The Road Rhythm Outro, Part 6b
The rest of the day was a blur to Dean, but not in a bad way. He was beyond used to the rhythm of road life, how it breathed in and out with pulses of slow and fast: slow with traffic and suspicious receptionists, slow with grieving family members, slow with figuring out that last missing puzzle, and then fast all at once when night hit with more deaths, Dean and Sam grabbing up sawed-off rifles with bloody hands and running into abandoned buildings, tracking things that glowed and growled and bit.
Dean had his finger on the pulse of the hunting life, and he knew that any moment now, the heart rate would shoot up, fluttering about erratically. They'd interviewed four different people across town, read over the file a million times, and constructed an actual pinboard.
Watching Sam waver back and forth in front of their work like a man possessed, bobbing between written point and photo, connected with strands of yarn, was like watching a genius at work. Sam probably was a genius. Dean loved watching him work, his chest warming up with immeasurable pride.
Sam grumbled under his breath, adding pins and strings and making connections with his fingers and synapses.
"Holy shit," Sam breathed, his pupils dilating, and Dean bounced back on his heels, grinning despite himself.
"Yeah?" he asked, goading Sam on. "You find something?"
"I know why he's going after schoolteachers," Sam gasped, and was enough to set off the chain reaction, for things to really fall together.
It took them less than ten minutes to come up with a fully-formed plan, finishing each other's sentences and grabbing weapons and materials. It was like a drug for Dean, a familiar addiction. He loved it. He loved when Sam found some tiny little thread of a clue and connected it with the web of information, explaining everything and finding a way to stop it. They bounced ideas off of each other, a perfect complement, and Dean knew this hunt would be a good one. He could feel it down in his bones, could feel the passion in Sam's bones, too. Their unspoken connection was vibrating now, rising up to full power, and they'd need it to track and take down the shifter.
This, Dean knew with crystal-clear conviction, was what they were made for, two pieces that made a brilliant team when pieced together.
He couldn't stop the whoop of victory as they drove to a factory on the edge of town, ready for the kill, and Sam laughed along with him in the brightest, loveliest noise Dean had ever heard.
--
Dean came up with a plan of his own as they silently armed themselves with guns and knives, cramming weapon after weapon into the secret pockets and zippers that littered their jackets. If he really wanted Sam to be on board with him, the way to do it was to let Sam take point. He'd already let Sam piece together all of the information, keeping quiet so Sam could puzzle out anything Dean noticed himself. But if Sam led them on the actual hunt, killed the big, scary monster and saved the day, well... there was nothing better than that. Sam would see, Dean was sure.
Silver bullets, silver knives, and walkie-talkies made up the meat of their arsenal for this particular hunt. They both had silver bracelets on and flashlights hooked to their belts.
Sam fell behind Dean instinctively, but Dean slowed down, grabbing Sam by the arm. "You wanna give it a shot?" he asked, shooting Sam a wide, toothy grin.
Sam's eyebrows shot up, but he collected himself immediately, ever the professional. "I, uh, yeah, sure," he fumbled, stepping in front of Dean like he was walking on glass. It only took a few more steps for Sam to enter the headspace of his hunter-self, crouching down and moving along silently, rolling his steps from his heels to his toes with the speed and grace of a panther.
Dean was so distracted by his admiration of Sam that he almost forgot to act as backup. He mentally berated himself, gripping his pistol a little tighter and peering into the dark of the factory entrance, letting his eyes slowly adjust. The hall went left and right, their flashlights highlighting the thick layer of dust and trash on the ground. Sam looked down each way, his eyes narrowing and scanning the perimeter.
After a moment of deliberation, Sam jerked his head left, looking back at Dean for affirmation. Dean nodded at him and Sam gave him a stiff nod in response before disappearing down the right hallway. Dean took his position in the left, crawling forward, keeping his light aimed at the ground.
Sam didn't have to say anything for Dean to understand the plan. It was one of their usual ones, and a smart plan on Sam's part. They didn't actually know if the shifter would be holed up here or if he was staying elsewhere. Judging by the state of the victims, this was the type of shifter that lived on the fringes, staying away from human society. Factories and abandoned buildings were the preferred hangouts for those types, or caves, if there were any. They had all night--Dean had a sort of sixth sense that they'd catch him tonight. He wasn't worried about it.
His walkie-talkie stayed silent. Nothing on Sam's end so far, and Sam was probably at the end of the hall, just like Dean was. He pushed through a set of double doors, closing it slowly behind him to muffle the rusty whine the hinge made. He swung his flashlight around in a quick arc. He was in another hallway, and ambient moonlight lit up a wide room at the end of it. It looked like it housed some kind of assembly line. The space was huge--the ceiling was about two stories up and covered with windows. He was probably in the heart of the factory, deep down in the bowels, exactly like what a shifter would prefer.
He pressed himself up against the wall and clicked off his flashlight when he heard a bottle roll across the ground in the room before him, echoing loud and clear in the large space. He heard a scratching noise, like a piece of cardboard being dragged across the floor. He could picture the trashy den of the shifter perfectly in his mind's eye, a bird's nest made out of human detritus.
He crept forward, inching to the entrance to the room. One door out of two was left on its hinges, the other one nowhere to be seen. He stayed behind the door, watching the dark shape of a man move about through the empty window pane at the top of the door.
The shifter dug around through a backpack, facing away from Dean. Dean's heart rate shot up, and he clicked off his safety, mentally preparing to rush forward and shoot the thing in the heart.
He paused. If the building was mirrored like he thought it was, then Sam was coming up to the entrance on the other side of the building. The shifter was a little closer to Dean's side, but unmistakeable and pretty noisy. Dean imagined a layout in his head, with a little dot showing Sam's progress. By now, Sam had to have seen the shifter. Sam could do the rush, deliver the killing shot. Dean would come to his aid, as if he'd been walking just a little slower, inspected a room on the way.
A second person came into view from around a pile of broken machinery and stretched, murmuring something to the shifter.
It wasn't Sam.
Shit, there were two. They hadn't accounted for two.
Dean bit his lip and rolled his shoulders. His body warmed up and he closed his eyes, controlling his breaths. Hunts never went as planned. He'd been down this road a billion times. He just had to focus, and find another solution. There always was one.
He could risk sacrificing the element of surprise and turn on his walkie-talkie, tell Sam about the plot twist. They could both go in guns blazing and hope for the best in a two-versus-two brawl. The shifters might have guns, too, but at least the factory had several good places for cover. Lots of machinery and desks and shit. They still had the advantage, the experience.
Dean saw the briefest glint of light up by the windows and skylights, reflected by the soft, blue moonlight filtering in. Through the dark, he could see a small balcony-slash-observation deck thing at second-floor level, just beneath the window sills. Steadying his shot by hunching over and resting his elbows on the railing was none other than Sam Winchester, stealthy motherfucker and brainiac extraordinaire.
Fuck yes.
Sam had armed himself with a rifle, and Dean knew from experience that the sight on it was accurate as hell. There was practically no way Sam could miss. Dean pumped his fist in the air in silent victory, counting the seconds until the inevitable shots rang out, two in quick succession, straight to the heart. He shifted backward to get a better view, bending his knees slightly so he could sprint out if Sam needed him.
He tripped on a soda can.
He landed on his ass hard, wincing. There was definitely going to be a bruise there and his tailbone was going to be sore for weeks. Shit. There were definitely some more important things at hand than his pain. He got back up and saw two fast shadows rushing toward him, heard Sam shout out his name. One of the shadows turned around.
Dean ran at the shifter still headed toward him and recognized her as one of the teacher's assistants they'd interviewed. Or, at least he recognized the skin of the assistant. He tackled her to the ground and was quickly blindsided by a sharp punch to the jaw. He fell off of her, seeing stars. Warm blood dripped down his neck. She must've been wearing a ring. He got his bearings fast enough to avoid the slash of a sharp little blade. She shrieked like an animal, swiping blindly right and left. Her moves were predictable, and clumsy, and Dean dodged right and left, sweating bullets. He swung a leg out and caught her ankle, knocking her off balance. She rose up, righting herself, her chest practically rising up to meet the muzzle of Dean's gun.
He fired.
Her body slumped lifelessly to the ground with a muted noise, her hair spreading across the cement. A rose of red bloomed across her white blouse, marring her otherwise peaceful form. Dean wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting blood.
He looked up to the balcony.
Sam's rifle, meant for long distance, wouldn't help him now. He'd need to get out one of his pistols while avoiding the second shifter, who was just as stabby from what Dean could see. Dean ran toward them, kicking aside metal bits and pieces, not caring about the racket he made now. It didn't matter. He kept his eyes trained above, his neck aching as he stumbled to navigate over to the back wall where the stairs that led onto the balcony were situated.
"Rita!" The shifter screamed, his voice hoarse and raw. "What did you fucking do to her?"
Dean could hear the grunts and pants of combat as he approached the base of the stairs, but he couldn't get a decent vantage point to see what was going on or who had the upper hand. He could only hope the shifter was just as inexperienced as Rita-or-whoever had been. He stormed up the stairs, the metal bending and screaming underfoot. He ignored his mild fear of heights, praying that the stairs wouldn't collapse from under him.
He reached the top of the stairs just in time to see the shifter slash Sam's wrist in what summed up to a stroke of pure luck. Sam swore, and the pistol he had in his hand slipped out of his fingers and fell a story down to the factory floor below with a loud clatter. Sam's blood dripped like a broken faucet and Dean saw red, so much red, storming over with renewed energy as Sam managed to pull out a silver blade with a shaking hand.
The shifter turned toward Dean, grabbing a fistful of Sam's shirt collar as he did.
"This is for her," he spat, and jerked his hand, shoving Sam toward a break in the railing that Dean hadn't noticed they were heading toward.
Sam's body disappeared, and Dean froze, confused. His brain didn’t understand what had happened in the last couple of seconds. It couldn’t process. He heard something hit the floor. It sounded like a bag of sand. Sam had been right there and now he was not.
The next few moments were blind instinct to Dean. He could hardly recall them a moment later. He moved forward just as fast as the shifter did, maybe faster. He shot swiftly and efficiently, then fired four more shots for good measure. He stood over the body, trembling with exertion, and broke its neck with his steel-toed boot, pressed his heel down until he heard the larynx being crushed.
He looked down at the glazed over eyes and swallowed thickly, choking on air. He blinked, trying to anchor himself back to reality, to slip off the comforting blanket of denial. He took his foot off of the corpse and went to the edge of the balcony, looking down at Sam's body.
Sam was like a ragdoll, Dean noticed, his voice detached and emotionless inside his brain. His limbs were all akimbo, and one of his legs was twisted completely around at the knee. From here, he couldn’t see Sam’s chest rise up and down, couldn’t see him blink, couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t hear any breaths, either.
He took the stairs back down two at a time. One of them bent under the pressure but he didn’t notice and kept moving. He pocketed his gun and fell to his knees at Sam’s side, his hands hovering over Sam's chest but not touching. If Sam was hurting then touch might be bad. Touch might make it worse.
Shit, he sounded like a fucking caveman. Get it together, he chided himself, curling his fingers into fists and letting his fingernails dig into his palms, hard enough to bleed. To ground himself to reality. Flipping out and letting his emotions blind him wouldn't help Sam in the slightest. Sam needed Doctor Dean, needed the Dean who had practiced stitches on an orange as a teen for months until he was satisfied with the precise, straight sutures.
"Sammy?" he asked, peering closely at Sam's face. Sam's mouth was open, and now that Dean listened, he could hear Sam struggling to breathe, like a dog in labor, like an engine turning over but not igniting.
It was so dark. He pulled out his flashlight and aimed it down at Sam, saw darkness around his head in a halo and didn't understand at first.
Darker than normal blood, almost black, pooling out at a rate too fast to mean anything good. Sam was gulping like a fish out of water, gasping and straining, the noises loud and harsh in the echo chamber of the factory. His eyes were wide open, unblinking, staring up at nothing, one pupil dilated, the other blown. Like dead eyes. Like the shifter. Only Sam was breathing a little bit.
Dean detached himself again. He recalled his lessons with Dad. Black blood--broken skull. Gulping breaths--serious brain trauma. Sam had fallen sixteen feet and cracked his head open, broken his leg, and... Dean carefully probed Sam's body, but without Sam to tell him where it hurt, it wasn't the best job. Two broken ribs, maybe more. Hell, for all Dean knew, his spine was broken. Paralyzed.
He held Sam's hand. It was cold and clammy. The tips of his fingers twitched slightly against Dean's skin, which was a good sign, Dean thought, considering.
He let out a single sob but tightened his fist, drowned everything out with the sharp stab of pain. He pulled out his phone--screen cracked, wouldn't turn on, probably from that stupid motherfucking fall. God, what an idiot. What a failure.
He was wasting time. As carefully as he could, like an artist carving shapes on the head of a pin, he slipped Sam's phone out of his jacket pocket, trying not to jostle Sam. He was trying to listen to Sam's breaths for changes and trying to ignore them at the same time. It took him five tries to successfully dial nine-one-one. His fingers just weren't working and his vision was pretty blurry.
He didn't really remember telling the operator what happened, but she was telling him to calm down in voice annoyingly lacking inflection. Why the fuck wasn't she freaking out? This was Sam they were talking about. Dean wanted to strangle her.
He didn't know how long he sat there, holding Sam's hand. He traded off between looking at Sam and looking anywhere but, traded off between talking to Sam and staying absolutely silent.
All at once the place was flooded with paramedics and lights. They murmured for a bit, and he managed to get back inside his head long enough to tell them that they'd gone exploring and Sam had fallen from the balcony. A paramedic put a blanket around his shoulders and he watched them maneuver Sam onto a gurney, and then away.
Rolling Sam down a hallway that he'd run through not so long ago. Helping him breathe when he could do it just fine on his own less than an hour before.
Dean let himself be herded after Sam, tolerating the hand at the small of his back, ignoring the voice at his ear. He watched the top of Sam's head. His hair was all sticky and matted with blood and bits of skull. And bits of other things.
Dean paused to throw up, one of the paramedics staying with him, and Sam disappeared around the corner in a flurry of activity and shouted-out medical jargon.
"Sir, you've got to calm down," Handsy Paramedic said, and he brushed off all of her little invading hands, and went jogging after Sam. He pushed out into the open air, ignoring the chill, his breath puffing out in front of him. They were loading Sam into an ambulance. He had an oxygen mask covering his mouth and a brace on his neck. Something was beeping incessantly. One of Sam’s hands slipped off of his chest and fell off the edge of the gurney, his fingers brushing the floor of the ambulance. A paramedic placed the hand back on Sam’s chest.
His paramedic caught up. "Do you want to ride with him?" she asked quietly, touching his arm.
He shrugged her off. "Where is it going?" he asked instead, his voice sounding fuzzy and detached.
"St. Joseph's," she said, and he nodded. It didn't mean anything to him. He didn't even know why he'd asked.
"I'll take my car," he murmured, walking away from her without looking back.
The Impala felt unfamiliar around him as he tailed the ambulance down some quiet country road, the sirens blaring, advertising Sam's hurt. He wanted them to shut up. If they shut up, it wasn't an emergency, and Sam would be fine. Sam had to be fine, obviously, he'd just gotten him back for real. He couldn't, he couldn't--
He slammed his hand on the wheel, smearing blood over it. "He's okay," he said out loud, and looked at his eyes in the rear view mirror. The eyes of a liar.
Dean wanted to beep at the ambulance to get its fucking act together and speed up but he didn't think it would help Sam get better. It might make things worse.
The hospital was twenty minutes away, but it felt longer than Hell, felt like fifty years. He could practically see Sam's blood dripping out from under the ambulance door, running across the license plate and onto the ground. Drip, drip, drip, until his heart went slower and slower and stopped.
The rest of the night was a half-remembered buzz. He didn't fight when they wouldn't let him enter the E.R. with Sam. He sat in the waiting room, jiggling his knee and biting his lip. He ignored the stares of the other patrons, except to glare at a lady who tightened her grip on her purse.
When the doctor came to get him, he had to physically shake himself to focus on what she was saying. He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours but Sam needed him. He needed to listen to her to know how to help Sam.
It all really sunk in when he heard the words coma and massive brain damage. Unlikely to wake up. Life support. His vision greyed out and he slid quietly to the ground, shutting his eyes and letting the nothingness take him away from it all.
Part Seven