Chapter Twenty-Seven
The trip back to Casa Jaeger was a lot faster than the road law would have decreed.
As soon as Dean was installed in bed, Ronnie nudged her pair-bond's arm. He turned and snarled at her, but she held her ground. "Shirt," she said.
Andrew peeled his shirts off, and Sam was horrified to see that he had a hideous, weeping burn around one forearm. Ronnie pulled the end of her own plaid down over one hand and started picking at it, whilst Andrew swore a blue streak, until she got hold of a small silver chain.
At the expression on Sam's face, Andrew gave him a smile that was part amusement, part snarl. "Desperate situation, desperate measure," he growled, nodding to Ronnie.
She pulled quickly at the small chain; it came away, bringing pieces of skin with it.
The yell of pain turned into a howl, and Andrew burst into his wolf form.
Ronnie gave her mate a look of pride. "You did so well," she told him.
Sam watched as his den-sire bent over Dean, and made a surprisingly gentle crooning noise.
"I'll watch," Ronnie assurred him, "We'll both take care of him. Won't we?"
"Uh, yeah, of course," Sam nodded.
With a gruff humph, Andrew stalked out of the room, and began to patrol the house.
Ronnie smiled at Sam's confused face. "He did the same for you, when you poisoned yourself with silver," she told him. "It's okay – if you can't fight it, you don't have to, now. Just be warned," she grinned, jerking a thumb at the hallway, "He'll be in a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do mood. Silver makes him cranky. Hell, silver makes me cranky, too."
Sam looked down at his brother: cleaned up, with his wounds dressed, Dean didn't look so terrifyingly close to dead. "I got it," he said confidently, realising that he meant it: he could feel the pull of the moon, but his hand was on the switch. "I got it now."
"Good to hear it," she nodded. "Because if I didn't know better, I'd have said you let it off the leash back in that basement." She watched him, with a grim smile, as he felt his face colour. "You did quite a number on those leeches."
"I…" he dropped his eyes, the memory of the rage rising and rushing through him still searing. "I don't… I just smelled Dean's blood, and knew they'd done something to hurt him, and, it's funny, I've heard about 'the red mist coming down', but I always thought it was a figure of speech…" He dropped his eyes. "I don't exactly… remember."
"I know," she said quietly, "I heard you, on my way in." There was real worry in her voice. "For a moment there, I thought I was gunna have to take you down the hard way."
Sam looked up at her, and shuddered; he might be a massive alpha male, but Ronnie had mauled large males hand-to-hand – or, technically, paw-to-paw – and a combination of self-awareness, cunning and experienced viciousness would always win out against a feral brute. "I'm glad it didn't come to that," he managed.
Her smile turned doting. "Me too," she agreed. "Now, I'll get you something to eat, and make some houndswort tea," she went on, "If he wakes up enough, try to feed him some too."
Sam snorted. "I can't wait to see his face when he realises he's guzzling ass tea."
"Let him swill down a few mugs before you tell him," she suggested.
Both Winchesters were well acquainted with sitting vigil by a bed, willing the other to heal up. At least his own bed was more comfortable than the average hospital chair, Sam mused, as he sat against the headboard watching his brother's chest gently rising and falling. He let out a long breath, literally and metaphorically, and was glad that he wasn't standing up, because he thought if he was his knees might give way.
Dean will be okay.
Around midnight, Ronnie came in with a plate of brownies and a mug of houndswort. "You look rooted," she announced, "Why don't you get some sleep?"
From the context, he inferred that she meant he looked wrecked. "I'm good," he replied, stifling a yawn as he shoved a brownie into his mouth. "I gotta watch Dean."
"He won't evaporate while you're not looking," Ronnie humphed in amusement, "And you're coming down off the adrenaline. I can smell it on you." Pup. The last whuffing sound was a familiar form of address between an alpha female, and a junior member of her pack.
The indignant huff that he let out was an impudent contradiction. She cocked an eyebrow at him.
It is time to den. It is time for pups to den, and sleep, Ronnie rumbled gently.
"I'm too big to be anybody's pup," Sam muttered mutinously, stifling another yawn.
"You're not too big to need to get some sleep," she countered. "Should I get Joni to tell you a bedtime story?" She nodded towards where Jimi and Joni were curled together on the floor. Joni's head came up when she heard her name, and her ears pricked.
Sam gave her an incredulous look. "Did you just suggest that your dog tell me a bedtime story?"
"My bitch," Ronnie corrected, "Bitches are the ones who tell the stories, mostly, because they spend the most time with pups before they leave the den." She turned to Joni, and rumbled to her in Canine.
Tell us of your line.
If Sam hadn't been so tired, he might've marveled at the way he could sit and listen to a dog. In Canine terms, Joni had a mellifluous 'voice', and as he listened to her gentle whuffing rumbles, he had a memory of the way that Rumsfeld had nudged and rumbled to her litter when Jimi Junior and is sisters were puppies, and wondered if it had worked on them like a lullaby on a human child…
There was a Beast of the Blood, full Blood of The Pit, and he was called to the Hunt. He was called to the Hunt by the Righteous Man and the Wise Man. He was called by my brother's Alpha, to join their pack. He was called to their pack, to their Hunt, to their prey. He left his matter in the Hunt, for that is the way of things for a Hunter's dog. But before he did, he took a bitch, and he gave the Blood to her line. She whelped his litter, two bitch-pups and a dog-pup. The bitch was my dam, and the Beast called to the Hunt was my sire. I am of his line, carrying the Blood to the Hunt. He made us Hunters' dogs. We are loyal, and fearless, and we protect our Hunters with our matter and our lives – for Hunters' dogs, this is the way of things…
When Andrew stalked past the door later and thrust his head in to check on the wounded member of his pack, Ronnie was tucking a blanket around Sam, who was snoring gently. She straightened up, then seated herself on a chair between the twin beds.
It is time for pups to den, she rumbled, picking up her knitting.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, he resumed his patrol.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Ow.
…
Ow.
…
Apparently, that was as coherent as his thoughts were going to get for a while, so Dean gave up on the whole wake-up shtick.
When his brain decided to try the consciousness thing again, the generalised input was a bit more specific, if not much more enjoyable.
Ow head. Ow shoulder. Ow arm. Ow chest.
Consciousness, he decided, was over-rated. He let himself slide back into darkness.
The next time he tried the wake-up thing, there were some more encouraging inferences. He wasn't dead: Heaven wouldn't have so much Ow, Hell would've had a lot more Ow (and whatever he was lying on wouldn't have been so comfortably warm and soft) and Purgatory had more tentacles to go with the Ow. So, still alive then. Awesome. Live people could go back to sleep. So he did.
The next time his pesky brain decided to make a foray into the land of awareness, he noticed how quiet it was. It was quiet, and the light was low, he was warm, and whatever was under his head was nice and soft, and didn't crackle if he moved. That ruled out a hospital. Bonus – how anybody was supposed to rest and heal surrounded by machines that went ping, with tubes stickin' into places they had no business being was something he'd never fathom.
His head itched. Clumsily, he tried to lift a hand to scratch, but it was intercepted.
Leave that.
He rumbled a protest; the answer was gentle, but firm. Leave that. "Don't mess with your dressings, mister."
He cracked his eyes open, grateful that the lighting was low, because his head ached like a bitch. "S'm?"
Your brother is here, he is well. That sent a wave of contentment through him. Your pack is here. Your pack is strong, and happy. "He's out cold, bozo, after coming to save your arse."
There was suddenly an enticing smell in the air, making his mouth water. Hungry.
A hand under his head, turning it carefully, the smell right in front of him. Drink.
A mug touched his lips, and a wonderful taste flooded into his mouth. He swallowed, then gulped at the drink greedily, his hand coming up to paw clumsily at the mug.
Careful! Slowly! "Hey, knock that off! You make yourself sick, I'll rub your nose in it."
The mug disappeared, and he made an unhappy noise. More! Now!
Slowly, Youngster. There was amusement in the gentle admonishment.
He finished the mug. More, he huffed, More.
Later. Rest now, to heal.
He let out a noise of pain, and winced – his head really did hurt. There was a comforting rumble, and a hand carding gently through his hair, reassuring, soothing.
There is safety in the den. Rest. Sleep. It is time for pups to den.
I am not a pup! He protested with an irritable growl, but he was tired. The warmth of the bedding, and the scents of his brother and Jimi around him, lulled him – his eyes slid closed, and with a huge yawn, he let his head sink back into the pillow, and slept.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
When Sam woke up the next morning, he bolted upright, looking immediately to the other bed. His big brother was there, with colour in his face, and his expression relaxed in sleep. Sam felt himself sag with relief.
He got out of bed as quietly as he could, but Dean's Sam-radar was obviously working, because he heard his brother's voice. "S'm?"
"Right here, bro," Sam couldn't help smiling.
Dean risked cracking an eye open. "Wha' time 's it?" he asked, turning his head carefully, as if afraid that moving too fast might cause it to fall off.
Sam couldn't help the grin on his face. "Don't worry about it," he said, "How are you feeling?"
Dean's face creased. "Sore." The other eye cracked open. "Sam?"
"Yeah, bro?"
"It wasn't a shapeshifter."
Sam chuckled. "No, it wasn't," he agreed. "But don't worry, those bloodsuckers are dead."
"How come I aint dead?" Dean wondered out loud.
"Did I hear voices?" Ronnie put her head in the door. "Dean, are you awake?"
"Oh, shit," Dean sighed, "I am dead, and I've gone back to Hell…"
"As charming as ever," she snorted. "Hey," she went on, as Dean tried to lever himself upright on his elbows, "Don't you dare try to get up, you lost a lot of blood – you're on bed rest until further notice."
I'm not a pup! Dean protested.
Ronnie curled her top lip. I am Alpha, she reminded him.
"You're bossy," Dean humphed.
"I be dat asshole," she agreed, Are you ready to feed?
I'm hungry, whined Dean. Sam added his voice.
"Catering will be provided," she told them, "Sam, you get on the fluid therapy." She handed over a flask.
"So, how much do you remember of last night?" asked Sam, pouring a mug of the steaming brew.
Dean's nose twitched. "I got the civilians out," he related, "Then Butch and Lois arrived, and…" with his brother's help, he took a drink. "Ohhhh, that's good. After that, it's all kind of, uh, fuzzy." He managed to get hold of the mug by himself. "So, what happened?"
"Jimi recognised the scent," Sam explained the translation phone call, "I followed him to you, and, I, uh, kind of, you know," he gestured vaguely. "Dismembered them. Ronnie says that bare claws work better than any sort of blade for dealing with vampires. Then she found me, and we brought you back here."
Dean's expression became worried. "You left our room?" he said. "You were supposed to stay put, Sam! What if somebody saw you?" Danger! Concealment! Threat to my pack!
"Dean, you could've died!" Sam humphed, exasperated. "You would've! Like hell I was just gonna sit there and let them eat you!"
"You're supposed to stay safe," Dean humphed. Safety in the den.
"I am safe," Sam pointed out. Our pack is strong and happy.
"The J-Man saves the day again, huh," Dean smiled at the dog, who wagged his tail and whuffed happily. "Gimme some more of that," he lifted his mug, "It's awesome." More! Now!
Sam refilled the mug. "So, uh, we'll stay here for a while, until you, er, heal up," he said.
"The catering is definitely better than any hospital," conceded Dean, "Even if the nursing staff is kind of annoying. How did you break me out?"
"We didn't," Sam replied, "We came straight here. Andrew patched you up."
"He missed his calling," snorted Dean in amusement, "Seriously, I should be dead. This is really good," he finished another mug, and his stomach rumbled. "Was there mention of breakfast?"
"Uh, essentially, yeah," Sam agreed, "But, er, it's really Ronnie you should thank for you still bein' alive."
"What did she do?" Dean said dismissively. "Pass him the sutures?"
"Not exactly," Sam answered, "She did what needed to be done. Dean, there's something I don't think you realise…"
Ronnie returned with two plates on a tray. Dean let out a happy yipping noise. Den-dam brings food!
She gave him a fond smile. "It's amazing," she marvelled, fluffing pillows as Sam carefully helped his brother to sit up a bit, "He's so fluent."
"I think it's because he's been in touch with that part of himself for so long," theorised Sam, taking the plate of breakfast she handed to him.
"What the hell are you talkin' about?" demanded Dean, smiling eagerly as Ronnie sat on the edge of his bed and took up a forkful of what proved to be small pieces of bacon and steak. I am ready to feed!
It is time to feed, Ronnie rumbled, offering the fork to Dean.
He took the mouthful, chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth like a baby bird waiting to be stuffed with worms. Drink! More drink!
With a sigh, Sam filled up the mug with more of the houndswort brew. "Dean, you were badly wounded when we found you," he began, "Those vampires damn near killed you."
"But they didn't," Dean said around a mouthful. Ronnie tutted, wiped his chin, and shovelled in some more.
"They would've, though, if Ronnie hadn't have shown up," Sam went on, "Look, Dean there's something you have to know, and there's no delicate way to put this…"
"Can't talk, eating," Dean said around another mouthful as Ronnie tutted again. "And drinking." He took a long swallow. "That stuff really is good. What is it?"
Sam fixed his brother with a level stare. "Dean – you're drinking ass tea. And you haven't even noticed that you're speaking Canine like a native. Ronnie bit you last night, to save your life. You're a werewolf, bro."
Dean paused mid-chew, his mouth hanging open, his eyes moving from his brother to his… den-dam.
Ronnie reached in, and gently closed his jaw.
"You… bit me?" he managed eventually.
"Yes," she nodded serenely, stuffing more food into his mouth. "Chew."
"I'm sorry, bro," Sam began, as Dean chewed thoughtfully, "But when I saw you like that, I just kind of flipped back to human, and, and, I didn't know what to do, and, Dean, you were dying…" He gave his big brother an anguished look. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Dean considered his brother's words, then said, "There's only thing I can say to that, Sam."
His baby brother gave him a worried look.
"You better keep the ass tea coming, or I will kick your ass." Runt.
With a relieved smile, Sam took the flask, and headed for the kitchen. Throwback.
Eat, commanded Ronnie, using the familiar form of address for a young pack member still in need of care from the adults.
Obediently, Dean opened his mouth for more.
So, now Dean's in on the Big Hairy Secret. He's going to shapeshift in the evening - I wonder what sort of a wolf he'll be?
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