Fic: Battle Cry (Supernatural) Chapter 7a/10
This is chapter 7 of the fic Battle Cry. I ended up splitting it into two parts because of length, but it was sort of all one chapter really. Materpost is here. Chapter 1 is here.
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 2800
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 7: The Breaking Point (Pt. 1)
Bobby, Sam, and Dean were gathered in the living room of Bobby’s house, which had become their central research hub. At first it had been practical. They could all fit around the table and share resources. Now, the table was filled so full of stacks of books, Sam was amazed it hadn’t collapsed under its own weight.
Bobby was pouring over a large tome, bound in leather and smelling of musty paper. Dean cast a baleful glace every few minutes at him from the dining room table where he had been banished. Earlier he had wandered into the room to look over Bobby’s shoulder, bowl of mac and cheese in hand. Bobby had taken one look at Dean’s food and said, “You bring that yellow slop near this book and I’ll smack you so hard your grandparents will feel it.”
Dean had understandably retreated to a safe distance, alternately reading a newspaper and watching Bobby research.
Sam sat curled up on the couch. He had bundled himself in an old, red knitted blanket and snuggled down into the cushions, trying to fight off the October chill. Rumsfeld was laying on his feet, pressed up close to Sam’s side. Sam relished his warmth. Rumsfeld had claimed Sam since the day they had arrived, barely leaving his side. He had even taken to sleeping curled at the foot of Sam’s bed at night.
Sam shivered, aware now of how little blanket he actually had. Rumsfeld seemed to have claimed about half of it to lay on, pulling it down off of Sam so that goosebumps stood up on his arms. He was beginning to think that being naked outside in thirty degree weather probably hadn’t been a great idea. He hesitated to say anything because he knew it was probably just a little cold. Dean would shake something like this off and keep going, so Sam would try to do the same. To top it off the misery, he was marginally sure he was going to have a roaring headache by the end of the day.
From his spot on the couch, Sam could see both Dean and Bobby going about their business. He was pretending to read his stolen library book, but had given up concentrating on it about an hour ago and instead watched them over the top of the pages. He just wanted to avoid having to do anything physical that would mean leaving his nice, warm cocoon.
He had almost dropped off, head propped on his hand and staring blearily at his book, when Bobby straightened. Rumsfeld’s head popped up, but he didn’t move from Sam’s side. Sam felt his heart sink. Not again.
"Okay, I may have a spell,” Bobby said. Sam drew in a long, slow breath. So far, spells had been the worst. The last one had left him with blue skin for a couple of hours until they could reverse it. Dean still cackled every time he called Sam a smurf.
"Really?" Dean had perked up and set the newspaper aside. "What kind?"
"Looks like some sort of druidic thing. Late fifteenth century if I had to guess."
Dean stopped, spoon halfway to his mouth. "How the fuck would you go about guessing that?"
Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. Sam hid his smile behind his own book. "Well, the Latin for one. And the book itself. And the script. You spend enough time with dusty old things like this, you pick up a thing or two."
Dean leaned back. He looked at Bobby, as though seeing him for the first time. "All right then," he said slowly. "What is it?"
“It’s a spell to find something lost.”
“Something lost? Sam can’t speak,” Dean said. “It’s not like he misplaced his car keys.”
Bobby glared at Dean, who had finally wandered over to stand beside the older man.
“I know that, but his voice was stolen. Something stolen can usually be found. Plus, it’s not just a locator spell. Looks like it returns what was missing.”
Sam listened to them bicker, working out the likelihood of the spell being successful while simultaneously sniping at each other. They were a good team and the rhythm of it was soothing in a way, but Sam recognized the desperation in Bobby’s voice and could tell even Dean was clutching at straws to make it work.
“What do we have to do?” Dean wanted to know.
“Let’s see.” Bobby leaned down over the text. “This one’s going to take some prep work.”
“Why?”
“For starters,” Bobby said. “We need a sacrificial goat. And three drops of virgin blood.”
“Three drops? That seems mild, comparatively.”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t have the finer points of spell theory. All I know is it’s a purification element.”
“Okay, so let’s assume we steal a goat and get three drops of virgin blood.” Sam blinked at Dean’s matter of fact tone. He’d managed to say that sentence with a straight face. When had statements like that become commonplace for them? When had his life become goats and virgin blood? He shivered and slunk down further into the couch. “What else,” Dean demanded. “That it?”
“No. ‘Course not. There’s chanting. Sam has to bathe in the goat’s blood and there’s a rune that has to be drawn on his forehead in ash. No more complicated than anything else we’ve tried.”
“Perfect. We’ll need to get started right away. Where do you find virgin blood anyway?”
Sam felt a pang in his gut. They’d been trying for nearly a month now. In that time, Sam had been through more gross and humiliating things than he cared to recollect. He had been anointed in gunky slime, been made to bleed nearly a cup of his own blood, been wrapped in seaweed, and made to eat all manner of disgusting things, not the least mentionable among them being toad tongues. He’d been through spell, after ritual, after ceremony. Each time he felt a small prick of hope that he tried to burry under rational thinking. Each time he felt a little more of the disappointed ache when the attempts failed to produce any results.
John had seemed more frustrated than Sam. He withdrew nearly completely the first week and by the second had taken to disappearing into town for long stretches at a time. Dean never let Sam come along to pick him up, but Sam was fairly certain he spent a lot of time at the bar. That or he went out back and shot at the hulks of cars for hours. Sometime last week, he took off, driving the Impala out of Bobby’s yard and onto the highway around six a.m.
Sam knew John felt responsible, but didn’t know how to comfort him. Or confront him. Sam didn’t blame his father, not for this directly. There was still the same frustration at trying to be a normal teenage boy and be a hunter at the same time. If they hadn’t been hunting this might never have happened, but Sam also knew there were enough crazy things out there to realize anything could have happened to him regardless of what life he lead.
Sam glanced up. Dean and Bobby were still debating strategy, ignoring him completely. The thought of another spell filled him with dread. He wanted to be whole. He would love to speak and laugh and ridicule Dean. But he wanted to feel a little less broken more than he wanted to be healed.
Sam couldn’t take another minute of this. Something had to change. He was exhausted and tired of the useless, endless cycle of rituals.
Sam flung his book at Dean, clipping him in the shoulder. Rumsfeld laid his head in Sam’s lap, staring up at him with large eyes at the same time Dean looked up from the book at him confused. “What?”
Sam pulled his notebook from where he’d wedged it earlier between his leg and the arm of the couch. He had taken to using it when he needed to say something to Dean or Bobby. He kept a small flip pad in the back pocket of his jeans when he went out, at Dean’s insistence, but the notebook John had scrawled that first ritual in had been more convenient at home. Its bigger pages allowed him a little more room. Not that any of his notes were ever that long, but he could fit more of the conversation on one page.
No more. Sam scrawled the two words at the top of a blank page. He flung the book at Dean, who caught it as it made thwump against his chest.
Dean scowled and Bobby got up to read it over his shoulder. “No more what, Sam?”
Sam motioned for his pad. Dean stepped over to the couch and passed it back to him.
No more rituals.
Sam snuggled further into a ball as Dean collected the book.
He watched as Dean looked confused, hurt, and angry in turn. Rumsfeld whined from his spot next to Sam, sensing the tension mounting in the room.
“What do you mean, no more?” Dean demanded, “Don’t you want to find a cure? You want to be like this for the rest of your life?”
Sam closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He really must be coming down with something. Normally a comment like that would have made him angry. Today, he just felt something snapping in his chest.
The rest of his life? Sam hadn’t thought about it in those terms - not really. It was just something to work around in the here and now. Something that had come to be a major pain in the ass for everyone involved.
No, he didn’t want to be like this at all.
He shook his head.
“Then we keep looking,” Dean said, still sounding a little angry.
Sam shook his head again.
He held out his hand for his pad again. Dutifully, Dean handed it back, perhaps a bit more roughly than he would normally.
I don’t want to be broken anymore.
He flipped the page around.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean growled. Rumsfeld shifted and laid a paw across Sam’s lap, placing him directly between Sam and Dean. Sam let his hand run down the dog’s head, trying to soothe them both. “What do you think we’re trying to do? This is all to fix this mess.”
Sam frowned and, with a bit more force than necessary wrote, That’s not what I mean. You look at me and think you have to fix me. I’m done with the rituals. I can’t do it anymore.
“So you’re just going to give up, is that it?” Dean had started shouting at this point.
Bobby was standing quietly off to the side. “Dean,” he said. “Let the kid -”
“No,” Dean said. “He doesn’t get to do this. We’ve been working our asses off here. And today he decides he wants to sit around and not do anything. Then he can’t even be bothered to try what we come up with.”
Sam was growing frustrated with this. He’d have screamed if he could.
Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’m sitting right in front of you.
He scrawled the words sideways across the page in large, heavy letters. The words lacked the punch he wanted, but they’d have to do. He stood up, dislodging Rumsfeld who barked and nearly tripped Sam in his effort to stay between the two boys. Sam ignored the dog and the wave of dizziness at standing too fast, and shoved the notebook into Dean’s chest. Hard. Dean staggered back, tight frown covering a look of confusion. He glanced down at the paper. His jaw tightened.
He looked like he might say something, but the words never came. He dropped the notepad and turned on his heels, storming from the room, and the house. One minute he was in front of Sam. The next the screen door was snapping shut and Sam was left staring at the empty space where his brother had been.
He glanced at Bobby, who simply looked concerned with a tight frown on his face, glancing between Sam and the door that Dean had left by. Rumsfeld pushed on Sam’s legs barking and rubbing against his knees, nearly knocking Sam over in the process. Finally Bobby’s eyes settled on Sam, who felt his face heating. He hadn’t meant to cause a scene, but Dean was being an jerk.
Sam stooped to pick up his notebook. About halfway there, he felt the dizziness return. In a blink, he found himself on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. His face was getting a thorough licking and he wondering when exactly he’d gone from stooping to sitting on his ass.
“Sam?” Bobby’s worried voice seemed to come slowly to him. Sam glanced over at him. He reached out for the pad and picked up the pen from where it had fallen next to him.
“You okay, boy?” Bobby was right next to him. When had that happened?
Fine. Just got a little dizzy.
Bobby frowned and leaned over him. Sam shivered. He was cold without his blanket.
“You look like hell.”
Sam smiled weakly.
He felt a hand on his forehead and jerked back in surprise. Bobby held his wrist in place against Sam’s skin.
“Easy, kid. Just checking.”
He seemed concerned, a little crease forming between his brows.
“Sam, how long have you been running a fever?”
He was running a fever? That certainly explained why he was cold and dizzy. He shrugged. Bobby sighed.
“Alright then. Let’s get you back on the couch. Think you can stand?”
Sam rolled his eyes and made to get up. He’d just been standing hadn’t he? But he found that the task was much more difficult this time around. Bobby had to help steady him and he let himself collapse back on the couch, falling sideways so that his face was buried into the lumpy attempt at a throw pillow Bobby kept. Sam supposed it was probably something his wife had picked out. It really was quite hideous.
Bobby pulled the blanket over him and left for a minute. He returned with a glass of water and a couple of little white pills. Sam ignored the glass and dry swallowed the Tylenol. Bobby set the water on the floor within easy reach. Sam was nearly asleep before Bobby had time to move.
“Get some rest. I’ll talk to your brother.”
“’Kay Bobby. Thanks,” he said, not caring if it was unintelligible. He was just too tired to fool with the pad.
There was a short silence, then a hand ruffled his hair and he was asleep. Bobby straightened and snapped his fingers at Rumsfeld who was hovering near the foot of the couch, watching the exchange intently.
“Rumsfeld, heel.” He said sternly. The dog seemed reluctant to leave, but Bobby grabbed him by the collar and guided him out onto the porch, the same way Dean had gone.
Bobby gave Dean a good ten minutes out in the scrap yard, letting him beat the crap out of an old Honda with a wrench. He wondered what exactly was going through the boy’s head. He leaned over the rail, watching Dean in his demolition. Rumsfeld leaned up against his leg, warm and soft.
“Finally remembered who feeds you, huh?” Bobby said to the dog. The dog gave a little bark and wagged his tail. Bobby reached down and scratched his head.
He stood like that for a minute, wondering how exactly he was going to pull Dean back in line. The boy had been through a lot in the last few weeks, but his brother needed him and the kid was making an ass out of himself. Not that Bobby could blame him. At that age, he’d probably not have been able to handle even half of the situation that Dean was managing.
John had really done a number on those kids.
Bobby pushed off and made for the stairs. Rumsfeld whined behind him. He glanced back. The dog was looking between him and the door. So he was a glorified door opener now. He walked back across the porch and pulled the screen open.
“There you go, traitor.”
Rumsfeld bound in and up to the couch. He laid his head on the cushion next to Sam’s head. Sam cracked an eye, barely awake. When he saw the dog, he smiled, patted his head, then scooted over to make room for him to get up on the couch. When boy and dog were settled and Sam seemed to have dropped back off to sleep, Bobby turned again and started towards Dean.
<< Masterpost Chapter 7b>>>
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 2800
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 7: The Breaking Point (Pt. 1)
Bobby, Sam, and Dean were gathered in the living room of Bobby’s house, which had become their central research hub. At first it had been practical. They could all fit around the table and share resources. Now, the table was filled so full of stacks of books, Sam was amazed it hadn’t collapsed under its own weight.
Bobby was pouring over a large tome, bound in leather and smelling of musty paper. Dean cast a baleful glace every few minutes at him from the dining room table where he had been banished. Earlier he had wandered into the room to look over Bobby’s shoulder, bowl of mac and cheese in hand. Bobby had taken one look at Dean’s food and said, “You bring that yellow slop near this book and I’ll smack you so hard your grandparents will feel it.”
Dean had understandably retreated to a safe distance, alternately reading a newspaper and watching Bobby research.
Sam sat curled up on the couch. He had bundled himself in an old, red knitted blanket and snuggled down into the cushions, trying to fight off the October chill. Rumsfeld was laying on his feet, pressed up close to Sam’s side. Sam relished his warmth. Rumsfeld had claimed Sam since the day they had arrived, barely leaving his side. He had even taken to sleeping curled at the foot of Sam’s bed at night.
Sam shivered, aware now of how little blanket he actually had. Rumsfeld seemed to have claimed about half of it to lay on, pulling it down off of Sam so that goosebumps stood up on his arms. He was beginning to think that being naked outside in thirty degree weather probably hadn’t been a great idea. He hesitated to say anything because he knew it was probably just a little cold. Dean would shake something like this off and keep going, so Sam would try to do the same. To top it off the misery, he was marginally sure he was going to have a roaring headache by the end of the day.
From his spot on the couch, Sam could see both Dean and Bobby going about their business. He was pretending to read his stolen library book, but had given up concentrating on it about an hour ago and instead watched them over the top of the pages. He just wanted to avoid having to do anything physical that would mean leaving his nice, warm cocoon.
He had almost dropped off, head propped on his hand and staring blearily at his book, when Bobby straightened. Rumsfeld’s head popped up, but he didn’t move from Sam’s side. Sam felt his heart sink. Not again.
"Okay, I may have a spell,” Bobby said. Sam drew in a long, slow breath. So far, spells had been the worst. The last one had left him with blue skin for a couple of hours until they could reverse it. Dean still cackled every time he called Sam a smurf.
"Really?" Dean had perked up and set the newspaper aside. "What kind?"
"Looks like some sort of druidic thing. Late fifteenth century if I had to guess."
Dean stopped, spoon halfway to his mouth. "How the fuck would you go about guessing that?"
Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. Sam hid his smile behind his own book. "Well, the Latin for one. And the book itself. And the script. You spend enough time with dusty old things like this, you pick up a thing or two."
Dean leaned back. He looked at Bobby, as though seeing him for the first time. "All right then," he said slowly. "What is it?"
“It’s a spell to find something lost.”
“Something lost? Sam can’t speak,” Dean said. “It’s not like he misplaced his car keys.”
Bobby glared at Dean, who had finally wandered over to stand beside the older man.
“I know that, but his voice was stolen. Something stolen can usually be found. Plus, it’s not just a locator spell. Looks like it returns what was missing.”
Sam listened to them bicker, working out the likelihood of the spell being successful while simultaneously sniping at each other. They were a good team and the rhythm of it was soothing in a way, but Sam recognized the desperation in Bobby’s voice and could tell even Dean was clutching at straws to make it work.
“What do we have to do?” Dean wanted to know.
“Let’s see.” Bobby leaned down over the text. “This one’s going to take some prep work.”
“Why?”
“For starters,” Bobby said. “We need a sacrificial goat. And three drops of virgin blood.”
“Three drops? That seems mild, comparatively.”
“Don’t look at me. I don’t have the finer points of spell theory. All I know is it’s a purification element.”
“Okay, so let’s assume we steal a goat and get three drops of virgin blood.” Sam blinked at Dean’s matter of fact tone. He’d managed to say that sentence with a straight face. When had statements like that become commonplace for them? When had his life become goats and virgin blood? He shivered and slunk down further into the couch. “What else,” Dean demanded. “That it?”
“No. ‘Course not. There’s chanting. Sam has to bathe in the goat’s blood and there’s a rune that has to be drawn on his forehead in ash. No more complicated than anything else we’ve tried.”
“Perfect. We’ll need to get started right away. Where do you find virgin blood anyway?”
Sam felt a pang in his gut. They’d been trying for nearly a month now. In that time, Sam had been through more gross and humiliating things than he cared to recollect. He had been anointed in gunky slime, been made to bleed nearly a cup of his own blood, been wrapped in seaweed, and made to eat all manner of disgusting things, not the least mentionable among them being toad tongues. He’d been through spell, after ritual, after ceremony. Each time he felt a small prick of hope that he tried to burry under rational thinking. Each time he felt a little more of the disappointed ache when the attempts failed to produce any results.
John had seemed more frustrated than Sam. He withdrew nearly completely the first week and by the second had taken to disappearing into town for long stretches at a time. Dean never let Sam come along to pick him up, but Sam was fairly certain he spent a lot of time at the bar. That or he went out back and shot at the hulks of cars for hours. Sometime last week, he took off, driving the Impala out of Bobby’s yard and onto the highway around six a.m.
Sam knew John felt responsible, but didn’t know how to comfort him. Or confront him. Sam didn’t blame his father, not for this directly. There was still the same frustration at trying to be a normal teenage boy and be a hunter at the same time. If they hadn’t been hunting this might never have happened, but Sam also knew there were enough crazy things out there to realize anything could have happened to him regardless of what life he lead.
Sam glanced up. Dean and Bobby were still debating strategy, ignoring him completely. The thought of another spell filled him with dread. He wanted to be whole. He would love to speak and laugh and ridicule Dean. But he wanted to feel a little less broken more than he wanted to be healed.
Sam couldn’t take another minute of this. Something had to change. He was exhausted and tired of the useless, endless cycle of rituals.
Sam flung his book at Dean, clipping him in the shoulder. Rumsfeld laid his head in Sam’s lap, staring up at him with large eyes at the same time Dean looked up from the book at him confused. “What?”
Sam pulled his notebook from where he’d wedged it earlier between his leg and the arm of the couch. He had taken to using it when he needed to say something to Dean or Bobby. He kept a small flip pad in the back pocket of his jeans when he went out, at Dean’s insistence, but the notebook John had scrawled that first ritual in had been more convenient at home. Its bigger pages allowed him a little more room. Not that any of his notes were ever that long, but he could fit more of the conversation on one page.
No more. Sam scrawled the two words at the top of a blank page. He flung the book at Dean, who caught it as it made thwump against his chest.
Dean scowled and Bobby got up to read it over his shoulder. “No more what, Sam?”
Sam motioned for his pad. Dean stepped over to the couch and passed it back to him.
No more rituals.
Sam snuggled further into a ball as Dean collected the book.
He watched as Dean looked confused, hurt, and angry in turn. Rumsfeld whined from his spot next to Sam, sensing the tension mounting in the room.
“What do you mean, no more?” Dean demanded, “Don’t you want to find a cure? You want to be like this for the rest of your life?”
Sam closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He really must be coming down with something. Normally a comment like that would have made him angry. Today, he just felt something snapping in his chest.
The rest of his life? Sam hadn’t thought about it in those terms - not really. It was just something to work around in the here and now. Something that had come to be a major pain in the ass for everyone involved.
No, he didn’t want to be like this at all.
He shook his head.
“Then we keep looking,” Dean said, still sounding a little angry.
Sam shook his head again.
He held out his hand for his pad again. Dutifully, Dean handed it back, perhaps a bit more roughly than he would normally.
I don’t want to be broken anymore.
He flipped the page around.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean growled. Rumsfeld shifted and laid a paw across Sam’s lap, placing him directly between Sam and Dean. Sam let his hand run down the dog’s head, trying to soothe them both. “What do you think we’re trying to do? This is all to fix this mess.”
Sam frowned and, with a bit more force than necessary wrote, That’s not what I mean. You look at me and think you have to fix me. I’m done with the rituals. I can’t do it anymore.
“So you’re just going to give up, is that it?” Dean had started shouting at this point.
Bobby was standing quietly off to the side. “Dean,” he said. “Let the kid -”
“No,” Dean said. “He doesn’t get to do this. We’ve been working our asses off here. And today he decides he wants to sit around and not do anything. Then he can’t even be bothered to try what we come up with.”
Sam was growing frustrated with this. He’d have screamed if he could.
Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I’m sitting right in front of you.
He scrawled the words sideways across the page in large, heavy letters. The words lacked the punch he wanted, but they’d have to do. He stood up, dislodging Rumsfeld who barked and nearly tripped Sam in his effort to stay between the two boys. Sam ignored the dog and the wave of dizziness at standing too fast, and shoved the notebook into Dean’s chest. Hard. Dean staggered back, tight frown covering a look of confusion. He glanced down at the paper. His jaw tightened.
He looked like he might say something, but the words never came. He dropped the notepad and turned on his heels, storming from the room, and the house. One minute he was in front of Sam. The next the screen door was snapping shut and Sam was left staring at the empty space where his brother had been.
He glanced at Bobby, who simply looked concerned with a tight frown on his face, glancing between Sam and the door that Dean had left by. Rumsfeld pushed on Sam’s legs barking and rubbing against his knees, nearly knocking Sam over in the process. Finally Bobby’s eyes settled on Sam, who felt his face heating. He hadn’t meant to cause a scene, but Dean was being an jerk.
Sam stooped to pick up his notebook. About halfway there, he felt the dizziness return. In a blink, he found himself on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. His face was getting a thorough licking and he wondering when exactly he’d gone from stooping to sitting on his ass.
“Sam?” Bobby’s worried voice seemed to come slowly to him. Sam glanced over at him. He reached out for the pad and picked up the pen from where it had fallen next to him.
“You okay, boy?” Bobby was right next to him. When had that happened?
Fine. Just got a little dizzy.
Bobby frowned and leaned over him. Sam shivered. He was cold without his blanket.
“You look like hell.”
Sam smiled weakly.
He felt a hand on his forehead and jerked back in surprise. Bobby held his wrist in place against Sam’s skin.
“Easy, kid. Just checking.”
He seemed concerned, a little crease forming between his brows.
“Sam, how long have you been running a fever?”
He was running a fever? That certainly explained why he was cold and dizzy. He shrugged. Bobby sighed.
“Alright then. Let’s get you back on the couch. Think you can stand?”
Sam rolled his eyes and made to get up. He’d just been standing hadn’t he? But he found that the task was much more difficult this time around. Bobby had to help steady him and he let himself collapse back on the couch, falling sideways so that his face was buried into the lumpy attempt at a throw pillow Bobby kept. Sam supposed it was probably something his wife had picked out. It really was quite hideous.
Bobby pulled the blanket over him and left for a minute. He returned with a glass of water and a couple of little white pills. Sam ignored the glass and dry swallowed the Tylenol. Bobby set the water on the floor within easy reach. Sam was nearly asleep before Bobby had time to move.
“Get some rest. I’ll talk to your brother.”
“’Kay Bobby. Thanks,” he said, not caring if it was unintelligible. He was just too tired to fool with the pad.
There was a short silence, then a hand ruffled his hair and he was asleep. Bobby straightened and snapped his fingers at Rumsfeld who was hovering near the foot of the couch, watching the exchange intently.
“Rumsfeld, heel.” He said sternly. The dog seemed reluctant to leave, but Bobby grabbed him by the collar and guided him out onto the porch, the same way Dean had gone.
Bobby gave Dean a good ten minutes out in the scrap yard, letting him beat the crap out of an old Honda with a wrench. He wondered what exactly was going through the boy’s head. He leaned over the rail, watching Dean in his demolition. Rumsfeld leaned up against his leg, warm and soft.
“Finally remembered who feeds you, huh?” Bobby said to the dog. The dog gave a little bark and wagged his tail. Bobby reached down and scratched his head.
He stood like that for a minute, wondering how exactly he was going to pull Dean back in line. The boy had been through a lot in the last few weeks, but his brother needed him and the kid was making an ass out of himself. Not that Bobby could blame him. At that age, he’d probably not have been able to handle even half of the situation that Dean was managing.
John had really done a number on those kids.
Bobby pushed off and made for the stairs. Rumsfeld whined behind him. He glanced back. The dog was looking between him and the door. So he was a glorified door opener now. He walked back across the porch and pulled the screen open.
“There you go, traitor.”
Rumsfeld bound in and up to the couch. He laid his head on the cushion next to Sam’s head. Sam cracked an eye, barely awake. When he saw the dog, he smiled, patted his head, then scooted over to make room for him to get up on the couch. When boy and dog were settled and Sam seemed to have dropped back off to sleep, Bobby turned again and started towards Dean.
<< Masterpost Chapter 7b>>>