Chapter 3.
Dean woke on his back, staring at the water damaged ceiling of their motel room. His back and neck hurting, and feeling like he caught a permanent chill and probably lice from the age old carpet. He groans and rolls over before pushing himself up on his hands. Sam still lays sprawled out on their bed hugging Dean's pillow to him, only his brown mop visible among the sheet and comforter.
Dean sits down on the mattress, leaning against the headboard. He pulls some of the blankets up over his legs and up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. God, it was cold in this freaking room. Sam snuffles in his pillow and all Dean can do is sigh when his little brother fists his fingers around the hem of his t-shirt.
John comes in the door, kicking his boots against the mat and then the door jam, trying to rid himself of ice and mud. He shuts the door shivering, and sees Dean awake and watching him.
"It's nippy out there," he says, sitting coffees and a greasy paper bag on the table. Dean is very aware that if its this cold inside, it must be miserable out. He braces himself against the draft of cold air from his dad's entrance, he shivers when it finally reaches him.
John opens his coffee, taking a satisfying sniff. "What's up with you and the floor last night?" He asks, giving Dean a questioning look.
Dean shrugs and inches closer to Sam's warmth. "It sure was cold down there." He supplies as answer.
At the other two's talking Sam stretches and yawns. His eyes peep open and and he gives a sleepy smile to Dean who looks down on him.
"Mornin'," he grunts out, mid stretch, with his arms above his head.
"Mornin', Sammy." Dean says.
"Y'all boys come eat, and then Dean, you go over the research with Sammy, I'm going to go and pick us out two good stake outs. Me on the inside, you boys on the outside." John makes sure to give Dean a reassuring smile and nod. He might not agree with his son's methods but he understands and respects the feelings that he himself has created and encouraged.
Dean returns the nod and scrambles out of bed, having eyes only for coffee. Sam follows him a little less eagerly, still yawning. He grabs the sausage biscuit John passes him and squirts jelly packets onto it. Dean grimaces, as he pours Texas Pete on his. Currently drowning in the comforting scent of fresh coffee he only nods to his father as John heads out with a duffel bag in tow. He sighs a little relieved when he's gone. There's still a little tension.
"So what about this research?" Sam asks, around a mouthful of biscuit, jelly lining his lips.
Dean chuckles, "Hold up professor, let's at least finish breakfast and get dressed, then we'll drag out all the paper work."
"Okay," Sam nods, licking his fingers and then rises, going over to his bag. He changes right there in the frigid room, with Dean looking on in distaste. He's still shivering and breathing in warm steam from his cup of coffee. "C'mon Dean," Sam urges standing in the middle of the room dressed and waiting on his sibling who hasn't even moved.
"Gimme a few, Sammy," he mumbles, rubbing hands over his face. Probably not the hottest idea to drink straight liquor the night before your supposed to brief an excited Sammy on a case, and then later actually do a job. Sometimes he worries himself.
...
Dean briefs Sam on the hunt, letting him look on his own through the police files and pictures. He shows him all their lore on black dogs and a couple drawings they'd found to help them identify the beast.
"Here Sammy, you see?" He says, pulling out one of the crime scene photos and pushing it under Sam's nose. "The most damage is done to all the left sides of the victim, proving its after their hearts, but also that it likes to attack from the left. That's something good to know. You need to keep your eye out, but now we know we have to watch our left REALLY carefully." He emphasizes the "really".
Sam is drinking all this in. And Dean has no doubt his brother's brain is stashing it away for later. They spend the day getting ready, Dean cleaning his gun, talking to Sam the whole time, trying the give Sam every single piece of information he has gathered hunting along side their father.
All the lessons he has learned through pain and blood he hopes Sam won't have to. That he has learned for both of them, and that he could just tell Sammy about it. After all John had told him a lot, but he didn't know everything. Dean had been learning new things from the very first hunt he had partaken in. He stashes these lessons away, determined he'd never be so weak again.
About four in the afternoon John came in wet and cold, and a little grouchy. Dean gave him a wide berth, but Sam shadows him as his father goes over the research and his own gun. John humors him, but Dean could tel it was getting on his nerves.
Dean jerks his head over in a sign for Sam to join him sitting on their bed, as John studies a map of the woods he had acquired. Sam comes over and sits bedside his elder brother and looks at him expectantly.
"Sometimes dad just needs some time before a hunt, get himself geared up, you know?" Dean tells his little brother, who in turn looks at John with big eyes.
"Dad's the hunter," Dean says, softly, "We're there to learn and to have his back, that's it."
"Dean," John says suddenly, standing straight.
"Yes sir?" Dean answers, standing and walking to join his father.
"Want you to make sure that hand gun Bobby gave you a few years back is ready for Sam. It's small enough. And both you boys should have a silver knife, got it?"
Dean nods, "Got it, dad."
John fishes the impala's keys out of his coat pocket. "Here, don't let anyone see, get that gun out of the trunk."
"No one'll see," Dean assures, already nearly out the door. Sam goes to follow, but John stops him.
"He's got it, Sammy." He says. "So," he motions to the paper work spread out before him, "You get all this?"
"Yes," Sam says patiently, "Dean THOROUGHLY brainwashed me."
John chuckles, "I'm sure Dean was thorough," he thinks for a minute, realizing how little he's done to prepare his youngest for his first hunt. Yet he feels no worry.
"Well," he sits down and gives Sam a reassuring smile. "Dean's just trying to make sure you're ready, Sammy, he's worried about you. Probably as worried as I should be and more."
Sam seems to understand this, he gives a light laugh, looking out the window to where he can see the trunk of the impala propped open. The love in his heart lends a far away look to his eyes and John is amazed again by the glimpses he gets of their bond. Sam glances back his father, not entirely shielding the feelings he has for his brother from view.
"As long as Dean's around you don't gotta worry about me." Sam says, a happy smile lining his lips.
John almost says it's a parent's job to worry, but then he rethinks. If it's a parent's job to worry Dean's doing a far better job at parenthood than himself. In a rare moment of wisdom John Winchester decides to keep his mouth closed. He finds himself nodding as Dean walks in with the small hand gun.
Dean sets out the gun cleaning materials and makes quick work of taking the gun apart and thoroughly cleaning it. Sam leaves John in favor of resting his chin on Dean's shoulder and watching him work on the gun, asking questions.
Once Dean is finished he loads the handgun with silver bullets and leaves it lying on the table. He pulls Sam over to their bed and layers clothes onto his little brother's body...hunter's armor. After jerking a pullover over his head, Dean gets in a few tickles while his brother is handicapped by tangled sleeves.
Sam tries to wriggle away from Dean's fingers, while pulling on the garment the rest of the way. "Dean!" He gasps breathlessly, falling onto the bed and trying to kick his big brother away with his legs. Dean just begins his tickle assault on Sam's bare feet, laying his own body over Sam's knees pinning him down.
"No, no, no," he giggles, writhing around under his brother trying to get free, "Ahh, dad help!"
"Boys, let's stay focused," John offers as help for Sam. Dean gives a finishing tickle to Sam's feet and then rises, and casually pulls a couple of pairs of socks from Sam's bag.
Sam lays gasping on the bed still calming his giggles.
"My feet feel raw," he whines, finally sitting up. Dean smirks and throws the two bunched up pairs of socks at him.
"That's why you should wear socks, princess." Dean snorts, pulling on an extra pair of socks himself. It's freezing and wet outside, it was well on its way to being a miserable night. He pulls on another flannel shirt and a pullover of his own. He'd be damned if they were cold tonight, not on Sam's first hunt.
He knows all to well the way the cold makes your hands shake and messes up your aim and vision. And that's without nerves. He wants Sam to be just as well prepared to protect himself as Dean is to protect him. He pulls on his boots and then winks at Sam as he slips a sliver dagger down his sock.
"You too Sammy," he says, offering him a knife, blade cradling in his palm, offering his baby brother the handle. Sam pulls on his socks and boots and then slips the dagger down his first sock as well. Looking to Dean to make sure he did it right, Dean nods and pats him reassuringly on his knee.
Dean offers him one of his heavy coats, since Sam's jacket is pretty thin. Dean rolls up the sleeves with a fond smile on his face, and then pulls his jean jacket on over all his layers. John is clothed and still leaning over the map as he tucks his gun down the back of his jeans. Dean takes Sam's beanie and pulls it over his head covering his eyes and laughing rubbing his covered head.
Sam huffs and pulls the hat up from his eyes, elbowing Dean in the side. John sends them a look, eyebrows raised. He smiles at their appearance, makes a mental note he'll forget to by Sam a winter coat and Dean a hat.
"You boys set?" He asks.
"Yep," Sammy rocks on the balls of his feet excitedly.
"As we'll ever be," Dean mumbles under his breath, getting rewarded with John sending him a shrewd look.
They file out the door and Dean is shivering with the cold even before John has the door shut behind them. It's freezing cold, the bitter wind slipping into any openings and biting through their clothes like a real bitch. Sam gives a shiver, but by the time he's in the impala's back seat the cold has given him two apple red cheeks. Unlike Dean, whose freckles now stand out against pale, white skin.
Dean shivers on the seat beside his dad as they send muddy slush flying behind the impala's spinning wheels. Dean turns on some music, classic rock, so John doesn't mind. It's Dean's custom now to listen to something soothing before a hunt. He knows what helps him focus the most, and right now, he needs every thing that can be in his favor to be.
Truth be told the cold and wet is not sitting well with Dean. Not only does it make for a miserable hunt, but he can feel the freeze settling right in his chest with feeling in his throat like he swallowed razor blades. Granted Dean never did particularly well with ANTARCTIC weather, but the stress seems to be telling on him too. He quickly wipes a drop of snot from under his nose with the sleeve of his Jean jacket.
God forbid John deem him unfit for Sam's first hunt, or worse, Sam find out and tell on him, albeit, with good intentions. He turns and gives Sam a smile as they speed towards the woods. Sam is excited, the energy buzzing through his veins. He's waited for this moment it feels like his whole life. What was it his father had said, "Your a Winchester, this is the way it's meant to be."
And nine year old Sam believes him, for now.
The car came to a stop in the same muddy dirt road leading into the woods that Dean and John had used the day before. The early winter sunset had already sunk below the horizon and night was descending on them fast. With the lack of light, the cold blanketed over everything cruelly, John shivers as he unlocks the trunk and props open their weapons cache. The boys appear from the gloom to stand by him.
"Dean, you looked at that map real good, right?" John asks, loading a rifle with silver bullets and then slinging it over his shoulder, tugging on the strap to make sure it was secure.
"Yes sir," Dean replies, his hand running down Sam's back to ensure his gun is there, tucked in the back of his jeans.
"Okay," John takes a deep breath, "We're not that far away from each other boys, I'm just closer to the building." He places a hand on each of his sons shoulders. "I'm guessing it's bedded down in the shed since the weather's been so bad, but, if it's already out and about, I'll bet the fight comes to you boys first."
Dean nods firmly, taking a flashlight from the trunk and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
"Alright, you boys be careful, and Dean?" His father stops before taking the last few steps into the gloom that will hide him from view.
"Look after Sammy." Dean finishes, feels the importance of what John has done. Sam and Dean are together on this first hunt, Dean knows it wasn't an easy decision for John, but he made it anyway. Dean is just as convinced as John that Dean and Sam are both safer if they're together.
Dean can just make out Sam's epic bitch face in the darkness as John disappears. He places a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, "C'mon," he says, keeping his voice low. He leads them into the black woods, not even a sliver of moonlight to light their way. He desperately wants to grasp Sam's hand and lead him into the dark forest, confirming he's there by touch.
But Sam's not a baby anymore and Dean knows both older Winchesters are already pressing their luck with all the coddling and protection he's getting this time around. Dean can't help but be grateful to John, he's taken care to make sure Sam's protected, and what he hasn't taken the time to do, he knows Dean will. The whole situation has not gone like Dean wishes, but he can hardly hope for a better scenario.
Into the woods they lurk, and Dean leads them, mostly by memory to the spot designated as their stake out by John. He knows full well it's very close to the carcass he discovered. What is left of the scent of the dead girl will hopefully cover theirs.
Sam keeps his eyes on the barely there moving shadow of his big brother's back. He's brother glides through the woods so quietly if he couldn't see Dean he'd have no idea he was there. He concentrates of making his footsteps just as light and silent. He feels excited and powerful slipping through the trees so quiet and by his big brother's side.
He is not afraid. Dean is with him, and maybe it was a foolish child's confidence...but it was true he had no reason to worry. Dean would be torn to pieces a thousand times over before any sort of evil bastard got their claws in Sammy.
So Sam simply feels exhilarated, the humming in his veins warming him to the point where he doesn't even feel the cold. The adrenaline is giving him a pleasant shaking in his hands, the white clouds of breath ghosting from his mouth and nose floats in front of him even as he walks through Dean's. The last bit of light disappears and they are well and truly plunged into darkness.
Dean's senses heighten as soon as they step into the woods. As noted before, he hates woods, the forest. His worry for Sam, and his general bitterness towards the hunt makes him all the more alert. He's aware of Sam behind him, the only sound he can hear in these traitorous woods.
It's understandable that Sam's not completely quiet yet, he's doing admirably, Dean smiles at the whispered curse that floats up to him when his little brother trips on something. Dean halts and stretches his hand out to find Sam in the night.
His little brother's hand finds his, "You good?" Dean whispers, leaning to put his lips against Sam's ear.
Sam nods, "Yeah, I'm good."
"Stay close," Dean instructs before pulling away and starting his silent stalk again.
Dean drops to his knees in the place their father has prepared for them. Tree limbs have been dragged around it to create some sort of blind, he laughs soundlessly at the bed of fern leaves John has left on the forest floor for them.
Sam joins him and they are FINALLY still. As soon as the sound of their own movements leave the boys, the silence come to sit heavily on their ears. Dean finds himself continually pushing his hearing to its limit trying to pick up any sounds, any warnings. The tension in his body is so tight it's nearly hurting. Beside him Sam stays stock still, pressing into his side, which is fine with Dean since he's about to freeze to death.
The minutes stretch on and Dean settles a little more, risking the few seconds of sound to interfere with his hearing. He reaches behind him and pulls out his colt, holding it sideways on top of his thigh, away from Sam. His fingers adjust their hold on the handle every few minutes, his muscles pulled taunt and tight under his skin. His hand snakes down to his boot to feel the reassuring shape of the silver knife there.
He doesn't know why he feels so uneasy. John is right, the black dog will most likely come from his direction. Therefore John will take him down with his rifle long before the bastard is even twelve yards from them. But Dean knows to go with his gut. His gut tells him to be ready, to apply every nerve and sense to being aware of his surroundings, of Sam, of John, and, of the black dog somewhere out there.
Just as his fingers wrap around his colt's handle, tighter again, a shot rings out, a rifle shot. He hears the bullet thud into a tree. Another shot. Dean pushes Sam to the ground even as it whistles over their heads.
"Dean!" John shouts.
His father's voice rips through the blanket of silence. Dean's on his feet in a breath.
"Dad!" He yells, peering into the dark.
"I missed!" John shouts back in warning.
"No shit," Dean mumbles, cocking his handgun, and looking around in flurried movements. It only takes a matter of milliseconds for Dean to scan around them in circle. No black dog, no movement.
Sam is still kneeling close by his feet, Dean's heart constricts with adrenaline and worry.
"What direction?" He shouts over to his father.
"East!" John yells, and now Dean can hear something, boot falls on the forest floor. Their dad racing towards their location, Sam rises to his feet.
The moment of distraction costs them dear, he jerks himself towards the east raising his gun, grasped in both hands, even as something catches his eye. The ferns part for something huge and black barreling towards them...towards Sam.
Dean's breath sticks to his throat and everything seems to slowdown for him. He sees the wild blood vein streaked whites of the creature's eyes, the long, saliva dripping canines revealed in its snarl at them. He sees the way it pushes off the ground with his powerful back legs in its last jump before it hits Sam, and it's lethal jaws wrap around his soft, slender throat.
In the last second Dean wraps his hand around the back of Sam's neck and pushes him down and away, while leaping between evil and innocence. The breath is entirely knocked from him as the mass of black fur and muscle ram into him, his back colliding with a tree trunk, his head snapping back and dragging against its rough bark with the extra weight of the black dog behind it.
Sam is just about to yell at Dean for his rough handling, because sticks are cutting into his knees and stomach and hands, when he fells the rush of air rock past him, and then he hears Dean grunt like he's been hit really hard in the stomach. Pushing up on his elbows he looks behind him to just catch the tail end of the horrific sight of his big brother being crushed against the tree trunk with a HUGE black creature against him. He hears the dull thump of his brother's head against the wood, sees how the dog's jaws click together in empty space, missing their intended victim...himself.
So this is a black dog, he thinks, even as he rises, tossing away his handgun, knowing he can't shoot for fear of hitting Dean. He reaches down in his boot and jerks the silver dagger out. Before him both beings come out of their daze and then everything comes a confused scramble in the darkness. He can barely make out what's Dean and what's black dog, other than an occasional flash of jean. It all takes about four seconds.
Dean shakes himself, trying to clear the fuzzy buzzing from his head and ears. He hears the click of the beast's jaws too, and his hand finds the the thing's neck, fingers digging into the fur coated flesh. He's only slightly aware of Sam's hurried movements, as he knees the dog in the stomach repeatedly trying to snake his other hand down his leg and to his dagger wielding boot.
Sam races over to his brother and the black dog. He kicks the creature with all his strength exactly where Dean was kneeing it, next he throws himself against the dog's top half and they both slip off Dean just to his side. Sam sees its teeth close around the jean of Dean's jacket, all he can think is; much too close bitch.
Sam's silver knife finds the black dog's throat unerringly. He buries it in the sinewy muscle with vengeance and then jerks with all his strength carving a wide hole in its neck. Blood gushes out, spits a little from the messy hole, all over Sam's little hands. In a heartbeat, true to his training, Sam pulls the knife from its throat and buries it once again deep in the chest of the black dog.
With a twist and a sickening sound, Sam looks up into the face of the animal he's killing to see if it is dead or not. He is met with gently glowing, red embers for eyes that are slowly ebbing away. He realizes even as he presses his weight on the knife driving it further into the thing's heart that this is life, this is life he is taking. He is destroying...
The dog goes lax under him, the eyes go dull and unfocused on his face. It is over. Sam's first hunt.
He is a killer now.
Sam jerks himself away from the carcass feeling like death is a germ he is catching. He is unsteadily upright in a second looking down at what he has done. Even in the darkness he can make out the glisten of blood on the forest floor, still bubbling from the gaping hole, still seeping up and out around the handle of his dagger...on his hands.
He stumbles, leaning against a tree, and empties his stomach into the dead leaves.
John had run up on the scene breathing erratically and fear turning his heart to ice. He told himself exactly what he knew would happen. Dean would push Sam to the ground and then he would fire on the black dog, or use his silver knife. It would all be over before John got there.
Instead he finds his eldest laying dazed and nearly unconscious on the forest floor and his youngest jerking his knife from the GIANT black dog's neck and plunging it deep into its heart. Seeing the downwards blow, he knows the black dog will never survive silver to the heart, he is on his knees beside Dean in a minute.
Two fingers pressed into his neck feeling for a pulse, the other hand feeling for the slick of blood. Dean groans and pulls himself upright using his father's arm as a ladder.
" 'M good," he mumbles, a hand rubbing the back of his head and then his chest as he takes a few deep breaths. His eyes immediately seek out his little brother.
He watches the contents of his baby brother's stomach spill out on the ground, watches as Sam wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, that is now spattered with dark blood...as are his shaking hands. Dean reaches for them, using his grip on them to pull Sam down to him.
"Sammy, you good?" He asks, still a little breathless. "You good?" He repeats, seeing the wide blown pupils of his brother's.
Sam rouses with his brother's hands on his face. "Sam, are you alright?" He is asking.
"I'm alright," he says softly, one of his hands searching out and finding Dean. He tangles his fingers in Dean's pullover under the battered jean jacket. "You, you alright?" He follows with immediately, eyes scanning down his big brother's body. He just killed for Dean, he BETTER be alright, or at least alright enough to live.
"I'm alright," Dean says, he looks at Sam and takes in all the signs of shock. Shaking, blown pupils, slurred words...
"Hey, hey," he soothes, "C'mere," he pulls Sam down into his arms, wrapping him up, pressing his still very much alive body next to his. Assuring both of them their still alive.
He pretends he doesn't feel the tears against his neck, just cradles Sammy's head there. "You did good," he whispers, "Can't believe you, Sammy, did so good."
John heaves a few relieved breaths, watching his son's comfort each other. He chuckles after Dean's whispers.
"When I said your first hunt, I didn't necessarily mean your first kill. Nicely done, Sam." He says, a hand coming to rest warm and heavy on his shaking youngest's shoulder.
He doesn't understand why he deserves Dean's sour glare.
He stands and walks over to the black dog looking over the gory piece of work. He supposes it should bother him that his innocent, nerdy little nine year old was spurred into this violence when his brother was threatened. But all he manages to feel is damned proud.
Dean coaxes Sam to stand on his shaky legs. Dean isn't the most steady he's ever been either, he prays for no concussion, but his head hurts like a bitch. And it's cold, so freaking cold. And that's no good for Sam. Sam needs warmth and and stability to fight off the shock. Noting the way he's shaking and his eyes take on a haunted look every time he sees his scarlet coated hands. Sam's a brave kid, Dean knows, they now have full proof, but Sam's also a happy, loving, trusting kid.
Dean knows Sam never thought through this part of hunting, the part when you end life. The part where you spill warm blood all over your hands and clothes. Blood that was just coursing through something or someone's veins. No matter what creature it is, or how bad a person it is, taking a life is always a terrible experience for Dean. He can't imagine what's going on in Sam's head right now.
When Dean gets a thorough look at the black dog his own supper threatens to spill out. Oh my god, his little Sammy did that? His little Sammy did that for him? He swallows thickly and wraps his arm around Sam's shoulders more tightly where his little brother is still trying to hide from the whole horrific scene in Dean's neck.
"You got the body?" He asks John.
John nods, "Yeah, burn it, and I guess the whole damn shed."
Dean nods, "See you at the car?"
John nods, handing Dean the keys and finally looking understandingly at Sam. He'd caught Dean crying his eyes out a few times after his first kill. He knows it's not go to be any easier for Sam. He runs his calloused fingers through Sam's soft tresses of hair since it's the only part of his face and head that's not hidden against Dean.
"Hey Sammy," he soothes, "You did the right thing, you saved Dean, you saved a lot more people too."
Sam raises his head a little and nods, giving John a tremulous smile.
Dean gives his dad a nod and then points him and Sam towards the car. He pulls out the flashlight he brought with him and turns it on illuminating their path a little. He can concentrate on Sam and getting him to the impala safely now instead of listening and straining his eyes to find their way back.
Dean has never been so glad to get out of woods when they break the tree line. He all but runs him and Sam to the impala. He unlocks the door and sits Sam down on the seat, his legs hanging out.
"Sammy," he says softly, "You good? Here, look at me, let me see how you are."
Sam raises his wet eyes to Dean, red coated hands shaking in his lap. Dean has seen that look before. Seen it in the mirror. His heart breaks for what he knows his little brother is going through. He bites the side of his mouth, to keep his own tears at bay.
"Hey," he whispers, "It's okay, I promise." He pulls the snaps on Sam's blood covered coat open and strips it off his little brother. "Look, I'mma make it all go away, okay? It's alright." His thumbs wipe tears away from under Sam's eyes, he throws the stained coat behind him and into the mud.
"I, it's on me, Dean," Sam manages out shakily.
"Okay," Dean says gently, "I'm gonna take care of it, okay?" He assures, "Just hold on." Dean jerks a water bottle out from under the front seat he'd left there early and unscrews the lid. He pulls Sam's hands off his lap and in between his legs. He pours half the water over his hands, knowing the cold water has to hurt like a bitch.
Of his own accord Sam starts to scrub the blood from his skin, rubbing his hands together and using his nails. Through tear blurred eyes he can still see the condemning hue against his skin. He needs it gone, he needs to not be a murderer anymore. The cold air, the cold water and the way his hands were already freezing causes agonizing pain, but he keeps it up, feels as if he will never be clean.
Dean watches for a moment, but finds he can't let it go on. He knows how much it must hurt, sees the angry, desperate tears cascading down Sam's cheeks, knows he can't let this go on. He's on his knees in the mud, in front of Sam in a heart beat. It gives Sam pause when his big brother is suddenly in front of him like a miraculous savior.
"Woah, woah," Dean calls halt softly, and Sam looks at him confused. "Your hurting yourself Sammy, let me." Dean's thumbs work the dampness into his palms and the wrinkles of his knuckles. The warmth from Dean's fingers seeps into Sam's skin, the color lessens until he can only make out a slight pink. "It's alright Sam," he soothes, "It's gone, it washes away, okay?"
He pours some of the water out into Sam's cupped hands and then into the bandana he retrieves from his pocket. He brings the damp cloth to Sam's wet hands and gently rubs until the skin is clean and glowing pink from the friction and cold.
"There you go, see? I got it." Dean takes each hand in both of his at a time rubbing them and blowing on them, trying to bring some warmth back.
Sam nods hesitantly, shivers coming more violently, as he lets go of the adrenaline, coming down from the high. Dean opens the trunk and gets out the old scruffy blanket there. He helps Sam into the back seat wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.
Sam's hands latch on his pullover as he tries to move away, "Where're you going? Don't leave me," Sam stutters out through chattering teeth.
"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," he soothes, a hand cupping his chilled cheek, thumb rubbing some warmth into his cheek bone. "Just gonna turn the heat on, alright?
He runs around the impala and cranks her up, turning on the heat, without a second thought he selects the tape he always knows the location of. Never knows when he's going to need it next, so he always has it ready. Dean started using music as therapy a long time go.
Hey Jude washes over the insides of the impala as Dean joins his little brother in the back seat. Baby keeps the cold out, gives them some warmth. Dean's arms around Sam lulls him into belief of safety, Sam's arms around Dean gives him a delusion that this thing can work.
It's the wet sniffling that brings Dean out of his dreaming.
"Sammy hey, what's up?" His fingers gently push hair away from Sam's face.
"Can't never go back, Dean," his brother cries into his shirt.
And Dean knows, he understands, so he bites his lip and let's the unshed tears burn his eyes. Can't give life back, can't remake innocence, it can't be undone...
tbc...
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