AN: Real life kicked my butt this week (okay, for the last 2-3 weeks), but I'm happy to actually have a chapter to share. Writing gives me so much joy!
There is a bit of bad language in this chapter, mostly because getting shot hurts (or so I've been told – I'm very grateful not to have had that experience).
Janice is such a great beta!
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No matter how long it's been, you don't ever forget what it feels like to get a significant injury like, say, getting shot. But you don't completely retain the memory on a sensory level. The shock and raw pain of it eludes you after a remarkably short amount of time. The brain remembers but doesn't hold onto the real depth of the pain, probably as a protective measure.
So Sam should probably give himself a bit of grace when he was shocked by how much being creased by a bullet hurt. After all, the worst injury he'd had at Stanford was a sprained wrist from an overenthusiastic attempt to get an interception during a game of flag football.
He hadn't lied to Dean about the injury, though it was deeper than a graze and his side was warm and wet with blood. But he wasn't about to bleed to death or go into shock or whatever and there was no possibility that the bullet was inside him or had struck any organs, so close enough. It wasn't that bad.
But it really hurt.
He made light of the pain in tried-and-true Winchester fashion and got out of the car on his own, pretending he didn't see Dean's scowl. "Could you bring in the pizza?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage. "I'm starving."
Since Dean complied (while muttering under his breath) and fetched the pizza, Sam got into the room first and almost got the bathroom door closed before Dean could stop him. Almost, dammit. But Dean got his foot in the door. "Not on your life, asshole," he growled. "Let me see."
Sam sighed. He knew better. There was no putting off Dean when Sam was injured. Since it had actually taken Dean a moment to notice that Sam was hurt, he'd had a vague, unrealistic hope that he could cover up how much his side had bled. But now that Dean could see him in the light, well, 3...2...1…
"Holy shit, Sam! You said you were only grazed!" In seconds, Dean had maneuvered Sam around and had him sitting on the closed toilet with his outer shirt off. Sam opened his mouth to protest as Dean started peeling back his t-shirt only to shut it again at the look on Dean's face.
They might be out of sync lately, but this was familiar. On one hand, Dean was willing (and happy) to have Sam hunt alongside him. On the other, he went a little crazy whenever Sam got hurt.
Sam bit his tongue as the tacky blood pulled at his skin but didn't make a sound. He bit down even harder when he had to lift his arms to get the shirt off and a new rivulet of blood ran down his torso. Dean swore and put a washcloth against Sam's side.
Sam only got a glimpse of the wound before it was covered and it was hard to see through the blood, but he was certain that his analysis of it was correct. It was a groove, not a hole in his body. There was little to no muscle damage, but it was deep enough that their active lifestyle necessitated stitches rather than just butterfly bandages. Joy.
Dean's expression was a little less worried now and a lot more pissed. "You don't hide that you're hurt, Sam. You know that. I thought you were supposed to be smart!"
It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to snap that if Dean didn't want Sam to power through the hurt, he and Dad shouldn't have done it over and over when they were younger. Instead, he rolled his eyes. He knew that Dean was trying not to think about the what-ifs, like what if Sam had taken a step back right before the shot came and it went into his gut? or ducked and the bullet hit him in the head?
"Maybe I just wanted to stitch it myself so the stitches are actually straight," Sam teased. Though it was tiny, he knew Dean didn't miss the way his voice caught. It burned now and the pressure Dean was putting on it, though necessary, made the pain worse.
He thought Dean was going to yell at him for going to Brian's place alone, but instead he kept his eyes lowered and asked through grit teeth, "So, what the hell happened?"
Sam saw movement out of the corner of his eye and spun toward it, gun up. A large, shifting blob the exact color of the shadows in the corners of the room lifted itself from the door and solidified before Sam's eyes, growing rapidly. It was about the size of a love seat by the time he fired.
The shadow rippled but didn't stop growing, moving slightly farther into the room. As it did, Sam saw that it had blocked his view of a shoe. A faded red Converse high top with neon yellow laces, to be precise, exactly the kind Brian had been wearing both times Sam had seen him. With a muttered curse, he raised the gun again.
Then the shadow moved. It moved so fast that Sam's eyes didn't register the movement until it was almost to him, long, needle-thin appendages reaching for him and part of the shadow engulfing his right arm, gun and all. The arm instantly went numb. It was as if the nerves in it simply didn't exist, nor could Sam see it within the shadow. It was instinct alone that had him pulling his knife with his other hand and stabbing at the mass, which felt like thick Jello.
That fast, Sam was free and the shadow was fleeing, slower than before but still faster than Sam could go. He gave chase anyway, hoping that it would lead him to its lair or give some clue as to what had become of Brian. He noted in passing that his hand and arm once again felt perfectly normal, and he was even still holding his gun.
The shadow darted out through the front gate and took a sharp turn right, heading down a hill and into some scrubby cover. Sam saved a little time by vaulting the fence. He'd nearly caught up to the creature when there was the retort of a rifle. A line of fire ignited along his side, and he fell hard, hitting his head and losing consciousness.
Sam opened his eyes, pained and disoriented. There were lights bouncing around at the edge of his vision, and it took him a second to realize that they really were bouncing and it wasn't just his headache making it appear like they were. There were muted voices too, he noted.
Sam put a hand on his throbbing side and found it wet with blood, which reminded him of the shot he'd heard. Somehow, he'd been lucky enough to only be grazed. His head ached, but the pain was receding. And he didn't see any signs of the shadow. He sat up slowly and as silently as he could and saw police cars and people with flashlights around them. Sucking his breath through his teeth against the pain – bad, but not debilitating – Sam pulled out his phone, wondering if he dared use the flashlight feature.
He almost dropped the device when it buzzed in his hand, quickly ending the incoming call from Dean. Some of the cops were getting too close for comfort, and he didn't want anything to give away his presence. Sam needed a distraction. Putting the pain aside to the best of his ability, Sam searched his mind for a simple way to explain that he was trapped and needed something major to get the cops' attention elsewhere for a while.
On the off chance that someone else might see Dean's phone, Sam decided to send a coded message. (Dad would have approved of the paranoia, Sam thought sardonically.)
What was the name of the guy who'd screwed up their kobold hunt years ago? Oh, yeah. Cresswell. As quietly as he could, Sam typed out: aaron cresswell bowling green. Trusting Dean would catch on, Sam pushed a hand hard against his side, preparing to get to his feet. He wanted to leave as little evidence behind as possible, and he really didn't want to lose a lot more blood either. His phone buzzed, the screen reading meet at not oak.
That was easy enough. Brian's directions had included a supposed oak tree that was actually some kind of maple. Sam oriented himself and hoped Dean didn't take long to provide his distraction.
And what a distraction it was. It sounded like a herd of elephants were stampeding down the hill to the west. Make that elephants made out of metal based on the pitch of the crash into a police car.
Sam didn't wait around to see what it was making such a ruckus, he just took to his feet (ow, ow, getting shot sucks out loud) and hurried toward the meeting spot as fast as he could, which was about the speed of an overweight snail. He grit his teeth and tried to make himself move faster reminding himself that the middle of a hunt was no time to be weak. He had had much worse injuries before. It took until half past forever, but at last he was in the Impala, inhaling the scent of pizza and digging his fingernails into the palms or his hands to keep from hissing at every bump.
Dean listened to Sam's recitation while cleaning and inspecting his side. His expression didn't alter much, but Sam knew him well enough to know that most of the ire wasn't directed at him.
"Dean, that really was the strangest thing that I've ever seen. And that's saying something. I've never even READ about anything even close to that." Sam couldn't help but feel frustrated that he had seen the thing but still didn't have any idea what it was.
That really a pretty impressive distraction," Sam added, knowing his brother would have been feeling pretty please about that if not for Sam's blood all over the place, and he did not miss the quirk of Dean's mouth into a brief but self-satisfied smile. "You'll have to tell me about that later."
"Want to lie down for the stitches?" Dean asked when Sam had finished, his voice more gentle than it had been. After having been cleaned, the groove was bleeding freely again, forcing Dean to hold a towel against it.
"Just do them in here," Sam responded glumly. He didn't want to get blood all over the bed. Dean offered him Tylenol or whiskey and Sam took both, though he only had a few swigs of the whiskey. He knew from experience that it didn't help much unless you had enough to ensure that the next morning would be miserable, and he rarely drank more than a beer or two, so his body wasn't used to it.
Dean was careful and efficient, and as he stitched, he distracted Sam by telling him about why he hadn't answered his phone and why there was so much pizza. It didn't help much with the suckage of getting stitches, but Sam appreciated the effort. The image of the green Winnebago hurtling down the hill made him laugh hard enough that Dean had to stop stitching for a minute.
"Oh, yeah, one more thing," Dean added. "Before the cops came, I was at that gas station where Brian works and saw something weird. There was a row of tiny holes in the glass wall about three feet up. No spider-webbing around them either. Almost like they were drilled with something damn sharp."
Sam blinked at that. Whiskey, exhaustion, and pain were making his brain work slower, especially now that Dean was done with the stitching part. "Holes?" he repeated stupidly. He couldn't think of anything that could do such a thing, nor could he comprehend why Dean was mentioning such a thing.
Dean's smile was ridiculously fond. It would have definitely annoyed Sam if he weren't so tired. "Shut up," Sam grumped. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Well, later today." When my brain is working again. Just for the smirk, Sam left Dean to clean up the bathroom. He was asleep before Dean was finished.
Bang! Bang! Bang! "Police! Open the door!"
Sam jolted out a dead sleep feeling like he'd only been lying down for a few minutes. He cursed under his breath as his injured side protested the way he'd sat up so fast.
"Th' hell?" Dean groaned from his bed, followed by a whole litany of curses when the pounding started right up again. He climbed to his feet and looked around the room, looking for anything they wouldn't want the cops to see. Like usual, he'd been sleeping in a t-shirt and jeans. "I got it," he growled when Sam climbed painfully to his feet. Louder, Dean called, "I'm coming. Keep your pants on."
Before Dean could open the door, Sam pulled on his sweatpants on and made sure his face didn't show any pain. He must have done a good job because Dean glanced back just before grabbing the doorknob and gave Sam a nod.
Dean jerked the door open and even from his angle nearly behind Dean Sam could tell he was scowling. "What?" Dean demanded of the cop closest to the door who had his fist raised to bang again. The guy almost fell into the room.
"We have some questions," said the taller cop behind the one who'd been knocking. "Can we come in?"
"No."
"We can always have this discussion down at the station," the front cop threw in.
Dean smirked. "Oh, yeah, then I can say 'hi' to the chief."
The cops immediately backed off their intensity a little. Sam might have smirked if he'd been a little more awake. He estimated he'd had maybe three hours of sleep, and in addition to the burning in his side, his head ached fiercely. "We just need to talk to your brother," the front guy said.
"That brother?" Dean asked, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. "The one that's been here sleeping?"
Sam felt both cops' eyes focus on him and shuffled forward, not having to work very hard to act sleepy. He bit his tongue hard to distract himself from the pain in his side. "Yeah?" he muttered around a yawn.
His casual question and appearance seemed to throw the cops off a little. They were awfully transparent with their thoughts given their job. There probably wasn't a lot of crime in their hole-in-the-wall town, Sam supposed. Certainly nothing of this level.
Tall cop recovered first. "A man disappeared last night. The last call he made was to a number he had saved under the name Sam. Was that you?"
"Brian? He's missing? Dammit. Yeah. He was freaked out and thought you guys wouldn't believe him." Sam's pain refused to die down, and he was a little worried that he'd popped and stitch and blood would show up on his shirt. It made him meaner than he normally would have been. "He hung up on me. I tried calling him back but got voicemail."
"So you weren't with him?" front cop asked.
"No. If I was with him, why would he call me?" Sam would have to get a new phone number after this case, which happened a lot but which he still hated. "Anyway, I called Dean next for a ride, but I couldn't get through to him either."
"Cuz I was getting harassed by you and another of you dickwads," Dean added pointedly to the front cop.
"We aren't harassing you," the guy protested. "We have good reasons for our questions. Not only did we find his number in Brian's phone, a witness saw a tall man near Brian's house last night – even shot at him."
"Are you asking if I've been shot?" Sam asked, doing his best to sound amused looking down as if checking himself for injuries. The cops needed to leave Right. Damn. Now. so Sam could sit down and take some pain killers.
"A tall guy? Is that all you got? 'Cuz I'm sure it's not like there aren't any other tall guys around here." Dean asked flatly, perhaps sensing Sam's discomfort (pain). As they knew, Wilson, Sr. was the witness they were referring to, and he was hardly an upstanding citizen. Besides which, Sam had heard the guy telling the cops that he'd seen something inhuman. (He most likely had, but the cops didn't know that.)
Both cops looked uncertain now. "So you didn't see Brian last night?" asked the front one.
"Nope."
"Me neither," Dean all but chirped. "Thanks for the pizza, by the way." He grinned. "You didn't bring breakfast donuts or anything, did you?"
The cops made their exit sheepishly, and Sam hardly waited for the door to click shut before sinking onto the end of Dean's bed. "Shit." He had to take a couple long breaths and dearly wished he hadn't bolted upright when the cops had knocked.
Predictably, Dean crouched in front of him. "Sammy?"
"I'm okay," Sam answered. "Got up too fast is all." The pain was already ebbing, but he didn't fight when Dean tugged up the edge of his shirt and peeled back the bandage."
"Hmm. Didn't pull any stitches, but it's pretty red and bleeding a little. Those morons." Dean's motions were jerky with annoyance when he went to get a new bandage and the antiseptic salve.
Sam peeked at the wound. It didn't look bad, just irritated. "They're just at a loss for what to do," he defended the cops despite the fact that he wasn't thrilled with them either. Dean grumbled back but didn't argue, too far into take-care-of-Sam mode to do more. "I want to see those holes in the wall you were telling me about," he thought out loud as Dean re-bandaged his side. He could easily have done it himself, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like they were actually in sync and he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. And if he was totally honest with himself, it kind of felt good having his big brother fuss over him and take care of him again. "And we really need to get out to the museum." Sam's stomach growled loudly despite the fact that the pain had it feeling unsettled.
"Maybe breakfast first," Dean suggested with a raised eyebrow. He looked back at the new bandage and apparently decided that it was sufficient.
Sam pushed Dean's hands away when he went to unnecessarily smooth the tape one more time. "You have to stop hovering for that," he sniped lightly. "And I don't want donuts or day-old pizza."
Dean almost sort-of smiled. "That was pretty bad ass standing there like you didn't have so much as a paper cut."
Sam rolled his eyes but he almost sort-of smiled too.
Courtesy of the fast action of one of their precious narcotic painkillers which Dean insisted he take before they went to the nearest diner, Sam was actually more hungry than nauseated by the time they got there. Dean pestered him about the creamer he added to his coffee and Sam pestered Dean about the fact that he was hitting on a waitress who was on the wrong side of forty.
Sam ate chocolate chip pancakes drowned in real butter and real maple syrup and a side of sliced peaches that were clearly fresh. Not to be outdone, Dean demolished something called "Papa's Favorite" which contained an obscene amount of food from scrambled eggs to home fries to a pile of bacon. ("See? I made the waitress' day and bam! Extra bacon," Dean pointed out.)
As tired as Sam was and as frustrating as the case had gotten and as annoying as the early wake-up call had been, the morning was turning out quite pleasant. Then a group of ladies in their fifties took the next table and started gossiping about anything and everything in town and it went from pleasant to interesting.
At first, it was mildly amusing to hear their dissertations on "the oldest Jones boy's new wife from the city" and whether or not she'd be happy in Tema, then the mayor's obsession with restoring some "ancient eyesore" of a gazebo because it was where he'd proposed to his wife and the amount of money the albatross of a project was costing the town. But then things got interesting.
"I hear our top-notch police found one lost person and promptly lost another," a woman with a dyed-red bob announced.
"You never say anything nice about our police, Eunice," complained her seatmate. "Just because they made Viv the chief instead of your husband all those years ago."
Eunice sniffed. "This isn't that. That boy Brian who works at the gas station came stumbling into town this morning ranting that he'd spent all night running from a shadow bear or some other craziness. They assumed he was drunk or taking drugs and went to put him in the holding cell until he calmed down and they found that the man who'd been in there already was gone. The door was still locked and everything."
"Who is gone?" asked the loudest of the group. She seemed offended that she wasn't the first to know.
"Wilson, I think," Eunice guessed. "Father of one of the missing boys."
Sam caught Dean's eye. They were both frozen, listening. The women talked for a few moments about the evils of drugs and drinking and what the elder Wilson might have done to be in the cell "this time."
"How did you even hear about all of this if it just happened this morning?" demanded the loud one, talking right over some of the others.
"Well, Rita, my neighbor Joe was right there in the police station when it all happened," Eunice said confidently. She seemed to have gained some kind of street cred for having the best gossip. "You know how he keeps all those nasty snakes that he takes to schools and parties and things? Well, every single one of them were stolen while he was in town last weekend."
"We knew about that," Rita snapped a little nastily. "The door was locked and nothing else was missing, not even his grandmother's jewelry."
"So," Eunice wasn't about to be outdone. "Joe was at the station asking if they'd learned anything."
"You two need anything else?" The arrival of their waitress took Sam by surprise.
"Just the check, please," Dean said, giving her the smile reserved for people who gave him bacon.
Sam wasn't paying attention. Snakes, he mouthed. "Clyde," he said aloud.
"Who, now?" Dean asked with a frown.
"I have to go back to the library," Sam answered, trying to picture every book he'd skimmed the night before. He'd seen something that talked about snakes, but where?
"Who is Clyde?" Dean repeated a little louder.
Sam frowned, trying harder to remember what he'd read and where. The snake thing was in a book with a red cover. What was it called again?
"Sam, c'mon."
Sam pulled himself from his thoughts and looked up. Dean was standing and putting money on the table. He looked pointedly toward the table of women, several of whom were not-so-subtly inspecting the brothers. Apparently Dean's question (which, oh yeah, Sam still hadn't answered) had been loud enough to catch their attention. And they really didn't want to discuss the case in the hearing of a bunch of curious gossip-mongers.
"Go ahead. I'll be right there," Dean prodded. Sam didn't argue, still thinking hard.
When Dean came out a few minutes later, Sam had remembered what book he wanted. "We need to stop at the library," he said by way of greeting. "And Clyde is Brian's snake. Last night, I noticed he was missing."
"Just like that other dude's snakes," Dean reasoned. "So, guess who has a key to the museum? That Evan kid's grandma. According to Rita back there, she worked for years to keep the place open and is super pissed that it's shut down and everything's going to some out-of-town museum."
Sam shifted in his seat barely biting back a pained hiss and began listing off errands and ideas for what to do next for the case. "Library, get the car back before the motel owner notices it's missing, talk to Brian, maybe talk to the snake guy, talk to grandma, look at the holes in the gas station, check out the museum...we may want to split up to get more done."
"Nuh-uh." Dean shut that right down. "Last time I let you out of my sight, you got shot. Let's get what you want from the library, forget about the car and the snake guy, and talk to your stoner buddy."
Sam nodded in agreement. He had a feeling that they needed to figure out what they were after as soon as possible, especially since it had seemed for a moment that the Impala's shadow wasn't quite the right shape…
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AN: I don't think there are any references I need here...hmmm...let me know if I missed any!
bagelcat1: I think most gas stations have a Brian! Sisters have also been known to grouse at a sibling until they get a reaction. I know that from experience. It is a challenge to write early season because it's hard to remember what they do and don't know about. I thought about your comment about how much getting shot would hurt and how Sam wasn't used to it any longer and included it in this chapter.
Colby's girl: Yes! Dean has a fantastic Cheshire grin. Oh, gosh, I know just what you're talking about with the elms with their long "fingers." I grew up in the country too and it gets so much darker than in any city or suburb. Canning has kind of taken over my life, but luckily I enjoy it!
sylvia37: I mean American football, but I enjoy watching traditional football too! I played as a kid (poorly). Sam got off fairly easy with Dean this time, I think.
sfaulkenberry: I'm glad you liked the Winnebago! Sometimes I get an image in my brain and it just has to happen in a story, no matter how absurd it is. I totally have to look up Lackadaisy if for no other reason than the setting is amazing! I think the guys are a little more in sync in this chapter. Figures it takes Sam getting hurt to do that. LOL
ncsupnatfan: Thank you for your comments! You have some ideas that are right on the money, but I'm not going to tell you which ones. :-) Lots more big brother mode in this chapter...I have such a weakness for Dean's protectiveness.
muffinroo: Ha! Yes, if you have a taste for legs, those are tasty legs to be after! You crack me up. Happy to have the extra points too. There was less sassiness in this chapter, sadly. More may make an appearance, though. There's certainly more pain coming up...
Kathy: Janice says (rightly) that I find the most obscure and hard to spell/pronounce monsters out there and she's not wrong. Are you a Doctor Who fan? There are a number of episodes about the thing you see out of the corner of your eye but don't dare turn to see. So creepy! I did enjoy football. Two of my favorite teams are pretty good this year, which is close to a miracle as one of those teams is perpetually terrible. Seriously, a few years back, they lost every single game in the season. Anyway, Brian did not get eaten or kidnapped, surprisingly.
Spnlady: Thank you! That's a lovely thing to say. I love Dean all angry and angsty and worried about Sam too.
stedan: Thanks! It's fun to find weird monsters. Not only are the guys back together, but Dean is determined that they're going to stay that way.
BloodforInk: LOL! I agree.