Watershed for astarloa (Part 2 of 2)
---------Part Two-----------
“Sam!”
He grips the boards tight and tries to swing himself toward the pier. Maybe if he can find a foothold on the underside he can push himself up and use the mass of his bodyweight as leverage to pull his trapped leg free or maybe he can swing his free leg up and crawl back up onto the pier until he and Sammy can untangle him and end this quasi-octopus.
He's straining his muscles doing his best to pull himself up using his fingers but that's difficult enough without whatever the hell pulling him down. He is pulling up, trying to shake the damn thing off, but he's making no progress. Whatever it is doesn't seem to be too concerned he might escape. He looks down and sees an eerie glow coming from beneath the water's surface, there are more of those dark,oily tentacles flailing about, some still just barely visible tips capped with claws,others arelong,sinuous arms that undulate as a viscous fluid shot through with small, multicolored bits of debris, appear to float within the individual limbs. Limbs that are possibly,probably searching for him.
He feels an emotion surge up inside, one that stops his lungs from fully expanding and causes a stuttering of his heartbeat that can only be fear. He's pretty damn sure he's felt that on a regular basis, if the hash that is his memory can be trusted. Another memory comes to him-he and Sam sitting in someone's living room, both holding an untouched, lukewarm cup of tea. He's wearing another monkey suit. He's outwardly calm, mirroring his brother's professional mannerisms so he doesn't freak out Mr. and Mrs. Normal but he's still on a mission-listening for unseen evil, alertly watching for signs of impending doom, every sense trained to key in on any trace of the unnatural. He allows himself to divide his focus for long enough to follow the conversation, if you can call it that-Sam is doing all the talking.
His soft,sincere voice and that face-all empathetic compassion, caring like only Sam can be, is a dead give away. Dean knows without really listening,he's telling them the truth because they have this look on their faces like they wish he was lying but they've seen too much and know he isn't, even though they want to claim he's wrong. “The talk” they call it. Welcome to your new reality. Mr. and Mrs. Normal will never be normal again. He feels genuinely sorry for them.
When he sees the maul full of row after row of ridged,crystalline teeth break the surface he knows how those people they've had to explain the facts of life to feel; stupid-terrified, and secretly hoping it's a nightmare they're about to wake from. He could have lived through this just fine without seeing one more reason for nightmares.
“Sammy!”
He feels vibrations along the wooden timbers of the pier but before he can discern their source, the grip on his leg tightens again. His hands are torn free of the planks bringing part of the old wood away with them. He has time for one quick breath-seconds to fill his lungs,to send out a prayer,a silent surge of hope that Sam will save him before he's plunged into the cold, dark water.
Sam runs-a lot. He runs for exercise, for a way to deal when the job is too much,for space of his own when he and Dean have been on the road too long, for when they've lived in one another's pockets for too long a stretch, but now, as often, he's running to save someone-today it's Dean. He made it back to the Impala parked just down the block, stopped long enough to grab the First Aid kit from the trunk, and slid in behind the wheel. He has the key in the ignition, the accelerator peddle beneath his foot, despite how tired he is, how worried, he relaxes a fraction when the familiar rumble fills the darkness around him. The cassette player offers up the voice of Robert Plant singing Traveling Riverside Blues. One of Dean's favorite songs. Dean is a die-hard Led Zeppelin fan, even if he can't sing,maybe especially since he can't sing. Sam decides to take that as a good omen, not that he's superstitious.
Sam remembers one occasion when he was about ten, how emphatically Dean had stated, after a hunt had gone reallyrough, and he'd pilfered a couple of beers from Bobby's fridge then drank them without somuch as allowing Sam a sip,that if he was ever going to have a headstone he'd want it to be inscribed with the lyrics to all Zeppelin's songs. He'd also said that he would want it to say he was a true fan. Sam hadn't been sure what that meant,really, but he was doing his best to be supportive because, well, brother. Then Sam had had to pretend he didn't see the shimmer of a falling tear in the moonlight, his brother had cried for the heartbroken spirit he and Dad had just salted and burned. Apparently she had been some poor groupie who had over-dosed when her favorite band split, and only Dean's passion for old rock music and sincere compassion for her suffering had been enough to convince her she was moving on to “the best rock concert ever”.
Dean is a hunter. He's never getting a headstone. As long as Sam has the ability to do anything to prevent it, he'll never need one, or a hunter's pyre. He's going to save his brother.
He drives fast, but not fast enough to cause too much notice. He rolls the window down to feel the cool air moving over his skin. He feels a bit winded,shaken, but not from exertion, it's because his brother is hurt. Sam can't stand seeing him hurt,never could-that's one of the reasons he'd left. He takes a deep,calming breath and makes the turn, pointing the Impala toward the pier. He loves him so much. He wishes he could tell Dean how much, but there aren't adequate words and that's not what they do.
His brother is the one person his whole life he could count on, that has always had his back,the one that constantly encouraged him,taught him about hunting and life and how they didn't have to be mutually exclusive if Sam didn't want them to be. Dean has never allowed himself that freedom, or maybe, doesn't think he deserves that. Sam doesn't understand his logic anymore now than when he left. He knows Dean,he knows he's doing the job,that the job is important but… . He also knows they will probably never talk about it. That's what they do.
He'd left to have the new life he'd wanted-Stanford and Jess, and normal. Dean had understood,he hadn't liked Sam's decision, but he'd respected him enough to give him the space to put down roots a bit and the time to find what made him happy. He'd valued Sam's happiness over his own. He'd always wanted what was best for him.
The reason he'd come back and stayed,after losing Jess, wasn't just vengeance,it was to keep the best part of his old life, his brother Dean. He'd missed Dad too, despite their issues- but Dean is his anchor, his rock,always has been. It has taken him getting through some of the worst of his grief,dealing daily with his desire for revenge, his anger, and some days are still difficult, but he had realized when Dean showed up, how much he'd missed his brother. And the longer they are on the road searching for Dad, the more he knows he doesn't want to lose Dean. Ever.
He pulls Baby toward the curb, parks, and climbs out already going over the medical evaluation protocol in his mind. Dean has a concussion and no telling what other injuries. Sam won't feel grounded again until he knows his brother is okay. He gets a bottle of water from the cooler in the back seat. Dean's going to need to stay hydrated and well rested. It's going to take time to get over his head injury. Finding Dad is going to be put on hold for a little while,unlesshe finds them. Maybe Sam should give that last cell number another try,once Dean is safe and sound.
He sees Dean standing near the end of the pier. Just as he raises his hand to wave, he sees him lurch sideways-tumbling over the side. His body goes cold with shock, panic freezing him in place for a few precious seconds-stunned. He's grateful he has Baby there for support because his legs are suddenly having difficulty doing their job. He knows he has to get to Dean but his mind is stuck,the command to move failing to produce motion. While his brain processes what his eyes can't comprehend, his body acts from muscle memory finally moving forward. Dean is calling him. He's close when he hears the sounds of his name and wood splintering at almost exactly the same moment. He gets there in time to see the last of the boards fall and the roll of the waves as they close over Dean.
His first impulse is to dive in, but there's a jagged concrete ridge that rises bone-white out of the sea near here. He can't see any danger in the water below but there are huge chunks of concrete and yards of twisted rusting steel tangled beneath the supports below the foot of the pier. The shattered spine, that lies both above and below the waterline, splits apart further out to sea,Sam's pretty sure it's all that remains of the broken skeleton of an ancient jetty. And it's in his damned way. Pylons broken and scattered like discarded bones and teeth, litter the other side,too. He needs to get to Dean more than he needs to breathe, but he knows if he ends up injuring himself in his attempt to rescue his brother,he's putting them both in serious jeopardy.
He needs a way to get to Dean- quickly. He needs help. He scans the water briefly for any sign of his brother but there's nothing. He turns his eyes back toward the pier searching for a solution, sees a solitary battered dingy and decides it will have to do. He sprints down the planks and leaps into the bow. Agility and balance are all that keep him from capsizing the small craft. The water is so dark he despairs at the thought of Dean submerged in the abysmal tide. He stops that thought cold. Thinking of anything other than what it will take to get the job done is counterproductive. He's a professional-a good hunter.
Dean taught him how to hot-wire a car,boats aren't difficult. He is tugging the wires lose with one hand while fishing for his cell phone with the other. He has the number for the Coast Guard punched in on speed dial, it's a precaution Dad taught them; like immediately locating the local hospitals when they reach a new town, sharpening their knives on a regular basis, and never allowing their salt supply to get depleted.
He's underwater, his breath is giving out, and he can't get to the surface. He's down too deep and no matter how much he kicks and thrashes he can't seem to get closer. He's choking on inhaled water and there's almost no air left in his lungs. He pushes up, kicking with all his energy and somehow his head breaks the surface, his lungs expand breathing deeper instinctively. He sees a bright but distant, light but it's a brief reprieve from the gloom surrounding him. It's dark and he can't get his bearings. There is a coastline, jagged and wild, in the far distance,marked by a few solitary pinpricks of light. To his right nothing but open ocean and the concrete carcass of something once useful. Above him, faint, distant stars. He's not far from the pier, but it remains out of reach. Without thinking,he tries to call out but a wave slaps him hard in the face. He strangles, coughing as water surges down his throat, brackish and bitter. He has no choice but to swallow and feels nauseous for doing so, but he's got bigger problems. He gets another too-thin gulp of air before something drags him down.
He is doing his best to clamp down on the panic screaming in his mind. If he can breach the waves he'll live, and if he's alive, he can get back to Sammy. He kicks and kicks, still held fast, caught around the leg of his water-sodden trousers. The ocean's murky, he can only see the thing encircling his leg but one glimpse of those teeth was plenty. He pulls with every bit of force he can muster and turns stinging eyes toward the shadowy depths below, but it's so dark he can't see his hand in front of his face. He feels the tightening in his stomach and squeezing in his chest that are never a good sign.Fear. He tugs hard on his leg but the grip is getting tighter still. He almost expects to hear the bones crack, to feel the muscles and tendons tearing away, leaving a trail of blood as his tattered skin flutters in the current like a discarded bit of flotsam. He wonders for a moment if he'll be left watching as the limb is separated from his body. He shudders, feeling chills race over his skin that have nothing to do with the temperature of the current.
Of all the ways he's thought he might go-drowning or dismemberment weren't even on the list. And being eaten by a quasi-octopus? That, he never could've imagined. He tries hard to banish the memory of all those teeth. He'd happily forget that.
He needs help. Needs Sam. He strains to hear over the jackhammer beat of his heart. Hoping to hear something to give him a sense that Sammy is out there-close. Close, but safe, and looking for him. Something slithers further up his leg, tugging on his skin,pulling the hairs on his leg, inching further up his calf toward his thigh. He hates the way it feels but the burning in his lungs won't let him spare the time to brush it away,he's running out of air, out of time.
Fighting with this thing isn't working, time for plan B. He stills, intentionally slows his breathing, and forces himself to listen. There are sounds below the surface, more sounds than he'd been expecting. He filters some of them out as natural, things like currents sousing through his clothing, through his hair. He hears a muted mechanical rumble, a vibrating high pitched whine he can't place, but the water distorts the sounds and it's still so damn dark he can't see. He's getting tired-he wonders if he's been in the water for a long time. He has one more attempt, maybe two, left in him. Not that that is reason to quit,he has to try and keep trying, he can't leave Sam. Can't leave all those innocents without help. He doesn't want to die. He still has too much to do.
Another sound pulls him away from the thought, a different kind of rumble more high pitched and persistent-coming closer. It's then that he sees a wide swath of light prodding the dark water in a rhythmic, consistent pattern, a beam of light raking over the waves above-someone is searching for him. Now it makes sense, a lighter colored shape moving closer- the hull of a boat is moving toward him. He hadn't realized what he was seeing.
“Dean?! Dean!”
Sam's voice carries but is muted by the distance between them, by the water separating them. It doesn't matter, he knows his brother's voice. He'd recognize that voice in Heaven, Hell, or anywhere in between.
He has ceased struggling long enough for the thing to hopefullythink he's given up or drowned. The hold has slightly loosened since he stopped struggling but he knows the moment he begins to move again it's going to clamp down like a vise. He has to calculate how close he can get to the boat. Judge the distance and speed between where it is now and where it will be when he surfaces. He has to help Sam find him.
He sees the boat edging closer,when he surfaces he'll be behind it-but close. If he can call out, Sam will find him. He shrugs his suit jacket off, flinching it down his shoulders. He does his best to keep his body mostly still. He fastens his gaze on the small sliver of safety the hull represents and prays he can make it. He kicks both feet hard and lunges forward aiming for the surface. The tentacle flails and slips but the delayed response is only seconds long,he doesn't get away clean. His head breaks water and he's calling out even as he feels the grip on his boot, persistent death still coiling tight around his ankle.
“Sammy!”
The air in his lungs is better than any he's ever had. He's so thankful to be breathing. A light sweeps over him and he's blinded, disoriented. The boat is close but isn't turning around. Didn't he hear him? He called Sam's name,he knows he did.
There's another shape he can make out, a little further away-he's still having trouble with details but it's definitely a boat. It could be the leakiest tub in the fleet, at this point and he wouldn't care.
“Sam!” He bellows like,well, his life depends on it.
“Dean? Dean, I'm right here. Hold on,okay? I'm coming!”
He hears the pitch of the motor change, relieved when he realizes the small boat is changing course, moving slowly toward him. He sees another blinding flash as a flare ignites, splitting the darkness apart. The light reveals a familiar red slash identifying the other boat as a Coast Guard Cutter making speed in his direction. There are two figures standing at the rail. Another, brighter light sweeps over him and stops. He is so relieved to be found he nearly pees himself. The smaller boat and Sam gets to him first. His vantage point is blocked by waves and a partial view of the side of the boat and he's still blinking away water, but a hand reaches out and he feels long, thin familiar fingers grasping his own.
He breathes deep and grips the hand but the thing beneath him has other plans, ripping away his chance of rescue before he has time to thank God or fate or pure dumb luck or all three. He is being dragged back down. He grips the hand above him and holds on but he feels himself slipping, panic already making his breath jitter inside his lungs.
He sees a second set of hands join the first,grasping his forearm, and he knows he's being lifted toward the open air and safety. He's never gonna take breathing for granted again.He kicks hard and tries to dislodge the limb curled around his own but it's not budging. He feels one set of hands release his as a cold pool of fear begins to form in his stomach. Are they going to leave him here? Have they given up?
“Sam?”
A second tentacle slithers up, joining the first,just as a wave breaks over him. He's tugged down,submerging him again. He's confused-a hand still has his… . Another hand takes the place of the first,wrapping him in a firm grasp but if he can't get free he's going to meet his end a few feet from safety.
He hears a rapid,rhythmic thumbing above him and a series of shuffling noises before there's a low, steady mechanical hum joining the rumble emanating from the larger craft. He hears a small,muted splash as a diver's buoy is deployed above him. There's a second, larger splash, and Sam is here. Head plunged beneath the waves, long hair floating,spread around him like a living halo. Before he can process, Sam's hand is on the back of his skull-warm and gentle but firm, pulling him forward. They are mouth against mouth, a breath shared between them,Sam's air filling his lungs. He is so close Dean can see that the little mole Sam has always had actually has a tiny freckle close to it. He doesn't think he ever noticed that before and he's not sure why it seems so important now, but he's happy that neither the mole nor freckle is alone.
He feels odd, lightheaded. Like if something wasn't preventing it, he might literally float away. He's cold. He doesn't think he noticed that before,either. He reaches toward Sam with his free hand as strong arms are wrapping him in a hug, holding Dean tight despite the awkward angle, keeping him close. Sam's touch is warm and soothing on his chilled skin. Every-thing's okay now-Sam's here.Dean doesn't move, doesn't want to. He closes his eyes and lets himself be held,even if it's only for the span of a heartbeat.
He's never told Sam, never told anybody, but when he dies he wants to be with Sam. He knows it's going to happen-happens to everyone. For a hunter,probably sooner than later He doesn't know when or how, but he knows how he wants it. And he wants to go first because he doesn't think he'd survive the pain of losing Sammy anyway. And if he did, what would be the point?
He feels Sam's fingers tighten and he knows something is about to happen, he steels himself, opening his eyes. Sam is looking at him but he can't understand what his brother's doing… .
Sam twitches his lower body, still holding Dean. At his signal, more hands reach for them pulling and tugging them both toward the boat. He sees it now, some kind of harness rigged to lever them up out of the water. There's an engine involved, maybe a winch of some type… .He feels the tension as his torso is pulled one direction-his leg another. The pain, that begins as a slight discomfort builds as he is drawn ever closer to the surface. He grinds his teeth as the pain reaches unbearable levels and Sam freezes-not so much as blinking his eyes, keeping his gaze locked on Dean. His brow knits.
Dean's seen every expression Sammy has, every one, multiple times, and it doesn't require thought or explanation, he knows that forehead scrunch. Sam is working through the problem, turning it over and over in his mind,quickly considering it from every angle. He pushes the last of his air into Dean's mouth and moves away with a hand sign that he needs to surface. He thrusts his head and one long arm upward, his other hand gripping Dean's shoulder in a quick reassuring squeeze,then he is kicking toward the surface. There's some kind of commotion at the waterline as he disappears from view but almost instantly Sam slips back into the water,swimming rapidly toward his brother. Dean tries to lunge up to meet him but is stopped short by the tentacles that have him tethered.
Sam puts himself directly in front of him taps his chest and pushes his aerator into Dean's mouth. He stays beside him watching his brother breathe for several seconds,mostly to reassure himself he's getting adequate air. He knows that taking too deep a breath is a temptation for anyone not accustomed to diving with an underwater breathing apparatus. He's not sure how cognizant Dean is at this point, his brother is concussed, and that's probably not his only injury. He wishes now he'd never found that damned news article on the Internet that spurred this hunt. They've both had better days.
Dean feels a little light-headed from the lack of oxygen and draws the air into his lungs greedily. Sam pushes back just enough to give him a tight-lipped smile and Dean sees the minuscule secondary air-tank and the spear gun. The long silver spear gleams malevolently in the current. Sam gives him a look and aims at the depths near his leg. He understands. Sam gives him a hand signal to indicate he doesn't want him to move, as if he thinks Dean might suddenly do the very thing he hasn't been able to, for he doesn't know how many minutes now. He wants to laugh or smack Sam in the back of the head, or maybe hug him for all eternity,he can't decide.
He nods and closes his eyes again. He doesn't want to risk moving and throwing his brother's aim off. Sam's the best marksman Dean has ever seen aside from himself,or possibly Dad, but he doesn't know if Sam's ever used a spear-gun and accidents happen. He can give Sam all the attitude he can muster later, if he survives this.
There's a shuddering explosive surge of movement and sound that marks the discharge and a firm, solid thunk that sounds a little like when his fist connects on a body blow during a fight. He opens his eyes at another sound- a rough, rasping drag and oddly off kilter thumping as something smacks repeatedly against the hulls overhead. Tentacles longer and thicker than his trunk are beating against the hulls of the smaller boat and the Cutter. He sees the tip of one appendage coiling and uncoiling maliciously, clearly searching for the source of it's newly inflected pain. Slowly snaking nearer and nearer to Sam.
He wants to call out to warn Sam, to push him away from the dreadful thing that wants to drown him, to put himself between Sammy and the monster like he's done his whole life. He'd do anything to keep his brother out of harm's way-if only he could move. Sam must sense that something is wrong because he drops the spear gun, takes in a breath of air and pushes the aerator from the smaller tank unceremoniously into Dean's mouth, at the same time that same small tank finds his right hand.
The spear gun, useless now, is left dangling from his wrist by a tether like some large clump of mutant sea grass. Why haven't they got a repeating action one of those by now? Surely someone, somewhere, must've invented one? As Dean watches, Sam pulls a huge silver Bowie knife from the back of his waistband. He recognizes it as one from Bobby's arsenal,given to him, he's oiled and sharpened that blade enough times to recognize the spell-work etched in the lustrous metal from here,even if he can't see well.
Sam gives Dean a small,grim smile,pushes himself away with a couple of powerful kicks and Dean knows what he's about to do. He knows his brother, knows that look: all hyper-focused purpose and sharp-edged determination. He reaches out toward him, maybe to reassure himself it's really Sam, maybe to make sure he knows to be careful, or because if this doesn't work, he and Sam may never see one another again. Maybe because he has no other way to show Sammy how much he means to him.
He has loved Sam his whole life. Never loved anyone more.
Sam gives him a nod and he returns it, dropping his arm to his side. He's seen the twinge of a jaw that passes for last words between them. It's part of the Winchester code,passed down from father to sons. Every trace of softness or weakness is banished. Baby brother no longer, Sam is the larger than life,lethal hunter that strikes fear in the heart of any evil thing that dares cross his path. Huge and terrifying he dives down to meet his nemesis.
Dean can only watch.
Sam propels himself down, diving deep enough to reach where Dean is caught and plunges the knife deep into dark flesh The piercing screech that follows makes Dean's skin crawl and his ears feel as if they've been scraped raw. The tightness on his leg intensifies for a beat as Sam twists the knife clockwise twice before Dean sees his head sweep left and right and sees something jagged catch as he sweeps the Bowie through a series of arcs. A violet plume of viscera is birthed and blossoms through the current around him. Dean realizes he must be doing some sort of incantation although he can't see his brother's lips moving. When, suddenly, there is an absence of pressure binding him, he tries to move and although he still can't, he knows the thing is dying.
The water around them is slightly lighter now, possibly from the search lights and flare that mark his location, but new-born clouds of dark fluid rising in the water and what must be numerous flailing limbs flexing spasmodically in the current below him, tell him Sam has hit his mark. He's still caught,tangled in the things arms or legs but his ordeal is hopefully, coming to an end.
He takes another breath from the secondary tank but on the inhale, a flailing,flagging tentacle knocks into him, slamming him hard into the underside of the dingy,his head connects with fiberglass making him sees spots,stars, or maybe, starfish. The air-tank is jostled from his cold-numbed fingers and although he tries, his best efforts are useless, he bobbles and drops it when a sudden, sharp attempt at movement nearly makes him pass out. He chases after it,but already, it's too far from reach. He sees that tiny bit of salvation sinking rapidly out of view as the depths boil and toss with writhing limbs, the chaos below sending up a tumult of sand, silt, and debris to cloud the already nearly opaque water, further obstructing his vision.
He keeps his eyes trained on the movement,holding Sam in his gaze.It makes him feel a little less useless if he can watch his back. He can just make out the shape of Sam far beneath him, a large,dark, deadly shape moving rapidly to counter the moves of a larger,darker,more deadly shape. He'll hold his breath for as long as he can,until he can't. He'll be here for Sammy until his dying breath.
Sam plunges the knife in a second time before he kicks and rolls to dodge the monster's grip as the tentacle that has been tracking him bucks and slaps at him from the depths. But most of the momentum behind it is gone, and it does little more than bump Sam roughly and flop over as he kicks it away.
The incantation sealed it's fate, it's movements, weaker now, are merely the death throes of one less monster left to trouble the world. He only has to wait a few more seconds to see that the job is finished. The thing shifts, shudders, heaves one final time, and finally, finally, ceases moving. He kicks upwards and puts his energy into powerful strokes that will help move him rapidly through the deep to reach the surface quickly. He's looking forward to the moment he can get Dean and himself both back to dry land.
The lack of air in his lungs is painful by now and his vision is tunneling but he has to be sure Sammy's okay before he lets go. The last thing he's aware of is the sight of a nimbus of too-long hair around his face, that there are hands on him, the firm brush of the chest that holds his heart as much as his brother's.
Sammy's here-they're okay.
He kicks and pulls himself through the water, makes long,strong strokes to get back to Dean. He'd hacked that tentacle to hell, but he'd finally gotten part of it to separate from the torso,now he should be able to get him free. Still a few feet away, he looks up as Dean's body, slack and motionless, starts to sink. He feels the first real surge of fear grip his chest since he first discovered Dean was injured. The jolt of adrenaline that accompanies the fear rips through the exhaustion,panic, and trepidation, pushing him forward,urging him to swim faster.
The dive team from the Cutter materializes out of the gloom on either side of his brother, like water-born angels. Sam's never been happier to have help. They are raising Dean carefully to the surface. Killing monsters is the Winchester's profession, ocean rescue is their's, but Sam stays close,keeps himself in Dean's eye-line even as his unresponsive body is drawn quickly toward the surface. He does his best not to hinder their rescue efforts,but he can't keep from touching Dean. He pulls him close for a moment, simply because he feels the need to somehow let him know he's not alone. If, no, when, he wakes, he doesn't want Dean coming to disoriented-thinking he was abandoned, and surrounded by strangers. He's been through enough for one hunt.
He comes to heaving up water.
Sam is beside him, on his knees, hands and mouth pressing air into his lungs. He tries to breathe, tries to tell his brother he's okay, but his body decides to do something else. He feels his gag reflex kick in, and he's suddenly choking at about the same movement that two pairs of hands are rolling him carefully onto his side.
He's spewing seawater onto the deck of a boat whose motion is doing nothing to alleviate the nausea he's quick to recognize. He heaves until nothing comes up,then heaves some more. Concussions are now he's second least favorite life experience, ranking just below flying. He's none too psyched about drowning, either. Sam is looking at him with big,worried eyes when he rolls back onto his back under his own steam. Really, how hard is it to fall down when you're already laying on a floor? He gives his brother's knee a hapless pat and the best smile he can manage.
“Dean?”
“I'm okay, Sammy.”
It's a lie. But it comes out sounding like an almost truth, and Dean wonders how often he's said that when Sam gives a slow, unintentional exhale. His shoulders drop a fraction, almost like he was waiting for Dean's cue beforeallowing himself to relax.
It doesn't make sense, because Sammy is still clearly concerned about his well-being, he keeps glancing at Dean like he's going to vanish into thin air if he stops watching him for more than two minutes at a time, but he seems to have decided that they are at least “okay enough” that he can give up some small bit of control. He morphs from one identity to another- probably not even aware he's done so. In the space of a heartbeat, he seems to have shrugged off his mighty huntermantle and settled back into simple“Oxymoron, anyone?”Sam Winchester-walking encyclopedia of weirdness,geek boy extraordinaire, and someone who surely qualifies as the single greatest brother on the planet, even if Dean is a little biased.
He's exhausted,freezing, soaked to the skin, and there are still large, disturbing gaps in his memory. There are chunks of time he can't account for,so many questions he doesn't have answers to-like the ones his new best friends the Coast Guard are sure to have. He wants to leave, but he's not even sure if he has the strength to stand.He has to give it a shot. He gives Sam's knee another feeble pat to get his attention and motions for Sam to help him up. He's pretty sure he'll feel better on his feet, but it turns out, he's wrong. You can dry heave in pretty much any position, and by the time they've reached the docking slip at the Coast Guard Station, he's tried them all.
He's wrapped in a borrowed blanket with a double dose of Dramamine, some acetaminophen, and a bottle of water in him. His head hurts with a disturbing regularity but the medic that looked him over advised no strong pain killers for the first few hours so he isn't running the risk of masking a more serious condition than the moderate concussion it appears he's experiencing. He doesn't move,doesn't look up when Sam walks in, he's waiting to see how his brother is planning on spinning this one.
He keeps inspecting his boot tips and wishing he could remember his cover alias, wishes he could remember well, anything. Mostly he wishes Sam had gotten here sooner, but he knows his brother was smoothing things over, answering questions,tying up loose ends. Doing what Dean can't. He can't answer questions with more questions. He has no idea what Sam's told them, so he's going to have follow his brother's lead and hope their cover holds.All he has is Sam and waytoo many loose ends.
“Yes,sir, thank you,sir. I'll have my section chief forward the report and a letter of-yes, the bureau is always appreciative of collaboration between agencies… .” Sam smiles, shakes the Captain's hand, and steps close, standing directly in front of Dean.
“You ready to go Agent Ford?”
Agent Ford?Bureau?O-kay, Feds then.
“Uh, yeah,sure.”
He ignores how the room tilts a bit when he looks up. He wants to go home,where ever that is. He gets to his feet without doing a face plant and manages to shake Captain Coast Guards' hand, thanking himbefore he walks to the gangplank to disembark. He's careful to appear casual as he walks away, despite the fact he ismore than eager to get away from the eyes of those left behind them aboard the Cutter. He's impressed he's managed to come off looking pretty well put together,he even gets to the end of the dock before he has to stop for a breather. Although Sam's keeping a “professional distance” between them, probably because, he too,suspects they might still be being watched, Dean can see the worry written in his too large eyes,how he's hovering next to him,watching like he's gonna disappear again, and he's sure he'd be really annoyed with him for that, if he didn't feel like he might pass out any minute now.
“S-Sammy?” His voice sounds odd-flat,kinda breathy, and just wrong.
His headache is back,full force, his coordination however,is not. He stumbles when his foot catches on a tuft of wiry grass forcing itself through a gap in the cracked,jagged bed of asphalt under his feet but he doesn't fall, Sam has himself wedged up under Dean's shoulder before he can blink. There are many advantages to having a brother as tall and broad-shouldered as a young mountain, one of which is, they don't have to strain too much when they have to carry your weight.
“I've got you, Dean.”
“I'm not feeling so good.”
“I know,it's okay. You've got a concussion.”
There are fourvehicles in the parking lot-a slightly sporty,slick sunshine yellow plastic something or other, that more resembles an oval with two doors, four wheels, and a sunroof, than a self respecting automobile, a pale weathered blue Pinto-one of the most heinous sins ever pawned off on the car-buying public, and an equally ugly pea green Hugo sporting a dented quarter panel and a flat tire, but there's one- she's beautiful. A big, buxom Chevrolet from the late 1960's sitting there looking long,sleek, and powerfully sexy. Her paint's so glossy and deep he can see the reflection of the stars from the sky overhead. He wants to run his hands over her curves like she's his woman, and he can just imagine the purr from her engine. He starts toward her but halts, faltering,a few feet away, and Sam, arm still supporting him, stops, too.
“Dean?”
“She's ours,right-the Impala?” He says it quietly-so maybe Sam won't hear it, which is ludicrous, but he can't quite keep the hopeful longing out of his voice.
“Yeah,Dean, that's your baby.”
His Baby.
With the name comes a series images; most still so jumbled and scattered he can't make sense of them, but one snags and holds true in his memory. A man he knows is Dad but a younger Dad, and a beautiful, blond, very pregnant Mom is sitting next to him on the broad bench seat. They are talking about the baby, about how soon Dean will be a big brother, and he knows it's a special occasion because they keep smiling at him. Mom is hugging him a lot, and Dad ruffled his hair. Dad says he can teach Sam all about Baseball and Hot Wheels when he's old enough. He said it's okay to eat his ice-cream cone in the car. Dean wonders if Sammy will like chocolate ice-cream like him and Dad, or strawberry like their mom.
The scene shifts-he and Sam in the Impala. He's riding shotgun and Sam's sitting behind the wheel,boosted up enough he can see through the windshield by a thick,dog-eared copy of the Sioux Falls Yellow Pages that's three years outdated and a huge, dusty leather-bound book from one of the more obscure corners of the local library. “Druidic History and Practices in the United States in the Late 1800's”, he'd lifted it when they were researching for another case,thought it might come in handy,turns out it is-just not in the way he'd thought. They're on a dirt road that leads to Bobby's, from here he can see the long,dusty drive that leads up to the house, if he ducks his head a bit, he can almost read the “Singer Salvage” sign by looking across Sam through the driver's side window. He's giving Sammy his first driving lesson, Dad's on a hunt and he won't be home for a few days… .
The next memory feels different-more recent than the others. He and Sam are trying to talk to the Sheriff but things are rapidly going sideways. At first, he's denying everything, calling them crazy, but then Andrea,he remembers Andrea,looks at him and he's confessing. It was an accident-the drowning. They were kids. They'd never meant to hurt Peter.
Between one minute and the next someone's calling Lucas' name and he turns to see a pale gray hand reach out of the depths and pull theyoung boy in. There's panic and pleading behind him, but all he can hear are his boots thumping down the dock, Sam at his heels. He arches into the water, eyes already searching the area where the young victim vanished into the lake, the shock of the water is like being hit by a bucket of ice, only worse. It's damn cold and dark beneath the surface and he can't see well but he does a slow, methodical turn searching the submerged landscape at the lake's bottom. There are hills and valleys littered with fallen logs, weeds, and sunken tree roots, not to mention all sorts of debris of the man-made variety, but no child.
He stays down, searching until his lungs are aching for air. He breaches, breathing deep, and hoping to see Sam with the kid. He's heard the sound of voices both above and below the water, he's already well aware something isn't right. Of course, ghosts are known for complicating things for the living,it's what they do.
He finds Sam to his right but he knows, even before the head shake, it's all over Sam's face, Lucas hasn't been found, He takes another quick look above the waterline-Andrea is on the dock, he and Sam are in the water, the Sheriff is wading out into the lake and Dean shouts,making an attempt to stop him. He doesn't stop, doesn't even seem to hear Dean, he's pleading with the spirit of a long-dead boy. Lucas is nowhere in sight.
He sees the other man go down, knowing Sam did, too. He doesn't have to guess what happened to the Sheriff. He feels the bile burning in the back of his throat but he doesn't have time to morn. He shares a look with his brother,fills his lungs, and kicks hard, diving for the bottom.
The boy is motionless in the depths, held suspended in the tangle of eddying currents and a small forest of water plants growing in long, thin spikes. The sight of the leafy spires straining upward to reach the thin rays of sun that grace the Wisconsin lake at this time of year would be beautiful if he were out for a casual swim, but he isn't, he's working a job, and maybe,saving a life today. Dean quickly swims toward him straining forward,using powerful strokes to close the distance between them. Hoping he's not too late, hoping that he can save him, he grips a small arm. The boy doesn't move, doesn't respond at all when Dean wraps an arm around his waist,tucking him close, and kicking upward,surges toward the light.
They break the surface together and Dean is bracing him against his shoulder but the child is dead weight in his arms, cold, limp, and unresponsive. He swims hard for the dock, careful with his burden. Andrea helps get Lucas out of the lake and gently laid out on the dock. His brother is levering himself up and out of the water, already starting the rescue breathing and chest compressions before he can haul himself out. Andrea has a cellphone in hand and is giving the address information to the dispatch operator when he hits his knees beside Sam and starts giving breaths as his brother begins the next set of chest compressions. He gets a split second of warning before the coughing starts and the boy's spitting up water. Watching Lucas' eyes flutter open and knowing he's breathing on his own, makes Dean breathe easier, too. Sam's small smile, with a quick clap on the shoulder, and a fleeting but grateful look from the boy's mother, are his reward. He feels like he won the freakin' lottery. But then he remembers the sheriff-Jake, isn't here. Sam couldn't find him. He knows Peter Sweeney's ghost has his revenge.
That body will never be found.
“Can we go home now, Sam?”
“Sure,Dean.”
Sam stands close until Dean is settled on the passenger side of the bench seat, then walks around to climb into the seat behind the wheel. She's beautiful inside and out,but he doesn't get to enjoy the full pleasure of being with his best girl on the way back to the motel he and his brother are staying in because he spends most of the trip trying not to curl himself into a ball every time Sam hits a pothole or makes an, at least to Dean, unexpected turn. The Dramamine he was given earlier helps with the nausea but nothing has eased his headache.
Sam is watching him, not quite concealing his anxiety, driving with one eye on the road, one eye on Dean. Dean doesn't have the stamina for the “it's just a flesh wound” routine, it's hard to make the bravado believable when you can't keep your feet under you.
“What is it, Sammy?”
He doesn't turn his head, keeps his eyes on a fixed point at the row of buttons on the cassette player because he started feeling lightheaded the moment he tried to focus on the scenery rushing past outside the windshield for more than a few minutes. There's not much to see, anyway,it's still pretty dark,and they're on the outskirts of some city traveling back roads and interstates if Sam's following their typical protocol.
He knows he should know where they are,how long they've been here, what type of case they're working, but the specifics just aren't forthcoming when he tries to remember. He does have a hazy recollection of someone, or something slamming him into a dumpster in a full body check and he might remember strange sounds echoing off the hard surfaces of a row of abandoned warehouses built near the pier flanked by hundreds of shipping containers and...Sam kissing him? That's different. Possibly, he's suffered one concussion too many, and his walnut is completelycracked. He's trying to wrap his head around well, everything, when Sam responds.
“Nothing,Dean,just worried-.”
“No,wait.” He's not sure if he's missed part of this conversation or if Sam did, but he likes it better when they're both on the same page.
“I mean, Sammy,I appreciate it and all, you worrying about me,it's nice,really. But I meant,What is it? What are we hunting? I can't remember much of anything from the past few days.” He feels awkward, out of his depth,wants to somehow take some of the sting out of his words. He really is glad Sam cares so much, but he never meant to worry him.
He feels his face flushing suddenly and the awkward just edged up a notch, he has this urge to push his hand through the hair at the back of his neck and rub at the tension knotted there,but his brother would see that tell for what it is- a sure sign that he is really uncomfortable, and with his head still aching, rubbing it would probably be a very bad idea. He just grips the edge of the seat and tries not to wonder why his memory is being so reticent.
“It was a witch, Dean. I took care of her. She'd hung herself,was still warm when I got there. Left a suicide note. Said she couldn't stand seeing the oceans decimated by oil spills,pollution, the demise of the coral reefs,and over-fishing, but that she'd never intended for her creation to take the lives of others-she'd only meant to use it to bring attention to her conservation efforts. She was a pretty powerful witch, apparently, used a blood spell, but the thing was so massive-even she couldn't control it. When the marine biologist and the guy from the E. P .A. were killed, that was the last straw.”
“So some Eco-terrorist, tree-hugging witch made a Franken-pus and was surprised when it didn't cooperate? That's good, I mean,that this hunt is over. I don't think I like witches.”
“Yeah,pretty much. And you don't.”
Sam waits a beat, he'll know if he's going to have to fight with Dean about taking a break once these next words leave his mouth. He really doesn't want to fight with him. Dean is selfless to a fault, willing to put himself at risk; for his family, for strangers, a kitten up a tree. Sam loves and hates that about his brother. He has to make absolutely sure he's really okay, before they go on. He knows that they have work to do, that it's important they find Dad. He knows every argument his brother could make, is already setting up the counter points to every possible objection in his mind,just in case.
He takes a quick, surreptitious glance, Dean is sitting eyes closed, hunched over on the bench seat in his borrowed blanket. He's pale and tired looking. Sam can see how his skin is pebbled from cold or shock. He's still damp from his unexpected swim. Sam wants to hug him and tell him he loves him but now isn't the time.
He's a big guy, next to anyone but Sam. A tall, compact, lean-muscled weapon designed for action, forged for hunting, honed to a razor's edge by years of training. Sam has always known his brother is “a hunter's hunter”, the best of the best, even if Dean doesn't, but even the best need a break sometimes.
He takes the plunge.
“Since we have some down time coming...what would make it better?You can heal for a few days-then we'll get back on the road.”
Dean doesn't give him the look or the attitude,just looks thoughtful before he says, “It's just for a couple of days? You're gonna have to get me up to speed and... we're gonna talk about Dad?”
His brother asks that last bit like maybe he doesn't want to hear the answer, but needs to, and Sam doesn't know yet how much of his memory the concussion affected. He's not looking forward to telling him Dad is missing, that they've been given little more than coordinates and vague clues for a while now, but he deserves the truth.
“Of course,Dean.”
“Godzilla movies. And before you ask,geek boy,not the ones in Japanese with tiny subtitles,I already have a headache. I'm gonna need pain meds,burgers, and a chocolate shake.”
Sam smiles. He can hear a trace of his brother's cocky grin in his voice, even if it hasn't made it to his face yet. Dean sounds more like himself now than he has since they started this hunt. He thinks he might be alright,that maybe they both will.
“Dean,you were attacked by sea monster with unnatural abilities and you want to watch a movie about a sea monster with unnatural abilities?”
“Yeah,why not?”
“You're unbelievable!”
“Not as unbelievable as you kissing me.”
“Dean, I wasn't kissing you,I was-it's called-”
“You don't tell Dad I was sidelined by an overgrown piece of sushi,I don't tell him you were sucking face with me.”
“I wasn't. I was-I was saving you. You're such a jerk!” Dean is the only person who can completely exasperate him in the space of a single sentence.
“I know, bitch.” Sam feels the change of tone,like clouds covering the sun.
His brother is looking over at him,his expression pensive, with the faint shadow of death still in his eyes, but as soon as Dean smiles, no-one but Sam would ever know he's covering. His usual M. O.-the excessive use of deflection or denial has been absent, a sure sign he's in a bad way. He's been making light of his close calls all of Sam's life. Dean being Dean.
“Love you, too,Dean.”
“If you're kissing me,I damn well hope so.”
Dean doesn't miss a beat, but he knows.
“Do we have popcorn? And licorice?”
As soon as he gets them back to the motel,gives Dean the “you have a traumatic brain injury” questionnaire, and checks him over throughly, Sam is getting his brother whatever he wants,as much as he wants.
“I'm going to need pie,-lots of pie.”
“Whatever you want,big brother.”
And he's getting his damned hug. He doesn't think Dean will fight him on that one.
“Sam!”
He grips the boards tight and tries to swing himself toward the pier. Maybe if he can find a foothold on the underside he can push himself up and use the mass of his bodyweight as leverage to pull his trapped leg free or maybe he can swing his free leg up and crawl back up onto the pier until he and Sammy can untangle him and end this quasi-octopus.
He's straining his muscles doing his best to pull himself up using his fingers but that's difficult enough without whatever the hell pulling him down. He is pulling up, trying to shake the damn thing off, but he's making no progress. Whatever it is doesn't seem to be too concerned he might escape. He looks down and sees an eerie glow coming from beneath the water's surface, there are more of those dark,oily tentacles flailing about, some still just barely visible tips capped with claws,others arelong,sinuous arms that undulate as a viscous fluid shot through with small, multicolored bits of debris, appear to float within the individual limbs. Limbs that are possibly,probably searching for him.
He feels an emotion surge up inside, one that stops his lungs from fully expanding and causes a stuttering of his heartbeat that can only be fear. He's pretty damn sure he's felt that on a regular basis, if the hash that is his memory can be trusted. Another memory comes to him-he and Sam sitting in someone's living room, both holding an untouched, lukewarm cup of tea. He's wearing another monkey suit. He's outwardly calm, mirroring his brother's professional mannerisms so he doesn't freak out Mr. and Mrs. Normal but he's still on a mission-listening for unseen evil, alertly watching for signs of impending doom, every sense trained to key in on any trace of the unnatural. He allows himself to divide his focus for long enough to follow the conversation, if you can call it that-Sam is doing all the talking.
His soft,sincere voice and that face-all empathetic compassion, caring like only Sam can be, is a dead give away. Dean knows without really listening,he's telling them the truth because they have this look on their faces like they wish he was lying but they've seen too much and know he isn't, even though they want to claim he's wrong. “The talk” they call it. Welcome to your new reality. Mr. and Mrs. Normal will never be normal again. He feels genuinely sorry for them.
When he sees the maul full of row after row of ridged,crystalline teeth break the surface he knows how those people they've had to explain the facts of life to feel; stupid-terrified, and secretly hoping it's a nightmare they're about to wake from. He could have lived through this just fine without seeing one more reason for nightmares.
“Sammy!”
He feels vibrations along the wooden timbers of the pier but before he can discern their source, the grip on his leg tightens again. His hands are torn free of the planks bringing part of the old wood away with them. He has time for one quick breath-seconds to fill his lungs,to send out a prayer,a silent surge of hope that Sam will save him before he's plunged into the cold, dark water.
Sam runs-a lot. He runs for exercise, for a way to deal when the job is too much,for space of his own when he and Dean have been on the road too long, for when they've lived in one another's pockets for too long a stretch, but now, as often, he's running to save someone-today it's Dean. He made it back to the Impala parked just down the block, stopped long enough to grab the First Aid kit from the trunk, and slid in behind the wheel. He has the key in the ignition, the accelerator peddle beneath his foot, despite how tired he is, how worried, he relaxes a fraction when the familiar rumble fills the darkness around him. The cassette player offers up the voice of Robert Plant singing Traveling Riverside Blues. One of Dean's favorite songs. Dean is a die-hard Led Zeppelin fan, even if he can't sing,maybe especially since he can't sing. Sam decides to take that as a good omen, not that he's superstitious.
Sam remembers one occasion when he was about ten, how emphatically Dean had stated, after a hunt had gone reallyrough, and he'd pilfered a couple of beers from Bobby's fridge then drank them without somuch as allowing Sam a sip,that if he was ever going to have a headstone he'd want it to be inscribed with the lyrics to all Zeppelin's songs. He'd also said that he would want it to say he was a true fan. Sam hadn't been sure what that meant,really, but he was doing his best to be supportive because, well, brother. Then Sam had had to pretend he didn't see the shimmer of a falling tear in the moonlight, his brother had cried for the heartbroken spirit he and Dad had just salted and burned. Apparently she had been some poor groupie who had over-dosed when her favorite band split, and only Dean's passion for old rock music and sincere compassion for her suffering had been enough to convince her she was moving on to “the best rock concert ever”.
Dean is a hunter. He's never getting a headstone. As long as Sam has the ability to do anything to prevent it, he'll never need one, or a hunter's pyre. He's going to save his brother.
He drives fast, but not fast enough to cause too much notice. He rolls the window down to feel the cool air moving over his skin. He feels a bit winded,shaken, but not from exertion, it's because his brother is hurt. Sam can't stand seeing him hurt,never could-that's one of the reasons he'd left. He takes a deep,calming breath and makes the turn, pointing the Impala toward the pier. He loves him so much. He wishes he could tell Dean how much, but there aren't adequate words and that's not what they do.
His brother is the one person his whole life he could count on, that has always had his back,the one that constantly encouraged him,taught him about hunting and life and how they didn't have to be mutually exclusive if Sam didn't want them to be. Dean has never allowed himself that freedom, or maybe, doesn't think he deserves that. Sam doesn't understand his logic anymore now than when he left. He knows Dean,he knows he's doing the job,that the job is important but… . He also knows they will probably never talk about it. That's what they do.
He'd left to have the new life he'd wanted-Stanford and Jess, and normal. Dean had understood,he hadn't liked Sam's decision, but he'd respected him enough to give him the space to put down roots a bit and the time to find what made him happy. He'd valued Sam's happiness over his own. He'd always wanted what was best for him.
The reason he'd come back and stayed,after losing Jess, wasn't just vengeance,it was to keep the best part of his old life, his brother Dean. He'd missed Dad too, despite their issues- but Dean is his anchor, his rock,always has been. It has taken him getting through some of the worst of his grief,dealing daily with his desire for revenge, his anger, and some days are still difficult, but he had realized when Dean showed up, how much he'd missed his brother. And the longer they are on the road searching for Dad, the more he knows he doesn't want to lose Dean. Ever.
He pulls Baby toward the curb, parks, and climbs out already going over the medical evaluation protocol in his mind. Dean has a concussion and no telling what other injuries. Sam won't feel grounded again until he knows his brother is okay. He gets a bottle of water from the cooler in the back seat. Dean's going to need to stay hydrated and well rested. It's going to take time to get over his head injury. Finding Dad is going to be put on hold for a little while,unlesshe finds them. Maybe Sam should give that last cell number another try,once Dean is safe and sound.
He sees Dean standing near the end of the pier. Just as he raises his hand to wave, he sees him lurch sideways-tumbling over the side. His body goes cold with shock, panic freezing him in place for a few precious seconds-stunned. He's grateful he has Baby there for support because his legs are suddenly having difficulty doing their job. He knows he has to get to Dean but his mind is stuck,the command to move failing to produce motion. While his brain processes what his eyes can't comprehend, his body acts from muscle memory finally moving forward. Dean is calling him. He's close when he hears the sounds of his name and wood splintering at almost exactly the same moment. He gets there in time to see the last of the boards fall and the roll of the waves as they close over Dean.
His first impulse is to dive in, but there's a jagged concrete ridge that rises bone-white out of the sea near here. He can't see any danger in the water below but there are huge chunks of concrete and yards of twisted rusting steel tangled beneath the supports below the foot of the pier. The shattered spine, that lies both above and below the waterline, splits apart further out to sea,Sam's pretty sure it's all that remains of the broken skeleton of an ancient jetty. And it's in his damned way. Pylons broken and scattered like discarded bones and teeth, litter the other side,too. He needs to get to Dean more than he needs to breathe, but he knows if he ends up injuring himself in his attempt to rescue his brother,he's putting them both in serious jeopardy.
He needs a way to get to Dean- quickly. He needs help. He scans the water briefly for any sign of his brother but there's nothing. He turns his eyes back toward the pier searching for a solution, sees a solitary battered dingy and decides it will have to do. He sprints down the planks and leaps into the bow. Agility and balance are all that keep him from capsizing the small craft. The water is so dark he despairs at the thought of Dean submerged in the abysmal tide. He stops that thought cold. Thinking of anything other than what it will take to get the job done is counterproductive. He's a professional-a good hunter.
Dean taught him how to hot-wire a car,boats aren't difficult. He is tugging the wires lose with one hand while fishing for his cell phone with the other. He has the number for the Coast Guard punched in on speed dial, it's a precaution Dad taught them; like immediately locating the local hospitals when they reach a new town, sharpening their knives on a regular basis, and never allowing their salt supply to get depleted.
He's underwater, his breath is giving out, and he can't get to the surface. He's down too deep and no matter how much he kicks and thrashes he can't seem to get closer. He's choking on inhaled water and there's almost no air left in his lungs. He pushes up, kicking with all his energy and somehow his head breaks the surface, his lungs expand breathing deeper instinctively. He sees a bright but distant, light but it's a brief reprieve from the gloom surrounding him. It's dark and he can't get his bearings. There is a coastline, jagged and wild, in the far distance,marked by a few solitary pinpricks of light. To his right nothing but open ocean and the concrete carcass of something once useful. Above him, faint, distant stars. He's not far from the pier, but it remains out of reach. Without thinking,he tries to call out but a wave slaps him hard in the face. He strangles, coughing as water surges down his throat, brackish and bitter. He has no choice but to swallow and feels nauseous for doing so, but he's got bigger problems. He gets another too-thin gulp of air before something drags him down.
He is doing his best to clamp down on the panic screaming in his mind. If he can breach the waves he'll live, and if he's alive, he can get back to Sammy. He kicks and kicks, still held fast, caught around the leg of his water-sodden trousers. The ocean's murky, he can only see the thing encircling his leg but one glimpse of those teeth was plenty. He pulls with every bit of force he can muster and turns stinging eyes toward the shadowy depths below, but it's so dark he can't see his hand in front of his face. He feels the tightening in his stomach and squeezing in his chest that are never a good sign.Fear. He tugs hard on his leg but the grip is getting tighter still. He almost expects to hear the bones crack, to feel the muscles and tendons tearing away, leaving a trail of blood as his tattered skin flutters in the current like a discarded bit of flotsam. He wonders for a moment if he'll be left watching as the limb is separated from his body. He shudders, feeling chills race over his skin that have nothing to do with the temperature of the current.
Of all the ways he's thought he might go-drowning or dismemberment weren't even on the list. And being eaten by a quasi-octopus? That, he never could've imagined. He tries hard to banish the memory of all those teeth. He'd happily forget that.
He needs help. Needs Sam. He strains to hear over the jackhammer beat of his heart. Hoping to hear something to give him a sense that Sammy is out there-close. Close, but safe, and looking for him. Something slithers further up his leg, tugging on his skin,pulling the hairs on his leg, inching further up his calf toward his thigh. He hates the way it feels but the burning in his lungs won't let him spare the time to brush it away,he's running out of air, out of time.
Fighting with this thing isn't working, time for plan B. He stills, intentionally slows his breathing, and forces himself to listen. There are sounds below the surface, more sounds than he'd been expecting. He filters some of them out as natural, things like currents sousing through his clothing, through his hair. He hears a muted mechanical rumble, a vibrating high pitched whine he can't place, but the water distorts the sounds and it's still so damn dark he can't see. He's getting tired-he wonders if he's been in the water for a long time. He has one more attempt, maybe two, left in him. Not that that is reason to quit,he has to try and keep trying, he can't leave Sam. Can't leave all those innocents without help. He doesn't want to die. He still has too much to do.
Another sound pulls him away from the thought, a different kind of rumble more high pitched and persistent-coming closer. It's then that he sees a wide swath of light prodding the dark water in a rhythmic, consistent pattern, a beam of light raking over the waves above-someone is searching for him. Now it makes sense, a lighter colored shape moving closer- the hull of a boat is moving toward him. He hadn't realized what he was seeing.
“Dean?! Dean!”
Sam's voice carries but is muted by the distance between them, by the water separating them. It doesn't matter, he knows his brother's voice. He'd recognize that voice in Heaven, Hell, or anywhere in between.
He has ceased struggling long enough for the thing to hopefullythink he's given up or drowned. The hold has slightly loosened since he stopped struggling but he knows the moment he begins to move again it's going to clamp down like a vise. He has to calculate how close he can get to the boat. Judge the distance and speed between where it is now and where it will be when he surfaces. He has to help Sam find him.
He sees the boat edging closer,when he surfaces he'll be behind it-but close. If he can call out, Sam will find him. He shrugs his suit jacket off, flinching it down his shoulders. He does his best to keep his body mostly still. He fastens his gaze on the small sliver of safety the hull represents and prays he can make it. He kicks both feet hard and lunges forward aiming for the surface. The tentacle flails and slips but the delayed response is only seconds long,he doesn't get away clean. His head breaks water and he's calling out even as he feels the grip on his boot, persistent death still coiling tight around his ankle.
“Sammy!”
The air in his lungs is better than any he's ever had. He's so thankful to be breathing. A light sweeps over him and he's blinded, disoriented. The boat is close but isn't turning around. Didn't he hear him? He called Sam's name,he knows he did.
There's another shape he can make out, a little further away-he's still having trouble with details but it's definitely a boat. It could be the leakiest tub in the fleet, at this point and he wouldn't care.
“Sam!” He bellows like,well, his life depends on it.
“Dean? Dean, I'm right here. Hold on,okay? I'm coming!”
He hears the pitch of the motor change, relieved when he realizes the small boat is changing course, moving slowly toward him. He sees another blinding flash as a flare ignites, splitting the darkness apart. The light reveals a familiar red slash identifying the other boat as a Coast Guard Cutter making speed in his direction. There are two figures standing at the rail. Another, brighter light sweeps over him and stops. He is so relieved to be found he nearly pees himself. The smaller boat and Sam gets to him first. His vantage point is blocked by waves and a partial view of the side of the boat and he's still blinking away water, but a hand reaches out and he feels long, thin familiar fingers grasping his own.
He breathes deep and grips the hand but the thing beneath him has other plans, ripping away his chance of rescue before he has time to thank God or fate or pure dumb luck or all three. He is being dragged back down. He grips the hand above him and holds on but he feels himself slipping, panic already making his breath jitter inside his lungs.
He sees a second set of hands join the first,grasping his forearm, and he knows he's being lifted toward the open air and safety. He's never gonna take breathing for granted again.He kicks hard and tries to dislodge the limb curled around his own but it's not budging. He feels one set of hands release his as a cold pool of fear begins to form in his stomach. Are they going to leave him here? Have they given up?
“Sam?”
A second tentacle slithers up, joining the first,just as a wave breaks over him. He's tugged down,submerging him again. He's confused-a hand still has his… . Another hand takes the place of the first,wrapping him in a firm grasp but if he can't get free he's going to meet his end a few feet from safety.
He hears a rapid,rhythmic thumbing above him and a series of shuffling noises before there's a low, steady mechanical hum joining the rumble emanating from the larger craft. He hears a small,muted splash as a diver's buoy is deployed above him. There's a second, larger splash, and Sam is here. Head plunged beneath the waves, long hair floating,spread around him like a living halo. Before he can process, Sam's hand is on the back of his skull-warm and gentle but firm, pulling him forward. They are mouth against mouth, a breath shared between them,Sam's air filling his lungs. He is so close Dean can see that the little mole Sam has always had actually has a tiny freckle close to it. He doesn't think he ever noticed that before and he's not sure why it seems so important now, but he's happy that neither the mole nor freckle is alone.
He feels odd, lightheaded. Like if something wasn't preventing it, he might literally float away. He's cold. He doesn't think he noticed that before,either. He reaches toward Sam with his free hand as strong arms are wrapping him in a hug, holding Dean tight despite the awkward angle, keeping him close. Sam's touch is warm and soothing on his chilled skin. Every-thing's okay now-Sam's here.Dean doesn't move, doesn't want to. He closes his eyes and lets himself be held,even if it's only for the span of a heartbeat.
He's never told Sam, never told anybody, but when he dies he wants to be with Sam. He knows it's going to happen-happens to everyone. For a hunter,probably sooner than later He doesn't know when or how, but he knows how he wants it. And he wants to go first because he doesn't think he'd survive the pain of losing Sammy anyway. And if he did, what would be the point?
He feels Sam's fingers tighten and he knows something is about to happen, he steels himself, opening his eyes. Sam is looking at him but he can't understand what his brother's doing… .
Sam twitches his lower body, still holding Dean. At his signal, more hands reach for them pulling and tugging them both toward the boat. He sees it now, some kind of harness rigged to lever them up out of the water. There's an engine involved, maybe a winch of some type… .He feels the tension as his torso is pulled one direction-his leg another. The pain, that begins as a slight discomfort builds as he is drawn ever closer to the surface. He grinds his teeth as the pain reaches unbearable levels and Sam freezes-not so much as blinking his eyes, keeping his gaze locked on Dean. His brow knits.
Dean's seen every expression Sammy has, every one, multiple times, and it doesn't require thought or explanation, he knows that forehead scrunch. Sam is working through the problem, turning it over and over in his mind,quickly considering it from every angle. He pushes the last of his air into Dean's mouth and moves away with a hand sign that he needs to surface. He thrusts his head and one long arm upward, his other hand gripping Dean's shoulder in a quick reassuring squeeze,then he is kicking toward the surface. There's some kind of commotion at the waterline as he disappears from view but almost instantly Sam slips back into the water,swimming rapidly toward his brother. Dean tries to lunge up to meet him but is stopped short by the tentacles that have him tethered.
Sam puts himself directly in front of him taps his chest and pushes his aerator into Dean's mouth. He stays beside him watching his brother breathe for several seconds,mostly to reassure himself he's getting adequate air. He knows that taking too deep a breath is a temptation for anyone not accustomed to diving with an underwater breathing apparatus. He's not sure how cognizant Dean is at this point, his brother is concussed, and that's probably not his only injury. He wishes now he'd never found that damned news article on the Internet that spurred this hunt. They've both had better days.
Dean feels a little light-headed from the lack of oxygen and draws the air into his lungs greedily. Sam pushes back just enough to give him a tight-lipped smile and Dean sees the minuscule secondary air-tank and the spear gun. The long silver spear gleams malevolently in the current. Sam gives him a look and aims at the depths near his leg. He understands. Sam gives him a hand signal to indicate he doesn't want him to move, as if he thinks Dean might suddenly do the very thing he hasn't been able to, for he doesn't know how many minutes now. He wants to laugh or smack Sam in the back of the head, or maybe hug him for all eternity,he can't decide.
He nods and closes his eyes again. He doesn't want to risk moving and throwing his brother's aim off. Sam's the best marksman Dean has ever seen aside from himself,or possibly Dad, but he doesn't know if Sam's ever used a spear-gun and accidents happen. He can give Sam all the attitude he can muster later, if he survives this.
There's a shuddering explosive surge of movement and sound that marks the discharge and a firm, solid thunk that sounds a little like when his fist connects on a body blow during a fight. He opens his eyes at another sound- a rough, rasping drag and oddly off kilter thumping as something smacks repeatedly against the hulls overhead. Tentacles longer and thicker than his trunk are beating against the hulls of the smaller boat and the Cutter. He sees the tip of one appendage coiling and uncoiling maliciously, clearly searching for the source of it's newly inflected pain. Slowly snaking nearer and nearer to Sam.
He wants to call out to warn Sam, to push him away from the dreadful thing that wants to drown him, to put himself between Sammy and the monster like he's done his whole life. He'd do anything to keep his brother out of harm's way-if only he could move. Sam must sense that something is wrong because he drops the spear gun, takes in a breath of air and pushes the aerator from the smaller tank unceremoniously into Dean's mouth, at the same time that same small tank finds his right hand.
The spear gun, useless now, is left dangling from his wrist by a tether like some large clump of mutant sea grass. Why haven't they got a repeating action one of those by now? Surely someone, somewhere, must've invented one? As Dean watches, Sam pulls a huge silver Bowie knife from the back of his waistband. He recognizes it as one from Bobby's arsenal,given to him, he's oiled and sharpened that blade enough times to recognize the spell-work etched in the lustrous metal from here,even if he can't see well.
Sam gives Dean a small,grim smile,pushes himself away with a couple of powerful kicks and Dean knows what he's about to do. He knows his brother, knows that look: all hyper-focused purpose and sharp-edged determination. He reaches out toward him, maybe to reassure himself it's really Sam, maybe to make sure he knows to be careful, or because if this doesn't work, he and Sam may never see one another again. Maybe because he has no other way to show Sammy how much he means to him.
He has loved Sam his whole life. Never loved anyone more.
Sam gives him a nod and he returns it, dropping his arm to his side. He's seen the twinge of a jaw that passes for last words between them. It's part of the Winchester code,passed down from father to sons. Every trace of softness or weakness is banished. Baby brother no longer, Sam is the larger than life,lethal hunter that strikes fear in the heart of any evil thing that dares cross his path. Huge and terrifying he dives down to meet his nemesis.
Dean can only watch.
Sam propels himself down, diving deep enough to reach where Dean is caught and plunges the knife deep into dark flesh The piercing screech that follows makes Dean's skin crawl and his ears feel as if they've been scraped raw. The tightness on his leg intensifies for a beat as Sam twists the knife clockwise twice before Dean sees his head sweep left and right and sees something jagged catch as he sweeps the Bowie through a series of arcs. A violet plume of viscera is birthed and blossoms through the current around him. Dean realizes he must be doing some sort of incantation although he can't see his brother's lips moving. When, suddenly, there is an absence of pressure binding him, he tries to move and although he still can't, he knows the thing is dying.
The water around them is slightly lighter now, possibly from the search lights and flare that mark his location, but new-born clouds of dark fluid rising in the water and what must be numerous flailing limbs flexing spasmodically in the current below him, tell him Sam has hit his mark. He's still caught,tangled in the things arms or legs but his ordeal is hopefully, coming to an end.
He takes another breath from the secondary tank but on the inhale, a flailing,flagging tentacle knocks into him, slamming him hard into the underside of the dingy,his head connects with fiberglass making him sees spots,stars, or maybe, starfish. The air-tank is jostled from his cold-numbed fingers and although he tries, his best efforts are useless, he bobbles and drops it when a sudden, sharp attempt at movement nearly makes him pass out. He chases after it,but already, it's too far from reach. He sees that tiny bit of salvation sinking rapidly out of view as the depths boil and toss with writhing limbs, the chaos below sending up a tumult of sand, silt, and debris to cloud the already nearly opaque water, further obstructing his vision.
He keeps his eyes trained on the movement,holding Sam in his gaze.It makes him feel a little less useless if he can watch his back. He can just make out the shape of Sam far beneath him, a large,dark, deadly shape moving rapidly to counter the moves of a larger,darker,more deadly shape. He'll hold his breath for as long as he can,until he can't. He'll be here for Sammy until his dying breath.
Sam plunges the knife in a second time before he kicks and rolls to dodge the monster's grip as the tentacle that has been tracking him bucks and slaps at him from the depths. But most of the momentum behind it is gone, and it does little more than bump Sam roughly and flop over as he kicks it away.
The incantation sealed it's fate, it's movements, weaker now, are merely the death throes of one less monster left to trouble the world. He only has to wait a few more seconds to see that the job is finished. The thing shifts, shudders, heaves one final time, and finally, finally, ceases moving. He kicks upwards and puts his energy into powerful strokes that will help move him rapidly through the deep to reach the surface quickly. He's looking forward to the moment he can get Dean and himself both back to dry land.
The lack of air in his lungs is painful by now and his vision is tunneling but he has to be sure Sammy's okay before he lets go. The last thing he's aware of is the sight of a nimbus of too-long hair around his face, that there are hands on him, the firm brush of the chest that holds his heart as much as his brother's.
Sammy's here-they're okay.
He kicks and pulls himself through the water, makes long,strong strokes to get back to Dean. He'd hacked that tentacle to hell, but he'd finally gotten part of it to separate from the torso,now he should be able to get him free. Still a few feet away, he looks up as Dean's body, slack and motionless, starts to sink. He feels the first real surge of fear grip his chest since he first discovered Dean was injured. The jolt of adrenaline that accompanies the fear rips through the exhaustion,panic, and trepidation, pushing him forward,urging him to swim faster.
The dive team from the Cutter materializes out of the gloom on either side of his brother, like water-born angels. Sam's never been happier to have help. They are raising Dean carefully to the surface. Killing monsters is the Winchester's profession, ocean rescue is their's, but Sam stays close,keeps himself in Dean's eye-line even as his unresponsive body is drawn quickly toward the surface. He does his best not to hinder their rescue efforts,but he can't keep from touching Dean. He pulls him close for a moment, simply because he feels the need to somehow let him know he's not alone. If, no, when, he wakes, he doesn't want Dean coming to disoriented-thinking he was abandoned, and surrounded by strangers. He's been through enough for one hunt.
He comes to heaving up water.
Sam is beside him, on his knees, hands and mouth pressing air into his lungs. He tries to breathe, tries to tell his brother he's okay, but his body decides to do something else. He feels his gag reflex kick in, and he's suddenly choking at about the same movement that two pairs of hands are rolling him carefully onto his side.
He's spewing seawater onto the deck of a boat whose motion is doing nothing to alleviate the nausea he's quick to recognize. He heaves until nothing comes up,then heaves some more. Concussions are now he's second least favorite life experience, ranking just below flying. He's none too psyched about drowning, either. Sam is looking at him with big,worried eyes when he rolls back onto his back under his own steam. Really, how hard is it to fall down when you're already laying on a floor? He gives his brother's knee a hapless pat and the best smile he can manage.
“Dean?”
“I'm okay, Sammy.”
It's a lie. But it comes out sounding like an almost truth, and Dean wonders how often he's said that when Sam gives a slow, unintentional exhale. His shoulders drop a fraction, almost like he was waiting for Dean's cue beforeallowing himself to relax.
It doesn't make sense, because Sammy is still clearly concerned about his well-being, he keeps glancing at Dean like he's going to vanish into thin air if he stops watching him for more than two minutes at a time, but he seems to have decided that they are at least “okay enough” that he can give up some small bit of control. He morphs from one identity to another- probably not even aware he's done so. In the space of a heartbeat, he seems to have shrugged off his mighty huntermantle and settled back into simple“Oxymoron, anyone?”Sam Winchester-walking encyclopedia of weirdness,geek boy extraordinaire, and someone who surely qualifies as the single greatest brother on the planet, even if Dean is a little biased.
He's exhausted,freezing, soaked to the skin, and there are still large, disturbing gaps in his memory. There are chunks of time he can't account for,so many questions he doesn't have answers to-like the ones his new best friends the Coast Guard are sure to have. He wants to leave, but he's not even sure if he has the strength to stand.He has to give it a shot. He gives Sam's knee another feeble pat to get his attention and motions for Sam to help him up. He's pretty sure he'll feel better on his feet, but it turns out, he's wrong. You can dry heave in pretty much any position, and by the time they've reached the docking slip at the Coast Guard Station, he's tried them all.
He's wrapped in a borrowed blanket with a double dose of Dramamine, some acetaminophen, and a bottle of water in him. His head hurts with a disturbing regularity but the medic that looked him over advised no strong pain killers for the first few hours so he isn't running the risk of masking a more serious condition than the moderate concussion it appears he's experiencing. He doesn't move,doesn't look up when Sam walks in, he's waiting to see how his brother is planning on spinning this one.
He keeps inspecting his boot tips and wishing he could remember his cover alias, wishes he could remember well, anything. Mostly he wishes Sam had gotten here sooner, but he knows his brother was smoothing things over, answering questions,tying up loose ends. Doing what Dean can't. He can't answer questions with more questions. He has no idea what Sam's told them, so he's going to have follow his brother's lead and hope their cover holds.All he has is Sam and waytoo many loose ends.
“Yes,sir, thank you,sir. I'll have my section chief forward the report and a letter of-yes, the bureau is always appreciative of collaboration between agencies… .” Sam smiles, shakes the Captain's hand, and steps close, standing directly in front of Dean.
“You ready to go Agent Ford?”
Agent Ford?Bureau?O-kay, Feds then.
“Uh, yeah,sure.”
He ignores how the room tilts a bit when he looks up. He wants to go home,where ever that is. He gets to his feet without doing a face plant and manages to shake Captain Coast Guards' hand, thanking himbefore he walks to the gangplank to disembark. He's careful to appear casual as he walks away, despite the fact he ismore than eager to get away from the eyes of those left behind them aboard the Cutter. He's impressed he's managed to come off looking pretty well put together,he even gets to the end of the dock before he has to stop for a breather. Although Sam's keeping a “professional distance” between them, probably because, he too,suspects they might still be being watched, Dean can see the worry written in his too large eyes,how he's hovering next to him,watching like he's gonna disappear again, and he's sure he'd be really annoyed with him for that, if he didn't feel like he might pass out any minute now.
“S-Sammy?” His voice sounds odd-flat,kinda breathy, and just wrong.
His headache is back,full force, his coordination however,is not. He stumbles when his foot catches on a tuft of wiry grass forcing itself through a gap in the cracked,jagged bed of asphalt under his feet but he doesn't fall, Sam has himself wedged up under Dean's shoulder before he can blink. There are many advantages to having a brother as tall and broad-shouldered as a young mountain, one of which is, they don't have to strain too much when they have to carry your weight.
“I've got you, Dean.”
“I'm not feeling so good.”
“I know,it's okay. You've got a concussion.”
There are fourvehicles in the parking lot-a slightly sporty,slick sunshine yellow plastic something or other, that more resembles an oval with two doors, four wheels, and a sunroof, than a self respecting automobile, a pale weathered blue Pinto-one of the most heinous sins ever pawned off on the car-buying public, and an equally ugly pea green Hugo sporting a dented quarter panel and a flat tire, but there's one- she's beautiful. A big, buxom Chevrolet from the late 1960's sitting there looking long,sleek, and powerfully sexy. Her paint's so glossy and deep he can see the reflection of the stars from the sky overhead. He wants to run his hands over her curves like she's his woman, and he can just imagine the purr from her engine. He starts toward her but halts, faltering,a few feet away, and Sam, arm still supporting him, stops, too.
“Dean?”
“She's ours,right-the Impala?” He says it quietly-so maybe Sam won't hear it, which is ludicrous, but he can't quite keep the hopeful longing out of his voice.
“Yeah,Dean, that's your baby.”
His Baby.
With the name comes a series images; most still so jumbled and scattered he can't make sense of them, but one snags and holds true in his memory. A man he knows is Dad but a younger Dad, and a beautiful, blond, very pregnant Mom is sitting next to him on the broad bench seat. They are talking about the baby, about how soon Dean will be a big brother, and he knows it's a special occasion because they keep smiling at him. Mom is hugging him a lot, and Dad ruffled his hair. Dad says he can teach Sam all about Baseball and Hot Wheels when he's old enough. He said it's okay to eat his ice-cream cone in the car. Dean wonders if Sammy will like chocolate ice-cream like him and Dad, or strawberry like their mom.
The scene shifts-he and Sam in the Impala. He's riding shotgun and Sam's sitting behind the wheel,boosted up enough he can see through the windshield by a thick,dog-eared copy of the Sioux Falls Yellow Pages that's three years outdated and a huge, dusty leather-bound book from one of the more obscure corners of the local library. “Druidic History and Practices in the United States in the Late 1800's”, he'd lifted it when they were researching for another case,thought it might come in handy,turns out it is-just not in the way he'd thought. They're on a dirt road that leads to Bobby's, from here he can see the long,dusty drive that leads up to the house, if he ducks his head a bit, he can almost read the “Singer Salvage” sign by looking across Sam through the driver's side window. He's giving Sammy his first driving lesson, Dad's on a hunt and he won't be home for a few days… .
The next memory feels different-more recent than the others. He and Sam are trying to talk to the Sheriff but things are rapidly going sideways. At first, he's denying everything, calling them crazy, but then Andrea,he remembers Andrea,looks at him and he's confessing. It was an accident-the drowning. They were kids. They'd never meant to hurt Peter.
Between one minute and the next someone's calling Lucas' name and he turns to see a pale gray hand reach out of the depths and pull theyoung boy in. There's panic and pleading behind him, but all he can hear are his boots thumping down the dock, Sam at his heels. He arches into the water, eyes already searching the area where the young victim vanished into the lake, the shock of the water is like being hit by a bucket of ice, only worse. It's damn cold and dark beneath the surface and he can't see well but he does a slow, methodical turn searching the submerged landscape at the lake's bottom. There are hills and valleys littered with fallen logs, weeds, and sunken tree roots, not to mention all sorts of debris of the man-made variety, but no child.
He stays down, searching until his lungs are aching for air. He breaches, breathing deep, and hoping to see Sam with the kid. He's heard the sound of voices both above and below the water, he's already well aware something isn't right. Of course, ghosts are known for complicating things for the living,it's what they do.
He finds Sam to his right but he knows, even before the head shake, it's all over Sam's face, Lucas hasn't been found, He takes another quick look above the waterline-Andrea is on the dock, he and Sam are in the water, the Sheriff is wading out into the lake and Dean shouts,making an attempt to stop him. He doesn't stop, doesn't even seem to hear Dean, he's pleading with the spirit of a long-dead boy. Lucas is nowhere in sight.
He sees the other man go down, knowing Sam did, too. He doesn't have to guess what happened to the Sheriff. He feels the bile burning in the back of his throat but he doesn't have time to morn. He shares a look with his brother,fills his lungs, and kicks hard, diving for the bottom.
The boy is motionless in the depths, held suspended in the tangle of eddying currents and a small forest of water plants growing in long, thin spikes. The sight of the leafy spires straining upward to reach the thin rays of sun that grace the Wisconsin lake at this time of year would be beautiful if he were out for a casual swim, but he isn't, he's working a job, and maybe,saving a life today. Dean quickly swims toward him straining forward,using powerful strokes to close the distance between them. Hoping he's not too late, hoping that he can save him, he grips a small arm. The boy doesn't move, doesn't respond at all when Dean wraps an arm around his waist,tucking him close, and kicking upward,surges toward the light.
They break the surface together and Dean is bracing him against his shoulder but the child is dead weight in his arms, cold, limp, and unresponsive. He swims hard for the dock, careful with his burden. Andrea helps get Lucas out of the lake and gently laid out on the dock. His brother is levering himself up and out of the water, already starting the rescue breathing and chest compressions before he can haul himself out. Andrea has a cellphone in hand and is giving the address information to the dispatch operator when he hits his knees beside Sam and starts giving breaths as his brother begins the next set of chest compressions. He gets a split second of warning before the coughing starts and the boy's spitting up water. Watching Lucas' eyes flutter open and knowing he's breathing on his own, makes Dean breathe easier, too. Sam's small smile, with a quick clap on the shoulder, and a fleeting but grateful look from the boy's mother, are his reward. He feels like he won the freakin' lottery. But then he remembers the sheriff-Jake, isn't here. Sam couldn't find him. He knows Peter Sweeney's ghost has his revenge.
That body will never be found.
“Can we go home now, Sam?”
“Sure,Dean.”
Sam stands close until Dean is settled on the passenger side of the bench seat, then walks around to climb into the seat behind the wheel. She's beautiful inside and out,but he doesn't get to enjoy the full pleasure of being with his best girl on the way back to the motel he and his brother are staying in because he spends most of the trip trying not to curl himself into a ball every time Sam hits a pothole or makes an, at least to Dean, unexpected turn. The Dramamine he was given earlier helps with the nausea but nothing has eased his headache.
Sam is watching him, not quite concealing his anxiety, driving with one eye on the road, one eye on Dean. Dean doesn't have the stamina for the “it's just a flesh wound” routine, it's hard to make the bravado believable when you can't keep your feet under you.
“What is it, Sammy?”
He doesn't turn his head, keeps his eyes on a fixed point at the row of buttons on the cassette player because he started feeling lightheaded the moment he tried to focus on the scenery rushing past outside the windshield for more than a few minutes. There's not much to see, anyway,it's still pretty dark,and they're on the outskirts of some city traveling back roads and interstates if Sam's following their typical protocol.
He knows he should know where they are,how long they've been here, what type of case they're working, but the specifics just aren't forthcoming when he tries to remember. He does have a hazy recollection of someone, or something slamming him into a dumpster in a full body check and he might remember strange sounds echoing off the hard surfaces of a row of abandoned warehouses built near the pier flanked by hundreds of shipping containers and...Sam kissing him? That's different. Possibly, he's suffered one concussion too many, and his walnut is completelycracked. He's trying to wrap his head around well, everything, when Sam responds.
“Nothing,Dean,just worried-.”
“No,wait.” He's not sure if he's missed part of this conversation or if Sam did, but he likes it better when they're both on the same page.
“I mean, Sammy,I appreciate it and all, you worrying about me,it's nice,really. But I meant,What is it? What are we hunting? I can't remember much of anything from the past few days.” He feels awkward, out of his depth,wants to somehow take some of the sting out of his words. He really is glad Sam cares so much, but he never meant to worry him.
He feels his face flushing suddenly and the awkward just edged up a notch, he has this urge to push his hand through the hair at the back of his neck and rub at the tension knotted there,but his brother would see that tell for what it is- a sure sign that he is really uncomfortable, and with his head still aching, rubbing it would probably be a very bad idea. He just grips the edge of the seat and tries not to wonder why his memory is being so reticent.
“It was a witch, Dean. I took care of her. She'd hung herself,was still warm when I got there. Left a suicide note. Said she couldn't stand seeing the oceans decimated by oil spills,pollution, the demise of the coral reefs,and over-fishing, but that she'd never intended for her creation to take the lives of others-she'd only meant to use it to bring attention to her conservation efforts. She was a pretty powerful witch, apparently, used a blood spell, but the thing was so massive-even she couldn't control it. When the marine biologist and the guy from the E. P .A. were killed, that was the last straw.”
“So some Eco-terrorist, tree-hugging witch made a Franken-pus and was surprised when it didn't cooperate? That's good, I mean,that this hunt is over. I don't think I like witches.”
“Yeah,pretty much. And you don't.”
Sam waits a beat, he'll know if he's going to have to fight with Dean about taking a break once these next words leave his mouth. He really doesn't want to fight with him. Dean is selfless to a fault, willing to put himself at risk; for his family, for strangers, a kitten up a tree. Sam loves and hates that about his brother. He has to make absolutely sure he's really okay, before they go on. He knows that they have work to do, that it's important they find Dad. He knows every argument his brother could make, is already setting up the counter points to every possible objection in his mind,just in case.
He takes a quick, surreptitious glance, Dean is sitting eyes closed, hunched over on the bench seat in his borrowed blanket. He's pale and tired looking. Sam can see how his skin is pebbled from cold or shock. He's still damp from his unexpected swim. Sam wants to hug him and tell him he loves him but now isn't the time.
He's a big guy, next to anyone but Sam. A tall, compact, lean-muscled weapon designed for action, forged for hunting, honed to a razor's edge by years of training. Sam has always known his brother is “a hunter's hunter”, the best of the best, even if Dean doesn't, but even the best need a break sometimes.
He takes the plunge.
“Since we have some down time coming...what would make it better?You can heal for a few days-then we'll get back on the road.”
Dean doesn't give him the look or the attitude,just looks thoughtful before he says, “It's just for a couple of days? You're gonna have to get me up to speed and... we're gonna talk about Dad?”
His brother asks that last bit like maybe he doesn't want to hear the answer, but needs to, and Sam doesn't know yet how much of his memory the concussion affected. He's not looking forward to telling him Dad is missing, that they've been given little more than coordinates and vague clues for a while now, but he deserves the truth.
“Of course,Dean.”
“Godzilla movies. And before you ask,geek boy,not the ones in Japanese with tiny subtitles,I already have a headache. I'm gonna need pain meds,burgers, and a chocolate shake.”
Sam smiles. He can hear a trace of his brother's cocky grin in his voice, even if it hasn't made it to his face yet. Dean sounds more like himself now than he has since they started this hunt. He thinks he might be alright,that maybe they both will.
“Dean,you were attacked by sea monster with unnatural abilities and you want to watch a movie about a sea monster with unnatural abilities?”
“Yeah,why not?”
“You're unbelievable!”
“Not as unbelievable as you kissing me.”
“Dean, I wasn't kissing you,I was-it's called-”
“You don't tell Dad I was sidelined by an overgrown piece of sushi,I don't tell him you were sucking face with me.”
“I wasn't. I was-I was saving you. You're such a jerk!” Dean is the only person who can completely exasperate him in the space of a single sentence.
“I know, bitch.” Sam feels the change of tone,like clouds covering the sun.
His brother is looking over at him,his expression pensive, with the faint shadow of death still in his eyes, but as soon as Dean smiles, no-one but Sam would ever know he's covering. His usual M. O.-the excessive use of deflection or denial has been absent, a sure sign he's in a bad way. He's been making light of his close calls all of Sam's life. Dean being Dean.
“Love you, too,Dean.”
“If you're kissing me,I damn well hope so.”
Dean doesn't miss a beat, but he knows.
“Do we have popcorn? And licorice?”
As soon as he gets them back to the motel,gives Dean the “you have a traumatic brain injury” questionnaire, and checks him over throughly, Sam is getting his brother whatever he wants,as much as he wants.
“I'm going to need pie,-lots of pie.”
“Whatever you want,big brother.”
And he's getting his damned hug. He doesn't think Dean will fight him on that one.