Instinct (4/8)
Dean reached Jim’s house in record time, screeching into the driveway and leaping out of the car almost before the engine had stopped.
If possible, Sam looked even worse than he had before. The towel strapped to his side was stained with blood, staining the white fabric a dark crimson colour and Dean wasted no time at all carefully manoeuvring the kid out of the car and into his arms. He was halfway up the stairs when the front door swung open, revealing Pastor Jim stood in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare and eyes still clouded slightly with sleep.
“Dean?” He asked, taking in the boy in the hunter’s arms. “What on earth is going on?”
He stepped aside to let the young man pass him, following a few steps behind as Dean wove his way through the house. He hesitated at the sofa, before abruptly changing his mind and continuing along to his own bedroom, kicking the door open roughly - a complete contrast to the gentle manner in which he lay Sam on the bed.
The kid moaned a little at the movement, eyes blinking open once more and searching for Dean. The Pastor flipped the switch for the light, and Sam winced his eyes shut for a long moment, before locking them once more on the hunter. Despite everything, the shifter smiled.
“Hey, there, Sammy.” Dean smiled, running a hand over the boy’s cheek. “You’re doing so good, kid. Just keep hanging in there, okay? You and me have a lot to talk about.”
Behind him, Jim shook a started breath. “Dean, that’s... That’s Sam?”
“Yeah, it is. Look, can you grab me some holy water and some more towels? Bobby says that we have to flush this wound.” He ordered, glancing briefly at his shoulder. Jim hesitated for a long moment, eyes trained on Sam’s face, before nodding his hand and disappearing into the hallway.
Sam’s fingers reached out, tangled themselves in Dean’s shirt, and the hunter offered him a reassuring smile as he reached out and began unwinding the bandage from around the young man’s middle. The towel fell away, and Dean fought to bite back a gasp at the sight; the edges of the wound were beginning to turn black, the colour creeping its way through the kid’s veins to create a pattern that vaguely resembled a child’s drawing of the sun.
Jim chose that moment to reappear with the requested supplies, along with a large bottle of whisky and Dean’s own medical kit.
“Just in case,” He commented, setting the kit on the floor and handing the towels to Dean. The hunter carefully wiped away the blood from Sam’s stomach, before he and Jim managed to work the others underneath the young man’s body.
Dean tipped his head up, gently nudging Sam’s chin until the shifter met his eyes. “This bit’s going to hurt a lot, but it’ll make you feel a bit better, okay? You need to scream, you scream.”
Sam tipped his head in a feeble imitation of a nod, and Jim tipped the holy water onto the wound with no other warning. It sizzled and hissed as soon as it hit flesh, and Sam’s whole body bucked at the sensation. Dean reached out to brace him, rubbing a hand soothingly over the young man’s chest, and Jim’s hands shook even as he carried on pouring.
It was a long and agonizing four minutes later that the water finally stopped fizzing, and Sam relaxed back into the mattress with a whimper. Jim sighed in relief, tossing the empty flask on the floor, and grabbed a spare towel to carefully mop up the pink liquid that had spilled over the boy’s stomach; Dean couldn’t tell whether the black lines surrounding the wound were shorter, or whether it was just wishful thinking.
If nothing else, Sam seemed a little more conscious.
“’S it working?” He muttered, fingers periodically clenching and relaxing in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. The hunter offered him a smile, nodding his head enthusiastically.
“Yeah, it’s working. You’ll be good as new in no time.” He reassured. “And then we’ll have a nice, long chat about how uncool it is to pretend to be a dog.”
Sam’s eyes dropped in what Dean presumed to be shame, and he felt a thick stab of guilt in his gut. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sam was already talking.
“I was scared,” He admitted. “Thought you’d kill me if you knew what I really was.”
He didn’t mention the fact that Dean had nearly done exactly that, had trained a gun on his head and had nearly pulled the trigger, and Dean was grateful for that if nothing else. On the other side of the bed, Jim was watching the two of them with a soft smile, and Dean was loathe to admit how close he’d come to making such a colossal mistake.
“So why stick around?” Dean asked softly. “You had every reason to take off… why didn’t you?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder, wincing a little at the pull on his muscles. “I… you saved me, and then you seemed to like having me around. It didn’t feel right to just run away from you.”
“And what? You were just going to pretend to be a dog forever? Never shift back?”
Sam shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess so. Until you figured out that I wasn’t a normal dog, I guess. And then…”
He trailed off, and Dean didn’t need to hear him finish to recall the acceptance in the young man’s eyes when he’d thought that the hunter was going to kill him. Sam would have followed him around for years, if not for the night’s events, until Dean had figured out that he wasn’t normal. He knew himself well enough to know that, if Bobby hadn’t been there to stop him, he would more than likely have put a bullet in the kid’s brain as soon as he’d figured it out, and Sam would have let him.
“That’s not going to happen.” Dean promised, voice firm. He met Sam’s eyes and met them there. “I swear on everything that’s holy, I’m never going to hurt you, Sam.”
The shifter smiled tiredly, eyes starting to droop shut.
“I know.”
**
Predictably, Jim had demanded an explanation as soon as Sam had drifted into sleep, and Dean had relayed the night’s events in a shaky voice. Jim listened to him describe everything, including the gun that he’d nearly fired, without so much as a flicker, and when the younger man was finished he smile.
“I’m proud of you, Dean.” He said softly, eyes flitting over to the bed where Sam was still sleeping. Dean had tucked the blankets around him to ward off the chill of the night air, and his fingers had hesitated over the buckle of the red leather collar before he’d left it there, muttering excuses about how he hadn’t wanted to disturb him. He’d curled slightly onto his side, and nuzzled his face closer to the pillow, and he looked peaceful as he dreamt. “You had a tough choice out there, and you made the right decision.”
Dean lowered his eyes. “I nearly didn’t. I was so close to pulling the trigger, Jim, and he was just going to let me. Wasn’t going to try and defend himself at all.”
“You can’t blame yourself for choices you almost made, Dean,” The pastor smiled. “You just have to accept the decision that you did make, and move on from there. You’ve got a lot of things to work out, son.”
Dean snorted in laughter. “No kidding. How ironic is my life now? A hunter who’s best friend is a shapeshifter. Jesus, it’s like a crappy TV show.”
“And you’re not going to send him away?”
“What?” Dean’s head jerked up so fast that he briefly considered the possibility that he’d given himself whiplash. “Why would I do that? …If you don’t want him here, we’ll go somewhere else.”
Jim smiled, shaking his head in amusement. “You misunderstand. I have no issue with Sam being here - he will always be welcome here, as will you, but you’re a hunter. It’s in your very blood, Dean. It’s what you were born to do, and that life will be dangerous for Sam.”
Dean blinked, but Jim was already continuing.
“Have you considered what might happen if someone finds out that Sam’s isn’t human? Not all hunters are accepting as we are - some would see him as a threat. Some would want to hunt him, and they would want to kill him.”
“Some hunters like my dad, you mean?” Dean asked quietly, dropping his head into his hands. He heard the faint rustle of movement, lifted his head to watch as Sam stirred, moaning quietly in his sleep. He’d been doing it on and off for the past half hour, more frequently as the time passed, and Dean knew that it was a sign that the silver poisoning was only progressing.
His heart panged painfully in his chest and, for the first time, he acknowledged inwardly just how devastated he’d feel if Bobby’s Shaman fell through.
It’s ridiculous, in a way, that Dean felt as attached to the boy before him as he did. In some ways, it was a bond that had been forming since Dean first looked inside that metal cage and saw those hazel eyes blinking back at him. Over a month had passed since then, and even as a dog Sam had wormed his way firmly into Dean’s life.
Though he knew things would be different now, might even be somewhat strained and awkward at first, the logical part of his brain recognized that all of those traits that he’d come to love in Sam the dog - courage, determination and an unwavering loyalty - were the ones he was already beginning to love in Sam the person.
Human or dog, Dean couldn’t deny the connection he felt with the shifter. To lose him now would be heart-breaking, but Dean didn’t know if there was any way to keep both Sam and his father in his life, and his stomach flipped sickeningly at the thought.
He turned to the Pastor, eyes wide and pleading for an answer, looking honest and open and reminding Jim of the six-year-old boy that John had ushered up the porch steps ahead of him the first time they’d met. Fifteen years later, and that look still makes his heart feel like it’s breaking in his chest.
“What do I do?” The young man demanded.
The Pastor smiled sadly. “I wish I knew, son.”
**
By the time that Dean’s phone finally rang, an hour had passed and the silver sickness had Sam firmly in its grasp. Though his face was still pale, two patches of crimson stood out on his face from the fever; the last reading had come back as 104.3 and Dean knew just how serious that was. The black lines had begun spreading once more, despite a second attempt to flush the wound out with holy water, and Dean had taken to pacing the room like a caged animal, eyes locked on the younger man’s form.
Sam, for his part, was tossing and turning as much as his stomach wound would allow - though his eyes remained shut, he mumbled and whimpered in his sleep, and he’d roused easily enough when Dean had shaken him awake and coaxed some water into him.
Dean didn’t give the older hunter a chance for pleasantries, simply flipped the phone open and began talking, voice firm and demanding despite the trembling of his hands. “Bobby? What have you got?”
“Grainger gave me some ingredients for a remedy of sorts, but there’s a few things I need Jim to grab for me - he there?”
Dean motioned for the Pastor to come closer, grabbing a notepad and pen from the bedside table. “Okay, Bobby. Shoot.”
“Okay, I’m going to need some rosemary, thistle, and some sage. He should have all of that, right?” Jim nodded, and Dean quickly relayed the affirmative. “Great. Tell him that he needs to blend them together in his food processor, and have some kind of bowl or something waiting for me when I get there.”
Jim looked relieved to have some kind of job to do, taking the list as soon as Dean handed it to him, and Dean watched him scurry off into the hallway with a small smile of relief on his lips.
“How far out are you?” He asked carefully, almost afraid of the answer.
“About twenty minutes - spent the majority of the past hour and a half trying to track down the rest of the damn ingredients,” Bobby admitted. “How’s Sam holding up?”
Dean sighed, sinking onto the bed next to the shifter. He ran a hand across the younger man’s cheekbone, a gesture that was becoming all too familiar, and wiped his hair back from his face.
“Not great. Spiking a fever that’s just shy of 104.5, and even when he’s awake he’s barely lucid… not to mention that the poison’s spreading twice as quick as it was before.”
Bobby sucked in a sharp breath. “Anywhere near his heart? Or his lungs?”
“Not yet.” Dean ran his finger along one of the lines, feeling the heat radiating from the kid’s skin. He followed the same line past the point where it ended, until his finger was hovering over his heart, and his heart dropped a little. “But it’s not far off. Maybe another half an hour if we’re lucky, I’d say.”
In response, the truck’s engine roared over the phone, and Dean could almost see the grim determination settling into Bobby’s face, floor pressed down to the floor. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The line went dead, and Dean tossed the phone onto the pile of clean towels that Jim had dumped onto the floor, trailing his fingers down from Sam’s temple, following the contours of his face to the vulnerable skin of his throat. Underneath the loose red leather, he could just make out the faint smudges of a fading bruise, and it took him only a split-second to realize that it was a mark left behind from his days with the demon - from the thick metal collar that had been clasped so tightly around his neck.
Underneath Dean’s fingertips, the young man’s pulse pumped, thready and weak.
“Not long now,” He promised in a whisper, bending down to press a soft kiss to the younger man’s forehead. He pulled back, eyes locked on the shifter’s form, soft and fond. The two of them stayed like that, for a long moment, and from the doorway to the small bedroom, Pastor Jim watched on with a small smile on his face.
He knew that he should announce his presence, reassure Dean with the knowledge that everything Bobby had requested was set up and waiting for him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment. If Sam didn’t make it through the night, then the least he deserved was this moment of silent tenderness.
Barely two minutes later, the shifter’s back arched to an unnatural angle and he began to seize.
**
Bobby’s heart was pounding in his chest, hands white-knuckled on his truck’s steering wheel. He couldn’t remember ever before feeling such a desperation to get somewhere; of trying to drive to such an urgent deadline. His brain was torturing him with the last glimpse he’d gotten of Sam’s wound before he’d bandaged it, black threads of poison already beginning to work their way outwards; the look in Dean’s eyes as he’d carefully folded the kid’s legs into the Impala.
Weeks ago, he’d teased Dean about becoming attached to a dog he’d known for a number of hours. Now, he was driving with his heart in his throat, desperate to save the life of a boy he’d barely caught a glimpse of.
He urged his truck faster, dodging past cars that were going too slowly, until he could see the familiar turn off for Jim’s house. He slammed the car around the corner so hard that he nearly fishtailed it, not letting off the gas until he was screeching to a stop in front of the back door, the front tires bouncing of the bottom of the porch steps.
He grabbed the paper grocery bag from the truck as he bolted, nearly tipping it in his haste to get inside, and left the door swinging in the wind as he bolted for the kitchen. The door opened as he got there, Pastor Jim stood pale-faced and red eyed and for a second Bobby thought he might throw up.
“Is he…”
Jim shook his head. “Not yet.”
The words themselves spoke volumes, and Bobby began scrabbling for the contents of the bag, tipping things into the blender haphazardly, barely waiting until they were purified before adding them to the ingredients that Jim had prepared and furiously stirring them into a concoction that looked eerily similar to pond water.
He was more careful as he tipped the mixture into a glass, ensuring not to spill any, and he kept one hand firmly over the top of it as he took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for Dean’s bedroom unprompted.
“Sit him up,” He demanded as he shoved his way inside, ignoring the slam of the door as he sent it slamming into the wall with a loud crash.
Dean jumped, startled eyes flying up to take in the sight of him before he carefully urged the kid into a sitting position. The shifter’s eyes barely opened, and the small slits that were visible were unfocused. Bobby slid a deceptively gentle hand into his hair, urging his head forwards a little, and tipped the contents of the glass into the boy’s mouth.
The kid gagged weakly, before instinct kicked in and he swallowed it down, choking a little when Bobby didn’t let up until the whole mixture was gone. Carefully the hunter removed the glass, lowering the kid’s head onto Dean’s shoulder when he coughed weakly, murky eyes managing just barely to lock onto his face.
His eyes trailed down to the faint black lines, mere inches from the boy’s heart, and he wondered with a sick sensation in his stomach if he hadn’t been too late.
Dean was studying his face, still cradling the boy’s lithe frame against his chest, and his green eyes looked hopeful. “Did it work?”
“It’s impossible to tell yet,” Bobby admitted. “We’ll have to watch him closely over the next few hours, see what happens.”
“And for now?”
Bobby smiled sadly. “For now we wait. Let him rest, and hope that the antidote does the trick.”
It was another ten minutes later that Dean finally lowered Sam back to the mattress, tucking him carefully back under the blankets. He’d been under the assumption that the kid had fallen back under, but an unsteady hand reached out to grasp the sleeve of his t-shirt when he tried to pull away, grip already so familiar.
Dean smiled softly as Sam blinked up at him fuzzily, eyes appearing almost eerily blue as he silently pleaded for Dean to stay close. Dean glanced up at Bobby and Jim, both settled into hard-backed chairs that had been dragged up from the kitchen at some point or another, but both of the men avoided his gaze. Cheeks flushing a little in embarrassment, Dean slowly kicked off his boots and crawled under the covers.
Sam shifted slightly, and it took the hunter a long moment to realize that he was making room for Dean’s arm to slip under his head.
Hesitantly, Dean pulled the younger man into his arms, and as the shifter settled against him he was surprised to realize that it didn’t feel all that different from all of those nights that he’d spent curled up with Sam when he was a dog.
Across the room, Bobby discreetly wiped a tear from one eye.
**
Dean wasn’t sure when it was that he’d drifted off to sleep.
The last thing he remembered was holding Sam carefully, shifting his arm just a little to give him a better view of the younger man’s chest, tracing those faint black lines over and over again with his eyes. They’d been determinedly staying in the same place for hours, not creeping any closer to Sam’s heart, but not receding either, and Dean and Bobby had taken to checking his temperature every hour.
The thermometer had showed a slow improvement, dropping a couple of numbers lower with every time that they read it, but Dean had refused to get his hopes up until the black lines began to fade and he could literally see the threat start to ebb away. He’d fallen asleep before that happened; lulled into dreamland by the warmth of Sam’s body next to his and the thrum of his pulse against the hunter’s fingertips.
Panicked, Dean jerked up slightly, fighting with the edge of the blanket. It had ridden up at some point whilst he’d slept, covering Sam’s chest entirely, and he had to force himself to calm down until he was rational enough to realize that he was lying on it and preventing it from moving. Shifting his body weight and tugging it free, Dean’s eyes fell on Sam’s chest, and he sucked in a startled breath.
The wound was smaller than he remembered, the skin there tinged a dark shade of grey rather than the black it had been before, and the black lines that had been so close to Sam’s heart before had gradually made their way back towards the source of the poison, now only spreading out roughly four inches.
A glance at the kid’s face revealed that he was still eerily pale, but the hectic red across his cheeks had died down to a healthier tint. His forehead was no longer creased with pain, but smoothed out into a peaceful sleep.
“Kicked in a couple of hours ago,” A soft voice announced, and Dean jerked his head up. Bobby was still seated in the rickety wooden chair that Dean had last seen him in, looking haggard and warn, and the digital clock next to the bed was proudly announcing that it was after midday. “You dozed off around six, and the poison started moving away from his heart at around eight.”
Sam shifted on the bed next to him, drawing Dean’s attention to the way that they had been lying; legs still tangled together and Sam’s head resting on Dean’s arm. He blushed scarlet, ducking his head, and Bobby shifted his cap uncomfortably.
“He, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “He called your name a few times. Never really woke all the way up, but…”
Despite his awkwardness at the situation, Dean couldn’t hide his grin. “He did?”
“No,” Bobby groused with an eye roll. “I’m lying. What do you think?”
Dean’s grin grew. “What’s wrong, old man? You jealous that he wasn’t calling for you?”
“For god’s sakes, boy, I’m getting far too old for all of this. No, I wasn’t jealous - trust me when I say that boy is all yours.”
Dean found himself blushing again the suggestive tone that the older man’s voice took, and Bobby swore under his breath as he came to the same conclusion.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep and save us some of this awkwardness, hey?” The older hunter demanded after a long pause, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna go and find me some coffee.”
He stalked into the hallway, grumbling under his breath as he did so. For a long moment, Dean considered saving himself some awkwardness and following his friend downstairs, pretending that this had never happened. The bed was warm, though, and Dean could feel the fatigue dogging his bones even after six hours sleep.
Slowly, he lowered himself back down into the bed and if he dropped a kiss on Sam’s temple before he let himself drift off again, well, nobody had to know but him.
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