"Stop fucking squirming."
"I'm not squirming, I'm shivering."
"I'm not an idiot, Sam—
"Could'a fooled me."
"I know the difference between shivering and squirming and what your ass is doing right now is definitely squirming." Dean elaborated, ignoring his brother's muttered jab as he tried to still the thin frame shifting against his chest.
"It's numb." Sam grumbled as he finally settled, his shaggy head dropping back against Dean's collarbone as he released an irritated huff.
"Yeah, no shit, dude. Mine is too, but you don't see me doing the hokey-pokey."
"You couldn't if you wanted to, cause I'm smooshing you." Sam teased, pressing his back closer to the older boy's chest as if to prove his point.
"Ha! As if your skinny-ass could restrain me." Dean dismissed, knocking his knee playfully against his brother's uninjured leg.
"Whatever." The boney shoulders raised and fell in a shrug, which Dean could feel because his brother's long body was situated between the elder hunter's legs, his desperate attempt to ease his little brother's violent shivering – and the fact that the independent boy hadn't fought the seating arrangement in the least was all the proof Dean needed to know that it was necessary.
His kid was fucking freezing. Even Dean was chilled, but he wasn't shaking and shivering the way Sam was. The hours the two boys had been trapped in the damn cellar had been more than enough to do serious damage to Sam's hands. Dean had caught a glimpse of the discoloured appendages when he'd helped tuck them up against Sam's chest before securing both jackets around him. The brothers hadn't really discussed the frozen hands, because there wasn't much of a point. Dean could tell that the kid was in pain and knew that harm was likely being done to the previously frostbitten appendages, but he couldn't do shit about it. He couldn't rub warmth into anything when he didn't have any of his own to offer, and he could examine the discolouration and do his best to diagnose how bad it was getting all damn day long – but that wasn't going to fix anything.
No, the best game plan for Sam's hands was to keep them covered and hope like hell that would prevent the worst of the damage. Though, Dean knew that the only way Sam was going to be able to keep all of his fingers intact was if he could get the kid the fuck out of there.
And Dean was trying hard to figure out a plan to do just that.
"So, I've been thinking."
"Don't hurt yourself." Sam mumbled, though the older boy could practically hear the smirk.
"Hardy-har-har."
Sam released and honest-to-God giggle at the sarcastic response, which brought a goofy grin to Dean's face as he wrapped his arms just a little tighter around his kid's chest.
The younger man didn't fight the hold, but rather settled into it, sighing tiredly as he spoke. "Thinking about what?"
"About your idea."
"Mmm? What idea?" Sam wondered, his tone groggy.
Dean knew the cold and all the shivering, on top of the pain in both his hands and his leg were making it difficult for his little brother to remain alert, or even conscious – which was why the older boy was trying his best to maintain a steady stream of conversation.
"The one about lighting the bodies on fire."
"Thought you said that was too risky?"
"It might be, we'd just have to try and keep the fire from growing too high or too quickly."
"And how would we do that, exactly?" The younger hunter inquired skeptically.
"I'm still working out that bit." Dean admitted thoughtfully.
"Tha's'a pretty import'nt bit." Sam's speech was becoming more slurred, and Dean was trying desperately not to consider the implications of that.
"Thank you for your input, Sherlock, it's invaluable."
"Tha's what m'here for." The taller man quipped in reply, angling his head up to send his big brother a cheeky grin.
Dean rolled his eyes, his head still pounding too hard for him to shake it the way he was going to, but he couldn't keep the fond smirk off his face. He fidgeted a little, maintaining a hold on the frigid form in his arms as he tried to shift so the sore spots on his back weren't pressing so hard against the wall. He had wanted the pain at first, it had helped him stay awake, but after a few hours it was simply too much. His concussion had made things foggy and the dark and cold environment sure wasn't helping.
As if sensing that Dean's mind was beginning to drift, Sam spoke up.
"What would be th'point of startin' a fire?"
"Warmth."
Sam snickered, Dean giving his own smirk before he continued.
"Got a bit of salt we could sprinkle, spread it over the most decomposed corpses, it might be enough to put the bitch to rest." He added. He felt the shaggy head slide against his collarbone in a slow nod.
"Yeah. S'not gonna get us out o'here tho." Sam pointed out.
"Depends. How long do you think we've been in here?" Dean questioned, looking around the dark pit, although there was a dim, slightly supernatural glow about the place, there certainly wasn't any moon light or sun light filtering in that would help them figure out the time of day.
"Feels like a long time." Sam mumbled, groaning as a violent shiver shook his thin frame.
Dean frowned. "It has to have been at least four hours since I sent the text."
"Think he's comin?"
"Yeah, it's Bobby. Of course he is. It'd probably help him out if we could toast the spirit, and maybe the fire would help him find us."
Sam hummed a sound of understanding.
"I figure we give him five hours to haul-ass here and then like an extra thirty minutes for incidentals." Dean elaborated.
"Incidentals?" Sam asked, angling his head back to squint up at the older boy.
"Yeah, you know, in case there's traffic or he had to get gas or take a shit or something."
A dimple appeared as half of Sam's mouth twitched up ever-so-slightly. "Tha's very reasonable o'you."
Dean grinned and winked. "I'm a very reasonable man, Sammy."
The youngest Winchester made a noncommittal noise in his throat, before levelling his chin so his neck was no longer strained. "We gotta wait then." He concluded.
"Yup. It'll be about an hour and a half before we can start the party."
"Only you would call burnin' a bunch'a corpses a party." Sam snorted.
"What would you prefer? A barbeque? A cookout? A—
"Oh my gawd, Dean. Stop relating it to food." The lanky boy groaned.
Dean snickered, but did as was requested, not wanting to be the cause of the poor kid having to hurl his cookies again. "So, what should we do to pass the time?"
"Nap?" His little brother suggested, sounding damn near wistful.
"No sleeping, buddy. You know that. Not for either of us. I'm too concussed and you're too close to being fucking hypothermic."
Sam whined his disapproval, sounding just like he used to when he was a bitchy teenager.
"Suck it up, buttercup." Dean sing-songed.
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
Dean shifted, trying to take some of the pressure off his upper back, and Sam wiggled to accommodate the change of angle – both brothers settling a moment later.
"We could play eye-spy." Dean suggested.
"Yeah, cause that worked great th' las' time I had'a keep you conscious." Sam responded sarcastically.
The older man squinted down at the shaggy head, trying to think of what his little brother was referring to. Sam twisted to look up at Dean, obviously catching the confusion on the freckled face.
"You got your head cracked open in a bar fight? I had to drive you to the hospital."
Dean tried to concentrate, his pounding head was making it difficult – and in his defense, there were a lot of bar fights to sift through.
Sam huffed an annoyed sound as he began to fidget again. "I should have known that for you to remember, I'd have to make it about me." The comment was said in part complaint and part amusement as the younger man tugged his left hand free and held it out in front of his big brother.
Dean was about to snap at the moron for exposing his freezing appendage to the cold as he took in the fingers that were beginning to discolour – but was sidetracked by the scar that the kid was pointing out. It was a raised white line approximately two inches in length, starting from the base of the palm beneath the thumb and stretching toward the center.
The sight of the old injury brought the elusive memory to Dean's mind.
It wasn't that Dean hadn't been expecting a fight – hell, he was always expecting a fight. He just hadn't been expecting things to escalate quite so quickly.
Dean knew the one guy at the table was getting pissed, he'd been pissed the last game and he'd loss far less money that time than he was losing now. The other three men at the table weren't impressed either, but there was only one that Dean was worried about – only one who seemed to be simmering, the explosion both unpredictable and inevitable. The ironic thing was, Dean wasn't even hustling – not really, no card up his sleeve, no pretending to be wasted; was it his fault if the old men at the table just assumed the guy a third their age would be able to beat their asses at a card game they'd been playing 'since before he was sucking on his mother's teet'? As they so elegantly put it.
Dean had noticed the glares coming from handlebar-mustache when he'd call his first bluff and the expression had only grown more dangerous as the second game went on. Dean was hiding it, but he was beginning to feel a bit anxious. He certainly hadn't made any friends in the smoky joint, there were no women to charm and no one around to back him up. He couldn't throw the game because he was really fucking sick of mac & cheese, the brothers had it for the sixth night in a row yesterday and Dean had promised to buy the kid some real fucking food tonight. Besides, Dean couldn't dip-out and take-off because his ride wasn't due for another hour or so. He'd given his little brother use of the Impala because the dork had wanted to spend his Friday evening holed-up in the library doing schoolwork and while Sam had insisted he was fine if he was just dropped-off, Dean had demanded he take the car. He hated leaving the kid waiting for him (ever since that one time Sam was stuck waiting outside his big brother's high school and got picked on and hurt by a bunch of assholes, Dean felt anxious as hell ever leaving the younger boy waiting) and even though it was spring there was also a bite in the wind and he didn't want the teen's hands getting cold. Once those things started shaking, they took forever to stop and Sam didn't need to deal with that kind of frustration. He needed the cash and he didn't have a getaway vehicle until the dork was finished at the library, so Dean had to stick it out and do his best to tone down the cocky attitude and not further enrage the men at the table, handlebar-mustache in particular.
Dean had kept his eyes glued to nothing but the cards for most of the remainder of the second game, not even bothering to work the table or check for tells the way he normally would. He just wanted to win his money and get the fuck out of there. He had decided he would walk towards the library, not wanting to call Sam and pull him away from the paper that had him stressed the fuck out all week long. The library closed at 11:00pm, Dean could wait until then, but not in this bar.
He had been bracing for the fight to begin when he'd laid his winning hand out on the table. He had been sure to scoop up his winnings fast enough to get moving but not too fast that he looked as though he were in a rush. The moment you show weakness or nerves, that's when you're well and truly fucked.
He felt the glares and heard the feral growl from handlebar-mustache as he pocketed the cash, but no words were spoken or moves were made. Dean stepped away from the table – expecting to hear demands that he return to play another round, give the asshats a chance to win their cash back. He heard nothing, so he pulled his collar up, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, and made his way out of the smoky bar. He released a sight of relief as he stepped out into the cool night air, satisfied the evening hadn't ended in a brawl – he knew how his kid brother hated it when he showed up with fresh bruises and blood on his knuckles and face, no matter how much cash he had wadded in his pockets.
Dean made his way down the steps and across the parking lot, pointing his feet towards the direction of the library.
The bastard hit him like a truck.
Dean was slammed into the pavement, breath stolen from his lungs. He immediately began to fight back managing to shove the larger man off and flip their positions, but just as quickly as he landed a few hits, a couple more punches hit him before their positions were flipped once again.
Dean's increasingly successful attempts to get the upper-hand were stalled when his hair was grabbed and his head was smashed viciously into the pavement; once, twice, and then a third time before Dean could coordinate himself enough to bring his knee up into his attacker's groin. He used the moment of surprise to push the weight off of him, he tried to roll away and get to his feet, but the world had gone fuzzy and there was a roaring in his ears – missing two of his senses caused Dean to desperately reach for his gun. His shaking fingers had barely grazed against the handle of the firearm tucked into the back of his jeans, when the young hunter was being crushed once again under weight he had just fought off.
Even through the agony in his brain and his complete inability to focus, see, or hear, Dean already had a counter-attack in mind, but before he had the chance to execute it, he felt the cool blade of a knife pressed against his neck.
"You think you can just take all my money and walk away?"
The furious words shouted in his face managed to find their way through the concussion-induced haze and pounding in his ears.
"Won it fair n'square." Dean growled, wincing as he felt the additional pressure of the blade against the skin on his neck. He blinked rapidly, trying to get the world to shift back into focus as he tried to breathe with the crushing weight that had settled overtop of him.
"Bullshit." The older man spat, showering the freckled face in droplets of saliva. "You fucking cheated. You're a fucking hustler, you little bitch."
Dean snarled and attempted to maneuver his way out of the vulnerable position, but his arms were clumsy and weak – he couldn't seem to get his limbs to cooperate, as the world around him continued to slide in and out of focus.
Fuck, it was so frustrating. This wasn't a monster, it was just a fucking person, he should be able to handle some random asshole. He could handle some random asshole, if only the world wasn't bleary, if only his arms and legs would cooperate, and if only he could get his mind to bloody focus for one goddamn minute.
"You're going to give me that money, or I'm going to slit your fucking throat."
The threat was punctuated by the knife pressing dangerously harder against Dean's skin.
His scrambled mind was hindering his decision-making process. He couldn't figure out whether to fight of flee or maim or kill or just hand over the damn cash – he couldn't choose a course of action no more than he had the coordination to follow through with it. But before Dean had to worry too much about it, the knife against his throat and the weight on his chest vanished like they had never been there to begin with.
"Get the fuck away from my brother!"
That was a voice Dean would always recognize, regardless of what ruined sate of mind he was in.
"Sammy?" He slurred, trying to sit up, groaning when his head refused to raise so much as two inches off the ground.
He squinted into the dark and tried to pour all his energy into focussing on what was happening. He could hear a scuffle, the sound of flesh hitting flesh – various grunts and gasps with the occasional hiss thrown in. There was a fight, and his kid brother was involved.
Dean bit back a cry as he forced himself to sit up, his arms shaking so aggressively that they gave-out and the hunter found himself flopped over on his side.
"Fuck." He cursed, squinting out at the parking lot of the bar, just able to make out a skinny pair of legs as well as a thicker pair moving rapidly in and out of his line of sight. He could hear voices, he knew one belonged to Sam, which meant that the other was coming from handlebar-mustache. He struggled to make out the words though, they were too far away – or at least they seemed to be.
"Sammy." He called out, crawling towards the noise before the movement sent his head spinning and forced him to be still for a moment. Dean grimaced as he ground his forehead into the pavement, hoping to make the world stop dancing around.
"Get the fuck out of here – and stay the hell away from my brother, or next time you won't be able to walk away!"
The voice was vicious, each word spoken in a snarl dripping with malice, and yet it was unmistakably Sam. Dean had never heard such a tone come out of his little brother before, and it startled him enough that he forced his head up off the gravel.
Bad idea.
The agony and dizziness caused Dean's stomach to lurch and he promptly threw-up.
The young man startled at the feeling of a hand on his back, before quickly recognizing the gentle touch as belonging to his little brother.
"Sammy?" He gasped out between heaves.
"I'm right here, Dean. I'm right here."
The injured boy reached back blinding, searching until his fingers found what had to have been Sam's jacket, and grabbed hold. Dean's body shook as he continued to vomit, but he refused to let go of Sam, feeling so fucking exposed and doing the little he could to keep his kid safe.
"Y'kay?" He asked as he spat out residual stomach acid lingering in his mouth.
"I'm fine. You're the one who got your head cracked open." Sam sighed. Dean hissed as deft fingers found the sore spot when they wandered through his head. "Damnit." Sam cursed softly under his breath.
Dean continued to breathe heavily through his mouth, not quite sure yet if his body was finished purging its stomach of all contents. He felt Sam shift behind him, could sense the younger man moving to stand from the squat he had been in, and used his hold on the teen's shirt to pull him back down to the ground.
"Dean, what the hell?"
"S'not safe." He mumbled before spewing another mouthful of bile.
"It is. That asshole is gone and I'm fine. It's safe."
Dean was too busy hurling to give a response, just shaking his head instead as his hold kept Sam on the ground behind him even as the hunter proceeded to toss his cookies.
"I need to go grab you some water." Sam explained, tugging on Dean's wrist, trying to get him to let go.
The older boy wasn't having it, he shook his head, gagging as the movement caused the pain to escalate, all the while white-knuckling his brother's shirt. He didn't have the strength to protect Sam properly – hell, Dean couldn't even seem to stay up on his knees let alone climb to his feet, so he had to keep the kid down where he was, behind him. It was the only method of protection Dean could execute in his current condition and he wasn't about to give it up.
Sam tried to squirm away another couple times, but even in his weakened nauseous state, Dean's grip was unrelenting.
"Alright, fine. If you won't let me go, you have to come with me."
The thought of moving was not something Dean wanted to ponder for even a minute, his head was still spinning and he hadn't even made it off his ass yet. But where Sam went, Dean would follow.
"Kay." He muttered, running his jacket sleeve over his mouth as he shifted away from the vomit pooled on the pavement.
He groaned as Sam helped him off the ground, finally releasing the front of the kid's shirt in favour for draping his arm across the narrow shoulders. He was thankful as fuck that Sam didn't rush him along the way their father would, he just stood still and gave Dean a moment to breathe before charging ahead. The older boy closed his eyes, tired of watching the world slide in and out of focus, and tried to breathe slow and study, swallowing convulsively to keep the nausea at bay. His head felt like a bowling ball wobbling on his neck, the pain making it impossible to hold up any longer. He wasn't able to withhold a groan as he dropped his forehead onto his little brother's shoulder.
Sam had one hand wrapped around his waist, gripping his belt to keep him on his feet, and the other one had hold of Dean's wrist to keep the older boy's arm in place around Sam's shoulders. Dean's legs shook and his world kept spinning, but with Sam's support he was able to stand. He felt the tickle of shaggy hair against his nose as the teen leaned in close.
"You okay to move?"
Dean couldn't help twitch a smile at the softly-spoken inquiry.
"Yeah." He croaked, unable to put any additional volume into the response – unsure if his head would explode.
Sam huffed his disagreement, but helped slowly guide the older boy across the parking lot, to the Impala that had been haphazardly stopped in the middle of it– the driver's side door still wide open, headlights still on, and keys left in the ignition. Normally Dean would lecture his kid about leaving their most prized position in such an accessible state – their entire life was in that car, if it ever got stolen…well they would have to deal with more than just Dean's heartbreak; but then he thought of what his own response would be if he pulled up and saw his brother being held at knifepoint, and all criticism vanished.
"C'mon, Dean, lets get you in the car." Sam prompted softly.
The hunter frowned, realizing they had arrived at the passenger's side of the vehicle. He grunted his disapproval, but reluctantly allowed the teenager to unload him down into the seat. He settled into place, resting the side of his head against upholstered backrest.
Dean most have zoned-out or dozed-off, because he startled at the feel of knuckles grinding against his sternum.
"The fuck, Sam?" He grumbled.
"You need to stay awake."
Dean was blinking rapidly to bring the world back into focus, but that didn't distract him from the edge of panic he could hear in his kid's voice.
"Thought I was." Dean admitted, stretching out a shaky head to clumsily pat his little brother's chest – his severely concussed attempt at providing comfort. "Sorry, Sammy."
"It's fine, just…just stay awake."
Dean could tell his brother was doing his best to give an order, his authoritative voice had been activated, but the older boy was able to hear the pleading tone hidden beneath.
"K, Sammy." He slurred, making to nod but then thinking better of it.
The teenager gave him a squinted stare that Dean was too tired to interpret, so he attempted a reassuring smile, which did nothing but enlist a huff out of Sam.
"Here, rinse and spit – and then drink." The kid instructed, uncapping a bottle of water and bringing it towards Dean's face.
"I can hold it." The hunter insisted. Sam looked unsure, but allowed Dean to grasp the beverage. He was relieved that his shaking had eased a bit and he was able to hold the bottle without incident. He rinsed the lingering bile from his mouth and spat it out onto the gravel, Sam's bracing hands being the only thing that kept him from tumbling right out of the car. Dean collapsed back in his seat, panting and wiping his mouth.
"Take a couple sips." Sam directed before he moved away, the sound of the truck opening and closing could be heard as Dean did as he was told – like a good little trooper. He set the bottle of water aside and rested his head against the side of the car. His skull was pounding and every other breath sent agony slicing through his brain.
He hadn't permitted the world to fade-away, but it had nonetheless.
Dean cried out as pain exploded in the back of his noggin. "Fucking hell." He cursed, trying to figure out what was going, and swatting at the pressure against his head, what he deemed to be the source of his agony.
"You said you'd stay awake." The accusation was harsh and the touch was firm, and Dean would have fought both, if his gaze hadn't been able to focus enough that it caught sight of the fear shining through those big hazel eyes.
"Didn't mean to." He mutterd. "I tried."
"Well, try harder."
Dean frowned at the snappy response. It was something John would do, give impossible orders and criticize weaknesses that were out of his sons' control. But there wouldn't have been any desperation in his father's tone, and yet Sam's voice was drenched in it.
He was about to apologize once again, when his kid brother beat him to it.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean – I just…just please try to stay awake, okay?" Sam pleaded softly, his puppy dog eyes wide and worried, his face close as he was crouched down next to the older boy.
"Kay' kiddo." Dean wasn't going to make promises he didn't have the power to keep, but he tried his best to proved Sam with some level of assurance, reaching up and sliding his hand onto the back of the teen's neck, the shaggy hair brushing against his knuckles as he squeezed gently.
Sam gave the older boy a calculating look before briskly nodding his head, he took Dean's hand off his neck and moved it to the fabric balled-up and pressed against the injury on the back of the hunter's head.
"Hold that there." He instructed, waiting until Dean did as he was asked before stooping down to pick the hunter's legs up off the pavement and tuck them into the footwell. The door was closed as softly as possible, and it still sent a wave of pain through Dean's skull.
"Fuck." He cursed, leaning back and doing his best to keep, what he was pretty sure was an old shirt, pressed against the sore spot on his head. He forced his eyes open wider as they threatened to drift closed. He may have not made a promise, but he would try his best to stay conscious as long as his body would allow him. He forced his gaze to the left and watched Sam drop into the car, shutting his own door with an amount of care that made it clear he was aware the agony his big brother was experiencing.
"Stay awake." The teen repeated as he put the Impala in drive and steered it out of the parking lot.
"M'wake."
"Good. Stay that way. Hospital is about twenty minutes out."
"Tha's a long time." Dean slurred, staring out at the dark street they were racing down.
"It's like one episode of Scooby-Doo, you can do it."
Dean snorted. Fuck, his head felt like it'd been blasted wide open and his brain was charred remains trying to leak out. He still couldn't get his eyes to focus for more than a couple seconds before everything faded the fuck out again. The edges of his vision went dark every now and then, he could literally feel unconsciousness pulling him under – tugging at his consciousness as his body felt weighted and oddly disconnected, like he had no power over it.
"Hey! Dean!"
He startled slightly at the shout and grimaced at the way it reverberated through his skull. "Shit, Sam. Shut up, m'right here."
"You weren't answering me." The teen defended, even as he substantially lowered the volume of his voice.
"Didn't hear ya."
"I was asking what happened. How'd you end up almost getting decapitated?"
Dean chortled at his brother's choice of words. "Knife wasn't that big."
"Not the point, Dean."
The kid sounded so damn parental. It was funny. It was also depressing as hell. Because Sam was way too bloody young to be sounding like that. He was a teenager. Just a kid.
"Guy didn't like losing." He surmised.
Sam nodded. "is that why you were taking off early?"
Dean frowned, using the seat to press the cloth against his wound as his hand no longer wanted to properly function. Traitor. He wondered if this was how Sam felt when his hands would go numb or stiff or overall uncooperative. Like his own limbs were betraying him. His own body was working against him. Like he was helpless and defenseless and altogether powerless. It was a terrible fucking feeling.
"Dean?"
The older boy responding to the prompting, rolling his heavy hurting head in Sam's direction as he tried to remember what he had last been asked. Oh yeah, leaving early.
"Yeah. Asshats were gettin' pissed. So I was leavin'."
"You should have called me, I would have come to get you."
"You did." Dean pointed out, squinting over at the skinny blur and trying to figure out what the kid was going on about.
"Only because I finished early. I was going to hang out in the parking lot until you were done, I didn't want you to have to walk to the library. If you'd called me before you left, I would have come earlier, before that jackass attacked you."
Dean tried to track all of the words, but there were so many of them. He did manage to catch the last sentence. "Didn't wanna int'rupt your studyin'. 'sides, you still got there in time." He reassured, managing to lift one of his arms and drop it on one of those boney legs – he tried to pat it but his body didn't cooperate so he just left it where it was. He attempted to get a glance at Sam's face, to see if he had helped at all in easing the teen's misplaced guilt, but the world began to fade once more and his eyelids dipped closed.
"Hey! Come on, Dean. Stay awake."
Damn pest, refusing to give him a moment's rest. He pried his eyes open and stared blearily at his little brother.
"Eye-spy something yellow."
Dean squinted, confused.
"Come on. You need to stay awake. Play the game."
Dean would have rolled his eyes if he didn't think it would turn his stomach inside-out, again. Eye-spy in the dark would probably just put him to sleep. It was a stupid idea, and he was about to tell the kid as much.
"Please, De."
Well, fuck.
"Street light?" He mumbled.
"Nope."
"Stars?"
Sam snorted. "Nope. Guess again."
Dean glanced around as much as he could without lifting his head, catching a glimpse of yellow on the dash. "Speedin' ticket?"
"Ding-ding-ding." Sam sounded off. "From Arizona like three months ago – one of many."
Dean smirked.
"Your turn."
The older hunter sighed, tempted to give in to unconsciousness just so he wouldn't have to play the stupid game anymore, but knowing how much that would terrify his little brother. He allowed his blurry gaze to wander, not spotting anything of significance until they drove under another streetlight. He frowned at what he saw.
"I spy somethin' red."
"Stop sign?"
"No." Dean replied, dragging his body across the seat, closer to Sam, trying to inspect the site of his concern.
"The Kit-Kat wrapper that's still on the floor because your lazy ass couldn't manage to reach all the way over to the garbage."
Normally, Dean would take the bait and the bickering would begin, but not now. He forced he tried to force his head up off the backrest, but only managed to lift it an inch before it dropped back down again. The interior was illuminated briefly as the car moved beneath the next streetlight.
The steering wheel was covered in red, dark red liquid that was dripping off of it. Panic shot through the hunter, and he forced his hand up off Sam's leg and onto his arm.
"What—
"Red, Sam. Red. On the wheel. It's blood." He croaked out, tugging insistently at the kid's sleeve.
"It's yours, Dean. Your head is bleeding, I got it on my hands. We'll be at the hospital in ten. It's going to be okay."
Dean hadn't known he was bleeding, and yeah, maybe Sam got some of if on his hands. But not that much. There was no way.
"Show me your hands." He ordered, his voice raspy but demanding as he pulled at Sam's arm.
"Dean, I told you—
"Now, Sam!" He snapped, his concern momentarily clearing the fog in his head, but the pain only seemed to be escalating.
"Okay! Relax." Sam relented. He presented his left one first, palm up as his right stayed on the wheel.
Dean pulled the appendage closer to him - still unable to hold his own head up - and inspected it. There was blood, but it was only smeared across some of the fingers, certainly not enough to be painting the steering wheel. Dean released the hand and made grabby motions for the other one until Sam acquiesced.
The teen kept his eyes on the road as he placed his left hand back on the wheel and held the right one out in front of his brother. Even in the dim light, Dean could spot the dark liquid glistening over the pale skin. There was blood smeared on the fingers, but most of it seemed to be covering the bottom of Sam's palm. Dean snagged the thin wrist to bring the appendage closer, frowning at the slick feeling of the blood he felt there. The next streetlight they drove beneath was enough to illuminate the source of the coloured liquid. There was a laceration on Sam's palm. It wasn't particularly long, not more than a couple of inches, but it was deep. Too deep.
The knife. It had to have been the knife. The cut was perfectly straight and the skin around the injury – besides being coated in blood – was completely unblemished.
"What the fuck, Sam? Why didn't you tell me that bastard fucking sliced you?" Dean snapped, his tone hushed but vicious as he glared over at his little brother.
Sam glanced over his shoulder and had the audacity to look affronted. "Because I didn't. What the hell are you talking about? Fuck, are you seeing shit, Dean?" Sam asked, an edge of panic in his voice.
Dean huffed, because though he probably got his bell rung hard enough to be seeing shit, the warm sticky fluid now covering his fingers ensured him that this was not a delusion. Unfortunately. He took the wad of fabric from where it was wedged between his head and the backrest, and pressed it roughly into Sam's right palm. The teenager didn't react at all, no hiss or curse, hell, his fingers didn't even flinch.
"You're tellin' me you can't feel that?" Dean asked, closing his eyes a moment as agony rippled through his head.
"Feel what?" Sam wondered, sounding honestly confused as he pulled his hand away. Dean tried to maintain his hold, but his sluggish reaction didn't allow for that.
He opened his eyes and watched the teenager's face as the make-shift bandage fell away and the wound was revealed. Sam's eyes widened in surprise and as he glanced back out at the road, he curled his fingers on his right hand and used them to dig into the injury.
"Fuckin' hell, Sammy. Don't do that." Dean demanded, clumsily slapping forward and knocking against his brother's forearm. "You're gonna make it worse."
Sam looked down at his palm, his expression curious now, as he obediently stopped pressing into the cut. The shaggy head abruptly shook back and forth and both hands were returned to the wheel, after Sam had tossed Dean the bloodied, balled-up shirt.
"Put pressure on your head." The driver instructed.
"But your hand—
"We'll deal with it when we get to the hospital. It's fine. Just need some stiches probably."
Dean wanted to argue but he was having too hard a time tracking his own thoughts let alone Sam's words.
"We'll be fine. As long as you stay awake, we'll be fine."
It sounded simple enough. But it wasn't, not really.
Dean was losing his battle to stay awake. His veins had been filled with lead and the pain in his head thudded with each beat of his heart. No amount of blinking would clear his vision for even a moment, the fog was everywhere and the black edges were encroaching all too rapidly. He had been fighting it for so long, but knew his time was running out.
Dean desperately didn't want to leave. Sam was hurt and he was scared, and Dean had dedicated his entire fucking life to preventing his kid from having to feel either of those things. He wanted to stay. But the right to choose had been stolen away from him. And oh how he loathed the fates for such an injustice.
"M' sorry, Sammy." He slurred as his world went black.
When Dean next opened his eyes, he was greeted with the blinding white colour that seemed to only ever be found in sterile hospital rooms. The agony he could remember searing through his brain at last consciousness had been muted to a dull thud of discomfort. He could hear the faint sounds of bustling movements that sounded as though they were coming from the other side of the wall, and soft sounds of various machines played as white noise in the room. Dean rolled his head against the pillow, able to feel the extra padding of a bandage against the back of his noggin as he moved. He found what he was looking for when he looked to his left.
His kid was seated in a chair pulled up close to the bed. The slim frame was slumped over, the shaggy head resting on the mattress up against Dean's hip.
Dean quirked a smile, combing the long brown bangs back so he could get a view of his little brother's face. Sammy looked tired, the shadows evident beneath his eyes even as he slept, and there was a crease on his forehead, the one that always appeared when he was worried; but other than that, the boy appeared unarmed. Sam had one hand cushioning his head and the other was resting curled against Dean's ribs.
It wasn't until Dean caught sight of the bandage wrapped around Sam's right hand, that he remembered what had happened. The seedy bar, the poker games, and the attack in the parking lot all came back to him. Everything that happened after that was scattered and fuzzy, but he could recall quite clearly having spotted the laceration across Sam's palm.
His kid had got fucking sliced with a knife trying to protect Dean from that violent asshat.
Dean gently took hold of the wounded hand, turning it over to take a look. He could make out a line of dark stitching beneath the layers of gauze, but the rest of the appendage appeared clear and free of any further damage or infection.
"It was nerve damage."
Dean's eyes flew up at the remark, his heart rate picking up as he stared at his sleepy little brother. "What?"
"That's why I couldn't feel it when it got sliced. I guess there's a patch of damaged nerves at the base of my palm."
Dean frowned, looking back down at the hand cradled in his grasp, tracing a finger around the injury.
"I can feel most of it. The doctor said that's why I probably never noticed it before, because it's only a small cluster and it's not up into any of my fingers where I would notice if I had no feeling." Sam explained, using his good hand to knuckle the sleep from his eyes as he sat up a bit, still staying close.
"The frostbite?" Dean asked, already knowing the answer.
Sam nodded. "Doc couldn't think of any other reason for it."
Dean mirrored the nod, because neither could he. The professionals who had treated Sam's frostbitten hands years ago had been thoroughly shocked that there had been no nerve damage. Evidently, they had just missed it.
"It's not a big deal, Dean. I never noticed, so it obviously doesn't affect the function of my hands or anything."
Dean nodded along, because the hopeful look on Sam's face was telling him he needed to. The kid also had a point, all the other symptoms: the pain, the stiffness, the numbness in his fingers, were a lot more worrisome than the damaged nerves hidden in his palm. But it was still unsettling.
It was more damage that should have been prevented.
Further affects of an injury that never should have been.
Additional evidence of Sam's suffering and Dean's failure.
Dean held his brother's fingers in a loose grip as his eyes drooped closed, before he forced them open again. He was so fucking tired but he needed to keep Sammy nearby. He had failed to protect his kid one too many times, he wouldn't be doing it again. Ever.
He felt a gentle weight rest against his chest, over his heart, and rub comfortingly back and forth.
"You can go to sleep now, De. It's okay." Sam vowed with a whisper, the fingers of his injured hand curling over Dean's. "I'll be right here."
It was the last promise that allowed Dean to release a sigh of relief, and enable him to stop fighting the unconsciousness he had railed against so viciously before.
Sammy would stay.
Dean would do better; he would do everything and anything to keep his kid by his side.
Everything would be okay, as long as Sam was with him.
That would always and forever be the law of Dean's life.
"Yeah, I guess eye-spy in the dark doesn't have the best success rate." Dean admitted.
"It would seem not." Sam snorted in reply, tucking his scarred hand back into his coat, holding it against his chest.
The younger man shivered and Dean held him close, praying that time would pass faster. He couldn't bear to just sit and wait for much longer, not when more damage was being done to his little brother with each moment that passed by.
One hour and thirty minutes, that was all Dean was willing to wait before putting his insane plan into action. Light the bodies, starting a fire in a small confined space, it was risky as hell, but it was the only plan of actions they could concoct and it was better than nothing. It was a chance, but there was hope it could work. And sometimes all the world gave the Winchester was a little bit of hope. Sometimes just an anorexic slice of it – but they always made do.
The fire could kill the homicidal spirit and it could alert Bobby to the brothers' whereabouts.
There was a chance.
But they had to stay awake and wait just a little bit longer.
"I'd recommend karaoke, but it'd probably just put you to sleep." Dean mentioned.
"Probably." Sam agreed with a nod, his breath catching midway through the word as his body flinched and what had to be pain.
"What hurts worse, your hands or your leg?" Dean asked.
"Leg. Can't much feel my hands anymore."
Dean swallowed at the honest response, trying to swallow his concern – as if that had ever been something he was capable of.
"Your back okay? I can move if—
"I'm fine, Sammy. Don't go moving anywhere." Dean declared, tightening his arms around the frame against his chest to further discourage any movement.
"You needa stay 'wake. You've had too many fuckin' concussions." The kid slurred between shivers.
"Well then you best thing of something we can do to stay awake."
"Not eye-spy."
"No, not eye-spy. Something else."
"Ummm, we could recite the pres'dents in order of most accomplished."
"That'll send me straight into a comma."
"We could recite all your exes, that'll take 'least an hour."
"You're an idiot."
Sam chuckled in response.
"How about we list Metallica's entire repertoire of songs alphabetically." Dean suggested.
"Pfft. Then I'll be the one in a coma."
Dean smirked, his head resting back against the wall, as Sam's head nestled against his collarbone. "How about you tell me some stories about Stanford?"
The long frame stiffened at the mention of the school. Dean clenched his jaw, hoping he hadn't fucked up, hoping his brother wasn't about to lock himself away in that big head of his, the way he tended to do when he was hurting.
"Doesn't have to be everything, it's fine whatever you…you only have to tell me the things you want to." Dean clarified. He wasn't trying to pry and he had no desire to open old wounds, but he was so desperate to hear at least a little bit about the life his kid brother had lived during their years apart.
"Like what?" Sam asked, the hesitance clear, but some of the tension had blead form the long limbs.
"I don't know. What kind of shit you got up to when you weren't knee-deep in homework. Or what your favourite courses were. Or what weird-ass sort of professors you had to put up with. Anything you don't mind talking about." Dean shrugged. He'd love the full picture of everything that happened while Sam was away, but he would settle for glimpses, snippets of what it had been like in Sam's world at Stanford.
There was a long silence, and Dean was a handful of seconds from telling the kid to forget it, and saying that it was okay if he wasn't ready, when Sam spoke up.
"Okay." He rasped.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, but only if you do the same. A story for a story."
Dean squinted. "Okay, but I wasn't at school, kiddo."
"I know. But you were still livin' your life. I want to know what kind of shit you got up to when you weren't knee-deep in huntin'. Or any crazy assholes you had t' deal with. Or any interesting hunts you went on. Anything you don't mind talkin' 'bout."
Even through his slurs and shivers, Sam still sounded so damn genuine.
"I wanna know what I missed." The younger boy added softly.
And Dean knew that feeling all too well.
"Okay, Sammy. A story for a story. You start."
The brothers sat huddled up in the cold, swapping tales from the few years they had been absent from one another's lives. They drifted towards the lighter brighter parts, neither wanting to dredge up old wounds and pain. There were of course still glimpses of loneliness in each story, because regardless of how good a time was being had – each brother had always felt a powerful absence to which there was no remedy but the presence of the missing piece. They didn't speak of any of that though, and they didn't need to. It was something they had both understood and accepted for years. Instead, they focused on the good.
They each told the other about events they knew their brother would find entertaining or amusing.
Sam spoke about a professor he had who made endless references to Star Wars and froze up anytime he had to interact with a female in the class.
Dean told of the time he was squatting in a house when the family returned home, and had to spend the night hidden in a closet while the couple fought over whether to make dip with medium or mild salsa.
They were stories of no real significance. But they were moments, moments of the lives they had lead while apart. Glimpses into the people they had been when the one who had so often defined them was so far away. They were enlightening snippets of two lives that had been very different when the brothers were apart than they had been when they were together, and reassuring pieces of two boys who – at their core – had stayed very much the same.
Each story, be it humorous or adventurous or simply absurd, always ended on the same note. Whether it was spoken or hidden in a tone or slipped into a sigh, it was always the same message: They were relieved to be together again. Because some truths never changed, no matter the time or the distance, no matter how substantial or inconsequential the circumstance. There were some things that would forever be constant.
And the brother's being better together?
That was one of them.
Note: For everyone whining about how I was being dishonest by claiming I was going to finish all of my multi-chap fics: I wasn't lying, I don't lie at all, actually. I'm going to finish all of my fics, but it might not be on your schedule. Because I have a life that often gets in the way and a laptop that doesn't work. I have responsibilities and spend a lot of time working at jobs that actually pay so that I can make rent; and yeah on occasion I am going to write some other stories that might be from a different fandom. And even when I find the time, I may on occasion be too stressed to spend a lot of time inside my head (which is where I have to be in order to write anything decent). It's going to happen. If you have an issue with that, you can suck my dick.
For everyone else: Thanks for reading! I'd love a review/comment, it's nice to know what everyone thought of the chapter. - Sam.