Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: The medical procedures/knowledge in this story is pure hogwash. Do not test it out on your younger siblings! I simply picked from old wives' tales, some medical jargon I learned from tv and what I felt would be fun to have Dean or Sam endure. (I nearly pass out just watching medical shows these days but somehow seeing Dean hurt doesn't upset me, turn my stomach or make me cringe…I seem to enjoy it. Maybe I should look into getting the "other" type of medical assistance!)

Thanks so much for the awesome response to chapter 1! Getting so much feedback was wonderful!

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Chapter 2: Underhanded Tactics

"Dean!" Sam screamed, frantically looking over the railing, watching as Dean made a grab for the railing, his fingers catching a moment but slipping free as his body obeyed the rules of gravity. Dean, like a big cat, landed in a crouch but the shock of the impact sent him teetering backwards to end up on his butt.

Scrambling down the stairs as fast as he could, Sam ran to Dean's side, dropping to his knees, breathing hard again, his hands already inspecting Dean's ankles for injury. "You hurt? Your ankles, they OK?"

"What hurts is my butt," Dean whined, a hand going to rub at his backside.

"Is it.." Sam began in earnest worry but Dean scoffed, "No, Sam. My butt's not broken! Now help me up," he ordered, putting his hand out.

Without hesitation, Sam put his hand in Dean's and together they climbed to their feet. Immediately, Dean pulled his hand clear of Sam's. His other hand continuing to rub his injured body part, he began to make slow progress toward the street.

Angrily, Sam scanned the parking lot for the dogs, more specifically for the owner of the dogs. "They could have killed you," he fumed, seeing the sight of a dog tail a moment before a man closed the back of a blue Blazer. He had taken two steps toward the Blazer before Dean's hand latched onto his arm, yanking him to a stop.

"Let it go," Dean ordered, giving Sam's arm a squeeze to earn him Sam's eye contact.

"He's responsible for his dogs!" Sam argued, the knowledge of how badly the mishap could have ended making him ill.

"It's not his fault," Dean insisted, yanking Sam forward to match his stride as he headed out of the parking lot of the motel.

"Not his fault! Is that your new motto!" Sam groused, too angry to realize Dean was clutching onto his arm, leading him away like a misbehaving child. "You told the waitress it wasn't her fault, now this guy you let off without even getting in his face! You take a Gandhi pill this morning or something!"

"Gandhi pill?" Dean quirked an eyebrow and a smirk emerged on his face. Now that his brother was willingly matching his stride, he released his hold on Sam.

Sam's face turned pink with embarrassment at his brother's teasing, then, with a rueful shake of his head, he gave a self mocking bark of laughter. "Just great…now I'm starting to talk like you," he drawled, tension easing from his shoulders as he found himself walking shoulder to shoulder with his older brother in the city. "Next thing you know I'll be singing along with Metallica."

"Worse things could happen," Dean replied, but his voice wasn't light as Sam's had been and he was again avoiding Sam's eyes.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, taking in the sights and sounds of an urban Saturday morning. At the first crossing, intending to walk across the street when the way was clear regardless that the pedestrian light indicated 'do not walk', Sam stumbled when his brother's hand gripped the back of his shirt at his neck, preventing him from leaving the sidewalk. When and only when the "walk" sign flashed invitingly, did Dean venture into the street, and Sam, stunned, found himself needing to take a few steps to catch up.

Sam felt surprise and suspicion wash over him at Dean's sudden affinity to obey the walk signs in crossing the streets. None of it was normal Dean behavior. Not the law-abiding, not the calmness at the two freakish accidents that day, not the quiet that permeated the air between them and certainly not his brother's scheme to slip away from him at dawn. It took one more instance for Sam to put the pieces together. By that time it was almost too late.

It happened so fast, just like the coffee and the dogs. One minute they were enjoying their stroll and the next, Dean, acting on instincts honed to a life of danger, jerked to a stop as if he had noticed acid lying just behind his big toe, his left arm flinging out, halting Sam's forward motion as well. In a blinking of an eye, a paint can impacted with the cement, splashing Dean with paint and peppering his legs with shards of the now shattered section of the sidewalk.

Sam, his eyes flying upward, saw, for the first time, the painters' scaffolding positioned ten stories up the skyscraper. Three anxious looking painters stared down at them in horror. "You guys alright?" came an urgent call.

'Hell no!' Sam opened his mouth to answer but again Dean was offering amnesty.

"We're alright. Sidewalk's not though," Dean called up, ignoring the paint marring his clothing, the stinging pain in his legs and the tension blazing off of Sam. Having moments prior already determined that Sam was unscathed by the incident, even by a drop of paint, Dean returned his look to Sam. Worry assaulted him as he noted how pale Sam appeared. Gripping his brother's shoulders, he gently asked, "Hey, Sam you aren't hurt, right? You didn't get hit by anything?"

"Yeah, I did. By a revelation," Sam said dangerously, shoving Dean's hands from his shoulder only to latch his own hand around Dean's elbow. Now it was his turn to drag Dean along like a mischievous boy, his pace was slow, heedful of his brother's injured legs. Once Sam determined that they were safely out of range of any more accidents from the morons overhead, he ordered, "Sit down," half with concern and half with frustrated anger.

"What? Here? On the sidewalk? " Dean protested, taking in the surrounding neighborhood warily, noting that no benches were in sight.

"Yeah, here, now," Sam used his best authoritative tone he possessed.

Grumbling, Dean complied, trying to shrug off Sam's help but that too was a lost cause. Finding himself sitting on the sidewalk like some homeless beggar, his knees drawn up to his chest, Dean glared at Sam who was crouched down in front of him, his focus solely on the shards of cement embedded in his brother's shins. When Sam reached for a protruding shard, Dean slapped his hand away. "I got this, Sam," ruthlessly yanking the plaster free, tossing the offending material to the sidewalk causing it to shatter more thoroughly on the ground.

Leaning forward, trying to see the next piece to be removed, Dean's actions were preempted by Sam's quick fingers yanking a shard free. "Easy," Dean stiffened, shooting Sam a reprimanding look.

"Easy," Sam repeated a dangerous edge to his voice, pulling another large shard loose. "Easy. Right." Removing the final protruding shard loose, he grimaced at the other tears in his brother's jeans that indicated smaller shards lay buried in Dean's legs. His eyes taking in Dean's every facial reaction, Sam asked, "Can you walk?" his concern and the gentleness of his tone catching Dean off guard.

'Yeah that's his best tactic, make me off guard with his soft tone, then wham, hit me over the head with some yelling lecture. Well, I'm not falling for it today. Not today!' Dean resolved. Before Sam could even register the move, Dean used the wall behind him to support him as he gained his feet. However, it was a short victory as Sam surged to his feet, intentionally blocking his path.

"Ok, what is it?" Sam demanded, his taut stance saying what his eyes were: Dean was going nowhere without giving him an answer. "A spell? Some kind of jinx? A curse? What?"

"Sam," Dean began in his most patient, 'you are so wrong' tone.

Sam's outburst cut off Dean's words. "Don't tell me I'm wrong, that I'm imagining it! Dean, you've been hurt three times already today and it's …what?" he consulted his watch, "not even nine o'clock in the morning!"

Pulling on his best, I'm still in control tone, Dean confessed glibly, "What can I say, Sammy, I'm having a bad day."

Dean's nonchalant response pushed Sam's fraying nerves too far. Without intention, Sam found himself fisting Dean's shirt in his hands, tightly, like he wasn't going to let go, ever. "A bad day is when things don't go as you planned," Sam hissed, his breath whooshing into his brother's face, their eyes blazing into each other. "This…" Sam swallowed, nervously, like saying it out loud, stating what his gut was telling him would somehow make it true, make it worse. Pushing himself beyond his superstitions, Sam classified without any misgivings, "This is something worse."

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The Sam that Dean had encountered in the asylum, the one that had unloaded a shotgun of rock salt into his chest, the one that did his best to put a bullet, or three, into his chest, that Sam was a pussy cat compared to the Sam Dean now encountered. 'Maybe silence wasn't my best way to go' Dean considered, watching Sam pace back and forth in front of him as he sat on the bed, shooting him glares that resembled solar flares from the sun.

Having tended to his own leg injuries, (not wanting to take the chance that, Sam, in his anger, might decide that an amputation was the viable solution), and wearing a fresh set of clothing consisting of jeans, t-shirt, button down shirt and a jacket, Dean rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension humming through his body. But, resolutely, he did not break his code of silence. No reason to abandon his fine plan just because it wasn't working out the way he anticipated.

Fury and fear swamped Sam in nearly equal measure. Dean's refusal to answer his question, to tell him what was going on, spoke of a magnitude of trouble that kindled a fire in Sam's gut like few things could. Coming to a stop in front of the seated Dean, Sam, put his hands on his hips. "I can't believe you! You're just going to sit there…say nothing!"

Conjuring up his best bored expression, Dean tilted his head up to steadily meet Sam's blazing glare, daring his brother to try and make him talk. Who did Sam think he was dealing with here! Keeping secrets was as easy for Dean as breathing! 'But not from Sam', Dean disputed his self-assurance. 'Keeping secrets from Sam is different, harder, dishonorable, like a betrayal…even when it is for Sam's own good. Like now.'

Seeing the bold confidence on Dean's features, Sam knew his thick headed brother had every intention of playing it silent, of trying to handle whatever problem he was having today all on his own. Painfully, Sam vividly remembered the last time Dean had stubbornly gone silent: after the asylum. 'I can't deal with that again, him shutting me out, not meeting my eyes, hurting and pretending he wasn't. And worse yet, him thinking his pain didn't hurt me, that instead I got some sick satisfaction from it?'

Wracking his brain for a way to break through Dean's barriers, Sam, with divine inspiration, saw their father's journal peeking out of Dean's bag on the bed. Leaning over, Sam pulled the journal free from the bag. "What's happening to you today, is it in here!" he demanded, beginning to roughly flip through the pages, his eyes cursorily scanning his father's handwriting. "Are we talking about a jinx, a curse, a spell forcing you to be a stupid stubborn jerk that would rather stick to his pride than tell me what's going on today?" letting his eyes float up to Dean's on that one.

Sam's dig almost got a rise out of Dean, he even opened his mouth to retort back but Sam's hopeful look had him clamping it shut. Sam looked so young wearing that expression, emanating that "all things are possible" optimism the naïve still claimed. "You're not going to find anything in there, Sammy," he callously dashed Sam's hope, coming off the bed, he slipped past Sam and headed for the room door. The sound of ripping paper was equivalent to gunfire to Dean, causing him to spin around, shock in his eyes.

Holding the ripped page from the journal in his right hand like it was a grenade he was threatening to pull the pin from, Sam watched the shocked, pained expression break out onto his brother's suddenly expressive face. Gotcha, he thought with giddy relief, feeling no guilt or remorse for his tactics if it had the power to keep Dean with him, to make him talk to him, even if it was in all curse words.

"Sam, what the .."Dean exploded, starting to cross the room but stopped as his baby brother's trap became clear. Narrowing his eyes, he clenched his jaw as Sam crumpled the journal page with relish.

Seeing his plan's failure rate sky rocket, Sam felt his anger and frustration boil over. Viciously, he threw the crumbled journal page at Dean, hitting him in the chest. Like the loud snap of detaching a check from a checkbook during a Sunday prayer, Sam with deliberate slowness, ripped another page free, his eyes focused on Dean, watching his brother's jaw clench and his eyes become a simmering sea of green. Crumpling the second page, Sam nailed his brother on the cheek with that missile. A long suffering look entered Dean's eyes and Sam knew Dean's next move would be to walk out the door.

Upping the ante, Sam withdrew his lighter, flicked a flame to life and held it under the journal. Before Sam was ready, Dean was there, latching onto the journal, trying to wrestle it away from Sam and the flame that started to blacken the bottom edges.

"Sam, what are you doing!" Dean growled, doing his best to rescue the journal from Sam's grasp but the younger man's height was working against him.

Not wanting to add a fire to the disasters of the day, Sam flicked shut his lighter and used his free hand to press against Dean's chest to keep the older man away. Finding that he was unable to maneuver Dean back even a pace, Sam, with desperate strength, managed to pull the journal from his brother's grasp. Turning his back on Dean, he held the journal over his head, thanking God for his long arms as Dean's grabs for the journal fell short. Sam couldn't number the times he and Dean had played keep away as kids, mostly with Dean being the taller of the two boys. But their game had always escalated, their fighting skills too much a part of them to not utilize. This time was no different. One minute Dean was vainly trying to out grasp Sam's long arms while he tried to shove and shoulder Sam around to face him and the next, Sam found his legs knocked out from under him. Before he could react, he was falling face first onto the bed.

Solidly impacting with the bed, air whooshed out of Sam, especially when Dean landed half on top of him, his hands searching for the journal now pinned under Sam's body. Latching tightly onto the journal with both hands and clutching it to his chest even as Dean tried to slide it out from him, Sam exclaimed angrily, "What good is this stupid journal if it tells me how to save other people but not you! It didn't help with your heart thing, it didn't help with the Benders and it's NOT helping today!" his voice cracking with emotion, causing Dean's hands to still.

Sam's words, the break in his brother's voice that telegraphed Sam's fear, struck Dean where he was most vulnerable: in his heart. Releasing his hold on the journal, he rolled off of Sam and laid on his back, breathing hard, his blank stare on the cracked water stained ceiling.

Continuing to lay on his stomach on the bed, Sam turned his head to fix on Dean's profile. Quietly Sam revealed, his tone hued with sad apprehension, "All this journal does is put you in danger. It taunts you with hundreds of evils out there that you think you have to defeat. And it provides you with a million ways to sacrifice yourself for the "greater good."" Sam saw Dean visibly swallow but he did not speak or look to him. Pushing himself to a seated position, Sam sat Indian style by Dean's hip, watching his brother's face intently. "But it can't tell me what I want to know."

Rolling his head so that his eyes met Sam's straight on, Dean sighed, hating himself for crumbling under the presence of Sam's anguish like he always did. "And what's that?"

Quietly Sam answered, "It can't tell me why my own brother won't talk to me, won't tell me what's happening to him today."

Turning his focus again to the ceiling, Dean resumed his vow of silence. 'Keep your pie hole shut, Dean!' he threatened himself, tightly clenching his jaw, resolved to not let words spring from his vocal cords.

Having his appeal for Dean to open up denied, Sam let his eyes drop to the journal in his hands. "So tell me why I shouldn't put a match to this thing?" he asked without rancor but with sad conclusion, like he was talking about putting down a family dog that had begun to bite the hand of his master. When Dean's eyes shifted to him, sparkling with righteous anger, Sam sharply clarified, "I'm not talking about Dad's reasons, Dean." Sam's eyes gentled, his tone begging for Dean's trust, "It's just you and me here. What's this book mean to you, Dean?"

Sam's question blindsided Dean and it showed in his usually unreadable face. 'Crap, Sam! Why can't you just stick to demanding what was happening today?' Rolling his head, Dean again sought the safer realm of contemplating the ceiling, his heart pounding in his ears, worried that Sam somehow could pick the answer to his question from his brain. He didn't have to look at Sam to feel the younger man's eyes unflinchingly fastened on his face, waiting, hoping, wanting. Against his better judgment, Dean flicked his eyes to Sam and cursed himself bitterly as his brother's face telegraphed his torment. That broke down Dean's barriers, like it always did.

Again Dean looked to the ceiling, his hard swallow causing Sam to tense and prepare for the confession he knew he had manipulated from his brother. Wrestling with his thoughts, Dean contemplated the lesser of two evils: answer Sam's question about today or answer Sam's question about the journal? Side stepping Sam's journal question would be easy. All he had to do was tell Sam what was happening today. Then the question that now hung in the air would be discarded, forgotten, would remain unanswered, forever maybe.

"Dean," Sam's quiet plea made Dean clamp his eyes shut. With brutal honesty, he realized that he didn't have a choice between two evils, not when they both seemed to cause Sam pain.

Meeting Sam's beseeching eyes, Dean breathed, "That journal's my life, Sam." As soon as the words were out of Dean's mouth, Sam's eyes widen, a fire of protest burning in their depths. Instantly Dean knew he had misspoken his confession. "No! I didn't mean it like that!" he growled, with exasperation and a reprimand for Sam's misinterpretation of his words. Sitting up, Dean situated his back against the headboard. "Even I'm not that pathetic, Sam!" his anger causing Sam to flinch. Or was the flinch in direct reaction to the word "pathetic" that had taken such a nasty personal meaning since the asylum? Dean wasn't sure.

Silently the two brothers stared at each other, not in a contest of wills but a survey of emotions, both fearing a misstep now could push one or both off the raft that kept them afloat.

Unable to let Dean's confession stand unexplained, Sam was the first to break the silence. "Then explain it to me, Dean."

Sam's voice was gentle, too gentle for Dean's liking, too caring, too accepting, too fragile. Suddenly Dean found his hands in his lap a fascinating distraction. Sam almost jumped when Dean quietly began to speak.

"I'm never going to have a college degree.." instantly Dean's eyes flew up to Sam and he held a hand up to stop Sam's protest or pep talk or whatever reaction his brother was about to unleash. "I'm not saying that to get pity or saying I wanted that…needed that," he qualified, satisfied when Sam settled back into his 'I'm listening to you' pose. "And I'm not going to be on the Fortune 500 list or on the Miami Dolphins' roster, or…even gather at some class reunion and reminisce with some old buddies about pranks we played on the teachers," a sad light coming into his eyes as a small smirk pulled on his lips. Again he reacted to Sam's objecting look, "Dead guys don't get invited to class reunions, Sam," he reminded, cursing himself as the anguish in Sam's eyes deepened.

Clearing his throat against his own emotions, Dean let his eyes fall on the journal held loosely in Sam's hands. Pointing to the journal, his eyes connected solidly with Sam's, making both men feel like their souls were exposed in that moment. Dean's voice was hoarse and low. "But that journal, those entries that mention my name, they are my proof that I made a difference somewhere, sometime, to someone. And maybe no one will ever read those words, besides you and Dad, but I'll know they exist, that somewhere part of me exists, even after I'm gone. And that's enough for me, Sam. Knowing that I did some good, that somewhere it's tallied even if it's in Dad's crappy Yoda like handwriting." Inexplicably to Dean, Sam looked like he was about to cry.

His teeth clamping into his lower lip, Sam desperately struggled to not break down, to not make this a chick flick scene. 'Damn you, Dean! If you don't like chick flick scenes why do you have to speak so …so passionately, so earnestly, so unguardedly? You fight like you're never going to open up and then you give me everything, all of you! And it feels like you are putting your beating heart in my hands, making it my choice to protect it or crush it.'

Anxious to break the hold his words seemed to wield over Sam, Dean snatched the journal from Sam's loose hold. Then almost belying his confession of the book's importance, he tossed it carelessly on the other bed.

With disbelief Sam tracked the journal as it arched across the expansion of the beds to land open on the other bed, looking like a tent, its "precious" pages crumpled and bent against the mattress. Shooting Dean a look of long suffering, Sam sighed as Dean gave him an innocent shrug. His brother's confession made the journal more prized than it had ever been before, too prized to risk crumpled pages and a ruined binder.

Crossing to the other bed, Sam leaned over the mattress to retrieve the journal. Nothing prepared him for the shove that spun him around even as it sent him crashing onto his back on the bed. The feel of a handcuff around his right wrist was like an electric shock. His eyes shot up to Dean who wisely took a step back from the bed as Sam yanked on his wrist and discovered the other cuff was attached to the bed's bottom frame.

"Dean, what the hell!" Sam yelled, his brother's tactics unnerving him, turning his insides cold with fear. "Uncuff me! Now!" he ordered, sitting up and finding his leash forced him to lean over to keep his wrist from being disconnected.

TBC

Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far!

Cheryl W.