Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are Kripke's brainchild. I make no claims to the contrary.
Another Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. I just play one on FanFiction.
Bobby's kitchen was a wreck.
The table Ellen had so carefully prepared had been jostled in haste. Clean towels remained only half-folded, spilling over the edge of the table, some fallen completely to the floor. Blood-stained bandages and ruined denim lay discarded in a pile by Sam's chair. One of the jugs of holy water was completely empty; the other partly so; both smeared with Ellen's bloody handprints. Bath towels covered the floor around Sam's chair, completely soaked in blood-tinged holy water.
Sam was thankfully still unconscious when Dean and Bobby came back in, his leg still draped in wet towels. His face was pale and sheened with sweat. Ellen stood behind his chair, cradling his head gently, fingers pressed into the side of his neck as she monitored his pulse. She looked up as Dean and Bobby thumped in, carrying an old cot between them.
"He still out?" Bobby asked as he started to maneuver the cot to the floor.
"For now," Ellen said, "but I think he might start coming around soon."
Dean's head snapped around to them automatically. Without conscious thought, he set his end of the cot on the floor and allowed his feet to carry him to his brother's side. Sam hadn't moved in the few minutes they'd been gone, of course, but one look at his brother told him that Ellen was right. Sam's brow was creasing ever-so-slightly, his breathing beginning to shudder almost-imperceptibly. He picked up Sam's hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze, and Sam's finger twitched minutely.
After a moment of watching Sam and listening to Bobby's shuffling behind him, Dean managed to pull his eyes away to look up at Ellen. "Any word from Jo?"
"She called just a minute ago," Ellen answered. "She's on her way back. Had to go to a couple different places to get everything, but she'll be here in a few minutes."
Dean nodded, watching Sam's brow twitch again. Ellen removed her hand from the side of his neck and brushed his damp bangs back from his forehead, and Sam sighed softly under her touch. Dean's heart clenched in his chest, watching his brother struggling in the twilight zone just beneath consciousness.
After a few seconds of hovering, straining to find something productive to do, Dean finally lowered his gaze to the dish towels wrapped around Sam's leg. The hissing of the holy water had stopped, and he found himself incapable of waiting; he had to see, to make sure, to reassure himself that the wounds were cleaned out. Cautiously, he reached down toward the edge of the towel at Sam's ankle and pulled it back a couple of inches.
Immediately, he could see that the holy water had had a positive effect. The wounds themselves looked clean again: angry and red and gaping wide, but devoid of the blackness the monster's blood had caused. The area a fraction of an inch around the wounds looked normal too, at least as far as traumatic injury went. But worryingly, the holy water hadn't reached further than the wounds, to the places where the blackness had already spread outward under the skin.
With a defeated sigh, he let his head drop forward, raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't know what he'd expected when he'd lifted the towel. He hadn't expected anything, really; if tonight had proven anything, it was that hoofbeats did, sometimes, indicate zebras.
Or antelopes. Or okapis. Or maybe even unicorns. At this point, he wouldn't rule any of them out.
"That's—well, that's something, I guess," Bobby said. Dean didn't know when he'd appeared over his shoulder, but he'd clearly been there long enough to see the progress in Sam's leg. Or rather, the lack thereof.
Right away, something in Dean cracked, and the anger came pouring out. "Well, I'll be sure to mention that to Sam," he retorted darkly. "'Sorry you're still turning into a monster, but at least the holy water did something.'"
"Hey!" Ellen snapped, her voice sharp and reprimanding, but hushed at the same time to keep from disturbing Sam. "You watch your tone, boy. We're doing everything we can."
Inexplicably, that just made Dean angrier. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Ellen raised one threatening finger at him before he could start.
"Nuh-uh," she silenced him, mom-voice in full effect. "You pull it together, or go outside and take a walk."
Dean stumbled over a few disjointed syllables, but for the rage coursing through his veins, he couldn't pull together a coherent thought. Pride wounded, he found himself fighting the urge to hit something and decided that a walk outside sounded pretty good. There were junkers all over the place just asking for a beating, and barring that, he just needed to escape the judgmental atmosphere of the room. Without further thought, he spun violently toward the back door and started across the kitchen in long, angry strides.
He never made it outside. Halfway to the door, his brain kicked the knowledge to him that if he went outside, he wouldn't be at Sam's side when he woke up. And he knew that was going to be soon. A few minutes at most. And that wasn't acceptable to him. His pace slowed the rest of the way to the door, and he ended up with his hands braced against the peeling trim on either side. He could feel his nostrils flaring as he breathed, leaning hard into his hands just to expel some of the energy building inside him. He stayed there for several moments, not even moving when he heard the front door open and shut.
"I'm back," Jo called out as she made her way toward to back of the house, the rustling of plastic shopping bags accompanying the sound of her footsteps.
The change of energy was palpable as she came into the kitchen. "Oh my god," Jo said, presumably upon seeing Sam unconscious in the kitchen chair. "Is he okay?"
"We're working on it," Ellen answered, her voice low.
Dean sighed and lowered his head between his outstretched arms. Of course they were. They were working on it, doing their best, and Dean had to go and take their heads off for no god-damned reason.
Suddenly, all the fight in him evaporated, leaving him feeling drained.
"Dean?" Jo said hesitantly. "Are—what's going on?"
Dean was exceedingly grateful that neither Bobby nor Ellen mentioned their little spat a moment ago. He might just snap again. Gathering his energy and pulling in a breath, he pushed himself away from the door and turned back toward the room. He didn't meet anyone's eyes; he couldn't look at Ellen or Bobby just yet.
"Nothing, I'm..." He pulled in another breath, steadying himself. "I'm good."
"Good," Ellen acknowledged, a slight edge to her voice, but significantly softer than their last exchange. "You and Bobby should get him moved over to the bed. Jo, bring that stuff over here."
Dean let himself sneak a glance at Jo as he made his way back toward Sam. She was looking between the three of them concernedly, like she wanted to ask again what was going on. But she didn't. Instead, she did what her mother had asked, skirting around the head of the cot and depositing the bags on the table.
That was all the mind he paid them as he reached Sam's side and leaned in, raising his hand to Sam's shoulder to shake him gently. "Sammy," he said softly, "hey, Sam, come on back, little brother, just for a minute."
Sam's face pulled into a grimace as he jostled a bit, a soft moan leaving his lips.
"We just need you for a second, Sam," Dean continued, giving his shoulder another little shake. "We're just gonna move you to a bed."
Sam pulled in a breath and—with great effort, it seemed—forced his eyes open a crack. His pupils rolled around lazily for a moment before settling, glassy and unfocused, on Dean face beside him. Ellen carded her fingers soothingly through his hair again.
"That's it, sweetie," she encouraged, rubbing the back of Sam's neck.
Sam stiffened in his chair, eyes pinching closed again, mouth dropping open on a wave of pain. Dean rubbed his hand up and down Sam's arm, trying to keep him with it. Sam swallowed heavily and, after a few labored pants, opened his eyes to Dean again.
"We're going to move you to a bed," Dean repeated, now that Sam was more conscious. "After that, you can go straight back to sleep."
Sam gave him a single nod of understanding. Bobby was already pulling the sodden towels away from his leg, and over the rustling of bags at the table, Dean heard a sharp gasp. Looking up at Jo, he saw that she had frozen in place, eyes wide as she took in the state of Sam's leg for the first time.
"Oh—oh my God—"
"Jo, honey," Ellen reached across the table and put a hand on Jo's shoulder to draw her attention. Then, when Jo's eyes shifted from Sam's leg to her mom's face, Ellen shook her head so slightly that Dean would have missed it if he wasn't watching so closely. Then she tipped her head over her shoulder in an equally subtle motion, silently indicating that Sam could hear them. Jo blinked once, then nodded, visibly pulling herself together.
Ellen nodded back reassuringly and dropped her hand. "Can you start getting those things laid out for me?"
Jo nodded and dove determinedly back into the bags. Dean watched her for another moment as she started pulling boxes and bottles and packages out of the bags, actively forcing herself not to look at the alarming wounds or decaying skin.
"Dean."
Bobby's voice cut into Dean's attention, and he turned his head toward his name. Bobby was positioned on Sam's other side already. He raised his eyebrows and nodded pointedly toward Sam, as if to say 'let's get on with it.'
"Yeah," Dean grunted, immediately shifting his hands under Sam's arm. "Sam? Hey, you with us?"
Sam huffed in response and gritted his teeth, eyes closed tightly again. His right leg pulled closer to the chair, preparing to take his weight. Bobby took the lead on the process, and Dean was unexpectedly grateful. His nerves were too frayed to take point.
"Alright, up on three," Bobby said. "One...two...three..."
Sam let out a strained breath, just shy of a groan, as Bobby and Dean hoisted him out of the chair. He shook with effort and exhaustion, dipping back down briefly as his leg failed to take his weight.
"Steady," Bobby warned as Sam faltered. He seemed to realize right away, though, that Sam wasn't going to be much help. "Let's get him over," he urged, a tint of urgency in his voice. He was strong for his age, but Sam was heavy.
"Yep," Dean acknowledged immediately, and without waiting for Sam to get with the program, they pulled him the two yards to the cot. Sam grunted in surprise, but by the time he'd caught up to what was happening, Bobby and Dean were already lowering him onto the thin mattress.
"That's it," Bobby encouraged as he started to lay Sam back.
Dean ducked down to support Sam's mangled leg onto the mattress as Bobby turned his torso, and Sam, eyes pinched, let them maneuver him into place. He tried to support himself up on his elbow for a moment, but he succumbed quickly to weakness and managed to lower himself onto his back instead before his arm gave out entirely.
"Ah..ah..." he panted weakly, arm reaching blindly to the side, subconsciously trying to find something to hold onto. Without hesitation, Dean moved up beside him, letting Sam's hand land on his upper arm. Sam's hand latched on automatically, fingers digging firmly into Dean's bicep. Dean was pretty sure Sam wasn't even aware that he'd done it.
"I gotta hit the phone books," Bobby's said, his voice already distanced as he hurried through the doorway into the library, "see if anyone knows what the hell we're dealing with, here. We gotta find a way to stop the spread, and fast."
Dean nodded, eyes sweeping immediately from Sam's face to the black splotches still spreading under his skin. "Yeah. I guess I'll, uh..." His brain was fuzzing out as he tried to finish the thought. He cleared his throat in a weak attempt to mask it. "I'll go hit the books," he finally managed. He let his eyes linger on Sam's leg for another second, then raised his eyes to Ellen in silent question.
"Go," Ellen answered immediately, "I got him."
Dean nodded gratefully, then started to pull away from Sam's grasp, gently prying Sam's hand from his arm. Ellen swept in beside him gracefully, taking Sam's hand in hers and nudging Dean away. Reluctantly, Dean stood, giving Sam's shoulder a last squeeze before he made his way into the library after Bobby.
He had only just managed to lay a hand on one of Bobby's books when there was an insistent knock on the front door. Dean and Bobby traded brief expressions of surprise and apprehension, then Dean started toward the door, hand automatically gripping his gun at the small of his back. He hesitated a moment with his other hand on the knob, readying himself for anything, then quickly pulled the door open just far enough to see outside.
He was sure his expression flashed through about six different emotions before it finally settled on visceral prejudice. His hand tightened on the grip of his gun.
"Ruby."
Law of Parsimony: the philosophical or scientific principle, according to which an explanation is made with the fewest possible assumptions.
Also known as Occam's Razor or the Precedence of Simplicity: of two competing theories, the simpler explanation is to be preferred.
