Author Note: Apparently, I'm on a roll with the new words/stories. Nova42 and I are executing a series rewatch, and when we got to "The Benders" she asked me if I'd ever written a tag for the ep. Strangely, no, I never have. So, you know, here you go! I'm sure there will be more previously untagged eps to come!
Send some good thoughts - we're bunking down for some serious writing over the next few days, and I need some good vibes to help me get my book draft completed!
All the King's Horses
When the deputy tells them to start walking, Sam understands why, even though he's not yet pried all the details out of his brother. He'd been in that cage for nearly forty-eight hours, and he has no doubt Dean broke rules, and likely some laws, to find him. Clearly, he had involved the police, and given his official status as a deceased serial attacker/possible murderer, that hadn't been a smart thing to do. Even if Kathleen hasn't caught on that Dean isn't Sam's cousin but his very much alive and therefore wanted brother, her not hauling him in is definitely doing him a favor.
Twenty minutes and one mere mile out from the backcountry house of horrors, with no idea how much farther it is to the main road, let alone town, Sam no longer thinks it was much of a favor. It's raining, a steady annoying drizzle that is slowly soaking and chilling them both, and the adrenalin rush of fighting off the yahoos with the rifles is long gone. Sam is pretty sure he could collapse right here in the cold mud and sleep for a week, but he needs to stay alert, because every other unsteady step of Dean's is punctuated by a soft grunt of pain. The blood on his brother's face looks black in the dark, and his left arm is pressed tightly to his side, wounded shoulder hidden beneath his coat. That's a first aid fail of epic proportions, but while Dean had hissed while sliding his left arm into the sleeve of his coat, he'd shrugged away any attention, just wanting reassurance than Sam was OK.
After another few minutes, Sam pokes a too-silent Dean gently in the back, eliciting a grumpy "What?"
"Just checking."
"I'm fine, Sam."
He's not, though. Dean is stumbling, hugging his arm tighter and tighter to his side, and by the time they reach the two-lane highway, he's stopped twice to throw up.
Concussion, Sam notes with a wince. Given the amount of blood on his brother's face and head, it's not a surprise. When he finally spots the flickering neon sign for the motel he'd seen their first night in town, Sam's shoulders slump in relief. Thank God.
"You got a room, right? Dean?" he prods when there's no answer.
Dean hitches his shoulder, wrinkles his nose. "No."
"Okay." It's something else for Sam to file away, another hint at exactly the lengths Dean went to, to find him. In fact, he thinks his brother might be wearing the same clothes he was two days ago, which is almost as frustrating as it is touching.
He rubs at his forehead, hoping to dull the ache building behind his eyes. After he had wrestled the screaming, kicking girl and her knife away from his bound brother, locked her in a nearby closet, and cut Dean free, there had been a too-brief moment of checking each other over. Sam had already told Dean that he wasn't hurt, and while it was obvious that Dean was, he was on his feet, and they'd rushed out of the house to check on Kathleen. After that, everything was about getting the hell away from there. They'd found their jackets at the top of a pile of discarded clothing, wallets and keys all thankfully accounted for. Either the family was so isolated they had no use for the items, or they were waiting until after the kills to claim trophies.
Sam tugs his wallet free as he guides a concerningly pliant Dean across the rain-soaked pavement toward the motel office. The rain has rinsed away the bulk of the blood by now, and in the curtain of yellowish light spilling through the glass, he can see the bruises coming to color on his brother's otherwise pale face. He figures Kathleen meant "out of town" when she told them to be long gone, but neither of them will be in any condition to drive until they get some sleep. He props Dean up against the cinderblock, under the awning and out of the rain, then smooths his hair, wincing when his fingers brush the bruise on his own cheek.
"I'll get a room. You wait here." Dean starts to protest, and Sam drops a hand to his good shoulder. "You look like hell, man. Just give me five minutes." The last thing they need is to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves.
Dean grips his left elbow with his right hand and nods, but he doesn't look happy about it.
"Five minutes," Sam reiterates, pulling open the door.
The idea was to keep Dean and his bruised, bloody face in the shadows, but when Sam glances back, his brother is pressed to the glass like a kid watching puppies through a pet store window. It's a moot point anyway; the girl behind the counter barely looks up as she swipes his credit card and hands him a key.
Sam herds his brother along the sidewalk to their room. When they get inside, Dean sinks to the edge of the nearest bed with a groan that sounds wrung out of him. Sam seconds the sentiment. Every muscle in his body is begging to stretch out and sleep. He suppresses a yawn as he flips on the light, then turns to stare appraisingly at the hunched, shivering figure in front of him, preparing himself to execute a sleepy triage.
"How's the head?"
"It's super." Dean sounds as tired as Sam feels, his voice tight with pain.
Sam tips his brother's head into the light to study the pair of gashes near Dean's right eyebrow. "This how they got you?"
Dean gestures vaguely to the back of his head, and Sam leans to look. He hisses in sympathy at the sight of a deep gouge buried in Dean's hair. "Yeah, that would do it. Took all three of them though, right?"
Dean snorts, then closes his eyes. "Four of 'em."
"Right. Well, she did have a tiny knife." A tiny knife with a wicked sharp blade she'd had right up in Dean's face when Sam entered the room. A tiny knife Dean had snaked on his way out of the house, a trophy of his own.
"Okay, dude. Seriously." Sam leans in to gauge the reaction of his brother's pupils. "How many times did you get hit in the head?"
The corner of Dean's mouth lifts, then he presses his lips together and swallows. "Enough."
Sam bobs his head and tugs at the collar of Dean's jacket to get to the injury underneath. Dean had insisted he was fine, and after Sam had confirmed the wound wasn't from a bullet, he'd been put at ease enough to allow the walk to town. If there had been more blood, maybe he would have put up more of a fight. Now, he knows he should have put up a fight anyway. Through two layers of thankfully charred and not melted cotton, the burn beneath is angry red and wet-looking, with broken blisters that are no doubt due to the five-mile trek back to town. Sam's a little rusty, but he knows a burn like this has to hurt like hell.
Dammit. And then aloud, "Dean, I think we might need to find an Urgent Care or something. This looks pretty bad."
Dean shrugs off his hand, then folds over his left arm. "It's fine," he grits.
"Dean—"
"Really, Sam. It's fine."
Dean received all the same first aid lectures he did, and if he says that it's fine, then Sam has to trust that this is manageable. If they had the kit from the trunk, of course.
He scrubs both hands over his face. "OK. You said the car is at the police station?"
"Yeah."
Sam nods. "OK. Then I'm gonna go grab it. I'll be right—whoa." He lurches forward, hands reaching to steady his brother as Dean plants his right hand on the plastic-y duvet and moves to stand. "I'm just gonna go back to the office and call a cab to the station. It'll take twenty minutes, tops."
"Then I'll be fine goin' with you." Dean shoves up to his feet, holding his left arm close with bloodless fingers.
"Dean, seriously—"
"No, Sam. You're not going anywhere without me. We can stand here and argue about this, or you can shut up and we can get it over with."
Dean is staring at him with what Sam is sure he thinks is steely resolve, pulling the Big Brother card, putting his foot down. But all the color has drained from his face. His pupils are all over the shop, and his pain-glazed eyes can't seem to focus on anything in the room. Except Sam.
It's his turn to put his foot down, to show his big brother that someone is looking out for him, too.
Sam works his jaw, shakes his head. "Dean, if you get in a cab with me right now, I am telling them to take your ass straight to the hospital." He's pretty sure he should do that regardless. From where he's standing, Dean doesn't look like he would be able to put up much of a fight. But he also knows what to do with a concussion and thinks he can handle patching up the burn himself. Can take care of his brother, if Dean allows him to.
"Psycho hunter freaks are taken care of, man," Sam says. "We need the car, and you need to sit down. Before you fall down."
Immediately, he wants to take it back. Before Dean hears it as a dare, or a challenge, and tries to prove Sam wrong. But Dean surprises him. His hand drops from its grip on his left elbow and digs into his pocket.
He tosses the Impala's keys to Sam with a sigh. "Remember, I'm not coming after you again."
Sam quirks a tired, grateful smile. "Yeah, I know."
As soon as the door closes behind Sam, the silence in the room drapes over Dean like a suffocating weight, a quiet that's broken only by the sound of his own too-fast breathing. Sam had left him splayed across one of the beds like a sickly toddler or a drunk coed, shirtless with his right hand molded over a washcloth he'd soaked in cool water and turned into a makeshift compress. Dean has to admit the burn feels better, though he has enough experience to know that won't be the case for long. Especially after Sam gets back.
His brother's absence hits him like a punch to the chest. Suddenly, he can't believe he let the kid out of the room, can't stand the thought of Sammy being out there alone. It hasn't been all puppies and sunshine, and the kid can irritate him like no one else, but Dean's fallen back into life with his little brother like they were never apart. Hates not having eyes on him at any time, but especially right now, when he's just gotten Sam back. He shouldn't have let him go alone.
But when Dean tries to heave himself into an upright position, intentions unknown, the jackhammer in his skull comes back with a vengeance and a sheet of white overtakes his field of vision. He doubles over with a groan, compress falling to the side as he slams his eyes shut and grips the duvet to keep from sliding to the floor.
Fucking hicks and their solid wood doorframes and cast-iron skillets. He can feel his pulse thudding in the wound in his shoulder, a hot, nauseating throb. Dad could be a hard-ass but he wasn't stupid. Dean knows his father probably would have called an audible here and hauled his ass into an ER.
He has no idea how long it's been since Sam left to get the car, but it feels like it's been too damn long. Dean choo-choos out a few breaths to quell the rising need to vomit—again—then shakily pushes up to his feet one-handed, left arm tucked close like a wounded wing. Once there he wobbles pathetically, light-headed and struggling to find his balance while a series of strobes are invading his vision, so he has some time to decide exactly what the hell the plan is now that he's standing. Well, mostly standing. His body feels stiff and unresponsive, except for the sharp, spiking pain in his head, the deep throb in his shoulder. A dull roar starts up in his ears, and the edges of his vision fuzz.
Maybe Sam was right, and standing up wasn't such an A-plus idea.
When Dean takes an experimental step, the room executes a sickening Tilt-a-Whirl spin. He tries to sit back down, but his balance is shot. He staggers, hits the corner of the mattress with his shins and keeps going. He didn't even hear the Impala's approach, or the opening of the door, but Sammy's there for the save, tree trunk arms keeping Dean off the floor.
"Told you," his brother says, but there isn't much humor in Sam's voice.
He should have known better. Honestly, it's impressive Dean didn't make it out of the room and wander into traffic. Still sort of feels like he did, the way he's slumped pale, bloodied, and senseless across Sam's lap. He shifts his weight and winces. Something in one of the duffels is digging into his hip. Dean started to go down as soon as Sam opened the door, and he hadn't even had a chance to drop the bags as he rushed across the room. He taps the lesser bruised of his brother's cheeks.
"Dean. Hey, Dean."
"Hmm."
"Come on, dude." Sam lifts his shoulder to give Dean's upper body a much needed but greatly unappreciated jostle.
Dean pales but, as expected, the shot of pain rouses him. "Don' do that."
"Okay, then you gotta help me out a bit here, man."
The look on his brother's face lets Sam know in no uncertain terms that if he makes it all the way to his feet without Dean puking all over him, he owes the guy one.
It's still a close call, and as important as Sam knows treating Dean's burn is, he takes the time to relocate the trash can from the bathroom to right next to the bed. As he's doing so, he deliberately avoids looking at the clock. Seeing the time will only it make it that much worse. He's so tired that his eyes hurt and his hands are trembling, but he needs to keep it together just a little bit longer. He sets the small motel coffee pot brewing, then digs through the bags for everything he'll need.
The only hint that Dean is still conscious are the lines of pain at the corners of his eyes. There's a pale smear of blood on the pillowcase next to his head, and it seems obvious that most of the left side of his face will be blackened when the bruises settle. Sam tells himself it's exhaustion that turns his stomach as his gaze skips over the smattering of marks across his brother's chest, from a shot of rock salt, but he knows it's guilt. The burn on Dean's shoulder still looks ugly, but manageable. The next couple of days won't be very fun for either of them, considering Dean's concussion, but right now preventing infection is his priority.
Even after a few swallows of bitter coffee, Sam's hands aren't as steady as he wants them to be, and as he's cutting away the deadened skin from the popped blisters, Dean's hand shoots up, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Sam freezes, waits while his brother swallows a couple of times.
"You gonna hurl?"
"Nhmm."
"I'm almost done."
Dean breathes out, curls his lip. "Liar."
Sam has no comeback. He cleans the burn up as well as he can, offering a quick, silent thanks to his father for ingraining in them the importance of 100% cotton clothing. Anything else and he wouldn't be doing this in a motel room but chewing his thumbnail to a bloody stump waiting to be led to his brother's cubicle in the nearest ER.
There's some over-the-counter ointment in the kit, not meant for a burn of this caliber but it will work in a pinch, for a stubborn ass like Dean Winchester. Finally, he smooths a 2x2 bandage over the wound, eliciting a few slurred curses from his brother. The weight sitting on Sam's shoulders feels like a timer. When he moves to stand, the room grays out for a moment.
One more minute, he thinks.
"Hey." He gently jostles Dean's shoulder and is rewarded with a slow, sleepy blink. He hefts a palmful of painkillers. "You think you can wake up enough to take some of these? And keep them down?"
Sam's taped a couple of butterfly bandages over the gashes surrounding Dean's forehead, and they crinkle as he wrinkles his nose.
"I know. But you're gonna yell at me tomorrow otherwise."
Somewhat miraculously, Dean keeps the pills down. He settles against the pillow but won't rest. Sam sags in his chair, trying to summon the energy needed to heave himself toward the other bed as he waits for Dean to drift off. He swears to himself he won't even bitch in the morning about the snoring.
"I didn't mean it," Dean says.
Sam shakes himself awake, leans in. "What?"
Dean shifts, actually tries to prop up on his elbows like he intends to sit up, and Sam presses a steadying hand to his unbandaged shoulder.
"Hey. Don't move."
It takes a minute, but Dean eventually gets his eyes open and blinks dazedly up at Sam. "I'll look for you," he breathes.
Sam tells himself it's exhaustion that causes the catch in his breath, the sudden ache in his chest. "I know you will, man."
