Honk for Your Brother
K Hanna Korossy
He needed to get away.
His head was a mass of agony. Sam shoved himself backward into the car and fumbled for the door, slamming it just in time. Luc—no, Nick, howled at him from the other side. He was going to get in, and Sam couldn't think straight, strength flowing away.
Blindly, he flailed for the front seat, found the steering wheel, the car horn. Frantically, he started honking.
He needed Dean.
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Sammy didn't like being left behind in the car. He was five years old now, not a little kid! Daddy had to go do his job sometimes, and that was fine, but if Dean got to go, too, it wasn't fair that Sammy couldn't. He could help!
And…it was a little scary being left behind in the car in the dark. Even if Dean made sure all the doors were locked and Sam had his blanket.
He sucked his thumb, just a little bit, since no one was there to see. Hummed the ABC song, then one of the songs Dean liked but that just sounded noisy to Sam. Started listing the states in alphabetical order.
Wait… Was that a snuffle over on the left?
Sammy scrambled over to the window, and finding only a mirror, flicked the flashlight off. Nervously, he scanned the dark parking lot.
Nothing. The trees around the lot were rustling in the wind, but there was nothing—
Sammy gasped. Something next to one of the trees moved. Something low and wide.
"Dean," he whimpered. Then remembered what Dean told him to do if he saw something. Swallowing hard, Sam leaned over Daddy's seat and pressed the car horn hard three times. Then a few more.
The dark thing seemed to get bigger. Sam could see eyes now, big and yellowish and glowing, and he started to shake. He desperately honked a few more times, then dove down onto the floor of the back seat, pulling his blanket over him. He moaned to himself, waiting for the thing to come and eat him, and wanting Daddy and Dean so badly. He hiccupped and pulled himself in even tighter when he heard some scratching noises outside.
Then there were two loud bangs that made him jump! And then the car door yanked open.
Sam screamed and scrambled to get away.
"Hey, squirt, it's me!" It grabbed his foot, and Sam started to kick against it when he realized he knew that voice. "Sammy, it's okay, it's gone! It's just me and Dad!"
Dean.
Sammy turned back and threw himself at his brother, burrowing into him. Sammy was crying and that was a babyish thing to do, but he didn't care. He just grasped Dean tighter.
Dean hugged him back, even pulled Sam into his lap. "Hey, buddy, everything's fine. I wouldn't let a mean old wolf get you. You did a good job, letting us know he was coming. We're safe now."
"Is he okay?" Daddy's voice rumbled over his head.
"Yeah, just scared him pretty bad," Dean said back, rubbing Sammy's back.
He didn't really remember the trip back, or going to bed. Just that he wouldn't let go of Dean when they left, and that his brother was still squashed and sweaty in his arms when Sam woke up the next morning back in bed.
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It was hard to sulk when someone was being nice to you.
Sam hugged his arms closer to himself and stifled another sneeze as they approached the car. He hadn't wanted to come on this hunt in the first place, not when he had a chem test to study for, not on a cold, wet fall day. But Dad had ordered him to—of course he had—and Sam had trudged after Dad and Dean miserably until he'd started shivering, even in four layers, and couldn't stop. Dean had finally convinced Dad that Sam was going to get sick if he didn't head back to the car to dry off and warm up—too late for that, Sam thought—and broke off from the black fox hunt to walk him back.
Sam was grateful; he really was. He knew Dean wanted to be out there with Dad, and that without Dean on his side, Sam would still be hiking out in the middle of the freezing nowhere. But Dean had also been all excited about this hunt in the first place, and Sam was just really sick of it all. Maybe literally. Not just the cold, and the icy rain, and the late night out when he should've been studying and getting sleep. But putting themselves in danger all the time, in discomfort, on the wrong side of the law, no safety net if he lost his final two family members. He was so tired of it.
"Here she is," Dean said, annoyingly nice in face of Sam's silent treatment. "I'll get you a blanket from the trunk."
"Thanks," Sam said grudgingly as he climbed into the back seat that Dean unlocked for him. Already his agitation was draining away into fatigue as the familiar and reassuring confines of the car—their home—worked its magic. Sam peeled off his wet coat and dropped it on the floor, then jammed his frozen fingers under his armpits to warm them up. Behind him, he could hear Dean rummaging in the trunk. They'd left the car in a small lot at the foot of several trails, and it was lit, so Dean could see what he was looking for. He'd probably turn up some chemical heat packs, or a book for Sam, or maybe even a thermos of coffee. His brother could be irritatingly thoughtful like that when Sam was building up his righteous anger.
Sam glanced behind him, looking through the slit of the open trunk lid at his big brother. Why was Dean so loyal to their dad, anyway? Didn't he see this was a dead-end life they were in, literally? He acted like—
Something moved behind Dean. Someone, moving with what Sam recognized as stalking stealth. Someone creeping up on Dean, clearly up to no good.
Sam lunged over the seat and punched the horn one long, loud honk. Then he scrambled back to look out the rear window.
He had a limited view through that sliver between the car and the trunk lid, but he saw Dean swing around on guard, and then violent flashes of movement. Sam was pretty sure the guy hadn't pounced before Dean was ready, but he wasn't sure, nor if the guy was armed. Sam quickly bent and felt under the seat for the knife Dad kept stashed there and then was throwing himself out the door to join the fight.
It was over before he got there. Dean was standing over the unconscious figure, a guy who looked about Dad's age, dressed like a vagrant but with a knife of his own not far from his lax fingers.
"Good catch," Dean said, barely winded. He was already reaching for some rope from the trunk.
"You're not leaving me alone with Dad," Sam shot back.
They were still laughing, borderline hysterical, next to the tied-up attacker when Dad raced out of the trees to find them.
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If the visions were supposed to be some kind of gift, why did they have to hurt so freakin' much? Max hadn't seemed to feel any pain when he'd moved things around, nor Andy when he did his Jedi mind trick. Why did Sam have to be so special? Again?
Sam massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the throbbing pressure behind his eyes. Was it worth stumbling out into the bright sunshine to find the painkillers? Dean had pressed a bottle of water into his hands before going, but he'd been in too much of a rush to get Sam any pills. Sam's vision had been a little vague, but this kid they'd tracked down, Reggie, was about to electrocute himself with his own gift, and Dean had been in a hurry to stop him. Sam would've, too, if it hadn't felt like his skull was cracking in two.
No, wait. He gritted his teeth, biting back a moan. This wasn't just residual pain: another vision was coming. Sam braced himself against the door and dashboard and held on.
Dean, running. Reggie turning. Some silent words shouted as dark clouds swirled. And then a flash of light, and Dean…Dean…
Sam gasped himself free of the nightmare, swallowing repeatedly to keep rising nausea at bay. It was like with Max all over again, watching Dean die, his lifeless eyes…
Dean wouldn't answer his phone in the middle of a chase. There was no way Sam was catching him in the state Sam was in. And he couldn't let Dean die. Those three immutable facts left him only one recourse.
Sam clenched his jaw, reached over, and started honking the horn.
The sound drilled into his head, but he kept pressing. The one thing that might distract Dean from his mission was Sam in trouble. Right now, Sam was counting on his brother's skewed priorities.
He didn't know how long he kept honking, but then someone was peeling his fingers off the horn and Dean was there and Sam could finally give in to his misery. He almost fell out the door in his haste to get it open and vomit on the ground instead of the upholstery.
Dean snaked an arm around him from behind to keep him from falling. Because of course he did.
Sam retched until he wasn't sure what hurt more, his stomach or his head. Then things got hazy for a while.
He finally emerged to find himself lying on the front seat, legs hanging out the passenger side, head propped on Dean's leg.
"Was'zit?" he asked intelligently.
Something wet flattened against his forehead, which made him flinch but then felt nice. "Your stomach back where it belongs?" Dean just asked mildly from somewhere above him.
"Mmm," Sam said, not promising. Then his eyes shot open. "Reggie?"
"Saw some lightning in the distance a few minutes ago. I don't think old Reg is with us anymore."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut.
"Hey." Dean's hand was warm on his chest. "Reggie fried two other people before this, that we know of. He wasn't exactly an innocent victim, Sam. And when I got back, you looked like your brains were about to start leaking out of your ears. So, yeah, no regrets here, dude."
Sam wasn't quite sure about that. Dean didn't even know Sam had called him back because of fear for Dean, not for himself. But his head was pounding, his stomach was roiling, and it felt really good just to lie there with Dean next to him, safe.
So Sam let his brother convince him, once again, that he'd made the right choice.
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They should never, ever split up on a hunt.
They'd mostly learned that lesson, but Sam had to admit that it really hadn't been their fault this time. The ghouls that had fled into the enormous park had attacked just when Dean had crossed over a creek and Sam was still halfway. By the time he got to the other side, his brother and the two ghouls had disappeared into the trees. Sam followed as long as there was a trail, but that had quickly tapered off, and Sam had never been the tracker his brother was. Yelling hadn't produced a response, nor had his phone. Dean's phone didn't even seem to be working, which was all the more reason to worry.
Sam turned in place in the small clearing, looking around helplessly for any sign as to where to go.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. He'd gotten Dean back from Hell, Purgatory, and even death. Sam wasn't about to lose him in a friggin' park. He spun on his heel and headed back to the car.
The park was crisscrossed with roads. They'd parked not too far away before heading in, but you could drive to within a few hundred feet of any spot in the park. Close enough to hear, and Sam was counting on that now.
Twisting his key in the ignition, he barely let Dean's baby warm up before he shot down the road. And started honking.
Three short honks, then a pause to listen for a response, his head out the window like a dog's. Another three honks, then another silence.
A raven cawed, and in the distance a siren rose and faded. Sam kept going.
Three beeps, the letter S: the beginning of SOS, and of Sam, invented by Samuel Morse. Dean would know it was him if he heard it. If he was capable of hearing anything, let alone responding.
Sam turned at a corner, building a mental map. At this rate it would be about a half-hour before he got through the whole park, and if Dean was bleeding out somewhere or fighting for his life, that was a problem. But Sam had no other solution. So he kept driving and honking, and straining to hear an answer.
And then he did. A gunshot rang out, from the trees on his left. There was a pause, and then two more quick shots. Dash-dot-dot: D. Dean.
Sam skidded to a halt and bolted from the car. He slid down the short embankment and ran into the trees, gun in one hand, machete in the other.
The ghoul found him first, bloody and afraid, fleeing more than attacking. Sam still took its head with one chop.
The second ghoul was sprawled across some moss, dying from a deep but incomplete chop to the neck. Sam quickly finished it.
And finally, Dean, propped against a tree. One hand pressed against his bleeding neck while he fumbled for his handkerchief with the other. His leg was also bleeding, jeans torn on the right calf, like the two ghouls had started in on either end of him.
"Dean," Sam gasped with fear and relief as he dropped his weapons and crouched at his brother's side. He grabbed the handkerchief and folded it into a compress, prying Dean's fingers from the wound—a bite mark, but not at the artery, thank God—to press it into place.
"You get the other one?" Dean mumbled.
"Lost its head."
"Good." He gave Sam a token shove, clearly not really wanting to push him away, just reassure he wasn't a total invalid. "'M'okay, Sam."
"Dude, you're bleeding like a stuck pig. How bad's your leg?"
"Won't hold weight," Dean admitted in a tight voice. He tilted his head back against the tree trunk, pale but fully conscious. Sam would take that. "Nice trick with the car. You didn't scratch her, did you?"
Sam tied the kerchief as tightly as he could without cutting off Dean's air, and moved down to the leg. He winced. Yeah, antibiotics were definitely on the menu, and a visit to the nearest clinic. "No, but I think I left the door standing open," he said absently.
Dean muttered a curse, and again when Sam wrapped his leg with his own handkerchief.
But he eased into the car with a relieved sigh once they'd hobbled back, some of the lines in his face smoothing.
And maybe Sam gave her roof a pat before he got in, too.
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Lucifer—no, Nick—was gone, and somehow Sam tumbled back out of the car. The road was cold under his back, and he could barely see the pale sunlight. It was getting dimmer, the pain more distant, and Sam fought the ebbing, knowing there was no return.
And then Dean was there, summoned like the guardian angel he was, his hands warm against Sam's chilled skin. Talking to him, counting—counting? Words blurred but tone warm, worried.
Sam felt the pull even stronger. No regrets except for leaving Dean behind. He tried to gather his scattered thoughts together to tell Dean as much, to grab his brother and hold on, but it was all slipping away.
And then he rushed back to himself with a gasp, healed.
Jack.
Dean spun away on his heel, momentarily overwhelmed at the near but certain loss.
Jack said he'd dealt with Nick and was returning to Mary. He vanished as quickly as he'd come, leaving Donatello watching them silently. And Dean, who still looked shellshocked.
"Dean," was all Sam had to quietly say.
The one word yanked Dean's attention back to him. Then his brother was patting him down, checking his eyes, scruffing the back of his neck hard, his whole face shining with relief.
And Sam patted him back, sorrowful and grateful.
His brother always came when Sam called.
The End