SPN: Cross My Heart by dotfic
Title: Cross My Heart
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13, preseries (Sam 12, Dean 16)
w/c: 1,500
Summary: Sam finds a way to magically protect Dean on hunts. This can't end well.
Dad has to almost carry Dean in from the car, because while Dean's on his feet, mostly his knees keep giving way, the bloodstain on his shirt widening. With the duffel bag that holds the weapons gripped in his hands, Sam follows them, feeling detached, like this isn't actually happening.
"Get the door," Dad says, voice tight, and tosses Sam the keys.
So Sam drops the duffel bag and runs to the door, fumbles putting the key into the lock, does it three times before he gets their motel room door open and then Dad tugs Dean inside, deposits him on the bed by the window.
There's a lot of blood. Sam hovers in the doorway, fingers clenched around the frame and this is really happening, the monster did swipe its claws at Dean, and Dean jumped back too slow. And now there's a lot of blood and Dad tugging Dean's shirt off, and he's saying something. Takes Sam a moment to realize he's talking to Sam again, another order.
"Clean towels. Sam. And the first aid kit, now."
The duffel with the weapons is still outside and the motel room door is still open but Sam bolts for the bathroom and grabs the towels, brings them over to the bed. He bites his lip, fighting back tears, while fear is a living thing in his chest, threatening to burst out of him like in that movie with the aliens.
Dean looks up at him, face shining with sweat, and grins a little but Sam can see how his teeth are clenched. "You gonna pass out at the sight of a little blood, you wuss?"
Dad takes the towels, goes to work, and halfway through, over Dean's cursing, Dad says, "Sam, get the bag inside," like he's wondering how Sam could be that stupid.
He grabs the bag and shuts the motel room door against the cool October night.
Dean's okay, he's going to be fine, Dad says, but Sam doesn't believe him.
~*~
At least not until the next morning when Sam wakes up on his cot to see Dean moving gingerly around the room in the pale light that seeps in through the curtains. The bandage peeks out from under his t-shirt. Other than that it's like nothing happened. The bloody towels have vanished and Dad's snoring on the bed nearest the door.
~*~
Two weeks later, Dad and Dean take out a warlock who's been picking off his neighbors one by one, using them to gather power. When it's over, it's Sam's job to itemize the guy's weird collection of objects. They set Sam up at the big, battered dining room table with a spiral notebook and his favorite rollerball pen, while his father and brother bring him objects, carefully checked to make sure they're safe before they hand them to Sam.
Sam feels busy and official as he makes sketches and assigns each object a number, like the Dewey Decimal system. He's actually doing something, feels less shaky than he had earlier, waiting in the car for what felt like forever.
Watching the big house, he kept thinking of the claws swiping out, taking a piece out of his brother while Sam stood there, frozen.
There's an old leather journal, too, where the weirdo guy kept some spells and his own notes. The journal smells like the house, of leather and dust and what might be dead things.
He's flipping through it while Dean and Dad forage upstairs to see if they've missed something when his hand stops over the drawing of a familiar-looking object. It's a metal disk with some kind of flat, transparent stone inside. The spiky, tiny handwriting says the disk is for protection.
Sam stands up and reaches into the cardboard box where he's been putting the objects when he's done. His fingers find the disk. He looks down at the journal again, and reads about how the bearer can protect another by gripping the disk in their hand and concentrating. At least, Sam thinks that's how it works; the warlock's notes don't exactly say things in a way that's clear.
He slips the disk into his pocket without making any notes on it in his own notebook.
~*~
Sam's supposed to stay in the car.
There are three werecats. Dad shoots one, Dean the second, and the third leaps for Dean as Sam presses the disk into his palm, feels the stone flare warm.
With a crack like a rifle shot, a thick branch breaks and falls on the cat in mid-leap.
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Dude."
Dad shakes his head, then lets out a long breath that sounds like he's been holding it forever. "That was lucky." He pauses, puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. "Can't count on luck," he says, and Dean nods.
Sam sneaks off back to the car before they can spot him.
~*~
They let Sam come with them to get a poltergeist. Dad won't give him a salt gun, not yet. He's still only letting Sam have a gun during target practice, and Dad gives him strict instructions to stay in the next room, out of sight and observing their work.
The ghost streaks across the main hall of the mansion towards Dean as Dad's just raising his shotgun to his shoulder. Sam crouches next to the living room wall, where he can see what's going on, his fingers clenching around the edges of the disk. It flares warm, and then the wrought-iron chandelier crashes down, dissipating the ghost.
"Shit!" Dean whistles, staring at the mess the chandelier's made of the once nice parquet floor.
"Look alive," Dad orders, as the ghost starts to re-form near the stairs. "Sammy," he gestures sharply, as Sam starts to inch out from his hiding spot, "You stay back."
~*~
"Okay, now that's just weird," Dean says, toe of his boot poking at the pile of rubble that just buried the rest of the pack of goblins.
During the drive home, in the rear-view mirror, Sam sees the relief in Dad's eyes, in the way he keeps glancing at Dean.
~*~
After the stage curtain wraps itself around the body of the spirit-possessed drama teacher, who rushed Dean with knife upraised, Dad immediately turns and looks around the auditorium.
Sam slips the disk into his pocket, too late.
While Dean subdues the curtain-wrapped teacher and starts the purging ritual, Dad hops down off the stage and marches up the aisle towards Sam.
Dad stops, holds out his hand.
For a second he thinks about running. The disk belongs to him, he found it, and he's helping Dean.
Then Sam gets a good look at his father's face, the way his eyebrows have drawn together and the expression that isn't just anger. He hands over the disk.
"Where'd you get this?"
Up on stage, Dean finishes the ritual.
"I…at the warlock's house, a month ago…"
Dean's loosened part of the curtain so the now unconscious teacher can breathe okay, leaves him lying on the stage as he hops down and jogs towards them.
"What's going on?" Dean looks at Sam, then at Dad, then at the object in Dad's hand.
"Sam's been using this," Dad said, holding it up so it catches the light. The stone flashes.
"What the f…" Dean's mouth stays open a few heartbeats. Then he looks at Sam, who wishes for a trap door to open up beneath him, get him out of this.
"Sam?" Dad says, and Sam's fingers go cold.
"It's a protection…thing," he says. "If the bearer holds it, they can use it to protect someone else. I guess it - it makes good luck for them. Makes things happen, to save them."
Dad runs his hand slowly down over his face. Sam hunches his shoulders, waiting for the yelling.
There is no yelling. Dad kneels in front of him. "You have any idea how dangerous it is to use an object like that?" He's speaking quietly, and that scares Sam worse than yelling. "It could be causing consequences you don't know about. It could be hurting you to use it."
"But I…"
But I saved Dean.
"We'll need a curse box for this," Dad says, standing up. He doesn't even look at Sam, walks past him and strides up the aisle towards the door marked EXIT, shoving the disk into the pocket of his coat.
The door bangs, leaving Sam and Dean in silence.
"The hell," Dean says, softly.
"I’m sorry." Sam lowers the seat of a chair. He stares up into the cavernous spaces above the stage, remembering his last school, when he'd gotten to play Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"He's right." Dean settles into the chair next to Sam. "Using that thing could've hurt you."
Sam draws his feet up, tucks his knees to his chest. His fingers clench against the velvety feel of the chair.
"Hey." Dean lightly smacks him in the arm with the back of his hand. "I get what you were doing. And I appreciate it, I do. But dude, if you kept that up…let's say it didn't hurt you. All this stuff happening, to save me, and me not having to do anything? That's the kind of thing that can make a guy get sloppy."
"Oh." Sam thinks about that. Thinks about how good Dean is at knife-throwing and shooting and martial arts.
"I'm not going to get killed," Dean says, standing up. His chair snaps back into place. "Not going anywhere, okay?"
"Promise?" Sam looks up at him.
"Promise." Dean crosses his heart.
And Sam believes him.
~end
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13, preseries (Sam 12, Dean 16)
w/c: 1,500
Summary: Sam finds a way to magically protect Dean on hunts. This can't end well.
Dad has to almost carry Dean in from the car, because while Dean's on his feet, mostly his knees keep giving way, the bloodstain on his shirt widening. With the duffel bag that holds the weapons gripped in his hands, Sam follows them, feeling detached, like this isn't actually happening.
"Get the door," Dad says, voice tight, and tosses Sam the keys.
So Sam drops the duffel bag and runs to the door, fumbles putting the key into the lock, does it three times before he gets their motel room door open and then Dad tugs Dean inside, deposits him on the bed by the window.
There's a lot of blood. Sam hovers in the doorway, fingers clenched around the frame and this is really happening, the monster did swipe its claws at Dean, and Dean jumped back too slow. And now there's a lot of blood and Dad tugging Dean's shirt off, and he's saying something. Takes Sam a moment to realize he's talking to Sam again, another order.
"Clean towels. Sam. And the first aid kit, now."
The duffel with the weapons is still outside and the motel room door is still open but Sam bolts for the bathroom and grabs the towels, brings them over to the bed. He bites his lip, fighting back tears, while fear is a living thing in his chest, threatening to burst out of him like in that movie with the aliens.
Dean looks up at him, face shining with sweat, and grins a little but Sam can see how his teeth are clenched. "You gonna pass out at the sight of a little blood, you wuss?"
Dad takes the towels, goes to work, and halfway through, over Dean's cursing, Dad says, "Sam, get the bag inside," like he's wondering how Sam could be that stupid.
He grabs the bag and shuts the motel room door against the cool October night.
Dean's okay, he's going to be fine, Dad says, but Sam doesn't believe him.
~*~
At least not until the next morning when Sam wakes up on his cot to see Dean moving gingerly around the room in the pale light that seeps in through the curtains. The bandage peeks out from under his t-shirt. Other than that it's like nothing happened. The bloody towels have vanished and Dad's snoring on the bed nearest the door.
~*~
Two weeks later, Dad and Dean take out a warlock who's been picking off his neighbors one by one, using them to gather power. When it's over, it's Sam's job to itemize the guy's weird collection of objects. They set Sam up at the big, battered dining room table with a spiral notebook and his favorite rollerball pen, while his father and brother bring him objects, carefully checked to make sure they're safe before they hand them to Sam.
Sam feels busy and official as he makes sketches and assigns each object a number, like the Dewey Decimal system. He's actually doing something, feels less shaky than he had earlier, waiting in the car for what felt like forever.
Watching the big house, he kept thinking of the claws swiping out, taking a piece out of his brother while Sam stood there, frozen.
There's an old leather journal, too, where the weirdo guy kept some spells and his own notes. The journal smells like the house, of leather and dust and what might be dead things.
He's flipping through it while Dean and Dad forage upstairs to see if they've missed something when his hand stops over the drawing of a familiar-looking object. It's a metal disk with some kind of flat, transparent stone inside. The spiky, tiny handwriting says the disk is for protection.
Sam stands up and reaches into the cardboard box where he's been putting the objects when he's done. His fingers find the disk. He looks down at the journal again, and reads about how the bearer can protect another by gripping the disk in their hand and concentrating. At least, Sam thinks that's how it works; the warlock's notes don't exactly say things in a way that's clear.
He slips the disk into his pocket without making any notes on it in his own notebook.
~*~
Sam's supposed to stay in the car.
There are three werecats. Dad shoots one, Dean the second, and the third leaps for Dean as Sam presses the disk into his palm, feels the stone flare warm.
With a crack like a rifle shot, a thick branch breaks and falls on the cat in mid-leap.
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Dude."
Dad shakes his head, then lets out a long breath that sounds like he's been holding it forever. "That was lucky." He pauses, puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. "Can't count on luck," he says, and Dean nods.
Sam sneaks off back to the car before they can spot him.
~*~
They let Sam come with them to get a poltergeist. Dad won't give him a salt gun, not yet. He's still only letting Sam have a gun during target practice, and Dad gives him strict instructions to stay in the next room, out of sight and observing their work.
The ghost streaks across the main hall of the mansion towards Dean as Dad's just raising his shotgun to his shoulder. Sam crouches next to the living room wall, where he can see what's going on, his fingers clenching around the edges of the disk. It flares warm, and then the wrought-iron chandelier crashes down, dissipating the ghost.
"Shit!" Dean whistles, staring at the mess the chandelier's made of the once nice parquet floor.
"Look alive," Dad orders, as the ghost starts to re-form near the stairs. "Sammy," he gestures sharply, as Sam starts to inch out from his hiding spot, "You stay back."
~*~
"Okay, now that's just weird," Dean says, toe of his boot poking at the pile of rubble that just buried the rest of the pack of goblins.
During the drive home, in the rear-view mirror, Sam sees the relief in Dad's eyes, in the way he keeps glancing at Dean.
~*~
After the stage curtain wraps itself around the body of the spirit-possessed drama teacher, who rushed Dean with knife upraised, Dad immediately turns and looks around the auditorium.
Sam slips the disk into his pocket, too late.
While Dean subdues the curtain-wrapped teacher and starts the purging ritual, Dad hops down off the stage and marches up the aisle towards Sam.
Dad stops, holds out his hand.
For a second he thinks about running. The disk belongs to him, he found it, and he's helping Dean.
Then Sam gets a good look at his father's face, the way his eyebrows have drawn together and the expression that isn't just anger. He hands over the disk.
"Where'd you get this?"
Up on stage, Dean finishes the ritual.
"I…at the warlock's house, a month ago…"
Dean's loosened part of the curtain so the now unconscious teacher can breathe okay, leaves him lying on the stage as he hops down and jogs towards them.
"What's going on?" Dean looks at Sam, then at Dad, then at the object in Dad's hand.
"Sam's been using this," Dad said, holding it up so it catches the light. The stone flashes.
"What the f…" Dean's mouth stays open a few heartbeats. Then he looks at Sam, who wishes for a trap door to open up beneath him, get him out of this.
"Sam?" Dad says, and Sam's fingers go cold.
"It's a protection…thing," he says. "If the bearer holds it, they can use it to protect someone else. I guess it - it makes good luck for them. Makes things happen, to save them."
Dad runs his hand slowly down over his face. Sam hunches his shoulders, waiting for the yelling.
There is no yelling. Dad kneels in front of him. "You have any idea how dangerous it is to use an object like that?" He's speaking quietly, and that scares Sam worse than yelling. "It could be causing consequences you don't know about. It could be hurting you to use it."
"But I…"
But I saved Dean.
"We'll need a curse box for this," Dad says, standing up. He doesn't even look at Sam, walks past him and strides up the aisle towards the door marked EXIT, shoving the disk into the pocket of his coat.
The door bangs, leaving Sam and Dean in silence.
"The hell," Dean says, softly.
"I’m sorry." Sam lowers the seat of a chair. He stares up into the cavernous spaces above the stage, remembering his last school, when he'd gotten to play Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"He's right." Dean settles into the chair next to Sam. "Using that thing could've hurt you."
Sam draws his feet up, tucks his knees to his chest. His fingers clench against the velvety feel of the chair.
"Hey." Dean lightly smacks him in the arm with the back of his hand. "I get what you were doing. And I appreciate it, I do. But dude, if you kept that up…let's say it didn't hurt you. All this stuff happening, to save me, and me not having to do anything? That's the kind of thing that can make a guy get sloppy."
"Oh." Sam thinks about that. Thinks about how good Dean is at knife-throwing and shooting and martial arts.
"I'm not going to get killed," Dean says, standing up. His chair snaps back into place. "Not going anywhere, okay?"
"Promise?" Sam looks up at him.
"Promise." Dean crosses his heart.
And Sam believes him.
~end