(((((((((())))))))))
Dean dropped the pizza box.
Hunters!
Sam!
Lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl of rage and fear, Dean drew his gun and moved cautiously into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
He stepped past the first dead man - who the hell is that? - and crouched next to Sam. His brother lay limp and motionless. The hunter on top of him, another completely fucking stranger, was dead as well, a knife buried in his throat.
Dean pulled the hunter off of Sam, muscling his body off to the side, then went back to Sam and knelt down beside him.
There was so much blood. Sam's white t-shirt was saturated; his arms and hands covered, the top of his sleep pants soaked. The man's blood, Sam's blood?
Jesus, was he even still alive?
Fearfully, Dean leaned over and laid a hand on the side of his brother's neck. Relief swept over him when he felt the thrumming of Sam's pulse beneath his shaking fingers.
At Dean's touch, Sam groaned and drew in a short, rasping breath.
"Sam?"
Sam's eyes opened and he looked up at his brother, confused. "Dean." His voice was the merest whisper. He tried to move and a sharp pain tore through him.
"Don't move, baby." Dean's hands moved over him, whisper soft. "You've got at least one broken rib. And somebody beat hell out of you."
Sam lay still, trying to think through the pain. "Dean, what happened?"
Dean looked into Sam's eyes. Both pupils were the same size and looked reactive. No concussion. "I don't know, man, you tell me," he answered, trying to keep his voice calm. "When I came back with dinner, you were lying on the floor with a couple of dead guys."
"Dead?" Sam frowned dazedly. "I don't under -"
you come on out or we're coming in!
"Dean –" Sam choked and clutched at his brother. "Dean -"
The memory of the night's terror roared in on him. The feel of the knife in his hand as he plunged it into Jack's chest; the look in Frank's mad eyes as he lay dying on top of Sam, choking on his own blood. He shuddered violently.
"Easy, baby, calm down, you're okay." Worried green eyes fixed on Sam's face, Dean stroked his brother's dark hair until the younger boy calmed down a little.
Then, because he had to get them both out of this freaking slaughterhouse before the cops showed up, he said reluctantly, "We gotta go, Sammy. I'm gonna take our gear out to the car, then I'll be back in to get you."
Eyes widening, Sam's hands tightened on Dean's jacket.
I ain't never fucked a demon before . . .
Dean could feel the fine trembling in his brother's hands; knew how close the kid was to losing it. He hated to push him, but this had to have been a loud freaking fight and any one of the neighbors might have called the cops. Being found in a room with two dead men? Not good.
"Come on, Sammy, let go." He gently but firmly loosened Sam's grip on his jacket, held his brother's hands. "I need you to be strong for just a little longer," he said quietly . "Can you do that for me?"
No, don't, don't. Panic clawed at Sam. The last time you left me - no! "Get me up!"
Dean fought down his impatience, lost seconds ticking loudly away in his head. "Sam, I promise, I'll just be a minute –"
"I can't stay on the floor with them!" Sam begged. "Please –"
His gaze fell on Dean's jacket. Bloody handprints were smeared on it.
Sam's hands.
Gagging, he jerked his hands away from Dean. God, they were obscene - the stuff of nightmares. Blood-soaked to the wrists and beyond; his arms red-brown and sticky, almost all the way up to both shoulders. And the smell - thick and sick, copper and rot.
Sam's shell-shocked gaze tracked slowly down from his own blood-soaked body -
Your daddy said we should kill you.
- to Jack's body
It's not like you're human! What's the problem?
and then to Frank's.
your daddy was right about you
His face twisted in pain and Sam groaned aloud. "Oh, God - Dad."
Dean's face paled and he looked around them involuntarily. "What about him?"
"He sent them," Sam said, breath accelerating. "He sent them to kill me!"
Stunned, Dean shook his head. "Sam, no –"
"Dean, he did!" Agitated, Sam tried to get up, ignoring the sharp jab from his ribs. "They told me he did!"
"Sam, you're going to hurt yourself!" Dean held his now wildly thrashing brother down. "Damn it, calm down!"
Sam's hazel eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "We have to get out of here. He's coming!" He struggled against Dean to rise; fighting the pain in his ribs, the pounding in his head and the fear rising to choke him. "Let me up!"
"Sam –!"
"Let me up!"
(((((((((())))))))))
John Winchester watched the steady stream of cops and crime scene techs as they filtered in and out of the motel room; watched as two heavy body bags were eventually hauled out, dumped in a coroner's wagon, and driven away.
Dark eyes hard, he considered his options.
Follow the wagon and try to get access to the morgue as law enforcement?
He hadn't shaved in days, or bathed much either. As rough as he looked, odds weren't good they'd buy him as local law enforcement or F.B.I., and he didn't have the time, or the patience, to clean up and go in later.
He needed to know, now, if Dean was dead or alive.
So - pump the local yokels?
That works.
He locked his handgun in the glove box of the truck, combed back his greasy black hair and ambled over to the small knot of women hovering uneasily in front of the motel manager's office.
"Morning," he greeted the group.
They all gave him very subdued nods, except for one - a maid by her uniform - who was practically vibrating with excitement. She gave him a wide grin, which was more than a little disturbing in its manic intensity.
"What's going on?" John asked her.
"Murder!" She announced with relish.
John summoned up a shocked look. "Murder?"
"Two of them! When I went in this morning to clean up, I found two men dead on the floor. Blood everywhere! Stabbed to death!"
"That's horrible," John said, frowning. "Who were they?"
"All we know is they aren't the same two that rented the room." She nodded at a thin young woman in the back of the group who was looking a little green. "Sherry was on the desk when that room checked in. The cops made her look at the dead guys, see if she could identify them. Right, Sher? Sherry?"
Sherry nodded reluctantly. "I've never seen them before." She hesitated, then burst out, "Patty, I can't believe it was those two boys who did this. They were so - so nice."
Patty looked mockingly at her. "So nice-looking, you mean."
Sherry flushed and looked down. John saw the maid had hit the nail on the head.
Patty smirked. "I saw them before I left last night, just for a second." She shook a finger at the mortified girl. "Good looks don't mean a damn thing when it comes to murder. Just look at that bastard Ted Bundy. Good-looking man and a total psycho."
"Probably possessed," John murmured abstractedly.
Patty frowned. "Excuse me?"
He looked back at her innocently.
It seemed to finally occur to her to wonder what he was doing there. "You looking for a room, mister?"
John shook his head and left them with no further conversation. No point in hanging around. The boys were long gone.
Sitting in his truck, he pulled out a map and studied it. Where the hell had his boys gone? Hell, they could be anywhere by now.
Damn Jack anyway. Give the man a simple job and he not only screws it up, but gets himself killed doing it. Dumb shit.
More than likely he'd taken one look at Sam and let his dick do his thinking for him.
Ah, well. He'd known that was a risk. But sometimes you have to use the tools you have, and those two had been the only hunters in reach he'd known that wouldn't flinch at killing a kid out of hand.
Some hunters might have balked at killing Sam at all since, technically, he hadn't done anything wrong yet. As if John didn't know what was best for his own family!
His last conversation with Bob Singer had been a heads-up in that direction. An unmistakable warning to be more careful when choosing his allies.
Damned old fool.
Clearly, spending so much time with Sam when the boy was growing up had turned Singer's brain. He'd be no help at all.
He might even shelter the boys.
John considered that.
All right. He'd follow the boys' trail. If it led anywhere near the Dakotas, he'd pay a visit to the old man and teach him not to meddle in John Winchester's affairs.
John sighed. It was too bad about Sam. But hard times called for hard measures. He'd already lost his wife to this pretender - this damned demon spawn. Damned if he'd lose his one true son as well.
(((((((((())))))))))
The Impala was quiet, neither boy in the mood for anything but silence. Dean kept the car at a steady 70 mph; enough to eat up the miles, but not enough to attract unwanted attention.
After leaving the motel last night, they'd stopped long enough for some quick and dirty first aid and then hit the road. They'd been driving for about eight hours now and Dean was past exhaustion.
He needed sleep, and food. He needed a damned drink. He needed to get his brother into a bed, dose him up with painkillers - he needed to bathe him. They hadn't been able to get all of the blood off Sam with just bottled water to work with and the smell inside the Impala was beyond rank.
What Sam needed, what they both needed, was to get out of the car - a shower, some food, and about twenty hours of sleep.
If he could just be sure how far behind them John was, they could risk stopping. But the thought of his father catching up with him - or of other hunters sniffing them out if they stopped - kept him moving.
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his sleep and Dean watched him for a minute to see if he'd wake again. He'd dozed on and off since they started driving, but even with the painkillers, it was more off than on.
Dean's breath gave a little trembling hitch - if those bastards had killed Sam - he cut that thought off and glanced over again at his brother's slumped form.
Sam was alive. That was all that mattered right now. Dean didn't know what had happened in that motel room, or how their father was involved, but he was going to find out. He would deal with their father. He would find a way out of this shit storm.
He would keep Sam safe.
That was his job. His fucking mission in life. He wouldn't fail again.
No matter what it took, he wasn't going to lose his brother.
(((((((((())))))))))
When Dean came as close as spit to a head-on collision with a semi outside Ellisville, Mississippi, Sam called a halt to their wild flight.
They parked the Impala behind the Ellisville Days Inn - safe from passing eyes - and the brothers settled in.
Not talking much, they showered together; Dean gently scrubbing the rest of the blood from Sam's body; keeping a close eye on him in case he decided to fall and break something besides the rib.
Once they were both clean, he re-wrapped Sam's torso, used most of a tube of antibiotic ointment on his face, and tucked his brother into bed.
Then he busied himself about the room, checking the salt lines and the wards; unpacking what they needed from their gear.
Busywork. The lines were fine. Sam knew it. Dean knew it. But the older boy couldn't stop himself.
Finally, when Dean started checking the salt lines a third time, Sam said softly, "Dean, come on." He patted the bed next to him.
Dean sat on the bed. Avoiding Sam's eyes, he felt his forehead. No fever. "Sure you don't want something to eat, Sammy?"
Sam shook his head. "Too tired."
Dean studied his brother's face - the vivid, ugly bruises, the cut and swollen lips, the haunted eyes - and cursed himself again. "Shit, kid, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone."
Sam sighed resignedly. "Knew you were thinking something dumb like that."
Dean looked down.
"Could you please not do that, Dean? How the hell could you have known?"
"I should've known it wasn't safe," Dean insisted stubbornly. "I should have figured he'd have people watching for us."
"Damn it, Dean!" A tear ran down Sam's cheek. A second tear followed. He was just too damned tired to hold them back. "It wasn't your stupid fault!"
"Don't cry, baby." Dean leaned over and contritely kissed Sam's forehead. "It breaks my freaking heart when you do that."
"Then stop being an asshole." Sam reached up and pulled weakly at Dean's arm. "Get in here."
Moving carefully, Dean crawled under the covers and curled around Sam. Yes.
This is what he'd needed. To lie next to Sam. To hold him, safe and warm - just the two of them - locked away from the rest of the world. His body and soul hummed with relief.
"It wasn't your fault," Sam said sleepily. "Don't let him do that to you. To us."
Dean tucked his face into his brother's neck. "If I'd come back and found you dead - it would have killed me," he whispered.
Sam settled against him and closed his eyes, sighing contentedly. That's why I lived. For you. Always - for you.
(((((((((())))))))))
Is it too late to give a schmoop alert?