A/N Words cannot express how appreciative I was of all your kind words, they helped me through this week and meant a lot to me! I hope that you enjoy the second half of this story :)
I do have another story in the works, one that I'm currently excited about it but we will see if I still feel that way when it comes time to post and I've had time to dwell on all the numerous flaws that will be there. However, I do have a very busy/stressful end of November and beginning of December (starting tomorrow, actually) so I don't know how soon it will be up. It may be a hot second, and for that I'm sorry. My best guess is that it will be up sometime around the end/beginning of the year.
Chapter Two
Dean carefully leaned the sword against the wall nearest to their packs and turned back to the secret compartment filled.
He stared at them for a moment, but his interest was rapidly fading, replaced instead with a crushing sense of misery and loss. He didn't want any new weapons, he just wanted his Dad back.
Holding in a sigh, Dean turned away and dropped down to sit against the wall, feeling…what he couldn't even really identify.
He didn't want to be here but, if the way that Sam and Bobby had been salivating over the old journals meant anything, then they were going to be here for a while. Dean thunked his head back against the wall. He could have been doing more productive things than sitting around some dead dude's cabin. As soon as Bobby came back from looking for whatever shed he had been talking about, he was going to insist that they pack up and head out. It would be getting dark soon, and he did not want to spend the night here, not if they could help it.
Sam could read in the truck.
From the other room, he heard Sam start to call his name before he was abruptly cut off.
That was…odd.
Unease sparked in Dean's chest that had nothing to do with grief and he stood, poking his head through the door to ensure everything was alright.
He was just in time to see what looked a lot like a ghost pin Sam up against the wall by his throat.
"Oh, crap." Dean's mouth dropped open in amazement and then fear as his brain kickstarted.
Flinging himself back into the main room, Dean looked around, searching for a weapon of any kind. He hadn't brought anything like that, why hadn't he brought anything? And then his gaze fell on the cobwebbed-covered poker that was resting against the hearth.
They were almost always made out of iron.
From the other room, he heard the thud of a body hitting something and he whirled around.
"SAM!" he yelled, lunging for the doorway, poker held aloft but before he could get through the door, he was thrown backward. He hit the ground hard and it took him a moment to struggle back onto his feet.
Shaking his head to clear it, he snatched the poker back up and charged at the door. He was too late, the door was already slamming shut. He didn't stop and, tucking his shoulder to gain the bulk of his leverage, threw himself against the door.
Grunting, he staggered back when nothing happened.
Fine. If that was how ghosty in there wanted to play…Holding the poker tightly, Dean kicked the door with as much force as he could muster. The old wood creaked, but besides that, there was no give and Dean frowned. Backing up, he flung himself at the door again, this time with a running start.
Still nothing happened, Gideon—or whom Dean assumed to be Gideon—holding the otherwise weak door shut.
"SAM!"
Dean slapped his palm against the door, fear burning hot and strong through him. Sam was alone, he probably didn't have any sort of weapons on him, and was facing off against a ghost. Ghosts killed people—killed hunters—all the time and if John's death had hurt, then what would Sam's feel like? If Sam—
"SAMMY!"
Dean backed up again, throwing himself uselessly at the door for all that he was worth.
It wasn't working, the door wasn't going to budge and time was too precious to waste.
"Damnit." The fear was like acid, eating away at his insides and turning his brain into mush as he tried to think of a solution.
Ripping the fake wall off again, he sorted hurriedly through the weapons, trying to find something that would work. An old axe had been buried behind a gun, and Dean snatched it up. From the other side of the door, Sam let out a yell that pierced straight through Dean's soul.
Rounding on the simple piece of wood obstructing his access to his brother, he swung the axe with everything that he had, burying the head deep into the wood. He would get through that door, or he would die trying.
It was as simple as that.
Wrenching the axe out, he swung again.
Behind him, the main door swung open and Dean spun around, axe coming up but it was only Bobby bursting inside.
"Dean, get Sam. We have…" Bobby trailed off, taking in the room. "Where's Sam?" he barked.
"Gideon has him," Dean growled, turning back to the door and swinging the axe again. Bobby swore under his breath even as he began to rifle through the many pockets on his vest.
"I was out in the woods, and I saw him pulling up water from the well before he headed back this direction, or at least going through the motions of doing so," he explained hurriedly. "I don't think that he knows that he's dead. He was just going about his daily routine, probably has been for the last few hundred years."
Dean shook his head. "I don't care if he thinks he's the pope. He has Sam," he repeated, swinging the axe and sending a thick chunk of wood flying.
"Think about it," Bobby said from behind him as he pulled a small and stout knife from his pocket. "He's going to be protecting his home, he's going to think that we are the intruders, that he has to save himself or be killed."
Dean's hands tightened around the handle of the axe as he swung it again with a satisfying thunk. He was just raising the axe again when a chill penetrated the air around them.
Dean's lip curled as he backed up, looking for the ghost. He was going to make the bastard pay.
Gideon appeared, stepping through the still-closed doorway.
"Hey, you sick son of a bitch," Dean barked, as he hefted the axe up to swinging height. Gideon's eyes went wide and he flickered out again a moment before Bobby could slash the knife—no doubt made of iron—into him.
"Damnit!" Bobby snapped as they both froze, waiting for Gideon to reappear.
Nothing happened.
"C'mon out…" Dean muttered, glancing around the room.
A moment later Sam screamed and Dean whirled around, his heart suddenly threatening to beat right out of his chest.
"SAMMY!"
Bobby cursed but grabbed Dean's arm before he could raise the axe. "I was thinking," he said hurriedly at Dean's murderous glare. "There might be a second door, one that would lead into the bedroom. One that wasn't booby-trapped, one that Gideon probably actually used. Gideon won't be expecting us to come from that direction if we can find it. We might be able to distract him."
Dean paused, but he didn't have time for another game of scavenger hunt. He was almost through this door, and Sam couldn't wait any longer. "You go look for that, I'm going to keep trying here."
Hefting the axe back to swinging height, he swung it hard, cracking another piece of wood off. Bobby disappeared, and Dean brought the axe down again.
The hole didn't need to be big, just large enough for him to fit through.
Sam screamed—actually screamed—and Dean no longer cared about making the hole large enough. This would simply have to work. Dropping the axe, he grabbed the poker instead and then forced himself through the crude hole. His shirt ripped, and he could feel splinters catching in his arm, but he didn't care.
He rose to find an image that would probably haunt his dreams for the next few days.
Sam was pressed up against the far wall covered in blood while Gideon had his hand sunk deep into his brother's chest.
"No!" Dean leaped forward, the poker already swinging.
Gideon started to turn, but he wasn't quick enough and the iron cut straight through his head. He dissolved into nothing with a short but furious cry. Dean dropped the poker, lunging to catch Sam who had gone limp.
"Hey, hey, hey, Sam!" Dean pinned Sam's lax body up against the wall with his own to keep him from sliding down any further. He had seen the knife impaling Sam's hand to the wall, and he wasn't about to let his full weight hang from that. It would probably tear straight through skin and bone, and that would cause more damage than Dean even wanted to think about. Not that it would matter if Gideon had damaged anything internally.
A mangled hand would be the least of their issues if his brother was dead.
"Sam? You with me?"
Sam's head dropped forward, coming to rest against Dean's neck. Swearing softly, Dean juggled one of his hands-free so that he could tilt his head back, trying to get a look at him.
None of the blood appeared to be coming from his mouth or nose, so that had to be a good thing, right?
"BOBBY!?" Dean looked around, feeling vulnerable. If Gideon came back now, there would be little that he could do to protect Sam. "BOBBY!"
There was a thud, and then the creaking of old wood announced the other hunter's entrance.
"I was right, there was a backdoor," Bobby said even as he appeared next to him, and Dean shifted, making room so that Bobby could better help balance Sam.
Dean didn't give a damn about the backdoor.
"Check him, is he—?" He couldn't finish the sentence, and he watched with apprehension as Bobby braced Sam's head, two fingers jammed against his pulse point.
"Bobby?" Dean asked, and his voice cracked at the end like some preteen kid but he couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment. If Sam's heart wasn't beating, if he was dead…
Bobby's shoulders relaxed. "It's too fast, but holding steady for the moment. Here, let's get him down before Gideon comes back." He stepped back, gently lowering Sam's head to rest against Dean's shoulder.
The relief took the edge off the fear and Dean shifted his weight once again to take all of Sam's.
Sam moaned softly, his head lolling back and Dean's attention snapped toward him. "Sammy? You back with us?"
For a moment, Sam didn't move and Dean thought that he had slipped back into unconsciousness before he stirred more noticeably, his head wobbling upright even as he struggled to get his eyes open.
"That's it. C'mon, wake up," Dean encouraged even as he glanced over at Bobby, who had come around to the other side to better examine the knife in Sam's hand.
Sam mumbled something that Dean couldn't make out, his voice hoarse and weak even as he shifted, trying to get his feet underneath him. Dean grunted, trying to follow his movements and keep him steady. They still hadn't ruled out internal injuries and Sam shouldn't be moving around.
Not that they had much of a choice. Gideon wouldn't be gone for long.
Sam seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "We…we should be getting out of here," he muttered, lifting his right hand to paw at Dean's jacket.
"One second. You're kind of stuck to the wall," Dean said, glancing pleadingly over at Bobby.
"Alright, brace yourself, Sam, this is gonna hurt," Bobby warned as he glanced around the small cabin again.
Sam nodded, taking a deep breath. Dean gripped him tightly, ready to help in whatever way he could.
"On three. One, two—"
Bobby yanked the knife out in one smooth motion and Sam hissed sharply, his eyes squeezing shut. Blood immediately started pooling from the wound, dripping down onto the floor.
"It's okay, I've gotcha. We're done, it's all good," Dean said as he slipped under Sam's arm and began to pull him forward. Bobby was wiping the knife off on his vest but gestured with his chin toward the middle of the floor.
"Sit him down there. We've got to do something about the bleeding and he can't go far, we'll just have to make a salt circle."
Dean snorted, feeling like he was about two feet tall. He was supposed to be an experienced hunter, after all. "We were idiots and didn't bring any salt. I wasn't exactly preparing to go up against a ghost."
"Unlike both of you, I'm not an idiot. I came prepared for anything," Bobby said with a glare even as he pulled out a baggie filled with salt from his vest. He began to pour it in a thin line around where Dean was gently lowering Sam to sit on the floor, creating a barrier between him and Gideon should he decide to come back.
"I'm good. I'm okay," Sam said, giving Dean a soft smile that was rather ruined in effect by the blood coating his face, neck, and arms.
"I'll believe that when you're not bleeding like a stuck pig," Dean growled. He still wasn't sure where all Sam was bleeding from or how bad it was. Ripping off his own flannel, he tossed it aside to be used later if need be and then pulled his t-shirt off. Yanking his boot knife out, he began to cut the material into jagged pieces.
The temperature in the room dropped and, while his ministrations did not cease, Dean looked around warily.
"Bobby?"
"Already on it," Bobby said as he completed the salt circle and tucked the remaining salt back into his pocket. He picked up the poker, flipping it expertly in his hands. Gideon appeared a moment later, but, before he could do anything, Bobby cut him through. The look of surprise on his face might have been amusing another time, but Dean couldn't even find it in himself to feel pity.
Anger and fear were too busy eating up his insides.
Bobby turned to them. "I've got to try to find the body if I can. It's clearly not here in the cabin so…just sit tight and try not to do anything stupid until I burn the bones."
Sam shifted, trying to pull away from Dean. "You should go with him, watch his back," he said pointedly, trying to balance without putting pressure on either of his arms, which seemed to be bleeding the worst.
"No," Bobby said sharply, pointing the poker at Sam. "We've got to get that bleeding under control. I'll be fine."
Without leaving any room for argument, he handed the poker back to Dean and then, pulling out his knife, strode towards the small door that had been cleverly hidden in the back of the bedroom wall.
Sam looked like he wanted to say something else, and Dean quickly spoke over him.
"How are you feeling? Do you think that you're bleeding internally?"
If Sam said yes, he didn't know what he was going to do. They were in the middle of freakin' nowhere. Sam would die long before he could get him help. He pursed his lips together, trying to keep from losing control.
He began to wrap a large swath of fabric around the hole in Sam's hand probably rougher than he normally would, but he was scared.
"Sam, are you bleeding internally?" he repeated, tying it off as tightly as he dared. Sam hissed, his face paling a little.
"No. I'm not—I don't think that he did any damage. I'm okay."
"Think's not good enough. What are you feeling?" Dean insisted as he moved up to the still bleeding and jagged cut on Sam's upper arm and began to wrap it as well.
"I'm fine. My chest is sore, that's it, I swear. Besides that, I feel normal."
Dean wasn't sure that he believed him, Sam was still white and in a clear amount of pain, but he didn't know what other choice he had. Tying off the bandage, he took Sam's other arm in his hand, his stomach churning a little as he got his first look at the ugly wound. It looked like the knife had been twisted, the son of a bitch.
That one would probably scar.
Sam watched Dean wrapping his arm with some sort of avid fascination, still looking half out of it. "You should go after Bobby," he said, but Dean just shook his head, tying off that bandage.
"Once we get you patched up a little more and I'm sure that you're not going to die on me, then I'll go," he promised as he pulled tight the fabric, ignoring Sam's grunt of pain.
"Dean, I've got it. Go," Sam insisted as he reached out with a badly trembling hand for the bandages.
"Dude, both your arms have holes in them, just…" Dean shook his head and cut Sam's next words off with a look. Sam wisely shut up.
He didn't have an ideal way to bandage Sam's cheeks at the moment and they already looked to be clotting, so he let them be. The makeshift bandages around Sam's right hand and upper arm, however, were already spotted heavily with blood.
"Damnit." Dean rubbed at his forehead with the back of his arm, his hands bloody, before he began to wrap a second layer around the wounds.
Sam sat silent, clearly trying not to show how much pain he was in even though Dean could easily read it.
"Almost done, hang on," Dean promised, trying to be more gentle. "Is there anything else?"
Sam blinked dazedly at him before shaking his head to clear it. "My hand, I mean my fingers, he was gonna…" he trailed off but Dean was already picking Sam's hand up again. He hadn't noticed it before with all the blood but now he could see the jagged cuts running across Sam's middle and ring fingers that were still leaking blood.
He examined them for a second, trying to determine how deep they were, before wrapping the fingers together and winding another bandage around them.
"It's not that bad," he promised, looking up to meet Sam's eyes so that he could see the truth of it. "Didn't even get through the muscle, it's just going to be painful if you bend them for a little bit."
Sam nodded, swallowing thickly, and slowly pulled his hand from Dean's grasp. Without having to be told, he slowly brought the injured hand up to rest against his opposite shoulder to keep it elevated.
Dean stared at Sam, his heart still somewhere in his throat. Sam looked stable, he didn't seem to be bleeding out internally, but still… nothing was comforting about seeing his little brother covered in his own blood.
Sam gave him a wan smile. "I'm good, Dean. Go help Bobby."
Dean nodded, but he couldn't get his legs to agree to get up and move. Sam gave him such an understanding look that Dean had to look away. Sam wouldn't let him, laying his hand clumsily on Dean's knee.
"'m just going to sit here, promise."
Dean hated this. He hated this so much, but Sam was right. He couldn't leave Bobby alone to fight off Gideon.
"Alright." Clapping Sam gently on the knee, he stood. "Don't move, and keep your arms elevated as much as possible. If you need anything—anything at all—then yell, okay?"
"No, I know," Sam said but caught Dean's attention again when he bumped his hand against his leg. "Dean, be safe," he ordered, his eyes boring into his, and Dean could read the sudden fear there, the fear of being left alone. Of being the last Winchester.
Damn if he didn't know how that felt all too well.
Lightly, he rested his hand atop Sam's hair, a silent promise that he wasn't alone, and then he scooped up the poker and ran out of the back door.
Bobby was nowhere in sight and he froze, unsure of what direction to go.
"BOBBY?" he yelled, and then waited a beat. A moment later, Bobby answered his call from somewhere close by and he darted in that direction.
He didn't get very far before Gideon flickered into view directly in front of him.
"You, monster, will burn in hell."
Dean was so over his little song and dance.
"You know what? You can shove it up your ass," he said as he swung the poker. Gideon was learning, it seemed, and he flickered out just in time for Dean's swing to not connect, appearing right behind Dean.
He stretched out his hand, flinging Dean up against the nearest tree, and pinned him there.
"You are a kinky son of a bitch, you know that?" Dean grunted, struggling to move or to reach the poker that he had dropped.
Gideon's lip lifted in a curl as his hand wrapped around Dean's throat and squeezed.
"HEY!"
Bobby appeared next to them, and the shout was enough to make Gideon flinch, releasing Dean. He dropped to the ground and, grabbing the poker, shoved it straight through what would have been Gideon's stomach.
He dissolved, and Dean dropped back to the ground, coughing. Bobby offered him a hand up, and Dean accepted it.
"Sam okay?" Bobby asked as he set off in a brisk walk back the way that he had come.
Dean hurried to catch up, glancing behind him as he did so. "He's fine for the moment."
Bobby nodded, striding up a small hill. Halfway up, he stopped, bending down to pick up one of Gideon's old journals that he must have abandoned.
"I figured Gideon must have decided you were the easier target," Bobby explained. "He's been popping up every few minutes."
"I'd like to see him try now," Dean growled, his face flushing with embarrassment at indeed being such an easy target, as Bobby turned the journal over, studying what looked to be a map there.
"I'm sure you'll get the chance," Bobby said distractedly, once again moving up the hill.
"What are you looking for?" Dean hurried to catch up, trying to see over Bobby's shoulder.
"A pit. Gideon built it as another booby trap and it's marked on the map, but I half-wonder if he fell into it himself and couldn't get out."
"What kind of man falls into his own trap?" Dean snorted and Bobby gave him a quelching look.
"You'd better hope that's what happened. Otherwise, we are going to have to find something else of his to burn."
He suddenly halted, throwing out a hand to stop Dean as well. "Or," he said, pointing towards a steep drop-off ahead of them. "That's right by the root cellar. It's possible that he fell or walked right off it on accident. They would get a lot of snow out here in the winter, and if it had been a blizzard or something…." He trailed off, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
Dean didn't care anymore, not as long as they found Gideon's remains and burned them sooner rather than later.
He was a little uneasy with the fact that Gideon hadn't returned yet. He could be going after Sam as they spoke, could be yanking his heart out of his chest. Dean's stomach churned and he resisted the urge to take off back down the hill.
Glancing around for Gideon, they hurried over to the edge. It was an abrupt drop-off, one that Dean could easily see becoming dangerous in bad weather. He leaned over the edge, trying to see if there was anything at the bottom.
"How the hell are we supposed to get down there without breaking our necks?"
"By being damn careful, that's how. Now, I think that whoever goes down there is gonna be safe from Gideon. Subconsciously or not, he's not going to want to go down there. He's not going to want to see his remains because, you know, it will mean that he is indeed dead. So do you want to play interference, or do you want to climb down?"
"Oh, I want to smack this dude right where it hurts," Dean said, flexing his grip on the poker.
"Of course you do." Bobby rolled his eyes, dropping his backpack to the ground and pulling out a length of rope. Using it, he began to make his way carefully down the steep sides.
Dean looked around, setting his stance. "C'mon out, you little bastard," he half-yelled.
Nothing happened. Gideon had to be down in the cabin, with Sam. "Come and get me, Gideon! I'm right here, how hard could it be!"
He didn't expect that to work, but Gideon appeared a moment later.
Dean smirked.
"Shouldn't have done that, man," he said before he swung the poker like he was hitting a home run and Gideon disappeared.
Gideon was quicker to appear this time, his growing frustration evident in his flustered expression.
"You're dead, Face the reality," Dean said, holding out the poker in front of him, keeping Gideon at bay.
Gideon shook his head determinedly. "You cannot be trusted. You are a monster."
"Oh, shut up and pull your head out of your ass. You can do things that no human can do, face the music. You're dead."
Gideon's face contorted and, for the third time that day, Dean was flying back. He came dangerously close to going over the edge, only luck saving him from the same fate as what Gideon had probably suffered.
Pushing himself up to his feet, Dean flipped the poker over, ready to impale Gideon, but the ghost seemed oddly reluctant to come any closer. It made Dean wonder if Bobby was onto something about Gideon's bones being down at the bottom.
"Why do you kill God-fearing folk?" Gideon asked and Dean scoffed.
"Why do I—? You tortured my brother. And just so you know, you don't get to just choose between life and death. People die all the time so suck it up. There is no way around it."
Gideon hissed, taking another step closer and Dean held out the poker defiantly.
Dean half hoped that he would come at him anyway, that he would give him a chance to vent some of the anger and frustration that was eating away at him because his dad was dead. He wasn't coming back.
Dean had to face the reality that the one person he had counted on for all of his life, was just…gone.
Dean was gripping the poker so tightly that it hurt as he stared Gideon down.
Gideon remained frozen, a fearful look on his face, until he suddenly let out a horrible, welling, scream as white flames began to lick up his body.
He dispersed into nothing for the last time, leaving behind only an eerie silence.
Dean slowly lowered the poker, breathing heavily from pent-up emotion more than exertion, and bent down to look over the edge at Bobby. "You found the body?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.
"Yeah, right here at the base. His leg bone was twisted all funny, I think that he must have fallen and broken it," Bobby called up, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand so that he could look up at Dean.
It would have been a horrible way to die, no wonder that Gideon had created his own false reality where he was not, in fact, dead.
"You need a hand up?"
"Nah. Gonna make sure that we don't start a forest fire or anything. You okay?"
Dean would rather not answer that question, at least not emotionally.
"What, me? Yeah, I'm fine. Gideon didn't touch me."
Now that Gideon was gone, he should be getting back to Sam. He had been alone now for probably half an hour and he hadn't exactly been in top-notch condition.
"You sure you can get up okay?" Dean asked and Bobby waved a hand at him.
"Go take care of your brother."
Dean didn't need to be told twice. Taking off at a run back down the hill, he headed towards the cabin.
"Sam?" he called as he burst through the back door that he had left hanging wide open.
"Here," Sam answered. He was laying on his side on the floor, his bad arm draped over his eyes in some effort to keep it elevated. He was still mostly within the salt circle.
"You okay?" Dean dropped down to kneel next to him, his finger's finding the pulse point on Sam's throat.
Sam's head rolled in his direction and he flapped his right arm in a 'calm down' kind of motion. "Got dizzy, had to lay down," he explained in a mumble and Dean grimaced as he caught sight of the heavily spotted bandages. The one around his hand looked soaked through.
"Right. It's not because of blood loss or shock or anything." Dean stretched so that he could grab the corner of the crudely made chair from the desk and dragged it over. He swung Sam's feet up to rest on it, elevating his legs.
"I'm not in shock," Sam protested a beat too late for Dean's liking.
"Of course not."
"No, really. I'd let you know if I was."
Dean forced a smile even as he settled down next to Sam and, gathering up his bad hand, began to wind another set of bandages around it. "Just 'cause you might believe something, doesn't make it true. Can you make a fist?"
He held his breath, waiting. Sam's face twisted into a grimace, but his hand flexed, slowly coming together to form a fist. He relaxed his hand with a low groan, but Dean was grinning.
"There we go!" he said, for once his excitement not exaggerated. If Sam could move his hand, then hopefully it meant that little to no damage had been done. All it would need was some antibiotic cream and stitches. That, he could provide.
Sam closed his eyes again, wilting back against the floor with a sigh, and Dean resumed wrapping the hand, watching Sam carefully as he did so.
Was Sam just being moody because he had been tortured by a ghost, which made sense…or had what Gideon said gotten to him? Dean knew Sam's fears about…not being human, about turning into some freak. A monster.
Dean didn't want to confront the issue. Words weren't exactly his strong point, not unless he was using them to hurt others, it seemed. Comforting people and making nice, that was more of Sam's thing.
But it was for Sam, and Sam was already hurting. Dean had seen the raw edges—the grief—more than once and he knew that he hadn't made it any easier. He had said things that while maybe true shouldn't have been said. And he couldn't touch that right now, he couldn't make that better, but he might be able to do something about this.
Clearing his throat, Dean began to wind another bandage around Sam's upper arm, concentrating on that even as he said, "You know that Gideon was a couple of carrots short of the stick, right?"
"Hmm, what?" Sam refocused on Dean with a wince. "Oh, yeah. Gideon was…completely insane."
Dean fumbled, unsure of how to ask what he wanted to without going too deep. He just wanted to make sure that Sam was okay, not discuss destiny or the universe. Or what would happen if Sam did turn into some kind of monster and he would have to kill him?
Either save Sam or kill him.
Sam's bandage hand closed briefly around his knee, and Dean frowned at his brother.
"Don't do that. Keep it still or it's never going to stop bleeding."
"Dean," Sam said it softly, watching Dean intently.
Damn the kid. Why was he able to read Dean so well?
"So, you're not gonna get all kicked-puppy over this, right? Because, if so, I'll just leave you here for a couple of days until you get over it," Dean ventured and Sam huffed a laugh.
"Not today. Maybe next week," he said, and he was joking, Dean knew that but it was like a knife through the heart and he had to look away.
Maybe. Maybe it would be next week when he shattered Sam's world and told him about John's last words. About Dad's impossible mission and how could John have asked that of him? How could he leave him with that without any explanation? It wasn't fair.
Some of his emotions must have spilled across his face because Sam's hand was tightening around his knee again and Dean blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the knot that he was tying.
"I already told you, cut that out, okay?" he said around the lump in his throat. "The bleeding might have finally slowed and if you get it started again…" he left the threat hanging, but Sam didn't appear to be bothered by it in the slightest.
"Dean, it's okay," he said and Dean turned his head away, licking at his lips. Sam knew him better than anyone else, knew what buttons to push to get him to open up, but Dean couldn't do it. He couldn't do it right now, not after listening to Sam's screams, not after everything. Not with John dead.
"I can't, Sam. I can't. Don't make me talk about it," he whispered, refusing to let the tears fall even as a mix of emotions that he couldn't even identify washed over him and made his voice drop lower. It was about to pull him under, and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to come back.
He didn't know what he expected Sam to do next, but it wasn't to relax back against the floor, rolling his head so that he could better look at Dean, and say, "Did you know that the westward expedition that Gideon went on was kind of doomed from the start when Captain Wilkinson was accused of trying to help Aaron Burr commit treason?"
Dean took a steadying breath. The change of subject was a clear lifeline—Sam probably hadn't even wanted to throw it out there, he could see Sam's own lingering fear and frustration in his eyes, the desire to get Dean to talk and open up about his feelings—but he latched onto it.
Dean couldn't. Not right now.
"Dude, I already told you, I don't care."
"Aaron Burr wanted to carve out a section of the west, or what used to be Spanish America, to make his own nation and some people think that Wilkinson was in on it, and that is why he helped organize the Pike Expedition," Sam continued like Dean hadn't said anything and he heaved an exaggerated sigh, patting Sam's chest once.
"You keep saying that name like I'm supposed to know who that is. I didn't pay attention in school, you know that, and especially not in history class."
Sam snorted but kept going even as he let his eyes fall shut. "They hit more trouble when the whole expedition was arrested when they trespassed into Mexico, where they most definitely were not supposed to go."
"Riveting," Dean said, mustering up as much sarcasm as he could as he laid Sam's arm back across his chest and then slipped his own jacket off. Folding it into a pillow of sorts, he slipped it under Sam's head, letting him ramble on, something about Texas.
Dean felt calmer now, or at least steadier, and not like he was about to lose it. He gripped Sam's shoulder lightly, absently kneading it in his attempt to offer comfort.
How could John ever think that Sam was going to go dark, or that he needed to be killed?
Dean didn't understand.
#
It was a long hike back to the pickup, and they seriously considered spending the night at the cabin. Gideon was gone and Sam's condition wasn't anywhere close to racing toward a hospital and civilization. It probably would have done Sam good to spend the night there and rest. In the end, it was Sam who managed to convince them that he could make the trip, however, despite Bobby's own personal worries about it.
Sam was still woozy and more than a little unsteady from the blood loss. The hike back wasn't exactly rigorous for someone who hadn't been recently tortured, but it wouldn't do him any favors. Dean overruled Bobby, however, once he was sure that Sam was going to be fine, claiming that the cabin gave him the jitters.
Apparently, they would not be moving in later in the summer despite the free real estate.
Shaking his head, Bobby finally admitted defeat and gathered up the remaining journals, tucking them into his and Sam's backpacks, both of which he shouldered. He offered with a look to take Dean's as well, but Dean shook his head as he helped Sam to first sit up, and then stand.
With Sam leaning heavily on Dean, they started the hike back just as the sun was beginning to go down. Once it got dark, Bobby took the lead, lighting the path for Dean with his flashlight. There were only a couple of rough spots where Bobby got underneath Sam's other shoulder, offering additional support, but in the end, they made it back with no falls or mishaps. Bobby was counting that as a win.
Sam and Dean had badly needed a win, that had been the whole point behind the trip, and Bobby now felt like an idjit for dragging them out here. This was supposed to have been for their good, but Sam had come away looking like he had been used for knife-throwing practice and Dean had a haunted look in his eyes.
Bobby could have wrung his own neck.
Dean pulled open the door of the truck and helped Sam up while Bobby unloaded the backpacks into the bed.
He purposefully took his time, listening to the almost silent conversation happening between the brothers as Dean forced first water, and then pain pills and a bag of trail mix onto Sam.
Sam called Dean a mother-hen, and Dean retorted that Sam was being a bitch about it.
It was almost like things were back to normal.
At last, they all squeezed back into the truck, Dean clambering as gently as he could past Sam to sit in the middle, and started the couple of hours drive back to town, a motel room, and what was sure to be a fun evening of putting in stitches.
Sam was asleep before they were even off the mountain, his body as exhausted as his mind, and his head came to rest against Dean's shoulder. Dean didn't say anything, not seeming to care about the lack of personal space as his head tipped down to rest against Sam's.
He stayed that way for a long time, staring off into the distance and looking both sad a grim before he too closed his eyes.
Bobby wasn't sure if he was actually asleep or not, but he wasn't about to call him on it.
The sight was enough for Bobby. It brought back fond memories of them as kids, curled up in the back seat of his truck. Life had gotten more complicated since then. John was dead, and the brothers were more miserable than they had ever been before. But they could still depend on each other, and that was something.
He doubted that few people had ever or would ever see this vulnerable side of the Winchesters, the soft underbelly that Dean in particular liked to hide. That was true now more than ever with Caleb and Pastor Jim…dead.
The boys had lost so much in such a few short weeks, but God help him, Bobby was still around and he was going to do whatever it took to assist.
They needed it, too. Sam and Dean found trouble quicker than they could get out of it. They hadn't even brought salt with them to an old, abandoned, cabin where they knew someone had more than likely died.
"Idjits," Bobby said softly to himself, shaking his head. "Both of 'em, complete idjits."
The End