If It Wasn't For Bad Luck
If It Wasn't For Bad Luck
Summary: Someone was going to die for this. Dean didn't know anything else at that moment but of that much he was certain. Someone was going to pay. HurtSam, BigBroDean
A/N: This is nothing but an excuse to have Dean look after Sam pretending to be a story. Enjoy.
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Born under a bad sign, been down since I began to crawl
If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all
¬ Albert King
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Someone was going to die for this.
Dean didn't know anything else at that moment but of that much he was certain. Someone was going to pay.
“Sam” forms on his lips automatically, disbelief, relief and horror all mingled in his tone. His hands are reaching across the threshold to draw his brother in, to stop him from falling because Sam is swaying under the strain of staying upright and, the fucking state the kid's in, Dean's amazed he's on his feet at all.
“Hi,” Sam says, taking all of half a step before he's crumbling into Dean's arms, hands twisting in Dean's shirt in a vague effort to hold himself up as he reels drunkenly. The problem is obvious; Sam is practically glowing with fever and his jeans are stiff with blood from hip to knee on his right side, the circular tear mid-thigh suggesting bullet rather than blade. Dean catches him easily, ready to take his weight, and half-drags, half-carries his brother to the nearest bed, kicking the door closed behind him.
“Hi,” he echoes numbly. “Three fucking days and you show up on the doorstop like this and all you say is hi?”
Sam moans through his teeth with Dean lowers him onto the mattress, pressing his forehead against Dean's shoulder. Dean lets him stay like that for a moment to catch his breath (and, okay, maybe to prolong the closeness a little. Three fucking days.) until Sam pulls back - Dean wraps his hands around Sam's biceps when the kid lists dizzily - and looks up at him through strands of tangled, unwashed hair. His left eye is swollen almost shut, deep black from eyelash to eyebrow, mottled purple from cheekbone to hairline.
“Sorry I'm late,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in an exhausted attempt at a smile.
Dean breathes out a laugh, giddy with relief, and eases Sam down onto the bed. Sam swaps his death-grip on Dean for a death-grip on the sheets beneath him. Dean bends to lift Sam's legs, trying to hold the injured one as steady as he can, and Sam twists to press his face into the pillow, sucking in a pained breath. Dean would prefer him on his back rather than his side but he's not going to push it now, particularly when he realizes that the side Sam's avoiding is a mess of boot-shaped bruises.
“Jesus, Sammy... what the hell happened?” Dean's hands find the first aid kid through touch alone. His eyes don't leave his brother, cataloguing, planning his course of action. The bullet wound needs attention; it's days old, untreated, and obviously infected. Sam's feet are bare, the jacket and button-down shirt he was wearing when he left three days ago to grab dinner are gone, and his t-shirt is soaked red at the collar. The blood here is still tacky. Dean perches himself on the edge of the bed and leans over his brother, nudging him just a little further onto his back as he follows the trickle of blood to a sluggishly bleeding wound at Sam's throat, just above his collarbone, previously obscured by a strip of fabric that dangles around his neck. A gag, still tied behind Sam's head. It catches when Dean tries to move it out of the way and Sam bats at his hand feebly. Strands of hair are pulled into the knot, tight and painful. “I looked everywhere. Like, literally everywhere. You were just gone.”
Sam looks like he'd rather be unconscious than answering questions, glazed eyes lazily tracking Dean's hands as they set the first aid kit on the bedside table, but he licks his cracked lips and answers anyway (thank God, three fucking days, Dean needs to hear the kid talking).
“There was a guy,” he says. Which, really, Sam? Not all that informative. But the kid isn't exactly firing on all cylinders so Dean resigns himself to a slow, confused version of events for now.
He selects a pair of scissors and cuts through the gag so he can see the gash clearly. He'll deal with unpicking the knot later. The wound is fresh, deep but short, still dribbling blood that pools in the hollow of Sam's throat. Kid needs stitches. Two, maybe three.
“A guy did this to you?” Dean questions. “Why?” His hands are on autopilot. He needs antiseptic, gauze, needle and thread...
“He was a hunter.”
Dean pauses. “A hunter did this?” Friend of Gordon, maybe? Someone else who met a chatty demon? Sam's eyes have slipped closed and for a moment Dean's afraid he's lost him, but then he dabs at the gash at Sam's throat, mopping up the blood for a clearer view of the damage, and the sting brings Sam back gasping.
“Whoa, hey. Easy, Sammy, easy,” Dean soothes. “Just getting you cleaned up.”
“Ow,” Sam whines, a hand fluttering towards his throat. Dean grasps it and sets it on his knee instead, letting Sam curl his fingers around the denim. Sam's wrist is bruised, raw with rope burn. A quick glance shows his other wrist is no better. Three days. He probably got about as much sleep as Dean did, which is to say, practically none. No wonder Sam's on the verge of fading out.
“Hey.” Dean taps the back of Sam's hand, not willing to shake the kid while he's so injured. Sam's eyes refocus on his face. “Think you can swallow some pills for me? We should get some painkillers in you, and something for the infection.”
Sam hooks a finger in Dean's sleeve. “Water?”
Right. Water. Dean feels Sam's gaze following him as he walks to the kitchenette to fill a glass. The water here has a funky after-taste to it - he remembers Sam complaining about it when they first checked in - but Sam gulps it down like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. Dean stops him halfway and gets him to swallow some pills. They probably won't do all that much for the pain - a bullet wound is a bit beyond even their strongest pilfered painkillers pay grade - but they should take the edge off, at least. Dean's more concerned about the infection anyway.
He takes the glass back when Sam's finished and sets it on the side table. If the water stays down, he'll get Sam some more soon. If it doesn't, he might have to MacGyver an IV. Dehydration's a concern, just not quite as much as the bleeding throat and infected bullet wound.
Sam's eyes are closed again.
“Hey.” Dean presses his palm to Sam's forehead, as if checking for the fever he's already aware of. “You checking out on me?”
“Nuh-uh,” Sam mutters. His eyelashes flutter for a moment before he finds the strength to open his eyes. “'m still here.”
“Good. It got kinda lonely without you around, you know. Missed that stupid voice of yours.” Dean busies himself threading a needle with quick, practised motions. “You said there was a hunter?”
“Mm. A friend-” Sam breaks off with a hiss when Dean gently swipes at his bloody throat.
“Sorry.” Dean winces sympathetically. “Not a friend of yours, I'm guessing.”
Sam starts to shake his head, the idiot. Dean presses his palm back to Sam's forehead, stilling him before he can aggravate the wound further. “No moving. I'm gonna start stitching in a sec.”
Sam scrunches his face up unhappily. “Friend of Steve Wandell.”
Dean is glad he hasn't started the stitches. The name elicits a visceral flash of memory that jolts his hands; inky black eyes staring out of Sam's face, holy water steaming on his brother's skin. “The guy that Meg killed?” He hasn't thought about that for months. He'd made sure there was no evidence, nothing to lead anyone back to Sam.
“Guy that I killed,” Sam murmurs.
“The guy that Meg killed while you were riding shotgun. Don't start this again. It wasn't you.” Dean eyes the wound critically, needle poised. “Stay still, okay?”
Sam grits his teeth. One hand fists in the bedsheets and the other reclaims Dean's knee to cling to as Dean pushes the needle through the torn flesh at his throat.
“Wandell's friend have a name?” Dean asks as he ties off the first stitch.
Sam blows out a breath, blinking a little too dazedly for Dean's liking. “Davis.”
“Davis,” Dean repeats. It doesn't ring any bells. No one Dean knows. “We need to worry about him coming after you?”
“No.”
Sam sounds certain enough that Dean immediately understands the implication behind the word. He pauses before the second stitch, wrapping his hand over Sam's. “You did what you had to do to get away.”
Sam's eyes are fixed on the first aid kit beside the bed and his voice is flat. “It wasn't me. There was someone else there too.”
Oh. Dean gives Sam's hand a squeeze and starts on the second stitch. It looks like two will do the job. “Another friend of Wandell?”
“No.” Sam bites down a moan as Dean pulls the thread, drawing split skin back together. He spits out the word “Psychic” through clenched teeth.
Dean sets the needle down in the bowl of disinfectant. “Psychic like...?” Like Sam? One of the demon's chosen kids? How complicated is this mess?
“No,” Sam says wearily. “Not like me. He was old. Davis hired him.”
“And he was the real deal?” Other than Missouri, Dean hasn't heard of any bona fide psychics.
“Mm.” Sam absently raises a hand to probe at the stitches. Dean smacks it lightly away. “He said he touched Wandell's body and was able to see who killed him.”
“Which led him and Davis to you,” Dean surmises sourly. “And this guy's still out there?” He glances uneasily towards the door, at the weapons bag on the floor by Sam's bed.
“He won't come after me,” Sam says.
“How do you know?”
“Told you. He helped me... after a while.” Sam attempts a self-deprecating smile. “You didn't think I got back here by myself, did you?”
Actually, that's exactly what Dean had thought. There wasn't anyone else in the parking lot when he answered Sam's knock. He'd figured Sam had stolen a car from somewhere, not been dropped off by someone.
“So what, he just dumped you in the parking lot and took off?” Dean scowls. “After everything he did?”
“He didn't really do anything.” Sam's eyes are losing focus without the pain of Dean's stitching tethering him to consciousness. “'part from telling Davis what he saw.” He blinks up at Dean. “I didn't think it was a good idea for him to stick around. Kinda thought you might shoot first.”
Dean thinks back to the first thing that crossed his mind when he opened the motel room door and saw Sam looking only slightly more alive than the last corpse they burnt. Maybe Sam's right. Even knowing that the psychic did help Sam eventually, Dean's not feeling all that charitable towards him. Kid shouldn't have needed his help in the first place.
“So what made him switch sides?” Dean forces himself to focus, retrieving the scissors. “Say 'bye' to these jeans, by the way.”
“Bye, jeans,” Sam mumbles obediently. Dean has to break Sam's grip on his leg so he can move down the bed, which he feels bad about but it can't be helped. He also has to push Sam onto his back, which he feels worse about - especially when the slight pressure on Sam's bruises is enough to make the kid whimper - but that can't be helped either. He needs a clear view of the injury. He starts at the ankle, sliding the sharp blades through the denim. He's as careful as he can be when he gets to Sam's thigh, easing the stiff, bloody denim away from the wound, but Sam's gasping and choking down moans by the time Dean finishes cutting his jeans out of the way. Dean has to bite his lip and force himself to ignore the sounds Sam's making so he can keep going. Close up, it looks even worse than it did during his first cursory inspection. A ragged, bloody hole, raw and inflamed and seeping pus.
“Bullet still in there?”
Sam gives his head a minute shake, still tense and breathing heavily. “Davis dug it out. I think. I was blindfolded. Maybe it was the psychic.”
Dean unwillingly pictures his kid brother, alone and in agony in the dark, and has to force himself to speak lightly. “Blindfolded, huh? Sounds like a wild weekend.”
The corners of Sam's mouth twitch upwards. “Too bad I'm not into bondage.”
Dean snorts despite himself, despite the situation. He's been riding a wave of adrenaline from the moment he saw Sam and some slight hysteria is trying to creep in. Sam's back but he's a mess and now Dean has to clean out the bullet wound. And it's going to hurt like a son of a bitch.
“You know, if you wanna pass out before I get started here, I won't hold it against you,” he suggests.
Sam's face is tight with pain already, sweat beading on his brow, when he turns his feverish gaze on Dean. “That bad, huh?”
Dean shrugs. “Hey, I'm just saying. You don't have to stay awake on my account. I won't even tease you for fainting. Not much anyway.”
Sam huffs out what could be a laugh. “Yeah, well. Maybe I missed your stupid voice too.”
Dean can't stop the goofy grin that spreads across his face at that, even as he arranges what he needs from the first aid kit. Three god-damned days. He's barely slept, running on caffeine and desperation as he turned the town upside down. He knows Sam had it worse but honestly, if he had the choice, he'd take three days with a deranged hunter over three days of not knowing what the hell happened to his brother.
Which reminds him. “You didn't answer my question before.”
Sam's watching him gathering medical supplies with a growing air of apprehension. “What was the question?”
“The psychic,” Dean elaborates. “How come he helped you?”
“Oh. He said, when he touched me, the memories didn't match up.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Here goes nothing. As gently as possible, Dean starts cleaning the weeping flesh of Sam's thigh.
“I don't-” Sam shudders “-really know. He just said something was wrong with them. Fuck, Dean, that really hurts.”
Sam tries to lift his head to see what Dean's doing, and promptly turns green.
“Don't look,” Dean admonishes quickly. “It's always worse when you look, you know that.”
“I'm gonna be sick.” Dean can't blame the kid. He's kind of queasy from the sight of it himself and he doesn't have to feel it.
“Deep breaths, kiddo.”
Sam drapes an arm over his eyes, muscles tense, breathing short and shaky, despite Dean's instructions. Dean doesn't stop cleaning. May as well get it over with rather than drag it out.
“Okay, so psychic guy took your side. What happened next?” There's still a body Sam hasn't quite explained and, while it might not be the most comforting of conversation topics, it sure beats having Sam focus on what Dean's doing to his leg.
“He, uh, I don't know exactly.” Sam flinches as Dean swabs gently at what looks like a particularly tender spot. “They weren't always with- with me. But he got Davis to wait.”
“Wait for what?” Jesus, Sam's leg is a mess. Sam's shaking, which isn't making cleaning it any easier, but it's not like the kid can help it. Sam's hand fists convulsively in the bedsheets, white-knuckled, pain drenching all the colour from his face, which only serves to make what Dean can see of the black eye appear even starker. Sammy must've taken one hell of a hit to end up with a shiner that violent. Dean should probably be keeping an eye out for a concussion on top of everything else.
“For, uh- ah, fuck, Dean, ow - for him to figure out why his vision was messed up. He wouldn't let Davis kill me.”
Well, maybe Dean owes the guy one after all. Maybe. Dean's not sure he can forgive the 'helping the hunter who wants to kill the kid' part. “So you got a chance to explain?”
“Ow... um, 'ventually.” Sam's starting to lose the fight to stay conscious - which shows how exhausted the kid must be. Pain is the only thing holding him above the surface and it looks like pretty soon even that won't be enough. Sam sighs. “Didn't make a difference to Davis.”
It takes a moment for that to register, then Dean rocks back, outraged. “How can that not make a difference? You didn't kill that guy. Meg did.”
Sam just waves his fingers vaguely in a way that smacks of 'details', apparently too tired to muster up any outrage of his own. “Maybe he thought I was lying. Dunno. Everything was getting kinda hazy by then.”
“I'll bet,” Dean mutters grimly, moving back to the task at hand. The wound's looking better, if you can call ragged, torn flesh 'better'. Cleaner, at least. “I think I can stitch this now.”
Sam lets his arm fall back against the pillow and laboriously lifts his head to check out the wound.
“What did I say about looking at it?” Dean chides, and Sam lets his head drop back, sucking in a deep breath.
“It looks good,” he says, which just proves how terrible it looked before.
“That's a relative term.” It's going to leave an ugly scar, no matter how neat Dean makes his stitches, a permanent reminder of the last three days. He still wants to kill someone for putting Sammy through this but the only person left alive is the psychic, and maybe Dean owes him enough to not track him down and put a bullet in him.
“'s okay,” Sam sighs, eyes sliding closed. He releases his grip on the sheet to clumsily pat Dean's arm. “'m okay.”
“Yeah.” Dean has to clear his throat when the word comes out tight. “Yeah, you'll be fine. Soon as you're on your feet, we'll leave all this in the rear-view mirror. Sound good?”
“Sounds awesome,” Sam mumbles.
Dean waits until his brother's breathing evens out before reaching for the needle. Sam's fingers are still tangled in his shirt sleeve, holding on, and he's reluctant to break the grip.
“You'll be fine,” Dean says again. Probably not for Sam's benefit, but whatever.
END