Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 10 ~ part 2

[jackfan2]

The Chevy rumbled as Sam pulled the car up to the parking spot in front of their motel room. Killing the engine he exhaled loudly.

Exhaustion had hit him hard on the long drive back; the farm had been north of the city, a good two hours’ drive out and their motel was on the south side, another two hours. Still recovering from the flu, Sam wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that was still a ways off, even now.

Dean had managed to remain conscious, and Sam had no idea how. At one point he’d demanded music, so Sam had relented and put in AC/DC. Between bouts of slurred chatter, Dean sang, his voice groggy and hoarse, lacking its usual Dean-like enthusiasm, though that didn't stop him.

Sam carded a hand through his hair and stifled a cough. He gazed in the rear-view mirror and caught Dean's eye.

Amidst all the blood and dirt and pain lines running deep on his face, was concern. "Y’all right, Sammy?"

That confirmed in Sam's mind that his older brother's punch-drunk singing had all been for Sam's benefit. Naturally. "I'm fine Dean," Sam huffed in return.

There was a moment's hesitation before Dean, seemingly accepting Sam's word, sank back against his seat, careful of his back. The singing continued and Sam couldn't hide the small smile. No way he'd tell Dean that the tone-deaf caterwauling had actually helped. That it had comforted him.

But then, Dean probably already knew that.

The Impala maneuvered into the parking lot and as if it knew the way, it rumbled forward until it filled the space in front of their door and came to a halt. Shifting into park, Sam silenced the engine, dropped his head and sighed.

Dean was still singing, though it was little more than a whisper now.

A smile tugged at one side of Sam's mouth and for the first time in hours, he felt some relief. They were home. Dean was home. He was alive.

Bolstered by the thoughts, Sam felt his mood shift. Stealing his resolve, he pocketed the keys, tugged at the door handle and pulled. The door gave its familiar creak and Sam was out, moving around the car in large, determined strides, ready to haul his barely conscious brother out of the Chevy's backseat and into the safety of their room.

Sam no sooner got the back door open than he jerked back in surprise.

Somehow Dean had managed to sit up, though it could hardly be called sitting, it was more like angling. His side, rather than his back, took most of the weight. He was leaning, pressed into the back rest, facing the passenger side window. Sam didn’t bother asking why.

“Home ‘lready?” Dean slurred. His head wobbled upright and he squinted at his over-bright world, taking in his surroundings before looking at Sam. “Th’ wasn’t s’ bad.”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned and knelt down in front of him. “So long as you don’t mind being serenaded by the karaoke king.”

“F-fuck," Dean coughed. "Fuck karaoke,” he grimaced as the movement pulled at his sides. "’M the real deal.”

“Sure, you are.” Sam’s cheeks dimpled. “Well, you ready to do this thing?” Without waiting for an answer, Sam tugged the blanket out of the way to get at his brother's arm.

“Born," Dean hissed as Sam lifted the limb, "...ready.”

“Sure ya are," Sam said moving in close, trying to ignore his brother's grunts and groans. "C’mon," he said pulling Dean’s arm across his shoulder, mindful of his bloodied wrists. “Let’s get you inside.”

Leaning away from the car, Sam straightened, hauling Dean up with him.

The change of position left Dean gasping. “M’ not a baby,” he groaned through clenched teeth and as if to prove the point, tried to shift his weight away.

“Wha-” Sam startled. "Hey!” he yelped, unprepared for his brother's attempt at independent movement. At the first feel of his brother's loss of altitude, he grabbed at Dean's arm.

Before Sam could reel him in, the obvious pain from his own weight sent Dean into a tail-spin. He executed an awkward sort of crow-hopping, hot-footed dance and just as Sam got him back under control, emitted a teeth grinding groan of pain.

Sam got his arm back over his shoulder and his weight shifted off his feet before Dean could make a bigger fool of himself.

In the end, Sam managed to save him from a face-plant to the pavement, but only just. Afterwards they just stood there, waiting for the world to catch up. Sam trying to rein in his frustrated worry and Dean, probably trying to figure out which way was up and which way was down. Sam was quite certain that little dance hadn't done Dean's seemingly fucked up feet any favors.

"Th-" Dean inhaled a shallow breath, "-‘t was a bad idea."

"Ya' think?" Sam snapped, but managed a light but firm tone. “Just... let me do all the work.”

“Son of a…,” Dean breathed out but otherwise relented with a quick nod. "Bossy."

Sam easily bullied him back and took the majority of Dean’s weight. A fully compliant brother, however, gave Sam more than he’d bargained for. Dean's full weight nearly buckled his knees.

“Jeeze, you’re heavy,” he huffed, adjusting his hold and moving them slowly toward the door. He noticed how Dean shuffled and remembered him doing much the same at the farm, though not as severely. “What's with your feet, man?”

“Burned.”

Sam brought them to a stop. "What?" he asked, staring at his brother's face in confusion. "How?"

"Per- er Bill had his fun with the lil' cow shocking stick."

"Son of a bitch," Sam whispered, wishing Brimmer was alive all of a sudden, so he could kill him himself.

"Yeah," Dean managed a wobbly nod, "it wasn't so fun. I think he had an anti-foot thing. Or just an anti-me thing." His brow furrowed in thought. "Or both."

"Shit," Sam whispered, shaking his head. Concentrating on getting them to the door, he didn't comment. Mentally, he added Dean's feet to the already growing list of things to check on his brother's bloodied body.

Sam's brow furrowed at the various ways William Brimmer had tortured his brother. He didn't need to imagine it, because in the barn, he'd seen for himself all of Bill's 'toys'.

“Miss m’boots,” Dean mumbled, breaking Sam from his morose thoughts. Dean coughed, the sound wet and not at all what Sam wanted to hear. “Liked those damn boots.”

“Yeah, I know...” They were at the door and Sam nearly cheered. Instead, he fumbled for the key, one handed. “We'll get you a new pair. Just like those.”

“Don' wan’ new... go back, n' look for boots.”

“Not gonna happen.” Sam got the key out of his pocket and got it in the knob. It wouldn’t turn.

“Why the hell not?”

“’Cause-” The door just would not budge. "Dammit," Sam sighed.

"Jeeze...," Dean groaned and leaned away from Sam's hold, hand outstretched reaching for the wall. "Sure... you went to... college?"

Sam followed when he realized Dean was pushing away from him. Again. "Dean wha-"

Dean pressed one hand to the wall and took two half-hobbling steps toward it. "Chill," he gritted under Sam's hovering hands. "T-two hands... easier."

Sam got it; Dean was unburdening him to better deal with the locked door and Sam moved to help prop his brother against the shoulder of the door.

The wall seemed to be doing a pretty good job of keeping Dean up. Sam pinned him with a half mocking, half serious gaze. “Don’t pass out," he ordered, wagging a finger in front of his face, for good measure.

Dean scowled, muttering a quick, "Funny guy," then leaned his head wearily against the wall.

Sam put one hand on the key already in the lock, the other on the knob and jiggled. Nothing.

"Smarter 'n the lock, Sammy."

Sam didn't have to look, he could hear the smirk in Dean's voice. "N-" Sam grinned as glared at the obstinate lock. "Not the time, Dean"

Dean's smart-ass comments, while annoying, were now somewhat comforting and surprising and he looked over at his brother, grin fading. If he hadn't already looked like death warmed over - hell, he probably was death warmed over - Sam would have snapped back. The thought made Sam swallow. Just how close he'd come to losing his brother...

"Stop lookin' at me like I'm dead, would ya?"

Sam turned and quickly got back to task. "Damn door," he said wiggling the key in the lock. "It give you this much trouble before?"

Dean answered with a small grunt, and another small series of coughs and Sam redoubled his efforts.

Determined, Sam wrapped both hands around the knob, and pressing one shoulder to the door, he heaved a mighty shove. The door resisted only a moment more, then popped open.

Sam took a deep breath. "Okay," and he turned to look at his brother, "let's go."

“So... when we g-go back an' get m'boots-”

"Hate to tell you this, bro," Sam pulled Dean back toward him, shouldered his weight again and carefully moved them into the room. "Got a good look in the rear-view mirror at the house and barn-your boots are charcoal, dude."

"Awww, maaaaan...," Dean wheedled and his head sagged in disappointment.

"Dean," Sam huffed as he moved Dean toward the bed. "Boots are the least of my worries. In case you haven't noticed, you've got more blood on your outside than your inside, so quit worrying about boots and pass out already."

"Yeah," Dean smirked, "but… all of that and… I still look hotter than you."

Any other day Sam would've rolled his eyes, but the fact was, Dean was hot. Heat radiated off his brother's body in unnatural, sickly waves.

Sam looked at him haltingly.

Dean was sweating like a whore in a church. Most of it cut muddy streaks through the dirt and dust covering his face. He was definitely feverish.

Lowering fever and decreasing some likelihood of infection became high priority.

"On second thought, don't pass out." Sam started moving them toward bathroom. "Shower first."

"What! Why?" Dean practically whined. “It’s too cold for a shower.”

"Dude, I gotta be able to see what I'm doing and you're coated with blood and dirt and..." Sam sniffed. "You smell like... vomit."

"Fine," Dean sighed.

"C'mon man, just a little further," Sam coaxed. "Stay with me..."

Sam was right, it wasn't very far. They reached the threshold into the bathroom and Dean's pace slowed considerably.

"Um...," Dean's tone sobered, "not s-so sure I... I can manage that," he admitted.

"Which one?" Sam asked, trying to hide his increased worry- Dean never admitted to any weakness. Ever. "The passing out or the shower?" he finished, choosing to keep the mood light and not let his brother see his building panic.

The mood seemed catchy and Dean giggled uncharacteristically. "Both?"

Frowning, Sam looked at Dean. His feverish green eyes blink goofily back at him and Sam shook his head. "Never mind." He continued onward. "We'll figure something out."

The bathroom door was ajar, so he had only to nudge it open with his foot. But that, Sam realized, had been the easy part. Maneuvering into the tiled enclosure would take some doing; fitting both of their bulky forms into the small entrance alone, would prove no easy task.

The room was quiet, save for their labored breaths, and Dean's pained grunts and groans. In that relative stillness, Sam's mind turned over the long list of things he needed to see to where his brother's care was concerned. And in that moment, a certain topic rose to the forefront of his mind. One awkward, but important topic.

Given Dean was about to undress, and given Sam was about to see him undressed, no matter how much Dean protested, the timing seemed right to get an answer. It had been festering at the back of his mind since finding out about William Brimmer's 'exploits', and more since finding his brother, and getting him away from that pervert and rapist. It was the question he knew he needed to know an answer to and it came flooding to the surface and Sam could no longer deny its validity.

"Um, so," Sam said as he considered the entry to the small bathroom, "I saw your research. Pretty impressive stuff."

Dean huffed. "Yeah, I got-" he grunted as Sam turned him sideways to get them both through the doorway. Bit his lip when his back hit the door-frame and Sam whispered an apology. "I got some skills."

"Yeah, yeah you do," God this was difficult. Sam wouldn't be surprised if he got clocked for his next words, even in his condition... "I know William Brimmer raped all those kids."

They continued their sideways shuffle until Sam had Dean lined up with the toilet and after Sam knocked the lid down, he manged to get Dean seated. Dean's right arm was hooked tight around his ribs, his left arm he lifted painfully to rest against the counter, keeping him steady on the seat.

"The guy was a re-" Dean grunted at a wave of pain, then after a moment caught his breath. "Real bastard," he finished.

"Yeah," Sam rubbed his hands against his thighs. "He was and," he looked around the small room nervously. "And he didn't," he looked back at Dean, "you know, do that to you, did he?" he finished, his voice almost a whisper.

Dean blinked up at Sam. "Do... what-that?" he asked, but there was just a hint of something else there. A knowing. A decisive choice to not want to know.

It made Sam worry more. "Dean, I saw pictures in his apartment. Of... the things he did to those kids," he finished swallowing down the bile that threatened.

"Oh," Dean said, eyes drifting to the floor. Full understanding came a second later and he brought his head up. "Ooh..." and he looked away. "Jesus."

"Dean, I know this isn't somethin-"

"No," Dean coughed a moment then turned back to look at Sam, eyes sincere and hard. "He didn't get the chance, but..." his eyes wavered a moment, "I think we were headed there. Probably the only reason he didn't kill me sooner."

Sam nodded and he too glanced down at the tile. God, they'd come so close to more shit from an actual person than any ghost, spirit or monster they'd ever come across. Dean had come close to-

"Good thing he caught the good-looking Winchester brother."

Sam jerked his head up. Dean was smirking at him. Actually smirking. "Dean-" he started to warn but stopped when Dean's face paled.

"What next?" Dean asked, eyes slipping and becoming unfocused again. "'M not wanting to be sitting anymore. Wann' lay down."

"No," Sam stood back a moment, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he considered his next step. "Not yet," he said looking at the waistband of Dean's jeans.

Dean blinked slowly up at him. And stilled, eyes stern. "You don’t get to undress me… unless you buy me dinner first. So quit staring."

That was exactly the response Sam had been expecting. This was not going to be easy or pleasant for either of them.

"Fine." Sam flapped his arms and took a half step back. "Do it yourself. I'll just start the water, fill up the tub and leave you to it."

Like that was gonna happen.

"No bath either," Dean wavered from his place on the toilet seat, leaning an elbow against the sink to keep upright. "Only chicks take baths… and I only take baths if a chick's in the bath."

"Okay," Sam nodded and was about to turn on the water. “I’ll go find one for you… just wait a sec.”

Dean was staring at his brother, clearly trying to figure out if Sam was actually serious. When Sam didn’t move from his spot, it was apparent that there would be no hot chick action.

"You may ‘act’ like a Samantha but you're no actual Samantha. Yer," Dean twirled a finger, "lumps're all wrong."

"I get it, alright?" Sam had the water on before Dean finished his decree. He did not want to hear Dean's definition of his 'lumps'. "Not a problem, man." He adjusted the temperature then pulled a lever between the spigots to divert water to the shower head. "Shower it is."

No way this was going to work, but he'd allow his stubborn-ass brother to believe it would. For now. Dean believed he was invincible, immune to weakness despite his suffering. But he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. And Sam knew it.

Sam fussed with a clean towel, making sure it was within easy reach, and the shampoo, soap and washcloth too, but it was all stall tactics. Dean hadn't so much as moved an inch. Head bent, the edge of his shirt in one hand, he stared at it, while continuing to lean against the sink.

"Dean?” No answer. Sam bent at the waist, trying to catch his eyes. "Hey."

Dean’s head slowly rose, enough to meet Sam's gaze. “Um...,” he looked confused and worried at the same time. “You’re still here.”

"Dean, I can help get that off if you like."

"No. It's just... there was barbed wire around the pole I was tied to. My back's kinda..."

"Crap...," Sam breathed out and leaned around to get a look. The back of the shirt was plastered to Dean's back, dark with dried blood that had soaked through. "Oh, man. Okay." Sam straightened to face his brother. "Plan B."

"'B', as in Boy this Sucks?" Dean asked with a giggle.

"'B' as in buck up and let me help," Sam said lightly. "Can you get the jeans off at least?" Dean's face paled. "Cause I think we gotta let the water soften the blood before taking that shirt off."

"Yeah." Dean’s eyes lost focus for a second and instead of pale, he looked... green. "I don' think... I can."

Sam nodded. "Alright then." He looked at the grimy bandage on his leg. "That's got to come off first," he said reaching decisively for the knot on the side. It shouldn't have worried him that Dean just sat there and let him, but it did. Soon, the filthy bandage was on the floor and Sam inspected the wound beneath. "What happened here?"

"Knife," Dean sighed, and when Sam's eyes flew the his, Dean waved at him. "Eh, had worse. Jus' a little knife," he finished pinching his thumb and forefinger with barely an inch of space between to indicate the size.

Sam rolled his eyes. It didn't appear to be bleeding at the present, but he added it to the growing list of wounds and moved to Dean's side. "Okay," he said getting a hand under Dean's arm, "time for the rest," and started to help him up.

"No, man," Dean whined as he got slowly vertical, with Sam's help. "This is so not cool."

Like the giggle earlier, it was so out of character for his bother. Sam could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard that tone in Dean's voice. Every one of them, when Dean had been rendered helpless in some way and felt frustrated at his inability to do something himself. Dean was not a man to suffer his own weakness gracefully.

Personal dignity was also an issue and Sam wanted to respect that and he would too, as much as was possible. If push came to shove, he'd just wait until Dean passed out, which, by the looks of him, wasn’t that far away anyway.

This shower thing had to happen now and it had to happen fast.

Until that time, Sam could do ‘indulgent’. "Look, all I'm going to do is keep you from falling over," he said adjusting his hold on Dean's upper arm. "Getting the jeans off is all on you. Okay?"

Dean managed to glare at his brother. And Sam, out of frustration, fired back, "That or I could cut them off."

"Hell, no!" Dean grabbed his brother's arm and heaved himself up, biting back a groan. Wavering unsteadily, one hand gripping Sam with bruising force, he managed to get the top button undone. "Already lost m’boots… ruined m’ shirt…"

The lines deepened around Dean's mouth leaving no doubt in Sam's mind that the small effort alone was hurting like hell. Grunts were near whimpers and groans were checked and unchecked as he began to push material down over his trembling legs and Sam swallowed at the sight. Some of the wounds from the rock salt had pieces of dried material in them, stuck to dried blood. Great.

It seemed to take forever but by the time the blood and dirt-soaked garment was all the way down around his ankles, Dean was breathing harshly and sweat coated every inch of his skin. Sam figured he was either exhausted enough or in pain enough to no longer care when Sam bent to help him step out the rest of the way.

Either way, after what felt like hours of struggling, but was probably only a few minutes, the jeans Sam was pretty sure were ruined anyway were off and kicked to the side.

"Thin' m'... m'gonna be...," Dean panted. Beneath the layers of dirt and dried blood, he'd gone from a little green around the gills to downright vivid green.

Sam lowered him quickly to the floor and lifted the lid. Clad in only his t-shirt and boxers, Dean wretched.

It was little more than dry heaves, because there really was nothing in Dean's stomach to bring up. The last twenty-four hours aside, Sam, having done little more than sleep the last week, had no idea when his brother had eaten last.

While Dean was curled over the toilet retching, Sam came to a decision and quickly stripped to his boxers and, when it seemed the abdominal seizures and empty vomit had stopped, Sam placed a hand on the back of Dean's neck.

"Let's get this over with, alright?" Sam asked softly, but it wasn't really a question. Judging by the feel of Dean's skin beneath his palm, if Sam had any hope of getting his brother good and truly cleaned off, he'd best hurry. The fever had spiked and the empty vomiting probably hadn't helped.

Dean nodded and fell to the side, more than moved away from the toilet. Prepared, Sam caught him up gently.

"Shit," Dean murmured. "Fuckin' hurts."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said gently, "but just lean on me man, I gotcha." And Sam did. He rose, bringing his brother up with him until Dean was nearly on his feet. From there, Sam kept his weight supported, mindful now of the painful burns, along with everything else.

Sam didn’t say anything and if Dean noticed that Sam was wearing only boxers, he wasn’t saying anything either. Sam was glad for that. Then, when Sam got another look at Dean's eyes he realized the reason behind Dean’s lack of bitching; they were fever bright, unfocused.

Knee deep in his delirium, Dean probably had little to no idea what was happening around him. Sam was sure that only muscle memory was keeping him moving and it wouldn't be long before that wasn't enough. Sam needed to move this along.

Wordlessly, Sam maneuvered his brother over the side of the tub and moving in tandem with his brother's robotic feet, they stepped in, though Sam practically carried him over the tall side. Holding Dean under the flow of the water, Sam in front of him, keeping his arms hooked under Dean’s. It seemed to work; kept Dean upright and fairly steady.

Sam felt Dean's knees lock in place, but other than that he remained motionless. After a moment though, Dean tilted his head back and let the water fill his mouth. Hungrily letting it fill his mouth as if he'd not had a drink in days. Sam was sure that Dean had drank some of the water he'd given to him on the drive back, but judging by this display, it was apparent it hadn't been enough. Nowhere near enough.

There was little doubt in Sam's mind now that Dean was dehydrated, possibly severely and he'd make sure to force more fluid in him later. Somehow.

Tucking that thought away, once he saw his brother was completely soaked and most of the loose dirt was gone from his head, face and arms, Sam picked up a bottle of cheap shampoo and blinked at it a moment. Dean must have picked it up somewhere. Probably for Sam when his fever had broken and he'd longed to wash off the smell of sickness.

"Keep your eyes closed," Sam ordered, like there was any chance he'd open them.

Sam squeezed some on top of Dean's head and soaped it carefully, his fingers finding some bumps and knots on the back of his scalp to add to the cut that ran close to Dean’s hairline. Sam gently worked up just enough lather to allow suds to course down over the rest of his body, let gravity do the rest. Maybe wash out some of the wounds Sam had yet to get a good look at. If the cheap shampoo stung when it started sliding down over the wounds, Dean didn’t so much as make a peep about it.

Remembering the wounds on his back, Sam pulled Dean in, just close enough to see over his brother's shoulder and get a look at the blood-soaked mess beneath the fabric. With an experimental tug at the collar, Sam was relieved to find the water had indeed helped; less tacky, the jersey material came away much more easily now. Mostly he adjusted the fabric to allow more suds and water to run down, but he saw enough to know it was bad.

Dean sighed and Sam felt something hit his shoulder.

Leaning away slightly he saw. Dean's head now rested on Sam's shoulder, face lax, eyes closed.

Sam almost smiled. Until Dean’s legs gave.

"Crap." Sam scrambled to keep hold of his soap-slippery brother. "Dean-" he gritted out, “not yet," moving them clumsily over the side of the tub.

It was a struggle, but somehow Sam managed to get his drenched brother out of the bathroom and onto the nearest bed, which happened to be Dean’s, without dropping him. Dean remained unconscious the entire time, not so much as a grunt. Sam hoped he remained like that, as he made an executive decision about the shirt.

"Sorry man," Sam muttered apologetically and grabbed his pocket knife off the night stand. The sharp tip breached the hem and, with a sharp pull, the cotton gave the rest of the way, ripping easily up to the collar.

Flicking his wrist, Sam tossed the ruined garment across the room; it landed in the nearest garbage can with a wet thud.

The sight of his brother’s damaged torso drove the air from Sam's lungs, like a punch to the gut. "Holy…,” he breathed.

Dean’s upper body was a mess of bruises, cuts, and torn flesh, many of which oozed blood. Most disconcerting perhaps were the gouged holes. Where once there had been nothing but smooth skin and muscle, were now missing pieces of flesh instead.

Sam remembered his brother’s comment about barbed wire, remembered the wire he’d seen at the barn, and felt bile rise once again to his mouth.

Along Dean’s rib cage, the damage seemed worse, dark bruises vied with darker, textured patches of skin. Sam recognized the seared flesh of burns, some severe enough that the flesh beneath had bubbled.

Concerned about broken ribs, Sam was just about to move Dean’s arm from where it lay covering his side, when Dean’s body rocked tremulously.

Sam yanked back and blinked. Dean was shaking. Hard. Half slitted eyes staring bright green up at him. Mouth muttering something he couldn't hear.

“Shit, shit,” Sam cursed, suddenly realizing how cold the room must have felt to someone in Dean's condition. Grabbing the bedspread off his own bed and mindful of the coarse material on torn flesh, Sam hurried to gently cover Dean. “Sorry, Dean,” he muttered when Dean sank into the warmth with a contented moan.

Dean's eyes had drifted shut again and Sam sagged against the weight of his own worry and fatigue, forehead dropping to the bed near his brother's shoulder.

"This isn't helping," Sam mumbled. Lifting his head, carding fingers through his hair, Sam looked around the room, eyes wide and determined. There was much to do yet.

First things first: med kit. Sam blinked, eyes searching the room, searching his mind to recall the last time he'd seen it.

The car. Had to be. With Sam taking only the prescribed flu meds, it made sense Dean would see no reason to remove it from the car with their other belongings.

"Be right back," Sam murmured unnecessarily to his brother, then dressed hurriedly, scooped up the keys and ran to the car.

It wasn’t in the backseat, so he popped the trunk, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted the box in the corner. Grabbing the handle he secured the car and ran back into the room. Dean slept on.

Setting the case on the opposite bed, Sam cranked up the heat in the room, knowing that he’d have to rob Dean of his blanket once more.

Next, he cleaned off the night stand and laid out alcohol, saline, suture kits, an assortment of bandages, irrigating syringes and salve, and went to work.

It was a long, strenuous job, for the both of them. While unconscious, Dean groaned with each tug of flesh, every prod from the tweezers for hidden fabric buried in the bloody gaps.

Sam prayed as he worked, hoping he was making the right call by respecting Dean’s unwillingness to go to a hospital. Hoping that the barbed wire hadn’t left behind some infection his brother might be too weak to fight.

It was an hour before he finished irrigating and stitching the deeper cuts and gashes on his arms, chest and back, and the one mysterious knife wound on his thigh. Then, after binding Dean’s ribs and applying antibiotic cream to all the burns on his torso and feet, Sam sat back a moment and took a breath.

With the back of his arm, Sam wiped away the sweat that trickled down his face then stared down at his brother. The worst of his injuries had been to his back, so Sam had arranged Dean on his stomach.

The wounds from the rock salt hadn't been that bad, but his feet… When Sam had found the angry-looking red blisters, in that moment he’d wanted Brimmer there, in the room. Alive, so Sam could kill him. With his bare hands.

"So loud...," Dean murmured, his lips mushed into the pillow.

The words were a little garbled but Sam heard them clearly. With Dean’s eyes closed, Sam couldn't be sure he wasn't just talking out of his head so Sam leaned in. "What's too loud?"

"You... thinking." Dean's eyes slitted open, glittering pools of green staring at him. "Did your best... 'll be fine."

Sam huffed. "Fine's pretty far from what you are right now." Setting his jaw, he added, "But what we're not far from is a hospital."

"Saaaaaam," Dean warned.

"No. God knows where that barbed wire had been, Dean. The risk of infection…" Sam trailed off, feeling his ire rising. "And you have, at least, one broken rib. What if it punctures a lung? What then, huh? Should I wait until you start coughing up blood?"

Dean was quiet for a full minute, his mutinous gaze never leaving Sam's. "Fine." Sam deflated with relief, but then Dean added, "Gimme a day first-"

"What!" Sam exploded off the bed, arms flapping. "Why?"

Dean grunted, got his arms under his chest and lifted slightly. "'Cause by then maybe the drugs'll be out of my system."

“You mean these?” Sam pulled the four vials he’d found in the barn out of his jacket pocket and palmed them so his brother could see.

“Yeah, I think- Where’d you get those?”

“In the barn, when I went back to rescue your… cow.”

“Not my cow, just-couldn’t stand the idea of her burning to death.”

“Yeah, well, we'll talk about that later, cow-man. Besides, these are one more reason we should go to the hospital. I can have them checked out, see what kind of adverse effects they might have caused...”

“Sam,” Dean started, and already Sam knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “I show up at the hospital… looking like… this,” Dean said, giving a metaphoric wave to his bandaged body, “…and the cops'll be all over us. Run my prints. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Sam sighed. Dean was right, of course. Since before they were old enough to drink, he and Dean had been breaking the law. Enough to leave a small trail of grave desecration’s and cons all over the country. Now they were searching for their father, who, for all they knew, was either dead or hurt. They didn’t have time to waste escaping the police.

But, there was an alternative. "The clinic."

"The... you mean that place I took you on the way here?"

Sam was shaking his head. "Nope, wouldn't work. You told them we were college students. I'm talking St. Mary's Clinc."

"Dude, that's where that fuck Brimmer worked."

"I know Dean, but it makes sense. I followed your trail there and they know-er-think we're Feds and that you were kidnapped by Brimmer-"

"Oh, great."

"Dean, this is non-negotiable, man. I concede the hospital but at the very least we get the ribs checked out. Deal?"

"Fine, but ya gotta give me a couple days first. Going in like this..."

Sam nodded, looking Dean over. "Yeah, you look like shit, Dean."

"Th-thanks," Dean's face clamped into tight lines of pain, "good looking shit, though," he said with a grin that quickly turned to a long, low anguished groan.

"Whatever," Sam rolled his eyes, then looked his brother over. "But only if you can get through the next couple of days this side of non-hemorrhaging, then we swing by the clinic when you look slightly more human."

"Fine."

Sam wasn't finished, he pointed a finger threateningly Dean's direction. "But I swear, man, if you start coughing up blood, I'll haul you to the hospital so fast you won't have a chance to get your socks on."

"D-" Dean grimaced, "deal."

The look on Dean's face broke the moment. "Well," he said digging around in their med kit, "with drugs in your system, it means you don’t get any of the good stuff until whatever that psycho gave you has run its course. So,” he finished by shaking the bottle of Tylenol then set it on the bedside stand.

Dean looked at the bottle, face drawn and pale, but even through the exhaustion he was fully resigned to a small handful of pills that, to Sam, seemed like putting a child's band-aid on a severed limb. Dean knew it too.

"And for the record," Sam glared at the bottle and dropped, equally forlorn, onto his bed, "I hate this."

"Not exactly-" Dean started coughing, clutching at his side, "thrilled myself." When he finished he laid there, breathless, pain lines deeper on his face. "But I'll live."

Sam stared at his brother as he tried to find a comfortable position.

Between William Brimmer and his crazy-assed mother, they’d done a real number on him. Sam was under no illusions; he knew how lucky he’d been to find Dean. How lucky they were that Dean had survived his time in that barn and the house. And he knew Dean knew it too.

However, Sam also knew that in Dean’s way of looking at it, it was all worth it because in the end, they’d stopped the Brimmers. They’d managed to get Jeremy out of there. They’d managed to make Jake Rhys the last child ever to fall victim to this lunatic.

“How often did he shoot you up?” Sam asked, staring at the labels on the vials. One he recognized as a sedative. Pretty powerful one too.

Dean’s brow furrowed in thought, his head back against the stack of pillows Sam had placed there for him. "Once in the car when I woke up." His eyes blinked but he added, "'n two more times that I remember ‘n the barn. No idea ‘bout any other times I was out. First was a sedative, the other two…" He shrugged.

"The other two what?" Sam eyed the bottle of prescription painkillers he'd set out. Those were out of the question now, at least until he found out if he would be facing any possible drug interaction.

Dean’s response was muffled, unintelligible and Sam looked back at him. His brother’s eyes were closed and his breathing was already starting to even out in sleep.

"Dean," Sam said. "Hey." Getting no answer, Sam tapped him on the cheek and bent down to speak closer to his ear. "Dean..." when Dean's eyes opened slowly, Sam continued. "The other two what? This could be important."

Dean swallowed. "They m-made things... hurt more. Ya' know?" he finished with long slow blinks.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, maybe." Had the bastard had given something to Dean to make the pain seem more than it was? Well, looking at his brother, Sam didn't see how it could've hurt any less.

"The guy liked his needles...," Dean murmured sleepily. "Liked all ssssorts o' sharp, poky things."

“Well," Sam sighed heavily. "Guess we'll just have to figure the rest out later," he said, carding a hand through his hair as he looked around the small room. Like he needed more to figure out later.

When Dean's eyes drifted closed again, Sam jumped. "Woah, Dean hang on a sec," he said grabbing the bottle of Tylenol and water off the night stand . "Don't go to sleep on me yet," he added moving back to sit on the edge of the adjacent bed. No response. "Dean." He tapped Dean's cheek. "Dean."

"Hmm...?" Dean's eyes dragged opened slowly. "Fuckin' hell, man," he complained, eyes confused and bloodshot.

Sam shook out two Tylenol, opened the water bottle and sat on the bed next to his brother. "Something's better than nothing, right?"

Dean grunted acknowledgment and with Sam's help he swallowed the milder painkillers. And when he was halfway through the bottle of water and ready to stop, Sam put his hand underneath it and pushed it back up.

"Finish. You're dehydrated, man."

Dean did as he was instructed. Sam knew Dean was under no illusions either. Dean knew he was one obstinate outburst away from a trip to the hospital. Even if Sam had to cuff him upside the head and drag him there unconscious.

Sam had no sooner placed the empty bottle in the garbage than Dean's head hit the pillow and he was out again. Skin still flush and hot to the touch, Sam knew it was going to be a rough night for them both.

Dropping to the small space between the beds, Sam pressed his back against the side of Dean's mattress, turned his head to the side, and kept watch.

Within seconds, however, Sam succumbed to his body's demands for rest and nodded off. The hand he kept on Dean’s wrist was solely for medical purposes. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Sam’s need to make sure that Dean was really there, that he was really safe.

And even half asleep Sam had trouble buying his own bullshit.




Chapter 10: Part 1 x * * * >X< * * * x Epilogue