Rule 10: Batman can't fly
"Dad said to stay here," Sam reminded his older brother as Dean eased open the cabin door and peered outside.
The fifteen-year old glanced over his shoulder at his younger sibling and made a disgusted noise, "Since when do you do what Dad tells you?"
Sam didn't even flinch at the jab.
"Dad told us to stay inside because he doesn't know what's going on, Dean," Sam explained his reason for obeying their father's stern order, "And its safer where we are."
"I won't go far," the fifteen-year old assured him, "I just need some fresh air."
The eleven-year old sat up on the worn, Navajo patterned couch and stared at his brother, biting his lip. Sam had to admit, he was tired of being cooped up inside all the time. The Winchesters had arrived at Camp Henrietta- advertised as a vacation destination for city folk- three days ago and as of yet, John hadn't been able to figure out what was causing entire families to vanish without a trace, leaving their luggage, and sometimes meals as though they intended to return in a few minutes.
Camp Henrietta was located a few miles outside of busy Chicago, surrounded by woods that were supposed to help suburbanites forget about the smog and skyscrapers of the city. Consisting of two-dozen cabins circling a manmade lake, with a large campground beyond that, Camp Henrietta was huge and really had more ground than John Winchester could cover in just a handful of days. As soon as they had arrived, Dean had begged John to go out with him as he searched for clues, a request the eldest Winchester had denied because Dean had to look after Sam instead. Besides, John didn't know what was going on and he didn't want to drag his sons into a situation even he wasn't completely sure of.
So, instead of taking his boys with him, John booked a cabin and forbade his sons from leaving it. The cabin was small and truly made for vacationers. It had a small wooden porch, with a couple of Muskoka chairs squeezed onto it. Inside, the cabin had a large main room which consisted of the Navajo-patterned couch, a bunny-eared television set that only played static, a tiny kitchenette featuring a bar fridge, a sink, and a stove and virtually no cupboards. At the back of the cabin was a small room with a set of bunk beds. The only other room was a tiny bathroom that was only big enough for one person at a time to use the facilities. John, whenever he returned from searching for clues and talking to witnesses, crashed on the couch in the cabin's main room, leaving the bunk beds for his sons.
"We won't be long," Dean spoke up, seeing that his brother really wanted to come with him, "We'll be back before Dad even knows we were gone."
"Promise?" Sam asked. He hated it when his Dad got mad and yelled at him, something that seemed to be happening more and more often lately.
"I promise," Dean said, keeping one hand behind his back so his younger brother wouldn't see he'd crossed his fingers.
"Okay," Sam replied and slid off the bed, walking across the wooden floor to the front door and grabbing his sneakers.
Stepping out onto the cabin's porch, Sam could see that it really was a beautiful day out; the sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky and there were even families enjoying the weather as though in defiance of the mysterious happenings occurring in the campground. As the eleven-year old slid into his shoes, he laughed at the sight of a teenager with longish blond hair running past in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks as he threw a Frisbee to a Dalmatian. The dog expertly caught the flying disk in its mouth and ran after the young man, its tail wagging happily.
"See Sammy, we're outside and we're not melting or anything," Dean said as he slumped for a moment into one of the Muskoka chairs, "And nothing is popping out of the trees to grab us. We're fine. Dad's just overreacting."
Sam's gaze took in the area in front of their cabin, a long grassy swath that led to a narrow bar of sand that bordered the manmade lake.
"Yeah," he muttered; it didn't seem like anything bad could happen to anyone on a wonderfully balmy July day like this, "Maybe you're right."
Dean snorted, "Of course I'm right. C'mon, lets go down to the lake."
Sam walked the short distance to the edge of the porch, before jumping off and calling back to Dean who was just climbing from the Muskoka chair, "I'll race you!"
The eleven-year old took off across the grass, running as fast as he could, hearing his brother's fleet footsteps just behind him.
As Sam reached the beach he let his knees go limp and he fell onto the sand, laughing. Dean landed beside him, equally breathless and cheerful.
His brother rolled over onto his stomach and raised himself up onto his elbows, gazing out at the dark blue water of the lake.
"Want to go for a swim?" Sam asked, digging the toes of his shoes into the warm sand.
Dean's gaze followed the path of a motorboat as it zoomed across the water before he answered.
"Want to check out the island?"
Sam looked up at the mound of grassy earth and towering pine trees situated in the middle of the lake.
"Sure," he said, "That'd be cool."
Dean stood and brushed sand off the front of his shirt and shorts.
He started off towards the dock where a menagerie of rowboats and motorboats sat.
Sam followed his brother onto the dock, walking carefully as it rocked from side-to-side slightly with water and approached one of the rowboats that could be rented out by anyone vacationing at Camp Henrietta- the motorboats were owned by families who brought them to the lake- and climbed into it. He gave a slight smile as Dean gazed longingly at one of the motorboats before he dropped into the rowboat and slipped the rope out of the hook that attached it to the dock.
Automatically, Dean grabbed the oars and began rowing towards the island.
"You get to do this on the way back," he grunted to Sam and the eleven-year old nodded, grinning.
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"This is so neat," Sam said as he stared up at the tall trees crowding close to the edge of the island.
Dean stepped off the rowboat, stopped up against a sandbar and glanced around.
"There's no one here," he commented.
"Aw, look at that!" Dean pointed and ran around a bend in the island where it jutted out a bit more and stared at a small pontoon plane resting in the shallows.
"Guess we're not the only ones here," Sam said from over his brother's shoulder.
"C'mon Dean," he said, turning away from the plane, "Let's see what's in the forest."
Sam was glad his brother had persuaded him to get out of the cabin. Just being in the sunlight and fresh air was lifting his mood and making his brain feel less dull and slow. He found himself smiling more and laughing at Dean when he'd just scowled at him when they'd been stuck in the cabin.
"Hey, Sammy! Wait up!" Dean called from behind him and the eleven-year old heard his brother pounding up the narrow beach after him.
"Wonder what's in there?" Sam muttered, more to himself than to his brother and slipped through the treeline.
"Its probably where all the teenagers go to get drunk and make out," Dean told him and Sam grimaced, "Gross."
The fifteen-year old smirked, "You won't think it's so gross in a few years."
Sam just shook his head, rolling his eyes, slipping between two pine trees-
-And falling headfirst down a steep incline.
Sam didn't have time to cry out as he rolled and crashed down the embankment, hitting rocks and saplings on the way down. He heard his brother calling out his name overhead but Dean's voice sounded like it was coming a million miles away.
The eleven-year old landed in a green, nonflowering bush that had branches that ended in three leaves. Sam lay on the ground for a moment- what felt like a moment- dazed and sick.
"SAM! SAMMY!" Dean's voice kept calling him, coming closer and closer.
Slowly, the eleven-year old got to his hands and knees. He closed his eyes for a moment; he didn't feel as though he'd broken anything and staggered to his feet.
Sam brought a hand to his head and glanced up the slope where Dean was inching his way down.
"Sam! Are you okay?"
"I… I think so," he answered, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
He took a few cautious steps forward and when he felt no pain other than the dull throb of bruises, Sam continued towards his brother.
"Aw shit," he heard Dean mutter and he looked up, confused, thinking he'd been hurt worse than he believed.
"Come on out of there," the fifteen-year old said frantically and Sam felt adrenaline course through his bloodstream, thinking he was in danger.
"What is it?" he asked nervously as he struggled up the slope towards his brother. Dean, who normally would reach out to help him, seemed reluctant to touch him.
"I think that's poison ivy, Sammy," Dean told him.
The eleven-year old looked over his shoulder- a wave of nausea accompanying the motion- and stared at the bush he'd landed in, a large swath of its leaves crushed by his body weight.
"I feel okay," he insisted.
Dean glanced at him suspiciously but nodded, grim-faced.
"Let's go back across the lake," he said, "I want to check you out."
Sam nodded, though he didn't think he'd had anything worse than a few bumps and scrapes from his tumble down the embankment.
The slope was so steep in places that the eleven-year old almost had to climb up on his hands and knees in places, the position causing him to feel dizzy and lightheaded.
He was about halfway up the hill when he started feeling an uncomfortable itching sensation on his arms and legs where his skin was exposed, on the back of his neck and his face.
"D-Dean?"
The fifteen-year old looked back and Sam met his gaze.
"I don't feel so good," Sam closed his eyes and when he opened them again he saw that the skin on his arms was beginning to form a raised, bumpy red rash.
"Damn it," he heard Dean swear.
Sam lifted one hand to scratch at the irritation but Dean barked at him, "Don't! You'll make it worse!"
Sam nodded and lowered his hand.
"C'mon Sammy, we're almost at the top."
The eleven-year old began to climb again gritting his teeth in an effort to ignore the intense itching the rash caused.
Sam forced himself to keep his gaze on his brother, even when the itching on his skin intensified into a painful burning sensation strong enough to bring tears to his eyes.
Dean glanced over his shoulder at him every so often, his expression grim, looking as though he was starting to regret his suggestion to leave the cabin.
"D'n," Sam stammered as he reached the top of the embankment, Dean just ahead of him, and would have fallen backwards if his brother hadn't reached out and grabbed his arm.
"Ah!" Sam cried and flinched back from his brother's touch.
Looking down, he saw that the rash had turned into large, reddish-yellow blisters.
Dean instantly released him as soon as Sam was safely away from the edge of the embankment.
"C'mon, we'll get the boat and go back and…" the fifteen-year old's voice trailed off as he searched the narrow strip of beach for the rowboat.
"D'n?" Sam asked, pale beneath the rash.
"The boat," Dean muttered, "It was right here."
The older brother looked around the water and spotted the boat, floating merrily on the waves, yards away from the beach.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean apologized to his brother, "I messed up."
Sam gazed at his brother dully, the fall down the hill and the rash making his thinking slow.
Dean bit his lip, wondering how he could get his brother across the lake to the cabin where he could give him First Aid.
Suddenly, the fifteen-year old remembered the pontoon plane he'd seen. Hurrying around the bend in the island, Dean saw that the plane was still sitting on the sand.
"C'mon Sammy," Dean encouraged, "C'mon."
He returned to where his brother was approaching slowly and grabbed the front of Sam's t-shirt, tugging him the rest of the way.
"D'n," Sam muttered, "Don't feel good."
Dean nodded, "We'll be back at the cabin soon."
The elder Winchester approached the plane and stepped up onto its pontoon on the left side, grabbing the handle of its door and pulling. It opened after he gave a strong tug.
"C'mon Sammy," Dean laid a gentle hand on his brother's back to help him up, "In you go."
Sam slid over to the co-pilot's seat and stared out the window.
"Can you fly?" the eleven-year old asked.
Dean climbed into the pilot's seat and slammed the door shut, glancing uncertainly at the strange controls on the dashboard before him.
"Of course I can," Dean told his brother in a confident tone, "I'm Batman."
Sam gave a wan smile and closed his eyes.
"Okay," Dean muttered, "Think, Dean, think."
There was a large red button in the middle of the dash that looked promising. The fifteen-year old pressed down and heard the growl of the large engine start up.
Grinning, Dean peered out of the windshield at the single propeller on the nose of the plane.
"Okay," he muttered, "How about this."
He jabbed at a large green button and the propeller began to whirr, moving faster and faster and faster.
Dean couldn't help but grin at his brother, excited that he was actually able to start the plane in the first place.
Realizing that he needed to turn the plane around to face the campground, Dean put both hands on a control that looked like a steering wheel with the top and bottom half cut away. He slowly eased the wheel to the right and marveled as the plane began to turn in that direction, the pontoons splashing in the water and grinding against the sand.
As Dean watched in the windshield, the far side of the lake- the cabins and dock- slowly came into view and the fifteen-year old let out a whoop of excitement.
"Okay, Sammy," he spoke to his brother, "Let's go!"
Reaching out, Dean pulled on the steering wheel and the plane began to move forward, its pontoons just touching the water.
Dean grinned wildly as the plane shot across the water as though it was nothing. He pulled on the steering wheel even more and the nose of the plane began to lift up, the vehicle struggling to take to the air.
The fifteen-year old felt high on the adrenaline coursing through his body and in his excitement failed to notice just how fast the plane was going. Dean came to his senses just in time to realize the plane was about to run aground.
"Shit!" the fifteen-year old swore and pressed down on the steering wheel, jabbing the green button and red button with the heel of one of his hands to stop the engine and propellers.
Through the windshield Dean saw vacationers running away from the beach, screaming as though a shark was swimming towards them from the lake.
"Get out of the way!" the teen shouted, praying that he didn't hit anyone as he struggled to stop the plane.
He was jolted in his seat as the plane hit the grass and he heard his brother give a groan of pain beside him. The propellers were slowing down now, the engine silent and the scrape of pontoons against grass filled Dean's ears.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut when he realized that he was still coming on too quickly and could hit one of the cabins.
He braced himself for the impact.
There was one, but not that he expected. With a screech of metal on wood, the plane jarred to a halt, its propellers stopping abruptly as an obstacle impeded their slow spin.
The fifteen-year old opened his eyes and stared.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked quietly.
"Hmm," was the reply. At least Sam had answered him.
"Let's get out of here before anyone sees us," Dean commented and shoved his door open.
He stepped out and stood on the pontoon, waiting for his brother to follow him. He glanced behind himself, at the twin gouges the plane's pontoons had made in the sand on the beach and the grass, tearing up the turf.
After helping his brother down, Dean approached the front of the plane. He saw what had stopped the craft so effectively- it was a picnic table. It's wood cracked and splintered by the force of the collision, it had stopped the plane from continuing on to possibly damage one of the cabins however.
Quickly, keeping as low as possible, Dean hurried towards the cabin he and his family were staying in, his brother in tow.
He hoped that no one had seen them leave the scene and that it would be chalked up to some freak accident.
Dean relaxed once he and Sam were safely inside the cabin. Now he could focus on what he did best: take care of his baby brother.
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Sam, covered in calamine lotion and swaddled in blankets, peered up at his brother sleepily.
"Dean," he said and his brother peered at him, "Yeah, Sammy."
"You're wrong," the eleven-year old said, a wry smile on his lips, "Batman can't fly."
Dean chuckled and shook his head; just happy to see his brother was starting to feel like himself again.
Author's Note:
Rule comes from Reannablue.
Thanks to whimsicalbarwench, Jenjoremy, CarverEdlundtheLast, jo1966, jensensgirl3, Katlover98, GuardianOfMusic27855, reannablue, SamDeanLover28, StyxxsOmega, AnitaRez, and BranchSuper for reviewing.
I don't have any idea how to fly a plane, though I have been in a small, single-engine one like the one Dean flies- though it didn't have pontoons- I am using my imagination for the plane's controls in the story and apologize for the mistakes.
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