FIC: The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep (9/14)
Title: The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep
Author: Wysawyg
Summary: Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.
Disclaimer: Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It’s all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.
Warnings and notes: Multiple character death. Dark fic.
Rating: PG-13 to R
Pairing/Characters: Mostly gen, some very mild Dean/Jo in future chapters.
Timeline: Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.
Beta: Beta’d by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.
Feedback: Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.
Previous Chapters: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 ]
It was on the fourth day of stroke rehabilitation Bobby Singer-style that Dean finally recalled all the details of his accident. They’d been on a mile run, or a mile stagger as Dean referred to it, and were just coming back round to the yard. Adrenalin ran thick through Dean, interlaced with exhaustion and he dropped to the couch just inside the door, only stirring when Bobby pressed a glass of cold water into his hand.
His eyes slid shut though he was still awake and he listened to the noise of Bobby pattering about the kitchen, reaching things out of cupboards in preparation for lunch. It was when the slamming of a cupboard resounded eerily like a gun shot that memory curled its hands around Dean’s mind and tugged. All at once, he was back in the forest, face splattered damp with the blood spray from the werewolf Sam had just killed.
He remembered opening his mouth to say something reassuring, to tell his little brother it wasn’t his fault but then he’d felt himself yanked backwards and his arms pulled behind his back. He’d wanted to yell at Sam to run but the other two kept talking above him until there was a searing pain as the man bit into his neck that was followed by a dizzying spin that numbed him. He heard the crack of the gun shot as his brother took out the man and then felt himself tumble backwards, unable to persuade his legs to keep standing.
He recalled the desperation on his brother’s face as it had blurred and wavered above him. He remembered the quiet apology following by the thundering crack of a gun shot and then everything going black until two months later in a hospital room.
Dean wasn’t aware that he was hyperventilating until he felt a brown paper bag pressed against his mouth and the sturdy support of Bobby at his side, rubbing his arm and trying to pace his breathing. Black spots speckled Dean’s vision and for a moment, he wondered if it’d be gentler just to let it all go and not have to worry about things but Dean wasn’t a coward so he listened and he calmed his breathing and he wished he could let the world just go away.
He felt the paper bag lifted away and the absence of Bobby’s calming movements but it was only for a moment before he felt strong hands lifting him back up to a seated position and propping him against the back of the couch.
“Gonna tell me what that was about?” Bobby’s voice rumbled, “’cos I thought you were having a damn seizure at first. Nearly worried my hair grey.”
“Your hair’s ‘ready grey,” Dean slurred out, too tired to make the effort as the speech therapist had taught him to enunciate and shape words once more. It’s not like Bobby had perfect elocution either.
“Greyer,” Bobby corrected himself, “And?” He prompted when Dean didn’t automatically continue.
Dean weighed over the pros and cons of telling Bobby. It wasn’t like Sam had actually shot him, he’d obviously thought Dean was a werewolf despite the fact Dean was fairly sure his eyes hadn’t been gold. There’d been a fair few full moons during Dean’s long stay in hospital and he’s sure the doctors would have listed on his chart something important like ‘Sometimes becomes a wolf’. It was fairly obvious it was probably what he’d thought he’d had to do which had set Sam on this downward slide and Dean was kinda hoping that ringing up and saying, “Hey, I’m alive,” would fix everything.
Of course the golden rule of Winchesters was that nothing was ever easy.
“Dean?” Bobby’s low voice sounded worried and Dean realised he’d been silent for a while now.
“Sam shot me,” He said, hating how heavy the words sounded on his tongue.
“Oh,” Bobby said matter-of-factly and then a little more surprised, “Oh!”
Dean opened his eyes then and regarded Bobby a little dazedly, “You knew.”
“I suspected,” Bobby clarified, “There was only so many ways you could have got shot between what you remembered and when you were found.”
“Guess I’m lucky Sam can’t aim worth shit. Will need to talk t’him ‘bout it.” Dean smirked, “Think he thought I was a wolf.”
“Easy mistake to make,” Bobby joked, hearing an almost audible thump as the joke fell flat, “It’s just, well, Sam has never exactly been the ‘Shoot first, ask questions later’ type, has he? Especially not when it comes to you. He’s more the ‘Ask questions, ask questions, ask questions, hey, what’s this gun thing doing here?’ type.”
“S’good hunter!” Dean defended his brother voraciously before confessing, “S’my fault,” Dean stated, feeling the heavy weight of blame on his chest, “I tol’ him if I’d got bit, I’d wanted him to shoot me. He jus’ did what I wanted. This is all my fault.” He felt an arm around his shoulder as he was tugged into a hug or rather a sort of hug. It was a hug done by someone who had never really had to do hugs before which left Dean feeling mostly squashed but a little comforted as well.
“This is not your damn fault,” Bobby released Dean almost as soon as he’d grabbed him, looking a little awkward, “You Winchesters have enough to deal with without taking the weight of the rest of the world onto your shoulders. I put a call out so that if anyone spots Sammy, they’ll let me know and we can go find him and sort this all out. You need to concentrate on getting yourself back into shape instead of worrying all the time about your brother.”
Dean wanted to protest that worrying was in the Winchester job description but the exhaustion of the run and its aftermath took their toll and he found himself sagging against the back of the couch, slowly sliding downwards. Rough hands lifted his legs up and placed a blanket over him, “Last thing I do. Promised him.” Dean mumbles, unsure of who he was talking to but knowing he needed to get the words out before he finally fell asleep.
***
It was another two months before they received any word of Sam and it turned out to be mostly luck. Bobby and Dean were just sitting down to one of Bobby’s latest concoctions. He’d taken to home cooking since Dean had been staying with him and Dean was wishing he’d stuck to takeaway pizzas and microwave meals like before. Today’s meal looked like Bobby had just taken whatever wasn’t past its use-by-date in the fridge, put it into water and called it stew and Dean had a horrible feeling it would taste like that too.
When the phone rang, Dean instinctively reached towards it, wanting any excuse not to have to eat the bowl of ‘food’ in front of him but Bobby shot him a quelling look and went for the phone instead. The two hunters had agreed that until Dean was better, they wouldn’t let the rest of the hunting community know he was alive. With all the suspicion over Sam at the moment, it wouldn’t do well to have the other brother ‘come back from the dead’ even if he did it via entirely natural means.
“Bobby Singer’s Repair Yard. How can I help you?” Bobby barked down the phone.
Dean couldn’t make out at words from the tinny voice down the other end but he heard Bobby’s response, “Ash? From the Roadhouse?”
Dean frowned, unsure why he’d be ringing them instead of Jo. He heard a number of indistinct uh-huh, uh-huh from Bobby followed by, “I’ll get some paper.” He saw Bobby scribble down a series of digits, most likely a set of coordinates, “How many other hunters know about this?”
Whatever response Ash gave, it wasn’t good as Bobby just muttered “Shit, Thanks for letting me know. I’ll deal with this.” Bobby hung up moments later and turned to Dean, “That was Ash from the roadhouse.” Dean snorted, he’d picked up that much. “A couple of hunters sighted Sam here,” He pointed to the coordinates, “Apparently half the roadhouse heard about it so we need to get moving now.”
Dean didn’t need telling twice, especially when it was a good excuse not to eat Bobby’s bizarre idea of supper. He’d had a duffel packed ready to go in his doorway for the past few months and he grabbed it, slinging it a little awkwardly over his shoulder. Bobby’s fitness regime had done wonders for his general health but he had a feeling his right side was never going to respond quite as quick as he was used to and the limp persisted despite his best efforts.
An hour after the phone call they were on the road. They’d taken one of Bobby’s trucks agreeing that the Impala was definitely too conspicuous. The plan was to get as close as possible to Sam before he realised they were there. As it turned out, they just had to follow the ambulance sirens.
By the time they reached the scene, the unfortunate dead was being zipped into a body bag. Dean craned his neck to make sure it wasn’t the face of his little brother and breathed a somewhat guilty sigh of relief when he realised it wasn’t. He felt a sudden shove from Bobby, pushing him behind the cover of a nearby tree. He realised the reason moments later when a familiar voice called over, “Bobby Singer, what the hell do you think you are doing here?” Jo’s voice hadn’t changed much.
Dean pressed himself back against the tree, trying to hide most of himself without making it plainly obvious to the passing people who could see what he was doing.
“Doing what I promised I’d do,” came Bobby’s gruff response, “Why didn’t you let me know there’d been a sighting of Sam?”
“Because I knew you’d try to save him and I don’t think there’s any of him left to save.” Jo’s response was sad but with the underlying grit that had characterised her mother.
“There’s always something.” Bobby spat out though Dean felt the words were more for his benefit than for the girl in front of him.
“Never pegged you for an optimist.” Jo taunted.
“Never pegged you for a cold-blooded killer. Sam Winchester is still human. Last I heard you hadn’t even made your first kill on a hunt yet.”
Dean’s attention was drawn away from the arguing pair when he spotted a familiar lanky figure leaning against a lamp post watching the scene. He made sure to keep the tree between him and the crime scene line of sight as he moved off in that direction. He felt guilty for not letting Bobby know where he was going but there wasn’t really an opportunity without alerting Jo.
The figure apparently didn’t spot him and soon it detached itself from the lamp post and slunk off down an alley. Dean followed warily, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and hoping to a God he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t need to use it. The first jolt of panic came when he reached the end of the alley and found nothing there. He span around, eyes scouring the vicinity for any sign of the person he’d been tracking.
“Who the hell are you and why are you following me?” A dark voice came from somewhere above Dean and he looked up to find the man standing on a platform attached to a nearby apartment. It was still shadowy and dark but Dean could recognise his brother even in pitch black with his eyes closed.
“Sammy,” Dean breathed more than spoke the word.
“Dean?” The sinister voice was gone and that word was said in his brother’s surprised voice. There was a clatter as the figure stepped off the platform, landing with catlike grace on the ground and Dean immediately found himself enveloped in a bear hug, “Dean!” Sam’s breath tickled his ear, “I knew it. I knew I’d get you back.”
Despite the innocence with which Sam said those words, they set a chill in Dean’s stomach and he pulled himself out of the hug and glanced down at his brother. Sam was dressed in the same hoody and jeans combination that he always used to wear except now they were stained with red, sticky red which was now pressed against Dean from the hug, “What the hell’s been going on, Sam? You got half the hunter community gunning for you,” He tugged a hand into the bloodstained hoody, “Whose blood is this?”
“No-one important,” Sam said casually, “No-one else is important now I have you back.” Sam gripped Dean’s chin, inspecting his brother’s face, “You are too thin, you need to eat more.”
Dean would laugh if it wasn’t for the fact the situation wasn’t funny, “Sam,” He pushed his brother’s hand down, “You can’t just dismiss this. There was a dead body there and you are covered in blood.” Dean narrowed his eyes, “Christo.”
Sam didn’t flinch, just frowned, “Dean, what’s wrong? I’m not possessed, it’s me.” He brought his hands up again to cup Dean’s face and then ran a hand back through his brother’s hair, “Your hair’s longer.” Sam said in bemused wonder.
“Always about the damn hair,” Dean muttered with amusement he didn’t feel. “Hair grows, ‘member?” Dean carried on, feeling a shakiness in his legs as he faced his brother, “Come on, Sam. Bobby’s waiting by the truck. We get back to him and he’ll sort this out.” Dean concentrated to keep the slur out of his voice, only managing marginally. He grabbed his brother’s jacket in his right hand but his fingers wouldn’t tightly close on the fabric as he wanted so Sam just pulled himself free.
“Bobby?” Sam hissed, “We can’t go to Bobby. He wouldn’t understand. I brought you back, Dean, I did what I had to but I brought you back and now no-one can hurt you.”
A dizzy wave of shock went through Dean and he felt the muscles in his legs lose control, sending him crashing to knees. The ground bit harshly against his knees and it was only a hasty catch from his brother that prevented him from sprawling onto his face. His breath sounded harsh and loud in his ears as his brain scrabbled to try and make some sense of, “Sam?” His voice was a wisp against the background hubbub of the city, “Sam, you di’n bring me back. I never left.” He was too tired to speak properly, his voice slurred and unsteady.
“Dean?” Sam knelt opposite him, steadying arms on his shoulders, “What’s the matter?” His brother suddenly jerked backwards, a look of horror on his face, “You came back wrong.” Sam ran a thumb across his brother’s cheek, peering intently into his eyes, “This is my fault. I kept asking the demon how long before I would have you back and now he sent you back too soon and you are all wrong.”
Dean tried to pull away from his brother’s hands but his reedy strength wasn’t enough, “Sam, ‘m not wrong, just Dean. You di’n bring me back.” He tried to seize his brother to make his point but Sam evaded his grasping hands, sliding back out of reach, “I’ll be fine. Just need to get m’ strength back.”
Sam stood back up though Dean could see a quiver in his brother’s legs, “God, Dean. I’m so sorry. I promise you next time I’ll be more patient.” Dean opened his mouth to ask what Sam meant and then his breath froze in his throat as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun again, “Just some pain for a little while, Dean. I promise I’ll wait this time and you’ll be perfect.”
Dean abandoned any attempt at coherent speech, babbling over himself, “Sam, I never died. ‘s just me. Please, Sam, don’t do this. Please.” He begged his brother.
Sam shook his head, tears running down from his hazel-blue eyes, “It’s alright, Dean. You are confused, that’s alright. Next time it will be better.”
Dean knew there was nothing he could do so he just closed his eyes and steeled himself for the sound of the trigger. Instead another voice broke in, “Hey you, what are you doing? Put that down.”
Sam’s gun swung around to point at the police officer and Dean saw his chance, lunging for Sam’s legs, wrapping his arms around. The crack of a gun went off and Dean saw the police officer fall but it looked like the bullet had clipped them rather than wounded them. The gunshot was sure to draw attention and Dean could hear the sound of running footsteps along with the voice checking up on the downed officer’s radio.
Sam freed himself from Dean’s grasp and stood again, looking down at his brother. He readied the gun and then glanced around at the sound of footsteps. Finally he bent down, gently brushing a hand through Dean’s hair, “I’ve got to go, Dean. I promise I’ll be back and you can sleep properly. I can’t take you with me at the moment but I won’t leave you to die here, not again.” He saw Sam spin the gun in his hands and then saw the butt of the gun making its way to his temple then all was black.
***
Dean awoke to comfort. There was something soft beneath his head and a hand resting on his head. For a moment he panicked, thinking Sam was already back to finish the job but a soothing feminine voice interrupted the flow, “It’s alright, Dean. Bobby, he’s awake.”
As awareness seeped back in, Dean could hear the rumbling grumble of an engine as well as the sound of other cars passing them by. He was definitely in Bobby’s truck but there was another smell beyond the musk of Bobby, the leather of the seats and the metallic tang of the weapons and the blood that had been shed in there. It wasn’t exactly perfume.
“Dean,” He could hear Bobby’s voice ahead of him. He must be in the backseat, “It’s alright, lad. You are in the truck.”
Dean wanted to make a sarcastic quip to that but his mouth felt dry and the pain in his head was increasing with every drip of awareness, “Wuh?” was all he managed to get out which could have meant anything.
“We’re heading to the roadhouse.” The feminine voice stated and Dean recognised it as Jo. He frowned, parsing through recent memories to try and figure out at which point they had informed Jo he wasn’t dead after all. He couldn’t find any such memory which started him worried about what memories he could have lost.
“Which I still don’t think is a good idea.” Bobby’s voice rumbled in tune with his truck, “Enough hunters are going to be on edge with Carson’s death without throwing Dean coming back from the dead into the mix.”
“I don’t think we need to re-hash the argument,” Jo said, her voice deceptively honey sweet, “You two burying your head in the sand hasn’t lasted you great so far.” Dean felt a finger push into his side, “And don’t think I’m letting you off for letting me think you were dead for almost ten months.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Bobby grouched, “I think he’s been through enough.” Dean heard the engine rumble quieter, “There’s a road stop just ahead. Does a great breakfast. I think we could all use something to eat, don’t you?”
Dean’s stomach let out a loud rumble, almost drowning out that of the engine. Jo chuckled, “I think we have a yes vote over here.” Dean blinked open his eyes to peer blearily up at Jo, smiling at her.
Once the truck stopped, Bobby hauled Dean out of the back, slinging the younger hunter’s arm over his shoulders and helping him towards the café. Jo clung to Dean’s other side and Dean knew they made an odd trio as they made their way in. Bobby was obviously a regular in there as a waitress immediately sauntered over with a pot of coffee and a flirtatious wink. She eyed the young hunter slung between Bobby and Jo, “You bringing in strays now, Singer?”
Bobby smirked at the waitress, “The promise of your breakfast can bring even the dead back to life,” Bobby brought them over to the table, gliding Dean into a seat and then joining him, “Make it three breakfasts and three coffees. Better make it an orange juice for the zombie here.”
“Want coffee,” Dean weakly protested, leaning against the window and rubbing muggily at himself.
“Coffee and concussions don’t go well together,” Bobby helpfully pointed out, “And I think we need to talk about how you got the concussion, not to mention that spectacular bruise.”
Dean brought a hand up to rub at his temple, wincing as his fingers touched the blue-purple bump developing there, “Getting kind of sick of being out of it,” Dean admitted, “Can it wait ‘til we’ve eaten? M’hungry.”
“Not a chance, I’m a student of John Winchester avoidance strategies. After that, you’d not want to eat because you are sleepy and full.” The waitress returned with the drinks and Dean looked balefully at his glass of orange juice, “You got any idea how worried I was? One minute I’m talking to Jo, I turn to check on you, you aren’t there then I hear a bunch of police rushing down an alley, yelling about man down. I follow them and you are lying there in the alley, looking to all the world like a dead man.” Bobby’s hand clenched around the coffee mug.
“Should I say sorry for not being dead?” Dean asked, bringing the glass up to his mouth and tipping the juice back into his mouth in three gulps in an attempt to ignore the questions. When he looked up from the glass, there were two sets of eyes: one light and one dark brown watching him, “Fine. I found Sam.” He heard Jo’s startled gasp and Bobby’s reluctant sigh, “He sounded normal but then he noticed my injuries and started babbling about me coming back wrong. He seemed convinced something he’d done had brought me back and he started up talking about bring me back better next time.” Dean knew his words weren’t very coherent but he didn’t have the patience to stop and separate the words instead of just getting them out as clear as possible. He could see Bobby nodding along adjusted to Dean’s speech whereas Jo looked confused and a bit worried.
“What then?” Bobby prompted when Dean showed no sign of continuing.
“Then,” Dean halted, “He pointed a gun at my head and was about to shoot until the police officer showed up. He mumbled about not being able to take me with him and pistol-whipped me instead.” Dean gripped the glass, wishing there was something left in it for him to drink just to distract himself from things.
He looked up to Bobby and Jo’s shocked expressions. Both of them took synchronised deep glugs of their coffee and winced at the heat. Bobby was the one who recovered enough to speak first, “I guess we have proof that Sam has gone off the deep end. Now we need to decide what to do about it.”
“Perhaps we should save this discussion until we need to the roadhouse,” Jo ventured, glancing suspiciously around to the other diner patrons.
“I think I’d prefer to talk about this with a bunch of normal people who won’t understand rather than a bunch of hunters who might decide to act on it,” Bobby stated.
“Not hurt Sam,” Dean emphasised, “We have to help him.” Just then, Dean had to fall silent as the waitress came over with three loaded plates juggled between them. Dean’s stomach turned a little as he looked down, there was enough food on one plate to feed all three of them. He picked the fork up loosely in one hand, ignoring the quivers in the utensil and tried to decide where on the plate to start. Jo appeared to be having similar issues whereas Bobby just dug right in. Finally Dean opted to start on the eggs.
Jo just circled the fork over the plate and then dug it at random into the hash browns, “How many of the hunters who’ve gone missing so far are down to your brother? What about my mother?”
“Sam wouldn’t kill Ellen,” Dean protested.
“He tried to kill you,” Jo protested, almost too loud and quickly had to dip her voice and glanced down at her plate for a long moment, “I don’t think he really has a limit.”
Dean viciously speared a sausage, using the knife awkwardly in his right hand to try and slice off some meat and then stuffed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously and glaring at Jo.
“We can’t assume anything. Given what you have said about the increased demonic activity there could be any number of things responsible for your mother’s disappearance.” Bobby stated, trying to keep the peace between the two.
“What increased?” Dean asked, not bothering to swallow down his mouthful of food first.
“Ash has produced a whole spreadsheet on it,” Jo said with a roll of her eyes, “Charting where incidents of possession have gone up, where hunters have gone missing, where other supernatural creatures have gone missing. He’s run about two dozen home-made algorithms on the data so far but he hasn’t found a pattern yet. He does a print out each day of the map and pins it to a board in the bar to give the other hunters a look.”
“Sounds like something I wanna see,” Dean said, eating his breakfast with some more gusto.
“I thought Sam was the geek,” Bobby said without thinking.
Dean just snorted at him, “Give Sammy a book and he’ll be happy for a week. Put him in the world and he’ll look at you funny and say ‘What I do with this?’” Dean played about with the food still on his place, re-arranging bits, “’M the one that saw the pattern first time we ran into Meg. Loadsa spots of blood and I saw the symbol, not Sam.” Dean gathered up another forkful of food including the four main food groups: grease, fat, meat and potato and stuffed it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.
“Eat up,” Bobby gruffly stated, “The sooner we get to the road house, the sooner we can start to sort this whole mess out.”
Next Chapter
Author: Wysawyg
Summary: Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.
Disclaimer: Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It’s all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.
Warnings and notes: Multiple character death. Dark fic.
Rating: PG-13 to R
Pairing/Characters: Mostly gen, some very mild Dean/Jo in future chapters.
Timeline: Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.
Beta: Beta’d by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.
Feedback: Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.
Previous Chapters: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 ]
It was on the fourth day of stroke rehabilitation Bobby Singer-style that Dean finally recalled all the details of his accident. They’d been on a mile run, or a mile stagger as Dean referred to it, and were just coming back round to the yard. Adrenalin ran thick through Dean, interlaced with exhaustion and he dropped to the couch just inside the door, only stirring when Bobby pressed a glass of cold water into his hand.
His eyes slid shut though he was still awake and he listened to the noise of Bobby pattering about the kitchen, reaching things out of cupboards in preparation for lunch. It was when the slamming of a cupboard resounded eerily like a gun shot that memory curled its hands around Dean’s mind and tugged. All at once, he was back in the forest, face splattered damp with the blood spray from the werewolf Sam had just killed.
He remembered opening his mouth to say something reassuring, to tell his little brother it wasn’t his fault but then he’d felt himself yanked backwards and his arms pulled behind his back. He’d wanted to yell at Sam to run but the other two kept talking above him until there was a searing pain as the man bit into his neck that was followed by a dizzying spin that numbed him. He heard the crack of the gun shot as his brother took out the man and then felt himself tumble backwards, unable to persuade his legs to keep standing.
He recalled the desperation on his brother’s face as it had blurred and wavered above him. He remembered the quiet apology following by the thundering crack of a gun shot and then everything going black until two months later in a hospital room.
Dean wasn’t aware that he was hyperventilating until he felt a brown paper bag pressed against his mouth and the sturdy support of Bobby at his side, rubbing his arm and trying to pace his breathing. Black spots speckled Dean’s vision and for a moment, he wondered if it’d be gentler just to let it all go and not have to worry about things but Dean wasn’t a coward so he listened and he calmed his breathing and he wished he could let the world just go away.
He felt the paper bag lifted away and the absence of Bobby’s calming movements but it was only for a moment before he felt strong hands lifting him back up to a seated position and propping him against the back of the couch.
“Gonna tell me what that was about?” Bobby’s voice rumbled, “’cos I thought you were having a damn seizure at first. Nearly worried my hair grey.”
“Your hair’s ‘ready grey,” Dean slurred out, too tired to make the effort as the speech therapist had taught him to enunciate and shape words once more. It’s not like Bobby had perfect elocution either.
“Greyer,” Bobby corrected himself, “And?” He prompted when Dean didn’t automatically continue.
Dean weighed over the pros and cons of telling Bobby. It wasn’t like Sam had actually shot him, he’d obviously thought Dean was a werewolf despite the fact Dean was fairly sure his eyes hadn’t been gold. There’d been a fair few full moons during Dean’s long stay in hospital and he’s sure the doctors would have listed on his chart something important like ‘Sometimes becomes a wolf’. It was fairly obvious it was probably what he’d thought he’d had to do which had set Sam on this downward slide and Dean was kinda hoping that ringing up and saying, “Hey, I’m alive,” would fix everything.
Of course the golden rule of Winchesters was that nothing was ever easy.
“Dean?” Bobby’s low voice sounded worried and Dean realised he’d been silent for a while now.
“Sam shot me,” He said, hating how heavy the words sounded on his tongue.
“Oh,” Bobby said matter-of-factly and then a little more surprised, “Oh!”
Dean opened his eyes then and regarded Bobby a little dazedly, “You knew.”
“I suspected,” Bobby clarified, “There was only so many ways you could have got shot between what you remembered and when you were found.”
“Guess I’m lucky Sam can’t aim worth shit. Will need to talk t’him ‘bout it.” Dean smirked, “Think he thought I was a wolf.”
“Easy mistake to make,” Bobby joked, hearing an almost audible thump as the joke fell flat, “It’s just, well, Sam has never exactly been the ‘Shoot first, ask questions later’ type, has he? Especially not when it comes to you. He’s more the ‘Ask questions, ask questions, ask questions, hey, what’s this gun thing doing here?’ type.”
“S’good hunter!” Dean defended his brother voraciously before confessing, “S’my fault,” Dean stated, feeling the heavy weight of blame on his chest, “I tol’ him if I’d got bit, I’d wanted him to shoot me. He jus’ did what I wanted. This is all my fault.” He felt an arm around his shoulder as he was tugged into a hug or rather a sort of hug. It was a hug done by someone who had never really had to do hugs before which left Dean feeling mostly squashed but a little comforted as well.
“This is not your damn fault,” Bobby released Dean almost as soon as he’d grabbed him, looking a little awkward, “You Winchesters have enough to deal with without taking the weight of the rest of the world onto your shoulders. I put a call out so that if anyone spots Sammy, they’ll let me know and we can go find him and sort this all out. You need to concentrate on getting yourself back into shape instead of worrying all the time about your brother.”
Dean wanted to protest that worrying was in the Winchester job description but the exhaustion of the run and its aftermath took their toll and he found himself sagging against the back of the couch, slowly sliding downwards. Rough hands lifted his legs up and placed a blanket over him, “Last thing I do. Promised him.” Dean mumbles, unsure of who he was talking to but knowing he needed to get the words out before he finally fell asleep.
***
It was another two months before they received any word of Sam and it turned out to be mostly luck. Bobby and Dean were just sitting down to one of Bobby’s latest concoctions. He’d taken to home cooking since Dean had been staying with him and Dean was wishing he’d stuck to takeaway pizzas and microwave meals like before. Today’s meal looked like Bobby had just taken whatever wasn’t past its use-by-date in the fridge, put it into water and called it stew and Dean had a horrible feeling it would taste like that too.
When the phone rang, Dean instinctively reached towards it, wanting any excuse not to have to eat the bowl of ‘food’ in front of him but Bobby shot him a quelling look and went for the phone instead. The two hunters had agreed that until Dean was better, they wouldn’t let the rest of the hunting community know he was alive. With all the suspicion over Sam at the moment, it wouldn’t do well to have the other brother ‘come back from the dead’ even if he did it via entirely natural means.
“Bobby Singer’s Repair Yard. How can I help you?” Bobby barked down the phone.
Dean couldn’t make out at words from the tinny voice down the other end but he heard Bobby’s response, “Ash? From the Roadhouse?”
Dean frowned, unsure why he’d be ringing them instead of Jo. He heard a number of indistinct uh-huh, uh-huh from Bobby followed by, “I’ll get some paper.” He saw Bobby scribble down a series of digits, most likely a set of coordinates, “How many other hunters know about this?”
Whatever response Ash gave, it wasn’t good as Bobby just muttered “Shit, Thanks for letting me know. I’ll deal with this.” Bobby hung up moments later and turned to Dean, “That was Ash from the roadhouse.” Dean snorted, he’d picked up that much. “A couple of hunters sighted Sam here,” He pointed to the coordinates, “Apparently half the roadhouse heard about it so we need to get moving now.”
Dean didn’t need telling twice, especially when it was a good excuse not to eat Bobby’s bizarre idea of supper. He’d had a duffel packed ready to go in his doorway for the past few months and he grabbed it, slinging it a little awkwardly over his shoulder. Bobby’s fitness regime had done wonders for his general health but he had a feeling his right side was never going to respond quite as quick as he was used to and the limp persisted despite his best efforts.
An hour after the phone call they were on the road. They’d taken one of Bobby’s trucks agreeing that the Impala was definitely too conspicuous. The plan was to get as close as possible to Sam before he realised they were there. As it turned out, they just had to follow the ambulance sirens.
By the time they reached the scene, the unfortunate dead was being zipped into a body bag. Dean craned his neck to make sure it wasn’t the face of his little brother and breathed a somewhat guilty sigh of relief when he realised it wasn’t. He felt a sudden shove from Bobby, pushing him behind the cover of a nearby tree. He realised the reason moments later when a familiar voice called over, “Bobby Singer, what the hell do you think you are doing here?” Jo’s voice hadn’t changed much.
Dean pressed himself back against the tree, trying to hide most of himself without making it plainly obvious to the passing people who could see what he was doing.
“Doing what I promised I’d do,” came Bobby’s gruff response, “Why didn’t you let me know there’d been a sighting of Sam?”
“Because I knew you’d try to save him and I don’t think there’s any of him left to save.” Jo’s response was sad but with the underlying grit that had characterised her mother.
“There’s always something.” Bobby spat out though Dean felt the words were more for his benefit than for the girl in front of him.
“Never pegged you for an optimist.” Jo taunted.
“Never pegged you for a cold-blooded killer. Sam Winchester is still human. Last I heard you hadn’t even made your first kill on a hunt yet.”
Dean’s attention was drawn away from the arguing pair when he spotted a familiar lanky figure leaning against a lamp post watching the scene. He made sure to keep the tree between him and the crime scene line of sight as he moved off in that direction. He felt guilty for not letting Bobby know where he was going but there wasn’t really an opportunity without alerting Jo.
The figure apparently didn’t spot him and soon it detached itself from the lamp post and slunk off down an alley. Dean followed warily, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and hoping to a God he didn’t believe in that he wouldn’t need to use it. The first jolt of panic came when he reached the end of the alley and found nothing there. He span around, eyes scouring the vicinity for any sign of the person he’d been tracking.
“Who the hell are you and why are you following me?” A dark voice came from somewhere above Dean and he looked up to find the man standing on a platform attached to a nearby apartment. It was still shadowy and dark but Dean could recognise his brother even in pitch black with his eyes closed.
“Sammy,” Dean breathed more than spoke the word.
“Dean?” The sinister voice was gone and that word was said in his brother’s surprised voice. There was a clatter as the figure stepped off the platform, landing with catlike grace on the ground and Dean immediately found himself enveloped in a bear hug, “Dean!” Sam’s breath tickled his ear, “I knew it. I knew I’d get you back.”
Despite the innocence with which Sam said those words, they set a chill in Dean’s stomach and he pulled himself out of the hug and glanced down at his brother. Sam was dressed in the same hoody and jeans combination that he always used to wear except now they were stained with red, sticky red which was now pressed against Dean from the hug, “What the hell’s been going on, Sam? You got half the hunter community gunning for you,” He tugged a hand into the bloodstained hoody, “Whose blood is this?”
“No-one important,” Sam said casually, “No-one else is important now I have you back.” Sam gripped Dean’s chin, inspecting his brother’s face, “You are too thin, you need to eat more.”
Dean would laugh if it wasn’t for the fact the situation wasn’t funny, “Sam,” He pushed his brother’s hand down, “You can’t just dismiss this. There was a dead body there and you are covered in blood.” Dean narrowed his eyes, “Christo.”
Sam didn’t flinch, just frowned, “Dean, what’s wrong? I’m not possessed, it’s me.” He brought his hands up again to cup Dean’s face and then ran a hand back through his brother’s hair, “Your hair’s longer.” Sam said in bemused wonder.
“Always about the damn hair,” Dean muttered with amusement he didn’t feel. “Hair grows, ‘member?” Dean carried on, feeling a shakiness in his legs as he faced his brother, “Come on, Sam. Bobby’s waiting by the truck. We get back to him and he’ll sort this out.” Dean concentrated to keep the slur out of his voice, only managing marginally. He grabbed his brother’s jacket in his right hand but his fingers wouldn’t tightly close on the fabric as he wanted so Sam just pulled himself free.
“Bobby?” Sam hissed, “We can’t go to Bobby. He wouldn’t understand. I brought you back, Dean, I did what I had to but I brought you back and now no-one can hurt you.”
A dizzy wave of shock went through Dean and he felt the muscles in his legs lose control, sending him crashing to knees. The ground bit harshly against his knees and it was only a hasty catch from his brother that prevented him from sprawling onto his face. His breath sounded harsh and loud in his ears as his brain scrabbled to try and make some sense of, “Sam?” His voice was a wisp against the background hubbub of the city, “Sam, you di’n bring me back. I never left.” He was too tired to speak properly, his voice slurred and unsteady.
“Dean?” Sam knelt opposite him, steadying arms on his shoulders, “What’s the matter?” His brother suddenly jerked backwards, a look of horror on his face, “You came back wrong.” Sam ran a thumb across his brother’s cheek, peering intently into his eyes, “This is my fault. I kept asking the demon how long before I would have you back and now he sent you back too soon and you are all wrong.”
Dean tried to pull away from his brother’s hands but his reedy strength wasn’t enough, “Sam, ‘m not wrong, just Dean. You di’n bring me back.” He tried to seize his brother to make his point but Sam evaded his grasping hands, sliding back out of reach, “I’ll be fine. Just need to get m’ strength back.”
Sam stood back up though Dean could see a quiver in his brother’s legs, “God, Dean. I’m so sorry. I promise you next time I’ll be more patient.” Dean opened his mouth to ask what Sam meant and then his breath froze in his throat as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun again, “Just some pain for a little while, Dean. I promise I’ll wait this time and you’ll be perfect.”
Dean abandoned any attempt at coherent speech, babbling over himself, “Sam, I never died. ‘s just me. Please, Sam, don’t do this. Please.” He begged his brother.
Sam shook his head, tears running down from his hazel-blue eyes, “It’s alright, Dean. You are confused, that’s alright. Next time it will be better.”
Dean knew there was nothing he could do so he just closed his eyes and steeled himself for the sound of the trigger. Instead another voice broke in, “Hey you, what are you doing? Put that down.”
Sam’s gun swung around to point at the police officer and Dean saw his chance, lunging for Sam’s legs, wrapping his arms around. The crack of a gun went off and Dean saw the police officer fall but it looked like the bullet had clipped them rather than wounded them. The gunshot was sure to draw attention and Dean could hear the sound of running footsteps along with the voice checking up on the downed officer’s radio.
Sam freed himself from Dean’s grasp and stood again, looking down at his brother. He readied the gun and then glanced around at the sound of footsteps. Finally he bent down, gently brushing a hand through Dean’s hair, “I’ve got to go, Dean. I promise I’ll be back and you can sleep properly. I can’t take you with me at the moment but I won’t leave you to die here, not again.” He saw Sam spin the gun in his hands and then saw the butt of the gun making its way to his temple then all was black.
***
Dean awoke to comfort. There was something soft beneath his head and a hand resting on his head. For a moment he panicked, thinking Sam was already back to finish the job but a soothing feminine voice interrupted the flow, “It’s alright, Dean. Bobby, he’s awake.”
As awareness seeped back in, Dean could hear the rumbling grumble of an engine as well as the sound of other cars passing them by. He was definitely in Bobby’s truck but there was another smell beyond the musk of Bobby, the leather of the seats and the metallic tang of the weapons and the blood that had been shed in there. It wasn’t exactly perfume.
“Dean,” He could hear Bobby’s voice ahead of him. He must be in the backseat, “It’s alright, lad. You are in the truck.”
Dean wanted to make a sarcastic quip to that but his mouth felt dry and the pain in his head was increasing with every drip of awareness, “Wuh?” was all he managed to get out which could have meant anything.
“We’re heading to the roadhouse.” The feminine voice stated and Dean recognised it as Jo. He frowned, parsing through recent memories to try and figure out at which point they had informed Jo he wasn’t dead after all. He couldn’t find any such memory which started him worried about what memories he could have lost.
“Which I still don’t think is a good idea.” Bobby’s voice rumbled in tune with his truck, “Enough hunters are going to be on edge with Carson’s death without throwing Dean coming back from the dead into the mix.”
“I don’t think we need to re-hash the argument,” Jo said, her voice deceptively honey sweet, “You two burying your head in the sand hasn’t lasted you great so far.” Dean felt a finger push into his side, “And don’t think I’m letting you off for letting me think you were dead for almost ten months.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Bobby grouched, “I think he’s been through enough.” Dean heard the engine rumble quieter, “There’s a road stop just ahead. Does a great breakfast. I think we could all use something to eat, don’t you?”
Dean’s stomach let out a loud rumble, almost drowning out that of the engine. Jo chuckled, “I think we have a yes vote over here.” Dean blinked open his eyes to peer blearily up at Jo, smiling at her.
Once the truck stopped, Bobby hauled Dean out of the back, slinging the younger hunter’s arm over his shoulders and helping him towards the café. Jo clung to Dean’s other side and Dean knew they made an odd trio as they made their way in. Bobby was obviously a regular in there as a waitress immediately sauntered over with a pot of coffee and a flirtatious wink. She eyed the young hunter slung between Bobby and Jo, “You bringing in strays now, Singer?”
Bobby smirked at the waitress, “The promise of your breakfast can bring even the dead back to life,” Bobby brought them over to the table, gliding Dean into a seat and then joining him, “Make it three breakfasts and three coffees. Better make it an orange juice for the zombie here.”
“Want coffee,” Dean weakly protested, leaning against the window and rubbing muggily at himself.
“Coffee and concussions don’t go well together,” Bobby helpfully pointed out, “And I think we need to talk about how you got the concussion, not to mention that spectacular bruise.”
Dean brought a hand up to rub at his temple, wincing as his fingers touched the blue-purple bump developing there, “Getting kind of sick of being out of it,” Dean admitted, “Can it wait ‘til we’ve eaten? M’hungry.”
“Not a chance, I’m a student of John Winchester avoidance strategies. After that, you’d not want to eat because you are sleepy and full.” The waitress returned with the drinks and Dean looked balefully at his glass of orange juice, “You got any idea how worried I was? One minute I’m talking to Jo, I turn to check on you, you aren’t there then I hear a bunch of police rushing down an alley, yelling about man down. I follow them and you are lying there in the alley, looking to all the world like a dead man.” Bobby’s hand clenched around the coffee mug.
“Should I say sorry for not being dead?” Dean asked, bringing the glass up to his mouth and tipping the juice back into his mouth in three gulps in an attempt to ignore the questions. When he looked up from the glass, there were two sets of eyes: one light and one dark brown watching him, “Fine. I found Sam.” He heard Jo’s startled gasp and Bobby’s reluctant sigh, “He sounded normal but then he noticed my injuries and started babbling about me coming back wrong. He seemed convinced something he’d done had brought me back and he started up talking about bring me back better next time.” Dean knew his words weren’t very coherent but he didn’t have the patience to stop and separate the words instead of just getting them out as clear as possible. He could see Bobby nodding along adjusted to Dean’s speech whereas Jo looked confused and a bit worried.
“What then?” Bobby prompted when Dean showed no sign of continuing.
“Then,” Dean halted, “He pointed a gun at my head and was about to shoot until the police officer showed up. He mumbled about not being able to take me with him and pistol-whipped me instead.” Dean gripped the glass, wishing there was something left in it for him to drink just to distract himself from things.
He looked up to Bobby and Jo’s shocked expressions. Both of them took synchronised deep glugs of their coffee and winced at the heat. Bobby was the one who recovered enough to speak first, “I guess we have proof that Sam has gone off the deep end. Now we need to decide what to do about it.”
“Perhaps we should save this discussion until we need to the roadhouse,” Jo ventured, glancing suspiciously around to the other diner patrons.
“I think I’d prefer to talk about this with a bunch of normal people who won’t understand rather than a bunch of hunters who might decide to act on it,” Bobby stated.
“Not hurt Sam,” Dean emphasised, “We have to help him.” Just then, Dean had to fall silent as the waitress came over with three loaded plates juggled between them. Dean’s stomach turned a little as he looked down, there was enough food on one plate to feed all three of them. He picked the fork up loosely in one hand, ignoring the quivers in the utensil and tried to decide where on the plate to start. Jo appeared to be having similar issues whereas Bobby just dug right in. Finally Dean opted to start on the eggs.
Jo just circled the fork over the plate and then dug it at random into the hash browns, “How many of the hunters who’ve gone missing so far are down to your brother? What about my mother?”
“Sam wouldn’t kill Ellen,” Dean protested.
“He tried to kill you,” Jo protested, almost too loud and quickly had to dip her voice and glanced down at her plate for a long moment, “I don’t think he really has a limit.”
Dean viciously speared a sausage, using the knife awkwardly in his right hand to try and slice off some meat and then stuffed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously and glaring at Jo.
“We can’t assume anything. Given what you have said about the increased demonic activity there could be any number of things responsible for your mother’s disappearance.” Bobby stated, trying to keep the peace between the two.
“What increased?” Dean asked, not bothering to swallow down his mouthful of food first.
“Ash has produced a whole spreadsheet on it,” Jo said with a roll of her eyes, “Charting where incidents of possession have gone up, where hunters have gone missing, where other supernatural creatures have gone missing. He’s run about two dozen home-made algorithms on the data so far but he hasn’t found a pattern yet. He does a print out each day of the map and pins it to a board in the bar to give the other hunters a look.”
“Sounds like something I wanna see,” Dean said, eating his breakfast with some more gusto.
“I thought Sam was the geek,” Bobby said without thinking.
Dean just snorted at him, “Give Sammy a book and he’ll be happy for a week. Put him in the world and he’ll look at you funny and say ‘What I do with this?’” Dean played about with the food still on his place, re-arranging bits, “’M the one that saw the pattern first time we ran into Meg. Loadsa spots of blood and I saw the symbol, not Sam.” Dean gathered up another forkful of food including the four main food groups: grease, fat, meat and potato and stuffed it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.
“Eat up,” Bobby gruffly stated, “The sooner we get to the road house, the sooner we can start to sort this whole mess out.”
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