Hi there, everyone! I am back with another Supernatural story. This is set in Season 5, right after the Curious Case of Dean Winchester. Hope you all enjoy!
January 23rd, 2000
Pastor Jim hummed softly to himself as he leafed through his library, fingers grazing over the spines of his books. The clergyman's focus was far away from his studies for once. Though he pulled more than one volume down for a closer look, he inevitably stuffed it back amongst its fellows after turning no more than a few pages.
An even greater signal of distress was the tune he half-hummed, half whistled through his teeth. Normally, as befitting a leader of the church, he would be humming a hymn, or perhaps one of the newer praise songs.
At the moment, he was raising the eyebrows of the church secretary as he hummed Metallica's Enter Sandman. The middle-aged woman cast more than one bemused glance at the office door, left ever so slightly ajar.
May sighed softly to herself. She knew where Jim Murphy's mind was, and what it was dwelling on. Rising from her desk, she crossed the small room to his door and pushed it open. Jim stood with his back to the door, one leg encased in a walking cast. May clucked disapprovingly, just loud enough for him to hear, but softly enough that if he wished to, he could pretend he didn't.
Jim turned, a rueful grin twitching the corner of his salt and pepper goatee and he stopped humming. "Am I disturbing you, May?"
"No more than usual," she smiled. "You know the whole point of calling John was so that you wouldn't be putting stress on that leg."
The clergyman flushed uncomfortably and looked like he wanted to shift his weight from foot to foot… but decided against it. "I know." Graying eyebrows drew down into a frown. "But John didn't come, did he?" Slowly, the pastor stumped to the ratty, secondhand couch he had added to his study recently and sank onto it, lifting his casted leg onto the cushions gingerly. Jim's face darkened further. "He sent Dean and Sam." Left arm thrown over the back of the tattered fabric, his fingers tapped restlessly, light playing over the thick, silver ring he wore.
May sighed. She knew that was weighing on his mind. "Those boys are more capable than most, Jim."
"I didn't say they weren't." Tap tap tap.
"I'm sure they'll be fine."
"I'm sure they will." Taptaptap.
"Their father has taught them very well-"
Jim out and out scowled, and May bit her tongue.
For a few tense moments, a silence stretched between the two, broken only by the rapid-fire pattering of Jim's fingers on the back of the couch.
Abruptly, May reached forward and seized the clergyman's fingers, trapping them into stillness and silence. "They will be okay," she said firmly, squeezing his hand. "It's just a spirit." She smiled gently as his frown faded into worry. "If I leave you alone in here, do you promise to stay off of that leg?"
Jim grimaced. "You know I have a hard time making promises that I don't know I can keep."
"Do you promise to try?"
"I promise to try."
May patted his hand once more. "I'll take what I can get." She turned to leave, only rolling her eyes a little as she heard him start humming once more.
Not that she could entirely blame him. She had not been thrilled to see the two boys roll up sans John, but then… they weren't exactly boys anymore either. As she had been swiftly reminded of when she went to give Sam a hug and found the top of her head barely touching the underside of his chin. Still, she couldn't blame Jim for being upset, either. No hunter wanted to see young folk entrenched in the business. Too much pain. Too much death.
May pulled the door closed and frowned at it. No good dwelling on the negativity.
She turned around and almost walked into Dean Winchester's chest. "Oh..!"
Before she could make another sound, the young man lifted a finger to his lips, hazel eyes twinkling. His gaze darted past her to the pastor's door, eyebrows raised in question.
The secretary rolled her eyes and stepped to the side, gesturing grandly for him to proceed.
He grinned, teeth flashing in a smile that was simultaneously cocky and ever so slightly flirtatious. He even threw in a wink.
She rolled her eyes again and smacked him lightly on the leather-clad shoulder. A grin pulled at her lips, but she dutifully pursed them to avoid encouraging him.
Last thing he needed.
"Cast or not, he's still going to drop your ass," she muttered as she went back to her desk."
"What was that?" Dean whispered.
"I said, you go right ahead, honey," she stage-whispered, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. Looking back at her desk, her gaze softened. Sam leaned against the edge, long legs stretched out in front of him. Shaggy brown hair nearly covered his eyes, and she shook her head. Boy needed a haircut. But the smile the sixteen year old gave her just about melted her heart.
May settled herself into her chair and watched as Dean stepped forward almost silently. His movements were graceful; fluid. Like a cat. His boots made next to no sound on the multi-colored carpet as he turned the knob to Jim's study and slipped inside, surety of youth tugging his smile wide.
The secretary shook her head and exchanged a grin with Sam. She'd give real money to have a camera ready to catch what was coming next.
0-0-0-0
Dean couldn't keep himself from grinning as he crept through the doorway and saw Pastor Jim seated on the old couch, back to the door. Finally, he was going to get one over on the clergyman.
Jim's arms were spread from side to side, fingers tapping a rhythm on the battered upholstery, his head bowed forward. The soft light of the room's only lamp glittered on the ring the pastor wore. Just the one, on his left hand.
He'd asked about it once when he was younger. Pastor Jim had jokingly told him that it was a beer bottle opener, and his dad had nudged him to silence.
The young man felt slightly bad for taking advantage of what appeared to be a moment of prayer, but swiftly squelched the feeling.
Step. Step. Step.
Now, all he had to do was lean forward ever so slightly, and drop his hands onto Jim's shoulders…
Dean leaned, and that was precisely when his plans went straight to hell. Jim's arms shot up, clasping together behind the young man's neck as the pastor threw him forward with a strength that belied his slender frame.
The elder Winchester somersaulted over the couch and landed flat on his back, Jim's knee pressing down with dangerous force on his throat.
"Dean!"
Just like that, the pressure was gone, and Jim's face hovered over him upside down. "Son, are you all right?"
Choked laughter from the door made Dean's face turn a brilliant red color. He grabbed Jim's offered hand and pulled himself to his feet with determined nonchalance. "'Course I am." He glared briefly at the doorway where Sam was leaning. "I meant to do that."
"In that case," Sam grinned, "it worked great."
Pastor Jim's gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Sorry, Dean. Being out of commission has made me a little jumpy."
Dean rubbed his throat ruefully. "Noticed."
"Come on in, Sam," Pastor Jim's frame radiated release of tension as his brown eyes flickered over the two Winchesters. "Obviously, you boys made it back in one piece, so I assume everything went all right?"
Sam shuffled inside and sprawled over the couch, long legs spreading until his brother kicked his shoe lightly, nudging him over. Dean flopped himself down, his lips already curving into a self-satisfied smirk. "Couldn't have been better. Helped that we had someone do all the leg-work for us." Eyebrows waggled as he nudged his brother in the ribs. "See what I did there?"
Groans from the younger Winchester and an eye-roll from Pastor Jim made his smirk spread all the wider.
"Thank you, I'll be here all week."
0-0-0-0
Jim stumped to his chair behind his desk, breathing a deep sigh of relief. They were back, and they were fine. Smartasses. But fine.
May's head appeared through the doorway as he settled himself. "All right, Jim, I'll be heading home. Harold gets cranky the longer he has to wait up for me."
Sam's shaggy head swiveled around as he twisted his lean torso. "Sure you don't want to stay?"
"Nah, thanks, honey." She stepped forward and tousled his hair, making him blush and his brother grin widely. "I just stuck around to keep Jim company. I knew you two would be just fine." Bending down, she pecked his forehead. "But I'm glad to see you again."
"Cause we're adorable?" Dean grinned, turning to look up at her.
"Always." She kissed the top of his head as well, and smacked his shoulder lightly.
"What was that for?"
"For trying to put one over on a wounded man."
"He busted me!"
"Doesn't change the intent."
Dean grumbled and slouched down into the couch cushions as Jim nodded to his secretary gratefully. "Appreciate the company, May."
"Anytime, Pastor." Her eyes drifted down to the two young men before she turned to go, and Jim saw them soften. Just keeping me company, my rear end. He wasn't the only one who didn't like to see young folk indoctrinated into this way of life. John Winchester had come up sharply against more than one person who tried to point out to him the downsides of his choices.
Instead of listening, John lost a lot of old friends. He had 'falling outs.'
It was one of the reasons Jim kept his opinions to himself. He liked Sam and Dean. Cared about them. He didn't want to be shut out of their lives because their father was unwilling to listen to anyone else.
As it was, Jim knew that John had some unpleasant surprises coming. Not from Dean. Dean had embraced the hunting lifestyle with an enthusiasm that pleased his father and dismayed just about everyone else. Not because he wasn't good at it. He was. Frighteningly good. The young man seemed born to kill monsters, and he pursued it passionately.
No, Dean wasn't going to be John's problem.
Jim's eyes traveled from the elder brother to the younger as the two relayed their hunt eagerly.
Sam was all arms and legs at the moment, but with a breadth of shoulder that promised great strength if he ever filled out. Shaggy brown hair nearly covered his eyes, curling around his ears. That alone told Jim that John must have left them on their own for a while. Dean kept his hair short, recognizing the potential for long hair as a handhold in a close fight. Sam grew his as long as his dad would let him get away with.
The two of them shared hazel eyes that flashed with intelligence, though it always displayed itself differently.
Dean's brain power came out in tracking, hunting, making instinctive jumps that allowed him to hone in on his targets.
Sam stored facts like a squirrel with nuts facing a brutal winter. Always reading, always retaining. Knowledge poured into him almost without effort, and his recall was almost instantaneous.
Sam had already approached him about applying to colleges. He needed a permanent address to send and receive applications. Jim had reluctantly agreed. He was not reluctant because he thought it was a bad idea. Quite the opposite. All of his hesitance came from him being 90% certain that Sam had not spoken to John about it.
In a rare moment of blatant self-deception, he refused to ask. He didn't want to know, and if he didn't know, then he could claim ignorance. Plausible deniability.
Sam had his SAT results sent to Pastor Jim. With permission, the clergyman had read them.
The moment he had seen those test scores, Jim knew without a doubt that Dean was most definitely not going to be John's problem.
He kind of wished he was. Sam was going to get out. Leave the hunting life behind. Dean kept digging himself in deeper. Gleefully so.
He wished… he wished he could say something, anything that would divert Dean, but he knew better than to try. John would take violent exception to anyone interfering with his boys.
Look at what had happened with Bobby.
Bobby had voiced objections to the way John Winchester raised his boys.
Loudly. And often.
The most recent had led to a confrontation between the two that actually devolved to the point of Bobby threatening John with a loaded shotgun.
Jim knew that if he said anything to Dean, the young man wouldn't hear it. He was bound and determined to follow his father's lead. Be the good son. Jim wondered if Sam had discussed going to college with his older brother. If there was one person who could deflect the elder Winchester from his chosen path, it would have to be the younger. Not that he believed even Sam would be able to change Dean's mind. More likely, Dean would keep Sam in the life unless Sam found a way to break out.
Jim sighed softly to himself as he watched the boys, shaking his head bemusedly. They teased and poked each other, jostled and nudged and he wondered where on earth they got their energy from. If he had been out digging up a grave, he would be half dead now, especially since…
His wristwatch beeped, sounding the hour. Normally, he didn't have an alert set for this late, but tonight was a little different.
The clergyman rose slowly to his feet and opened the small fridge next to his desk. "Don't know where my manners are, boys. Care for a drink?"
"Please," Sam reached out eagerly, accepting the Coke bottle Pastor Jim handed him. "Digging graves is hard work. Especially when your older brother lets you do all of it."
Dean grinned, completely unashamed. "Need to work on your upper body strength, little brother. I'm just helping you out." He accepted a bottle as well with a nod of thanks. "Besides, someone had to stand by with the shotgun and make sure the spirit kept it's distance."
"You could have traded off."
"That would've left you unguarded, and I just couldn't stand the thought of you all exposed like that, Sammy."
"Shut up."
Chuckling, Dean went to twist the cap off his bottle, only to frown when he couldn't.
"Dean." Pastor Jim tossed something to the younger man. "Think fast."
The elder Winchester snagged the small object out of the air without apparent thought. He looked down to see the thick, silver band nestled in his palm, and looked back up swiftly, surprised.
Jim grinned. "You might need that to open the bottle."
Dean took a second look at the bottle, and his eyebrow slid questioningly up his forehead. "You've never given me a beer before, Pastor." His smirking grin tugged the corners of his lips. "I'm not rubbing off on you, am I?"
"You've never been twenty-one before," Jim said dryly, settling himself down again at his desk.
"Twenty-one? I'm not…" Jim could see the mental brakes hit the floor of the young man's thought process. Dean frowned. "Sammy, what's today?"
"Well," Sam said lightly, looking at his watch. "As of about one minute ago, it's the 24th." he grinned at Dean. "Happy birthday."
Jim smiled, but his heart ached a little. Dean had clearly forgotten.
And so had John.
Not Sam though.
"Liquor store wouldn't sell to me," Sam smiled. "So I gave Pastor Jim the money and asked him to hold onto them until we got back. Kinda figured we'd be late enough for it to be all legal." The 16 year old's smile was almost shy. "Otherwise, you know Pastor Jim would've insisted we wait it out."
"Too true," Jim grumbled. "You boys break enough laws without me adding one more to your lists."
"Thanks, Sammy," Jim saw Dean's sharp, humorous gaze soften before the young man quickly turned his attention to the bottle in his hand. "Ah, good brand too. Not," he looked up swiftly at the pastor, "that I would have any idea what it tastes like anyway…"
Jim rolled his eyes so hard, he was mildly worried they were going to fall out of the back of his head.
"He's a pastor," Sam elbowed Dean jokingly, "Not stupid."
"Shut up." Dean slid the thick ring onto the fourth finger of his right hand. Catching the edge under the lip of the bottle cap he popped it off smoothly and grinned. "Nice."
The young man moved to take it off, but Jim forestalled him with an upraised hand. "Keep it. You'll probably get more use out of it."
Dean froze for a millisecond. His hazel eyes met the pastor's brown ones and for an instant, Jim could see behind the wisecracking bravado that the younger man wore as smoothly as a second skin.
"Thanks, Pastor."
He didn't frequently get sincerity from Dean, and he knew that it would last barely seconds.
"Not often I get a pastor offering me free admission to sin," His smirk deepened once more as he raised the bottle in a salute.
"Drinking is not a sin, son. If it were, Jesus wouldn't have turned water into wine."
"Yeah, but I was talking more about corrupting my little brother here."
"Do not give your brother alcohol, Dean."
"Hear that?" Dean held up the bottle in front of Sam's face and waggled it temptingly. "Pastor says you can't have any."
Sam's eyes narrowed as he swigged from his soda. "Jerk."
"Bi- aah, um…that is…" Dean's voice trailed away comically as he stumbled over his own tongue trying not to swear.
The younger Winchester's eyebrows rose innocently. "What was that, Dean? I couldn't catch what you were about to say."
"Shut up."
0-0-0-0
November 4th 2009 10:00 PM
Dean tapped his fingers rhythmically on the Impala's steering wheel, humming along with the music as it pounded through the speakers. Hazel eyes slid to the side and scrutinized his passenger closely.
Sam's behemoth frame draped itself awkwardly against the window, mouth agape, snoring lightly.
Dean was fairly certain the snoring was genuine. Sam had been known to fake sleep on occasion, (mostly for the purposes of busting his brother mid-prank) but right now, his breathing was deep and regular, and his neck was braced against the car window at an angle that no one in their right mind would attempt in their waking hours.
Satisfied, Dean reached out and turned up the heat.
It seemed odd, to wait until his brother was unconscious before doing something as innocuous as increase the heat in his own car, but Sam had been hovering lately. Maybe that wasn't so strange, what with the dramatic aging and near heart attack. And truth be told… something was off.
Ever since Patrick had won his years, and then returned them, something was… different. He didn't know how to explain it more plainly than that. He felt cold, all the time. Tired. Weak.
Sam had noticed. Dean could see it in the quick looks that the younger brother shot at him when he thought he wasn't paying attention. It irked him.
He was probably just tired. Needed some rest. It's not like it was the middle of the friggin' apocalypse or anything. Really, if anyone ever needed some R&R, Dean figured he and Sam should have places reserved at the front of the line.
Reserved, cause they were always too busy to actually take it. Maybe they should change that. World ending and all that, maybe it was time to enjoy things before they were gone.
He tapped the brakes, bringing his baby smoothly to a halt on the side of the road. Fog drifted around the car, swirling opaquely in front of the Impala's headlights. Through the mist, he could make out the scattered humps of tombstones to his right.
Maybe later. Right now, they had work to do.
0-0-0-0
The air was chill and damp, and he hated the way it seemed to cling to him as he and Sam made their way into the cemetery. It took great effort not to shiver in the clammy clutches of the fog, but he managed.
He was hunched into his leather jacket like an absurd facsimile of Quasimodo, but he wasn't shivering, dammit.
"Why," he grumbled, directing his flashlight at another crumbling block of marble, "are the restless spirits always buried at the back?"
"Law of the universe," Sam answered, in (to Dean's ears, anyway) an annoyingly cheerful tone. Shovel thrown over one shoulder, flashlight in the other hand, Sam strode forward with long, quick steps.
Dean swore softly to himself and strove to catch up. He felt like he had weights strapped to his feet or something. Everything just seemed to be taking more effort than it should've.
His flashlight's slender beam fell on another mist-enshrouded tombstone, and the elder Winchester squinted, struggling to make out the name. There should be a law about replacing these things every so often. Would make their job a hell of a lot easier. Stepping closer, he set his duffel down and scraped some of the moss away, revealing more of the worn letters.
Bingo.
"Sam! Over here."
Sam's large frame appeared through the swirling mist, and Dean thought about making a snarky comment referring to his brother's hair length and appearing through the fog like the character in a harlequin romance, but found that he didn't have the energy to properly word it.
"Here." Dean kept his tone clipped and short, knowing that if he tried to say anything over a syllable, his teeth were going to start chattering. The elder brother handed the younger a shotgun while snatching the shovel from his hand.
Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You want to dig up the grave? Hold on…you want to dig up the grave and have me stand guard?"
"That's what it looks like, Sammy."
Truthfully, he couldn't stand the idea of standing still and freezing. He didn't much relish the idea of digging either, but at least it would help warm him up.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
0-0-0-0
He was wrong.
Jacket still on, dirt piled high around him, the elder Winchester would've been hissing a steady litany of curses under his breath, except he didn't have the breath to accomplish it.
And he was still cold. Moisture beaded on his forehead and slipped unpleasantly down his neck, but it was all the chill moisture that hung in the air. So he was cold, he was breathless, and he was pretty sure Sam's concern was deepening rapidly.
That, or the younger Winchester really liked to hear himself say, "Do you want to switch places?"
The shovel scraped against wood, and Dean could've gasped in relief. "About…friggin'...time…" Pulling the shovel up, he struck a powerful blow with the blade.
It bounced, rather pathetically.
"Son of a…"
He struck again, ignoring the way Sam's eyebrows were knitting themselves together. If he didn't shape up soon, the kid was gonna have a friggin' sweater on his forehead.
Finally, the wood of the coffin gave way. Dean grunted in relief and tossed the shovel up before attempting to climb out. Normally, he would've placed both hands on the edge of the grave and jumped, easily levering himself out.
Both hands went on the edge. He jumped.
His arms collapsed like wet noodles, refusing to hold his body weight. Dean slid back into the hole he had dug, landing unceremoniously on his ass.
Fortunately, Sam had started digging into the duffel for salt and accelerant, and had missed his ungraceful faux pas. Dean clambered to his feet quickly, grateful that the darkness would also hide the redness of his face. Digging toes into the soft earth of the grave wall, he slowly pushed himself upwards, grasping at the unkempt weeds that surrounded the gravesite. Guess there's something to be said for bad upkeep after all.
Finally having levered enough of his upper body out of the grave, Dean turned on his back, exhausted, and still chilled.
Sam's bulk blocked out his view, and he could only imagine the deep concern that was pulling his little brother's eyebrows together. Ignoring it, Dean rolled back over onto his belly and slowly pushed himself to his feet.
The younger Winchester wisely didn't say anything, but busied himself pouring rock salt and accelerant over the exposed bones below.
Dean dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flicked. And flicked. And flicked.
Oh for the love of all that is holy! What the hell?!
"Do you want me to…"
Dean glared at his younger brother fiercely, or as fiercely as he could as his shoulders started to shudder uncontrollably. "Sam, if you ask me one more time if I need help, I'm going to set you on fire."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm shaking."
They stood in the chill fog for a few more minutes as Dean flicked his lighter before Sam snapped and snatched it from him. Flicking it, he brought forth fire with (to Dean's scowling eyes) the air of having created it, and flicked it forward, causing the bones to ignite.
They watched for a few minutes, making sure that the bones were going to burn completely. Dean, shivering, hunched inside his jacket, and warming his hands over the bones because he knew that Sam hated it when he did that. Sam with hands stuffed inside his jacket pockets, not looking overly put out by the weather, but continuously shooting glances at his brother, and obviously not liking what he was seeing.
As the fire started to die down, Sam packed up their gear, slapping Dean's hands away when the elder brother went to grab the duffel. Silently, Sam shoved the flashlights at his brother, taking the bag and the shovel himself.
It was really telling, even to himself, when Dean didn't argue. He just glared futilely at his brother's back and silently followed him to the car.
0-0-0-0
As the Winchesters pulled into the parking lot of their motel, Sam frowned over at his brother. He had almost demanded the keys when they had left the cemetery, but from the look Dean gave him, he might actually follow through on his threat to light him on fire.
Something was wrong. He knew it. It was becoming more and more obvious. Dean seemed tired all the time. Less talkative. And the cold seemed to bother him much more. For instance, he had been shivering for most of their sojourn this evening, and had cranked up the heat in the Impala.
Sam's brows drew together. It wasn't even below fifty degrees outside. The fog had been chill, for certain. But Dean had never seemed overly concerned with weather before. Then there was how long it had taken him to dig the grave, and the way he had fallen trying to get out. Sam was pretty certain he thought that had escaped the younger Winchester's notice. It hadn't.
And at any other time, he would be rubbing it in his elder brother's face.
Dean certainly hadn't hesitated to rub his face in the whole magically induced STD.
Every chance he got. And then some.
Putting the car in park, his older brother cut the engine and pushed his door open. Watching closely, Sam noticed the quick shudder as the air outside flooded the front seat. Dean cursed softly and hunched his shoulders inside his worn jacket as he rose from the car. Sam swiftly followed, feeling vaguely uneasy about Dean being out of sight. Not hovering, no matter what Dean claimed. He just knew that there was something off. In true Winchester fashion, they were not discussing it, so Sam felt better if he could keep an eye on his elder brother.
He knew Dean hated it with a passion.
Sam didn't care.
The tall man strode to the back of the Impala, holding up his hand expectantly, and easily snagging the keys his brother tossed him. Opening the trunk, Sam dug both their bags out. He slammed the lid and easily sidestepped the elder Winchester as Dean tried to take his duffel.
Somewhat to Sam's alarm, his brother didn't pursue the matter further. Just ungraciously allowed Sam to tote their baggage to the room.
As they entered the nondescript motel room (better than the one that Dean had complained was giving him acid-like hallucinations) Sam tossed the bags inside the door. Dean was finally shedding his jacket as he moved towards the mini-fridge.
Digging two beers out, he placed one on the table for Sam and popped the lid off his own.
"Ah! Son of a bitch!"
"What now?" Sam settled himself at the table and pulled his drink towards himself, looking up at his brother questioningly.
Dean glared at his hand. "Cap cut me."
A thin trickle of bright red blood oozed between the fingers of his right hand, staining the thick, silver ring he wore.
Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn't voice the mocking words that were fighting to escape. Honestly. He had seen his brother thrown through walls, gored by demons, take (and deliver) any number of punches without complaint.
And now he was whining about a scratch?
"I'm sure we have band-aids in the first aid kit." Sam managed to say neutrally. "Or do you think an amputation is necessary?"
Okay, so he hadn't really meant to say that last part, but it just kind of slipped out. A little bit of comeback for all the cracks about 'abstinence preventing STDs only 99.9 percent of the time.'
"That's funny," Dean glared. "And so bitchy."
"Here," Sam got up and dug their first aid kit out of his bag. "Let me see."
"I can put on my own friggin' bandaid, Sam."
"Just take the ring off, and let me…"
Dean snatched the first aid kit out of his younger brother's hands and headed towards the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower." Before entering the coffin-sized room, he turned around and speared Sam with an evil look. "If you try to follow me in here, I am going to punch you in the face."
Sam raised both hands in a 'peace' gesture.
Okay, he admitted to himself as the door shut a little harder than was strictly necessary. Perhaps I have been hovering.
0-0-0-0
Dean locked the door and briefly considered going out the window just to spite Sam, but a quick glance told him that he would never be able to squeeze his muscular frame through the tiny space. Besides, a shower actually sounded good.
First things first, though. Tossing the first aid kit onto the minuscule counter, he tugged at his ring, wincing as the movement pulled at the torn flesh.
The ring wouldn't come off.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
So maybe there was something behind all those comments Sam was always making about his diet consisting of cheeseburgers and pie.
Dean grumbled to himself as he rinsed his hand under the faucet. With a hunter's life expectancy what it was, he felt that he was entitled to eat whatever he wanted for as long as he could possibly get away with it. He tugged again, and hissed.
But maybe working a few more vegetables into his food choices wasn't that bad of an idea.
Soaping his finger also failed to get the recalcitrant band moving.
With a soft curse, Dean gave up. It wasn't that deep of a cut anyway. Didn't need a bandaid. He would put some antiseptic gel on it after his shower.
0-0-0-0
Sam heard the shower start as he pulled out his computer. The younger Winchester set himself up so that he could keep an eye unobtrusively on the bathroom door over the top of his open laptop, but he would have plenty of time to close his browser.
Fingers poised over the keys, he wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips in frustration. What was he even looking for? Where did one find lore on… supernatural aging? When he had won back Dean's years, that should have been the end of everything. Dean should be fine.
But he wasn't.
Maybe… maybe when he almost died of the heart attack his heart had been injured somehow. It wouldn't be the first time.
That idea almost worried Sam more. A supernatural cause might have a cure, or something that could be killed with a thrust of a specific blade, or a spell or…something! Physical damage… he would either heal, or he wouldn't. And given how he seemed to be worsening…
Keys clicked quickly, pulling up symptoms of heart damage.
And his own heart did a sick belly flop into the pit of his stomach.
Possible damage from a heart attack included cardiogenic shock. Some of the symptoms included cold hands and feet. Difficulty breathing. Pale skin. Fatigue.
Sam swallowed hard. Not good. Not good at all.
Now for the real difficulty. Talking Dean into going to see a doctor. The younger Winchester snorted at the idea. Maybe he could tell his older brother it was two for one lap dances at the nearest strip joint. That should at least get him into the car.
He could tell him they were out of beer.
He could leave pie in the trunk and tip him in when Dean went to retrieve it.
Sam groaned and pushed both hands through his hair, tilting back on his chair legs. Maybe if he told him there was a job at the hospital… or a body that they were going to examine. He just wouldn't mention that the body in question was Dean's.
Long fingers laced together behind his head as he tipped back and forth, wracking his brains for an answer.
Maybe Dean wouldn't fight him. He hadn't argued over Sam taking their bags.
That thought hadn't even formed in his head completely before a small voice that sounded remarkably like Dean was laughing mockingly at it.
Yeah. No. The only way he was getting Dean to a hospital with his full knowledge was tied and dragged. Not that he wouldn't count that out of the equation, but doctors tended to ask awkward questions when their patients showed up bound and gagged.
The chair tipped backwards a little too much and Sam abruptly recalibrated, jerking forward and nearly toppling over onto his face.
Maybe he could break his own head open, then Dean could take him to the hospital. While they were there, he could probably find some excuse to get his older brother checked out.
He actually considered it for a few minutes before discarding the idea.
The shower stopped running, and Sam's eyes narrowed. Maybe straightforward was best.
0-0-0-0
Dean rubbed a towel over his head vigorously as he opened the door to the claustrophobia-inducing bathroom. Pulling the rough cloth away from his face, he almost walked into his younger brother's chest.
Any other time, reacting on instinct alone, he would have followed through with his threat and punched Sam in the face.
"Geez! Sam!" Dean stumbled backward, nearly slipping on the wet tile. "Would you please stop hovering?!" Angry, Dean threw his towel on the floor and stepped around his brother.
"I'm not-"
"Dude, if I stuck a flashlight in your ass you'd be a ufo hunter's dream come true."
Sam's nose wrinkled. "Graphic."
"Deserved," Dean shot back. "Every time I turn around I'm tripping over your sasquatch feet."
"Dean…"
"And you keep grabbing our bags like you think my arms are gonna fall off, or I'm gonna drop dead, or I don't know what! What's going on, Sam?" The elder brother glared at the younger.
Sam's eyes flattened dangerously. "You tell me. Something's not right, Dean. You're tired all the time-"
"We work all the time."
"You keep turning up the heat everywhere we go-"
"It's cold, Sam. Turning up the heat helps it not be cold."
"Dude! It's 80 degrees in here!"
Dean opened his mouth to argue, but noticed for the first time that Sam had sweat gathering on his forehead. The elder brother frowned, and glanced at the thermostat. Yep. 80.
"That thing must be broken."
Sam groaned in frustration. "The thermostat's broken?! Dean, look at me!" The tall man spread his arms wide, gesturing at his long body.
Dean pursed his lips in silence as he observed his brother. Sam had stripped off his jacket and his flannel shirt. His t-shirt was clinging to his chest and shoulders with a widening circle of sweat dampening the neckline.
"You're broken," Dean grumbled, turning away sullenly.
"Dude," Sam insisted, "I'm about three seconds away from going nude, okay? That's how bad this is."
"Don't threaten me with a good time, Sammy."
"Something is wrong, Dean," Sam insisted, pointedly ignoring the last attempt to throw him off the subject.
Dean's jaw flexed as his lips tried to form arguments. Nothing was coming to him. He wanted to insist that he was fine. He wanted to keep chewing out Sam for treating him like an invalid.
At the same time, all he wanted to do was lie down on his somewhat questionable motel bed and curl up under the covers. Hazel eyes glanced at the bedspread, and he winced slightly. Okay, maybe not those covers.
"What do you want me to say, Sam?" Dean sighed as he sat on his bed, leaning back against the headboard, and crossing his legs in front of him. Lacing his fingers across his stomach, he looked up at his brother expectantly.
Sam frowned at the sudden attitude shift. "What's going on? Ever since that whole thing with Patrick, you've been dragging."
"I know." Dean studied his feet carefully, so as not to look into his brother's soulful, puppy dog eyes. He suspected that a request for a hospital visit was in the offing, and he would honestly rather shove bamboo splinters under his fingernails.
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted as his cell phone chirped.
Dean straightened, placing his feet on the floor as he saw Sam's expression change from aggravated to focused.
"Yeah, no. Got it. I'll be there in a minute."
I'll. Oh, that's cute. Little brother thinks he's going to leave me behind. "Problem?" he asked nonchalantly as Sam slid the phone back into his pocket.
"Nothing that I can't handle. You should stay here."
Dean looked up at his brother and grinned. "Yeah, you know that's not going to happen, Sammy."
Sam's gaze flickered to the left for a second. Just enough to give Dean an idea of what the younger Winchester intended.
Ah hell.
Dean catapulted himself up from his seated position, and dove over Sam's bed as his brother lunged. The two of them hit the cheap motel table at the same time, sending the car keys flying through the air. Dean sprang after them, taking advantage of the precious seconds that Sam used to make sure his laptop didn't fall to the floor.
The elder Winchester scooped under nasty, thin motel curtains and straightened up, triumphant, keys clutched in his hand. Glancing back at the curtains, he made a mental note to wash his hands. Geez, how did we find this place? "Ha…ha!" he meant the laugh to be one sound, but had to take a deep breath in the middle of it. As much as he wanted to savor his victory, it was hard to feel he had gained the upper hand when simply lunging across the very tight motel room had his chest heaving.
Sam glared at him as he placed his laptop on his bed. From the way his younger brother was looking at him, Dean realized that Sam was contemplating wrassling the keys out of his hands.
He didn't know if he had the energy for that.
Narrowing his eyes, he stuffed the keys down the front of his pants. "All yours if you can get 'em, Sammy."
"Oh, come on!" Sam recoiled, nose wrinkling. "I do drive that car sometimes, you know."
"And you will again." Dean shrugged, his smirk tugging at his lips even as he went to fetch his boots and jacket. "Maybe not for a while."
0-0-0-0
As they pulled up in front of the small town's museum, Dean frowned over at his brother. "Would you please stop sulking?"
Sam was slouched in his seat, lips in an actual pout, arms crossed over his broad chest. "I could handle this on my own, Dean."
"Well, you're not." The elder brother turned the key and killed the engine. "And if you could stop treating me like I'm about to drop dead?" He smiled tightly at his little brother. "That would be awesome."
The Winchesters exited the Impala and strode towards the door. The museum's curator, a small, middle-aged man with a bad combover, was waiting for them. His thin hands were wringing nervously as he eyed the hunters approaching him. "I thought you said that burning her bones would put her spirit to rest."
"It does," Sam said soothingly. "But sometimes there's something else. Something they were attached to, or some part of them that still exists."
"Yeah," Dean brushed past the curator impatiently. "Hair, bones, blood… these are a few of our favorite things."
Sam shot him a look. "Did you just quote the Sound of Music?"
"Shut it."
"Wait…" the little man held up a hand, a look of dawning comprehension opening on his face. "Did you say blood?"
0-0-0-0
As the three men entered the room, Sam shook his head. Ceiling to floor, old knitted afghans covered the walls. The woman who had made them had been one of the founders of the town, and there was a time when every household had at least one of the fruits of her labors.
That was, until someone had broken into her house, (the very house they were standing in right now) and stabbed her to death with her own knitting needles.
Sam and Dean had shown up when young men started dying with curious, long, needle-like stab wounds after visiting the museum. All of them with petty breaking and entering charges filed against them at some point in their lives.
Granny had a vindictive streak.
The curator motioned timidly to the center of the wall, where a display case enclosed one of the afghans that had been folded like a flag. The small placard below it described the afghan as the "Unfinished Work." Sam looked at the little man, confused. They had seen the display the last time they had been here. The afghan was supposedly the one Granny Mavis had been working on, but not finished when she was killed.
Dean's hazel eyes traveled from the man, to the case, then around the room, observing the numerous knitted works. "Why's that one in a case?"
"It's not very widely known," the curator mumbled, "but when Granny Mavis was killed, that wasn't just the afghan she was working on. It was the afghan she was working on at that moment."
"At that moment. When she was stabbed with knitting needles." Dean shook his head in disbelief. "So that," he pointed to the case, "is folded so that no one can see the part that's soaked in blood."
"Okay," Sam nodded, stepping forward. "That would do it."
"Who decided to keep that?" Dean asked in disgust, face wrinkling. "People, man."
"I know." Sam reached for the case. "They're crazy."
Right before his fingers made contact, Sam felt a chill that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
"Sam! Get down!"
Sam was dropping to the floor before his brain completely registered the words. The roar of the shotgun thundered in his ears, and glass from the case rained down on him. He could hear the curator's terrified squeaks, and the thud of Dean's footsteps as his brother rushed towards him.
A rough hand seized his jacket, hauling him up and Dean's eyes flickered over him quickly, checking him at the speed of light.
"I'm good," Sam assured him. The tall man reached forwards again and snatched the afghan from the case. The moment his fingers touched the old yarn, he could feel the temperature in the room drop sharply.
Dean wracked the shotgun, gritting his teeth together. "B- burn it, Sam!" he managed to chatter.
In the middle of the room, a figure strobed into sight. If the palpable malevolence that seeped from her hadn't been so strong, Sam would've described her as the perfect, sweet grandma figure. White hair pulled back into a knot on top of her head, old-fashioned dress, bifocals…
Oh, and the knitting needle dripping blood in her wrinkled fist.
Her eyes glittered as they fell on the two young men. "Housebreakers," she hissed. "Intruders!"
Okay, she had them there.
Sam jerked his lighter from his pocket as Dean fired again. The specter dissipated in a trail of sparks and smoke.
Something told Sam she was the kind that would be coming back quickly.
"Here! Here!" The curator half ran, half crawled towards them, a metal bucket in his hand. Sam pushed the afghan into the bucket and flicked his lighter, hoping against hope that the flame would spring to being the first time…
It didn't. "Crap!"
The curator suddenly shrieked in horror as the specter reappeared, directly between himself and Dean. He might not have worried. Granny's attention was obviously all for the Winchesters.
Dean swore as he swung the shotgun around…
Too slow.
With a wave of her hand, Dean went flying into the opposite wall.
"Dean!" Sam's first instinct was to drop the lighter and run to his brother's side, but he didn't dare. As Granny turned her gaze on him, he flicked the lighter again and gasped in relief as it caught. In seconds, the afghan was being devoured by the flames, and the stink of burning wool made him cough.
Fire raced up Granny's form, enveloping her, then dissipating with a final fwoomp.
Sam slowly rose to his feet, sparing a quick glance at the whimpering curator. He sounded like he would be fine after a few decades of therapy. Then his gaze settled on Dean, who he'd fully expected to see climbing grumpily to his feet. Instead, his brother lay where he'd landed, silent and still.
"Dean?"
His long legs took him across the room in seconds. The inert form struck something deep within him. Some sense of terror that no ghost would ever be able to match. "Dean! Hey, come on."
Sam knelt beside his brother, rolling him face up. There were no obvious injuries; no seeping blood, no blossoming bruises. But his brother's eyes were closed.
Long fingers pressed against Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there… but wrong. Rapid. Irregular. Now that he was close, he could hear Dean breathing, but it was very shallow. The skin he had his fingers pressed against was clammy. "Dean? Come on… Dean!"
Sam could feel cold fingers of fear clutching at his heart. He knew. He knew something was wrong. "Dean!"
0-0-0-0
That's all for now, folks! I have a fair amount of this story all written out, so I should update fairly shortly. Reviews are a wonderful, wonderful invention, and i love them dearly. :) See you all soon!