I disclaim stuff.
Thanks to all of my reviewers. I didn't have a chance to respond to most of you. This is not because I don't love you.
A very special thanks goes to Ophelia. Except for a couple of chapters in the middle, Ophelia has betad this whole story. She has improved both the quality of the story itself and my own understanding of the art of creative writing immeasurably. But this time, she did much more for me than that.
I got stuck on this chapter, people. There was a gaping plot hole I didn't know what to do with. Desperate, I sent my draft to Ophelia and asked her what the heck I should do. So in addition to correcting my errors and pointing out clumsy phrases, she also made a couple of simple plot suggestions which effortlessly and elegantly fixed the problem.
I know it's important to give credit and thanks where due. At least in this chapter, Ophelia was more than a beta. For this chapter, she deserves co-author credit. Even if only a few of the words are hers, this chapter would not be nearly completed without her help. So when you review this chapter, which I hope you will, include your thanks to Ophelia. That way, when she reads the reviews, she can know that more than one person appreciates her efforts.
Sappy stuff out of the way, here is Hunter/Killer Chapter 8, a couple of days early.
Chapter 8: Pain Management
Dean stumbled into the emergency room, Sam cradled in his exhausted arms. His brother was heavier than he was, and Dean couldn't even feel his right shoulder anymore, but adrenaline allowed people to accomplish impressive things. The lobby was crowded, noisy, the fluorescent lights unnecessarily bright. Dean dared not shut his eyes. He turned around, looking for someone, anyone, to take care of his brother.
"Someone help me," he said barely above a whisper, his voice as weak as his body. "My brother, he's hurt."
The din around him quieted, waiting-room conversations dying at the sight of the unfolding tragedy.
"Somebody HELP HIM!" Dean yelled, surprised at the sound of his own voice in the fresh silence. A moment passed and Dean wavered, barely catching himself. "I'm getting dizzy and I don't know how much longer I can…"
He blacked out for a moment. Someone caught him as he tumbled forward, and he felt Sam being pulled out of his arms. For a moment he fought it, his clouded mind unsure about giving his brother up. It took considerable effort to overwhelm his instincts and let Sam go.
"We'll take him sir, are you hurt?" The voice was calm but forceful.
Dean blinked and looked around him. Two blue-scrubbed men were wheeling Sam away on a gurney, while another stood before him now. The short young man looked no older than Dean.
"No, 'm fine," Dean slurred unconvincingly. "But my brother, he's in really bad shape. I think he lost a lot of blood…"
"The other doctors will take care of him now, sir. Don't worry about that. Can you tell me your name?" The doctor's gentle brown eyes were looking up into Dean's, evaluating him.
"Dean. My brother's name is Sam." Dean's head was swimming. He felt weak. He didn't feel like talking to this guy. He needed to go after Sam.
He took a step and collapsed, unconscious before he hit the floor.
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At some point his unconsciousness had turned to sleep, and with that sleep came cruel dreams.
He saw the fight over and over again, from start to finish. He recalled every awful word he'd said. You're not natural. They still died because of you. The only thing they had in common was you. He felt every brutal blow he'd struck. Sam's ribs crunching beneath his boot. The pop of Sam's shoulder being forced out of its socket. The snap of his arm breaking as Dean twisted. The nauseating feeling of his dagger sliding through Sam's flesh.
Worse than all of that, he saw Sam's reactions. Dean remembered Sam's vulnerable anguish at his accusations. The pain in his eyes as he seemed to believe what Dean was saying. The anger he showed as he brought his fists up to do battle. Dean remembered with perfect clarity every painful whimper, yelp, and cry he'd elicited from the boy he'd spent his life protecting. Sam's gasp when Dean punched his solar plexus. His grunt when Dean elbowed him across the jaw. That final, drawn-out scream as Dean broke his body against the wall and tore his arm to pieces.
Sam's terrified eyes—terrified of him—as Dean drove the dagger through his brother's body, and the heartbreaking apology his little brother whispered before he slipped into unconsciousness.
And then, like a disgusting joke… As long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you.
Dean awoke with a few tears running down his cheeks, mercifully alone, laying in a hospital bed. He took a deep breath and his chest heaved; he was barely able to keep in the sob. He wasn't sure why he still felt like he had to. No one was relying on him now. Probably no one ever would again. He could afford to be weak.
Now if only he knew how.
He immediately stopped crying through force of will. It was bad enough to cry while dreaming, when he had no control: he certainly wouldn't allow it while he was awake. He would deal with this later, he promised himself, when Sammy was safe and healthy again.
He hoped his brother would let him be there for him, but he didn't expect miracles. Sam probably wouldn't want to see him. That was okay. He could play Sam's shadow. He'd done it before. Whether he realized it or not Sam had never been alone, and so long as Dean was alive he never would be.
But Sam could be dead.
The thought threatened to overwhelm the hasty emotional barriers Dean had erected, like a rising tide against sandbags. Tears welled in the corners of Dean's eyes. Sure, the demon's blood had healed Sam's external wounds. It even mended his arm and his ribs, though probably not completely. But the worst of it, and what the demon's blood would ironically do nothing for, was the blood loss. Sam's brain might have gone without enough blood for too long. He could be brain damaged.
Sam could be dead.
It hit him again, harder the second time. This time it was a tsunami against the sandbags and a stifled sob escaped. It was only when he heard a knock at the door (the cursory knock of a doctor, which never waited for a reply) that he found the strength, through shame, to force the feelings back down inside of him. Back where they belonged.
The same small, gentle-eyed guy he'd seen before shuffled in, looking down at his charts and not at Dean, who was hastily wiping away any evidence of his lapse.
"Ah, Mr. Harris. You're awake." The doctor said in the strong, friendly way they must teach in medical school. "How are you feeling?"
That was an interesting question, and not one Dean would have thought of on his own. He was feeling okay. The cuts on his chest and back stung, and his shoulder was back to feeling like it was being torn off, but he'd had and ignored much worse.
"Fine. How's my brother?"
"I don't know. I'm not his doctor, and I didn't expect you to be awake this soon, so I haven't gone to see him." The doctor looked into Dean's impatient eyes. "But we still have some things we should talk about. You weren't exactly in great shape yourself when you came in."
Dean let his head fall back down onto his pillow. He didn't really care about this conversation, but it was probably going to have to happen. The doctor noticed his disinterest and adjusted his strategy.
"How about I go check on your brother, come back with an update, and then you can tell me what happened?" He offered. Dean looked at him with a hint of gratitude.
"That'd be great, thanks."
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"How bad?" Dean asked as soon as his doctor—Dr. Blake, according to his badge—returned.
"Your brother's going to be fine. He's unconscious at the moment. He lost a lot of blood, although we're not sure from where—there weren't any open cuts, just a lot of old scars. We assume it was internal bleeding from the injuries to his ribs. Do you recall if he was coughing up blood? Because we didn't find much in his abdominal cavity during laparoscopy."
"Yeah. A lot," Dean lied.
"Well, that explains that then," Blake mused. "As I said, there was some serious bruising to his ribs, and some minor fractures. We set his right shoulder and splinted his forearm, which suffered a tiny fracture from twisting. All of that, plus the bruises and abrasions we found means somebody assaulted him."
That stung. Dean let a moment pass.
"So now you want to know what happened, right?" Dean asked, not noticing that the doctor had already turned to leave.
"No, that's alright Mr. Harris. It's all been explained. Your injuries have all been cleaned and bandaged, so you're free to go. Your brother is in room 329 if you want to go see him."
Blake was out the door before Dean could say another word. Dean sat there for a moment, not a little confused, before sliding off the bed with a grimace, picking up his belongings, and heading out the door to see his brother.
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Dean gently nudged open the door to Sam's hospital room and peered in. His brother was on his back, peacefully unconscious in his bed. A tall, grey-bearded man stood over him. He wasn't wearing scrubs, and he didn't appear to be making any kind of medical evaluation.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked menacingly as he came into the room and closed the door behind him. The man turned to face him and Dean saw that he was immaculately dressed in a charcoal-pinstriped suit and white shirt. His tie was a rich and elegant red weave that looked expensive.
"My name is Aram Jonas, and I'm a professor of archaeology at Harvard," the man said, expression fearless and confident as he extended his hand. Dean didn't take it, maintaining his threatening posture. "Until recently, I was also Brother Elam, master of the Order of St. Ansius."
Dean took a moment to process this. This guy was one of the people the demon had been after. One of the people they'd saved. "Why are you here?"
"My Brothers and I felt the demon die, through our mystical connection to St. Ansius. As a result, we learned that the Saint we had worshipped for so long was, in fact, the demon that had been hunting us." Jonas paused and sighed. "It is a hard thing to learn that you have spent so much time and effort venerating evil."
Dean looked at him impatiently.
"You and your brother saved my life, and the lives of all the other members of our former order. We felt it was our responsibility to try, in some small way, to repay that debt."
Something clicked in Dean's mind. "You're the reason no one is asking any questions."
"Yes. The power the relic bestowed on me was the ability to sense and influence the minds of others. I used that power to find you, and to satisfy the curiosities of the hospital staff. Our powers are fading now that the demon is dead, but I was still strong enough to do you this simple favor. Unfortunately, the powers of our healer were the first to disappear, so we couldn't help you or your brother with your wounds."
"We'll be fine."
"I'm sure you will." The man looked away thoughtfully as Dean's stance softened. "You'll also find that your bills have been paid in full. And as a personal reward for your service, I'd like you to have this."
Jonas withdrew a stack of clean, freshly-pressed hundred dollar bills. They strained against the silver money clip containing them. He handed it to Dean, who looked as if he were about to refuse when the man cut him off. "Your profession cannot pay well, Mr. Winchester, and it ought to. You owe me nothing; if anything, this is but a tiny part of my debt to you. My business card is clipped to the money. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call."
"Okay." Dean was shocked, as his eyes indicated. There was easily $5,000 here. He quickly shoved it in his pocket as the man opened the door to leave. He stopped.
"And Mr. Winchester, your fears are groundless," the old man said knowingly. "Even with what little sensitivity remains, I couldn't help but hear your thoughts. Your brother loves you. He won't blame you. And even if he did, there is nothing you could do that he would not forgive."
Jonas closed the door behind him, leaving Dean alone with his brother.
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"Sammy, you're only hurting yourself," Dean said softly as he stopped Sam's attempt to reach his dagger, pinning his little brother's unbroken arm to the wall above his head. Sam struggled, as hard as he could, but Dean was much too strong. Terribly strong. "It's over."
Mary walked out of the shadows behind Dean, white nightgown soaked in blood from the wound that killed her. She came up beside Dean, her once-kind face contorted by pain and anger, and she looked down at her youngest son with scorn.
"Well done, Dean," she commended as she laid a gentle hand on her eldest's shoulder. Sam broke down crying the moment he met her eyes, the depth of her hatred shattering him completely. He only cried harder as Jess appeared next to her, her death-wound just as evident, her expression just as spiteful.
"Now take his dagger and finish him," Jess commanded. Dean took the dagger off Sam's belt with ease, his brother's ineffectual resistance not even slowing him.
"Cut him like the demon cut us," Mary demanded. Dean looked into Sam's eyes with deadly earnestness. Sam looked back up at Dean, the only sympathetic face among the three, the only one who might be reasoned with.
"Dean, please…I didn't mean to hurt them. It's not my fault," Sam babbled pitifully through shuddering breaths, overwhelmed by fear.
"Please…I don't want to die," Sam begged, ashamed of his words, his weakness, his unwillingness to accept the punishment he knew he deserved.
Dean leaned down and kissed his forehead. Then his brother plunged the dagger into him, all the way through his body, a thunk announcing its entry into the wooden wall behind.
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Sam let out a desperate cry as his eyes shot open and he saw Dean standing over him. Pain exploded from virtually every part of his body as he struggled to move, fighting against the sheets covering him. Dean tried to hold on to him, but Sam flung himself off the high hospital bed, landing roughly on the floor on top of his splinted arm. He yelped in pain.
"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean yelled. Sam barely recognized the fear-stricken voice as his brother's. In a moment Dean was over him again, his hands on Sam, restraining him. Sam resisted as best he could, panicked tears running down his cheeks. "Sammy, stop it! You're hurting yourself."
Sammy, you're only hurting yourself.
Unthinking, Sam struck out with his left fist, despite the pain it caused his injured ribs, and made solid contact with Dean's jaw. Dean grunted and fell back onto his bottom. Sam kept trying to stand up, to move, to get away, unsure of where he was or what was going on.
Dean sat there helplessly. He couldn't help his brother if his brother was terrified of him, but he couldn't leave him on the floor, writhing in pain. Dean knew he should do something, but he couldn't think, and couldn't find the strength to move.
Seconds passed like minutes as Sam's thrashing slowed, then stopped. Dean could almost see his mind clearing, comprehension dawning.
"Dean?" Sam asked weakly, uncertain.
"Yeah Sam. It's me," Dean said quietly, as reassuringly as he was able, as he slowly stood up. He made no move towards Sam, in fact, he turned to leave. "I should go get you some help."
"No. Please don't leave," Sam warbled painfully. "I'm okay now. It was a nightmare."
"Do you…" Dean cleared his throat loudly to cover his breaking voice. "Do you want me to help you back up onto the bed?"
Sam nodded as a few more tears escaped.
End Chapter 8