Disclaimer: Ha, Me? Own the Winchesters? Only in my dreams *wink*
Summary: Set after 'Jus in Bello' season three. Dean's deal is hanging over him like a freshly sharpened guillotine. Sam and Bobby they are doing the best they can to find a way out. But life still goes on, and Bobby sends the boys to Ohio to look into a haunted farmhouse. Things don't go according to plan.
A/N: Sweet charity fic for unplugged32 who bought me in the final auction. Oh man, I never planned to leave it this long to update, I'm so sorry. I got sick, then bigbang deadline came, then rl suckage…I won't bore you with all the details but it's finally done. Thanks for being patient. Kindly beta'd by ficwriter1966, she's awesome!!! Any other faults my own. Oh and I've taken some liberties with the injuries here, please forgive me. There's also A LOT of regurgitation. Yum! lol You've been warned!
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Fear and courage are brothers. ~Proverb
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Dean was aware of two things immediately after the explosion.
First was the intense heat and fury of the flash fire. It had knocked him sideways, away from the thick of it but was still enough that he felt the initial damage, the way it voraciously singed hairs and ate at his exposed skin, could have been a lot worse. He was betting on first, possibly second degree burns on his arms; the tightness and rawness of his skin suggested worse but at that moment in time he didn't give a rat's ass which degree of burn it was, flame against bare flesh fucking hurt like hell, no diagnosis needed.
More concerning than that was the absence of Sam, who he'd had a firm grip on. Kid of his height and size didn't take flight easily, and the fact that Sam had been flung like a puppet into the air made Dean's pulse race and a chill ripple down his spine, hot then cold, a distraction that didn't last long.
Something gave way, his knees, the stairwell, the whole fucking building? He wasn't sure but he knew he was in motion, violently thrown off his feet and falling--waiting to hit the bottom …that never came.
He hit something, though; it was solid, cold and metal.
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Sam bounced off the wall, long disoriented legs scrambled across the floor and he dodged some rumble but couldn't avoid a large wooden object that landed on his head.
When he next opened his eyes, they were sore and bleary from smoke. The area that was once a landing was now a mess of broken beams and cracked flooring. At the top of the stairway was a frenzy of angry orange flames. There was a large gaping hole in the middle of the staircase; it was at that moment that he felt the nauseating twist in his stomach. The damage had caused a chasm that covered most of the steps, the same flight of steps where he'd stood with Dean, but Dean was nowhere to be seen. It didn't take a genius to figure out where Dean could be.
Sam pushed through dizziness and fragmented pieces of the house as he crawled towards the wall. He scooped up his gun, its cool metal trembling in his lose grip, and tucked it into the back of his pants. With his shoulder he pushed up against the wall, desperately trying to stand, but his legs were weak and his knees buckled. The third time worked a charm but soon as he was vertical he came back down hard enough to knock him unconscious.
After he came to, it was another ten minutes till he successfully managed to stand and stay standing.
A bunch of unsteady steps, pain-filled groans and jumbled curses got him to the foot of the staircase. His eyes dilated and focused into the black void which he now assumed lead to the basement. He also assumed that it would be the first place to search for Dean. But there was no room for assumptions.
"Dean!" His voice came out weak, folded in the air and melted into silence.
Sam tried again, adding more desperation into his call. "Dean!" He paused, waited, heard nothing but his own heart beat racing against his chest.
On his way down to the basement he grabbed a flashlight from the Littmans' well-stocked kitchen. He also tried his cell and found no signal, no battery – nothing. Useless. If he didn't have a brother to find, he would have echoed the same about himself.
"Dean, I'm coming man, hang in there." He was running on adrenalin, the best drug for situations like this; great for pain and endurance. Shit for nausea and concussion, though, not to mention its side effects. He paused, swallowed hard. The floor rippled beneath him, and he placed the flat of his right hand against the wall for support, tucked his head low and puked like there was no tomorrow. Sure felt like there'd be no tomorrow, that he'd die right there, puking his guts out. When he thought he was done, he slowly straightened and took a few steps forward before he heaved some more, this time on his shoes.
Sam dragged an arm across his mouth. Took a few deep breaths and moved forward, cursing himself for the time he'd already wasted. He knew it was very likely Dean was hurt, possibly also concussed judging by the depth of the basement – it would have been quite a fall from that staircase.
What Sam wasn't prepared for was the extent of Dean's injuries.
He shone the torch across the floor, zig zagging rays over cracked walls and following a straight path towards the ceiling, over the open crater. Dean hadn't even made it to the ground in the basement. He was suspended midway, about eight and half feet from ground level, balancing on a thick wooden beam. It appeared the beam had broken his fall, possibly broken other things as well. A couple of steps closer revealed his brother had also been skewered through his left thigh by a long, thin spike of broken pipe, his body limp and layered on top like a human kebab. His left knee dangled loosely in mid air, and even under denim Sam could tell by the awkward disposition and slight increased length, it was too loose, clearly dislocated.
"Jesus…Dean?"
Sam stretched as far as he could, but his clammy fingers only managed to brush over Dean's boots and hook into the tapered ends of Dean's jeans.
"I'm gonna get you down…don't worry…I'll have you down in no time. You're gonna be fine, okay?" He was panting and rambling to himself, because Dean was out cold. Sam continued to repeat the anxious affirmation in his head; he thought it was probably best his brother stayed unconscious while he got him down. That's if he could find a way to get him down.
There was at least four inches of pipe sticking out of Dean's thigh, pinning him down to the beam, not to mention the fact the bottom half of his leg swayed like it were on the end of piece of string.
Sam clasped the back of Dean's neck desperately with both hands; his eyes scanned the immediate surrounds, each time glancing up towards Dean.
He tried to string together a plan that didn't involve them both face-planting the ground. Each plan looked to end the same way. It would hurt like hell; he just had to pick the lesser of the evils on how he did it. Yet again it was confirmation that a simple run of the mill hunt was never fucking simple. It should have been a salt 'n burn--job done, hit the road. But just like everything else in their lives, there was always more, always a twist, never a fucking open 'n shut case. For a few seconds Sam was furious at …just about everything. His chest pulled tight, stringently inhaling rigorous breaths. He wanted to scream from the bottom of his lungs, wanted—needed--to release the tornado of frustration swirling inside and he would have if he didn't need the energy to help his brother.
Droplets of sweat seeped into his eyes; its salty tang cooling a flame that wasn't there, he blinked away a watery blur and looked up again when he heard a steady flow of indignant moans.
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Dean cracked an eye open, squinting at his angry leg. When the hazed vision settled, he had visual confirmation he did have a chunk of pipe sticking out of his leg. Not to mention the awkward excruciating pull on his knee joint that screeched dislocation loud and friggin' clear. In short, his leg was fucked.
A low, deep groan bubbled through his throat, tiny vibrations causing the icy metal to scrape against raw, tender flesh. To say it hurt was an understatement and a gross one at that.
"Hey…hey, I'm here, I'm gonna get you down, okay…try not to move."
Move was exactly what Dean did, but only slightly. He had to see if Sam was really there and not just a fragment of his imagination, and those words of Sam's were never good news. The move caused him to scream long and loud, deep from his lungs, made his eyes leak renegade tears and his throat contract and constrict. He needed to breathe and throw up all at once.
A cool, steady hand appeared on his chest, firm but gentle, helping him get a handle on the breathing. "Come on, Dean…I got you… that's it, nice and slow. In and out, dude." Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus on the familiar voice, used it as a distraction from the wreck that was his leg.
Sam didn't speak again till Dean had opened his eyes. "You with me?" Voice low but audible. "I'm gonna get you down, okay?"
"Sammy--knock me….out." Dean swallowed hard, repeated then gagged and swallowed again. He decided that throwing up would only cause more discomfort, although the pain he was going through made choking on your own vomit seem a feasible option. "Pleeee…sss."
"I…Dean, I don't think I can..."
"I'm sorry, dude… I need you with me on this, okay?"
It didn't take a genius to figure out why: dragging a hundred and seventy pound guy off a beam was hard enough, dragging an unconscious one practically impossible.
"Hold out for me a little longer, we'll do this together."
Dean didn't respond in words -- mainly because he didn't want to blow chunks over Sam, not until he'd got him down, anyway -- and also because he was focused on breathing, his eyes wide and desolate, mouth pulled tight and lips trembling.
Gravity had hinted to Dean that he wasn't on the ground and the way his dislocated knee hung told him he wasn't even close. So when Sam swayed and clambered over to him, he figured his brother had somehow managed to find a way up.
"Shit."
Dean frowned when he heard Sam curse under his breath, the grip on his shoulder increased pressure but soon let go.
"I'm good," Sam replied almost immediately.
"Okay, here goes nothing. Grab onto me. I'll do the rest."
Dean nodded and took a couple of deep breaths, gripped Sam's forearm with conviction.
"I gotta lift your leg—unpin it, then we'll get you down…be over before you know it."
Sam said he'd make it quick and he did. Dean closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
"On three… One…"
"Two."
Three seconds later, Dean was face down on cold concrete, Sam cursing and groaning beside him. The ground smelt like earth, mold and manure, tasted like it too. Dean licked his cracked lips, pulled and rubbed them together, made them work.
"Saaaaaammy…"
A single tear trailed from a weeping eye, down his cheek and into the crack of his mouth, mixing together with the blood trickling out of it. He figured the coppery taste had come from when he'd bit down on his tongue. Judging by the steady flow, he'd done some serious damage.
Including the burns on his arms and the fall it self, most of the nerves through his upper body were screaming for mercy and it should have been excruciating, in fact far beyond that. However, all those injuries had been seablocked by the dominant and ever greedy fucked-up leg. The one that was no longer connected up right and had been ventilated with a fresh half-inch hole. It throbbed to the beat of his heart, torn up flesh and pulled ligaments crying for attention. Dean slid a weary hand down his jeans, ignoring the scrape and tenderness of burnt skin.
A finger hovered over the wound as he patted around the perimeter, felt shredded jeans and dampness he assumed was blood. A shiver racked his body as he nicked a flap of tattered skin.
"Sonofabitch…," A string of gargled curses followed a release of uninvited tears.
His leg was fucked, good and proper. Maybe Sam could cut it off, no severed nerves, no dislocated knee, no pain, right? And while he was at it, cut off his arms, 'cause they hurt like a bitch too. He rolled his head to the other side. Watched Sam's chest rise and fall, still alive-- check. Badly injured?
Dean reached a shaky, probing hand over to his brother's face, and with a blooded thumb and forefinger, he pried and lifted Sam's lids. "You got a concussion, Sammy…" Dean checked Sam's left eye, watched the pupils dilate slowly, zoom then focus in the dim light, but his right eye remained large.
And as if Sam wanted to confirm Dean's finding by demonstration, he groaned his way to his hands and knees, scrambled forward mumbling, a hand clutching desperately over his abdomen the other on the wall to brace himself while he sprayed the floor with bile, regurgitated food and stomach lining. Not quite exorcist level but it could easily have scored a bronze for effort.
"I'm fine." Sam spat, wiping a hand across his mouth.
Yep, definitely, concussed, Dean concluded, because if the kid thought he was fine, he was delusional, confused and had lost his memory, quite possibly his mind too.
Not long after, Dean attempted his own exorcist spew scene, and scored pretty high.
"God, Sammy… this sucks." He clenched his jaw through the pain, every tiny movement causing ripples of agony through his body.
"I know, dude, I'm gonna get you outta here." Sam was slumped beside him, panting hard. His little brother had moved him away from the pooling mess he'd made, they'd made -- totally gross -- and had him perched against a cabinet.
Dean heard the rip of clothing, grunts and pinched breaths of exertion.
"I'll do the knee last," Sam announced, and scooted closer to him.
"I'm gonna wrap your arms first, 'kay?" Sam gently lifted Dean's left arm, and held it in place pressed under his chin while he slowly rolled back Dean's sleeve. "Erm…this is gonna hurt." Sam didn't wait for an objection or response; it was Winchester code of practice while patching each other up. You warned and got it over with, fast.
"You're pretty lucky, dude… probably doesn't feel like it, but looks like first degree burns, could've been a lot worse." Sam finished the final knot to hold the fabric in place, and lightly squeezed Dean's shoulder before he moved to get a better view of the punctured leg.
"The leg though?…not so good. I need some supplies." Sam released a string of gargled coughs. The kid wasn't doing well; that was a given, but he had his brave face on and Dean appreciated it.
"I'm gonna scope the basement. I won't be far…just stay put." Sam blew out lethargically, and pulled in a deep breath as he stood.
Dean huffed and squeezed his eyes shut, then raised his head to the damp ceiling and groaned. "Damn…I really felt like a run."
Talking was an effort, but worth it to hear his brother snort at his lame joke.
Truth was, he did want to run away, drag Sam with him and take off in the other direction of …everything.
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Alcohol, bedding, a long plank of wood and some iron shears -- Sam's scavenge around the basement had racked up enough for him to stem the bleeding from Dean's leg, clean it as best he could, and offer some form of pain relief.
"Hey dude, look what I found." Sam lifted a bottle of scotch, unscrewed the top and held it to Dean's lips.
"Ahh…good shit." Dean gulped down another mouthful, letting the smoothness of the malt coat the pain. It looked like Dean would need the whole bottle just to dull out the pain; Sam could see it in the creases on his forehead, the tightness of his jaw.
He took a gulp himself before getting to work. The gardening shears were rusted but by the weight and texture, it was old metal, iron. Two in one; a temporary weapon against the spirits should they return and something to cut into the clothing.
He placed the shears between Dean's skin and jeans fabric. "Sorry, dude," Sam apologized, taking note of the pair Dean had on.
"Dude…these are my favorite…" Dean mumbled.
"Yeah, I know. No other way, man, and they're ruined anyway." Sam carefully cut towards the wound, watching Dean squirm around the kneecap, groaning as he reached the red, inflamed skin surrounding the hole.
"Here." He offered Dean another few sips of liquor before he went about cleaning the hole, trying his best not to cringe at the damaged tissue.
"Ready?"
"Yeah…no…" Dean pulled away. "Hang on." He placed a hand on his stomach and took a couple of deep breaths. "'Kay."
Sam waited a few more seconds, making sure his brother wasn't about to hurl all over him.
He nodded before he placed a firm but gentle hand on the top of Dean's thigh, and started to pour the alcohol over the wound. Dean's upper thigh muscle bucked and trembled under Sam's grip, and Dean made a low grunting noise.
"Almost done." Sam wrapped a strip of cut fabric above the gaping wound, applying pressure as he knotted it to stem the bleeding. His brother hummed a woeful tune in response. "Nearly there."
"Okay, done."
Last but definitely not least to settle was the dislocated kneecap. If Dean was gonna even attempt walking or limping out, it had to be snapped back in. Sam swallowed bile, anticipating the snap 'n cracked-bone sound produced when replacing the kneecap back into the socket. He remembered it well from observation, almost felt the pain for him. He also remembered how Dean had passed out in his firm hold while Dad popped the knee back in. Later that night, when Dean woke up for some meds, he'd said it was a nine. Nine out of ten for a hunter was right up there on the excruciating scale. There was no fifteen year old younger brother to hold Dean down this time, no Dad to reassure them he'd done it millions of times before. It was just himself and Dean and some malevolent spirits waiting their turn. Round two with them was for later, after he'd put his brother back together. Sam gingerly felt around the knee, getting a feel for the positioning, and found the flesh warm and tender to the touch, very swollen.
He willed his hands and fingers to quit shaking, but they wouldn't, so he gripped Dean's thigh and placed a firm hold just under his calf. He wasted no time with moving the kneecap back into place, a little pressure towards him and then followed through with a push to help it slide back into place. And lucky for both of them, his brother was out for the count. It made no different to his light touch as he aligned and splinted the leg in place.
When he was done, Sam took a deep breath, placed a hand on Dean's chest and left it there for a long moment. "You did good, big bro."
Then he shook his head and took a long shaky swig of whiskey.
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Dean came two not long after. He immediately went for the whiskey and after a few gulps, the tightness of his jaw eased up a little.
They sat in silence for a while.
"Listen… Bobby's expecting us, so he'll call for help soon enough." Sam tried to make his voice sound as sure as he'd meant it. They both knew Bobby would eventually call but it could easily be a few days before any alarms would be raised.
"Uh huh…that's if our ghost friends don't come… finish the job first." Dean's head dropped back against the cabinet.
"Why're we here, Sammy?" Dean let the words roll out clumsily, drunk and drenched with exhaustion.
"We're on a case, don't you remember?" Sam wondered about the severity of Dean's concussion, thought about taking ownership of the bottle.
Dean swallowed and nodded. "I know…I mean here, Sam. Instead of out there…living, man…last days should be with you...Bobby." He was panting again, completely spent. "Not on cases…or head in books, I'm not meant to die here… Not yet."
Sam felt as if he had been sucker punched in the gut. His lips moved aimlessly before any words came out. Dean wasn't meant to die, period, certainly not today or in a month's time. "I'm sorry, Dean…"
Dean shook his head, placed a calloused hand on Sam's knee. "Just saying, dude... whatever happens… want good memories...I'm gonna need em."
The last words were subdued but Sam heard them loud and clear. His breath caught and his eyes glazed over, and something inside him began to unthread and unravel.
Dean being Dean caught the thread of his emotional breakdown and tied a knot by doing what Winchesters always did in cases like this. He reached for Sam's gun and released the safety.
"So… we gonna smoke these sons of bitches or what?" Dean asked, sounding confident and sure.
"To ashes," Sam replied.
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It took a couple of tries, a few choice words, a near blackout and an awesome younger brother for Dean to get up onto his feet, the latter helping him stay upright. The bum leg was on fire and furious about being horizontal; it was also doing nothing for his nausea, but he was able to bite down and hold back from thanking Sam with vomit.
Dean had a firm grip on Sam, who had without prompt taken most of his weight, leaving his throbbing knee and weeping thigh to continue its hellish plight. They moved slowly towards the light, across the damp floor of the basement, around and over debris towards the stairs to the first floor.
"You good?" Sam spoke softly, almost a whisper.
"Yeah," Dean replied immediately, a knee-jerk reaction. He was far from okay but it didn't matter when you had pyromaniac spirits on the loose. How in the hell did they manage that?
As if Sam heard the internal what-the-fucks, little brother began his own theory aloud. "I've heard about this before, Dean, spirits getting strong--angry enough to start fires. Especially if fire was part of their deaths."
"The barn," Dean replied, words spilling out before he even registered what he was saying. A memory had been jogged and the picture was taking shape before him. "There was one photo of the family standing outside the building, with some of the workers that had no names. I'm guessing they lived in the barn. It wasn't uncommon back then."
"You think it burnt down?"
"Possibly."
Bouncing ideas had distracted him while they made their way through the rumble. Sam was carrying almost all Dean's weight at some points. They were almost at the top of the broken staircase when Dean stopped abruptly, holding Sam in place with his dead weight.
"What is it?" Sam asked, concerned.
"It's down here."
"What is, Dean?"
"Bodies." Dean tried to wade through his memories and senses. "Not all concrete down here. We need to dig it up."
Sam was nodding before Dean finished his sentence. The moment Dean said "not all concrete," he realized his brother was right. One half of the basement was clearly dredged up and covered with dirt.
Dean felt a wisp of cold air slip past. One minute he was swatting at a materialised spirit, the next he was eating dirt and choking on his own blood.
-----End of chapter two-----
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