A/N: Thank you to sandybeliever for giving me this prompt!
You know how many times they say, "I almost shot you!" So what if Dean actually does shoot Sam accidentally.
I love this idea so much!
This is set in the second half of season 9, sometime after Dean gets the Mark of Cain.
By the way, I try to keep things accurate from a medical standpoint, but sometimes it's hard to find answers to the nitty-gritty details on the Internet, and I get a bit creative with what I envision would happen. Forgive me for any inaccuracies!
Dean was on edge.
He and Sam were on a hunt, and from the very beginning it was pissing him off.
For one, he didn't even know what they were hunting. Based on the locals' descriptions, it was a hybrid between a raccoon, a zombie, and a kraken. Since they didn't know what the monster was, that meant that they had to go prepared into the hunt - complete with silver, copper, lamb's blood, stakes, guns, salt, holy water, and an assortment of other weapons that weren't exactly light in Dean's backpack.
That's where the second part came in. He had been lugging his backpack around the Washington woods, and neither he nor Sam had any idea of where to look for the monster. They were in its hunting grounds - where the vics had been found with their tongues and eyeballs ripped out. But the woods of a small town Washington had a vast vicinity, and wandering around looking for the monster hybrid wasn't proving to be effective.
But Sam was the main reason that Dean's teeth were on edge. They'd had a fight last night over the First Blade again; Dean thought they should take it along on the hunt, and Sam was deeply opposed.
Dean ground his teeth as the sun disappeared over the edge of the trees. "It's not coming, Sam. Let's head back." He was suddenly craving a cold beer and the last thing he wanted was to spend another half an hour trekking through the woods with Sam. They hadn't had any friendly conversation at all since the fight yesterday and the tension was making his skin crawl.
"I think we should wait it out a bit longer," Sam said. Of course he would disagree.
"None of the vics died at night. There's no reason to be here once the sun is down," Dean pointed out. "We're wasting our time."
"There've been three victims. Two died in the morning and one in the afternoon. That's hardly a pattern," Sam said in the type of voice that irritated Dean the most. "For all we know, the next vic could die at night."
They entered a thicket of smaller, denser trees. The ground began to get mucky and Dean had to pull his feet up with more difficulty so that they wouldn't get stuck in the mud.
This is just friggin' awesome.
He purposely held the branch that he was walking by, and then let it swing wildly back at Sam. There was the satisfying sound of the wood making contact with Sam's face. There was silence for a moment, which caught Dean off guard; he'd expected the branch to ease the tension and for Sam to snort at him. Instead, Sam's response was biting and sharp.
"Just because you don't want to be out here doesn't mean you need to be an ass," Sam said. "If this is about the First Blade-"
Dean's temper flared the moment that Sam brought up the blade. "Take a joke, will you? And it wasn't about the damn blade."
He probably shouldn't have answered Sam. Only then he realized Sam was on edge too, and two Winchesters who were at each others' necks already, and pissed on a hunt, was not a recipe for a fun night.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Everything's been about the 'damn blade' lately, so I've gotten a bit used to dealing with you pining for it," Sam retorted.
Dean spun around, incredulous. "I don't pine for it. I'm the one who is thinking straight and wants to bring an invincible knife on a hunt! If you'd get your head out of your ass you'd see that!"
"We managed fine without the First Blade," Sam said, his words more taut than a bowstring.
"Funny," Dean said, turning around to walk ahead. "I remember you saying the same thing when you were pining for demon blood a few years ago."
He could hear Sam stop dead in his tracks, but he kept walking. Let him think about that one for a bit, he thought, more pissed than ever.
"That's different," Sam finally said from behind him.
Dean turned around again. "Yeah? Explain that to me."
Sam jabbed a finger into his own chest. "All I wanted was to help. I thought the demon blood would help us - that's why I did it. You're just a junkie for killing. I've seen you. I see the look in your eyes when you have the blade. You're just jonesing for your next kill."
Heat rose to Dean's neck. "Leave."
Sam didn't hesitate to respond. "No."
Dean stepped forward. "Sam, before I say something I'll regret, get out of my sight. I'm finishing this hunt on my own."
"Even you're not that stupid. That's not a good idea," Sam said.
"I'm telling you now, last chance. Get lost. I'm doing this alone, and the last thing I want is you at my side right now."
Sam's eyes surveyed him for a moment and it made Dean want to punch him.
"Fine," Sam said coolly, and he turned on his heel and left.
That was easier than I expected.
Suddenly he had no desire to return to the motel room. He'd stay out in these woods the whole night, if it meant killing the monster. Anything was better than being in close quarters with Sam.
Sam made his way back to the Impala more calmly than even he expected. Dean didn't want to hunt with him? Fine, it wouldn't be the first time. The walk to the car took longer than he'd anticipated; they'd been out walking around the woods for a few hours and had strayed farther than he previously thought. It was nearly two miles to get back and he reached the car only to realize that he didn't have the keys, and was locked out.
Well, this is the cherry on top of a spectacular hunt.
Sam wrenched his backpack off of his shoulders and sat resolutely against the car. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the First Blade, looking at it stonily, before sliding it back into his bag.
Dean didn't know that the First Blade was with them. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean was right, and since they didn't know what the monster they were hunting was, then the blade would come in handy. But there was no way that Sam was going to let Dean bring the blade, nor was he about to let his brother know that it was with them. He'd put it into the depths of his backpack as a last resort.
Crack.
Sam froze. Something on the other side of the car had snapped a branch, and not just a squirrel stepping on a twig. Whatever it was, it weighed more than he did.
He pulled out his gun, which was loaded with iron bullets. He hoped to hell that whatever this monster was, it didn't like iron, or bullets at all for that matter. Sam crept to the side of the car and very slowly peered around the edge.
The strangest monster he'd ever seen was snuffling along the trees on the other side of the Impala. Its body was of a human's, it had stitches all along its pale flesh, and it moved slowly and clumsily - instantly Sam could see where the zombie part of the monster came from. It didn't have hands, though, it had raccoon paws, as well as a tail and the mask-like fur of a raccoon on its humanoid head.
Oddest of all was the tentacles flailing about the monster's waist. They were groping along the bark of the trees, as though sniffing for something.
Sam lunged out and fired at the neck and head of the monster. It roared, its tentacles stiffening and straightening as though electrocuted, and then it whipped its head around to Sam. He hesitated, holding out his gun.
Please die.
Instead, the monster began to lope towards Sam, and it was only then that Sam realized it wasn't even bleeding from the wound.
Shit.
He dug his knife out of his pocket and dove aside at the last moment; the monster went barreling past him and made a wide turn to correct its path. Slow and stupid, then. Sam poised himself, letting the monster come even closer to him this time before jumping aside. This time, he pursued, and leapt behind the monster. Its body was thin and bony, but the tentacles were fat and slick, and Sam had to stay well back to avoid them reaching for his neck. He pulled out his gun again and fired a shot at each tentacle. They twitched, falling to the side of the monster. Sam took his chance and thrust his knife into the back of the monster.
This time, blood came out. Sam stepped back, satisfied that the thing was killed by the silver in his knife.
The monster stumbled around, facing Sam, its deep black eyes finding his own as though personally offended that he'd been stabbed. The strange raccoon-human face stared at him for a solid ten seconds before it fell, dead, onto the dirt below.
Sam took the knife out of the back of the monster and wiped it on his shirt.
At least I got the kill. That'll piss Dean off even more. Childish, probably, Sam reflected - the fact that he took pleasure in irritating his brother even in his thirties - but pleasing all the same. He even considered walking back to the motel, leaving Dean to realize that the hunt was over and the monster was dead, but it was getting dark and nighttime in Washington wasn't particularly warm. As much as he hated the thought of it, he'd have to let Dean know he killed the monster.
Imagine if Dad could see us now.
Number one rule was to never split on a hunt. Sam smiled in spite of himself; here he was, years later, stabbing a weird mutt of a monster while Dean was off somewhere else brooding.
He left his backpack at the car, taking only the knife and gun with him, before leaving to find Dean.
The sky was darkening rapidly since the sun had set. Dean had given up searching for the monster and had opted for letting it find him; that was why he was now sitting on a riverbank, holding his gun and watching the colors of the sky become fused with more navy blue with every minute.
A small part of him knew Sam was right to keep the First Blade away. They didn't need it, and even Dean was aware that it was fueling the animalistic desire inside of him to kill something. It even scared the shit out of him, but more pressing was his desire to hold the blade again, to feel its power.
He made sure his gun was loaded, should the monster hybrid show up.
Once upon a time, hunting alone would've unnerved him. He used to hate the feeling of having his back unwatched, and despised knowing that if he were to get hurt, there would be no one to help. That feeling was what had first made him go to Stanford and convince Sam to help him search for his dad. He hadn't been able to stand being alone.
He wasn't sure when that had changed. Maybe it was when he'd spent many bloodsoaked nights alone in Purgatory, his ears and eyes constantly open for any sound at all that might be a monster. Even recognizing the slightest crack of a branch meant life or death, because a second's delay and-
Crack.
Without thinking, without looking, without delaying, Dean had whirled around and fired. The satisfying sound of the bullet connecting with skin was audible, but then, the sound that always, for as long as he could remember, made his heart jump out of his skin followed - Sam crying out in pain.
"Sam?" he ventured immediately, getting to his feet and hurrying towards where he'd shot.
Shit, shit, please let me have hit something other than-
Sam. His stupid, pissy, annoying as hell little brother, who moments ago Dean wanted to sock in the face, was on his knees in the leaves, looking at Dean with faint surprise.
"You shot me," he said, and Dean might have snorted at the shock in his voice had there not been a small bloodstain on his side.
"Oh, my God," was all Dean could think to say as he wrapped one arm around Sam without hesitating and braced the other hand against the wound. It was already getting wetter with blood.
"My fault," Sam said, groaning as Dean's hand pressed against the wound. "I should've… made a sound or something. Ow."
"Sammy, this sure as hell isn't your fault," Dean said aggressively, lifting up Sam's shirt. He sighed with relief. "It's on the very far left. Almost a graze, but the bullet's wedged in there. Can you walk?"
"Yeah," Sam said, his voice thick like it always was when he was injured and tried to not show it. "My legs are fine, aren't they?" He laughed slightly as Dean helped him up, but it turned to a wince as he moved. "Damn."
They began to slowly walk back to the car, Sam leaning almost entirely on Dean, who was keeping a tight grip on his brother should he stumble and hurt himself further.
"I killed the monster," Sam said dully as they left the riverside. "Silver killed it."
"I missed all the action?" Dean said, ignoring the pang of regret that the opportunity to kill had slipped through his fingers.
Damn the Mark of Cain.
They continued over the hill, Sam clutching at his side like it was a lifeline and gripping Dean so tightly that his shoulder was beginning to ache.
"Look, man," Sam began suddenly, and Dean's stomach plummeted at the tone that clearly indicated he was about to address their fight earlier.
"Shut up," Dean said simply. Sam looked taken aback. "I get the sentiment," Dean continued, "but it's not your place to tell me whether I can take the blade or not. I'm an adult, Sam, and you can't control me. But that doesn't mean what I said was right."
"Hold on," Sam interrupted. "I'm your brother. Just because I'm younger doesn't mean I don't have a say for what happens to you." He looked at Dean almost desperately. "We're family, and pretty much the last family we have. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Will you let me finish?" Dean said, rougher than he intended. He felt Sam stiffen slightly. "Dammit. I know why you don't want me taking the blade. Believe me, I know. And I'm sorry for what we said. The thing is, even if we disagree on it, I don't want it to come between us. We've been through hell together and I don't want things to go to shit because of this one blade. Capiche?"
"Capiche," Sam repeated. "But you owe me one."
"Yeah? What?"
"I'll think about it. But it's gotta be pretty awesome, since you just shot me." Sam tripped over a root without warning and Dean tightened his grip on his brother to ensure that he didn't fall.
"You got it," Dean said, guilt closing in his throat like a chokehold.
They made it back to the bunker with Sam still conscious, despite the blood that he'd lost and the obvious pain that he was in.
"This is going to hurt like a bitch," Dean warned Sam once they were on the bed. "Here. It's the good stuff." He held out a large pill, the kind that they used only when necessary.
Sam took it without question, draining his glass of water with the pill.
"Ready?" Dean didn't wait for an answer and poured alcohol over the wound. He could see Sam's fist clenching at the blankets but not one sound escaped his lips.
The bullet was mercifully easy to get at. Sam refused to go to the hospital, so Dean was left to use their pair of old forceps that they kept in the trunk. Had the bullet been any farther to the left, Dean wouldn't have dared take it out on his own, but it was lodged near the surface of the skin. He slowly maneuvered the forceps to pluck the bullet out of the wound and slide it out as cleanly as possible.
"There," he said, dropping the bullet onto the floor once it was out. He prodded at the wound slightly; it was bleeding still and Sam was looking paler by the minute.
"I have to clean it again before stitching," he told Sam, who seemed a bit unreactive at this point, his eyes shut and jaw clenched. He took the alcohol again to rinse out the wound before finding their stitching materials.
By the time he'd returned with the kit, Sam was looking dazedly at the ceiling. He heard Dean's footsteps and smiled at him dopily; that was the signal that the pill was doing its job, because the last time Sam had genuinely smiled like that seemed to be years ago.
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said sincerely as Dean set to work with the stitches. "It means a - ow - lot that you do this."
"Well, I'm not going to let you bleed out," Dean said simply, carefully sticking the needle through one side of the wound. He pressed a towel against it again to get some of the clotting blood out of the way.
"Why do you do it?" Sam asked, looking directly at Dean with doleful eyes.
"Do what?" Dean looked down, uncomfortable in the path of Sam's sorrowful expression.
"This. I mean, we fight, and say horrible things to one another, but the instant that something worse happens, it's like…" Sam shook his head. "You could've just… I don't know… been professional about it and helped me out. But… you're always… Dean, you're always the big brother when stuff like this happens. Why?"
Dean was taken aback by the question. "Like you said, we're family. Family takes care of one another even after fighting."
"But we're not an ordinary family," Sam pressed. "Our fights are practically wars."
Dean sighed. "I don't know, Sam." He stitched up the bottom half of the bullet wound. "Sometimes I feel like I'm doing it because it's my duty. Those are the bad days, you know? Going through all of the same motions that I used to do because it feels wrong to do anything otherwise."
"Is that all the time now?" Sam was giving him such a melancholic expression that Dean had to still keep his gaze away.
"Not all the time," Dean said. "I guess I do this for the good days. Because when we have good days, I remember what we're fighting for in the end."
"What're we fighting for?" Sam said, his forehead scrunched as though trying to remember something.
"Each other? I don't know. You're making this into a damn princess fairytale, Sammy. There isn't really an answer except for that the good days are why I'm still here." He glanced down at the Mark of Cain, which seemed to get hotter as he was speaking. He fought the desire to scratch it.
"You shot me," Sam said again. "I can't believe you shot me."
"And I'm stitching you up," Dean said, tying the last knot.
"Our lives are screwed up," Sam muttered, examining the stitches without much interest. "When was the last good day, Dean?"
Next time, don't dope Sam up with pills, if you want to avoid this crap.
"Can't remember," Dean said shortly, cleaning up the supplies. Sam grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.
"But you must remember one good day," Sam said earnestly. "This entire past year? It couldn't have been completely horrible."
All that could come to Dean's mind, however, was Kevin being killed, the Mark burning on his forearm, the Trials, Sam being possessed by Gadreel, and Abaddon. He shrugged. "I'll think about it, and tell you in the morning. Get some sleep."
Sam's face fell in clear disappointment, but he obediently leaned back onto his pillow. "I'll think of something. A good day. We must have one."
"Maybe," Dean said after a moment, but Sam had already passed out.
Doped up Sam means Philosopher Sam. Doped up Sam means awkward questions and thinking about shit that I don't want to think about.
Yet he hardly slept that night. Sam didn't wake once - Dean checked on him multiple times to make sure that he wasn't running a fever from the wound - and he himself laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
When was the last good day?
The Mark of Cain burned again on his arm, as though reminding him it had been a long time, and that was why, that was why every day it got harder to get out of bed and keep going, because there were fewer and fewer good days to make him keep going.
A/N: Not really a heavy chapter until kind of a dark ending. Dean's not suicidal or anything, but I've been rewatching season 9 and there's so much turmoil that it's hard to imagine that the boys never have depressing thoughts late at night.
I hope this fulfilled your prompt sandybeliever!
You're probably all sick of me saying this but once again I am so grateful for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows that I've gotten on this story - it means so much!
