Fic: A Fighting Chance
Title: A Fighting Chance
Author: summerholt
Beta: nightrider101
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre / pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Word-count: 2,500+
Spoilers: Up to episode 2x14 “Born under and bad sign”, happens after 2X14
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: written for hoodie_time’s Dean focused h/c fic and art challenge for prompt#36 by eschatologies
Prompt #36:
Sam gets kidnapped/taken/held as bait by the Monster of the Week because, well, just because. Dean has to save him, despite some kind of bleeding wound. Extra points if he's exhausted and shaky from blood loss when he finally does save Sam, and Sam ends up doing most of the escaping from that point. Generic prompt is generic, but I guess I have simple needs. Wincest if you want, gen if you don't. Preferable S1-2 or preseries.
***
Dean has had worse pains before. There was that one time when a Wendigo almost ripped away his right leg, and that other time when a werewolf pawed off half of his back, and of course the internal bleeding that yellow eyed son of a bitch inflicted that almost killed him. Now thinking about it, he blacked out all three times and woke up well sedated in a hospital. Dean doesn’t like hospitals but he sure appreciates the great drugs they have there. He is pretty sure the stuff that Jo gave him is not even half as effective, because the gunshot wound still hurts like a bitch.
He suppresses a pained grimace, rolls his neck, and concentrates on the pool table. At least his right arm is still fully functioning even though his left is a bit, well, useless. With some luck, at the end of the evening, he will have enough money to get some real painkillers and some antibiotics would be nice, too. His right hand shoots out and he bites his lower lip when the jerking motion tears at his left shoulder. The last ball sinks beautifully. He looks up and feigns surprise. “Hey, what about that? Must be my lucky day.”
His opponent, “Call me Johnny”, doesn’t look happy but seems resigned to his bad luck. Dean reaches for the crumpled bills laying on the edge of the table. Before he can stuff the money in his jeans pocket, Johnny grabs his hand. A lazy smile curves Johnny’s lips as he asks, “How about another round?” He is standing so close that Dean can smell the sickly sweet fume of alcohol radiating from him. Johnny’s eyes are slightly unfocused but Dean can see the danger hidden behind the hooded lids. Beating Johnny in another game doesn’t seem like a great idea.
If Dean didn’t have an injured shoulder, he could take Johnny in a fight, and his drunken friends. For the first time tonight, Dean regrets not taking Sam with him to the bar. He smiles carefully, freeing his hand and keeping his posture non-threatening. “Man, I’m really beat. How about a rain check?” He pulls out a twenty and leaves it on the table. “The next round is on me.”
Turns out that Johnny’s friends are drunker and less forgiving than Johnny is. Dean only gets away when their little brawl turns into a full-fledged free-for-all bar fight, and not before he has taken some punches to the head and a couple of pool sticks to his back and shoulder. Johnny, the superior fighter among the bunch, must have noticed Dean’s favoring his left shoulder, and got some well-aimed hits in. Dean's trained to do the most damage with the least effort, and with the agonizing pain in his shoulder, he wants this fight over as quickly as possible. Dean ends it with a vicious kick to his kneecap, and Johnny goes down like a pile of bricks, howling in pain.
Dean drags himself back to the Impala. His shoulder must have started bleeding again. He can feel the warm oozing on his shoulder and arm. Now the adrenaline has worn off, the pain seems even worse than before. His whole body is aching from the fight. He shakes his head to clear his vision, takes off his leather jacket, and wraps an old tee shirt from the laundry bag around his shoulder. He’s not going to get blood on the upholstery if he can help it. Good thing that he now has the money and only needs to wait till tomorrow to get the medication to take care of this pesky wound.
***
Sam isn’t in the room and Dean finds a note: “Gone to the library.”
Dean is relieved. Sam’s prone to feeling guilty whether he’s got a good reason to or not. It’s fun for a little while and Dean can get free pie and all the awesome things that Sam does without complaining, but his brother is way too angsty for his own good. From where Dean stands they’re pretty even after he punched Sam in the face, there’s really no need for Sam to feel guilty about shooting him after that. Besides, it wasn’t even Sam who shot him because he was possessed. So Dean has been hiding the infection of his wound from Sam so that Sam would finally lighten up a bit and move the heck on.
Dean gets a wash cloth and wipes his face to clear his mind, then pulls out the first aid kit and sits on the bath tub to tend to his shoulder. Some blood has already seeped through the tee shirt. He unwraps the shirt, and considers shortly whether or not to cut through the layers of cloth instead of pulling it off. It’s one of his favorite shirts; the old worn shirt with AC/DC written on the front that fits him like a glove. He silently adds “not wearing favorite shirt over infected wound” to future reference, and peels off the shirt, biting his lip to keep from screaming. The gauze is soaked, blood oozing from the corners. Dean starts to peel it off but something catches his eyes. Glass. A broken glass on the bathroom floor.
Immediately his heart is pounding. The gauze is still half off, and he pushes it back distractedly, pulls out his cell phone and dials Sam’s number. Sam’s phone starts to ring somewhere in the room. Not even bothering to look for the phone, Dean sweeps the room methodically. All of Sam’s weapons are here. The knife Sam normally fastens around his ankle is tossed carelessly under the bed, along with his wallet. He mutters under his breath, “Oh Sammy, what’ve you gotten yourself into this time?” Then he dials Missouri.
Missouri is not thrilled to get a phone call this late at night. Dean knows for a fact that she’s a night owl and just complains on principle. Still he’s thankful that Missouri always takes his call. After the disappearing act that Sam pulled recently, both Winchesters have gotten a tattoo that works with a location spell. Dean thought Sam would fight him on the locator tattoo when he brought it up. In the end, Sam pushed him out of the way, eager to be the first under the needle.
Dean can perform the spell himself but he would need supplies and time which he doesn’t have right now. Missouri helped them create the tattoo at the first place. He needs Missouri’s help to find where Sam is now.
While Missouri is doing the spell, Dean pops some painkillers, dresses his wound as fast as he can and packs up all their belongings from the room. He’s in the process of loading everything into the Impala when Missouri calls back and gives him Sam’s current location, about two hours from here. She also tells him that the people who have taken Sam belong to a coven that will do anything to gain power and prestige.
“Witches? Seriously?” Dean curses under his breath. “What could they possibly want from Sam?”
“I’m not entirely sure but I’ll bet it has something to do with his psychic powers.”
“Sammy doesn’t have…” Dean starts to protest but is cut off by Missouri. “Don’t you lie to me, boy!” Her tone is sharp. “That brother of yours has potential to be more powerful than anyone I’ve ever seen. It’s locked away for now. But it seems those people are trying to unlock it, maybe harvest it for their own use.”
“Any idea how I can take out the witches?”
“You mean how to kill them?”
“No!” Oh how Dean hates dealing with witches. No matter how evil they are, they are still humans, and that means killing is off the table. He takes a deep breath and softens his voices, remembering that Missouri doesn’t take it well to being yelled at. “No. Just, is there any way to, I don’t know …”
“Your best bet is to interrupt their ritual by destroying their altar, and use something to slow them down so that you can get away.” Missouri takes pity on him and interrupts helpfully. “There’re some spells you can use. You’re going to need to write this down.”
Dean writes down the spells carefully, already trying to memorize them. Then a thought hits him. He asks hopefully, “Do you have any spell that can block out pain?”
Missouri sounds alarmed. “Are you injured?”
“I got shot in the shoulder. No big deal; it’s healing. But it still hurts sometimes.”
Missouri was silent for several seconds. “There’s a spell you can use, but its effect wears off very fast, and it takes a lot out of you.”
“Only to be used when absolutely necessary. Got it!” Dean grins into the phone. Going into the rescue mission in his currently weakened state is too risky for his liking. With the help of the spell, he has nothing to worry about. He’s just got to get Sam back, and the rest? Well, the rest doesn’t matter.
Missouri sighs. She gives Dean the spell, an address to pick up supplies, and makes Dean promise her to be careful, before hanging up. By then Dean’s already racing down the highway behind the wheel.
***
People think that witches meet in deserted forests or dark caves, with burning fire and chanting, and maybe some dancing around a brewing pot. But really a coven can meet anywhere. This one is meeting in an expensive looking house on top of a small hill, with acres of land surrounding it. Dean parks the Impala away from the house and starts climbing.
The house is fully lit and it sounds like there’s a party going on inside. It looks like a normal rich and famous gathering, the only difference being the huge altar with ancient carvings in the middle of the room, and Sam bound spread-eagle on it. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s screaming. But no sound escapes what seems to be a bubble encircling the altar. Several people are touching the bubble reverently and probably chanting the ritual spells while others carry on with socializing. The altar seems to shimmer and its color keeps changing ever so slightly, black veins appear and disappear on Sam’s body and seep into the altar in snake like motions. Dean can almost hear the whispering, beckoning him to come closer.
Dean finds an open window in a room away from the banquet hall and slips in the house quietly. He walks down the hallway, peeks around the corner, and determines the shortest path between Sam and him. Then all hell breaks loose.
The pain blocking spell works like a charm. Dean knocks away another person standing between him and the altar and thrusts a hex bag on the bubble. The bubble yields to let his hand through but doesn’t burst as it should have. He makes a split second decision and follows his arm, immerging into the bubble and landing on top of Sam. Sam takes a break from screaming and opens his eyes. “Dean?” he rasps, dazed from the ritual.
Dean winks as him. “Missed me?” He retrieves his knife and cuts the robes holding Sam.
Suddenly Sam lets out another scream, head snapped back and knocking the altar. The bubble recedes. The coven has arranged themselves in a circle around the altar, murmured chanting enveloping Sam and Dean like thick waves of tar. Dean tries to fight off the phantom arms that want to snatch him away from Sam and he interlocks his fingers with Sam’s, all the while reciting an unbinding spell and prays that he has memorized it correctly.
The arms dragging at Dean weaken slightly, then the chanting picks up in volume and Dean is fighting a lost cause. He stops the unbinding spell and concentrates on dragging Sam off the altar. If he could only get Sam off that damn thing that is obviously sapping whatever life juice from him, maybe they can make out of it together. “Sam!” he shouts, shaking Sam with both hands. “Sam! Get up!” Sam opens his eyes. He’s in pain but he’s lucid. Holding on to Dean’s hands, Sam tries to move. His muscles strain as he grunts and bites back pained screams, black veins still popping in and out of his body, binding him to the altar. Dean curses, pulls out his gun and starts shooting at the people around them. He is still mindful to aim the gun lower than the waist but he wouldn’t cry about it if he managed to kill some of the witches.
Several people are caught off guard and go down before Dean is dragged away from the altar by the others and pushed on his knees, facing Sam. Dean could probably fight them off easily, if the phantom arms didn’t lay heavily on him. He is still struggling, just out of principle. No Winchester goes down without a fight.
Dean registers the cold edge of a knife on his neck a second after seeing the horror in Sam’s eyes. Time slows down. Sam is shouting at him. The knife slides slightly from left to right. There is no pain.
And everything stops in an explosion of light.
The altar explodes. It almost looks like a lightening strikes right in the middle of it, then expands to burn everything in its path. Dean can feel the heat; it licks at his face but there is no pain. He’s losing consciousness.
Not a bad way to die. Not bad at all; he thinks before everything goes dark.
***
Dean wishes he hasn’t woken up. They are somewhere outside of the house. The sky starts to light up with dawn. Sam’s holding and shaking him, calling his name. If he could move he’d smack Sam in the head.
“Stop!” His intended shout comes out weak and hoarse, and man, it hurts even to talk. Missouri wasn’t kidding about the aftermath of that spell.
“Dean? Dean! Are you alright?” Sam is patting him down, checking for injuries.
Do I look like I’m alright? Dean rolls his eyes and quickly decides that hurts, too. His body feels like a giant nerve flayed open. And he feels lightheaded, probably from the blood loss. “Stop poking… Hurts…”
Sam has to concentrate to hear what Dean is saying. “If you’re injured we need to stop the bleeding,” he insists.
Dean feels some strength coming back. He feels gingerly at his left shoulder and finds it already bound with a makeshift pressure bandage. He pushes at Sam weakly and tries to stand up. The world spins around him and he is caught in Sam’s arms, preventing him from face planting into the grass.
“Whoa! Easy.” Sam’s voice is more balanced now. He steadies Dean carefully on his feet.
Dean curses when pain shoots up his legs and goes all the way to his shoulder. He tightens his jaw and leans more heavily on Sam. His vision is getting more blurred. “Car’s half way down the hill.” He tells Sam before passing out again.
***
Sam carries Dean to the car and places him carefully on the backseat. Dean doesn’t seem to have any other injuries. Sam figures he must have fainted due to the blood loss. When he wakes up, there are a lot of questions Sam wants to ask. Why Dean didn’t tell him about the infection of the gunshot wound for one. Dean will probably have some questions of his own.
Dean shivers and moans quietly. Sam pushes a rolled up sweater between Dean and the car seat to ease his shoulder somewhat, and covers him with a ratty blanket. Sam remembers the same blanket from when they were children. They used to fight over it. Dad finally got fed up and bought them another one. But this one has always been their favorite. Somewhere along the way they lost the other one, and never stopped fighting over this one, for the simple comfort of the home they never really had. Dean calms down and snuggles into the warmth.
~ fin ~