Fanfic: Not a creature was stirring...
Author: zara_zee
Beta: 9tiptoes
Total Words: 9,150
Genre(s): Case!fic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Pairing(s): N/A - Gen
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine; that honor belongs to Kripke & co. Written for fun, not profit.
Spoilers: Nope. Set early Season 1.
Warnings: Show-level violence, swearing, talk of execution (hanging), homoerotic sub-text
--
Summary:
Written for the following Prompt by nblaque_impala in the ohsam fall/winter/holiday comment fic meme:
"In true Winchester fashion, Sam and Dean spend the Christmas of season one/two in style...in a jail cell. And just to top it off, Sam's sick/injured (whether it happened during the hunt that landed them in the jail cell, before it, or during the arrest - i.e the cop hits him in the stomach with something to get him down and it somehow leads to internal bleeding or whatever) and getting progressively worse. Dean tries to make the guard listen, but the guy's convinced that the brothers are faking it and more than a little annoyed at being on duty on Christmas Eve when he could be at home with his family, until - of course - Sam gets too bad to ignore...
Gen or Sam/Dean, please…"
A/N: This was supposed to be a short 'get back into fanfic' piece. It got long and plotty...
--
‘More tea, Special Agent?’ Charlotte Butler lifted her Royal Albert tea pot with a dainty wrinkled hand and looked expectantly at Sam.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Sam tugged absently at the collar of his shirt. He didn’t actually want any more tea, but Charlotte was one of those regal southern women who it was hard to say no to. Her back was ramrod straight, her silver hair tightly bunned and, despite the cool December weather, she wore a cotton, long-sleeved floral dress, complete with lace collar. Sam watched with some trepidation as Charlotte’s shaky hand poured the steaming amber liquid into his cup.
‘Pour some honey into it,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’ll help soothe your throat.’
Dean looked sharply at him and Sam realized that he’d gone from tugging at his collar to massaging his throat-he’d been trying to convince himself for the last couple of days that it wasn’t really swollen and aching. Giving Dean a wan smile, he poured a dollop of honey into his tea and took a small sip. Not bad.
Charlotte settled back into her chair with an air of satisfaction.
The elderly woman suited her house, Sam mused. It was a three-floor, white antebellum house, with wrought iron lattice work and sweeping porches. A meandering driveway led through an avenue of oaks right up to the wide front porch, which came complete with two-seater white wicker couches and a glass-topped coffee table. Charlotte had directed them to sit on the porch when they’d flashed their fake FBI badges at her, before disappearing back into her house. She hadn’t wanted them in her home, that much had been clear, but good ol’ fashioned southern hospitality was obviously ingrained in the Charleston woman as she’d come out moments later carrying a Royal Albert tea set and a plate of homemade sesame seed cookies on a silver tray
Dean cleared his throat. ‘You were telling us about Walter. About how he called you from the car to let you know he was nearly home.’
Charlotte’s hand fluttered to her neck and she nodded, her eyes fixed on the tea pot.
‘Yes. And then he cussed. And I heard the brakes of the Mercedes screeching and he shouted What the devil are you doing? Charlotte’s eyes met Dean’s. ‘I thought he was talking to me, so I said I beg your pardon? And Walter said Not you, dear. This damn fool of a woman on the road. I nearly ran her over.’ Charlotte’s eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Did he say what the woman was doing?’ Dean asked.
‘Just standing there,’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘Wearing a wedding dress of all things.’
Dean glanced over at Sam, raising his eyebrows slightly. That detail hadn’t been in the police report.
‘Did he say anything else about the woman? Anything at all?’
Charlotte’s face tightened and her hands clutched around the lace-edged handkerchief she held in her lap. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘He just screamed. And then the phone went dead.’
‘And he was on Meeting Street?’ Sam sat forward, his eyes wide and brimming with compassion.
Charlotte pursed her lips. ‘That’s where the police found him. They said his neck must’ve snapped when he slammed the brakes on, but that’s not possible Special Agent Scott, because we talked after the car stopped.’
‘I know this is difficult,’ Sam said softly; his puppy eyes of doom going to Defcon 1, ‘but can you help us to understand why your husband might have been on the road so late at night?’
‘I don’t -’
Sam placed a hand over hers, giving her a comforting squeeze and stilling her fidgeting fingers. ‘Anything at all,” he pressed gently.
She clutched his hand in return, sighing heavily, and took a moment to compose herself before nodding. ‘Yes, alright. He was on his way home from a sales conference in Mt Pleasant. Our son runs the business now, Walter’s far too old for all that travelling, but he still likes to keep in touch occasionally. I’m sure all of this is in the police report.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped them away. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone. I just… It doesn’t make any sense.’
Sam chewed at his bottom lip. ‘Ma’am,’ the Sales Conference was in the police report. Apparently it finished at six o’clock. And it was only a twenty minute drive away. So why was Walter still on the road at midnight?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might’ Dean said, ‘We’re just trying to figure out why he died. Any little detail could be important. Any…suspicions you might’ve had.’
Charlotte’s mouth twisted. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said, ‘and shame on you. Walter wasn’t like that. He was a true gentleman. He had dinner with some old clients and then he came home. Yes, it was late. He should probably have stayed another night in the hotel. But he wanted to come home. To his wife.’ And she burst into tears.
‘Thank you for your time,’ Dean said. ‘We’ll, ah, we’ll get out of your way.’ He stood abruptly and hauled Sam to his feet, dragging him down the porch steps and out into the waiting Impala. Once in the car, Dean shoved a Metallica cassette into the tape player and hit play. He rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes.
‘What the Hell, Dean?’ Sam said.
Dean turned his head and opened his eyes.
‘I hate it when they cry,’ he said with a shudder. ‘So…woman in a wedding dress. Sounds like another Woman in White, huh?’
‘Sounds like it,’ Sam agreed. ‘Guess we should do a little research and see if we can figure out who it is.’
Dean nodded and sat forwards, reaching for the ignition. He paused. ‘You feeling okay, Sammy?’
Sam shrugged. ‘Got a bit of a sore throat,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll be alright.’ The words were barely out of his mouth and Dean’s hand was suddenly plastered against his forehead.
‘Dude, get off me!’ Sam swatted ineffectually at his brother.
Dean frowned. ‘You’re running a fever. As soon as we get back to the motel you’re having a hot shower, taking two Tylenol and going to bed.’
Sam’s eyes widened. ‘I’m not twelve,’ he said scathingly. ‘And we’ve got research to do.’
Dean pulled away. ‘Right. Sorry.’ He started up the engine and drove slowly down the driveway. ‘Will you at least take some Tylenol?’
‘I do know how to look after myself, you know. How do you think I managed to survive four years at college without you?’
Dean didn’t respond, just gripped the steering wheel even harder.
--
The Tylenol soothed Sam’s aches and the hot shower helped to clear his sinuses. Dressed in sweat pants and a tee-shirt, he opened the bathroom door and exited in a billow of steam.
Dean was standing expectantly in front of the microwave, and Sam couldn’t help noticing that the blankets on his bed had been turned down and his pillows invitingly plumped. His lap top was also sitting open on the bed.
Sam gave in to the inevitable with a sigh and slid into bed, leaning back against the pillows and pulling the laptop onto his lap. He opened a browser window and began to search for local ghost stories just as the microwave dinged. He glanced up and watched as Dean took out a bowl of tomato soup and then poured a glass of orange juice. He carried both across the room and put them down on Sam’s bedside table.
‘Thanks, Dean,’ Sam said.
Dean smiled awkwardly. ‘It’s just plain tomato soup; no rice in it.’
Whenever Sam got sick as a kid, Dean would make him tomato and rice soup and to this day it was a comfort food for him, taking him back instantly to a time when Dean was the center of his world and he felt loved and protected. A time before he’d started to question why it was his brother, not his father, taking care of him when he was sick. A time before the rage, the fear and the sense of injustice took hold of him and made him want to run, desperately seeking the safety of normality.
‘I know you’re not twelve,’ Dean interrupted his musings, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna have your back if you get sick or hurt. You know that, right?’
Sam nodded. ‘Being sick sucks, man. I hate it.’
Dean gathered the pillows from off his own bed and set up camp next to Sam.
‘Find any local ghosts?’
‘Loads. Apparently Charleston,’ he made quote marks with his fingers, ‘“abounds with supernatural activity”.’
‘Awesome. Any look like candidates for our Woman in White?&rsquo
Sam scrolled rapidly through pages of information. ‘Well. I think we can rule out the twenty-nine pirates who were hung in Battery Park in 1729. They were left swinging for four days, you know? That’s just…gross,’ Sam’s finger tapped at the down arrow. ‘Hmm. She’s probably not one of the slaves who haunt the old Slave Mart on Chalmers Street. And she’s probably not a confederate soldier either.’
The brothers sat in silence, Sam scrolling through websites looking for likely ghosts while he ate his soup and Dean watching over his shoulder. After a while, Dean got restless. He slapped Sam on the shoulder and then went to inventory the First Aid kit. He’d noticed that they were running low on butterfly bandages when he’d been getting the Tylenol out for Sam.
‘Yahtzee!’ Sam said. ‘I think I’ve found her. Listen to this: “Twenty-seven year old Lavinia Fisher was hanged at Charleston in South Carolina, for the robbery murders of guests at the inn she owned with her husband, known as the Six Mile House, because it was six miles north of Charleston. Lavinia believed right up until the moment she mounted the scaffold that the fabled chivalry of southern gentlemen would kick in and she would be saved by her beauty, perhaps by someone marrying her once her husband was out of the way. He was hanged several minutes before her, and apparently, he blamed everything on her. Needless to say, no-one offered to marry her, and on February 18, 1820, she walked up the thirteen steps, barefoot and wearing her wedding gown. Looking out over the crowd who had come to see her hang, she said her last words: If any of you have messages for the Devil, give them to me. I’ll be seeing him soon. Lavinia is generally regarded as America’s first female serial killer.” And the old jail where she was kept was on Meeting St, near where our victim crashed and the scaffold was set up not far from there too. What do you think, Dean? Could be a candidate for our Woman in White, huh?’
‘Could be,’ Dean frowned. ‘Where’s she buried?’
Sam’s fingers clacked rapidly over the keyboard again, his brow creasing and his tongue poking out between his lips. ‘In the churchyard of the Unitarian Church on Archdale Street.’
There was more key clacking and then Sam groaned. ‘Nope. Apparently that’s just a story made up by the local Ghost Tour guides. She was actually buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field close to where the scaffold was set up.’
‘Fuck my life,’ Dean sighed.
am frowned, his eyes moving rapidly over the text. ‘And according to this source, she was actually hung for highway robbery and there’s no evidence she ever killed anyone. Also? That thing about her husband blaming everything on her? Unlikely. Listen to this: Apparently they made an escape attempt. Her husband, John, went first, using a rope made out of their jail cell blankets. But it broke. He gave himself up. Wouldn’t leave his wife behind.’
Dean nodded approvingly. ‘So she wasn’t betrayed by her husband. Doesn’t quite fit the profile for a Woman in White then, huh?’
‘Maybe she’s just a vengeful spirit? Charlotte said that Walter was a true southern gentleman, right? So maybe Lavinia’s still wandering around in her wedding dress waiting for that southern chivalry to kick in. And when it doesn’t, she’s killing.’
‘But why now?’ Dean asked. ‘She’s been dead for nearly two hundred years.’
Sam shrugged and his fingers flew over the keyboard again. His eyes widened and he swore softly. ‘You know that potter’s field where she’s buried? The Medical University of South Carolina is built right on top of it.’
‘Awesome,’ Dean said, with the tight smile he always wore whenever there was any mention of college or university. ‘Alright, let’s get some shut-eye. We’ll go check it out in the morning.’
--
In the morning, Sam was much worse. His throat felt like it was embedded with razor blades, bright pain was throbbing across his forehead and all of his muscles ached. He was shivering with cold, which would be understandable-it wasn’t more than fifty degrees outside and the heating in the motel room seemed to be broken-except that he was also sweating like a man in a sauna.
A cold, wet cloth fell across Sam’s forehead and he looked up into his brother’s worried face. Dean handed him a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol. The razor blades protested as he swallowed the pills.
‘Can you sit up?’ Dean gripped Sam’s elbow and helped him up with one hand while plumping up his pillows with the other. The microwave dinged and Dean darted over to the kitchenette, returning quickly with a bowl of tomato soup and a mug of hot tea with lemon and honey. Sam ate slowly. Every swallow felt like a knife wound, but he felt a little better after he’d finished it. He showered and began to dress, all the while trying to ignore Dean who was hovering about him like an anxious mother, trying to help.
Sam was well aware that he and his brother didn’t have the same concepts of personal space that ‘normal’ people had. They’d grown up in cramped quarters, and the money often hadn’t stretched to separate beds for the kids. Even when ‘the kids’ were practically adults. Checking for injuries, taking care of each other when they were hurt, and stitching each other’s wounds, had led to them having a degree of familiarity with each other’s bodies that Sam knew would be considered ‘weird’ and ‘inappropriate’ by most of society
‘Dean!’ he swatted at his brother’s hands. ‘I can put my own damn pants on!’
Dean held his hands up and backed away.
‘We heading out to MUSC?’ Sam asked when he was finally dressed.
‘Huh?’ said Dean.
‘MUSC. Medical University of South Carolina.’
Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘I am. You’re gonna stay here and rest.’
Sam fought him on that. Long and loud. It probably would’ve been more effective if he hadn’t had to stop and lie down half way through his closing argument.
Dean promised not to try to gank any vengeful spirits by himself and he left a glass, the carton of orange juice and a bottle of Nyquil by Sam’s bedside. Sam dosed himself up good and went back to sleep.
When he woke up again it was dark. He was drenched in sweat and shivering hard, but he thought he felt a little better.
‘D’n?’ he slurred.
‘Right here, Sammy,’ a hand came down to rest on his shoulder and Sam rolled onto his back. Dean was lying next to him. Not in bed with him, as such, but rather on top of the quilt cover, with the quilt cover from the other bed, stretched over him.
‘Time ‘s it?’ Sam asked.
‘About two in the morning. How are you feeling?’
Sam frowned. ‘Better, I think. You let me sleep all day?’
There was a heavy silence. ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ Dean asked finally.
Sam licked at his dry lips and frowned. ‘You went to check out MUSC.
Dean rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. ‘That was two days ago Sammy. You’ve been delirious since then, fading in and out.’
‘Two days?’ Sam croaked, his voice scratchy from disuse.
Dean reached across him for the glass of water he’d laid out on the bedside table. ‘Two days, Dean confirmed, ‘and making sure you didn’t dehydrate’s been a pain in my ass, I can tell you. Here, sit up.’
Sam hauled himself into a sitting position, groaning quietly when his entire body complained at the movement. He took the proffered glass and drank down the water, gasping for air when he was finished.
‘More?’ Dean took the glass from him and went and filled it. Sam finished three more glasses before his thirst was finally quenched.
‘So where are we at?’ he asked as he lay back down, turning sideways to face his brother. ‘With the case?’
‘Turns out MUSC are doing some building work. The contracting company dug up a bunch of bodies, and they knew their local history, knew they’d be the remains of people who’d been executed, and they didn’t want the build to be delayed so they hushed it up. They poured concrete at the site today.’
Sam’s heart almost stopped in his chest. ‘Concrete? Over the remains?’
Dean nodded. ‘Which is why I went out and did the salt and burn last night.’
Sam rolled onto his back and folded an arm over his face.
‘I am so sorry, Dean. I should’ve been there, I should’ve-’
‘I do know how to look after myself, you know,’ Dean’s tone was laced with sarcasm. ‘How do you think I managed to survive the four years you were at college without you?’
‘You had Dad.’
Dean snorted. ‘Some of the time. Look, forget it, man. Water under the bridge. I got the job done and it’s all good. Let’s just go back to sleep.’
Sam sighed. ‘I can’t believe I went down like that. You wouldn’t’ve let the flu get you until you’d finished the job.’
‘Yeah, well. Dean Winchester doesn’t get the flu; the flu gets Dean Winchester.’
Sam’s eyes widened and Dean looked suddenly sheepish. ‘Yeah, I have no idea what that even means. Okay, look. I’m awesome and totally badass, but even I can’t hunt when I’m unconscious. Go back to sleep, Sammy. You can angst about me being a better hunter than you tomorrow.’
--
The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted under Sam’s nose and he sighed happily.
‘C’mon, Sammy, up and at ‘em. Apparently this Job’s not finished yet.’
There was a crinkling sound and then a plop and Sam felt something land on his stomach. He opened his eyes and pulled himself upright; taking the cup of coffee that Dean was proffering with one hand and picking up the local newspaper that he’d thrown on the bed with the other.
Second man dies in Meeting St crash, read the front page headline.
Sam took a sip of his coffee and began to read:
43-year-old businessman Michael John Manning died last night on Meeting Street. There are skid marks on the road indicating that Manning’s Volvo was forced to brake hard, causing the impact which broke his neck. Police are speculating that the well-regarded Charleston local may have braked to avoid hitting a dog.
Sam snorted. Or a woman in a wedding dress.
‘Either Lavinia wasn’t our Woman in White,’ Dean said, his eyes hard, the way they only got when he was pissed at himself, ‘or I missed something,’
am frowned. ‘No-one else fit the criteria.’
‘Then I missed a piece of her.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Sam rushed to reassure him. ‘An animal could’ve carried a bone off. Or some sick fuck could’ve souvenired body parts after the execution.’
‘Another guy died, Sammy,’ Dean retorted. ‘Okay, he was a Volvo driver, but still. He’s dead now and that’s on me.’
‘Alright,’ said Sam. It wasn’t, but he didn’t have the strength to get into an argument when his brother was determined to take the blame. ‘Pass me the laptop.’
--
At 1.00 o’clock Sam and Dean headed out to a local diner for lunch.
‘What’s with all the-’ Sam made a vague hand gesture at the abundance of tinsel and fake wreaths hanging around the place.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. ‘They’re Christmas decorations, College Boy. People put them up around Christmastime. Wow, I know you lost a couple days, but seriously? You’re telling me you didn’t know today was Christmas Eve?’
‘Yeah, no, of course I did. Do.’ Sam cleared his throat. ‘They’ve just…got a lot of tinsel.’
There was a pause while a waitress wearing a Santa hat and huge Rudolph earrings with flashing noses came across to take their order.
‘So,’ said Sam, once she’d gone. ‘We got zippo from the ‘net. What’s our next play here?’
Dean reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out their dad’s journal. He slipped the rubber bands off it and opened it up, flicking through pages until he came to the one he wanted. He spun the book around to face Sam and jabbed at the page with his forefinger.
‘A séance, I think.’
Sam skimmed his father’s notes and then looked up at Dean, his expression incredulous.
‘You’re kidding? You want us to summon Lavinia, explain to her that she’s dead and then what? Ask her nicely to go toward the light? Dean, this woman, in life, she was either a serial killer or a highwaywoman. And all versions of her legend agree that her last words were an offer to take a message to the devil. We summon Lavinia Fisher and ask her to move on, she’s probably gonna laugh in our faces and then snap our necks like the wishbone of a turkey.’
Dean nodded. ‘Well what do you suggest? Cuz I’m all out of ideas here.’
The waitress set a bacon cheeseburger down in front of Dean with a chirpy ‘Merry Christmas’ and then put Sam’s salad in front of him with a cheerful ‘Happy Holidays’.
Dean smirked and leaned across the table. ‘See what being a salad muncher gets you? It gets you ‘Happy Holidays’. You pass up on one of these babies,’ Dean took a huge bite out of his burger and then spoke around the mouthful, ‘chick probably thinks you’re Jewish or Buddhist or something.’
Sam stared at him for a moment and then sighed. ‘You got dropped on your head a lot as a baby, didn’t you?’
Dean’s only response was an open-mouthed grin.
‘Real mature, Dean,’ Sam sniped as his brother shoved a fistful of fries in with the mouthful of burger. At least his mouth was too full to talk for a while, so silver-lining.
On the wall not too far from their table there was a newspaper and magazine rack. Sam went and helped himself to the local paper and flicked through it while he ate, looking for inspiration. As he ate his chest began to ache and he found himself rubbing at it absently.
‘Sammy?’
Sam glanced up.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Just…a bit of heartburn.’
‘From a salad?’ Dean’s tone was deeply skeptical.
Sam shrugged. He turned the page of the newspaper noisily and was confronted by a double-spread filled with pictures of mannequins dressed in 19th century clothing.
Tales from the Past…1800s Clothing and Footwear, read the headline.
This week is your last chance to see the collection of 19th century clothing and footwear being displayed by the Charleston Heritage Museum on Meeting Street. The display closes on Christmas Eve to make way for the next collection in the Heritage series, 1800s Household Appliances.
Riveting stuff. But what really caught Sam’s eye was the picture of the wedding dress. And the caption underneath: The wedding dress worn by Lavinia Fisher at her execution in 1820.
Wordlessly, Sam folded the paper in half and spun it to face Dean.
Sam watched as his brother’s face flitted from confusion, to comprehension, to satisfaction, to wicked. He lifted his eyes and gave Sam a shit-eating grin.
‘It’s your lucky day, Sammy,’ he said, ‘We get to go and look at old-fashioned dresses. That oughta be right up your alley-’ He broke off when he noticed their waitress hovering nearby with a coffee pot. Dean declined her offer of a refill and she gave Dean a shy smile.
‘I think it’s really sweet,’ she said, voice lowered, ‘that you’re willing to take your boyfriend to see the Clothing Collection. My boyfriend wouldn’t take me.’
Dean’s mouth fell open and he started to stammer a reply. Before he could get it out, Sam stood up. ‘C’mon sugar,’ he trilled, in his best imitation of a southern belle, ‘those beautiful old dresses aren’t getting any younger. Let’s go.’
The waitress cooed softly and put a hand to her heart.
Dean glowered at Sam and then pasted on a saccharine smile when the waitress turned her starry-eyed gaze on him.
Dean stood with a sigh. He took out his wallet and handed the waitress a fifty.
‘Keep the change, sweetheart. I better get going. If I don’t let him get at those dresses soon, he won’t put out for a month.’
Sam’s eyes widened. He should’ve remembered that Dean would go as far as he needed, to get the last word. Now it was Sam’s smile that was forced. And he absolutely did not yelp when Dean slapped his ass as they walked out the door.
‘I can’t believe you told her we were having sex!” he hissed, as they headed back to the car.
‘I can’t believe she thought I was gay. I mean with you,’ Dean waved a hand at Sam, ‘with you it makes sense. You’ve got the floppy hair, you eat salads. But me?’ Dean gestured down at his jeans, boots and leather jacket. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘She probably figured that anyone who tried so hard to look butch had to be compensating for something,’ Sam said snidely.
‘Huh,’ Dean unlocked the Impala and then turned his head to one side and looked Sam up and down. ‘Well at least she had you figured for the girl. She got that part right, at least, hey Samantha?’
He got into the car before Sam could reply, stretching across to unlock Sam’s door before starting the engine.
‘You know it doesn’t work like that, right?’ Sam said as his brother pulled into the street. ‘Guys who are gay like guys. They’re not looking for a girl substitute. That’s just your hetronormative thinking at play.’
Dean chuckled. ‘Busting out the big words now, College Boy? That totally means I won.’
‘What? Seriously? You did not “win”. There was nothing to win!’
‘I won!’
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’
‘Shut up and drive, Dean. Not another word, I mean it.’
‘Ooh Sammy. I love it when you take control like that. It makes me all tingly.’
--
The Charleston Heritage Museum was staffed by an elderly curator and two volunteers: a middle-aged house-wife and an enthusiastic college student. At mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve, Sam and Dean were the only visitors.
On the upside, this meant that they got plenty of personal attention and could ask questions about the museum, the collection, and the truth behind the various legends centered on Lavinia Fisher.
On the downside it meant that there was no opportunity to salt and burn the dress and then slip away through the crowd in all the confusion.
And they were likely to be remembered too.
Especially given that Dean’s questions about the museum’s security system had gotten a little pointed and unsubtle and raised the hackles of the curator. Ordinarily Sam would’ve intervened at that point and smoothed things over, but his chest was aching inexplicably again and he was feeling a little short of breath. Sam sucked in a lungful of air and rubbed at his chest. It was probably just some residual effects from the flu. He’d barely recovered after all. He probably just needed to lie down.
‘Are you okay, dear?’ a hand to his arm startled Sam into opening his eyes, and when had he closed them anyway?
‘Yeah,’ he realized that he was slouching against the wall and straightened up. ‘Yeah. I’ve had the flu. Just...feeling a bit…dizzy.’
The middle-aged woman patted his arm. ‘Why don’t you get your young man to take you home? You look like you could do with a nap.’
Sam tried for a grin but suspected that it came out as more of a grimace.
Since Dean had collected him from Stanford-nearly two months ago now-they’d been mistaken for a gay couple more than once and it made Sam uncomfortable every time it happened. Not because he was homophobic; college was a time for experimentation after all, and Sam had done his share of it. Enough to know that he was a two or three on the Kinsey scale, at least. No, what worried him was that he and Dean had slipped back into their insular co-dependency so well that apparently they couldn’t even fake normality enough to come across as the brothers they actually were. They’d always been too close; he knew that. Now that they were older, people were reading something sexual into that.
Sam looked sideways at the woman standing next to him - Heather, according to her nametag - and saw nothing but concern and compassion in her expression. He allowed her to walk him over to where Dean was still quizzing the increasingly suspicious curator and then cleared his throat.
‘Sorry, dude,’ he said, ‘we gotta go. I’m not feeling so hot.’
One hundred percent of Dean’s attention was suddenly on Sam and Sam gave him the hand signal that their dad had made them memorize years ago; the one that meant, I’m alright, regardless of what I might be saying.
lsquo;Are you okay or not?’ Dean demanded as soon as they were back in the car.
Sam nodded. ‘Just a little tired is all. I mainly just wanted to shut you up. You were making the curator suspicious with all your questions.’
Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? I told him I was studying electronic engineering at college.’
Sam shrugged. ‘Well you pinged his radar anyway. And that woman in there? She thought we were a gay couple too.’
Dean side-eyed him and then snorted and shook his head. He reached forward and put in a Led Zepplin cassette, cranking the volume up way too loud; his SOP for when he didn’t want to talk.
--
‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Dean asked.
Sam scowled and resisted the need to rub at his aching chest. ‘For the millionth time, I’m fine.’
They’d both napped until well after dark, but Sam still felt tired. Not even the pizza they’d ordered for supper had taken the edge of his fatigue and he wasn’t surprised that Dean failed to look convinced.
‘I can do this by myself, you know,’ Dean said.
‘Yeah. Well maybe I don’t want you to.’
am watched the comment hit home. Dean bowed his head and rubbed a tired hand over his face.
‘Okay,’ Dean pulled an old shoe-box out of his duffel and tipped its contents on Sam’s bed. Fake IDs in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors tumbled across the quilt.
‘So,’ Dean said brightly, ‘who do we want to be tonight? FBI? CDC? Ordinary people?’
‘Brothers,’ said Sam.
‘Angus and Malcolm it is,’ Dean tossed Sam a Kentucky drivers licence in the name of Angus Young.
They parked the car a block from the museum and walked the rest of the way, the rock salt-loaded sawn-off, box of salt, lighter fluid and flashlight stowed safely in a duffel bag.
Dean disabled the museum’s alarm, Sam picked the lock and they were inside in under five minutes.
Dean dug the shot gun out of the duffel and passed it to Sam before pulling out the flashlight and flicking it on.
‘T’was the night before Christmas,’ he recited, ‘and all through the museum, not a creature was stirring, not even a ghost!’ He tucked the flashlight underneath his chin and pulled what was obviously supposed to be a scary face.
Sam rolled his eyes.
They found the wedding dress and Dean stripped it off the mannequin and dumped it in a metal trash can. He tipped a liberal amount of salt over it, and then poured on the lighter fluid.
‘Duck,’ said Sam as Lavinia made an appearance and reached for Dean. He shot her full of rock salt and she vanished with a howl. The rock salt cartridge ricocheted into an evening gown with a bustle and knocked it over.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Dean as he struck a match and dropped it into the trash can.
Lavinia reappeared just in time to flame out with an inhuman scream of rage, and yellow flames flicked up against the sides of the trash can, throwing finger-shaped shadows against the wall. Sam shuddered.
‘Shoulda brought marshmallows,’ Dean said. ‘And s’mores.’
‘FREEZE! POLICE!’ Sam turned and his eyes widened at the sight of two police officers with their guns drawn. ‘Drop the weapon and get down on the ground. Do it!’
Sam lowered the shot gun carefully and Dean put his hands up, palms out.
‘Look, officers,’ Dean said. ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’
‘Really? Y’all ain’t trespassing on museum property, with a weapon, and setting fire to priceless heirlooms?’
For a moment Dean looked so nonplussed that Sam nearly laughed.
‘Well, uh, okay,’ Dean attempted a smile, ‘I guess it is sort of what it looks like. But we’ve got a good reason.’
The cop who was doing all the talking nodded. ‘And you can tell it to the judge. You kick that gun away Stretch and both of you get face down on the ground. C’mon, son. I don’t wanna shoot no-one. Especially on Christmas Eve.’
Sam and Dean exchanged a look and then slowly lowered themselves to the floor.
--
The City of Charleston Police Department had over four hundred serving officers, but only Headquarters ran a 24/7 facility, complete with temporary holding cells.
When Officers Briggs and Malone brought the Young brothers in for Break and Enter, Vandalism and Destruction of Property, the desk sergeant wasn’t pleased. She had a DUI and a Domestic Disturbance downstairs already and that was really two more than she wanted on Christmas Eve.
‘Goddamn it, Briggs,’ she growled, ‘I got my kids presents to finish wrapping. I don’t need any more paperwork tonight!’
‘Oh okay, ma’am. We’ll just toss the criminals back out on the street then.’
‘Works for me,’ Dean said. ‘We don’t wanna cause you any trouble; be happy to get outta your hair.’
Sergeant Hannah Sullivan scowled at Briggs. ‘You could take ‘em out to County.’
‘That’s a fifteen minute drive, a ton of paperwork and a pain in my ass. Besides, you’d really do that to a couple dumbass college kids? On Christmas Eve?’
he desk sergeant relented with a sigh and Sam and Dean were searched, finger printed, photographed and booked. Sergeant Sullivan barely looked twice at their IDs so Sam figured that she probably wasn’t a fan of classic rock. When they were offered their one phone call, Dean called Bobby at the dedicated number he’d set up for bailing people out.
‘This is Sergeant Sullivan with the City of Charleston Police Department. I have a Malcolm Young in my lock up. Will you accept a reverse charge call from him?’
There was a lengthy pause and then Sergeant Sullivan’s lips twitched into a smile and she handed the phone to Dean. ‘Here you go, Malcolm.’
‘Hey, Uncle Bobby.’
‘You goddamn idjit. I suppose you expect me to find someone who can bail your damn fool ass outta jail on Christmas morning?’
‘I’d really appreciate it. Ain’t just me though. I got my little brother with me.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. ‘I heard what happened. With his girl. He doing okay?’
‘Yeah. You know.’
Bobby sighed. ‘Okay. Caleb just wrapped up a job in Nashville. I’ll give him a call; see if he can swing past. You best put me back to the nice police lady so’s I can get all the details. You take care of yourself, kid. And look out for your brother.’
‘I always do, Bobby.’ Dean handed the phone back to Sergeant Sullivan and then a couple of male officers led the brothers down to the holding cells and locked them in a single cell together
The cell was a standard six foot by eight foot and had an olive-green, vinyl padded bench across the back wall. Welded to the side wall was a stainless steel toilet bowl, with a sink above it. A tatty roll of toilet paper sat on the floor beside it.
‘Awesome.’ Dean sat down on the bench with a sigh. ‘Well ain’t this typical? The Winchesters do Christmas Eve in style; in a jail cell.’
Sam didn’t respond; just stood staring at the cell bars.
‘Caleb’s in Nashville,’ Dean continued, ‘Bobby’s gonna ask him to come bail us out. With a bit of luck we should be outta here by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Sam took a painful breath and rubbed a hand across his chest. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. He wasn’t supposed to be the one behind bars. He was supposed to be the one who came breezing in with his briefcase and defended the poor schmucks who’d got themselves locked up.
Ever since Jess had died, his life had been a catastrophe. Being back at Dean’s side again was good, and he was determined to find and obliterate Jess’s killer, but being on the wrong side of the cell bars was really bringing home to him just how far from his dream-life he’d strayed.
--
This wasn’t Dean’s first night in a jail cell. Come to think of it, it wasn’t even his first Christmas Eve in a jail cell, but Sam had never been locked up before and the kid didn’t seem to be handling it well.
‘Sammy?’ Dean went and put a hand to his little brother’s shoulder and led him to the bench. ‘C’mon man. You may as well take the load off. We could be here for a while.’
Sam’s face was pale and pinched and now that Dean really looked, he could see a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
Sam shrugged and rubbed at his chest.
Dean’s mouth went dry. ‘Sam? Why do you keep doing that? Is your chest hurting you?’
‘I’m just tired, is all.’
‘Sammy,’ Dean pulled out his Dad voice and Sam cracked.
‘Fine. My chest hurts like a bitch. So what? There’s nothing I can do about it, so why piss and moan?’
‘I’m not saying you should bitch about it. But when you’re sick or hurt, don’t frigging hide it from me. You’re my partner; I need to know if you’re not 100%.’
Sam made a scornful noise. ‘We both knew I wasn’t 100%. Besides, it’s not like you’re always upfront about it when you’re feeling like crap!’ By the end of the sentence his breathing was obviously labored and Dean’s concern ratcheted up a notch.
‘You’re tired, your chest’s sore, and you’re having trouble breathing. Anything else I should know about?’
Sam bit at his bottom lip. ‘I feel cold, I’ve got a headache, and I feel like my pulse is racing.’
Dean put a hand to Sam’s forehead and frowned. ‘You might feel cold, but you’re so hot that you’re sweating,’ he reached out with his other hand and closed it around Sam’s wrist. ‘Yeah…elevated pulse. Your breathing’s faster and shallower than normal too. Fuck Sammy. You’re not over the flu at all, are you? ’
Sam sucked in another breath and now that Dean was pressed shoulder to thigh against him, he could feel the fine tremors shivering through his brother’s body.
‘I don’t think it’s the flu any more, Dean,’ Sam said quietly. ‘I think this is pneumonia.’
lsquo;That’s not good. That kills people.’ And Dean was up and banging on the cell door.
‘It only kills people who are old or sick or have a compromised immune system,’ Sam started to rattle off medical facts, but Dean was only half listening.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, ‘My brother’s sick. He needs a doctor! Hey!’
There was no response.
Dean thumped his fist on the cell door again. ‘Hey! We need a doctor down here!’
‘Shut up!’ growled a voice from the cells, ‘I’m tryin’a sleep down here!’
‘Dude, I cannot even begin to tell you the extent of the fuck I do not give; so how about you shut your pie hole?’ Dean banged on the cell door again. ‘C’mon, Sergeant Sullivan, my brother needs a doctor. ’
The only response was fluid cursing and name-calling from the man in the other cell and Dean leaned his head against the cell door and fantasized for a moment about ripping the man’s lungs out and feeding them to him.
‘Dean?’
Dean lifted his head.
‘I don’t feel so hot.’
Dean was at his brother’s side in a heartbeat. ‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. I think I just need to lie down for a bit.’ Sam listed sideways and Dean caught him.
‘Whoa! Easy there Sasquatch! Pull your legs up onto the bench and lie down properly.’ He maneuvered his brother’s torso until he had Sam’s head resting on his lap. The fine tremors of earlier had turned into full-blown shakes.
‘I’m so cold,’ Sam said, his teeth chattering.
Dean stripped off his jacket and placed it over his brother’s chest and shoulders. ‘You’re gonna be just fine, Sammy,’ he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man.
‘Yeah,’ Sam pulled his arms tightly against his chest and pressed into Dean’s body, ‘I know.’
The violent shaking lasted about half an hour. Dean held his brother close and talked at him, couldn’t tell you what he talked about, just rambled, his voice soft, and his eyes fixed on Sam’s face. When Sam started to cough, Dean helped him roll onto his side. There was an awkward moment when Sam tried to roll in towards Dean and Dean had to stop him and turn him the other way, explaining that they’d probably both be more comfortable if Sam’s mouth wasn’t resting inches away from Dean’s groin.
‘Right,’ Sam huffed out a laugh and then let loose with a hacking cough. ‘Our IDs say we’re brothers,’ he gasped out when he’d finished coughing. ‘Wouldn’t want the cops to think I was blowing you.’
Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘Plus,’ he said, ‘we actually are brothers, so it’d be weird.’
‘Didn’t seem to worry you this afternoon when you good as told that diner waitress you were fucking me.’
Dean smiled. ‘C’mon, man, you know I just wanted to watch you squirm.’
Sam’s laugh turned into a cough again and Dean could tell-by the way his not-so-little brother was holding himself-that Sam was in a lot of pain.
‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘I’m gonna go and yell for help again.’
Sam tensed and clutched at his arm. ‘Don’t,’ he hissed. ‘Hurts when you move.’
Dean held himself still. ‘Dammit, Sam, I gotta get you to a doctor.’
Sam took a shuddering breath. ‘Just…talk to me. I’ll ride it out; see a doctor when we get released.’
Dean sucked in air and breathed out slowly.
‘Remember back when you were…what were you? Fifteen I think? Yeah. That summer we were in Portland?’
‘Fifteen, yeah.’
‘And we hunted that poltergeist with Dad, the one in that apartment block, remember?’
‘Yeah. Bastard threw me down the stairs.’
‘You broke your collar bone and three ribs and punctured your lung.’
‘And you stayed with me in the hospital cuz Dad got a call from Walt and Roy about a pack of black dogs in Idaho.’
Dean suddenly realized that he was carding absently through Sam’s hair. He stopped at once, but Sam made an inarticulate sound of protest, so he resumed the soothing motion.
‘Compared to that, how much does your chest hurt now?’
The cell was silent, save for Sam’s labored breathing, and then he said, ‘Uh, if that was a seven, this is a ten.’
Dean swore softly. ‘Dude, you need a doctor.’
Sam clutched at Dean’s arm. ‘Don’t move. Don’t make me move. Just talk to me.’
Sam was sweating profusely now, his breathing sounded like a death-rattle and if the tension in his body was any indication, he was in agony. Every fiber in Dean’s body was telling him to wriggle out from underneath his brother and pound at the door and yell until someone came down. But he didn’t want to cause Sam any more pain.
‘Hey, Dean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You ever…’
‘Have I ever what?’
‘With a guy…’
‘Huh?’
‘Ever been with a guy?’
Dean’s heart stopped beating for a moment. When it started up again it was pounding fast and loud.
‘I like my playmates with soft curves and big tits,’ he said, going for a cocky tone and missing by a mile. He just hoped that Sam was too out of it to notice.
‘So you’ve never-’
‘Have you?’
‘Yeah. First year at Stanford I-’
Dean’s heart stopped beating again. No. Dear God, no. ‘Goddamn it, Sam! If you needed money that badly, you should’ve called me!’
‘What? You think I…? Jesus, Dean. I was just…experimenting. ’
Dean willed himself to relax.
‘So…you wanted to? With…a guy?’
‘Yeah. Was fun. Different. Prefer girls, but sometimes…guys okay…’
Dean let out a deep breath. ‘Okay. That’s okay. So long as you wanted to.’
Sam’s breathing was becoming more and more labored. ‘I can’t believe you thought…’ he was wracked by another bout of coughing and this time he ended up spitting a pile of green mucous onto the floor. Dean swallowed back bile.
‘You okay, Sammy?’
He didn’t get a response so Dean turned Sam’s head to face him. Sam’s lips were edging towards blue and he looked disoriented.
‘Sammy?’
‘Hey,’ Sam croaked.
‘I think I should get help,’
‘’k D’n’
Dean lowered him carefully to the bench and went and pounded on the cell door again.
‘Sergeant Sullivan? Anybody? C’mon! This is serious! My brother’s lips are turning blue! He needs a doctor, goddamn it!’
Nothing.
Dean snapped. ‘You will be fucked six ways from Sunday if you do not get your asses down here right now and phone an ambulance! That camera up there’s taping everything and if my brother dies on your cell floor and you did nothing, I will personally hunt you down and-’
He heard footsteps on the floor and cocked his head to listen.
‘Step away from the door, Young,’ the two cops who’d locked them in appeared outside the cell.
‘My brother needs a doctor.’
‘Step away-’
‘Fuck you,’ Dean snapped. ‘Can’t you see that he’s sick?’
‘Not unless you step away from the door and let me in,’ the cop who spoke had a face full of freckles. ‘I’m a first aider, but I’m not gonna walk in there and let you jump me. Now back off. Go and stand against that wall and put your hands on your head.’
Dean swallowed and felt his face and neck flush. He’d basically just been told to go and stand in the corner like a naughty child. It was humiliating, but if he wanted Sam to get help, then he had to comply.
Freckles entered cautiously, carrying a small first aid kit. He snapped on latex gloves before feeling Sam’s forehead. He tilted Sam’s head right and left and started asking him questions. Sam’s only reply was to mutter something about dad and black dogs and whether Dean could stay with him in the hospital.
Freckles turned to Dean. ‘How long’s he been like this?’
Dean glared, hands linked on top of his head and elbows sticking out. ‘Since the first time I started yelling for help.’
Freckles looked suitably chastised. ‘We thought you were just making trouble,’ he muttered.
He took a thermometer out of the first aid kit and stuck it under Sam’s tongue, then gripped Sam’s wrist and counted off pulse beats. The thermometer beeped and when Freckles looked at the reading his face froze.
Dean started forward but was brought up short by a sharp ‘hey’ from the other cop.
Dean met Freckles’s eyes and tried to channel Sam’s trademark puppy dog expression, hands held up in front of him, palms out. ‘Please,’ he said.
Freckles nodded and Dean sank to his knees at Sam’s side while Freckles got out his cell phone and called for an ambulance.
They cuffed Dean before they let the paramedics into the cell and he had to stand back, in between Freckles and the other cop, while they loaded Sam onto a gurney. Freckles cuffed Sam to the side of the gurney-just in case he was faking the blue lips and the delirium, Dean thought darkly-and then the paramedics wheeled him out. Freckles took Dean’s cuffs off and the cops followed after the gurney, leaving Dean gripping the cell bars, face pressed against them so that he could watch Sammy until the last possible moment.
--
Sam awoke to finger tapping and Back in Black being hummed off key.
‘Dean?’
‘Sammy!’ His brother was slouched in a straight-backed hospital visitor’s chair and he sat forward with a grin as soon as Sam spoke. ‘How are you feeling?’
Sam struggled into a sitting position. ‘Good. We’re not in jail.’
‘We made bail this morning. Caleb says hi; had some chick to get back to. ‘
Sam nodded. ‘When can I get out of here?’
‘Doc says you can probably check out later today, so long as you take it easy. You were right by the way. You’ve got bacterial pneumonia. They’ve been pumping you full of antibiotics,’ Dean tapped the IV that was attached to Sam’s arm. He fiddled with the edge of Sam’s blanket for a moment and then met his eyes, expression serious. ‘Your temperature got up to 105. And after they took you to hospital…I didn’t know…man, longest night of my life. Don’t you get sick like that again, you hear me?’
Sam nodded. ‘I hear you.’
‘Alright then,’ Dean climbed to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
He returned moments later with a covered tray, which he put on Sam’s tray-table before wheeling it over the bed. Dean sat down on the other side of the table and took the lid off the tray, revealing two plates of roast turkey, roast potatoes and vegetables, two single-serve Christmas puddings, and two small bottles of orange juice.
‘I got’em to keep this warm for us. Didn’t wanna eat until you woke up. Merry Christmas, Sammy.’
Sam raised his bottle of orange juice in a toast. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he took a long swallow and then picked up his knife and fork. ‘I’m in hospital. We just got outta jail. How sad is it that this actually rates pretty high as far as Winchester Christmases go?’
Dean paused, a forkful of turkey half way to his mouth.
‘Don’t start, Sammy. We had Christmases.’
Sam snorted. ‘We had a bucket of extra crispy and Dad passed out on the couch.’
Dean shoved the turkey in his mouth and pulled a face. ‘Hey, extra crispy beats extra soggy. Is this even turkey? Maybe we got a hunt right here. Maybe the hospital’s pulling a Soylent Green type thing, recycling the dead bodies as hospital food.’
‘Don’t try to change the subject! Our Christmases sucked. I mean, you used to steal presents for me, man.’
Dean rolled his eyes. ‘That was one time!’
Sam raised his eyebrows.
‘Okay. Twice,’ he inclined his head. ‘Maybe three times. Dad got caught up sometimes. In case you’ve forgotten, he was saving lives. Don’t try to make out our childhood was something it wasn’t.’
Sam sighed, the aching sadness in his heart getting sharper with every mouthful of limp, luke-warm turkey that he chewed.
His last couple of Christmases had been spent with Jess’s family and they’d been amazing. The Moores went all out for Christmas, with fairy lights all over the front of their house, a giant blow-up Santa in a sleigh on the roof, and a six-foot-tall Christmas tree in the family room. They ate turkey and ham with all the trimmings, pumpkin pie, Christmas cookies and chocolate candies. And they had carols playing on rotation all day. They even had special crockery, just for Christmas Day. Good though it was to have Dean in his life again, Sam really wished it hadn’t taken losing Jess for him to get his brother back.
Sam was well aware that Dean had sacrificed a lot for him when they were growing up and the conversation they’d had last night had set off some alarm bells. When Sam had confessed that he’d fooled around with guys in college, Dean’s automatic assumption that Sam had done it for money had Sam wondering if his brother had sacrificed even more than he’d realized.
Sam watched as Dean’s lips sealed around the neck of his juice bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the liquid down in thirsty gulps.
‘Hey Dean?’
Dean slid his eyes over to Sam’s.
‘You know when I told you I’d hooked up with guys before and your mind went straight to ‘Sam was hooking’?’
Dean choked on his orange juice. It took him a moment to recover and even longer to raise his head. When he finally looked up, his face was like marble and his eyes were hard.
‘I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about, Sammy. You were delirious last night. God knows what crazy shit you imagined.’
am opened his mouth, parted his lips ready to start arguing, and then something changed in Dean’s expression; his jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, wordlessly pleading with Sam to leave it alone.
Sam sighed and offered an olive branch. ‘You know, this turkey really does suck.’
Dean’s smile was blinding. ‘How ‘bout we blow this joint and have a traditional Winchester Christmas? We’ll park the Impala down by the beach, sit on her hood and have a bucket of extra crispy and a six pack.’
That was just about as far from the traditional Moore family Christmas as it was possible to get, but Sam thought that it sounded pretty damn good.
‘I didn’t get you a present,’ he said.
Dean shrugged. ‘You’re walking out of the hospital. Best damn gift I could’ve asked for, Sammy.’
--