Disclaimer etc, see Chapter 1
NET KNOTS
Chapter 8
Dean sighed heavily, wishing he could present a counterargument and knowing it was futile. That was the thing about Sammy's kind of smart – it was logical and rational and meditative and often played Devil's Advocate with itself to cover all the bases and examine every possible angle before coming up with a polished, final – and irrefutable – conclusion.
"…and since the Winchester luck is usually all bad," Sam was continuing, "…the loony bin they dump us in would probably have a Dr Ellicott Mark II at the helm."
Dean flinched, both at those memories and the aftermath, when he'd been forced to endure a chick-flick eternity thanks to the pester-power of his guilt-ridden younger brother – though it had helped repair their relationship (something Dean would never admit to out loud).
The rock-salt assault on his chest still hurting a lot, he had been prepared to endure and appear to accept earnest apologies; but Dean had been taken by surprise when Sam had asked him if he remembered, how, when he was ten, Dean had punched a hole in a motel room wall in a fit of anger because John – absent on yet another hunt as usual – had spent the last of the grocery money on shells for his 12-gauge before taking off instead of buying at least a box of cereal and some milk so Dean could see Sammy through?
Confused Dean had answered in the positive, though it wasn't the first or the last time that food money had gone on ammunition, gas for John's truck, First Aid supplies or, most reprehensibly of all, bottles of tequila, usually when it would have been Mary and John's wedding anniversary. Sam had pointed out that Dean wasn't mad at the wall, the wall had done nothing; it just happened to be the closest available target at the moment Dean's fury had erupted.
And ditto, Dean – looking down at his hands, Sam had quietly admitted that most of the words, and most of the rage, had been his; Ellicott had just brought it to the surface. Sam's anger at their father had gone back years for a myriad of minor and major reasons, and yes he was angry at Dean too, but he didn't hate Dean; Dean had been the motel wall, merely in the wrong place at the wrong time because the real target of Sam's anger was out of reach…I knew the shotgun was only loaded with rock salt, Dean, I managed to keep that little fact from Ellicott until the last second, and besides, I know you; when it comes to Hunting there's nobody smarter…I knew there was no way you would just give me a loaded gun when I was possessed for crying out loud.
Dean snapped out of the brief reverie, which had lasted only a few seconds as Sam's expression of anxiety clearly got ready to move up a level. Not wanting to end up going off at a tangent and revisiting the whole Roosevelt Asylum situation, which Sammy would if Dean gave him half a chance, Dean had another very important objection he could throw in.
"And what about when Dad finds out?"
Continued in Chapter 9…
© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart