Under a Haystack

By EB

©2006

4. Hide his head under his wing, poor thing

It's the moment he feels what Dad was talking about, all those years ago, all those times. You won't have time to think. Just react. There will come a time when your brain will actually hinder you rather than help.

Son of a bitch. Dad was right after all

The ghul's foot squeezes all the air out of him, and for a second Sam can't drag any more in, just freezes in place, and then he thinks about Dean, Dean in the ROOM, and he takes a whooping gasp and flings himself after the thing. It's sniffing the far bed, and Sam utters a snarl of his own as he reaches into the bag on the other bed and the sword seems to leap into his hand, bright and lethal and so eagerly ready.

The ghul howls when Sam thrusts, feels flesh giving beneath the blade, and hot black blood spurts. The creature whimpers, grasping at the sword, and twists. Sam tries to hold on, but blood is on his hands, burning like napalm, and he can't hold, sees the ghul yank the blade out of its side and fling it to clatter uselessly against the wall.

Sam screams, "You're too fucking late! He's not here! Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you, asshole!"

Black, angry eyes glare down at him. The ghul is big, bigger than he had imagined, and pain is transmogrifying into anger, frustration: it's hungry, knows there's a nice tender juicy child around here someplace, its favorite supper, and Sam has something to do with the fact that it can't FIND that child yet.

And as long as it's up to Sam, it never fucking will.

He meets that basilisk stare and grins, reaches down to grab his packed bag of tricks. "Right here," Sam says clearly, holding up the bag. He can almost see Dean's fiendish glee in his peripheral vision: kick its ASS, Sammy. Yeah, man. Gonna do my best.

"But," he adds, "you gotta go through me first."

The ghul snarls, and Sam turns on his heel and runs.

Draw it AWAY from Dean, yes, the imperative is as clear as the delighted terror in his veins: I know how to DO this, you ugly prick, draw your bleeding ass away from the room and out in the open where I can kill you. Yeah, baby. Come on.

His breath comes fast and cold in his chest, feet pelting across the parking lot, into the grassy expanse of empty lot beyond. Behind him, the ghul utters a hoarse barking cry, claws clittering on the asphalt. The wound has maybe slowed it down a little, but Sam's going all-out, legs pumping for all he's worth, and he can just about feel the ghul's hot breath on the back of his neck. This terror is like euphoria, and he's going to either whoop with weird joy or piss his pants, or maybe both, but for the moment he just runs.

There are trees, a business beyond the lot, and Sam tears around the corner, skids on the sidewalk and almost wipes out, then flings himself forward again. In a brick alcove, he stops short, breath whistling in his ears, and gropes in the bag, bringing out the loaded shotgun. Shoves extra shells in his pockets, peers around the corner.

Ghuls are basically walking stomachs, but they're not entirely brain-dead, and this one's been wounded already. It doesn't just come after him. Scents the air, its breaths sharp and animal, and the claws are slower now, clicking down to a walk.

Sam raises the shotgun to his shoulder and rounds the corner. "Looking for somebody?" he pants, and fires.

The shell takes the ghul up high, where a shoulder would be if its physiology looked like some normal thing instead of an Escher drawing on crack, and it flinches back but doesn't fall. Sam reloads fast, unthinking, hands moving as coolly and efficiently as Dad's, but when he lifts to fire the ghul has slunk behind the building.

"One more," Sam grits between clenched teeth. "Come on, you fucker, dance with me. You think you're eating HIM? Think again."

He stalks forward, and sees nothing. And looks up, and the ghul grins down at him, clinging to the eaves with its four-inch claws, and Sam doesn't have time to aim before its huge paw sends him flying across the little manicured spot of lawn, thudding against the dumpster.

Oh, that hurt. He's lost the shotgun, and the bag is behind him, safe and useless in the building's alcove. And he's pretty sure this time he can't get his breath back, because his lungs are two big sacks of concrete in his chest, useless.

The ghul drops to the sidewalk, shambles forward. Ghuls like children, but they'll settle for grownups, oh yes, like lamb versus mutton, you pays your money and you takes your choice, and Sam fights to get some oxygen and thinks, Dean. Dean, I'm real sorry, buddy. Guess maybe I couldn't do this on my own after all. You take care now. Hope you grow up tonight. I really hope so.

He turns his face in revulsion as stinking breath fills his nostrils, and the ghul utters a sharp, puzzled-sounding bark. Sam blinks blearily upward, and sees the ghul standing erect on hind legs, hands clutching its chest. A glowing wound has appeared, a slim stalk of wood branching from its very center. A little curl of smoke wafts away, caught by the steady breeze.

Sam whoops a welcome breath and turns awkwardly, looks behind him. Dean stands very still, the crossbow still held steady, his eyes hard to see in the murky light.

"Holy shit," Sam tries to say, and has to cough instead when his lungs seize up and demand air instead of talk.

The ghul shudders, sagging to the ground, and Sam dives out of the way, gasping and trying to curse. Beside him, Dean lowers the crossbow. His young face is blank, and in it Sam can see the man he will one day be again: cool and the tiniest bit cruel, matter-of-fact now that the deed is done. No recriminations.

Then the flash forward is gone, and Dean's expression crumples, fills with fear like milk poured into a glass.

"Here," Sam wheezes, and reaches for the crossbow, sagging limply in Dean's hand. "Go get the bag. It's over there."

Dean goes where he points, nervously skirting the whining ghul, and trots back a minute later with the heavy bag. He takes out the lighter fluid, holds it out to Sam.

"You want to?" Sam gasps.

Dean shakes his head quickly.

"Stand back."

He holds his chest while he gets up, but the pain's already down to a dull roar, and he douses the ghul fast. It's early enough people will be up still, and lots will have heard that shotgun. Not a bad thing, actually; a fire here stands a good chance of burning this building, so the fire department will need to be called anyway. You don't leave ghuls alive. Unburned. They only crawl away and heal, and before you know it they're back again. Take no prisoners, it's the Winchester Way, by God, and he digs matches out of his pocket and lights the whole book, flinging it on the whining thing's back.

It goes up like a torch, foomp, and Sam draws back, nose wrinkling at the stench of blazing fur and flesh.

"You okay?" he asks Dean breathlessly, and Dean nods and then leans forward and vomits on his feet.

It's long practice, on both their parts, and they get packed up and out of there in under ten minutes, fast and efficient. Sam's grinning while he piles into the car, and beside him Dean has a shaky smile on his face, too, pale under the parking lot's sodium-lamp glare but okay. There are people milling around, so Sam doesn't peel out. Just starts the car and leaves, see ya, sorry about the mess but you know how it is with demon-hunting these days. Hell on the landscaping.

He smells smoke and puke, and it's like perfume to him right then, familiar and disgusting and welcome. "Kicked its ASS," he says, and rubs his chest a little. "Dude, you were AWESOME! The crossbow! What did you do?"

Dean says tremulously, "Didn't know what to take. Daddy said one time to use the silver-tip bolts when you weren't sure. And I put this on it, too." He holds up the other plastic bottle of holy water. It trembles in his hand.

"Covering all the bases." Sam reaches out and ruffles Dean's matted hair, still grinning. "Awesome," he repeats, shaking his head. "You are truly Dean, man. A little shorter, but wow."

He glances back at him, and Dean claps his hand over his mouth.

"Aw, not in your car." Sam pulls over right there, and Dean scrabbles to open the door, scooting out and landing on his hands and knees.

It penetrates slowly, bogged down by adrenaline and the animal pleasure of winning, of a righteous kill. Dean's on the ground, barfing like he's throwing up a lung or two along with his stomach, and Sam springs out of the car, circling around and dropping to kneel next to him. Under his suddenly anxious hand Dean's back is tight as a bowstring, shaking badly.

"It's okay," Sam croons, rubbing helplessly while Dean just keeps on retching, and now he's crying, too, at the same time. "We did it, Dean, everything's good, you did great."

Dean raises his head. A string of puke hangs from his mouth, and he lifts his wildly shaking hand and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. "I nuh- Never kuh-KILLED anything. Before."

"Oh, man," Sam breathes, sagging to sit on the pavement.

"I want my DADDY," Dean moans, and leans over to vomit some more of the nothing in his stomach.

Stunned, Sam nods, swallows hard. Then he fumbles an old tissue out of his front pocket and waits until Dean's spasms look like they're done, before reaching out to wipe his mouth for him.

"I didn't know," Sam whispers, using the other end of the wadded-up tissue to swipe at Dean's nose. "I'm sorry, honey, I didn't realize you'd never –" He swallows again, shakes his head. There isn't much he CAN say. His Dean never killed anything until he was twelve. That was with Dad. Now, here with Sam and no Dad in sight, instead of having a better life Dean's managed to be in on a kill at the tender age of seven.

Way to go, big brother, his mind jeers at him. Yeah, this is a REAL good life for a kid. Shoe's on the other foot now, ain't it? And how's that crow taste, anyway?

Kinda…burnt?

He ignores the stink, tosses away the tissue and folds Dean into his arms, and this time Dean comes willingly, crying in hoarse huge whoops, beyond words.

It takes a while to get Dean anywhere near calmed down. Sam sits silently, leaning against the Impala's front quarter-panel and rocking a little, watching the hubbub from a safe distance. Cop cars, check; fire trucks, check. It isn't a bad fire, from what he can see. Doesn't look like the building caught, at least. That's good. He's down with the demon-killing, way down with that, but he generally tries to draw the line at arson. Hazard of the trade sometimes, but then again they're generally four miles outside Boondocks city limits, or farther, and Dean was pretty good about making sure things didn't get out of hand.

Dean, now, is still hiccuping with the aftermath of the gigantic post-hunt meltdown, and Sam presses his nose against Dean's hair and closes his eyes and thinks, I'm so completely not prepared for this. He deserves more. Way better than this.

When even the hiccups are gone, he gently pulls away a few inches. "Ready?" he asks quietly.

Dean nods, and gives a tired sigh.

He puts Dean back in the passenger seat, and buckles the seatbelt around him before closing the door firmly and circling back to the other side.

Just to be safe, he drives about twenty miles down the road, nearly to Austin before stopping at an isolated little motel a few hundred yards off the road. He looks over, and sees Dean is fast asleep, face pressed against the door, hands curled in his lap.

Toting Dean, who doesn't even mutter or budge when Sam scoops him out of the car, he goes into the tiny office and gets a room. The clerk is an enormously fat woman, with ravishing ivory skin, and she doesn't even give Sam the hairy eyeball for his disheveled appearance. Just gets a sweet look on her face, looking at Dean.

"Past somebody's bedtime," she says, smiling.

"Way past." Sam tries for an answering smile. "Hope you have a vacancy."

She plucks a key from a battered board and slides it over the counter. "You're in luck. Two left. This one's closer."

"Thanks." He signs the register, hands her a card he hopes isn't too rubberized by this point, and ducks out again.

He leaves the Impala where it is, juggles Dean while he takes out their bags, and thanks the clerk under his breath when he sees their door just a hundred yards or so away. And to think, if he were Dad, he'd have two kids right now, not just this one. And wouldn't THAT be fun?

The room is neat and fresh-smelling, bright carpet and two beds that look like Mecca to Sam. He drops the bags and eases Dean onto the near bed, frowns at his dirty face. Dean is beyond caring, at this point, but Sam flinches at the thought of what the clerk must have seen, and goes into the tiny bathroom and wets a washcloth.

Dean stirs when Sam wipes his face, and whispers a groggy, "Daddy?"

"Shhh." Sam rubs away the remains of the vomit, the dirt, the smoke. "Everything's okay. Go to sleep, buddy." He takes one of Dean's hands and wipes it off, thinks about these tiny hands grasping the heavy crossbow and firing. How had Dean managed to cock the thing in the first place? He envisions him pulling with both hands, the terror of not knowing where they'd gone or what had happened to Sam. The courage it had to have taken to follow, and fire.

Dean reaches up and touches Sam's cheek, his face sleepily wondering. "Don't cry, Sammy," he whispers. "Daddy'll take care of us."

Sam sniffs and wipes Dean's other hand briskly. "You get a bath in the morning, first thing." He manufactures a smile, and reaches to yank the covers out from under Dean, pulling them over him. "But I guess it can wait until then. Go back to sleep, okay?"

Dean nods. His eyes are puffy and bright green from crying. "Night, Sammy."

"Night, Dean," Sam whispers.

He stands, feeling his knees wobbling beneath him, and wipes his own hands on the cloth, swipes it over his face. His eyes are burning, and it isn't from smoke. His chest throbs, combo shot of being stomped and then tossed like a ragdoll, but he's pretty sure nothing's actually broken. Just had the wind knocked out of him, and then redux.

In the bathroom, sure that Dean is rock-solid sleeping, he peels out of his filthy clothes and lets them drop on the floor. The water's steaming hot, and he lets it sluice over him, and then leans his head against the tile and lets the sobs bubble up, safe from prying ears.

What the fuck does he think he's doing? His mind can come up with a hundred different ways Dean could have died tonight, and fifty more for himself. It doesn't help, knowing he'd gladly die in Dean's place – if that happens, who will watch out for Dean? He's just a little kid, maybe a little better at some pretty arcane skills than any others Sam has known, but it doesn't matter. Dean's a child and John Winchester's life is dangerous for grownups, but for a kid it's too easy for it to be downright deadly.

He sees those daggerlike claws ripping into Dean's defenseless belly, and coughs a sob like a bullet, shaking his head wildly. No. No, it can't BE like this. Dean has to grow up again, has to be HIMSELF again, because Sam cannot do this, cannot be – brother and father and warrior chief all rolled into one. It's too much, it's too damn much.

After a while the water starts to cool off a little, and Sam washes with jerky automatic motions, rinses and dries himself off and goes to find something clean to wear. Dean lies motionless under the covers, sweet face lax and too young in sleep. Sam steps into shorts and tugs on a tee shirt, sighing with bone-deep weariness.

He drops a forlorn kiss on Dean's warm cheek before turning down his own bed and flicking off the lamp. He's asleep before he can worry about what kinds of nightmares this will kick off in his subconscious.