The only thing I've received for writing all these stories is reviews – uplifting, kind, encouraging, funny reviews, every one of which made me glad I let my sister talk me into posting my fics. Thanks guys!
The damage demonic pitbulls do
Convincing Dean to pull the car over and check into a motel so you can patch yourselves up is no easy matter. You'd like to head for the nearest ER, but if it takes you half an hour to get him to stop at a motel, you'll never get him near a hospital. He's stubborn like that. Besides, as Dean pointed out rather acerbically, in a motel, you can protect yourselves. In a hospital, you've got no chance.
The clerk gives you a very suspicious look when you ask for a room, and you wonder whether he believes you're a drug dealer or a gang member, but he seems to have experience in these matters, and doesn't ask any questions, just hands you the keys. You're too tired to care what he thinks anyway.
Dean tries to make it to the room without leaning on you, but even his iron will can't keep him upright for long. It's a miracle he managed to drive for so long, really. As you catch his arm to help him up the short flight of stairs, you feel a hot swoop of anger at the universe. Some sick yahoos were torturing him only three weeks ago, and now he's been torn apart by Zoroastrian shadow demons. If anyone deserves better, it's Dean.
It takes over an hour for you to patch each other up, filling the bathroom with cloths stained red and torn clothing. There're three long claw marks running over your left hip, and your right arm is throbbing in time to Dean's harsh, laboured humming. Metallica. Calms him down. You wish it did you; the cuts on his forehead scare the hell out of you. He came so close to losing an eye…
Blessed darkness, warm and quiet, wrapping you both in comforting arms as you lie in the rickety motel beds. Tired and hurt though you are, the events of the day are just too much to ignore for now. Dad… Dad was there. You had wanted to say so many things to him, to apologise for so many misunderstandings, misconceptions. You'd practically rehearsed a speech. But once you were with him again, once you were standing looking at him, that all fell away and all you were left with was the sudden need to have Daddy hug you and tell you it's all gonna be OK.
An odd thought strikes you then.
"Dean? Still awake?" you call out softly.
"Hmmm," comes Dean's grumbling reply.
"He was going to come with us, wasn't he? When he said about us being beat to hell… he meant to come with us. And you sent him away. You didn't agree with something he said, like in Rockford. You sent him away."
"We almost got him killed," Dean says, but you know now that that's not the real reason. It's just the reason Dean gave Dad because the other one… well, you're about to find out. He's too tired to fight you for long.
You just wait, silently. The silent treatment is one of the most effective when it comes to Dean. The one thing he really can't stand is being pushed into things. If you just don't say anything, then he doesn't feel pushed. He can come out with it on his own terms. Course, there have been times when Dean's own terms were never ever, like with Cassie, but luckily this is not one of them.
When Dean finally admits it, you feel like you've been sucker-punched.
"Dad might be the one running around making a nuisance of himself, but you're the one they're after. I think our little encounter with Max proved that. We're all safer apart, for now."
You're the one they're after….
Suddenly, you're filled with fury. This thing, this demon wants you, does it? It killed your mother, the woman you loved, to get to you? It attacked your father, ruined your brother's life, because of you? Well, you're done running. The next time you have one of these charming little get-togethers, you're going to kill it. You're going to take your life back, have revenge on the thing that killed Jess. You refuse to be the victim here any longer.
Suddenly, you think you might just have begun to understand Dad.
"Sammy?" Dean says, and you realise you've been quiet for some time, feeling this rage, this newfound determination, rising in you.
"I'm good," you say. "Think Dad'll be alright?" Change the subject, fast as possible. Somehow you don't want Dean to know about this fire in your gut.
Can't keep it burning over the long haul… we'll see about that.
"Yeah," Dean replies. "Course. And at least now we know what's goin' on."
"In a vague you're-not-allowed-to-get-involved kinda way," you say drily.
Dean's only answer is a sleepy grunt.
He's worried, you think. Despite what he said about it being safer, he's worried. "He looked OK," you say, suddenly not sure whether you're giving or asking for reassurance. "I mean, not like he was in desperate trouble or anything."
"You mean… before we got him attacked by the freaky pre-Biblical demonic pitbulls your girlfriend was controllin'?" Dean quips.
You try not to, really, it's completely inappropriate, but the laughter comes out anyway with your gasped reply of "Yeah, before that," and now Dean's laughing too, and for those few short minutes, the fire in your gut briefly forgotten, you know everything is going to be OK. Eventually.