Title: Safe Haven
Author: NativeStar
Word Count: 2,473 words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: This is written for the spnthurnights fic exchange and dragynflygrl on LJ.

Huge thank you to the betas justruth and ispeaktongue on LJ.

Pulled roughly from sleep it takes two tries before his hand grasps the ringing phone and he murmurs a greeting. A shaking voice answers.

"He's hurt bad."

It's like a bucket of ice, a shot of adrenaline and gallon of caffeine all at once. He sits up, dreams forgotten.

"Who is this? Who's hurt?"

"It's Sam. I'm with Dean, he's hurt bad." His mind takes a moment to catch up, then supplies him with Winchester. He remembers the brothers. John's boys.

"Where are you?"

"'bout twenty miles out."

He thinks about his job, his mother in the nursing home. He can't harbour fugitives, but—

"Come here."

"We need somewhere safe, they didn't get their ransom." Ransom? What the— no, that doesn't matter right now.

"You'll be safe here. I promise." They risked everything to help him last year, it's the least he can do.

"Thank you, Deacon."

The line clicks dead.

Dropping the phone to the bed Deacon takes a moment to scrub the sleep from his eyes. Confusion and questions swirl in his mind.

Ransom.

Sam had said ransom.

Someone had held Dean for ransom? And now he's hurt bad and someone or god forbid something didn't have their ransom?

Groaning, he pushes himself out of his warm bed. His hand slaps the switch on the bedside lamp and he squints at the sudden light.


What the hell have those boys gotten themselves into?

What the hell have I gotten myself into?


Deacon can't remember twenty miles ever taking so long as he waits by the door, watching out the window next to it. The trees by the road limit his view and his hand tightens around the door handle with every set of headlights that pass by. He hears the growl of the Impala just before he sees it pull up the driveway and he's out the door before Sam cuts the engine off.

The outdoor light flicks on automatically and casts enough light that he can see Dean half lying in the passenger seat, his head resting on Sam's thigh. His face is dark with the blood that covers most of his face. Any other injuries are hidden, both by the dark and the tan jacket wrapped around his shoulders.

Deacon's not even sure he's conscious.

Sam gets out carefully, moving Dean's head gently to the seat below.

"Sam, what the hell happened?"

"I…it's a long story. Can we just – I need to–" he gestures to Dean.

Deacon nods. Sam's looking pale himself with the exception of the dark smudges beneath his eyes and Deacons understands that Sam can't think further than help Dean at this point.

"All right, son, tell me everything later. The first aid kit's in the spare bedroom. Let's get him in there."

Deacon's home is a small detached house on the outskirts of town. The trees obscure the view from the road but he'll move the Impala into the garage later anyway. Deacon just hopes no one drives by while they're supporting a bloody Dean into the house.

Dean doesn't wake during the difficult manoeuvre to relocate him to the bed in the spare room. It's both a blessing and a concern, because once he wakes up he's going to be in a whole world of pain but he's lucky enough to miss out on the fair bit of jostling involved in getting him up the stairs - accidentally pressing on some of the visible bruises and wounds should have been enough to make him scream blue murder.

They didn't get a flicker of a reaction.

Sam all but pushes Deacon out of the way once they're in the room, opening both Deacon's first aid kit and his own.

Old habits die hard and Deacon has always made sure his first aid supplies are well stocked and extensive, even though the most he's had to deal with in a long time is the occasional accidental cut or burn from the stove, neither which required much more than a band aid. Until today that is. He'll probably have to restock most of his kit by tomorrow.

Sam's hands are shaking as he cuts a path through the dirt and blood on Dean's face with an antiseptic wipe.

"Sam, let me."

"No."

"Your hands are shaking, Sam."

"No." Sam's knuckles stand out white against the box of wipes he clutches. The message is coming through clear to Deacon; this is Dean, my brother, my responsibility. "I'm fine."

"I was a Corps medic. He'll be in good hands."

Sam shuts his eyes and Deacon's heart goes out to the boy when he takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to choke down the irrational protectiveness. It's hard for Sam to accept that he can stand down now, and Deacon knows that feeling all too well. He wants to tell Sam that it's okay that his hands won't stop shaking, but Deacon doesn't much like the possibility of being on the wrong side of a punch.

"I didn't know." Sam admits as he finally relinquishes the antiseptic.

They shift places and Sam collapses into the chair by the desk, his eyes still on Dean. Deacon is left with no doubts that while Sam trusts him, it's very much Sam's watch.

Deacon carefully starts assessing Dean's injuries, trying to find out exactly where he's hurt and what needs his attention first. Sam can't sit still, he fidgets and his knee won't stop bouncing. It's a nervous energy that is crying out to put to use. He clenches his hands hard and Deacon can't tell if he's trying to hide or stop the shaking, either way it's not working. He needs to do something, Deacon realises.

Deacon mentions getting some water and towels and Sam leaves the room without waiting for directions to the bathroom. You don't need steady hands to clean the dirt off someone and he needs to be useful.

Deacon's hands skim over Dean's skull, and he's relieved to find that they've come away blood free and haven't discovered any large bumps. Dean's face is covered in dry blood though, and there's a bad gash at his hair line that's the most likely source. But Deacon isn't too worried about that. He knows head wounds bleed like bitches.

Sam returns with towels and warm water and starts cleaning the Dean's face. His wipes are careful and gentle, applying just enough pressure to remove the blood.

He pulls back the tan jacket, sliding it down Dean's arms and picks up the scissors from the kit. There's no easy way to get Dean out of the t-shirt underneath and he makes a long cut directly down the centre of his chest, peeling it away.

His chest is a kaleidoscopic array of cuts and bruises.

Deacon sucks in a breath.

"Sam?"

"I don't know what they did to him. What you see is what I know." His voice is tight and Deacon can almost hear the self recrimination there.

"Who's they?"

"We weren't followed so it doesn't really matter right now, does it?" Sam snaps at Deacon who feels his own anger rising. He's just taken in a couple of wanted men, one of which is bleeding all over his sheets. They're asking a lot of him; doesn't he at least have the right to know?

Sam sighs, and Deacon knows he's been thinking the same. His anger evaporates as quickly as it rose.

"I'm sorry. I just…it's been a long week. I don't know exactly who took Dean. They looked human, but in our line of work it's not just humans who can look human."

Deacon doesn't know a whole lot about their line of work - ignorance can sometimes be bliss - but he knows enough to know he's probably not going to like the answer if he pushes the question.

"Okay. Its okay, Sam. Let's just take care of Dean. No more questions for now."

Sam gives a barely perceptible nod and returns to his task.

His training comes back to him like it was only yesterday he was a medic not thirty odd years ago as Deacon runs his hands down Dean's ribcage. A couple of times the bruised flesh gives way under his hands where it shouldn't.

"He's got at least a couple of cracked, maybe even broken ribs."

Sam nods.

"His breathing is a little fast and shallow for my liking but it'd be a lot worse if one of those suckers had punctured a lung."

Sam probably already knows this, Deacon would be surprised if both boys didn't have a pretty extensive knowledge of first aid and triage, but Sam's shoulders relax slightly at the news.

There're a couple of deep slices in Dean's side, and another on the inside of his right forearm that'll need stitches but they've stopped bleeding for now. Dean's shoulder is a swollen lump, Deacon can't be sure but he'd bet it was dislocated recently. He carefully moves the arm, feeling how the joint moves. It's normal and although it'll be painful for a while, should hopefully heal fine.

Deacon ignores the voice in the back of his mind as it quotes medical text books that warn of the nerve damage caused by joints popped back in wrong. This boy should be in a hospital getting x-rays and MRI scans.

Dean's wrists are red and raw. Rope or plastic had cut into them badly and they'll need to be cleaned and bandaged, but again, it can wait until Deacon's sure there's nothing more life threatening to deal with.

He undoes Dean's jeans, sliding them down his legs and off his filthy sock clad feet. He feels awkward at this invasion of privacy. Dean is unconscious and practically naked. He was good friends with John, at least until he dropped off the map, but John's boys? Save for the few conversations they had about six months ago when he contacted them for help, he barely knows them.

Thankfully there's nothing but bruises and scratches along Dean's legs, his jeans had taken the brunt of the abuse. The socks go straight into the trash can in the corner of the room, there's no salvaging them.

Deacon grabs a suture kit and starts the task of salvaging Dean.

Dean wakes up, if it can be called that, before Deacon has finished. It's like a switch has been flipped. He goes from zero to ninety in no time at all with a strength that he shouldn't possess. Dean brings his good arm up sharply, lashing out, and catching Deacon solidly on his jaw, knocking him on his ass, before Sam gets to his brother.

"Hey…hey, Dean. It's ok, you're ok. It's all right."

Sam grabs Dean's arms and it takes a pathetically small amount of effort to pin them to his side, but Dean's caught in his memories, still not aware and the feeling of being restrained causes him to double his attempts to get free.

"Dean! You're all right. Look at me!" Sam leans in so his face is directly in Dean's line of sight. "It's Sam, they're not here. I am. I gotcha, you're okay."

Glassy eyes focus on Sam and Dean groans, long and low but his struggles ease…or maybe he's just reached the end of his strength.

"You're all right, Dean." Sam continues a litany of reassurances, a constant reminder that Dean is with his brother. Deacon gets to his feet as Sam lets go of Dean's arms and a moment later Dean's passed out again.

Sam's concerned eyes meet his and Deacon's surprised by the amount of emotion he finds there. Concern, fear, worry, love. All for Dean. Deacon's not sure he's ever met a pair of brothers as close as these two.

Dean's a mess, but to be honest it's not as bad as he was dreading. Deacon can more than deal with this.

Sam can't.

He leaves the room without a backward glance and Deacon ignores the glistening streaks down his face.

Deacon finds Sam in the kitchen. He's sat at the table with a hand curled around a glass of whiskey and a book laid out in front of him. Sam is nothing more than a zombie, staring at the book like its sheer hard-headedness that's keeping his eyes open. Heck, it probably is if Sam is anything like John.

Deacon wants nothing more right now than to sit Sam down in his kitchen with a glass of strong whiskey and demand the entire story from him. He's just aided and abetted known criminals, for the second time in six months, men wanted by the FBI for Pete's sake, and who knows what else might be after them right now. But Sam's dead on his feet, and Deacon always did have a soft spot for lost puppies and stray dogs. His mother said it would get him into trouble one day.

Looks like that day has come, Ma.

Deacon glances at the book between Sam's elbows, and although it's upside down he can see the diagrams and with what looks like Latin printed underneath.

"What're you reading?" He asks as he takes a seat opposite Sam.

Sam startles and Deacon wonders if Sam had actually fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"Nothing," he laughs, short and half hearted. "I'm just staring at the page, nothing's going in. Hope you don't mind." He indicates to the drink as he shuts the book.

"It's fine, I think you more than need it."

"It's been a helluva week." Sam nods. "How's Dean?"

"Not great, I've done what I can. He's got three busted ribs, a dislocated shoulder, couple of cuts that needed stitching. There's needle tracks on his arm from god knows what, and he's dehydrated. Scrapes and bruises everywhere."

"God, Dean." Sam whispers.

"He'd be better off in a hospital, Sam."

"We can't. Not just because of the FBI. It'd be too easy to find us, too hard to protect Dean." Sam's getting agitated and Deacon worries that Sam misunderstood him.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna throw you out. We'll do what we can for him here."

"Thanks. Look, Deacon. I know you want to know what happened--"

"Dean needs rest now. So do you. Don't think I missed those suitcases under your eyes, we'll talk about it in the morning."

"I'm fine."

"Only if fine means sleep deprived and exhausted. C'mon, you can have my son's old room."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine in the chair. Blanket and a pillow will do me fine."

"Sam--"

"I can't," he glances over at Dean. "I just can't."

Deacon sighs.

"Then come help me with the mattress. There's enough room in here, you might as well be comfortable."

Sam smiles for the first time since he arrived on Deacon's doorstep.

Please let me know what you think! The comments I got for the drabble really inspired and motivated me, I had most of this chapter done in a weekend! Any constructive criticism would also be appreciated as I do find chapter fics a lot harder to write, there's always room for improvement.