A/N Wow, I am overwhelmed by the response this is getting. I was hoping for maybe five comments or so, so needless to say I was shocked when I saw how many reviews and alerts I got. I just have to say, thank you so, so very much! You all made my day! With all the unwanted drama in my life right now well…y'all are a ray of sunshine. Honestly, you have no idea how much joy each and every comment brought me. I'm sorry I didn't get this up by Thursday like I promised. I hope you can forgive me.
Anyway, here's the next chapter. I'm not too crazy about the second half, and I almost cut it out completely but I decided against it. Still not sure if leaving it in was a good idea or not. I guess we'll see. Well without further ado, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!
Chapter Two
"Hey Sam! Wake up, dude, we're here! Come on and move your lazy ass," Dean spoke with far less gusto than usual. He sounded far too weary and downtrodden to have any real energy to his voice, but as Sam startled awake, he could tell Dean was giving an honest effort at sounding like he was all right.
Sam glanced around and with more effort than it should take, climbed out of the Impala, noting how isolated the motel was located. It looked like it was just off the highway, with only a desolate truck stop diner and gas station nearby. That was all they really needed for the night, but Sam had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach when he scanned the horizon and saw no orange glow of a nearby town or city, and it looked like they were the only guests.
"Where's here? Limbo?"
"Funny," Dean chided, "Actually I'm not sure where we are, but at least it's a good place to hole up for the night." He patted Sam's back, "Come on, grab your stuff."
Sam couldn't explain the extreme uneasiness he felt at how far from any real civilization they were. It was only for the night, but what if… Sam couldn't finish his thought, nor could he shake the sense of foreboding. When he looked back at Dean as he turned and headed into the motel room, staggering unsteadily, with a slight limp to his gait, and holding his left arm close to his chest, that sense of dread only intensified.
Dean paused at the threshold of the motel room, and leaned against the door, "Well, you coming or not?"
"You know," Sam said, his voice a little raw, "all we need is that creepy house on a hill nearby and I'd think we were staying at the Bates Motel."
"Yeah, I guess it does have that sort of feel to it," Dean chuckled half-heartedly, "Don't worry though, the motel clerk reminds me far more of Archie Bunker than Norman Bates."
Sam grabbed his duffel from the trunk and followed Dean inside, noticing that Dean had already take his stuff inside while Sam was still sleeping in the car. Sam bet that Dean brought his stuff in before waking Sam so Sam couldn't see how much effort it undoubtedly took. He wouldn't put it past Dean to be sneaky like that.
The room was clean, simple and generic, and looked like it hadn't been renovated since the seventies, but the only thing Sam cared about was the fact that there were two beds and a shower.
"You want dibs on the shower?" Dean asked, flopping down on his bed, the bed by the door, as always. He rested on his back and draped his right arm over his eyes, looking pale and completely drained. In the light of the motel room, Sam could see a dark stain on the left shoulder of his jacket that he didn't notice before.
Collision with a wall my ass, you liar. What did I do to you Dean?
"Sure," Sam nodded. He gave Dean a pointed look, studying him for a second, hating how white his complexion was, accentuating his bruises and causing his freckles to stand out. And he wasn't certain, but it looked like Dean was shivering slightly. He took a step towards Dean, suddenly seized with a nagging urge to feel his forehead.
Even though Dean couldn't see him, with his arm covering his eyes, when Sam took another step forward Dean said, without looking at him, "Dude, I'm fine, just hurry up and take your shower so I can take mine."
With a sigh, Sam acquiesced. He grabbed a fresh change of clothes, the first aid kit that Dean brought in, and disappeared into the bathroom. He checked the dressings on the burn on his arm and was glad to see that Bobby had cleaned and bandaged it well and it was already beginning to heal nicely with no sign of infection though it was still undoubtedly going to leave an ugly scar. He covered the wound again, and stepped into the shower.
As soon as the hot water hit his back Sam started to shake and suddenly he was overwhelmed by everything that had happened since Meg entered him in West Texas. This was what he had been waiting for ever since she left his body—this shower, this chance to become clean.
Tears fell from his eyes and he opened his mouth and let the water rush into his mouth in an attempt to get rid of that foul, putrid taste. He grabbed the soap and began to desperately scrub away at his skin, shivering and shaking and sinking to his knees, and he cried out in despair because he could still feel her, he could still feel her presence and the blood on his hands and it wasn't coming off, even though he was on the verge of rubbing his skin raw.
Images of Steve Wandell flashed behind his eyes as he tried to scrub away Meg, and the memories, the guilt and the blood. And his guilt-ridden memories replayed the scene of Dean collapsing on the floor after Sam knocked him out and then again after Meg left his body. The sight of his brother on the floor, partially leaning against the wall, covered in blood and bruises, grunting in pain and then knowing Sam was the cause yet not knowing the extent of his injuries…
He slid down the wall of the shower until he was at his knees, and the water hit his back. He sobbed uncontrollably, vaguely aware that he was using up all the hot water and despite being lost in his own despair as he tried in vain to get clean, he wondered how Dean was faring, and was glad that he wasn't knocking on the door checking on him or telling him to hurry up and save some hot water for him.
Still feeling unclean and violated Sam finally shut off the water as it began to cool. He drew in a shaky breath and wiped his eyes, taking his time at getting dry and dressed. He rinsed his mouth again, brushed his teeth and rinsed again with Listerine more times than necessary and could still taste Meg's vile essence. Lastly he redressed the bandage on his arm and took a couple of Tylenol for the pain.
When he finally emerged, he fully expected Dean to berate him for taking his time, but it looked like Dean had fallen asleep waiting for Sam to finish. He had stripped down to his boxers and wore a plain black t-shirt and was lying on his back, partially covered in blankets. His left hand was draped limply across his abdomen and his right was clenched in a fist, clutching the sheets. He was far too pale for Sam's liking, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face. With a shaky hand he reached out to touch his forehead, but Dean moaned and opened his eyes, causing Sam to hesitantly take a step back.
"Uh, shower's free."
"I'll shower in the morning," Dean mumbled hoarsely, barely audible. Barely conscious he shivered and reached for his blanket, groaning softly.
"Probably a good idea, I used up all the hot water," Sam shrugged with a feigned smirk.
Dean rolled his eyes weakly, giving a small grin. "Figured you might've, bitch," he murmured softly as his eyes drifted shut again.
Sam huffed affectionately, "You're such a jerk." He hesitantly reached out to feel his forehead, but withdrew his hand as though he had no right to touch him. And maybe he did have no right. He had hurt him after all. It was his fault Dean looked so unnaturally fragile.
He tried to deny it but the truth was that he was afraid but he had no idea why because the fear was so strong and irrational. It made no sense. Maybe it was because he was afraid he'd hurt him further because he could still feel and smell and taste all that was Meg which vaguely made him wonder if she really left, if a part of her was still with him, or maybe her presence in his body left a mark so powerful that that might be what it took for him to turn darkside. Or perhaps he was afraid that Dean really was in bad shape because of him, and the mere act of touching his forehead would make the severity of his condition real.
Sam stood in the space between the beds, watching his brother sleep wondering what to do. He was swaying as he stood, his body trembling slightly and aching, his eyes growing heavy with every passing moment of indecision.
Reluctantly he climbed into his bed, his heart, mind and soul heavy with pure exhaustion. He was concerned about Dean, but in the end as much as he hated to admit it, the exhaustion won out. Sam was about to fall over and pass out so he would be of no use to Dean anyway if Dean needed him, not until he got some sleep. Dean was obviously not fine, but if he were really in as bad of shape as Sam feared he might be, surely Dean would've said something. He was stubborn, but not stupid. Maybe all he needed was a good night's sleep, maybe that was all either of them needed. Sam was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow. He could check on Dean in the morning.
*-*-*
While Sam was in the shower, Dean was gripped with a sudden wave of pain radiating from his shoulder. If he wasn't already lying down he was pretty sure he would've dropped like a rock from the intensity of the pain. He curled into himself, clutching his shoulder, grimacing at the wetness he felt there. He stifled a cry and concentrated on breathing his way through the wave of agony, thankful that Sam wasn't there when it struck.
He did not want Sam to know he shot him. Sam felt guilty enough as it was and he did not want to add to the unnecessary burden Sam carried. Sam couldn't remember and Dean was not going to tell him unless it became necessary. The only one who knew was Jo, and she already took care of it. She got the bullet out, and while the impromptu surgery hurt like a bitch, she cleaned it out and dressed it OK. Sure, she was a butcher but she took care of the wound. Sure, Sam—Meg—had to dig his—her—thumb into the wound but Dean figured he could take care of it while Sam was in the shower.
It wasn't the first time he had been shot and sadly probably wouldn't be the last either, nor was it the first time Dean had to deal with some nasty wounds on his own. He suffered worse injuries before—it came with the job. A simple bullet wound he could handle by himself so long as there weren't any weird complications.
When the pain subsided enough that he could move again he braced himself and shakily sat up and planted his feet on the floor. He blinked back a wave of dizziness and swallowed back the nausea that the pain brought with it and looked at the dresser where he left the first aid kit, cursing when it wasn't there.
Sam must've taken it for that burn on his arm, Dean thought as he took a deep shaky breath and tried to will the pain away, OK, that's OK. I'll just take care of it when Sam's done. I can wait.
His hands trembling, he reached into his jacket pocket and dry swallowed one of the pain pills that Jo gave him. He had refused to take it earlier, noting that she gave him the good stuff and that it would probably knock him out, and had instead taken the Tylenol that he found in the glove compartment of the car he stole to get to Bobby's. He wasn't going to take anything that would knock him out, not while Sam was still possessed. Besides, there was no need for heavy-duty painkillers when he had a job to do, especially if that job was to save his brother from Meg. When Dean had a job to do, adrenaline was the wonder drug that helped him to forget the pain and gave him the strength he needed to keep going. But now Sam was safe, a little worse for wear, but safe, and Meg was gone…for now. Now he had time to take the rest he so desperately needed.
Unfortunately now that the crisis was over and the adrenaline had subsided, the pain seemed to be coming back tenfold. Injuries tended to do that and so despite the fact it hurt enough to take his breath away and practically bring him to his knees, he saw no cause for real worry just yet. It hurt, but he'd be OK, he just needed monitor the injury and get some much-needed rest. It was no big deal, not like some other injuries he had sustained in the past.
With great care and effort he stripped off his jacket and then, biting back a cry he managed to remove his filthy and bloody shirt. It took a lot out of him and he was glad that Sam seemed to be taking his time because after that he needed to take a minute to rest before changing into a fresh shirt. When he felt ready to move again he pulled out a black shirt from his duffle and held his breath, anticipating more pain. Carefully he slid his injured arm into one sleeve and his right one in the other and using only his right hand he gingerly slid the shirt over his head and put it on. That done he needed to stop once more and blink back a new onslaught of dizziness.
The ring and index fingers of his left hand were numb and the entire arm was starting to tingle slightly. That can't be good. He massaged the area around the wound, flexed his hand a few times and focused on keeping his eyes open a little longer. The pain was lessening thanks to the painkillers, but it still hurt like hell. Grunting he leaned forward and reached with his right hand to take off one boot. Every muscle in his body protested the movement and once one boot was off he had to pause again. Sitting back up and breathing heavily he wiped some sweat off his brow.
This shouldn't be this difficult, he thought bitterly, wondering for a moment if maybe he should just suck it up and tell Sam. Not only did he feel incredibly shaky and weak from blood loss, but his stomach was churning, his head was reeling and he was quite certain he was developing a fever. Spots clouded his vision and every part of his body was plagued with a deep ache that made it hard to even move and he was afraid that if he moved another muscle he'd lose consciousness.
As quickly as he considered telling Sam, he decided against it. There was no need for panic just yet. Yes he was in pain, but he had been shot for crying out loud so that was to be expected. All his symptoms were understandable and he had been beat to hell so of course he'd be feeling like crap. They were mere side effects to the pain. As for the possible fever? He had been running on empty all week searching for Sam and then trying to figure out what happened, his defenses were down, his immune system weak, a slight fever was perfectly normal. He just needed to be careful, take it easy and keep an eye on he wound. This injury wasn't any different from the ones he had in the past. If it became too much, he'd know. He hadn't reached that point yet. And he wasn't going to.
Suck it up, its just mind over matter, like always.
Grimacing, he braced himself once again before attempting to remove his other boot, a far more difficult task than it should be and he silently cursed his own weakness. By the time he managed to remove his jeans he was on the verge of passing out.
Not yet, he told himself, can't pass out yet.
As he listened to the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, still in the shower, Dean continued to try and convince himself to stay awake a little longer and wait for Sam to come out so he could go in there and take care of the hole in his shoulder. It was much more difficult to convince his body to remain conscious than it was to convince himself that he was OK, considering everything.
It was somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness that he realized the mistake he made by taking that painkiller of Jo's. It was knocking him out all right. At this rate by the time the bathroom was free he'd be too zonked out to take care of his wound. He should've waited to take it. A stupid oversight on his part, but he could deal with it.
He had cleaned and redressed it once already at Bobby's so worst-case scenario was that he dealt with it when he woke up. It had obviously bled since then, but it couldn't be that bad. Besides he was exhausted and in pain and he wasn't sure if he could keep up the façade for Sam. The mere act of standing up and walking to the bathroom would at the moment be a dead giveaway that he was suffering more than mere cuts and bruises. The ideal would be to wait until Sam was asleep. Maybe after a few hours sleep he could get up and check on the wound and Sam wouldn't be the wiser.
Sleep. Its tempting lull was becoming hard to resist. He rested his head on his pillow and halfheartedly reached for the covers but lacked any strength to actually pull them up and cover him so he gave the sheet a weak tug. The pain slowly began to ebb as the medication took effect and he closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Sam in the bathroom as he finally shut off the water.
Dean had heard some of Sam's sobs and the sound made him sick, and made him even more determined to protect Sam from knowing the full extent of his injuries. He couldn't imagine what Sam was going through, nor did he want to. He could understand why Sam might feel guilty, but Dean knew he had no reason to. He was possessed; he had literally no control over his actions. If anyone should be feeling guilty it was Dean.
The truth was that he should've known better. He should've protected Sam better, should've taken the precautions to prevent possession long ago, ever since Dad at least. It was stupid that here he was, an experienced hunter, playing a huge part in a lifelong quest to hunt a demon no less, and he had to wait until both Dad and Sam became possessed to do anything about it. His job was Sam, to protect him, to save him… and he failed him by leaving him open to demonic possession and passively allowing it to happen. If Dean just asked Bobby, maybe they could've acquired those charms long before Meg had to come back and take his brother and mess with him and exploit his greatest fear like that. Sam did not deserve to go through that, not at all.
His weary mind brought him back to West Texas, to the night Sam disappeared. He twitched restlessly as he remembered his desperate search, getting Sam's call, and then seeing him covered in blood. Images of discovering Wandell's body, and cleaning up the mess flashed behind his eyes and he felt sick as he recalled with clarity the fear that gripped his heart in that brief moment when he thought Sam had done it on his own free will. He had been terrified that this was what Dad had warned him about.
It was in Steve Wandell's house that Dean learned that his father's final order was the one he could not, would not obey. He was going to save Sam, no matter what the cost because option two was out of the question. He would indeed rather die than kill Sam. He would do whatever it took, come hell or high water he would save him. No matter what Sam might do, no matter how 'dark' he might get, Dean would always stand by him and would never give up trying to save him.
There was nothing more important to Dean than Sam. Protecting him, saving him… it came above all else.
He wasn't sure if he fell asleep or not, or for how long, but at some point his jumbled thoughts and memories faded and he was abruptly aware of the here and now and the pain in his shoulder, the bone deep ache that settled through his body and an oppressive heat that weighed him down, giving him the chills. He groaned softly, somehow feeling worse than he did before.
Vaguely aware that he was being watched, Dean opened his eyes with great effort and saw his brother hovering over him. Damn, he looked so helpless and lost.
"Shower's free," Sam said meekly, looking oddly small and fragile for someone so big and tall.
Too weak to move and too tired to care Dean replied faintly, "I'll shower in the morning." He feebly reached for his covers but quickly gave up and settled into his pillow with a groan.
"Probably a good idea, I used all the hot water," Sam was trying to come off as fine, but Dean knew better. After all, pretending to be fine when you're obviously not was an art that Dean mastered, although from the troubled and concerned look in Sam's eyes, despite the Dean-esque smirk on his face, Dean wondered if he was losing his touch. Dean was feeling worse than before, and Sam could see it. He just hoped Sam couldn't see just how badly he was truly feeling and why.
Keeping up the mutual charade, because he wasn't sure what else to do, Dean gave him a wan smile, rolling his eyes as he mumbled, "Figured you might've, bitch." He was pulled into unconsciousness before he could hear Sam's reply, his injured and fevered body lulling him into oblivion.
A/N Once again, thank you so much everyone with your wonderful feedback! I hope I can live up to your expectations. As always, please let me know what you think, good or bad.
