Title: Safe Haven (3/?)
Author: NativeStar
Word Count: 2,853 words
Rating: PG-13 (bit of language)
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Deacon is the prison guard from the episode Folsom Prison Blues. Huge thank you to the betas justrith and ispeaktongue.
Summary: Sam and a badly injured Dean turn up on Deacon's doorstep late at night but it's only a matter of time before those behind Dean's injuries catch up with them.
Dean hadn't spoken.
The thought looped around Sam's head, gathering speed. His brother, who was rarely silent and always had a comeback (no matter how lame), had not uttered a single word.
"Sam?"
Deacon stood in the doorway.
"He didn't say anything." Sam said, running a hand through his hair.
"He's been through a lot, Sam." Deacon spoke calmly, leaning against the doorframe.
"I know that. But even when our dad died, he didn't--"
"Give him time, he was pretty out it. I'm sure he'll be better when he wakes up next."
Sam nodded. Dean's strong; it'd take more than a beating to bring him down.
"Could it be the drugs?" Sam asked as he grabbed Dean's arm, turning it so he could see the needle marks for himself, noting how many there were.
"Possibly, although I would have thought they'd be out of his system by now if that was the case. But honestly, we don't have a clue what they gave him or let alone how long they last."
"We've no way of testing his blood." It's a statement more than a question but Deacon answered it anyway.
"No. Sorry. Besides, if it were drugs they could be undetectable by now. We'd be risking you boys being found unnecessarily."
"But what if he needs something? A counter agent? Something to flush it out his system?"
"Look, Sam. He's not in any distress right now. He's just... silent. If he was in a lot of pain or it was making him sick then yes, I'd say, we should do something. But right now, I think we just need to let him ride it out. Whatever it is."
"Might not even be drugs. Might be some kind of supernatural hoodoo."
"So what happened?" Deacon asked, changing the topic. It was as much out of curiosity as an effort to distract Sam from Dean; he was working himself up over something he simply couldn't do anything about.
"What? When?"
"After you got the photo."
"Oh, right." Sam sat down at the foot of Dean's bed while Deacon took the chair. "I didn't hear anything for the rest of the day. I spent it searching for Dean. Going back to people we'd talked to, places we'd been in the town. I didn't think it was connected to the case we'd been working. It'd been pretty much open and shut but you never knew. I called some friends of ours, to see if anyone had heard anything. Any rumours of anything going down -- but there was nothing. Dean literally had disappeared without a trace and all I really had to go on was that photo."
Six days earlier
A car horn blared from the road outside the motel room and Sam jerked awake. Quickly he checked his watch. Six AM.
Damnit.
He'd been asleep four hours. He'd spent most of yesterday calling people, trying to figure out who could be behind this. He stretched, easing his neck carefully from side to side, ignoring the aches of protest. Sleeping in a chair was not a good idea, but then, Sam hadn't intended to sleep there. He'd only wanted to rest his eyes, tired and dry from staring at the laptop screen for hours.
He fumbled for his phone, hoping that while he'd been out Bobby or Ellen or someone had found something.
No messages, no phone calls. How am I supposed to find Dean?
His stomach growled loudly. He'd ordered some pizza at some point the night before and there was still a quarter left. But Sam needed caffeine, and probably something more substantial than cold leftovers. There was a café across the street; it'd take him five minutes, maybe ten if he had to wait in line.
He grabbed his jacket and stepped out the door, knocking over a small brown paper bag that had been left directly in front of the motel room.
"What the –"
He picked the bag up which had some weight to it, but wasn't heavy. Sam immediately scanned the parking lot hoping to catch sight of whoever might have left it. But he didn't even know how long it had been sitting there. For all he knew someone had left it hours ago. Few people abandoned bags outside motel rooms, and Sam had a sinking feeling it was from whoever was holding Dean
If it's from them, how the hell did they know where I am?
After the photo, he'd moved to a motel clear across town. He hadn't wanted to go too far but the idea that Dean's kidnappers knew where he was unnerved him. Sam had been extra careful to ensure he'd not been followed and the Impala was parked in out of sight. There was no way they should have been able to find him so quickly.
He retreated back into the motel room to open it, locking the door behind him. The top of the bag had been rolled down and he unrolled it, reaching into the bag. His hand closed around a small, warm glass jar. He pulled it out, his breath catching when he saw the bright red fluid inside.
Blood. Oh God. It's Dean's blood.
There was always the chance they'd used cows' blood and assumed that Sam wouldn't know the difference. But Sam's instincts told him they meant business, and it was most likely his brother's blood. And it was warm, so Dean had to be close. The idea that Dean was near, but out of his reach? Frustration didn't even begin to cover it. At least the jar was small; it could only contain a quarter of a litre at most, not enough to cause any damage.
Unlike last time, Sam found a sheet of paper in the bag too. He pulled it out.
Sam,
Did you know the human body contains roughly five litres of blood?
We want The Scroll of Asteroth.
We'll be sending jars daily until either you find it or Dean is bled dry.
Work fast.
That was it. No instructions on how to contact them if Sam did find this something of someone. A threat and a demand, that was all. But whoever it was knew their names, that fact and the something of someone might narrow things down a fair bit. Sam reached out for the phone to call Bobby.
And as the phone rang, finally, despite the blood, the note and Dean still being missing, Sam felt better. This was something to go on. This involved research, something Sam was exceptional at.
This was progress and this, Sam could work with.
Present day
"What is the scroll of Asteroth?"
"That's just it, we don't know. The most we've been able to find has been a reference to it in an obscure book on the occult." Sam could feel his blood pressure rising as he remembered the days of intense research, watching the time disappear and finding virtually nothing. "It claimed it was a ritual of immense power. But to be honest I'm not even sure it exists, and even if it does I have no idea how to find it."
Deacon nodded, overwhelmed. Rituals? An obscure occult reference? Not for the first time since letting the Winchesters in the night before did he question his decision. There were so many ways he could end up regretting that choice. The Feds had only just given up on their surveillance of him after the breakout, although having his door broken down by the FBI was, to be honest, the least of his worries.
It was almost seven o'clock when Deacon decided he could do with some fresh air and he knew Dean definitely needed more than their limited first aid kits could offer. At least that was one thing he could do something about.
"I'm gonna go out for a bit." Deacon said as he stood and stretched. "I can get some supplies from the clinic in town. It'll be open by the time I get there."
"Supplies?"
"IV fluids, painkillers, antibiotics. Your brother needs more than basic first aid right now."
"I know that. But…I don't think we can risk it right now." Sam was torn, and not for the first time he cursed the life they led. Together he and Dean had saved countless lives and yet they were forced to live under the radar, denied proper medical treatment.
"It's okay." Deacon reassured. "I know someone at the clinic. She's discrete, doesn't ask too many questions, and doesn't broadcast the answers."
Sam still looked sceptical.
"I trust her, and she trusts me, she won't say anything." Deacon paused and shifted uncomfortably before admitting. "…And I may have taken her out to dinner a few times."
Sam laughed. "Deacon, you sly dog."
Someone who was more than a friend inspired a little more than your run of the mill loyalty. It was still a risk, but a more acceptable one.
"Okay," Sam said, nodding. "Thank you."
Dean slept like the dead the entire time Deacon was gone. Sam leafed through a couple of books and if anyone had been around to ask he would have claimed he was doing research. But really he was more interested in when Deacon was returning and how long it would be before Dean woke up again.
Because this limp, silent rag doll impression of Dean's? Sucked out loud and made Sam's gut twist.
It was a full two hours before Sam heard the key in the door again. He rushed downstairs and found Deacon walking in with a large bag.
"She didn't buy my story of a clumsy friend with a phobia of doctors," Deacon said, but before Sam could voice his concern, he waved it off, and continued. but I told her it was important and like I said, she trusts me." Deacon explains as he hands the bag to Sam so he can relock the door.
"She won't say anything?"
"No. But she made me promise to tell her everything later and to watch out for myself. I think she thinks I've taken in some homeless person or something." Deacon said with a soft laugh.
"Are you going to?"
"What? Tell her everything? Hell, no. But at least I have some time now to come up with a better story."
Sam smiled and followed Deacon up to Dean's room.
It turned out that the raid on the clinic had been more than successful. Bandages, ace wraps and chemical ice packs were packed in the bag alongside a sling to immobilise Dean's dislocated shoulder and several IV bags.
"Saline fluid. Should help keep him hydrated." Deacon explained as he probed Dean's good arm for a vein. Dean jerked but didn't wake when Deacon stuck him with the needle and Sam was secretly impressed that for a guy who hadn't been a medic for over thirty years it only took two attempts before establishing a line.
A picture hung above the bed and Deacon removed the frame and hung the bag from the conveniently placed hook in the wall.
"If there are any drugs in his system other than the painkillers you gave him, it'll help flush them out."
There was pain before there was awareness, but with awareness came Sam. Everything ached, but parts of his body were throbbing with a burning intensity. He didn't open his eyes. Instead he took inventory of his various injuries and tried to breathe through the pain, except, damn if that didn't hurt like hell too.
He could sense someone else was in the room, could hear a second set of breathing, steadier than his own and he knew it was Sam.
"Dean?"
A warm hand settled on his arm.
"You awake?"
Dean knew he should open his eyes. But they felt like they were tied down with heavy paperweights with glue along the rims for good measure. His voice wasn't cooperating either and it was all too much effort. He was tired, he was hurt and he'd been through hell. He wasn't sure he wanted to break through the blackness of his eyelids. He'd much rather embrace it. Sink back into the dark, into the reprieve it offered from all that awareness.
"Okay, guess not." Sam spoke again and a lifetime of reading his brother meant that just from his voice, Dean could tell Sam was both worried and tired. And Dean knew he was the cause of it.
Awareness was fading when the thought crossed his mind; is Sam okay? He realised he didn't have a clue; his short-term memory was sketchy at best.
He tried again, and finding energy he didn't know he had he managed to open his eyes. Just a slit at first but within a few blinks he'd worked his way up to half mast.
"Hey." Sam grinned, relief and affection in his voice. That's much better, Dean thought as he saw for himself that Sam appeared tired but fine.
It was too much effort to move his head but he could see the open door leading to a landing and a full bookcase against the wall of a room he didn't recognise. He vaguely remembered waking up before and Sam mentioning Deacon? So maybe it was his place? Sam didn't seem tense, he obviously felt safe here, and Dean decided that if Sam thought it was okay then he didn't really care where he was.
"How're you feeling?"
Like I've been hit by a semi that stopped and backed over me again. Dean didn't think there were words in the English language to adequately describe how he felt right now. His body was one massive ache with flares of pain and his head was so fuzzy. He couldn't think straight and could barely get his body to do what he wanted it to. He knew he could only partly blame that on the drugs--he wasn't sure what to blame for the rest. The memories of the past week fluttered on the outskirts of his thoughts, threatening to crash in, swamping him with their intensity.
Like shit, seemed a good approximation, short and to the point. But the words got lost on the way to his throat like they were ephemeral, written in smoke only to be carried away by the wind. Dean realised he didn't want to talk. It was better that way, safer, although he wasn't sure why.
He was confused by the lack of cooperation between brain and voice but didn't dwell on it as a more pressing need made itself known. He threw back the covers but before he had the chance to move, Sam's arm was on his chest, pinning him down with ridiculous ease.
"Wait. Where're you going?" Sam asked.
He fixed Sam with a stare. Trusting Sam to figure it out he tried to rise again, only to be pushed back onto the bed again.
"You're in no state to go anywhere, Dean."
Frustration--and the knowledge that if he didn't do something soon he'd be lying in a wet bed--broke through the barrier.
"Bathroom." Dean managed mutter.
"Oh."
Clearly boy wonder hadn't realised that all the fluids they were pushing into him had to come out at some point.
"Right. Okay."
Sam's arm snaked around Dean's shoulders—mindful of the dislocation--and eased him upright. The room spun, dizzying loops and swirls, but settled quickly. Dean decided it wasn't too bad, even thought he could make it to the bathroom by himself, only to be suddenly grateful that Sam wasn't going to let him even try when his knees buckled immediately upon standing.
"Whoa, easy there." Sam held on tight around his waist while Dean tried to find his feet. "You gonna be able to walk there?"
Dean broke free of Sam's grip, swayed, but stayed on his feet. There's your answer, Sam.
"Okay, c'mon. It's just down the hall."
Sam held the IV bag for Dean and steadied him with a hand on his elbow but otherwise let Dean make the slow trek by himself. The bathroom was small enough that Sam could set the saline on the shelf above the sink and there was still enough length in the tubing that Dean could use the toilet without it falling. Sam waited outside, after ordering Dean not to lock the door.
By the time they made it back to the bed again, Dean was shaking with exertion and in serious pain. The movement had truly awakened all his cuts and bruises and he was finding it hard to breathe through the agony in his ribs.
He closed his eyes and was concentrating on dealing with the pain until he felt the burn in his arm with the IV and saw Sam re-capping a needle.
"Morphine. You looked like you needed it."
And before Dean could say thank you, the arms of morpheus had stolen him away into the darkness.
TBC
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