Fic: Nothing's Left Unturned (Dean, Sam, Bobby, gen, PG-13)
Title: Nothing's Left Unturned
Rated: PG-13
Genre: Drama/Family
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Word Count: 2,991
Summary: Working with Bela again proves to be problematic for the boys. Cue the angst.
Set in season 3.
"I can't even remember why we agreed to help you in the first place." Dean scowled.
"Come now, darling, you both needed this as much as I did." Bela flicked a hand dismissively. She rounded the length of the table, her eyes on the little velvet bag.
"Didn't make working with you any more of a treat," he grumbled.
Her smile was feline as she came in close. "I happen to think it was a mutually beneficial arrangement." She enunciated the t with relish.
There was a click of handcuffs locking into place, and Dean stopped dead, eyes wide. "You didn't."
The jangle when he moved his wrist said she did.
"I can't help it, I'm addicted to the look on your face when I win." With a smile like the cat who got the cream, Bela picked up the diamonds, waving delicately. "I'm sure the feds will be along momentarily. Ciao now."
"BELA!" Dean roared, pulling at his restraints angrily.
Her laugh tinkled back to him from the hallway.
"Damn it," Dean muttered, twisting awkwardly in an attempt to get to the paper clip tucked into his wallet. Damn Bela and her damn conniving and seriously, why the hell did he and Sam keep falling for this shit-
Bela reappeared suddenly in the doorway, putting a hand on her hip and raising an eyebrow before tsking lightly.
"Now Dean," she said, looking appraisingly at him. "Did you really think you could get away with that?"
Dean stopped squirming and put on his best innocent face, but judging by Bela's expression she wasn't buying.
"Can't have you escaping too quickly and setting them on my tail," she continued, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small handgun.
"You have got to be kidding me," Dean said, shaking his head. "Are you seriously going to shoot me? With that thing?"
"Do you think it won't hurt?" Bela asked. "Perhaps we should give it a try, hmm?"
"Bela-"
"It's only fair, after all. I've shot Sam; it doesn't seem right to let you go off without a scratch. What do you think?"
Dean sighed heavily. "I think," he said, "if you're going to shoot me, shoot me. Enough with the damn monologuing already."
Bela shrugged. "You asked for it," she said, and fired.
xxxx
Three Weeks Later
The Impala's familiar low rumble roused Bobby from a light doze and he levered himself from the couch with a groan, stiff joints reminding him that he was no longer a young man and too old to sleep sitting up. He glanced at his watch; the boys had made good time. He walked out to the porch, petting Rumsfeld on the head, and watched as the Winchesters extricated themselves from the car.
Sam got out of the driver's seat and rounded the car quickly, stooping eagerly to help Dean. Dean, for his part, looked pissed. Come to think of it, Sam did too. Some low words were exchanged before Dean ducked out of the car, left arm in a sling, face pale. He stumbled a bit upon standing upright and batted Sam's hands away when his brother reached toward him.
"Hey boys," Bobby said, smiling at them. "How was the trip?"
"Great," said Sam. Dean didn't say anything, but judging by his glower he wanted to flip them both the bird. "Dean slept the whole way. It was awesome," Sam continued.
"That's because you slipped me sleeping pills," Dean hissed, glaring sideways at his brother. Bobby raised an eyebrow.
"I did," Sam said, unapologetically. "Even had to haul his unconscious ass to the car." Dean flushed and Bobby whistled. When Sam Winchester was determined…
"Well, come on in," Bobby said. "No sense standing around out here." Dean stomped up the stairs, jaw set, brushing past Bobby without a word. Sam came after him, a sheepish smile on his face.
"Sorry about this," he said.
"Don't be," Bobby answered, then lowered his voice. "How pissed is he?"
Sam sighed. "Remember that time he got roped in by a succubus in 11th grade?"
"Yeah."
"Worse than that."
"Oh balls," Bobby said. Sam smiled wryly and they walked into the house.
Dean had already gotten settled on the couch, a beer in one hand, but he didn't appear to be drinking it.
"I'll grab you a beer," Sam said to Bobby, disappearing into the kitchen.
"Don't think I don't know you're involved with this," Dean said, aiming his beer at Bobby.
"Your brother told me what's going on. I said you could come here, that's it."
Dean glared at him.
"And I already set up an appointment at the hospital for tomorrow."
"Damn it Bobby!" Dean exploded. "You think a month-old, untreated bullet wound isn't going to attract attention?"
"No," Bobby answered mildly. "Probably attract all kinds of attention."
Dean blinked, clearly not expecting Bobby to agree so readily. "Yeah," he said finally. "It will. How are we gonna get around that one?"
Bobby shrugged as Sam walked in and handed him a beer. "I've lived here a long time, son, got more than a few people who owe me favors."
Dean continued to scowl, clearly unconvinced.
"What, you think hospitals don't get haunted?" Bobby asked. "People die there every day, can't expect all of 'em to go peacefully. I've got something worked out with the folks over at Sanford. Won't be a problem to get you checked out."
"Which means you have no more excuses, Dean," Sam said. Both his tone and Dean's cold reaction confirmed that something had definitely gone between the brothers.
"I'm tired," Dean said, standing slowly. "I'm going to bed." He left his beer on the floor and made his way slowly out of the room. Bobby waited for the clomp of boots to fade up the stairs and the sound of the door shutting before looking at Sam. He gestured to the kitchen table, where they sat down across from each other.
"Well," Bobby said. "You wanna start at the beginning?"
xxxx
Sam hated Bela. That was the second thing that came to mind as he came to, right behind the throbbing headache that he had gotten courtesy of what he assumed was the butt of a gun. Bela's gun. Damn it all to hell. The next time she had an idea, even one that seemed good on the surface, he was going to punch her in the face and then let Dean go at her. Well, he amended, maybe he wouldn't let Dean go. No sense adding an actual murder to his brother's already souped-up rap sheet.
"You mind telling me why in the hell you idjits decided to work with her again?" Bobby interjected. Sam sighed.
"We were going after an Egyptian brooch that was cursed. It was owned by a rich politician, Rick Summers? Heard of him?"
Bobby grunted an affirmation.
"Well, he kept it in a vault. We aren't exactly safe-breakers, and Bela was in town to get a few diamonds that also happened to be in the same vault…seemed like a win-win."
"Until she pistol-whipped you and shot your brother."
Sam shrugged and nodded.
"Did you at least get the brooch?"
Sam flushed.
"Idjits."
The realization that he was alone came like a physical blow. Sam had been tasked with watching the security cameras as Dean and Bela cracked the safe, but if Bela had knocked him out and Dean hadn't come for him yet… well. He knew what that meant.
"Dean?" Sam grunted, struggling to climb to his feet. The room spun around him for a moment before righting itself. Sam managed to gain some balance and lurched toward the door, glancing at the security screen as he did so.
"Damn it," he cursed. There were at least two SUVs at the front gate, agents swarming the area. Looked like the Feds had shown up after all.
He rushed into the hallway just in time to see Bela's retreating form and considered chasing her for all of two seconds before barreling toward the vault.
"Sam?" Dean asked, wide-eyed, as Sam careened into the room. Sam stopped short, breathing heavily, staring at Dean-who was bleeding from his damn shoulder again.
"Your brother's shoulder's gotta be magnetic," Bobby commented. Sam laughed bitterly but didn't argue.
"You look like shit," Dean said, blinking.
"So do you," Sam said, absently brushing blood from his forehead.
"She pistol-whip you?" Dean asked as Sam deftly picked the handcuff.
"Yep," Sam said. "And she shot you?"
"Yeah," Dean said, grunting as his arm was freed. He curled it in tight to his chest, face going white.
"Damn it," Sam said, reaching for Dean's jacket. Dean weakly blocked his hand.
"Don't have time," he said heavily. "Bela called us in."
Sam let loose a string of curses that had Dean raising his eyebrows, then looped Dean's arm over his shoulder.
"I can walk," Dean said. Sam ignored him.
They stumbled out the back door, Sam thanking God or whoever the hell was listening that Dean's paranoid love of the Impala had inspired him to park behind the house rather than the front. Sam practically threw Dean into the passenger seat, since blood loss trumped concussion in the Winchester Scale Of When Not To Drive and they got the hell out of dodge.
xxxx
"So that's how it happened, huh?" Bobby asked, sipping at his beer.
"Yeah, pretty much," Sam said. "Dean was bitching the whole time about it and 'why does everyone act like getting shot in the shoulder is a piece of cake, Sam?' but I thought he'd recover. He always did before."
Bobby didn't miss the guilt lacing Sam's tone and sighed. "Don't you start that," he said gruffly.
Sam nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "He can't move his hand," he said quietly. "And I know he's in pain."
"We'll get it seen to," Bobby said. "And he'll be okay."
"Mmm," Sam hummed in response, but it was clear that there was something troubling him. Bobby remained quiet; had it been the older Winchester he'd have pushed, but he knew that Sam would almost certainly talk of his own accord.
"He said it doesn't matter," Sam said finally, his voice quiet. "He said we shouldn't bother, that it's not worth it."
Bobby exhaled softly, shaking his head. "Because of his deal," he said. It wasn't a question. Sam's grip on his beer tightened, knuckles going white, and he swallowed thickly.
"He's already given up," he whispered and damn did he sound shredded. "I-I don't know what to do. We've only got four months, Bobby. Four months. What am I supposed to do?"
Bobby was quiet for a second, chewing the inside of his lip. He was unable to provide a good answer to that question to himself, let alone to Sam.
"We take care of him," Bobby said finally. "And we keep looking for a way to change things. Until then, though, we drag his ass to the hospital and we look out for him and we make sure he knows that he isn't alone."
Sam gulped the last of his beer and nodded, sitting back in his chair. "I can do that," he said. "At least until he's better."
"Damn straight you can," Bobby said. "And remember that you're not alone either, huh Sam?"
Sam smiled faintly and nodded again.
"I'll go check on him and then I think I'll go to bed too," he said. "I'm pretty wiped."
Bobby watched him go and shook his head as he finished off his beer. Damn Winchesters.
xxxx
Dean's mood hadn't improved much by morning. He grumbled and growled all the way to the hospital and refused to answer the doctor's questions beyond grunted one word responses, leaving Sam to helpfully fill in his brother's incredibly expansive medical history as Dean glared at him.
Once scans had been taken and tests run, the doctor stepped out to look things over, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the room.
"Well, looks like Bobby's contact worked like a charm," Sam commented. Dean grunted, in agreement or annoyance Sam couldn't tell, then fell silent again.
"Dean," Sam said quietly. "I'm sorry I drugged you, okay?" Dean glanced sideways at him but didn't make eye contact. Time to pull out the big guns.
"You just- you scared me," Sam said, allowing emotion to bleed through his tone. Dean shifted uncomfortably and Sam could tell he was getting through. "You know we're going to figure something out, right?"
Dean huffed a sharp breath out and shook his head. "No Sam," he said, shaking his head. "Not if it means-"
"What? Me dying again? Who was it that told me dead things should stay dead, huh Dean?"
Dean looked at him now, actually looked at him, and he looked haunted and scared and desperate.
"Sam-"
Sam shook his head. "I don't wanna argue Dean," he said. "Just know that we're not letting you go so easy, huh? Me and Bobby, we're going to figure something out that will let us both stick around a while longer so you've gotta be fighting fit. Got it?"
Dean sighed and nodded, blinking rapidly. "Fine," he said, his tone hard. "But if it puts you in danger, either of you, you stop. I'll make you stop."
"Fair enough," Sam said. They both knew he didn't mean it.
They were quiet a few more minutes before Dean cleared his throat.
"I'm glad you're here, Sam," he said finally.
"Me too," Sam answered.
xxxx
Turned out the bullet had ripped right through a big nerve cluster in Dean's shoulder, explaining both the pain and lack of mobility. The good news was that it was likely reversible; the bad news was that it would require surgery. Dean was less than thrilled about the prospect but at Sam's glare and harshly mouthed 'FIGHTING FIT' he huffed and gave in. They scheduled it for the next day (and Sam was more and more impressed by Bobby's contacts because not only were they not paying for any of this, they were getting the VIP treatment) and then sent them home with a bag of painkillers and orders not to eat after six that night.
It ended up being a surprisingly nice afternoon.
Bobby was working on a beat up old truck and while Dean couldn't really help, he and Sam sat out in the sun, listening to Dean's old cassette tapes and talking to Bobby about the old times while he worked. It was probably the most relaxed any of them had been since Dean's deal, and it felt good.
At one point, Sam went inside for a moment leaving Dean and Bobby alone outside. Bobby emerged from beneath the hood of the truck and approached Dean, wiping his hands on a rag.
"I'm gonna say this once," he said, pointing one black-tinged finger at Dean. "I ever catch wind of you saying that you aren't worth it again, we're gonna come to blows."
Dean snorted. "I don't think you want to do that, Bobby," he said, shaking his head.
"Hey, I fight dirty," Bobby said. "And I mean it."
Dean looked down, working his jaw. "You know I didn't mean it like that. Not that I'm not worth it, just that-"
"I know damn well what you meant, and I know why you made that damn deal in the first place. My threat stands."
Dean smiled and shook his head, unable to stop a fond chuckle from escaping. "Fine, old man. Just know that if we ever get in a fight, I'm not goin' easy on you."
"I'd expect no less," Bobby answered.
xxxx
The surgery went well, for once; no complications or problems and while they wouldn't know how much range was back for a few weeks, the doctors figured Dean's shoulder should be almost as good as new. For the meantime, though, he was stuck on the couch hopped up on painkillers with his shoulder completely immobilized.
"Damn it, Sammy, this is gonna suck out loud," he muttered as Sam helped prop pillows up behind him. "Damn Bela, man, I'm gonna kill her."
"I know, Dean," Sam said, his tone appeasing. Dean scowled at him.
"Don't patronize me," he grumbled.
"I'm not," Sam said. "And actually, I've got a surprise for you." Dean's expression remained suspicious. Sam grinned and settled down on the couch, draping Dean's legs over his, and turned on the TV.
"The TV?" Dean muttered. "That's my surprise."
"Netflix," Sam answered.
"Netflix?"
Sam nodded. "Yep. And do you know how many seasons of Dr. Sexy are on there?"
Dean's eyes widened, then narrowed in a second flat.
"What are you doing?" He asked, still frowning.
"Nothing," Sam grinned. "Figured you'd get bored, is all. And I'm always down for a little binge watching."
Dean sighed and shook his head, then grinned. "Great," he said. "Then let's just start from the beginning. It's hard to keep track of his love life when hunts keep getting in the way."
Sam rolled his eyes and started the episode and for just a moment, everything felt right.
Rated: PG-13
Genre: Drama/Family
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Word Count: 2,991
Summary: Working with Bela again proves to be problematic for the boys. Cue the angst.
Set in season 3.
"I can't even remember why we agreed to help you in the first place." Dean scowled.
"Come now, darling, you both needed this as much as I did." Bela flicked a hand dismissively. She rounded the length of the table, her eyes on the little velvet bag.
"Didn't make working with you any more of a treat," he grumbled.
Her smile was feline as she came in close. "I happen to think it was a mutually beneficial arrangement." She enunciated the t with relish.
There was a click of handcuffs locking into place, and Dean stopped dead, eyes wide. "You didn't."
The jangle when he moved his wrist said she did.
"I can't help it, I'm addicted to the look on your face when I win." With a smile like the cat who got the cream, Bela picked up the diamonds, waving delicately. "I'm sure the feds will be along momentarily. Ciao now."
"BELA!" Dean roared, pulling at his restraints angrily.
Her laugh tinkled back to him from the hallway.
"Damn it," Dean muttered, twisting awkwardly in an attempt to get to the paper clip tucked into his wallet. Damn Bela and her damn conniving and seriously, why the hell did he and Sam keep falling for this shit-
Bela reappeared suddenly in the doorway, putting a hand on her hip and raising an eyebrow before tsking lightly.
"Now Dean," she said, looking appraisingly at him. "Did you really think you could get away with that?"
Dean stopped squirming and put on his best innocent face, but judging by Bela's expression she wasn't buying.
"Can't have you escaping too quickly and setting them on my tail," she continued, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small handgun.
"You have got to be kidding me," Dean said, shaking his head. "Are you seriously going to shoot me? With that thing?"
"Do you think it won't hurt?" Bela asked. "Perhaps we should give it a try, hmm?"
"Bela-"
"It's only fair, after all. I've shot Sam; it doesn't seem right to let you go off without a scratch. What do you think?"
Dean sighed heavily. "I think," he said, "if you're going to shoot me, shoot me. Enough with the damn monologuing already."
Bela shrugged. "You asked for it," she said, and fired.
xxxx
Three Weeks Later
The Impala's familiar low rumble roused Bobby from a light doze and he levered himself from the couch with a groan, stiff joints reminding him that he was no longer a young man and too old to sleep sitting up. He glanced at his watch; the boys had made good time. He walked out to the porch, petting Rumsfeld on the head, and watched as the Winchesters extricated themselves from the car.
Sam got out of the driver's seat and rounded the car quickly, stooping eagerly to help Dean. Dean, for his part, looked pissed. Come to think of it, Sam did too. Some low words were exchanged before Dean ducked out of the car, left arm in a sling, face pale. He stumbled a bit upon standing upright and batted Sam's hands away when his brother reached toward him.
"Hey boys," Bobby said, smiling at them. "How was the trip?"
"Great," said Sam. Dean didn't say anything, but judging by his glower he wanted to flip them both the bird. "Dean slept the whole way. It was awesome," Sam continued.
"That's because you slipped me sleeping pills," Dean hissed, glaring sideways at his brother. Bobby raised an eyebrow.
"I did," Sam said, unapologetically. "Even had to haul his unconscious ass to the car." Dean flushed and Bobby whistled. When Sam Winchester was determined…
"Well, come on in," Bobby said. "No sense standing around out here." Dean stomped up the stairs, jaw set, brushing past Bobby without a word. Sam came after him, a sheepish smile on his face.
"Sorry about this," he said.
"Don't be," Bobby answered, then lowered his voice. "How pissed is he?"
Sam sighed. "Remember that time he got roped in by a succubus in 11th grade?"
"Yeah."
"Worse than that."
"Oh balls," Bobby said. Sam smiled wryly and they walked into the house.
Dean had already gotten settled on the couch, a beer in one hand, but he didn't appear to be drinking it.
"I'll grab you a beer," Sam said to Bobby, disappearing into the kitchen.
"Don't think I don't know you're involved with this," Dean said, aiming his beer at Bobby.
"Your brother told me what's going on. I said you could come here, that's it."
Dean glared at him.
"And I already set up an appointment at the hospital for tomorrow."
"Damn it Bobby!" Dean exploded. "You think a month-old, untreated bullet wound isn't going to attract attention?"
"No," Bobby answered mildly. "Probably attract all kinds of attention."
Dean blinked, clearly not expecting Bobby to agree so readily. "Yeah," he said finally. "It will. How are we gonna get around that one?"
Bobby shrugged as Sam walked in and handed him a beer. "I've lived here a long time, son, got more than a few people who owe me favors."
Dean continued to scowl, clearly unconvinced.
"What, you think hospitals don't get haunted?" Bobby asked. "People die there every day, can't expect all of 'em to go peacefully. I've got something worked out with the folks over at Sanford. Won't be a problem to get you checked out."
"Which means you have no more excuses, Dean," Sam said. Both his tone and Dean's cold reaction confirmed that something had definitely gone between the brothers.
"I'm tired," Dean said, standing slowly. "I'm going to bed." He left his beer on the floor and made his way slowly out of the room. Bobby waited for the clomp of boots to fade up the stairs and the sound of the door shutting before looking at Sam. He gestured to the kitchen table, where they sat down across from each other.
"Well," Bobby said. "You wanna start at the beginning?"
xxxx
Sam hated Bela. That was the second thing that came to mind as he came to, right behind the throbbing headache that he had gotten courtesy of what he assumed was the butt of a gun. Bela's gun. Damn it all to hell. The next time she had an idea, even one that seemed good on the surface, he was going to punch her in the face and then let Dean go at her. Well, he amended, maybe he wouldn't let Dean go. No sense adding an actual murder to his brother's already souped-up rap sheet.
"You mind telling me why in the hell you idjits decided to work with her again?" Bobby interjected. Sam sighed.
"We were going after an Egyptian brooch that was cursed. It was owned by a rich politician, Rick Summers? Heard of him?"
Bobby grunted an affirmation.
"Well, he kept it in a vault. We aren't exactly safe-breakers, and Bela was in town to get a few diamonds that also happened to be in the same vault…seemed like a win-win."
"Until she pistol-whipped you and shot your brother."
Sam shrugged and nodded.
"Did you at least get the brooch?"
Sam flushed.
"Idjits."
The realization that he was alone came like a physical blow. Sam had been tasked with watching the security cameras as Dean and Bela cracked the safe, but if Bela had knocked him out and Dean hadn't come for him yet… well. He knew what that meant.
"Dean?" Sam grunted, struggling to climb to his feet. The room spun around him for a moment before righting itself. Sam managed to gain some balance and lurched toward the door, glancing at the security screen as he did so.
"Damn it," he cursed. There were at least two SUVs at the front gate, agents swarming the area. Looked like the Feds had shown up after all.
He rushed into the hallway just in time to see Bela's retreating form and considered chasing her for all of two seconds before barreling toward the vault.
"Sam?" Dean asked, wide-eyed, as Sam careened into the room. Sam stopped short, breathing heavily, staring at Dean-who was bleeding from his damn shoulder again.
"Your brother's shoulder's gotta be magnetic," Bobby commented. Sam laughed bitterly but didn't argue.
"You look like shit," Dean said, blinking.
"So do you," Sam said, absently brushing blood from his forehead.
"She pistol-whip you?" Dean asked as Sam deftly picked the handcuff.
"Yep," Sam said. "And she shot you?"
"Yeah," Dean said, grunting as his arm was freed. He curled it in tight to his chest, face going white.
"Damn it," Sam said, reaching for Dean's jacket. Dean weakly blocked his hand.
"Don't have time," he said heavily. "Bela called us in."
Sam let loose a string of curses that had Dean raising his eyebrows, then looped Dean's arm over his shoulder.
"I can walk," Dean said. Sam ignored him.
They stumbled out the back door, Sam thanking God or whoever the hell was listening that Dean's paranoid love of the Impala had inspired him to park behind the house rather than the front. Sam practically threw Dean into the passenger seat, since blood loss trumped concussion in the Winchester Scale Of When Not To Drive and they got the hell out of dodge.
xxxx
"So that's how it happened, huh?" Bobby asked, sipping at his beer.
"Yeah, pretty much," Sam said. "Dean was bitching the whole time about it and 'why does everyone act like getting shot in the shoulder is a piece of cake, Sam?' but I thought he'd recover. He always did before."
Bobby didn't miss the guilt lacing Sam's tone and sighed. "Don't you start that," he said gruffly.
Sam nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "He can't move his hand," he said quietly. "And I know he's in pain."
"We'll get it seen to," Bobby said. "And he'll be okay."
"Mmm," Sam hummed in response, but it was clear that there was something troubling him. Bobby remained quiet; had it been the older Winchester he'd have pushed, but he knew that Sam would almost certainly talk of his own accord.
"He said it doesn't matter," Sam said finally, his voice quiet. "He said we shouldn't bother, that it's not worth it."
Bobby exhaled softly, shaking his head. "Because of his deal," he said. It wasn't a question. Sam's grip on his beer tightened, knuckles going white, and he swallowed thickly.
"He's already given up," he whispered and damn did he sound shredded. "I-I don't know what to do. We've only got four months, Bobby. Four months. What am I supposed to do?"
Bobby was quiet for a second, chewing the inside of his lip. He was unable to provide a good answer to that question to himself, let alone to Sam.
"We take care of him," Bobby said finally. "And we keep looking for a way to change things. Until then, though, we drag his ass to the hospital and we look out for him and we make sure he knows that he isn't alone."
Sam gulped the last of his beer and nodded, sitting back in his chair. "I can do that," he said. "At least until he's better."
"Damn straight you can," Bobby said. "And remember that you're not alone either, huh Sam?"
Sam smiled faintly and nodded again.
"I'll go check on him and then I think I'll go to bed too," he said. "I'm pretty wiped."
Bobby watched him go and shook his head as he finished off his beer. Damn Winchesters.
xxxx
Dean's mood hadn't improved much by morning. He grumbled and growled all the way to the hospital and refused to answer the doctor's questions beyond grunted one word responses, leaving Sam to helpfully fill in his brother's incredibly expansive medical history as Dean glared at him.
Once scans had been taken and tests run, the doctor stepped out to look things over, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the room.
"Well, looks like Bobby's contact worked like a charm," Sam commented. Dean grunted, in agreement or annoyance Sam couldn't tell, then fell silent again.
"Dean," Sam said quietly. "I'm sorry I drugged you, okay?" Dean glanced sideways at him but didn't make eye contact. Time to pull out the big guns.
"You just- you scared me," Sam said, allowing emotion to bleed through his tone. Dean shifted uncomfortably and Sam could tell he was getting through. "You know we're going to figure something out, right?"
Dean huffed a sharp breath out and shook his head. "No Sam," he said, shaking his head. "Not if it means-"
"What? Me dying again? Who was it that told me dead things should stay dead, huh Dean?"
Dean looked at him now, actually looked at him, and he looked haunted and scared and desperate.
"Sam-"
Sam shook his head. "I don't wanna argue Dean," he said. "Just know that we're not letting you go so easy, huh? Me and Bobby, we're going to figure something out that will let us both stick around a while longer so you've gotta be fighting fit. Got it?"
Dean sighed and nodded, blinking rapidly. "Fine," he said, his tone hard. "But if it puts you in danger, either of you, you stop. I'll make you stop."
"Fair enough," Sam said. They both knew he didn't mean it.
They were quiet a few more minutes before Dean cleared his throat.
"I'm glad you're here, Sam," he said finally.
"Me too," Sam answered.
xxxx
Turned out the bullet had ripped right through a big nerve cluster in Dean's shoulder, explaining both the pain and lack of mobility. The good news was that it was likely reversible; the bad news was that it would require surgery. Dean was less than thrilled about the prospect but at Sam's glare and harshly mouthed 'FIGHTING FIT' he huffed and gave in. They scheduled it for the next day (and Sam was more and more impressed by Bobby's contacts because not only were they not paying for any of this, they were getting the VIP treatment) and then sent them home with a bag of painkillers and orders not to eat after six that night.
It ended up being a surprisingly nice afternoon.
Bobby was working on a beat up old truck and while Dean couldn't really help, he and Sam sat out in the sun, listening to Dean's old cassette tapes and talking to Bobby about the old times while he worked. It was probably the most relaxed any of them had been since Dean's deal, and it felt good.
At one point, Sam went inside for a moment leaving Dean and Bobby alone outside. Bobby emerged from beneath the hood of the truck and approached Dean, wiping his hands on a rag.
"I'm gonna say this once," he said, pointing one black-tinged finger at Dean. "I ever catch wind of you saying that you aren't worth it again, we're gonna come to blows."
Dean snorted. "I don't think you want to do that, Bobby," he said, shaking his head.
"Hey, I fight dirty," Bobby said. "And I mean it."
Dean looked down, working his jaw. "You know I didn't mean it like that. Not that I'm not worth it, just that-"
"I know damn well what you meant, and I know why you made that damn deal in the first place. My threat stands."
Dean smiled and shook his head, unable to stop a fond chuckle from escaping. "Fine, old man. Just know that if we ever get in a fight, I'm not goin' easy on you."
"I'd expect no less," Bobby answered.
xxxx
The surgery went well, for once; no complications or problems and while they wouldn't know how much range was back for a few weeks, the doctors figured Dean's shoulder should be almost as good as new. For the meantime, though, he was stuck on the couch hopped up on painkillers with his shoulder completely immobilized.
"Damn it, Sammy, this is gonna suck out loud," he muttered as Sam helped prop pillows up behind him. "Damn Bela, man, I'm gonna kill her."
"I know, Dean," Sam said, his tone appeasing. Dean scowled at him.
"Don't patronize me," he grumbled.
"I'm not," Sam said. "And actually, I've got a surprise for you." Dean's expression remained suspicious. Sam grinned and settled down on the couch, draping Dean's legs over his, and turned on the TV.
"The TV?" Dean muttered. "That's my surprise."
"Netflix," Sam answered.
"Netflix?"
Sam nodded. "Yep. And do you know how many seasons of Dr. Sexy are on there?"
Dean's eyes widened, then narrowed in a second flat.
"What are you doing?" He asked, still frowning.
"Nothing," Sam grinned. "Figured you'd get bored, is all. And I'm always down for a little binge watching."
Dean sighed and shook his head, then grinned. "Great," he said. "Then let's just start from the beginning. It's hard to keep track of his love life when hunts keep getting in the way."
Sam rolled his eyes and started the episode and for just a moment, everything felt right.