened to his heartbeat slow, felt Sam's arm twitch as if it were registering the same. He could hear his brother's breathing somewhere above him, and felt the gurgle of his stomach under one ear. This was the present: Sam here with him, safe, fussing a little too much over Dean. Sleeping in weird positions like he had as a kid. Perpetually not eating enough.
The one person Dean really did trust not to just disappear on him.
He'd asked Sam for trust, but that went both ways. The future was still unwritten; Sam could still change his mind, or maybe find that compromise he was so set on. But he wasn't going anywhere for now. Dean's wishlist was short, and, for the moment, it was almost complete.
Sam shifted, murmured his name.
"I'm fine, Sam—go back to sleep."
Dean waited for him to obey, then took his own advice, propping his cheek against Sam's ribs and letting himself slide back into unconsciousness.
And teased Sam mercilessly in the morning for being soft around the middle.
The End