There's another version of the following scene in the Prologue at the beginning, also this will be wrapping up the present day story at the beginning of the Prologue with Dean and Sam burning a black dog's corpse and remembering Sam's first hunt...just in case anyone needs a reminder. ;)
Epilogue.
It wasn't until Dean was sure John was sleeping that he finally shut and locked the bathroom door and started peeling layers of clothes off his cold, clammy skin. The sweat had broken out on his skin a few moments after Sammy had slipped into peaceful sleep. Dean didn't want to know if it was because of blood loss or the fact that he was feeling pretty rotten on top of all this. Dean Winchester never did anything half-assed, including getting hurt or getting sick.
After breathing through the agony of stripping himself of the layers of clothing from his top half, he uses the t-shirt to wipe his nose. He can feel the familiar resistance in his chest when he breathes, which meant he was getting a cold, which, if Dean would tell the truth, was quite often. The cold was a bitch to Dean, he always somehow managed to get an annoying little cold. (Do we want to know Dean's definition of 'annoying little'? Probably not.)
Dean figures running around in near freezing temperatures and rain at night isn't really conducive to good health, so what the hell, fair enough. Better him then Sam for sure. Thank god, Sam seems to have a stronger immune system. So Dean just sighs, swallows around his burning throat, and opens up the first aide kit. He threads a needle, and lays out bandages. He readies himself for the expected agony as he grasps his shaking hand around the bottle of holy water and gets ready to wash out the wound.
He grits his teeth and watches in weird fascination as the holy water burns and steams in the raw, angry red wound. He tries to detach himself from the burning pain, it feels as if the holy water is eating out what's left of his arm. He continues to pour the holy water over the wound until it gives no reaction. Washing a wound out with regular water was excruciating enough, but holy water was millions of times worse. It was alive, it sought out the evil and wickedness from the black dog's saliva and teeth and burning it out. Most of the time Dean was of the opinion washing the wound was worse than receiving it.
Being patient and quiet wasn't really Dean's thing. He bit back the grunts and growls of pain, and only let out whispered curses as he slid the needle in and out of his skin to bind it back together. As ever nothing seemed to be on his side.
Stitching up the gap in his arm brought him back to his thoughts of Sam and hunting, of how close this came to being Sam. Being Sam's throat. And there was no stitching up a bit out throat. He tries to comfort himself with the fact Sam is alive and safe just on the other side of the door. But he finds himself swallowing back vomit to no avail and leans over to the toilet just in time for it spill into the water.
This is not going to work, Dean thinks bewilderedly, there is no way for me to protect him all the time. Protect him from everything. He can't seem to catch his breath, even after he's finished throwing up. He's pathetic, he thinks, the pain isn't even all that bad, he's shaking and hyperventilating, just from these half fevered thoughts, he can't even take care of himself.
Through blurring vision he throws out a hand to pull himself to his feet on the sink vanity. Instead his fingers wrap around the edges of the first aide kit, sending it plummeting towards the bathroom floor.
Oh my god, Dean rolls his eyes at himself, you can't even stand up right.
Before he thinks he reaches out, lightening fast to catch the box. His hand closes around it, catches it. Regrettably, Dean doesn't often take time to think. Before he can berate himself for this second mistake the mind numbing pain sends him crashing to his knees, throwing up again in his own lap.
He squeezing his eyes shut against the spinning room and the black spots dancing across the moving circles that is the small bathroom. He grounds his forehead into the wood paneling of the side of the sink vanity trying to keep himself conscious and present, glancing towards the now even messier wound. He reaches and grabs his t-shirt, gritting his teeth as he presses it to the wound, seeping up the blood bubbling up from the ripped out stitches.
He hisses at the pressure and breathes deeply, or tries. His slowly raise his head, looking up to the ceiling as if for some heavenly revelation or help. Fingers run through sweaty hair, letting some cool air hit his scalp, letting some cool air hit his face. Breathe.
That's when his world comes to a screeching halt, all by one little sound. A tentative knock coming from the other side of the door followed by a little, sweet voice.
"Dean?"
...
Sam had slipped off into a nice dreamy state of sleep as soon as Dean had given a loving pat to his chest. He new Dean wouldn't be in bed for awhile since he still had to shower after their dad got out. He let himself drift off blanketing himself in the comfort that Dean would be with him soon. He left that one arm stretched out towards his big brother's side of the bed so he would know when he climbed in.
Finally warm and feeling safe, Sam drifted in and out of awareness to their motel room. He heard John come out the bathroom, heard Dean going through his bag. Felt John run fingers through his hair with a gentle, "Good night Sammy." Before he climbed into his bed and flicked off the lamp. He drifted off again after that, thinking Dean would be with him soon.
Floating along dream clouds of 'Hey Jude' and Dean's warm arms, Sam was jerked out of his pleasant dream by a cold rain and a snarling black dog with glowing red eyes nightmare. He lay on his back under their covers breathing deep for a few moments. Hand unconsciously searching across the mattress for Dean after a bad dream. The bed was still empty.
Sam turns onto his side facing the bathroom door, sees the light leaking from underneath it. He must have not been asleep that long he figures. He yawns a little into his pillow, hoping Dean is coming soon. The safe presence he brings always scares away Sam's night terrors. Sam tries to calm himself focusing on the little line of light at the bottom of the bathroom door.
Visions of the black dog ramming into Dean and crushing him against that tree flashes before his eyes. He hears the thud as Dean's head smacks into the trunk, sees those large, cruel teeth snapping in thin air, tangling with Dean's jean jacket. He shivers, tries to comfort himself with the fact Dean is alive and safe just on the other side of that door.
Using the line of light as a point of focus, Sam calms himself slowly. Blinks tiredly, yawns as sleepiness returns to him, adrenaline rush dying from his nightmare. He really wishes Dean would come back, his eyes coast slowly closed, opening again to find that little line of light leaking out into the room. Then he hears it.
Something not quite normal, not supposed to be there. If he didn't know better he'd say it was the sound of someone being sick. He listens carefully for a second, and all is quiet again. Then the clatter of something reaches his ears, the whispered curse, heavy breathing, and another sickening 'coughing up' sound.
Sam's heart stills for one moment, then races on to attempt to beat from his chest. He's out of the bed ear pressed to the thin wood in a moment, quicker than he killed the black dog. Silence is all that reaches him, accented only by the sound of harsh, fast breaths.
Dean.
Sam's entire soul is wrapped in fear in a split second. He hates it when Dean is sick, hates feeling so powerless. He waits hoping Dean is alright and will come out to bed and be alright. But silence is all that follows, so Sam decides on a soft knock, hopefully not waking his father.
His small knuckles rap on the door, "Dean?" He calls softly.
He is answered by nothing but silence, his heart constricts a little in fear. "Dean?" He asks again, not even hearing the way his voice cracks, reflecting just how afraid he is.
Though its not lost on Dean who is leaning against the sink vanity breathing through his nose in and out trying to calm himself enough to answer Sam. He can't think of anyway to make this look less bad. There's blood absolutely everywhere mixed with his vomit, great way to freak Sam the freak out.
He scrubs a hand over his mouth breathing deep, still clutching the t-shirt to the wound. He sighs.
"It's alright Sam," he calls back as even as he can, and as quiet. "I'll be there soon, just gotta finish cleaning up."
He stares at the floor, his clothes and the angry looking bite mark. No shit.
"Are you okay?" Sam whispers against the door, which in any other setting would have been adorable.
"I'm fine," Dean grits out, even as he peels the bloody shirt away from the wound to look at it again.
He watches as the door handle wiggles and he hears Sam trying to turn it. Good thing he locked it.
"Sam, I'm fine," he says again, a little louder. Because he is hurting, hurting bad. He can hardly see the door handle, he's intently trying to stare at it to make sure Sam not picking it, it is circling around and around.
He shuts his eyes tightly against the vertigo.
"Dean let me in," Sam urges. "I know your sick, let me in, I can help you."
Damn, Dean thinks. He wasn't as quiet as he thought. But blood is still running down his arm, his stomach is still rolling painfully, his head isn't helping things, frankly that concussion is coming around he thinks. And it is cold, like really ass cold, on this floor. But he doesn't think he's going to be able to get himself up, doesn't think he can do anything much really.
He's starting to doubt he's going to be able to stitch the wound up another time with passing out. Even as his brain works overdrive to work this stuff out he realizes he most definitely needs help. He can't do this on his own, not when he can't even see straight. And he supposed better Sam than John, John would just ask him how he could have been that stupid.
So he uses the last of his strength to rise on his knees and and unlock the door. The movement causes some serious dizziness that ends with him swallowing heavily and leaning against the wall, still holding the bloody tee to the wound.
Sam waits in the quiet. Praying Dean will let him in, will let him help him. He hates it when Dean is sick, but he hates it even more when he shuts him out, tries to keep him out of his problems. He hears the heavy, fast breathing even on the other side of the door and knows his brother is feeling pretty bad. He wonders how he didn't notice, but supposes Dean was so focused on protecting him he probably didn't even notice feeling bad himself.
Then he hears the door unlock, he turns the handle himself and opens the door. Relieved that Dean lets him, trusts him. The sight that meets his eyes is terrible. Dean on the floor, white as a sheet covered in that horrible brilliant red substance. The acrid smell of vomit meets his nostrils, but Sam could care less for the mess as he reaches for Dean.
And even though he's terrified of the blood he's on his knees in front of him in a second.
"Oh my god," he breathes. "Dean, what happened?" He asks, a cool hand resting against Dean's hot, dry cheek.
Dean lifts heavy eyelids to stare at Sam from under them. He can see the terror in Sam's eyes, but...now that Sam's here Dean's hazy mind thinks it can let go, thinks everything is taken care of. His hand slides away from the wound, the t-shirt falling away. Sam gasps over the wound his hand hovering helplessly, shaking as much as Dean.
"Wha... I thou," he stammers, "It didn't get you," he says, sounding much less certain than he would have liked. "No, no, no," he whispers, tears coming to his eyes. His little hands cup both of Dean's cheeks, "Look at me," he commands, "It's okay, you're gonna be okay."
Inside he's not so sure. He's screaming, he'll be okay, he is okay. Inside he's falling apart, Sid young at the pain in his brother's eyes.
Dean's eyes lift up to Sam's one last time before they glaze over, and the lids slide shut over them. Sam's heart stops in his mouth, desperation momentarily numbing his mind as his big brother slumps forward into him. Sam catches his full weight against him, trying to wrap his arms around Dean but his brother slides down his body until Dean's head rests in Sam's lap, his body curled awkwardly the way he fell.
Sam sits shocked for a moment, absolutely terrified, his hands holding his brother's shaking form to him as much as he can. What was he supposed to do? He asks himself. Feel for a pulse? Lay Dean flat? He watches as a drop of blood drips down Dean's arm, through a lot of the already dried substance, it's soon followed by another, and then another.
"Dad!" He wails.
...
John had been sleeping peacefully. It was one of those nights when he actually felt he had done a halfway decent job, and he was rewarded with deep sleep. No dreams, no bad 'feelings', just honest to god sleep. Both his boys had been alright, and all had been well.
Sam's terrified scream jerks him right out of those comfortable depths. He's up, gun cocked and raised, readied, before his eyes are all the way cleared of sleep. All is well around the room, still dark. But his boy's bed is empty and the light in the bathroom is on. He jumps up and swings the bathroom door open without so much as a word with his gun raised.
The sight that meets him is his youngest kneeling on the bathroom floor, his oldest child face down in his lap. Dean's form crumbled and laying at an odd angle. Sam looks up at him tears making wet tracks down his face.
"Help him!" he tries to demand, but it comes out more like a plea, a sob breaking out of his throat, his little fingers digging into his brother's flesh in an attempt to bring him closer. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. He killed the black dog, he saved Dean. He is bewildered by the entire unfairness of the situation. How can life be this wrong? How could it repay him for ending an evil life by wounding a good, strong person?
John is momentarily stunned by the terrifyingly beautiful sight in front of him. Both his son's stained with the red, life giving substance. Sam's little body leaning over the bigger form of his brother. Trying to touch and protect every part he can. Dean unconscious and wounded, the wound he had taken for his little brother.
The absolute fear filling his little boy's eyes clues John in on just how much Dean actually means to Sam. As he stands there he watches the change come over Sam. The miserable tears keep coming, but every muscle in his body tenses and the lines in his face harden.
"Help him!" He barks out, voice immediately breaking into a sob afterwards, but, it shakes John from his shock.
He kneels beside Sam slipping his hand under Dean's chest and gently flipping him onto his own lap face up. The fingers of his other hand seek out his son's pulse. Finding it steady but maybe a little too heavy for his liking. He feels the heat coming off Dean and frowns. He hadn't noticed him getting sick.
"Here," Sam says, his own fingers slipping in the blood on Dean's arm. John takes a look at the wound, hissing through his teeth, getting a good view. It was ugly alright, though Dean seemed to have cleaned it. An uncleaned black dog wound would have been angry and red by now.
He looks up to find the container of holy water he knew he'd find near by. He spots it on the floor.
"Sam," he motions towards it, "Get that bottle for me." Sam grabs it up in both his shaking hands and gives it to John who in turn pours the clear liquid over the wound. There is no reaction, though Dean shifts a little, his upper lip lifting in obvious discomfort. John hums in satisfaction, knowing Dean cleaned the wound thoroughly himself. He strips the soiled jeans off his son and throws them remotely towards the bathtub. He gathers Dean up in his arms and rises, leaving the bathroom.
"Turn on all the lights Sammy." He instructs, laying Dean on their bed, slipping a white towel underneath the bleeding arm and going back for the first aide kit. He threads a fresh needle and readies himself. He catches Sam squirming in the corner of his eyes and finds him watching them with a doubtful look on his face.
"Sam, c'mon over here." John says, and takes his son's hand pulling him closer. "Dean's gonna need you." He said quietly, motioning towards the bed. Sam climbs up and settles himself as close to Dean as he dares get without hurting him. He wraps one of Dean's hands in both of his smaller ones and holds it tight, watching with big eyes as John begins his first stitch.
...
When John lifted Dean from Sam's lap, Sam felt distinct panic that he had to shut down. It felt wrong letting Dean be taken from him when he was hurt. He is trembling with fear as Dean just lays limply in John's arms. His heart is so afraid, afraid if he loses his brother... afraid of a life without his brother, can't even picture it. He does as his father commands him, an eye on Dean at all times.
Dean's reaction to the holy water scares him, but the lack there of does too. He's so used to Dean being alive, and moving, and taking control of the situation, that his brother laying so still goes against his very conscience. All he can think in his confused young mind is this is wrong, this isn't the way it's supposed to be.
He killed the black dog so Dean would be alright, he thought that was a fair trade. He's now coming to realize life isn't fair. No one cares about a fair trade. He had tried so hard yet Dean still got hurt. Dean had tried so hard, yet he still had got wounded, despite all Dean's planning he still had to jump in front of Sam to save him. Still had to do the unexpected even in a safe zone.
And why had he hidden his wound? Why had he said nothing about feeling sick? Even Sam's young mind knows the answer.
For him.
And now looking down on his brother's pale body laid on their bed, the velvet blood still seeping down into the towel he knows the truth. Life may be unfair, but hunting was even more so. He spilt blood, he gave up his innocence to save Dean, yet in the only scenario in his life where he would have Dean's blood on his hands it was there.
He looks down now finding the red substance coating his hands again. The tears are streaming down his face even as he grasps Dean's hand tighter as his brother groans through gritted teeth when John pulls the needle through his skin. Dean's fingers wrap around his like vices that will never let go, smearing the bright red liquid between them.
He's not sure when Dean woke up, but he knows as he looks into his big brother's pain blown pupils that are staring up at him, knows he cannot do this. Knows he can never dedicate himself to a cause that does this to Dean. Doesn't matter how evil the thing is that he kills, doesn't care how many innocents he saves. If Dean gets hurt, if Dean's precious blood ends up on his hands then it's not worth it.
And he'd been there, he'd been the weakness. The thing Dean had been so intent on protecting that he'd thrown his own well being to wind. He couldn't justify it. It was the only way in this god forsaken life that Dean's blood ended up on his hands, ended up being his fault. This was hunting. This was the thing he'd wanted. This was the ugly, hard thing Dean had tried to protect him from.
He shudders with the sickening noise of the needle sliding through the mutilated flesh, grinds his own teeth together at the way Dean grips his hand and sobs a breath as tears stream down his face. John is going slow and steady. Stitching up Dean's arm with near perfection. Does Sam even want to know how many times father and oldest son have done this? Does he want to know how many times Dean's had to have done this to John?
John finishes the last stitch, leaving both boys gasping with tears making cooling tracks down their cheeks and burning unshed in their eyes. Dean turns to look at his arm and the sewing job, giving his dad a stretched, but thankful smile. He turns to his little brother, his other hand still held in Sam's. Sam takes in Dean's pupils which are shrinking and growing with the light...also noticing the different size between the two.
He opens his mouth in alarm but Dean beats him to it.
" 's okay, S'mmy," he whispers out on his strained vocal chords. "Jus' from the concussion." He explains, sighing, but that brings on a cough that aches and burns in his chest. "N'thing a little sleep won't fix." He gives an extremely worried and stressed looking Sam a tired smile.
"'S okay S'mmy," he mummers again, pulling his little brother towards him again.
" 's okay, 'm right here, not going anywhere." The look in his eyes before he closes them will haunt John for ever.
Dean hugs Sam as close to him as he can with one arm, he closes his eyes hoping it can shut out the gasping, desperate sobs Sam is crying into his shoulder where he is hiding from the truth and reality of this life he's pleaded his way into.
"I'm sorry Dean," he says over and over, "I'm sorry, didn't know, I didn't know."
Because as much as he feels that hunting must be the worst thing. As much as he can never imagine having Dean's blood on his hands again he knows this feeling is what kept Dean from letting him hunt. This was what he was trying to protect Sam from, this was what he was trying to protect himself from.
This was why he was so scared, why he had lied. Why he had stood the wrath of John Winchester just to try and keep something from happening. Sam now knows the desperation and fear Dean had felt. That he felt now, that ruled his life. It now ruled his own. That guilt, the love that tore his heart when Dean was hurt, when it was his fault...they each had to live with that now, they both had to learn to live with the fact that blood was on their hands, would continue to be.
Dean presses his hand to the back of Sam's head, holds h closer, and turns his own head to whisper in his ear. "It's 'lright, S'mmy," he comforts, "We'll be 'lright, just get it out Sam, it'll be better in the morning..." He whispers sweet promises into his little brother's ear, tries to distract him.
He knows it's hopeless though when Sam's arms wrap around his neck, pulling him more tightly to him. Dean can see the rusty red color on his skin, sees the red stains in and around his fingernails and his heart leaps into his mouth, his eyes fill with tears. Now what Sam has been muttering into his shoulder through tears and sobs makes sense
"Dean...never wanted your blood on my hands."
...
Present Day.
Sam drops his hands from Dean's wounded arm and takes a step back, looking down at them. The firelight glistens off the redness on his hands, off the redness on Dean's skin. It sparkles in their eyes as their gazes meet. The flames crackle in the silence, the wind echoes after it, howling a little. Dean catches Sam by the wrist pulling him back towards him.
"Sammy, it's okay," he says quietly, smiling, eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above. He hands his little brother a bandana.
Sam looks at him questioningly.
"Wrap it up, just until we get to the motel room, then you can go all stitch ass crazy." Dean quirks his lips into that smirk and Sam finds himself smiling too.
He takes the bandana and carefully wraps it around the bite, tight enough to hopefully help stop the blood flow but not tight enough to be a tourniquet. He gingerly pulls Dean's shirt and jacket back on his arm and over his shoulder.
"Okay," he breathes, "Good?"
Dean nods, "Perfect." He gives Sam a genuine, full Dean Winchester grin, and claps him on the shoulder with his good hand.
They stand gazing at the fire for a few silent moments. Dean leans towards his brother confidentially.
"Maybe black dog's are more of a sensitive subject than I realized." He says, keeping his tone light, eyes dancing in the firelight, laugh lines wrinkling his face.
"Yeah maybe," Sam grins, "Especially considering I had to save you from one AGAIN."
Dean rolls his eyes, "Whatever, if the bastards would stop taking chunks outta me they wouldn't piss us off so bad."
"Ain't that the truth," Sam agrees grimly.
"Hey," Dean says softly, knocking their shoulders together. "Wasn't your fault, now or then."
Sam purses his lips, unintentionally creating a bitch face. "Yeah," he muses, not looking at his brother.
Dean's seen Sam like this before. Remembering things often makes Sam depressed and quiet. He wraps his hand around the now bandaged wound to give it some pressure. And tries to catch his little brother's eyes.
"Sammy, no one can control these things, no one can predict them. You can't hang on to 'em, gotta let it go little brother." He urges gently.
Sam shakes his head, "I was so scared Dean," he says softly, "All I could think was that hunting had done that to you, to me. I didn't want anything to do with it, ever again. I let that one hunt shape the way I looked at you and dad and hunting and I wanted nothing to do with it." He gives Dean a sad smile, "I didn't even realize that a part of hunting is being there for your partner, looking after them. I never even realized that I could change things. Never even thought to stay behind just to have your back when you gave up everything so you could have mine."
Dean gives him a doubtful fond look, "You did though, just took you a coupla years. You had to take your own road, Sammy." He says softly. "I understand that, I respect that."
He laughs, eyes shining in the light, warming Sam and giving him the joyful reassurance Dean holds nothing against him. Leaving, disowning him.
Dean laughs dryly, "And as much as I'd like to call dad buckets of crazy, we both ended up here. Side by side, hunting evil sons of bitches. Kind of like that's the way we were meant to be, just like he said."
Sam chuckles too, "I never believed him."
"Me neither," Dean returns, handing Sam the shovel and getting himself a beer from the cooler, and then sitting on it.
"Maybe he was right." Sam says, shaking his head, smiling, and beginning to bury the still flaming carcass when Dean motions for him to 'hurry it up'.
"Hmm," Dean says around the beer bottle, he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Maybe."
the end.
Thank you everyone who went on this little adventure with me! I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did!
Lenail125, hope you enjoyed this, it was for you!
This is the last chapter so...PLEASE LEAVE ME A REVIEW! ;)
thank you