Chapter Four: Clean-up


Bloody rags.

They choked Dean.

Every Impala door was open, airing out the vehicle's morbid smell. Dean was humming Metallica to himself as he mopped up the backseat with a couple musty rags he'd stolen from the motel bathroom. Originally the rags had actually been one poor quality towel, but after a slight haircut and resizing, they'd found their new purpose.

Dean would scrub at the leather, and when the rag soaked up as much ichor as it could, he simply wrung it all out into a bucket.

It was only after the young man had started cleaning his car did he realize that maybe he should've done this before he showered. Because now Sam's blood was caking his fingers, again.

Muscles in his arms tensed as he jammed all his strength into his clean-up. It had already been an hour or so, and with how much was left, Dean figured he was only about halfway done. If he was being optimistic, which he rarely was. His hands and upper arms had begun to absently ache now, and Dean had to grit his teeth and fight the urge to give himself a break.

The young man didn't have much time to get the Impala looking spotless. Sam would wake up from his nap in a couple hours max, and when he did, Dean would have to go inside, and any blood remaining in the car would only have more time to harden into sticky clumps. Nausea built up in his throat again, sickening and distasteful.

This whole thing was fucked up.

At least by this point, Dean had already soaked up the majority of the blood puddles on the seats. Now detail cleaning was all that remained. As for the carpet on the floor? Dean didn't have a single clue on how to get the deep red stains out. At this point, he was tempted to smash in the windows and just replace the car.

Dean frowned, saddened by that thought suddenly. He smoothed a hand across Baby's car door, patting it with a newfound gentleness. "I wouldn't do you like that, Baby, don't worry…"

He just didn't know what else he could do.

Cold skin pressed heavily against Dean's exposed arm, and he flinched, whipping around. Sam's lifeless corpse was leaning against him. His skin was gray, and his eyes were filled with death and gore. The young man let out a strangled gasp and lunged outside the Impala. Cold September wind tingled against his nerves, centering him.

When he looked back inside the car, the seats were empty.

Dean mentally kicked himself and slammed the door shut. Baby shuddered at the force, but he couldn't care. Stumbling around the Impala to close every door, the young man felt horror and grief eating away at his brain. Numbly, he picked up the bucket and headed inside the motel. Dean needed to be cleaning the car like he needed a bullet in his brain.

As in, not at all, but it would be nice if someone else could do it for him.

Dean didn't realize he'd slammed the door until he heard Sam stirring on his bed. He sighed and detoured into the bathroom, carefully pouring the blood down the shower drain and disposing the rags in the trash can. It looked like a crime scene. The young man turned the shower head and watched as the blood coating the shower tiles gurgled down the drain.

For maybe the hundredth time that hour, he thought of his brother's killers.

His hands itched for his gun. Ever since he'd seen Sam in that alleyway, Dean hadn't been able to get the image of Trev and Billie dying in gruesome ways out of his brain. Sam didn't want him to hurt them, but Dean really couldn't give less of a shit. Those mother-fuckers were dangerous. They'd stabbed his brother and then dumped his body for the rats.

They only deserved the same. If not something much, much worse. Dean could feed them to pigs, let rats pick apart their skin, or maybe he'd just beat the life out of them.

Dean's heart panged, and he realized he was staring at the blood on his hands. Disgust cascaded over the older brother, and he quickly washed them in the running shower before shutting it off. What was he thinking? These were teenagers.

Trev and Billie were teenagers just like Sam was. As much as Dean wanted to, how did he expect himself to kill people when he could barely function at the thought of his injured brother? Speaking of injured kin… the young man slipped out of the bathroom and snuck a glance at the beds.

His brother was straddling the blanket, sweat beading on his forehead. Dean didn't know how to treat Sam because he didn't know what the demon had fixed and what he'd left. From what he was gathering, yellow eyes had only brought Sam back to life. Because despite his brother's breathing, he still looked sickly and like literal death.

Dean didn't want to know how much blood was flowing through Sam's veins. The answer terrified him. After the older brother used the blanket to wipe the teenager's face dry, he pressed the back of his hand to Sam's head. Instead of the icy feeling that had been haunting Dean all day, Sam was burning up.

He had some sort of fever.

"Sammy," the young man alerted quietly. Dean gave his brother a gentle shake. "Hey, we've gotta get you into the shower."

For more than one reason, but Dean didn't bother explaining that quite yet. If asked, he would reply that they needed to get Sam's body temperature down. He would leave out the part where Sam's body was clotted with blood. And the part where Dean needed to see what kind of condition his brother was in after almost a full day of rest. Sam didn't ask any questions, he barely even responded.

His eyes only flickering, -proving he was at least alive- Sam barely even stirred. Dean let out a concerned sigh and closed his hand around the kid's shoulder. He shook once more, a little rougher. This time, Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean with wide confusion. "Dean?" He gasped, panic edging its way into his voice.

"Yup, it's me, kiddo," Dean soothed. A protectiveness buzzed through the older brother's skin, and as his baby brother edged closer to Dean's warmth, he couldn't suppress a weak smile. "I need to get you in the shower." The young man finally stated after realizing Sam was trying to fall back asleep.

While he wanted to let Sam continue sleeping, there was risk with it, and it was a risk Dean wasn't willing to take. He slipped an arm under his brother's back, pulling him into a sit. Sam's spine jutted through his thin skin, and Dean just wanted to shove him full of real food. What little rabbit food his brother ate wasn't doing his body any favors.

Sam groaned in defiance. "No…"

Not interested in getting into an argument with Mr. Delusion, Dean realized with a painful sigh that he would just have to carry his brother. Sam was too weak to even stay sitting up on his own, let alone walk to the bathroom.

Picking up and carrying Sam was nothing new to Dean, but the past three times he'd done it now had been under very unpleasant circumstances. As Dean tucked one hand under Sam's lower neck and one under the bend in his knees, he tried to shut out memories of dragging his brother's dead body into the Impala.

It didn't work, and when they reached the shower, Dean was all too ready to gently set his brother down on the ground. Sam's head loosely rested against the wall of the shower. He was lucid enough to understand he had to stay sitting up, but that was about it. Dean would be surprised if Sam knew they'd made it to the bathroom.

Carefully, Dean slipped his brother's sweatpants off and tossed them by the door. He left Sam's boxers on, offering his brother at least a little comfort in that area. Then, he slowly turned the water on.

Sam let out a guttural scream the moment the cold water made contact with his skin. Guilt chewed deep inside Dean's stomach. He quickly checked that the water wasn't freezing -it wasn't. It was even on the cold side of lukewarm- and smoothed a hand through the teenager's wet hair. "You're okay. We just gotta get you cooled down, Sammy,"

I'm not losing you again.

Maybe it was Dean's voice, or maybe it was the physical touch, but Sam seemed to understand. His weak thrashes stilled into simple tremors, and he leaned into his brother's touch. "C-cold…"

"That's the point," Dean tried to reassure. "Jus' a little bit longer."

Sam's bandages were getting wet, but his overall temperature was settling down finally, so Dean deemed it worth it. He had been needing to change the wraps soon anyway. Dean reached behind him briefly for a towel, and once it was in his hold, he proficiently got to work cleaning the stains of blood off Sam's skin.

If Dean had been painted in ichor, Sam was buried in it. It stuck to every part of his body, from his cheekbone to his feet. Careful strokes from the towel did a relieving job at washing a large portion of it off. Once Sam's body had returned to its sick pale color, Dean shut off the water.

His brother was awake now, but he didn't make any moves to take charge of the situation. Sam was still leaning heavily against the shower wall. The only change in his posture had been when he went from staring at nothingness to watching Dean's face with a confused stare. "What happened…?" he slurred out.

"Can we get you dressed first?"

Sam glanced down at his body and the lack of clothes and laughed. "Yeah."

Neither brother cared too much for Sam's exposed skin. Seeing each other without shirts and even pants wasn't new; they grew up hunters. Dean had probably sewn his brother up more times -and in more places- than he'd kissed people. But it was the vulnerability of sitting soaked in a shower, near naked that was obviously making Sam uncomfortable. Dean didn't blame him.

Dean tossed the wet towel away and picked up the last clean towel they had left, passing it to his brother. Sam took it with shaking hands.

Dean's eyes flickered nervously to his brother's stomach bandages before he climbed into a stand. "I'm gonna grab you a change of clothes. Stay,"

To Sam's credit, he did stay. When Dean returned swiftly with another pair of sweatpants, boxers, and a white tee, the teenager was still hunched over in the bathroom, trying his best to pat himself dry with the towel. His hands were trembling at the effort, and Dean gritted his teeth in guilt before ducking down beside Sam.

"I can't," Sam's voice shook his anger, "I can't fucking stand up…"

That's when the older brother realized Sam had tried to move but had been literally unable to defy his command.

"I know, Sammy," Dean sighed. Because what else could he say? He passed the change of clothes to his brother, and after only a little struggle, the two brothers successfully switched the youngest Winchester's outfit. "How do you feel?"

Sam grunted, his hands slipping under the tee to rest on the bandages underneath. "Like death," And how could he have known how accurate that was? Dean still didn't even know how he would tell his brother about the entire incident. Of course, Sam deserved to know, but the words wouldn't even begin to form into an actual sentence. So Dean just laughed dryly.

"Not on my watch." Which was true. "Now lift the shirt up. I need to change that."

His brother obeyed, allowing Dean to gently peel the wet gauze off Sam's stomach. It came off with little fight, making a sickly squishing sound before letting go of Sam's skin. Dean's nausea fought at his throat again at the sight of the stab wound. It was deep, a gaping hole in his brother's stomach.

It had bled into the bandage, quite heavily too, but somehow still hadn't decided that was enough because Dean had to quickly wrap a new bandage around Sam's stomach. If he'd waited any longer, it would've started bleeding all over his brother again, and the shower would be proved necessary again. All of which Dean didn't want, because the streaming water had seemed to only irritate the wound more.

"...Dean," Sam's voice was muffled against Dean's fogged thoughts.

How had Dean let this -let any of this- happen? His one job had been to watch over Sam.

And he fucking failed.

Because instead of being busted for staying at school late, a quivering Sam was cradled up against Dean in the shower with a stab wound.

Not to mention yellow eyes, looming out there -possibly even nearby- waiting to stake his claim on something Dean didn't even know he'd promised. The deal they'd made hadn't exactly been clear. Dean barely even remembered talking to the demon. Just that he had, and that he did what he had to.

It had been five minutes since Dean had pulled over.

Or maybe five hours. The young man honestly couldn't tell. Couldn't care.

Sam flopped against his older brother, his skin a deadly shade of white. His eyes had been closed when they'd pulled over, but blood was still streaked across his eyelids. How had the blood gotten onto his eyelids? Dean really didn't know. He had been trying to forget the amount of gore they were just sitting in. At first, he had sworn he didn't care. And maybe that had been true, but the longer Dean sat in it, and the more it clung to him, the more bile rose inside him.

He'd been in the middle of debating putting a bullet through his own brain and calling John when Sam shifted beside him.

"Sammy?" Dean gasped, hope flaring deep inside his chest.

But when his brother sat up, steady and still, Dean went for his blade. Sam looked like a zombie, blood painting his frail body and an open gash in his stomach all while he stared directly at Dean. His eyes were cold and foreign. It wasn't his brother anymore, and his hope burned into rage. "Get the fuck out of my brother,"

But the monster inside Sam just stared at Dean. As if finding the strength -or words- before it opened its mouth. "I can save him."

"What?" Dean's grip loosened on his blade, and it almost slipped from his hand entirely.

The body didn't respond immediately. There was more staring as the monster inside attempted again to gain control of the lifeless corpse. Dean wanted to wake up from this nightmare. Then, it spoke again, "I can save him. Just say the word, Dean Winchester." And Dean didn't know what compelled him, but he nodded.

Dean's voice masked into steady confidence, "What will it cost?"

"The time will come when I need a favor. And that's it. I save your Sammy, and you owe me," Sam's eyes, which had from this point and earlier been the same empty brown as usual, blinked into gold. "So, tell me, Dean. Is Sam worth it?"

And, of course, Sam was worth it.

But he was here, staring down the son of a bitch who killed his mother, and he couldn't speak. On the surface, Dean knew he shouldn't be making this deal. He should kill the demon for god's sake! Not negotiating with him! Deep down, though, Dean couldn't find a real sliver of doubt, "Yes, okay? Save him! Do whatever you need to do but save him!"

The moment yellow eyes slipped from Sam's body was palpable. One second, his brother was sitting up, dead. And the next, he was slouched against Dean's legs, alive. His chest carefully rose and fell, and Dean refused to waste more time.

He would deal with yellow eyes later.

For now? Sammy was all that mattered.

Sam was all that ever mattered.


A/N: Review if you can! Thank you for reading!