Okay, so I was a little later than my projected deadline of a week, but not months and months late. That's progress, right? We left Dean in an unpleasant situation, so best be heading on with the story and not concentrating on the author's shameful posting habits. Thank you, those who reviewed, by the way. I love reviews!
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"Dean!"
Sam's heart jumped into his throat. "Dean, stop! STOP!" The curse box clattered as it fell to the ground and Sam lunged forward.
He pulled himself up short as two blue, brilliant points of light suddenly glared out of the semi-darkness. The malice in them stopped him in his tracks.
Focusing, he could just barely make out the shape of the creature. She was oddly transparent. Like she was made of smoke, or water. He could see her tall form, tattoos curling up her arms, dark hair whipping around the sharp face. He could also see Dean through her.
Her long fingers were curled tightly into the back of the stolen scrubs Dean was wearing.
Though his muscles were literally twitching with the desire to leap forward, seize his brother and drag him down from the rooftop's barrier, Sam forced himself to remain still. Hazel eyes met the baleful glare of the Ifrit without flinching.
"Let him go."
The Ifrit snorted indelicately. "Sure, asshat. You want me to supply you with the spatula to collect him afterwards too?" She turned her face away from Sam, back towards Dean. "I let him go, he falls to his death."
Heart beating painfully against his ribs, Sam slowly slid one foot closer. "Dean. You need to step back."
She swung around again, sharp features etched with frustration. "He can't hear you. He can't hear anything."
Sam wasn't completely paying attention to her. He was more concerned with the way her hand seemed to waver when she focused her attention on him rather than his brother.
That… and the way his brother's head moved when Sam said his name. Not much. Just a small twitch, like he was thinking of looking back over his shoulder.
"Dean…"
0-0-0-0
Had someone said something? He could've sworn he heard his name. Dean turned his head, slightly, glancing back over his shoulder.
He expected to see the church's slightly shabby outer office, but given how the parking lot had disappeared, he was only mildly surprised to see that it had also vanished. Now there was nothing but darkness and shifting shadows.
And maybe…
What was that?
Something stirred, moved forward, slowly.
Dean scowled. He couldn't see! It was like trying to catch a glimpse of a particular fish in a koi pond with muddy water.
Dean!
Sam?
Maybe…
Tall enough, for sure. But what was Sam doing here? Was the Ifrit screwing with him some more? Trying to keep him penned up in his own head?
Dean's jaw tightened. He was tired of being screwed with.
Turning his back firmly on the murky, shifting shadows, Dean took a deep breath and lunged forward.
0-0-0-0
Sam saw the moment her hand slipped. Heard her cry out in surprise.
He was already in motion, his long legs pounding across the gravel rooftop as he saw his brother turn forward resolutely and step up and over the rooftop barrier.
She was in his way. Standing between him and Dean, but Sam didn't have time to be gentle. He was running at her…
… running through her…
Sparks were coursing over his skin, his breath was forced out of his lungs in an agonized gasp.
He was lunging, hand outstretched, reaching…
Reaching…
With a suddenness that jarred him badly, his hand closed around Dean's right wrist, catching his brother's entire weight, and almost jerking his arm from it's socket.
Sam yelped loudly. "Dean!"
Below the edge of the rooftop, he would just make out his brother's limp body hanging motionless in his grip. "Dean!"
No answer. The elder Winchester's blond head rolled limply against his shoulder.
Bracing his feet against the edge of the barrier, Sam tried to take stock of their predicament in a logical and thoughtful way, but it kept getting drowned out by the phrase, "Dear God, we are both going to die." He couldn't pull his brother up with one arm, and he couldn't release the barrier with his other or they would both go over. He needed Dean to gain consciousness and help him out.
Quickly.
0-0-0-0
Now he was entirely disoriented. Shouldn't he have woken up? Come to the shocking realization that a gravel coated rooftop in the chill, evening air did not make for a comfortable resting place?
Instead, darkness pressed in around him. He wasn't standing in Pastor Jim's church. He wasn't falling to his death… he just… was. There was nothing solid to turn to, nothing to fight, just nothing. But at least there was a lot of it.
Son of a bitch.
0-0-0-0
Sam groaned as Dean's dead weight dragged him forward. Not good, not good at all. If his brother didn't come to soon…
Before he could finish his thought, a sharp, piercing pain in his arm almost made him release his hold out of pure reflex. Sam gasped, eyes wide, but forced himself to keep his fingers clenched tightly around his brother's wrist.
Glancing to his left, the younger Winchester felt his heart skip a beat or two.
The Ifrit was leaning against the barrier nonchalantly, her tattooed arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her dark hair swirled around her in the stiffening breeze, emphasizing the pallor of her skin.
She was smiling.
There was something about her smile that Sam couldn't describe, but it made his stomach curl into a hard knot of anxiety to look at it.
Was it his imagination, or did she seem to be growing more solid?
A horrifying suspicion niggled at the back of his mind. He looked down at his brother, where he was clasping Dean's wrist tightly.
Thereby pressing the elder Winchester's silver ring into his own arm.
Son of a bitch!
Blue sparks were swirling around the brothers' linked hands, spiraling down Dean's arm.
"Oh for the love of…" Sam glared at the Ifrit with as much venom as he could manage. He wasn't exactly in the most advantageous position at the moment, and her pointy smile made him feel very exposed and vulnerable.
"Thanks," she grinned a little wider, as though she could guess the uncharitable leaning of his thoughts. "I was starting to get pretty hungry there." She glanced over the edge of the roof. "My venom was starting to lose some strength, too." The glance she shot at him was sneering. "At least you're good for something."
The younger Winchester gritted his teeth together and tried to shift his weight into a more advantageous position. "Let…him… go." The strain on his arm made his words short and terse.
The Ifrit's blue eyes glowed softly as her smile stretched the corners of her lips a little more.
He could see her teeth. They looked sharp.
"No."
"If he falls, he dies!" Sam ground out, trying to ignore the burning in his muscles as Dean's weight dragged him closer to the edge.
"He's going to die anyway," she said flatly. "Someone started the apocalypse, Sam." The Ifrit leaned forward slowly, bringing her face within inches of Sam's. "Who was that again? Oh that's right…" Her long fingers gently stroked the younger Winchester's cheek.
Sam fought back his initial instinct to run screaming, reminding himself that it would be hard to flee while keeping Dean from plummeting to his death. Hazel eyes glared balefully, but he was painfully aware that his options were dwindling. If he couldn't get Dean to wake up, he would either lose his grip, or his brother's weight would pull them both over the edge.
And with the Ifrit drinking his blood…
Sam turned his face back to the edge, where Dean dangled limply.
"Dean!"
"He can't hear you," the Ifrit yawned. "Not anymore."
"Shut up," Sam snarled through his teeth. "Dean, wake up!"
"Really," she continued, "it's probably better this way." Sam could feel her breath against his ear, hissing. "I mean, if he dies here, then he doesn't get bodyjacked by one of those flying asshats."
"Angels."
"Potato, Patahto." The Ifrit moved back once more. "At least this way he goes with a modicum of dignity. Not the drooling meat puppet of some holier-than-thou cretin."
Sam was pretty sure his arm was about to separate at the shoulder joint. "Those do not have to be the only two options!"
"You're forgetting something, Sam," she said, her tone once more flattening with quiet menace. "I was with your brother when he got tossed into the future. I saw the third option."
The younger Winchester could feel weakness creeping into his muscles. The chill wind that was blowing suddenly felt cold. He was losing blood rapidly. Well, not exactly…
She was stealing blood from him rapidly.
"Trust me," she continued, "it's not good." The Ifrit settled herself against the barrier, her eyes gleaming eerily. "Dean never told you what he saw. The details are too grim for poor little Sammy." As he turned his head to glare at her, she smiled at the impotence of his rage. "Do you want to know?"
He didn't have the air to speak anymore, but he couldn't deny the spark of interest… Dean hadn't told him. He had, in fact, been extremely close-mouthed about the whole ordeal.
The smug, predatory smile curling her lips told him she knew she had hooked his interest. She leaned forward once more, as though she were about to impart a deep secret.
"You kill him, Sam." she paused for a moment to let the words sink into his heart, then continued on, twisting the knife. "You kill your brother. Actually, I suppose it wasn't you who did the killing, but it was certainly your body.
"Because you agreed, Sam. You gave in. You said 'yes'." The disgust in her voice pierced him with her contempt.'' You took the easy way out of the nightmare you started. Like you always do."
She stepped even closer and lifted her long fingers once more, resting them lightly against Sam's throat. "So Lucifer took control of your body, and you end up snapping your brother's neck underneath your foot."
Sam shuddered at the static, tingling sensation that coursed over his skin at her touch. That couldn't be true. It couldn't! He wouldn't say yes…would he?
0-0-0-0
Dean looked up, confused. He was seated on Pastor Jim's battered sofa.
That wasn't right…
What the hell was going on?
Dean!
The elder Winchester looked around, confused. Pastor Jim was standing at his office window, brown eyes focused outwards. The slight man was frowning. Dean could see the muscles in his jaw tightening, eyebrows drawing together in a foreboding look.
A car's headlights gleamed through the glass, sparkling through the rain that pattered gently against the smooth surface.
"Pastor…?"
"Dean, it's your father."
Jim looked back at the younger man and Dean could see a decision being made in the Pastor's mind. He could see it in the way the clergyman studiously wiped the angry expression from his face and plastered a smile across it.
A smile so fake he could call it from the cheap seats.
Dean started to push himself to his feet, but the clergyman held up a hand, halting him. "Don't." The pastor moved quickly towards the door, pausing briefly to squeeze the young man's shoulder tightly. Dean looked up, surprised.
Jim's face was inscrutable. "Stay here, Dean."
HIs mouth opened, but no smartass reply rose to fill the silence. All he could do was nod.
Jim's quick stride made next to no sound, even on the cheap, ratty carpeting.
The office door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Dean, wake up!
The elder Winchester shook his head violently. What the hell was going on? This was… this was right… but wrong. He remembered this. And it was right… this time.
This time.
This time?
It was all the same. The deep, lethargic depression that settled into his soul, making it almost impossible to move, or think.
The rain splattering against the windows, making his father's headlights glitter through a haze.
Dean slowly, painfully pushed himself to his feet, almost staggering over to the window.
He could see his father throwing open the door of his truck and stepping out, his tall, broad shouldered frame casting long shadows up the side of Pastor Jim's small church.
Jim was coming down the stairs to meet him. There was something about the slight clergyman's stance that made Dean's brow furrow and his stomach twist. An immovability. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and crossed his arms over his chest. "John."
"Jim."
John Winchester's voice rumbled with dangerous temper. He was angry. Dean could see it at a glance. Angry that Sam had even thought about leaving, much less that he had gone and done it.
The hunter jerked his chin toward the church. "Dean in there? I need him."
Dean felt his heart slowly begin a descent from it's rightful place, to somewhere near the bottom of his feet. This day kept adding more layers of suck to it.
He knew his father. John wasn't going to talk about it. Not now, not ever. He would just keep on hunting. Pretend Sam had never existed.
Expect Dean to do the same.
The idea of acting like Sam did not exist almost made Dean ill.
"Need him for what, John?" The clergyman's voice was quiet, but there was something in the pastor's tone… something different. Changed. He didn't recognize it. Not from Jim, anyway.
John snorted. "What else? Got a job. Tell him to get his ass out here."
It was like his heart was being slowly crushed. The young man leaned against the window, resting his forehead against it for a moment. He wanted his father to go away. Give him space to process what had happened. He wanted to slide to the floor in an unmotivated puddle of despair.
At the same time, maybe it would be good to go on a hunt. Beat the crap out of something dangerous and evil. Or get the crap beaten out of him. At the moment he really didn't care which it was. He just wanted something… else. Something besides the empty seat in the Impala where Sam was supposed to be sitting.
Those do not have to be the only two options!
Dean looked up sharply. He could have sworn he had heard Sam's voice… but no. He was alone in Jim's office.
"Come on, Jim, I don't have all night. Tell Dean-"
"No."
The syllable wasn't yelled, but the tension between the two men changed as if it had been screamed through a bullhorn.
Dean felt his jaw drop almost to his chest. He couldn't have heard what he thought he heard, could he? No one said no to John. He didn't. Sam didn't. Or at least… Sam hadn't.
"No?" John's voice rumbled dangerously over the two letter word. "What do you mean, 'no'?"
Jim didn't back down. Standing with legs apart, arms crossed over his chest, the smaller man met John's gaze steadily. "It's not a hard word, John, though I know you haven't deigned to hear it much in your life. I'll repeat it if you like. No. I will not go tell Dean anything. And neither will you." Jim's head turned slightly, as if he was glancing back towards his office window. "He's not in any shape to go hunting."
John waved a hand impatiently. "He's sad. He'll get over it. I need him."
The hunter stepped forward, and Dean gasped as Pastor Jim planted his palm in the middle of John's broad chest and forced him back a pace. Taken by surprise, the taller man actually stumbled, almost landing on his backside.
If he wasn't terrified that the slight pastor was about to get his ass kicked, the expression of shock on John Winchester's face would've been extremely comical.
"He's not 'sad', John," Jim's voice was raised for the first time in Dean's memory. "He's nearly suicidal. Do you know what happens to hunters when they go out in this state of mind?" The anger in Jim's voice surprised the younger Winchester, sparking the embers of the fire that fueled his spirit. Pastor was angry for him. He was standing up to John Winchester for him.
Dean was simultaneously touched, and deeply worried that Jim was going to be shot shortly.
John's eyes flattened and his jaw tightened. "Get out of my way, Jim."
"No, John." Jim repeated. "I will not."
"Jim-"
"You're going to lose them both, John! You already lost Sam, maybe for good. Do you really want to lose Dean too?"
Dean actually felt his heart jump from his toes to somewhere between his teeth. He saw his father's arm swing back in preparation for the blow that would probably break the smaller man's jaw.
It never connected.
0-0-0-0
Sam glared at the Ifrit. "You're lying," he hissed through clenched teeth.
She shrugged, seemingly amused at his ire. "Suit yourself. I'm lying. Doesn't matter much to me what you believe anyway." She glanced over the side of the roof, and for an instant, Sam could swear he saw a hint of regret cross her face. Her eyes traveled over his brother with a look that was almost… tender? Affectionate?
Possessive.
It creeped him all the hell out.
"It's better this way," she said quietly, more to herself than the younger Winchester. Her gaze swiveled back to him, and her eyes hardened. "At least this way he doesn't have to see you betray him… again."
He could feel his palm sweating. Within minutes, his brother was going to slip through his fingers.
"I could put you under too," she said calmly, leaning casually against the barrier, her sharp smile widening at the look of horror Sam shot at her. "I don't think so, though. No. No easy way out for you, Sammy. For once, you're going to see what happens to your brother when you fail him."
Sam snarled at her and dug his heels into the loose gravel of the roof, trying to ignore the weakness that was sapping strength from his muscles. He could feel cold sweat breaking out on his forehead; under his shirt, making the cotton cling to his back clammily.
"Dean…"
0-0-0-0
Dean wasn't even certain what he had witnessed. One moment his father was raising his arm for a blow. There was a flurry of movement, and the sickening sound of flesh and bone meeting at high speed.
John Winchester crashed backwards into his truck, eyes wide in shock.
Before he could rise, Jim was moving forward.
Whatever he lacked in bulk, the clergyman made up for in speed. His fist flashed again, and John was bleeding from a split lip.
"I said, NO!"
Dean had never heard Jim sound like that. He had never seen the gentle man move like that.
Objectively speaking, on a subconscious level, he had known that Pastor Jim was capable of using force. He was, after all, a hunter of a sort.
The young man stared in awe as Jim neatly blocked John's powerful swing, seizing hold of his wrist and bending it back on itself in a way joints were not supposed to move. John yelped, but Jim kept pressure on the wrist, holding the larger man in place with relative ease. "You're not going in there and dragging that young man out to chase your demons, John! Not tonight."
Releasing his hold, the pastor thrust the larger man away, making him stumble clumsily.
For an instant, Dean was sure that his father intended to continue the fight. He drew himself up to his full height, fists clenching.
Jim didn't move. Didn't back down.
Silence stretched between the two men for several tense moments, broken only by the steady patter of the rain.
The younger Winchester couldn't see the Pastor's face from where he was standing, but something must have made John realize that in this instance, Jim wasn't going to let himself or Dean be trodden over.
The big man's shoulders sagged, his fist relaxed.
Dean slowly turned away from the window, relief crashing through him and leaving him almost weak. It was all right. Jim wasn't going to die at the hands of John Winchester.
Actually, the Pastor did better than Dean would've believed possible. If someone had come up to him yesterday and told him that within 24 hours he was going to witness his father get his ass handed back to him by the gentlest, kindest man he knew, Dean would've assumed that they were drunk, high, and most likely possessed by a spirit of insanity.
And yet, the evidence lay before him.
He had never known Jim to come within shouting distance of picking a fight. Even when he took part in hunts, he preferred greatly to go after restless spirits. Something that was already dead, and just needed to be put to rest. But the clergyman obviously could if he felt that the cause was right.
Dean could feel a lightening in his spirit. A lessening of the morass he had sunk into.
He, Dean Winchester had been that cause. Jim had been willing to fight for him. Stand up for him.
Yes. This was right. This was how it had happened.
Dean frowned, annoyed at the intrusive thought. How it had happened? It was happening right now…
No, it had happened years ago.
He shook his head, confused. What was going on?
Stepping away from the window, Dean rubbed his right shoulder thoughtfully. It felt weird. Achy. Like he had pulled a muscle, or-
With a suddenness that had him dropping to his knees, the ache sharpened into a nauseatingly painful throbbing. Dean cried out and just as suddenly, the pain was gone. He was on the floor of Jim's office, breath coming in short, ragged gasps, left hand grasping his right shoulder.
Tentatively, he squeezed.
Nothing.
What in the everloving hell was going on?
Slowly, he rotated his shoulder, expecting pain to blossom once more, but there was nothing. Everything seemed fine. Perplexed, he raised his right hand in front of his face.
The light coming through the window caught the thick silver band on his finger.
Shouldn't it be blue?
Why? Why would it… oh…oh no.
The Ifrit. The mother-humping Ifrit. Could she still be screwing with him!?
Evidence pointed to "yes". Damn, but she was persistent. She'd screwed up this time, however. A lot.
Yeah. he remembered this. And yeah, in reality when he walked through Jim's door he was within a hair breadths of suicide by hunt. The clergyman had not intended Dean to see the argument that ended with John bleeding on the hood of his own truck, but the young hunter had.
It was the first time he had ever seen someone stand up to John Winchester solely for his benefit, and it had reignited the embers of his stubborn, tenacious will.
He knew. He knew that the dream he was trapped in was not real. The ache of Sam's absence threatened to drown him… but Jim's protection threw him a life preserver. This wasn't real… in reality, he was on the rooftop of some hick town hospital, freezing his ass off in stolen scrubs, while a supernatural succubus drained his juices. Dean rubbed his shoulder thoughtfully. Anyway, that's hopefully where he was.
Dean…
The elder Winchester pushed himself to his feet, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. Sam was calling him, and he was done with this crap.
Stepping behind Jim's desk, he jerked the drawer open and dug into the very back.
There was the pistol he knew Jim kept there.
He snatched it out, drew a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He hated this part…
0-0-0-0
Sam hissed in pain. He had never really been curious to discover how it felt when muscle fiber separated strand by agonizing strand… and yet, here he was. 0 out of 10, would not recommend.
He could feel Dean's hand slipping. Gritting his teeth he tried to tighten his grip; ordering his spasming fingers to hold on, because the alternative was unthinkable.
He would not let go. He would not let his brother slip through his grasp. He would not fail his brother…
"Looks like we're coming up on the end of our time together," the Ifrit said, her voice callously cheerful. She peered over the edge. "You won't be able to hang on much longer."
Sam shot her a look of pure venom. "He drops… I swear… I'll kill you."
"Not likely." Her smile was every bit as poisonous as his glare.
The younger Winchester didn't answer, because his brother was starting to slide away. Within seconds, he was going to lose his grip.
"No…Dean!"
To his shock, the dead weight hanging on his arm jerked violently, almost breaking his weakening grip free. A split second later, a hand gripped his wrist. Sam gasped, looking down.
His brother's eyes, open and aware, glared back up at him. Holding tightly to Sam's hand, the elder Winchester brought his feet up, bracing them against the side of the hospital, and removing some of the weight that was close to dislocating his brother's arm.
Oh, thank God.
He didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief. Not yet. Not until Dean was firmly on the right side of the barrier. Unfortunately, due to the twice-damned Ifrit sucking his blood, and the time spent keeping his brother from plummeting to a gruesome demise, the hunter had very little strength left. It was all he could do to concentrate on not letting Dean fall.
If they survived this, he was going to start harping a little more strongly on the elder Winchester's survival on cheeseburgers, pie, and convenience store crap.
Fortunately, Dean seemed to quickly assess the situation. Hand over hand, he climbed Sam's arm like a rope, hauling himself closer to safety.
One tennishoed foot crept over the edge of the roof as Dean made a lunge, throwing his arm around his brother's neck. Sam took a chance, muttered an oath and, releasing the barrier, he wrapped his left arm around Dean's torso as he thrust himself backwards as strongly as his muscular legs could still push.
It semi worked.
In a cinematic, perfectly choreographed world, Dean would have come neatly over the barrier into Sam's waiting arms. Instead, Sam crashed hard into the unyielding, graveled surface of the roof, dragging his brother clumsily on top of him, and managing to drive most of the air out of his lungs.
Dean yelped and swore, rolling to the side quickly and gripping his right shoulder with a pained hiss.
Sam could've sympathized, but they didn't have the time for it. Staggering to his feet, he ground his teeth together hard to keep from crying out as well as he stumbled across the rooftop and snatched up the items he had dropped in his headlong flight to catch his brother.
Good lord, she had done a number on him. He could feel cold sweat dripping down his face, and his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Spots were flickering in front of his eyes. Turning back, Sam saw the Ifrit standing over his brother, her face twisted into a fierce snarl.
"Get away from him!" Sam dove as she reached down. Sparks were pooling on her palm, glowing eerily. The curse box hit the graveled rooftop again, but he didn't worry about it. The blood soaked cloth should work…
"Ah! Dammit, Sam! What the hell?!" Dean yelped as Sam seized his right hand roughly, yanking him further away from the outstretched fingers of the Ifrit. Sam didn't bother to stop. He dropped to his knees and, wrapping the blood-soaked towel around his brother's finger, he jerked.
The instant the lambs-blood touched the silver ring, the Ifrit screamed.
It wasn't even a scream that he was sure he was hearing with his ears. It pounded against his brain, making his eyes water. Blood spurted from his nose.
Cause I can afford to lose so much of that right now. Sam gritted his teeth and jerked again. He could feel the ring moving. It was coming off. Just a little… bit… more…
A little bit more and he might drop himself. The Ifrit's wail was making him dizzy and lightheaded. He was pretty sure if it didn't stop soon, his brain would explode. The ring was stuck… it wouldn't come off…
I will not fail my brother again!
Sam jerked with all his strength. Dean yelled an unprintable, impressive litany of curse words… and the ring dropped to the rooftop.
He needed to pick it up. Get it into the curse box. Sam tried to push himself to his feet, but he stumbled. Blood leaked over his chin, gently spattering into the gravel. Spattering over the ring.
Great. I'm still feeding this bitch.
Sam fell forward onto his hands. He was desperately trying not to black out. He could sense, more than hear or see Dean moving, twisting.
"Sam!"
He looked up, into his brother's face. Dean was also on hands and knees, face twisted, eyes hollowed. He looked like death inadequately warmed over, but ever so slightly more with it than Sam at the moment. Sam spat blood. "The box…" his lips felt clumsy and disconnected from his body. The Ifrit's voice was cutting out any kind of rational thought.
Dean snatched the blood soaked cloth from his brother and picked the ring up with it. If anything, Sam was pretty sure the screaming in his head doubled. From the way Dean was grimacing, he was hearing it too.
His normal grace was stunted, but his bullheadedness kept him moving. Dean crawled to where Sam had dropped the curse box and flipped it open.
"NO!" The shriek was surreal. Painful. Sam saw Dean lock eyes with the monster. Her pointy features were imploring. Blue eyes begging…
Without a second's hesitation, Dean threw the ring into the box and slammed the lid shut.
The silence was at once blissful and deafening.
Sam gasped in relief and slowly eased into a sitting position; willing himself not to black out, throw up, or spontaneously combust. None of those options would surprise him at the moment. The gravel was uncomfortable, but he really didn't think he had it in him to hoist his substantial bulk to his feet.
He could hear his brother moving. Apparently, Dean also did not feel up to standing. He crawled to his younger brother's side, awkwardly cradling the curse box in the crook of one arm. "Sammy?" You okay?"
The younger hunter opened his mouth to assure Dean that he was 'fine', but changed his mind halfway through. "Ye-... no. No, really not."
Dean gingerly eased himself into a sitting position beside his brother, carefully putting the curse box to one side. "Yeah. I believe that. You look like crap."
"Me?" Sam cast an appraising glance over Dean. "Speak for yourself." Dean was shivering convulsively in his stolen scrubs, his hazel eyes so sunken they appeared bruised. He looked like he had been hauled ass over tea kettle through his worst nightmares.
Knowing Djinn, probably not that far off.
For a few minutes, the brothers simply sat, side by side. Too exhausted to move.
"We should probably go downstairs and get you checked out," Dean grunted finally. "God only knows how we're going to explain you."
Sam remembered the one nurse who he was pretty sure he saw trying to sharpen a pen. "I don't think they'll notice."
Silence stretched between them once more.
"Sam?"
"Yeah, Dean?"
"How am I going to open my beers now?"
The snort of laughter that bubbled up in his chest exploded through his lips indelicately, along with a fresh spray of blood.
"Okay, come on." Dean pushed himself to his feet wearily, and started to extend his right hand to his brother, but winced and offered him his left instead.
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Almost done with the story! one chapter left, and it will be complete. I hope you all have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing. The final chapter should be up shortly.