And the Greastest of These... 1 and 2/7 (Gen, PG-13)
Title: And the Greatest of These…
Author: Swanseajill
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Pairing: None
Words: 14,278
Spoilers: Set ten months post AHBL, but there are no specific spoilers for season 3 episodes and I’ve only slightly broken with canon!
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, making no money from them.
Summary: ‘Dean had his bases covered, a plan in case his words weren’t enough to bring Sam back. A plan he couldn’t share with Bobby. If Bobby knew what he intended, he’d try to stop him, and that couldn’t happen. He was was prepared to risk everything rather than lose his brother again.’
Author's Notes: Grateful thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her fantastic beta job and for pointing out scenes that needed to be written to make this a far better story. You rock.
And the Greatest of These…
And now these three remain:
faith, hope and love.
But the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13
1
The rusted nut stubbornly refused to turn, and the wrench skittered out of his hand, clanging to the ground. Bobby Singer cursed and stepped back from the truck, kicking the wrench in frustration and grimacing at the creaking of cramped muscles as he straightened his back. Damned pile of crap. He had worked on it for four hours, and it had barely been worth salvaging in the first place.
He glanced up at the sky, wiping an oily rag across his forehead to soak up some of the sweat running into his eyes. The sun was still a fierce ball of shimmering heat, but he spotted an ominous darkness on the horizon, and the air was still and heavy. A storm was coming in.
He glanced at his watch. Six p.m. Might as well knock off now; there was no time to finish the job before the storm struck. Tomorrow, the temperature should be down a notch or two. It would be easier to work on the truck when her bodywork wasn’t hot enough to fry his balls to a crisp.
He jumped as the opening bars of Motörhead’s ‘Life’s a Bitch’ erupted from his jeans pocket and cursed Dean Winchester long and hard for the tenth time that week. He had to figure out how to change the ring tone back to something that sounded more like a phone than a heavy-metal concert. Course, he wouldn’t have to worry about it in the first place if Sam had let him stick to his good old-fashioned landline. He had to admit, though, Sam’s logic was faultless. They were right smack in the middle of a war, and it made sense for him to be available around the clock.
Irritably, he yanked the offending object out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Speak of the devil. He hit the go button with a grubby thumb.
“This better be good, ’cause I’m having a bad day,” he growled.
“B….bby.”
Something cold stirred in the pit of Bobby’s stomach in response to the pain-soaked whisper.
”Dean! What’s wrong?”
“N… need you… come… pick me up.”
Pick him up? That meant either there was a problem with the car, or Dean was too badly hurt to drive. From the sound of his voice, the latter was most likely. In which case… “Dean, where’s Sam?” he asked urgently. “Is he with you?”
A pause.
“Dean!”
“… not here.”
“He’s not with you?” Bobby’s mouth went dry. “Where is he, Dean?”
“I don’…”
“Did someone take him?”
Silence.
“Dean! Did someone take Sam?”
“N… no. But he’s… gone.” Worry bled through the clipped words.
“Gone where?”
“I don’… know.”
The chill in his gut morphed into a solid ball of fear. Sam would never just walk out on Dean if his brother were hurt. Maybe he’d gone for help, but Bobby could tell Dean was holding something back, and he had a gut feeling he knew what it was. Still, explanations would have to wait. Dean would never call for help unless he was desperate, and the first step was to get to him as quickly as possible.
“Dean, where are you?”
“’bandon… mine …”
Dean’s voice faded out, and Bobby’s grip on the cell tightened in reaction. He deliberately sharpened his voice. “Dean! Stay with me. Tell me where the mine is.”
“Mitch… Mitchell Crossing.”
“Mitchell Crossing, South Dakota?”
“Y… Yeah.”
That was good. He could be in the Crossing in less than two hours.
“Dean, how bad are you hurt?”
A pause.
“Dean?”
“’m okay. Just… get here, Bobby.”
“All right. Just tell me exactly where the mine is.”
“I… don’… don’t ’member.”
“Sure you do. Try to focus, Dean, okay? Which direction did you head out of town?”
“I... south… on the 63.”
Bobby blew out a sigh of relief. “Good, that’s good. How far did you drive down the 63?”
“Five… six miles.”
Good enough. “I’ll be there soon as I can. You sit tight, you hear?”
“Not goin’… anywhere.” There was the tiniest hint of humor in the words that reassured Bobby a little. Then Dean’s voice changed. “Sam…”
Bobby’s gut clenched. “Dean? What about Sam?”
“He’s… he’s not… he’s… be careful…” The voice faded out.
“Dean! Stay with me, dammit!”
This time, there was no reply. Bobby cursed. He could tell from the static that the cell was still connected, which implied that Dean had probably passed out. Not good news if he was concussed.
With possible worst-case scenarios racing through his mind, Bobby slammed shut the old wreck’s hood and headed for his favorite and most reliable truck, fishing the keys out of his pocket as he ran. If he floored the gas, he could be in Mitchell Crossing in ninety minutes.
2
It took more like two-and-a-half hours. Heading north, he drove straight into the gathering storm. Within fifteen minutes, he was battling gale-force winds and rain that battered solidly against the windshield and brought visibility down to virtually zero. He had no choice but to slow down, weighing frustration and impatience against the common sense that told him he would be no help to Dean if he drove the truck straight into a tree.
Turning east, around forty miles from Mitchell Crossing, he finally broke free of the storm. Here, the roads were dry, and the sinking sun still held a bite in its tail.
Dean had said the mine was five or six miles south of town. Bobby began looking for signs around ten miles out, yet still almost drove past the battered wooden board that hung crookedly on a post, the legend “Hooper Mine” barely legible in peeling red paint. He wrenched the steering wheel around and headed up the unpaved path, swerving frequently to avoid potholes. It was clearly some time since vehicles had used this backwoods route.
Two miles of hazardous driving ended abruptly in a wide clearing surrounded to the north and east by a dense pine forest. A couple of ramshackle huts stood forlornly to the west, and beyond them, partly obscured by a stand of tall pines, a large sign warned trespassers of danger to life and limb should they venture into the long-abandoned mineshaft.
Bobby drove into the clearing and brought the truck to a halt at a point where he had a good view of the terrain around him. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, simply listening. It was quiet, not even the sound of birdsong disturbing the almost unnatural silence. He hefted his gun, reassured by the weight of it in his hand, opened the door and stepped out of the truck.
He looked around warily. There was no sign of the Impala. No sign of Dean. No sign of anything.
“Dean?” he called, eyes still roving around, watching for movement. His voice sounded unnaturally loud.
“Over here.”
The faint reply came from the direction of the mine. Bobby retrieved his first-aid kit from the truck and headed toward it, keeping a close eye on his surroundings as he went.
He found Dean sitting in the shade of the stand of pines. He was slumped against one of the larger trunks, legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging loosely in his lap.
Bobby took one final look around to check for danger before squatting down beside him. One quick glance was enough to reveal that Dean was in bad shape. Lip split, left cheek badly bruised and the eye above it swollen half shut. The hair on the left side of his head clumped in a sticky mass of what could only be blood, and his right forearm was tightly wrapped with a makeshift bandage, dark with dried blood. Despite the heat, he was shivering, and the stale smell of vomit hung in the air.
Bobby squatted down in front of him. “Dean?”
Dean looked up, seeming to focus on him with some difficulty. “’Bout time the cavalry showed,” he said softly.
Bobby grunted. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Not ’s bad s’it looks.”
“Well good, ’cause you look like a bone my dog’s been chewing on for a week.”
That got him a half-smile. “Got… bit… banged up.”
“I can see that,” Bobby said dryly. He could also see that Dean wasn’t quite with him, eyes a little glassy and speech slurred. He reached out a hand and cupped Dean’s uninjured cheek, turning his head so that the younger man had to focus on him.
“Dean, are we in any danger here?”
Dean shook his head and winced at the movement. “No. Was a… chulka… in the mine… but Sam… took care of it.”
Sam took care of it? Had the chulka beaten Dean to a pulp? And if so… “Where’d Sam go, Dean?”
Dean closed his eyes. “I don’ know.”
“He just up and left?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
Bobby frowned. “How long ago did he leave?”
Dean opened his eyes again and stared at him dully. “Wha’s it matter? ’s gone.”
“How long, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes drifted shut again, concussion or blood loss - probably both - taking their toll.
“Dean!” Bobby spoke more sharply. “Open your eyes, stay with me.”
It was clearly an effort, but Dean forced his eyelids open and tried to focus on Bobby.
Bobby slowly repeated the question. “Dean, how long has Sam been gone?”
“Don’ know.” Dean’s eyes flicked to the side, and Bobby followed his glance. He could see the entrance to the mine, half-hidden in undergrowth, around ten to fifteen feet below tree level. “I fell …down the steps. Guess… I hit my head. Sam… was gone when I woke up.”
Bobby frowned. “So he went for help?”
A long pause.
“Dean.”
“No.”
That one word, uttered in a terse, defeated tone, confirmed Bobby’s original fears. His jaw tightened. He had to know just how bad it had gotten. “He’s not possessed,” he said, more statement than fact.
“No.”
“All right. Then you need to tell me what happened.”
“Can we… talk ’bout this later?”
Bobby looked at him long and hard. He sensed that Dean was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know where Sam had gone. It was also clear he didn’t expect him to be coming back any time soon, or he’d have warned Bobby to be on his guard.
Bobby made a decision. “Yeah, it can wait. I’m gonna get you out of here, but I need to check you over first, okay?”
A muscle in Dean’s cheek twitched. “’M fine.”
“Humor me. What happened to your arm?”
Dean glanced down at the bloody bandage as if he’d never seen it before. “Cut it.”
The bandage turned out to be an arm of a long-sleeved overshirt. It wasn’t seeping blood, though there was enough soaked into Dean’s T-shirt and jeans to prove that the wound had initially bled a lot. Bobby decided to leave it alone. He didn’t want to risk starting fresh bleeding; Dean couldn’t afford to lose any more blood right now.
“Where else does it hurt?”
“Ev’where.”
“Okay,” Bobby said patiently. “Where does it hurt most?”
Dean considered for a moment, and Bobby could almost see the cogs turning in his sluggish brain. “Side. Head.”
“I need to take a look.”
Careful examination revealed several cracked or broken ribs and a two-inch cut just above Dean’s left ear. Probably a catalog of other cuts and bruises, too. All in all, the boy was a mess.
He decided against taking the time to clean any of the wounds. He knew there was a hospital in Mitchell Crossing, and his best move would be to hightail it back to town and get Dean some professional care as soon as possible.
Dean had kept still during Bobby’s examination, the occasional tightening of muscles and sharp intake of breath the only indication that he was hurting. As Bobby moved back, he looked up and smiled crookedly. “Finished gropin’ me?”
Bobby managed a grin. “Yeah, I’ve seen more than enough. Gonna get you to a hospital now and let some old dragon give you a sponge bath.”
Dean scowled. “Don’t need... ’spital.”
“Yeah, you do, and this isn’t a negotiation, so don’t even bother to argue.”
“Not… safe. ’m on… FBI… most-wanted list, ’member?”
“We’ll have to take that risk. We’re not screwing around with head injuries, Dean, and you might be hurt worst than it looks.” Dean didn’t argue and that fact alone worried Bobby. He scrutinized the injured man carefully. Dean looked like he was close to passing out. “Think you can make it to the truck, or do I have to carry you?”
The scathing look Dean shot him was pure Winchester, and Bobby bit back another grin. The kid was too damned independent for his own good, never knew when to give up and ask for help. He got that from his daddy.
It took some effort, but eventually Bobby had Dean on his feet. He held on as the younger man swayed dangerously and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.
“Steady, now. Take a minute.”
“’M okay. Jus’ bit dizzy.” Dean’s eyes were wide and glassy, and Bobby was sure he’d collapse in a boneless heap if he didn’t hold on to him tightly.
“Take your time.”
He waited a few minutes until Dean released his grip on the shirt. “World stopped spinning?”
“Kinda.”
“Want to try moving now?”
“Yeah.”
They made it to the truck with Bobby bearing most of Dean’s weight and grunting with the effort. Boy was heavier than he looked. He paused, balancing Dean against the side of the truck so he could open the door.
“Almost there.”
Dean swayed again and lost all remaining color. “Think I’m gonna hurl.”
Bobby supported him as he leaned to one side, body racked with dry heaves. Probably already lost whatever solids he’d had in his stomach. Bobby winced in sympathy.
When Dean finished, he was trembling, and the freckles on the undamaged side of his face stood out starkly against the pallor. He looked so sick and miserable that for a moment, Bobby wondered if Dean had a serious internal injury he hadn’t found in his quick examination. The sooner he got the kid to the hospital, the better he’d feel.
Bobby manhandled his burden into the passenger seat, then snagged a water bottle from the back seat, opened it up and put in Dean’s hand. Dean stared at it blankly until Bobby gently coaxed him into lifting it to his lips and swallowing a few mouthfuls. When he finished, Bobby pulled an old blanket out of the back and wrapped it around Dean’s still trembling body, then closed the door, walked around and jumped up into the driver’s seat.
“Set?”
Dean just grunted, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes.
Go to Chapter Three