Hold On Until Dawn Chapter 16
Dan groaned and tried to wriggle from Dean’s hold. “Fuck off!”
“Look, the only reason I haven’t put a bullet in your brain,” he nudged Dan’s temple with the muzzle of his gun, “is Sam, the saint that he is, wouldn’t want me to. So instead I’m gonna give you two options, you either tell me where Schneider would hole up and I’ll call 911,” he motioned with the gun to the left, a cold considering tilt to his mouth, “or you keep mouthing off and when my friend gets back, I’ll leave your ass here to rot.” He angled the gun to the right and shrugged. “Your choice.”
Dan grunted, his tan work shirt nearly soaked through, and glared up at his boss. He startled as the man in the trenchcoat appeared in a rush of wind.
“Time’s up, Danny boy. What’s it going to be?” Dean stood, seating his gun in the back of his pants next to the knife he’d taken from Schneider’s house. When Dan didn’t answer, Dean moved closer to Castiel. “Let’s go.”
Castiel glanced at the man on the floor. “Dean, this man’s wounds are potentially fatal.”
“I gave him the chance to save himself, but…” Dean shrugged again, “His choice. Now, take me to Sammy.”
“Wait!” Dan yelped when he jerked his injuries, igniting the pain in his body. “You can’t just leave me here to die. I thought you said that Sam wouldn’t want you to kill me.”
“See, I actually can,” Dean peered over his shoulder, a humorless chuckle coating his words. “I said that Sam was a saint, not that I was, and Sammy learned long ago that you can’t save everyone. Especially stupid motherfuckers that won’t save themselves.” He nodded at the angel, waving his hand impatiently. “Sam. Now.”
“The cabin,” Dan called as the black haired man raised a hand to Dean’s face, “My folks own a cabin up by Piedmont Lake. We used to meet there when I was in high school. If he was in trouble, Nate would go there.”
Dean walked over and crouched next to his fallen deputy. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He dug into Dan’s front pocket and pulled his cell phone out. Dialing the phone, he gestured to the paper bag he’d dropped when he and Castiel first arrived at the warehouse. “Cas! Bring that over here where it’s sure to be seen.” When the ringing line was answered, Dean cleared his throat. “I’d like to report a shooting…Yeah, the old warehouse on Sycamore… My name? Sure, my name is…” He ended the call.
Tossing the phone on Dan’s chest, he stood. “Ambulance should be here soon. If you survive the blood loss and the sepsis, you should spend a long and healthy life as someone's bitch in state prison.”
“I’ll take you to your brother,” The dark haired man came up beside Dean and with a touch, the two disappeared, leaving Dan alone with his thoughts swirling around a dwindling consciousness.
*****
“Dean? What the hell is going on? That angel of yours shows up here with your brother, looking like he’s been to hell and back, and won’t tell us anything!” Dad’s angry voice assaulted his ears the moment that Dean became aware. Blinking, the interior of the Roadhouse came into focus and Dean took a breath.
“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded, ignoring the questions being peppered at him.
“In Jo’s room,” Ellen walked through the doorway that led to the private rooms in the back, wiping her hands on a towel.
Nodding, Dean began quickly making his way toward the young woman’s room.
“Dean!” John’s voice stopped him, his back snapping straight out of years of conditioning. “What happened to your brother?”
Jaw clenched against the words that were threatening to spew out, the guilt and remorse that were trying to pull him under and drown him, Dean turned to his father. “You want to know what happened to Sam?” At John’s nod, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the VCR tape free. Tossing the damning piece of plastic at his father, Dean seethed, “We’re what happened to him. We were too focused on finding the thing that killed Mom that we weren't watching the part of her we had left. We treated him like a child, claiming we were trying to keep him safe, when we were the ones that put him in the most danger.” He choked slightly and took a moment to regain some semblance of composure, “Sammy's Hell was paved with our good intentions, Dad. This is on us, nobody else."
“What are you talking about?” Confusion was written in every inch of John’s face as he stared at the tape in his lap. “Are you saying that we hurt Sam?”
"No, we just trusted that bastard that did. You and I both know that things were never right between the three of us after that job in Pike Creek, but now I know why - and you should too. Consider it the beginning of your penance and pray that Sammy forgives us, because I never will." He spun on his heel and made his way down the private hallway to the last door on the left, Castiel shadowing his footsteps.
Hand on the knob, Dean lowered his head. “He’s going to be okay, right?”
“I assure you, he is physically well and resting. I can not speak as to his mental health, though.” Castiel’s words were quiet and cautious.
Nodding, Dean pushed the door open to reveal a room completely decorated in pink and purple - the effeminate color palette such a contradiction to the personality of its owner that Dean was momentarily distracted from the figure on the bed, stunned. His eyes landed on his brother, nestled in soft pink sheets with a lavender comforter pulled around his shoulders, somehow seeming younger and smaller surrounded by the sea of pastels. Three strides had him hovering at Sam’s bedside, taking in the familiar features slackened in sleep.
Sam was on his back, face toward the wall, his hair damp and free of dried blood, a bucket with a rung out pink tinged washcloth draped over the side attesting to his recent clean-up. Trembling fingers wrapped over the edge of the thick blanket, carefully peeling it back from the supine body. Dean needed to know, to see, to be certain that Sam was alive and well under the mound of linens. Beneath the blankets, Sam’s chest and torso were bare, well-worn sweatpants riding low on his hips - the pair of faded blue cotton with the Marine Corp emblem screen printed on the leg was their dad’s and Dean suppressed the urge to rip them off. He ran his hands over the body he knew by heart, sighing at the rhythmic rise and fall of Sam’s chest and easy in and out of his breathing. Fingertips traced the sites of his injuries, failing to find any lingering reminders.
“Thank,” Dean cleared his voice of the emotion clogging it, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Castiel peered at Sam over Dean’s shoulder, “I can wake him whenever you are ready. I was reluctant for him to rouse before you were here.”
Dean shook his head, “Let him sleep.” Toeing off his boots, he placed his gun and knife on the nightstand in easy reach then gently stretched out next to his slumbering brother, arm draped carefully over him. Sam exhaled a contented sigh and moved into the heat and comfort. Not sure what tomorrow would bring for their relationship, Dean was willing to greedily take what he could, while he could.
“Look, the only reason I haven’t put a bullet in your brain,” he nudged Dan’s temple with the muzzle of his gun, “is Sam, the saint that he is, wouldn’t want me to. So instead I’m gonna give you two options, you either tell me where Schneider would hole up and I’ll call 911,” he motioned with the gun to the left, a cold considering tilt to his mouth, “or you keep mouthing off and when my friend gets back, I’ll leave your ass here to rot.” He angled the gun to the right and shrugged. “Your choice.”
Dan grunted, his tan work shirt nearly soaked through, and glared up at his boss. He startled as the man in the trenchcoat appeared in a rush of wind.
“Time’s up, Danny boy. What’s it going to be?” Dean stood, seating his gun in the back of his pants next to the knife he’d taken from Schneider’s house. When Dan didn’t answer, Dean moved closer to Castiel. “Let’s go.”
Castiel glanced at the man on the floor. “Dean, this man’s wounds are potentially fatal.”
“I gave him the chance to save himself, but…” Dean shrugged again, “His choice. Now, take me to Sammy.”
“Wait!” Dan yelped when he jerked his injuries, igniting the pain in his body. “You can’t just leave me here to die. I thought you said that Sam wouldn’t want you to kill me.”
“See, I actually can,” Dean peered over his shoulder, a humorless chuckle coating his words. “I said that Sam was a saint, not that I was, and Sammy learned long ago that you can’t save everyone. Especially stupid motherfuckers that won’t save themselves.” He nodded at the angel, waving his hand impatiently. “Sam. Now.”
“The cabin,” Dan called as the black haired man raised a hand to Dean’s face, “My folks own a cabin up by Piedmont Lake. We used to meet there when I was in high school. If he was in trouble, Nate would go there.”
Dean walked over and crouched next to his fallen deputy. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He dug into Dan’s front pocket and pulled his cell phone out. Dialing the phone, he gestured to the paper bag he’d dropped when he and Castiel first arrived at the warehouse. “Cas! Bring that over here where it’s sure to be seen.” When the ringing line was answered, Dean cleared his throat. “I’d like to report a shooting…Yeah, the old warehouse on Sycamore… My name? Sure, my name is…” He ended the call.
Tossing the phone on Dan’s chest, he stood. “Ambulance should be here soon. If you survive the blood loss and the sepsis, you should spend a long and healthy life as someone's bitch in state prison.”
“I’ll take you to your brother,” The dark haired man came up beside Dean and with a touch, the two disappeared, leaving Dan alone with his thoughts swirling around a dwindling consciousness.
*****
“Dean? What the hell is going on? That angel of yours shows up here with your brother, looking like he’s been to hell and back, and won’t tell us anything!” Dad’s angry voice assaulted his ears the moment that Dean became aware. Blinking, the interior of the Roadhouse came into focus and Dean took a breath.
“Where’s Sam?” Dean demanded, ignoring the questions being peppered at him.
“In Jo’s room,” Ellen walked through the doorway that led to the private rooms in the back, wiping her hands on a towel.
Nodding, Dean began quickly making his way toward the young woman’s room.
“Dean!” John’s voice stopped him, his back snapping straight out of years of conditioning. “What happened to your brother?”
Jaw clenched against the words that were threatening to spew out, the guilt and remorse that were trying to pull him under and drown him, Dean turned to his father. “You want to know what happened to Sam?” At John’s nod, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the VCR tape free. Tossing the damning piece of plastic at his father, Dean seethed, “We’re what happened to him. We were too focused on finding the thing that killed Mom that we weren't watching the part of her we had left. We treated him like a child, claiming we were trying to keep him safe, when we were the ones that put him in the most danger.” He choked slightly and took a moment to regain some semblance of composure, “Sammy's Hell was paved with our good intentions, Dad. This is on us, nobody else."
“What are you talking about?” Confusion was written in every inch of John’s face as he stared at the tape in his lap. “Are you saying that we hurt Sam?”
"No, we just trusted that bastard that did. You and I both know that things were never right between the three of us after that job in Pike Creek, but now I know why - and you should too. Consider it the beginning of your penance and pray that Sammy forgives us, because I never will." He spun on his heel and made his way down the private hallway to the last door on the left, Castiel shadowing his footsteps.
Hand on the knob, Dean lowered his head. “He’s going to be okay, right?”
“I assure you, he is physically well and resting. I can not speak as to his mental health, though.” Castiel’s words were quiet and cautious.
Nodding, Dean pushed the door open to reveal a room completely decorated in pink and purple - the effeminate color palette such a contradiction to the personality of its owner that Dean was momentarily distracted from the figure on the bed, stunned. His eyes landed on his brother, nestled in soft pink sheets with a lavender comforter pulled around his shoulders, somehow seeming younger and smaller surrounded by the sea of pastels. Three strides had him hovering at Sam’s bedside, taking in the familiar features slackened in sleep.
Sam was on his back, face toward the wall, his hair damp and free of dried blood, a bucket with a rung out pink tinged washcloth draped over the side attesting to his recent clean-up. Trembling fingers wrapped over the edge of the thick blanket, carefully peeling it back from the supine body. Dean needed to know, to see, to be certain that Sam was alive and well under the mound of linens. Beneath the blankets, Sam’s chest and torso were bare, well-worn sweatpants riding low on his hips - the pair of faded blue cotton with the Marine Corp emblem screen printed on the leg was their dad’s and Dean suppressed the urge to rip them off. He ran his hands over the body he knew by heart, sighing at the rhythmic rise and fall of Sam’s chest and easy in and out of his breathing. Fingertips traced the sites of his injuries, failing to find any lingering reminders.
“Thank,” Dean cleared his voice of the emotion clogging it, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Castiel peered at Sam over Dean’s shoulder, “I can wake him whenever you are ready. I was reluctant for him to rouse before you were here.”
Dean shook his head, “Let him sleep.” Toeing off his boots, he placed his gun and knife on the nightstand in easy reach then gently stretched out next to his slumbering brother, arm draped carefully over him. Sam exhaled a contented sigh and moved into the heat and comfort. Not sure what tomorrow would bring for their relationship, Dean was willing to greedily take what he could, while he could.