Mordred's Lullaby Chapter 2/2
AUTHOR:Scullspeare
SUMMARY: So why did the Brothers Winchester hit the road for some R&R at the end of Soul Survivor? Because it's hard to relax when home is the centre of all things mystical and magical. A fic featuring the brothers and the bunker.
SPOILERS: Set in early Season 10, with references to Season 8, in-between canon hunts.
DISCLAIMER:The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I continue to play in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING:T for swearing.
GENRE:Gen/Hurt-Comfort
STORY WORD COUNT:9200.
Link back to Chapter 1 Here
MORDRED's LULLABY - CHAPTER 2
BY SCULLSPEARE
Sam kept pressing tiles, trying to be methodical so he wouldn't miss any or waste time by trying the same ones twice. In the end though, impatience helped solve the puzzle. As he dragged his hand from one tile to the next, he ended up pressing two at once, and that proved to be the key.
Sam's breath caught as he felt the tiles give beneath his hand. He pressed harder and they moved into the wall a good four inches. "Dean! I think I found it." He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice, especially as with a loud grating sound, a section of the wall began to swing outwards towards him. "The door's opening."
He stepped back, giving the door room to swing clear. He smiled as he peered around the door, seeking out Dean.
But that smile was quickly erased by his brother's shouted warning.
"Sammy-duck! You hear me? Duck!"
Instinct took over and Sam hit the deck. Rolling onto his back, he bit back a groan as his injured arm protested the manoeuvre. He lifted his head and found himself looking straight at Dean who was slumped against the wall just inside the open door.
He waited a few seconds, but when nothing happened, Sam raised an eyebrow. "What the hell was that about?"
The answer came as a loud 'Bang!' above their heads, and with it the release of a cloud of yellow gas. Had Sam been standing, had his brother not shouted the warning, he would've gotten a faceful of that gas, whatever it was-something he quickly realized must have happened to Dean. The gas was why Dean sounded drunk, why he had been puking his guts out…why he still wasn't moving.
But thanks to his brother, Sam had avoided a direct hit.
"Damn it. Are you-" He jumped, the warning claxon sounding again throughout the bunker, announcing the breach and drowning out his question. More disturbing, the door to the tunnel was closing again-and Dean was still inside the wall.
"Dean, move!" Sam sat up, his back to the door, pushing against it, trying to keep it open. Instead, he felt himself sliding across the floor, towards Dean and into the tunnel.
Sam braced his foot against the wall, trying to give himself some leverage against the moving door but he was starting to feel light-headed and nauseous. He glanced upwards; the cloud of gas, whatever it was, was heavier than air and falling towards them. If he didn't do something quickly, he'd been in the same state as Dean and they'd both be trapped inside the wall.
"Dean, come on-you gotta move." His voice betrayed the strain of trying to keep the door open.
"Sorry, Sammy..." Dean's voice was slurred, his eyes falling shut, this second dose of poisoned gas the proverbial straw. "Think I…think I need a hand here."
"Then you got one." Sam leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of his brother's shirt. He pulled Dean towards him one-handed, keeping his feet braced against the wall, but his brother still wasn't clear. The door was closing fast and Sam was getting increasingly weak and dizzy.
Dean tried to help, but the gas had robbed him of almost all motor control. He offered Sam an apologetic glance before his eyes slid closed. This time they stayed shut.
"Dean!" Worry and fear lent Sam strength. Grabbing Dean with both hands, ignoring the pain shooting through his injured elbow, he yanked his brother clear.
Sam's loud grunt of exertion suddenly morphed into a cry of pain. Dean was free of the trap, but Sam's right foot wasn't, and was now slowly being crushed between the closing door and the wall. He struggled to pull himself free, but the trap refused to release him.
"Son of a bitch…." In desperation, Sam shifted his weight, yanked his foot free of his shoe and fell back, just as the door slammed shut, swallowing his worn sneaker.
For a moment, Sam didn't-couldn't-move. Then, exhaling in relief, he pushed himself up and quickly returned his attention to Dean. A brief triage told him Dean's heart rate was slow, but not dangerously so, and his breathing shallow but regular. "That's good, Dean." He patted Dean's chest, reassuring himself more so than his unconscious brother. "That's good. We'll have you feeling better in no time."
The second part of that reassurance echoed clearly along the hallway as the claxon shut off suddenly, leaving the brothers in silence. But that quiet was quickly broken by the sound of Sam puking, the pain from his injured foot acting as an accelerant to the gas-fueled nausea.
Sam was just glad his brother wasn't awake to see it.
xxx000xxx
"Dean?"
"Shhhhh, Sammy-not so loud." Dean lifted a hand to his head and groaned at the sound of his brother's voice. He didn't even attempt to open his eyes; first rule of hangovers-the less you moved, the better. "Show some respect when your elders are feeling like shit. Lemme sleep."
"You've had a good 12 hours. You should really eat something, then we can get you back to your own bed."
"My own…." Where the hell was he? Dean forced open his eyes and squinting against the unwelcome light, glanced around. He was on a gurney in the middle of the bunker's infirmary. The head of the gurney was raised to a 45-degree angle, and a blanket covered his legs. His T-shirt had been cut open from neck to waist, wires taped to his bare chest and an IV port secured to the back of his left hand. His right hand was heavily bandaged.
He turned to his brother as he sorted through fuzzy memories. "Cliff's Notes version-Men of Letters trap designed to protect us bit us in the ass again, right?"
"Pretty much." Sam squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before gesturing to the wires. "This…this is just a precaution. The stuff you got dosed with is basically a nasty muscle relaxant. Last time I checked, the heart's a muscle so I needed to keep an eye on yours, make sure it didn't…."
"Stop?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm still talking so I take it it didn't?"
"No…." But Sam's expression and the way his voice trailed off clearly showed that worry had been real.
"I'm good, Sammy." That was how a Winchester said thank you. "You did good."
Sam cleared his throat. "You should probably take it easy for a day or two, but you'll be fine. Your heart rate's back where it should be at least." He turned off the bulky EKG machine which sat on a cart beside the gurney, and it stopped spooling out the ribbon of paper on which Dean's heart rate had been recorded.
Dean glanced down at the pile of paper on the floor. "According to this museum piece, you mean."
Sam smiled. "It's definitely old school, but it works pretty well."
"Good, but next time you find a new toy, let's find another guinea pig." Dean raised his bandaged hand. "What's the story here?"
"Seven stitches from the broken glass…when you dropped the scotch."
"What a waste." Dean winced as he flexed his fingers.
"You should drink some water." Sam limped across the room, grabbed a bottle from the top of a cabinet by the door, then returned to Dean's bedside. He sat down on a rolling stool, wedged the bottle between his knees and unscrewed the cap. "IV fluids have kept you going but you need real food and drink." He handed Dean the water.
"Water's not real drink, Sammy." Dean frowned. "And why are you limping?"
Sam shrugged. "I got my foot caught between the door and wall when I was pulling you out."
Dean studied Sam closely, trying to figure out just how much he was leaving out. "How bad is it?"
"It's fine, Dean-really. I just…." Sam shrugged again. "I lost my shoe."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean shook his head. "Dude, you are a walking disaster-gimp arm, gimp foot…"
"I'm not the one on the gurney," Sam shot back.
"Speaking of that…." Dean took a drink of water but kept his attention on Sam. "The gas-you must've inhaled some of that shit when you pulled me out. How much did it mess you up?"
"Not much." Dean's look of disbelief earned another eyeroll. "I was a little groggy at first. Now, I'm fine-Scout's Honour."
"That means squat when you were never a Scout, and groggy?" Dean wasn't buying it. "I'm out for 12 hours and you truss me up to some stone-age heart monitor to make sure I'm OK, but you're just groggy?"
Sam smiled. "I didn't get a faceful like you did-thanks to your warning. Hey, when you tell me to duck, I duck. I got enough to make me lose my lunch-and yesterday's dinner-but not enough to knock me out. Unlike you…." His smile faded. "You were trapped in that lock box with a full dose for a couple of hours before I got you out."
Satisfied, if not entirely convinced, Dean let it go. "That gas…" He took another drink of water, then glanced up at Sam. "Do we even know what it is?"
"Yeah, while you were out I've been doing some research." Sam limped over to the counter along the wall and picked up a leather-bound journal. "It's called Mordred's Lullaby-and was invented by none other than Cuthbert Sinclair."
"Sinclair? That son of a bitch…." The plastic of the water bottle crackled loudly as Dean subconsciously crushed it. "What I wouldn't give to stick that bastard's head back on just so I could take it off again."
"You and me both." Sam flipped open the journal. "But even more interesting than the inventor, is where he got the formula."
Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. "Go on."
Sam looked up from the journal. "It's based on spells written by Morgan Le Fay."
"Morgan…." Dean frowned. "As in-"
"Yeah." Sam nodded. "As in King Arthur's sister."
"And lover-and mother-slash-aunt to Mordred in that whole messed-up telenovela that was Camelot." Dean threw back the blanket and swung his legs off the gurney with a groan. "So, what? She came up with this gas to knock out her little bastard when he kicked up a fuss at bedtime?"
Sam grinned. "I think it was more likely one of the weapons she made for him to use in his quest to steal the throne from Arthur-knock out the guards and you can storm the castle without a fight." The grin faded as he leafed through the journal. "You know, in most Arthurian legends, Merlin gets top billing as the great wizard, but Morgan was his equal in every way. Her magic-"
"Dark magic?"
"Not necessarily." But the thought had clearly crossed Sam's mind. "But it was...powerful stuff. Do you know how valuable her spell book would be?"
"And Sinclair had it?"
"He used it. He made this gas, then a bunch of other potions and powders to add to the Men of Letters arsenal, all based on her work. But what happened to the book itself, I dunno." Sam glanced up at Dean. "You think it's here-in the bunker?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it's another prized exhibit in Sinclair's wacked-out zoo." Dean shrugged. "All the mystical shit that protected that place-maybe that's her work, too."
"We need to find it." Sam tapped his finger on the journal. "According to this, that gas doesn't just take out hunters-it stops demons, angels, vampires…everything. She clearly knew how to fight supernatural beings. Just think what else might be in there."
Dean knew exactly what was fueling the hope in Sam's eyes. "Like a cure for the Mark of Cain."
Sam nodded slowly. "Why not?"
"Hey, if you want to go on a hunt for Morgan's spell book when we're done R&R, knock yourself out-but not until we're back on the clock."
"But-"
"I told you, Sammy, no buts. We need a break-both of us." Dean began clumsily peeling the tape off his chest, releasing the ledes to the EKG machine. "The only business we're taking care of right now is to make sure no more of that gas gets released into the bunker. I'm not going through this again, you're sure as hell not, and those escape tunnels will be a much bigger asset if we can actually escape through them."
"Not a problem." Sam shrugged at Dean's look of surprise. "Strip away all the mystical crap and it's just a security system. All we need to do is update the code, then punch it in each time we open the door to re-set the system. There should be a panel just inside the tunnel entrance."
"Update the code? And you know how to do that?"
"I do now-we reset it through the console in the war room. I cross-referenced the dates on the bunker plans with the Men of Letters journals and found this one." Sam handed Dean another leather-bound journal. "The how is all in there."
"Go, Sammy, go." Dean was suitably impressed. "But just so you know, I'm wearing a gas mask when we test this theory of yours." Now free of the EKG wires, he dropped them on the gurney beside him. "OK, you play computer geek for half an hour then we are officially back on vacation-and I'm serious about the gas masks."
"We should do some tests on the gas itself." Worry was again carving furrows in Sam's forehead. "We don't know a lot about it-how stable is it, how long it's potent once released, does it have shelf life?"
"Sam-"
"It's not supposed to be lethal, Dean. It's supposed to incapacitate, not kill. But if it had taken much longer to get you out of there-"
"It didn't."
"It could've." Sam was pacing now, wincing each time he turned on his injured ankle. "Maybe it degraded. I mean, it was sitting in that canister for more than 70 years. Maybe-"
"Let it go, Sammy."
"But -"
"I said, let it go."
Sam's reluctance to step away from work wasn't about the gas, or even Morgan's spell book. This was about Sam losing his brother-again-and the need to do something-anything-to wrench back control.
Dean studied his brother. He knew Sam was struggling, and had been since Dean had been stabbed by Metatron…since Dean's eyes had turned black and he'd disappeared from Sam's life.
His demonic self knew what Sam had done to avenge his death, to get him back, and Dean retained those memories. But unlike the demon, who viewed life in simple black and white, he saw all the layers of gray that had fueled Sam's decisions-and his little brother was all about the layers.
Dean forced a smile as he pushed himself off the gurney and stood up. He felt like a light wind could topple him, but thankfully his legs held his weight. "All that will wait, Sammy."
"But-"
"No, I told you, we need a break." Dean glanced around the infirmary. "But home for us is also the office which makes it very hard for one of us to chill, so I say we hit the road first thing in the morning."
"And go where?"
"Dunno. Don't care-as long as it's not here." Dean winced as he pulled the IV port from the back of his hand. "Hey, maybe we throw those old beach chairs we picked up in Boca into the trunk, load up the cases of beer and go find us a stretch of sand and do nothing but watch babes in bikinis every day 'till the sun goes down for a whole week."
Sam grabbed a First-Aid kit from the counter, pulled out a Band-Aid and handed it to Dean. "We're in Kansas. Whichever way we drive, it's a helluva long way to the ocean."
"Fine. We head for a lake, a river, a drainage ditch for all I care-just as long as it's real down time. The beer will taste just as good wherever we are." Dean stuck the Band-Aid to the back of his hand to stem the bleeding. "I mean it, Sam-no cases, no research, no nothing. I know you. I know you wanna look into that gas. I know you're itching to hunt down Morgan's spell book, but you really need this break. Trust me."
Sam's voice was quiet. "I do trust you, Dean."
Dean grinned. "I know-and good thing, too. It saved your ass not 12 hours ago."
Sam almost smiled. "Hey, I saved your sorry ass, too."
"Hallelujah! We saved each other and the world didn't end." Dean's grin widened. "That alone is cause for celebration-so let's go."
"How long d'you think we'll last?"
"What?"
Sam followed his brother out of the room. "We've always kind of sucked at vacations. We've never really been able to go more than a few days before hunting drags us back in again."
"Well, we'll hold out this time." Dean held up his bandaged hand. "At least until my gun hand heals-and your arm, and your leg and whatever else you've messed up and aren't telling me about." He clapped Sam on the back. "Now let's go get some grub. And since I'm the invalid in this outfit, and you ruined my shirt, you're cooking."
"Dude-"
"You're right. My bad." Dean held up a hand to cut off Sam, then rubbed his stomach. "After all that puking, I don't think I'm up to your so-called cooking just yet. We'll get takeout-but you're paying."
Sam snorted. "Nice, on both counts."
Dean grinned. "Oh, and speaking of puke, you clean up your mess, Sammy?"
Sam pulled a face. "I cleaned up my mess-I'm not cleaning up yours."
"Ouch." Dean feigned hurt. "So much for you caring for your ailing brother."
"Seriously?"
Dean gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. "Relax, Sammy. No pressure-you can clean up the puke when we get back."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, that's a much better plan-rancid puke. Thanks."
Dean chuckled, enjoying the light-hearted banter. "Dude, that's one more use for the gas masks. Now about that magazine article-"
"Shut up." Sam gave Dean a brotherly shove, then limped off down the hallway.
It said a lot about Dean's state of health that even hobbled, his brother could move faster than him. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath and called out after Sam. "Bitch."
Sam stopped in his tracks. He didn't turn around but Dean could see the tension draining from his shoulders as he straightened up to his full height before setting off again. And even facing away from Dean, his response was clear.
"Jerk."
Dean smiled.
Finis
A/N: Thanks so much for reading; I hope you enjoyed. Here's to the promise that Season 11 holds and to the brothers being on the same page-ish. \o/ Drop me a line if you have a moment; I'd love to hear from you-and hopefully it won't be anywhere near as long until I'm back again. Cheers!
SUMMARY: So why did the Brothers Winchester hit the road for some R&R at the end of Soul Survivor? Because it's hard to relax when home is the centre of all things mystical and magical. A fic featuring the brothers and the bunker.
SPOILERS: Set in early Season 10, with references to Season 8, in-between canon hunts.
DISCLAIMER:The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke, Jeremy Carver & Co. I continue to play in their sandbox, with their toys, with much gratitude.
RATING:T for swearing.
GENRE:Gen/Hurt-Comfort
STORY WORD COUNT:9200.
Link back to Chapter 1 Here
MORDRED's LULLABY - CHAPTER 2
BY SCULLSPEARE
Sam kept pressing tiles, trying to be methodical so he wouldn't miss any or waste time by trying the same ones twice. In the end though, impatience helped solve the puzzle. As he dragged his hand from one tile to the next, he ended up pressing two at once, and that proved to be the key.
Sam's breath caught as he felt the tiles give beneath his hand. He pressed harder and they moved into the wall a good four inches. "Dean! I think I found it." He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice, especially as with a loud grating sound, a section of the wall began to swing outwards towards him. "The door's opening."
He stepped back, giving the door room to swing clear. He smiled as he peered around the door, seeking out Dean.
But that smile was quickly erased by his brother's shouted warning.
"Sammy-duck! You hear me? Duck!"
Instinct took over and Sam hit the deck. Rolling onto his back, he bit back a groan as his injured arm protested the manoeuvre. He lifted his head and found himself looking straight at Dean who was slumped against the wall just inside the open door.
He waited a few seconds, but when nothing happened, Sam raised an eyebrow. "What the hell was that about?"
The answer came as a loud 'Bang!' above their heads, and with it the release of a cloud of yellow gas. Had Sam been standing, had his brother not shouted the warning, he would've gotten a faceful of that gas, whatever it was-something he quickly realized must have happened to Dean. The gas was why Dean sounded drunk, why he had been puking his guts out…why he still wasn't moving.
But thanks to his brother, Sam had avoided a direct hit.
"Damn it. Are you-" He jumped, the warning claxon sounding again throughout the bunker, announcing the breach and drowning out his question. More disturbing, the door to the tunnel was closing again-and Dean was still inside the wall.
"Dean, move!" Sam sat up, his back to the door, pushing against it, trying to keep it open. Instead, he felt himself sliding across the floor, towards Dean and into the tunnel.
Sam braced his foot against the wall, trying to give himself some leverage against the moving door but he was starting to feel light-headed and nauseous. He glanced upwards; the cloud of gas, whatever it was, was heavier than air and falling towards them. If he didn't do something quickly, he'd been in the same state as Dean and they'd both be trapped inside the wall.
"Dean, come on-you gotta move." His voice betrayed the strain of trying to keep the door open.
"Sorry, Sammy..." Dean's voice was slurred, his eyes falling shut, this second dose of poisoned gas the proverbial straw. "Think I…think I need a hand here."
"Then you got one." Sam leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of his brother's shirt. He pulled Dean towards him one-handed, keeping his feet braced against the wall, but his brother still wasn't clear. The door was closing fast and Sam was getting increasingly weak and dizzy.
Dean tried to help, but the gas had robbed him of almost all motor control. He offered Sam an apologetic glance before his eyes slid closed. This time they stayed shut.
"Dean!" Worry and fear lent Sam strength. Grabbing Dean with both hands, ignoring the pain shooting through his injured elbow, he yanked his brother clear.
Sam's loud grunt of exertion suddenly morphed into a cry of pain. Dean was free of the trap, but Sam's right foot wasn't, and was now slowly being crushed between the closing door and the wall. He struggled to pull himself free, but the trap refused to release him.
"Son of a bitch…." In desperation, Sam shifted his weight, yanked his foot free of his shoe and fell back, just as the door slammed shut, swallowing his worn sneaker.
For a moment, Sam didn't-couldn't-move. Then, exhaling in relief, he pushed himself up and quickly returned his attention to Dean. A brief triage told him Dean's heart rate was slow, but not dangerously so, and his breathing shallow but regular. "That's good, Dean." He patted Dean's chest, reassuring himself more so than his unconscious brother. "That's good. We'll have you feeling better in no time."
The second part of that reassurance echoed clearly along the hallway as the claxon shut off suddenly, leaving the brothers in silence. But that quiet was quickly broken by the sound of Sam puking, the pain from his injured foot acting as an accelerant to the gas-fueled nausea.
Sam was just glad his brother wasn't awake to see it.
xxx000xxx
"Dean?"
"Shhhhh, Sammy-not so loud." Dean lifted a hand to his head and groaned at the sound of his brother's voice. He didn't even attempt to open his eyes; first rule of hangovers-the less you moved, the better. "Show some respect when your elders are feeling like shit. Lemme sleep."
"You've had a good 12 hours. You should really eat something, then we can get you back to your own bed."
"My own…." Where the hell was he? Dean forced open his eyes and squinting against the unwelcome light, glanced around. He was on a gurney in the middle of the bunker's infirmary. The head of the gurney was raised to a 45-degree angle, and a blanket covered his legs. His T-shirt had been cut open from neck to waist, wires taped to his bare chest and an IV port secured to the back of his left hand. His right hand was heavily bandaged.
He turned to his brother as he sorted through fuzzy memories. "Cliff's Notes version-Men of Letters trap designed to protect us bit us in the ass again, right?"
"Pretty much." Sam squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before gesturing to the wires. "This…this is just a precaution. The stuff you got dosed with is basically a nasty muscle relaxant. Last time I checked, the heart's a muscle so I needed to keep an eye on yours, make sure it didn't…."
"Stop?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm still talking so I take it it didn't?"
"No…." But Sam's expression and the way his voice trailed off clearly showed that worry had been real.
"I'm good, Sammy." That was how a Winchester said thank you. "You did good."
Sam cleared his throat. "You should probably take it easy for a day or two, but you'll be fine. Your heart rate's back where it should be at least." He turned off the bulky EKG machine which sat on a cart beside the gurney, and it stopped spooling out the ribbon of paper on which Dean's heart rate had been recorded.
Dean glanced down at the pile of paper on the floor. "According to this museum piece, you mean."
Sam smiled. "It's definitely old school, but it works pretty well."
"Good, but next time you find a new toy, let's find another guinea pig." Dean raised his bandaged hand. "What's the story here?"
"Seven stitches from the broken glass…when you dropped the scotch."
"What a waste." Dean winced as he flexed his fingers.
"You should drink some water." Sam limped across the room, grabbed a bottle from the top of a cabinet by the door, then returned to Dean's bedside. He sat down on a rolling stool, wedged the bottle between his knees and unscrewed the cap. "IV fluids have kept you going but you need real food and drink." He handed Dean the water.
"Water's not real drink, Sammy." Dean frowned. "And why are you limping?"
Sam shrugged. "I got my foot caught between the door and wall when I was pulling you out."
Dean studied Sam closely, trying to figure out just how much he was leaving out. "How bad is it?"
"It's fine, Dean-really. I just…." Sam shrugged again. "I lost my shoe."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean shook his head. "Dude, you are a walking disaster-gimp arm, gimp foot…"
"I'm not the one on the gurney," Sam shot back.
"Speaking of that…." Dean took a drink of water but kept his attention on Sam. "The gas-you must've inhaled some of that shit when you pulled me out. How much did it mess you up?"
"Not much." Dean's look of disbelief earned another eyeroll. "I was a little groggy at first. Now, I'm fine-Scout's Honour."
"That means squat when you were never a Scout, and groggy?" Dean wasn't buying it. "I'm out for 12 hours and you truss me up to some stone-age heart monitor to make sure I'm OK, but you're just groggy?"
Sam smiled. "I didn't get a faceful like you did-thanks to your warning. Hey, when you tell me to duck, I duck. I got enough to make me lose my lunch-and yesterday's dinner-but not enough to knock me out. Unlike you…." His smile faded. "You were trapped in that lock box with a full dose for a couple of hours before I got you out."
Satisfied, if not entirely convinced, Dean let it go. "That gas…" He took another drink of water, then glanced up at Sam. "Do we even know what it is?"
"Yeah, while you were out I've been doing some research." Sam limped over to the counter along the wall and picked up a leather-bound journal. "It's called Mordred's Lullaby-and was invented by none other than Cuthbert Sinclair."
"Sinclair? That son of a bitch…." The plastic of the water bottle crackled loudly as Dean subconsciously crushed it. "What I wouldn't give to stick that bastard's head back on just so I could take it off again."
"You and me both." Sam flipped open the journal. "But even more interesting than the inventor, is where he got the formula."
Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. "Go on."
Sam looked up from the journal. "It's based on spells written by Morgan Le Fay."
"Morgan…." Dean frowned. "As in-"
"Yeah." Sam nodded. "As in King Arthur's sister."
"And lover-and mother-slash-aunt to Mordred in that whole messed-up telenovela that was Camelot." Dean threw back the blanket and swung his legs off the gurney with a groan. "So, what? She came up with this gas to knock out her little bastard when he kicked up a fuss at bedtime?"
Sam grinned. "I think it was more likely one of the weapons she made for him to use in his quest to steal the throne from Arthur-knock out the guards and you can storm the castle without a fight." The grin faded as he leafed through the journal. "You know, in most Arthurian legends, Merlin gets top billing as the great wizard, but Morgan was his equal in every way. Her magic-"
"Dark magic?"
"Not necessarily." But the thought had clearly crossed Sam's mind. "But it was...powerful stuff. Do you know how valuable her spell book would be?"
"And Sinclair had it?"
"He used it. He made this gas, then a bunch of other potions and powders to add to the Men of Letters arsenal, all based on her work. But what happened to the book itself, I dunno." Sam glanced up at Dean. "You think it's here-in the bunker?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it's another prized exhibit in Sinclair's wacked-out zoo." Dean shrugged. "All the mystical shit that protected that place-maybe that's her work, too."
"We need to find it." Sam tapped his finger on the journal. "According to this, that gas doesn't just take out hunters-it stops demons, angels, vampires…everything. She clearly knew how to fight supernatural beings. Just think what else might be in there."
Dean knew exactly what was fueling the hope in Sam's eyes. "Like a cure for the Mark of Cain."
Sam nodded slowly. "Why not?"
"Hey, if you want to go on a hunt for Morgan's spell book when we're done R&R, knock yourself out-but not until we're back on the clock."
"But-"
"I told you, Sammy, no buts. We need a break-both of us." Dean began clumsily peeling the tape off his chest, releasing the ledes to the EKG machine. "The only business we're taking care of right now is to make sure no more of that gas gets released into the bunker. I'm not going through this again, you're sure as hell not, and those escape tunnels will be a much bigger asset if we can actually escape through them."
"Not a problem." Sam shrugged at Dean's look of surprise. "Strip away all the mystical crap and it's just a security system. All we need to do is update the code, then punch it in each time we open the door to re-set the system. There should be a panel just inside the tunnel entrance."
"Update the code? And you know how to do that?"
"I do now-we reset it through the console in the war room. I cross-referenced the dates on the bunker plans with the Men of Letters journals and found this one." Sam handed Dean another leather-bound journal. "The how is all in there."
"Go, Sammy, go." Dean was suitably impressed. "But just so you know, I'm wearing a gas mask when we test this theory of yours." Now free of the EKG wires, he dropped them on the gurney beside him. "OK, you play computer geek for half an hour then we are officially back on vacation-and I'm serious about the gas masks."
"We should do some tests on the gas itself." Worry was again carving furrows in Sam's forehead. "We don't know a lot about it-how stable is it, how long it's potent once released, does it have shelf life?"
"Sam-"
"It's not supposed to be lethal, Dean. It's supposed to incapacitate, not kill. But if it had taken much longer to get you out of there-"
"It didn't."
"It could've." Sam was pacing now, wincing each time he turned on his injured ankle. "Maybe it degraded. I mean, it was sitting in that canister for more than 70 years. Maybe-"
"Let it go, Sammy."
"But -"
"I said, let it go."
Sam's reluctance to step away from work wasn't about the gas, or even Morgan's spell book. This was about Sam losing his brother-again-and the need to do something-anything-to wrench back control.
Dean studied his brother. He knew Sam was struggling, and had been since Dean had been stabbed by Metatron…since Dean's eyes had turned black and he'd disappeared from Sam's life.
His demonic self knew what Sam had done to avenge his death, to get him back, and Dean retained those memories. But unlike the demon, who viewed life in simple black and white, he saw all the layers of gray that had fueled Sam's decisions-and his little brother was all about the layers.
Dean forced a smile as he pushed himself off the gurney and stood up. He felt like a light wind could topple him, but thankfully his legs held his weight. "All that will wait, Sammy."
"But-"
"No, I told you, we need a break." Dean glanced around the infirmary. "But home for us is also the office which makes it very hard for one of us to chill, so I say we hit the road first thing in the morning."
"And go where?"
"Dunno. Don't care-as long as it's not here." Dean winced as he pulled the IV port from the back of his hand. "Hey, maybe we throw those old beach chairs we picked up in Boca into the trunk, load up the cases of beer and go find us a stretch of sand and do nothing but watch babes in bikinis every day 'till the sun goes down for a whole week."
Sam grabbed a First-Aid kit from the counter, pulled out a Band-Aid and handed it to Dean. "We're in Kansas. Whichever way we drive, it's a helluva long way to the ocean."
"Fine. We head for a lake, a river, a drainage ditch for all I care-just as long as it's real down time. The beer will taste just as good wherever we are." Dean stuck the Band-Aid to the back of his hand to stem the bleeding. "I mean it, Sam-no cases, no research, no nothing. I know you. I know you wanna look into that gas. I know you're itching to hunt down Morgan's spell book, but you really need this break. Trust me."
Sam's voice was quiet. "I do trust you, Dean."
Dean grinned. "I know-and good thing, too. It saved your ass not 12 hours ago."
Sam almost smiled. "Hey, I saved your sorry ass, too."
"Hallelujah! We saved each other and the world didn't end." Dean's grin widened. "That alone is cause for celebration-so let's go."
"How long d'you think we'll last?"
"What?"
Sam followed his brother out of the room. "We've always kind of sucked at vacations. We've never really been able to go more than a few days before hunting drags us back in again."
"Well, we'll hold out this time." Dean held up his bandaged hand. "At least until my gun hand heals-and your arm, and your leg and whatever else you've messed up and aren't telling me about." He clapped Sam on the back. "Now let's go get some grub. And since I'm the invalid in this outfit, and you ruined my shirt, you're cooking."
"Dude-"
"You're right. My bad." Dean held up a hand to cut off Sam, then rubbed his stomach. "After all that puking, I don't think I'm up to your so-called cooking just yet. We'll get takeout-but you're paying."
Sam snorted. "Nice, on both counts."
Dean grinned. "Oh, and speaking of puke, you clean up your mess, Sammy?"
Sam pulled a face. "I cleaned up my mess-I'm not cleaning up yours."
"Ouch." Dean feigned hurt. "So much for you caring for your ailing brother."
"Seriously?"
Dean gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. "Relax, Sammy. No pressure-you can clean up the puke when we get back."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, that's a much better plan-rancid puke. Thanks."
Dean chuckled, enjoying the light-hearted banter. "Dude, that's one more use for the gas masks. Now about that magazine article-"
"Shut up." Sam gave Dean a brotherly shove, then limped off down the hallway.
It said a lot about Dean's state of health that even hobbled, his brother could move faster than him. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath and called out after Sam. "Bitch."
Sam stopped in his tracks. He didn't turn around but Dean could see the tension draining from his shoulders as he straightened up to his full height before setting off again. And even facing away from Dean, his response was clear.
"Jerk."
Dean smiled.
Finis
A/N: Thanks so much for reading; I hope you enjoyed. Here's to the promise that Season 11 holds and to the brothers being on the same page-ish. \o/ Drop me a line if you have a moment; I'd love to hear from you-and hopefully it won't be anywhere near as long until I'm back again. Cheers!