Friendly Fire, Chapter One/Two
Title: Friendly Fire
1/2
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: approx. 8300 (total)
Warnings: Potty mouths. Lil' blood. Nothing too terrible though, I don't think. Summary: A hunt in San Antonio doesn't go as planned when the brothers realize they aren't quite used to working together again. Set between "Phantom Traveler" and "Bloody Mary."
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I'd say I own my degree but even that's wrapped up in student loans and the government owns more than half of it. So really, I own nothing. 'Cept maybe an overactive imagination...and I'm sure I owe Fraggle Rock and/or Reading Rainbow for that one...
Author's Note: This is sort of a follow-up to my first story, "Spiritual Possession", but you definitely don't have to read it to enjoy this one. (But feel free to read it if you want :) I think Sam and Dean are written a bit off, but I couldn't get any of my edits to work either, so I'm just going to post it and hope you're all gentle.
Rated T to be safe, but that's mostly just for language. No beta, so sorry for run-on sentences, grammatical errors, etc.
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Sam had been in a shitty mood since Pittsburgh. Not that he hadn't been in a shitty mood since Palo Alto, but that had been grief. This was frustration. Frustration from grief without an outlet. Hmm. Dean shook his head to clear it and focused on the road in front of him again.
Sam had been in a shitty mood since Pittsburgh. Dad's voicemail declaring him unreachable had done it, Dean was sure. Sam may have been silent and broody before, but now he was full out emo and Dean was quickly shifting from concerned and supportive to annoyed as hell.
It wasn't that Dean wasn't pissed at their dad ('cause he so was. What was he thinking, just advertising his phone number like that?) it was just that he knew it was a waste of time and energy to mope over it.
Dad could be an ass. So what? Didn't change the fact he was still their father and there was still work to do.
So to prove that, Dean had found another hunt for them. It'd been something he'd noticed from a couple of articles in a Texas newspaper he'd found in the airport while they'd been waiting to be released from questioning with the rest of the passengers. He hadn't paid the stories much attention until Day Four of Shitty Sam. He'd finally been driven out of their motel and to the local library in Small Town, Kentucky with the excuse of needing to research a lead.
Now they were on their way to San Antonio for a possible vengeful spirit haunting a strip of warehouses. Three workers had been killed in as many months. Though the accidents behind their deaths had been plausible for their work sites, Dean had jumped at an opportunity to distract Sam.
"What, Dean?" Sam asked in exasperation as he caught his brother looking at him, again. Dean immediately returned his gaze to the road outside the windshield.
"Nothing dude," Dean muttered back. The bulk of the drive had gone the same way and Dean wished he knew a way to break the cycle.
It was noon by the time they reached the outskirts of San Antonio. Too broad-daylight to head straight for the possible haunt scene. So Dean found a motel and got them a room. They found a diner, where Dean watched in annoyance as Sam picked at his food. Dean had no clue how the kid had ever grown: he'd never been much of an eater, and especially not when he was upset.
"Dude it works best in the stomach," Dean grumbled. Sam shot him a glare and Dean rolled his eyes. So, Shitty Sam was still hanging around. Wonderful.
They caught a few hours of sleep before it was dark enough to head out to the warehouses. Dean didn't have much of a plan, and Sam was still stuck in his own thoughts as they parked the Impala.
"I thought we were just checking things out tonight," Sam commented as he watched his brother pull a shotgun from the trunk.
"Yeah well, I don't go in anywhere haunted unarmed," Dean said, closing the trunk as he looked around. "I'll take the two on the left, you can take the one on the right. Meet back here in an hour." Dean meant it as an order, not a suggestion and, by the clench of Sam's jaw, his brother had noticed.
Dean turned and marched off toward his buildings before Sam could argue. He wasn't in the mood for it. He just wanted to figure out what was behind the deaths and put an end to it.
The first warehouse was a bust. The EMF meter didn't even flicker and Dean didn't feel so much as a wayward breeze. He was halfway through the second one when the meter suddenly lit up.
"What the..." Dean was halfway through saying when he was suddenly thrown back against a pallet stacked with wooden crates. "Son of a bitch," Dean grunted as he scrambled back to his feet. His back was going to hurt like a bitch in the morning.
A dark mist was forming a few feet away and Dean quickly aimed his shotgun at it and fired. The mist continued toward him, undaunted, and Dean took off, firing his second shot at a run.
"Son of a BITCH!" Dean cursed as he jogged down another row of pallets. He dropped his apparently useless shotgun and pulled his handgun, wondering if iron rounds would do any better.
There was a crash to his right and Dean spun, aiming his weapon toward the intersection of two rows. A crash from behind and he flipped his pose. A mass was moving quickly toward him and he fired, pulling the gun up at the last second as he realized in horror the shadowy figure was familiar.
"Sam!" he shouted as he saw his brother drop. He ran to him, dropping to his knees as he grabbed first Sam's ankle, then his knee, wrist...Sam's left hand had gone up to clutch his right shoulder and Dean felt sick as he saw the blood spilling between his baby brother's fingers.
"Dean!" The sound of his name snapped Dean back and his eyes flew up to Sam's face. Sam was looking up at him in a mixture of pain and...concern? Was Sam really worried he would put another bullet in him? "Dude, first you SHOOT ME and now you decide not to answer me!?" Sam's voice sounded strained, but more annoyed than anything else.
Dean rocked back on his heels in bafflement as his brother pushed him away and pushed himself to his own feet, cursing and swaying a bit, but upright nonetheless. Dean had been so sure he'd killed his brother when he'd seen him drop...
"Shit!" Sam hissed, letting go of his shoulder suddenly to lean down and rip the gun from Dean's hand. Dean jumped as the weapon discharged somewhere over his shoulder. Before Dean could stand and turn to figure out what was going on, Sam grabbed him by the jacket and propelled him back toward the side door.
"Move it Dean," he growled impatiently. Dean stumbled alongside him, still trying to figure out what had happened.
Had he shot Sam or hadn't he? He was both dying and dreading to know.
As they staggered out of the warehouse, Sam's hand went back to his shoulder and he cursed again. Leaning forward slightly, he closed his eyes as if dizzy.
"Sammy?" Dean questioned in a shaky voice. He took a step to his brother but froze as Sam's eyes snapped open. The younger brother sighed and straightened. He took the time to flip the safety on the handgun and shove it into the waistband of his jeans before clutching his bleeding limb again.
"We can't do anything until we know more," Sam said tiredly. "We'll do some research and come back tomorrow." Dean continued to stare at his brother, not really even sure if Sam was really there.
The possible apparition sighed again at Dean's lack of response. "Let's just get out of here," it said softly, nudging Dean with a bony elbow as it moved past him toward the car. So, not an apparition then? It really was his younger brother?
Dean moved numbly for the Chevy and got behind the wheel, starting the engine on instinct alone.
He'd shot Sam.
His baby brother Sammy.
That information finally sank in about a mile from the motel.
The kid he was supposed to protect was having to put up extra effort to keep his blood in his body.
It'd hurt like hell when Sam had left for school and Dean could've killed him with a stupid shot he never should've fired. Hell, Sam could still decide vengeance wasn't worth being stuck with a trigger-happy brother and leave him again anyway.
Dean suddenly didn't feel so good. Sam must have noticed something was wrong (well, something in addition to the hole in his arm) because he called Dean on it.
"Dean? You gonna make it?" The Impala jerked to a stop as Dean turned horrified eyes on his brother. Sam was pale, flecks of blood on his neck and cheek where it'd splattered.
Dean was out of the car without a word and was quickly providing the muddy ditch with a fresh supply of bile. Dean heard the distant creak of the passenger door over his retching but refused to look to his brother for comfort.
"I am so driving back to the motel," a familiar voice said lightly as Dean's stomach finally stopped heaving. He shot an incredulous look over his shoulder at his brother's tone. Weren't gunshot wounds supposed to make people serious?
Sam rolled his eyes and got back into the car, this time taking Dean's seat behind the wheel. It took Dean another minute before he rose to shaky feet and climbed into the passenger seat.
Sam drove the rest of the way to the motel one-handed. Neither brother spoke until he'd parked the car and shut-off the engine. "Grab the kit," was all he said before getting out and moving to their room.
Dean knew he needed to move, but he wasn't sure he could. He'd shot his brother.
Dean had accidentally shot their father once when a head injury in a dark forest had skewed his perspective. There'd been hell to pay for that, but his father wasn't Dean's responsibility. Sammy was.
What kind of protector put a bullet in his charge?
It wasn't as if he'd never hurt his brother before. There'd been the occasional sparring injury. And once a spirit had used Dean's body to put Sam at the wrong end of a knife. But Dean hadn't been possessed when he'd pulled the trigger this time.
Dean closed his eyes as he felt nauseous again. When he reopened them he jumped, seeing his brother standing in the doorway, watching him. Sam still clutched his shoulder but Dean noticed he'd somehow gotten out of his jacket and the hoodie he'd been wearing underneath and Dean thought he could see the white of a towel against the wound.
Dean took a deep breath and slid out of the car, moving to the trunk for the first-aid kit.
Sam had moved back into the room and when Dean reached it he was already moving on to the bathroom. Dean paused long enough to slip out of his jacket before moving after his brother with their well-stocked first-aid kit.
Sam sat on the closed toilet lid, waiting on Dean. "Can you get the scissors out for me?" he asked as Dean slowly set the kit on the sink.
Dean used shaky hands to unclasp the kit and pull out the scissors. He turned to his brother and stared at the bloody towel Sam held against his shoulder.
"Dean," Sam said softly and Dean jumped a bit, finally finding his brother's face. Sam lifted his right hand with a wince. "I can get this on my own."
Sam was good at offering Dean outs. It wasn't such an obvious way of protecting his brother, but Dean had noticed every time Sam did it.
Dean knew from experience his little brother was indeed capable of patching up his own wounds, even one-handed. But he'd been the cause of this and he'd fix it.
Dean shook his head and pushed Sam's arm down gently. He took the scissors to the sleeve of his brother's shirt and cut up through the neck, gently moving Sam's hand with the towel. He cringed along with Sam at the blood soaking along Sam's collarbone.
Dean turned and set the scissors down as he grabbed a clean washcloth. He pushed the kit over slightly so he could wet the cloth and use it to wipe away some of the blood.
"Son of a bitch," Sam gritted out. Dean gritted his own teeth and focused on the wound.
The bullet had cut through the fleshy part directly above his collarbone. The angle between entrance and exit points demonstrating how Dean had pulled his aim. He grabbed another washcloth and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"How's the rest of your arm feel?" he asked quietly as the peroxide fizzled on the wound. Sam hissed and turned his head away as Dean wiped at it.
"Fine," Sam muttered. "Steady pulse in the elbow and wrist." Dean wondered when his brother had checked, but didn't ask.
Dean examined the wounds closely, wiping at the blood as it oozed out. They were both lucky: it looked as if the bullet had missed damaging anything serious. Dean couldn't even find any sign of bullet fragments.
Sam swayed slightly on the toilet and Dean put a steadying hand on his uninjured shoulder. "M'okay," Sam mumbled. Dean didn't quite believe him as he twisted to grab the suture kit.
It took eleven stitches total and Dean applied them in silence, listening closely to Sam's breathing to make sure he didn't become too distressed.
Sam turned his head to watch Dean tie off the last suture and Dean felt his eyes on him as he turned back to the first-aid kit.
The younger brother sighed as the older slathered antibiotic ointment on his shoulder. "So...you're not talking to me anymore?" Sam asked. Dean glanced at his brother, but looked away to grab a roll of sterile gauze. He set it on the edge of the sink and picked up the medical tape and scissors.
"Dean, I'm fine," Sam insisted. Dean was silent for a long minute.
"Sammy I shot you," Dean finally said, voice cracking as he avoided eye contact. He focused intently on cutting the perfect length of tape to use for the bandage.
"Dude it's as much my fault as yours," Sam said softly with a sigh. Dean looked at him in confusion and Sam's mouth quirked in a small smile. "You had no clue I'd left my warehouse. I should have yelled a warning." Dean set his strips of tape on the edge of the sink for easy access as Sam went on. "You had no reason to think I'd be in there."
"I should have been sure before I fired," Dean whispered. He gently lifted Sam's arm so he could begin to wind the gauze around his shoulder.
"You pulled your shot when you knew. Otherwise I'd have a bullet in my lung right now." Dean winced and picked up a couple of tape strips.
"Way to be comforting, Sam," he muttered. Sam chuckled.
"I don't blame you for this." Dean briefly made eye contact with his brother before securing the last piece of tape.
"Yeah well, you've always been a dumbass." Sam glared at his brother hard enough Dean looked at him.
"I'm serious, Dean. It was an accident. We're just not used to working together again yet.” That sure was true. They were starting to fall back into a familiar, comfortable, rhythm but they still seemed to get in each other’s way more than they ever had growing up.
Dean watched as his brother tried to go on. “I can't..." Sam's mouth snapped shut and he looked away. Dean gave him a moment by putting the supplies back in the kit.
"You can't what, Sam?" he asked as he closed the kit. Sam sighed and the brothers made eye contact again.
"I need to find Dad, man. And I can't do that alone. I can't do that if you're so worried about hurting me you stay away." Dean swallowed heavily and picked up the scissors he'd left out to cut away the rest of Sam's ruined t-shirt. He couldn't help but see the scar down Sam's left arm. Sam stood and put his left hand on Dean's arm.
"I know it's pointless to say this to anyone in our fucked up family," Sam began softly. "But let it go." He pushed Dean aside gently so he could wash the blood off his hands in the sink.
Sam reopened the kit and Dean cursed himself for forgetting the painkillers and antibiotics as Sam pulled the bottles out.
"We're low," Sam commented before swallowing two of each.
"I have another bottle of each in the trunk, when we need it," Dean offered. Sam shrugged with his good shoulder and pushed past Dean to the bedroom. Dean watched him for a minute as Sam kicked off his shoes and moved to the table to open his laptop.
Dean still felt numb as he cleaned up the bathroom. The bloody t-shirt, along with the towel and washcloths, were tossed into the garbage bin, Dean pulling out the bag once it was full. They'd dump the bloody stuff on their way out of town, in some back alley dumpster, probably.
Dean wiped down the toilet, tiles and sink where blood had dripped. There was enough of it he found himself looking out toward Sam to reassure himself his brother hadn't lost all of his blood.
He added the washcloth he'd used in the bag with the others and idly thought he might have to get a second trash bag. Dean turned the faucet on hot to wash the blood from his hands and found himself unable to stop.
"Dude." Dean jumped at the deep voice behind him and turned to see his younger brother in the doorway. "Some of us have to piss." It was another out, and Dean took it, ducking past Sam and into the bedroom.
Sam's bloody hoodie was at the foot of his bed and Dean couldn't help but stare at it. The sleeve was soaked and Dean knew he'd need a second trash bag after all. It wasn't like half the kid's wardrobe didn't consist of the damned things. What did it matter that he'd just lost one?
Oh yeah. Dean had shot him. The older Winchester swallowed thickly.
"Yep. Definitely trash," Sam spoke, startling Dean again. Ever since he was a kid, Sam had had the knack for sneaking up on people. Dean hadn't even heard the bathroom door open.
Sam moved past him and bent to scoop up the damaged garment. He closed his eyes as he straightened and Dean stepped forward quickly as he saw him sway. Sam's eyes reopened before he touched him and he shot his brother a smile before tossing the hoodie in the garbage bin and stepping across the room.
"I think the jacket's salvageable, though." Sam disappeared back into the bathroom, carrying his jacket. Dean stared at him when he came back out a minute later. "What?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head to clear it and sank down on the end of his bed. He scrubbed at his face with both hands. His brother sighed and Dean heard the creak of springs from the other bed.
Dean dropped his hands and looked at Sam. "I just wanted to distract you," he whispered, surprised he admitted it out loud. Even more surprised when Sam nodded slightly.
"I know," said Sam.
"You know?" Dean was confused. Sam smirked a bit and let his eyes sweep the room before falling on his big brother again. Dean recognized it as his way to kill time while he figured out how to say what he wanted.
"Practically my whole childhood was you trying to distract me, Dean. Used to be a coloring book and a handful of broken crayons. Now it's haunted warehouses. Same difference."
Dean considered the validity of the statement. He supposed he did find distraction as his best plan of action when it came to Sam. His lips quirked into a semi-smile and he was rewarded with a rare grin from Sam.
"How long have you been on to my battle tactic?" Dean asked out of curiosity. Sam shrugged more with his face than his shoulder.
"Since I was six? Dude, you can be pretty obvious sometimes."
"Man whatever," Dean said as he stood. He paused and looked at Sam seriously again. "You know I'm sorry, right?" Even though he'd asked it, Dean wasn't quite sure if he only meant for the bullet wound.
Sam gave his brother a sincere smile, one that eased the tension in Dean's chest just as much as his spoken "Yeah Dean." Sam's smile broadened. "But I so call a rain check."
"A rain check to shoot me!?" Dean asked, incredulous. Sam nodded with another grin. Dean frowned and Sam forced his face into seriousness, holding out a palm in a pose of mock innocence.
"What?" he asked in the perfect, little-brother-is-up-to-no-good, tone. "Ya never know when something like that might come in handy..." Dean rolled his eyes and moved to his own duffle bag.
"When you use up that rain check, there'd better be a goddamn good reason for it," he grumbled.
Sam laughed softly as Dean pulled out a change of clothes and moved for the bathroom. When he reached the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder at Sam. Sam made eye contact with him and gave him a reassuring smile.
Dean was tempted to tell Sam a lot of things. How scared he was of hurting him again. How much he worried about Sam's nightmares. How he didn't know if they'd ever find Dad. Hell, even just tell the kid how much he'd missed him.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was "Order a pizza. No olives. You know I hate that shit."
He went into the bathroom with a smile on his face knowing, without a doubt, there'd be extra olives waiting for him when he got out.
/end
Sam's POV in Chapter 2
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Final author's note: I realize it makes more sense for the boys to have gone from Pittsburgh to Toledo than Pittsburgh-San Antonio-Toledo...but since when has logic kept them from hopping around more than preschoolers on a sugar high? Plus, ya know, my imagination.
And also, nothing against Texas, but I've never been. Which is why the hunt takes place in non-descript warehouses. I'm assuming there are warehouses in Texas, both of the descript and non-descript kind. Are there warehouses in Texas?
Whatever. My crazy head, my crazy rules.
Rating: T (for Teen...or whatever)
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: approx. 8300 (total)
Warnings: Potty mouths. Lil' blood. Nothing too terrible though, I don't think. Summary: A hunt in San Antonio doesn't go as planned when the brothers realize they aren't quite used to working together again. Set between "Phantom Traveler" and "Bloody Mary."
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I'd say I own my degree but even that's wrapped up in student loans and the government owns more than half of it. So really, I own nothing. 'Cept maybe an overactive imagination...and I'm sure I owe Fraggle Rock and/or Reading Rainbow for that one...
Author's Note: This is sort of a follow-up to my first story, "Spiritual Possession", but you definitely don't have to read it to enjoy this one. (But feel free to read it if you want :) I think Sam and Dean are written a bit off, but I couldn't get any of my edits to work either, so I'm just going to post it and hope you're all gentle.
Rated T to be safe, but that's mostly just for language. No beta, so sorry for run-on sentences, grammatical errors, etc.
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Sam had been in a shitty mood since Pittsburgh. Not that he hadn't been in a shitty mood since Palo Alto, but that had been grief. This was frustration. Frustration from grief without an outlet. Hmm. Dean shook his head to clear it and focused on the road in front of him again.
Sam had been in a shitty mood since Pittsburgh. Dad's voicemail declaring him unreachable had done it, Dean was sure. Sam may have been silent and broody before, but now he was full out emo and Dean was quickly shifting from concerned and supportive to annoyed as hell.
It wasn't that Dean wasn't pissed at their dad ('cause he so was. What was he thinking, just advertising his phone number like that?) it was just that he knew it was a waste of time and energy to mope over it.
Dad could be an ass. So what? Didn't change the fact he was still their father and there was still work to do.
So to prove that, Dean had found another hunt for them. It'd been something he'd noticed from a couple of articles in a Texas newspaper he'd found in the airport while they'd been waiting to be released from questioning with the rest of the passengers. He hadn't paid the stories much attention until Day Four of Shitty Sam. He'd finally been driven out of their motel and to the local library in Small Town, Kentucky with the excuse of needing to research a lead.
Now they were on their way to San Antonio for a possible vengeful spirit haunting a strip of warehouses. Three workers had been killed in as many months. Though the accidents behind their deaths had been plausible for their work sites, Dean had jumped at an opportunity to distract Sam.
"What, Dean?" Sam asked in exasperation as he caught his brother looking at him, again. Dean immediately returned his gaze to the road outside the windshield.
"Nothing dude," Dean muttered back. The bulk of the drive had gone the same way and Dean wished he knew a way to break the cycle.
It was noon by the time they reached the outskirts of San Antonio. Too broad-daylight to head straight for the possible haunt scene. So Dean found a motel and got them a room. They found a diner, where Dean watched in annoyance as Sam picked at his food. Dean had no clue how the kid had ever grown: he'd never been much of an eater, and especially not when he was upset.
"Dude it works best in the stomach," Dean grumbled. Sam shot him a glare and Dean rolled his eyes. So, Shitty Sam was still hanging around. Wonderful.
They caught a few hours of sleep before it was dark enough to head out to the warehouses. Dean didn't have much of a plan, and Sam was still stuck in his own thoughts as they parked the Impala.
"I thought we were just checking things out tonight," Sam commented as he watched his brother pull a shotgun from the trunk.
"Yeah well, I don't go in anywhere haunted unarmed," Dean said, closing the trunk as he looked around. "I'll take the two on the left, you can take the one on the right. Meet back here in an hour." Dean meant it as an order, not a suggestion and, by the clench of Sam's jaw, his brother had noticed.
Dean turned and marched off toward his buildings before Sam could argue. He wasn't in the mood for it. He just wanted to figure out what was behind the deaths and put an end to it.
The first warehouse was a bust. The EMF meter didn't even flicker and Dean didn't feel so much as a wayward breeze. He was halfway through the second one when the meter suddenly lit up.
"What the..." Dean was halfway through saying when he was suddenly thrown back against a pallet stacked with wooden crates. "Son of a bitch," Dean grunted as he scrambled back to his feet. His back was going to hurt like a bitch in the morning.
A dark mist was forming a few feet away and Dean quickly aimed his shotgun at it and fired. The mist continued toward him, undaunted, and Dean took off, firing his second shot at a run.
"Son of a BITCH!" Dean cursed as he jogged down another row of pallets. He dropped his apparently useless shotgun and pulled his handgun, wondering if iron rounds would do any better.
There was a crash to his right and Dean spun, aiming his weapon toward the intersection of two rows. A crash from behind and he flipped his pose. A mass was moving quickly toward him and he fired, pulling the gun up at the last second as he realized in horror the shadowy figure was familiar.
"Sam!" he shouted as he saw his brother drop. He ran to him, dropping to his knees as he grabbed first Sam's ankle, then his knee, wrist...Sam's left hand had gone up to clutch his right shoulder and Dean felt sick as he saw the blood spilling between his baby brother's fingers.
"Dean!" The sound of his name snapped Dean back and his eyes flew up to Sam's face. Sam was looking up at him in a mixture of pain and...concern? Was Sam really worried he would put another bullet in him? "Dude, first you SHOOT ME and now you decide not to answer me!?" Sam's voice sounded strained, but more annoyed than anything else.
Dean rocked back on his heels in bafflement as his brother pushed him away and pushed himself to his own feet, cursing and swaying a bit, but upright nonetheless. Dean had been so sure he'd killed his brother when he'd seen him drop...
"Shit!" Sam hissed, letting go of his shoulder suddenly to lean down and rip the gun from Dean's hand. Dean jumped as the weapon discharged somewhere over his shoulder. Before Dean could stand and turn to figure out what was going on, Sam grabbed him by the jacket and propelled him back toward the side door.
"Move it Dean," he growled impatiently. Dean stumbled alongside him, still trying to figure out what had happened.
Had he shot Sam or hadn't he? He was both dying and dreading to know.
As they staggered out of the warehouse, Sam's hand went back to his shoulder and he cursed again. Leaning forward slightly, he closed his eyes as if dizzy.
"Sammy?" Dean questioned in a shaky voice. He took a step to his brother but froze as Sam's eyes snapped open. The younger brother sighed and straightened. He took the time to flip the safety on the handgun and shove it into the waistband of his jeans before clutching his bleeding limb again.
"We can't do anything until we know more," Sam said tiredly. "We'll do some research and come back tomorrow." Dean continued to stare at his brother, not really even sure if Sam was really there.
The possible apparition sighed again at Dean's lack of response. "Let's just get out of here," it said softly, nudging Dean with a bony elbow as it moved past him toward the car. So, not an apparition then? It really was his younger brother?
Dean moved numbly for the Chevy and got behind the wheel, starting the engine on instinct alone.
He'd shot Sam.
His baby brother Sammy.
That information finally sank in about a mile from the motel.
The kid he was supposed to protect was having to put up extra effort to keep his blood in his body.
It'd hurt like hell when Sam had left for school and Dean could've killed him with a stupid shot he never should've fired. Hell, Sam could still decide vengeance wasn't worth being stuck with a trigger-happy brother and leave him again anyway.
Dean suddenly didn't feel so good. Sam must have noticed something was wrong (well, something in addition to the hole in his arm) because he called Dean on it.
"Dean? You gonna make it?" The Impala jerked to a stop as Dean turned horrified eyes on his brother. Sam was pale, flecks of blood on his neck and cheek where it'd splattered.
Dean was out of the car without a word and was quickly providing the muddy ditch with a fresh supply of bile. Dean heard the distant creak of the passenger door over his retching but refused to look to his brother for comfort.
"I am so driving back to the motel," a familiar voice said lightly as Dean's stomach finally stopped heaving. He shot an incredulous look over his shoulder at his brother's tone. Weren't gunshot wounds supposed to make people serious?
Sam rolled his eyes and got back into the car, this time taking Dean's seat behind the wheel. It took Dean another minute before he rose to shaky feet and climbed into the passenger seat.
Sam drove the rest of the way to the motel one-handed. Neither brother spoke until he'd parked the car and shut-off the engine. "Grab the kit," was all he said before getting out and moving to their room.
Dean knew he needed to move, but he wasn't sure he could. He'd shot his brother.
Dean had accidentally shot their father once when a head injury in a dark forest had skewed his perspective. There'd been hell to pay for that, but his father wasn't Dean's responsibility. Sammy was.
What kind of protector put a bullet in his charge?
It wasn't as if he'd never hurt his brother before. There'd been the occasional sparring injury. And once a spirit had used Dean's body to put Sam at the wrong end of a knife. But Dean hadn't been possessed when he'd pulled the trigger this time.
Dean closed his eyes as he felt nauseous again. When he reopened them he jumped, seeing his brother standing in the doorway, watching him. Sam still clutched his shoulder but Dean noticed he'd somehow gotten out of his jacket and the hoodie he'd been wearing underneath and Dean thought he could see the white of a towel against the wound.
Dean took a deep breath and slid out of the car, moving to the trunk for the first-aid kit.
Sam had moved back into the room and when Dean reached it he was already moving on to the bathroom. Dean paused long enough to slip out of his jacket before moving after his brother with their well-stocked first-aid kit.
Sam sat on the closed toilet lid, waiting on Dean. "Can you get the scissors out for me?" he asked as Dean slowly set the kit on the sink.
Dean used shaky hands to unclasp the kit and pull out the scissors. He turned to his brother and stared at the bloody towel Sam held against his shoulder.
"Dean," Sam said softly and Dean jumped a bit, finally finding his brother's face. Sam lifted his right hand with a wince. "I can get this on my own."
Sam was good at offering Dean outs. It wasn't such an obvious way of protecting his brother, but Dean had noticed every time Sam did it.
Dean knew from experience his little brother was indeed capable of patching up his own wounds, even one-handed. But he'd been the cause of this and he'd fix it.
Dean shook his head and pushed Sam's arm down gently. He took the scissors to the sleeve of his brother's shirt and cut up through the neck, gently moving Sam's hand with the towel. He cringed along with Sam at the blood soaking along Sam's collarbone.
Dean turned and set the scissors down as he grabbed a clean washcloth. He pushed the kit over slightly so he could wet the cloth and use it to wipe away some of the blood.
"Son of a bitch," Sam gritted out. Dean gritted his own teeth and focused on the wound.
The bullet had cut through the fleshy part directly above his collarbone. The angle between entrance and exit points demonstrating how Dean had pulled his aim. He grabbed another washcloth and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"How's the rest of your arm feel?" he asked quietly as the peroxide fizzled on the wound. Sam hissed and turned his head away as Dean wiped at it.
"Fine," Sam muttered. "Steady pulse in the elbow and wrist." Dean wondered when his brother had checked, but didn't ask.
Dean examined the wounds closely, wiping at the blood as it oozed out. They were both lucky: it looked as if the bullet had missed damaging anything serious. Dean couldn't even find any sign of bullet fragments.
Sam swayed slightly on the toilet and Dean put a steadying hand on his uninjured shoulder. "M'okay," Sam mumbled. Dean didn't quite believe him as he twisted to grab the suture kit.
It took eleven stitches total and Dean applied them in silence, listening closely to Sam's breathing to make sure he didn't become too distressed.
Sam turned his head to watch Dean tie off the last suture and Dean felt his eyes on him as he turned back to the first-aid kit.
The younger brother sighed as the older slathered antibiotic ointment on his shoulder. "So...you're not talking to me anymore?" Sam asked. Dean glanced at his brother, but looked away to grab a roll of sterile gauze. He set it on the edge of the sink and picked up the medical tape and scissors.
"Dean, I'm fine," Sam insisted. Dean was silent for a long minute.
"Sammy I shot you," Dean finally said, voice cracking as he avoided eye contact. He focused intently on cutting the perfect length of tape to use for the bandage.
"Dude it's as much my fault as yours," Sam said softly with a sigh. Dean looked at him in confusion and Sam's mouth quirked in a small smile. "You had no clue I'd left my warehouse. I should have yelled a warning." Dean set his strips of tape on the edge of the sink for easy access as Sam went on. "You had no reason to think I'd be in there."
"I should have been sure before I fired," Dean whispered. He gently lifted Sam's arm so he could begin to wind the gauze around his shoulder.
"You pulled your shot when you knew. Otherwise I'd have a bullet in my lung right now." Dean winced and picked up a couple of tape strips.
"Way to be comforting, Sam," he muttered. Sam chuckled.
"I don't blame you for this." Dean briefly made eye contact with his brother before securing the last piece of tape.
"Yeah well, you've always been a dumbass." Sam glared at his brother hard enough Dean looked at him.
"I'm serious, Dean. It was an accident. We're just not used to working together again yet.” That sure was true. They were starting to fall back into a familiar, comfortable, rhythm but they still seemed to get in each other’s way more than they ever had growing up.
Dean watched as his brother tried to go on. “I can't..." Sam's mouth snapped shut and he looked away. Dean gave him a moment by putting the supplies back in the kit.
"You can't what, Sam?" he asked as he closed the kit. Sam sighed and the brothers made eye contact again.
"I need to find Dad, man. And I can't do that alone. I can't do that if you're so worried about hurting me you stay away." Dean swallowed heavily and picked up the scissors he'd left out to cut away the rest of Sam's ruined t-shirt. He couldn't help but see the scar down Sam's left arm. Sam stood and put his left hand on Dean's arm.
"I know it's pointless to say this to anyone in our fucked up family," Sam began softly. "But let it go." He pushed Dean aside gently so he could wash the blood off his hands in the sink.
Sam reopened the kit and Dean cursed himself for forgetting the painkillers and antibiotics as Sam pulled the bottles out.
"We're low," Sam commented before swallowing two of each.
"I have another bottle of each in the trunk, when we need it," Dean offered. Sam shrugged with his good shoulder and pushed past Dean to the bedroom. Dean watched him for a minute as Sam kicked off his shoes and moved to the table to open his laptop.
Dean still felt numb as he cleaned up the bathroom. The bloody t-shirt, along with the towel and washcloths, were tossed into the garbage bin, Dean pulling out the bag once it was full. They'd dump the bloody stuff on their way out of town, in some back alley dumpster, probably.
Dean wiped down the toilet, tiles and sink where blood had dripped. There was enough of it he found himself looking out toward Sam to reassure himself his brother hadn't lost all of his blood.
He added the washcloth he'd used in the bag with the others and idly thought he might have to get a second trash bag. Dean turned the faucet on hot to wash the blood from his hands and found himself unable to stop.
"Dude." Dean jumped at the deep voice behind him and turned to see his younger brother in the doorway. "Some of us have to piss." It was another out, and Dean took it, ducking past Sam and into the bedroom.
Sam's bloody hoodie was at the foot of his bed and Dean couldn't help but stare at it. The sleeve was soaked and Dean knew he'd need a second trash bag after all. It wasn't like half the kid's wardrobe didn't consist of the damned things. What did it matter that he'd just lost one?
Oh yeah. Dean had shot him. The older Winchester swallowed thickly.
"Yep. Definitely trash," Sam spoke, startling Dean again. Ever since he was a kid, Sam had had the knack for sneaking up on people. Dean hadn't even heard the bathroom door open.
Sam moved past him and bent to scoop up the damaged garment. He closed his eyes as he straightened and Dean stepped forward quickly as he saw him sway. Sam's eyes reopened before he touched him and he shot his brother a smile before tossing the hoodie in the garbage bin and stepping across the room.
"I think the jacket's salvageable, though." Sam disappeared back into the bathroom, carrying his jacket. Dean stared at him when he came back out a minute later. "What?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head to clear it and sank down on the end of his bed. He scrubbed at his face with both hands. His brother sighed and Dean heard the creak of springs from the other bed.
Dean dropped his hands and looked at Sam. "I just wanted to distract you," he whispered, surprised he admitted it out loud. Even more surprised when Sam nodded slightly.
"I know," said Sam.
"You know?" Dean was confused. Sam smirked a bit and let his eyes sweep the room before falling on his big brother again. Dean recognized it as his way to kill time while he figured out how to say what he wanted.
"Practically my whole childhood was you trying to distract me, Dean. Used to be a coloring book and a handful of broken crayons. Now it's haunted warehouses. Same difference."
Dean considered the validity of the statement. He supposed he did find distraction as his best plan of action when it came to Sam. His lips quirked into a semi-smile and he was rewarded with a rare grin from Sam.
"How long have you been on to my battle tactic?" Dean asked out of curiosity. Sam shrugged more with his face than his shoulder.
"Since I was six? Dude, you can be pretty obvious sometimes."
"Man whatever," Dean said as he stood. He paused and looked at Sam seriously again. "You know I'm sorry, right?" Even though he'd asked it, Dean wasn't quite sure if he only meant for the bullet wound.
Sam gave his brother a sincere smile, one that eased the tension in Dean's chest just as much as his spoken "Yeah Dean." Sam's smile broadened. "But I so call a rain check."
"A rain check to shoot me!?" Dean asked, incredulous. Sam nodded with another grin. Dean frowned and Sam forced his face into seriousness, holding out a palm in a pose of mock innocence.
"What?" he asked in the perfect, little-brother-is-up-to-no-good, tone. "Ya never know when something like that might come in handy..." Dean rolled his eyes and moved to his own duffle bag.
"When you use up that rain check, there'd better be a goddamn good reason for it," he grumbled.
Sam laughed softly as Dean pulled out a change of clothes and moved for the bathroom. When he reached the door, he paused and looked over his shoulder at Sam. Sam made eye contact with him and gave him a reassuring smile.
Dean was tempted to tell Sam a lot of things. How scared he was of hurting him again. How much he worried about Sam's nightmares. How he didn't know if they'd ever find Dad. Hell, even just tell the kid how much he'd missed him.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was "Order a pizza. No olives. You know I hate that shit."
He went into the bathroom with a smile on his face knowing, without a doubt, there'd be extra olives waiting for him when he got out.
/end
Sam's POV in Chapter 2
-----------------------------
Final author's note: I realize it makes more sense for the boys to have gone from Pittsburgh to Toledo than Pittsburgh-San Antonio-Toledo...but since when has logic kept them from hopping around more than preschoolers on a sugar high? Plus, ya know, my imagination.
And also, nothing against Texas, but I've never been. Which is why the hunt takes place in non-descript warehouses. I'm assuming there are warehouses in Texas, both of the descript and non-descript kind. Are there warehouses in Texas?
Whatever. My crazy head, my crazy rules.