Fic: Damage Control (1/1)
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He'd told Sam he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. But just how far was he willing to take that promise? Post-ep for "Hunted."
Author's note: Many thanks to iamstealthyone for beta. I really, really don't know what I'd do without you. The crown is secure.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
"Ava."
Sam's voice was raw. Broken.
Dean directed the flashlight's beam to where his brother crouched on the floor beside the bed, a blood-covered ring held almost reverently between his long fingers. Sam's expression was dazed, his face washed of color.
Shit. So much for the hope that the girl hadn't been here when...whatever went down.
"Sam?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.
"She was getting married. In eight weeks. She was worried about getting the invitations addressed." He chuckled raggedly, eyes glistening. "Guess that's not an issue now, huh?"
Dean moved around the bloodstain to his brother's side. The smell of death--copper and other, even less pleasant odors--was thick in his nostrils, and his stomach churned in response. "Let's go. This is a crime scene, and I've had my fill of cops for one night."
Sam straightened, but staggered back a couple steps before Dean caught hold of his arm, steadying him.
"Whoa. What was that?" Dean asked sharply, giving Sam a quick once over.
"Nothing. Just stood up too fast." Sam rubbed the back of his head, dropping his hand when he caught Dean looking.
Dean frowned. "So, Sammy. During your little dance with Gordon... Did you happen to take a knock to the head?"
Sam grimaced. "Uh...not exactly."
"Not exactly? The hell does that mean?"
With a shrug of his shoulders, Sam evaded Dean's gaze. "Gordon didn't hit me over the head or anything, but..."
"But?" Dean prodded, impatient.
"He kinda...um...kicked me through a wall."
Dean closed his eyes and tried counting to ten. He made it to three.
"Damn it, Sam, you didn't think that was worth sharing when we were cleaning up back at the motel?"
Out came the bitchface, easing a little of Dean's worry. "I didn't think it was a big deal! It's not like I was knocked out or anything." Sam narrowed his eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what about you? How exactly did Gordon get you tied up in that chair?"
Dean reached reflexively for the tender bruise at his hairline before he stopped himself with a scowl. "That's not the-- You know what? Forget it. Let's get out of here."
"Fine with me."
But Sam sounded far more weary than irritated. As Dean watched from the corner of his eye, his brother hesitated, then slipped Ava's ring into his pocket.
Back in the car and on the road, neither of them had much to say. Sam looked terrible, bruises beginning to blossom on his cheekbone and at the corner of his mouth, a stark contrast to his pallor. Worse, though, was the anguish in his blank, unseeing gaze. Whoever this Ava chick was, she'd gotten under his brother's skin in a way no one had since Sarah.
And Dean... Dean was feeling a little shell-shocked himself. He didn't believe the crap Gordon had spouted about Sam going darkside and turning into some kind of evil Rambo. Sam, who was the poster boy for non-violent solutions. Who had made friends with a nest of vampires. It was crazy.
But Gordon believed it--believed it enough to kill. And so did Dad whispered the little voice that had been hounding him since that moment in the hospital when one hushed confidence had changed everything. Had turned the world as he knew it upside down.
He still couldn't seem to find his feet.
Dad had raised him to be Sam's protector as surely as he'd raised him to be a hunter. Watch out for Sam, take care of Sam, he's your responsibility, don't let anything bad happen to him. It had become his mantra, his touchstone. For Dad to even consider killing Sam was unthinkable.
For Dad to ask him to do it...
As he'd done so often over the last few months, Dean shoved that thought down deep and tried to focus on the moment. He and Sam were both in bad shape. Gordon might be a son of a bitch, but he damn well knew a thing or two about hand to hand. Dean's head still throbbed, Sam looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a brick wall, and neither of them had been sleeping much lately. Time for a little damage control.
When he pulled into the motel parking lot, Sam didn't comment, just watched with dead eyes as he got out of the car and booked them a room. Dean kept a sharp eye on his brother as they pulled their bags from the trunk and carried them to their room. Sam seemed steady enough, but you could never be too careful.
Once inside, Dean dropped his duffel and gave Sam a nudge toward the closest bed. "Sit down and let me take a look."
He didn't phrase it as a request.
Sam rolled his eyes but complied.
It wasn't hard to find the point of impact; Sam flinched and hissed when Dean's fingers brushed the substantial goose egg at the base of his skull. "Watch it, man! That hurts!"
"Sorry."
Dean carefully parted the long strands, wincing himself when he found a half-inch cut crusted with dried blood. Though obviously painful, it was superficial, and the bleeding had stopped on its own. He moved around and crouched at eye level, grabbing Sam's chin and tilting his head toward the light. Both pupils constricted, reacting normally.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, flipping his brother the bird.
Sam made his classic "Why do I put up with you?" face. "Funny. Dude, I said I was fine." He batted Dean's hand away and stood.
The last of the warm, fuzzies--Oh, God, Sammy's alive!--had worked their way out of Dean's system, giving free rein to his irritation. "Uh-huh. Thanks to dumb luck." He grabbed his duffel and carried it to the other bed.
Sam drew his brows together. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Damn. It was time to do laundry. Dean pulled out a tee shirt, sniffed it, then reached for a pair of boxers. "Nothing."
Like the pit bull he was, Sam couldn't let it go. "Didn't sound like nothing."
"Then take it however you want. I'm gonna shower." Dean managed two steps before he ran into Sam's imitation of a roadblock. "Dude, get out of my way."
"Not until you tell me why you're so pissed over a bump on the head."
Dean's eyes were gritty, his head ached, and he could smell his own sweat--never a good sign. "Just forget it." He tried to shoulder past, but Sam held him back with a huge paw to the chest.
"It's not like Gordon didn't get the drop on you, too."
Something lurked beneath the defensiveness in Sam's voice, and his eyes were too bright.
"Sam--"
"And don't forget, I saved your ass."
That did it. Dean knotted his fingers in Sam's shirt, shoving him against the wall. "It wouldn't have needed saving if you hadn't ditched me like a bad date! How do you think it felt to wake up and find you gone, no forwarding address? Did you for one minute stop to think I might, I don't know, be worried about your selfish ass?"
Sam's expression was momentarily open and defenseless with shock before his brow furrowed and he gave Dean a hard push that sent him staggering backward. "Selfish? You knew how freaked out I was over these visions, over the demon's plans for me. You sat there and listened and said nothing. And then, when I finally drag the truth out of you, you want time? Screw that! You had months!"
"Then you tell me that to my face, damn it! Don't nod and wait for the first opportunity to sneak off behind my back." The anger flowed out of Dean as abruptly as it had flared, leaving behind a relentless pounding in his head and a chunk of ice in his gut. "Conversation's over." He scooped up the boxers and tee from where they'd fallen to the floor and headed for the bathroom without giving Sam a second glance.
He took his time in the shower. For once he'd picked a motel with decent plumbing and he let the hot water pound, easing stiff and aching muscles. By the time he walked out of the bathroom the headache had receded and all he wanted to do was sleep.
He expected Sam to continue the argument, because--Hello? Pit bull. But his brother just gave him a long look before disappearing inside the bathroom and shutting the door.
Dean removed his knife before tucking the weapons bag out of the way, then bundled up his dirty clothes and stuffed them in the bottom of his duffel. He'd slilpped the knife under his pillow and started to peel back his blankets when something caught his eye.
On the night table by his bed sat a steaming cup of coffee--the good stuff--and two aspirin.
Dean snorted and shook his head. Apology accepted.
Sam took his own sweet time in the shower--but then, his brother had always been a girl that way.
Despite the lights, and thanks to a generous helping of fatigue and a mattress free of lumps, Dean slipped into a doze. With a distant corner of his brain he registered the bathroom door opening, a rush of humid air, and Sam quietly moving around the room.
The lights went out. Bare feet padded to the other bed and the mattress creaked as Sam laid down. The sheets rustled and his breathing stuttered and caught as he searched for a comfortable position, then settled with a muffled sigh.
Eyes shut, Dean's lips curved in response. How well did you know someone when even their sounds made perfect sense?
"You're right."
Dean snapped his eyes open, jerked back from the brink of sleep. He turned his head, peering through the darkness. Sam lay on his stomach, his cheek pillowed on his folded arms, probably in deference to the lump on the back of his head. He didn't move, and for a moment Dean wondered if he'd imagined the words.
"I should have told you I was leaving." Sam's voice was low and rough. "I just... I'm sick of feeling like a pawn in some cosmic chess game. I've got to do something, and that means finding out what the demon really wants from me. What I am. God, Dean, I don't even know what I am."
Sam drew in a hitching breath, and the words spilled faster. "Dad never should've laid this on you. And you sure as hell shouldn't have kept it from me. But that's not why I left without telling you."
He lifted his head, and his eyes shone in the sliver of light that crept between the curtains. "You wanted time, and I needed answers, and... Look, I get that you're tired and you're hurting, man, I do. And I wish I could change that, but I can't. Truth is, it's all I can do to hold my own shit together right now. I just...I couldn't deal with yours too."
Dean clenched his jaw and closed burning eyes. The truth was he'd never have made it through the past few months without Sam. His brother had been solid ground when it felt as if everything around him was turning to quicksand. It was about damn time he took his turn.
Sam must have taken his silence for anger. He dropped his head onto his arms, and resignation colored his voice. "Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You deserved--"
"I know what you are." Dean said it quietly but firmly, the tone he'd used to win a thousand different arguments over the years. The one that said, "I'm the big brother, and I'm always right."
Caught off guard, Sam went still. "What?"
"I said, I know what you are." Dean paused, just to make sure he had his brother's undivided attention. "I watched you take your first steps, Sammy. I patched you up when you got hurt--and considering what a klutz you were, that was practically every other day. I covered for you with Dad when you practiced soccer instead of shooting..." He huffed a breathy laugh. "I helped you get a date with Marina Carter--who was way out of your league, by the way--and picked up the pieces when she broke your emo heart."
Sam shook his head. "I don't... What are you trying to say?"
Dean propped himself up on one elbow and leaned closer. "I know what you are, better than anyone. You're a Winchester. You're my brother. And you're a good person, Sam. None of what that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch, or Gordon, or even Dad said changes that."
"I want to believe that," Sam said, sounding uncertain and very young. "You know, Gordon said I'm no better than the things we hunt."
Dean fisted the blankets. "Gordon's a jackass and I still wish you'd let me take him out," he said between gritted teeth.
"Maybe. But the truth is, you can't be sure he's not right. Max, Anson, Scott... They didn't start out evil. But they became monsters just the same." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "I'm not going to become one of them, Dean. I'd rather be dead than some demon's trained killer. If it comes to that... You'll take care of things, won't you?"
The question hit him like a knife, low in the belly, and Dean was absurdly grateful for the cover of darkness. It took everything he had to keep his voice even. "I promised I'd never let anything bad happen to you, Sammy. I meant it."
Sam let out a long breath, and Dean could sense the release of tension. "Thanks."
Feeling a little as if he'd dodged a bullet, Dean stretched out on his back. Whether distracted by exhaustion or his own fears, Sam had accepted his words at face value. Just as he'd hoped.
"'Course, I can't keep bad stuff from happening if I'm not there to watch your back," he added.
Sam huffed, but there was a smile in his voice. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Won't happen again."
"Good. 'Cause next time I promise you, I will kick your ass."
"I know I can count on your promises," Sam said quietly.
Dean's throat tightened. "Damn straight."
He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, listening as Sam's movements gradually stilled and his breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep. His own muscles felt twitchy and restless, his thoughts dark.
He'd told Sam he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, but how far was he willing to take that promise?
Dean wasn't sure what scared him more--that if the time came he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger. Or that he would.
Minutes turned to hours, Sam muttered and dreamed, but it was a long time before Dean slept.
End
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He'd told Sam he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. But just how far was he willing to take that promise? Post-ep for "Hunted."
Author's note: Many thanks to iamstealthyone for beta. I really, really don't know what I'd do without you. The crown is secure.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
"Ava."
Sam's voice was raw. Broken.
Dean directed the flashlight's beam to where his brother crouched on the floor beside the bed, a blood-covered ring held almost reverently between his long fingers. Sam's expression was dazed, his face washed of color.
Shit. So much for the hope that the girl hadn't been here when...whatever went down.
"Sam?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.
"She was getting married. In eight weeks. She was worried about getting the invitations addressed." He chuckled raggedly, eyes glistening. "Guess that's not an issue now, huh?"
Dean moved around the bloodstain to his brother's side. The smell of death--copper and other, even less pleasant odors--was thick in his nostrils, and his stomach churned in response. "Let's go. This is a crime scene, and I've had my fill of cops for one night."
Sam straightened, but staggered back a couple steps before Dean caught hold of his arm, steadying him.
"Whoa. What was that?" Dean asked sharply, giving Sam a quick once over.
"Nothing. Just stood up too fast." Sam rubbed the back of his head, dropping his hand when he caught Dean looking.
Dean frowned. "So, Sammy. During your little dance with Gordon... Did you happen to take a knock to the head?"
Sam grimaced. "Uh...not exactly."
"Not exactly? The hell does that mean?"
With a shrug of his shoulders, Sam evaded Dean's gaze. "Gordon didn't hit me over the head or anything, but..."
"But?" Dean prodded, impatient.
"He kinda...um...kicked me through a wall."
Dean closed his eyes and tried counting to ten. He made it to three.
"Damn it, Sam, you didn't think that was worth sharing when we were cleaning up back at the motel?"
Out came the bitchface, easing a little of Dean's worry. "I didn't think it was a big deal! It's not like I was knocked out or anything." Sam narrowed his eyes. "And while we're on the subject, what about you? How exactly did Gordon get you tied up in that chair?"
Dean reached reflexively for the tender bruise at his hairline before he stopped himself with a scowl. "That's not the-- You know what? Forget it. Let's get out of here."
"Fine with me."
But Sam sounded far more weary than irritated. As Dean watched from the corner of his eye, his brother hesitated, then slipped Ava's ring into his pocket.
Back in the car and on the road, neither of them had much to say. Sam looked terrible, bruises beginning to blossom on his cheekbone and at the corner of his mouth, a stark contrast to his pallor. Worse, though, was the anguish in his blank, unseeing gaze. Whoever this Ava chick was, she'd gotten under his brother's skin in a way no one had since Sarah.
And Dean... Dean was feeling a little shell-shocked himself. He didn't believe the crap Gordon had spouted about Sam going darkside and turning into some kind of evil Rambo. Sam, who was the poster boy for non-violent solutions. Who had made friends with a nest of vampires. It was crazy.
But Gordon believed it--believed it enough to kill. And so did Dad whispered the little voice that had been hounding him since that moment in the hospital when one hushed confidence had changed everything. Had turned the world as he knew it upside down.
He still couldn't seem to find his feet.
Dad had raised him to be Sam's protector as surely as he'd raised him to be a hunter. Watch out for Sam, take care of Sam, he's your responsibility, don't let anything bad happen to him. It had become his mantra, his touchstone. For Dad to even consider killing Sam was unthinkable.
For Dad to ask him to do it...
As he'd done so often over the last few months, Dean shoved that thought down deep and tried to focus on the moment. He and Sam were both in bad shape. Gordon might be a son of a bitch, but he damn well knew a thing or two about hand to hand. Dean's head still throbbed, Sam looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a brick wall, and neither of them had been sleeping much lately. Time for a little damage control.
When he pulled into the motel parking lot, Sam didn't comment, just watched with dead eyes as he got out of the car and booked them a room. Dean kept a sharp eye on his brother as they pulled their bags from the trunk and carried them to their room. Sam seemed steady enough, but you could never be too careful.
Once inside, Dean dropped his duffel and gave Sam a nudge toward the closest bed. "Sit down and let me take a look."
He didn't phrase it as a request.
Sam rolled his eyes but complied.
It wasn't hard to find the point of impact; Sam flinched and hissed when Dean's fingers brushed the substantial goose egg at the base of his skull. "Watch it, man! That hurts!"
"Sorry."
Dean carefully parted the long strands, wincing himself when he found a half-inch cut crusted with dried blood. Though obviously painful, it was superficial, and the bleeding had stopped on its own. He moved around and crouched at eye level, grabbing Sam's chin and tilting his head toward the light. Both pupils constricted, reacting normally.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, flipping his brother the bird.
Sam made his classic "Why do I put up with you?" face. "Funny. Dude, I said I was fine." He batted Dean's hand away and stood.
The last of the warm, fuzzies--Oh, God, Sammy's alive!--had worked their way out of Dean's system, giving free rein to his irritation. "Uh-huh. Thanks to dumb luck." He grabbed his duffel and carried it to the other bed.
Sam drew his brows together. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Damn. It was time to do laundry. Dean pulled out a tee shirt, sniffed it, then reached for a pair of boxers. "Nothing."
Like the pit bull he was, Sam couldn't let it go. "Didn't sound like nothing."
"Then take it however you want. I'm gonna shower." Dean managed two steps before he ran into Sam's imitation of a roadblock. "Dude, get out of my way."
"Not until you tell me why you're so pissed over a bump on the head."
Dean's eyes were gritty, his head ached, and he could smell his own sweat--never a good sign. "Just forget it." He tried to shoulder past, but Sam held him back with a huge paw to the chest.
"It's not like Gordon didn't get the drop on you, too."
Something lurked beneath the defensiveness in Sam's voice, and his eyes were too bright.
"Sam--"
"And don't forget, I saved your ass."
That did it. Dean knotted his fingers in Sam's shirt, shoving him against the wall. "It wouldn't have needed saving if you hadn't ditched me like a bad date! How do you think it felt to wake up and find you gone, no forwarding address? Did you for one minute stop to think I might, I don't know, be worried about your selfish ass?"
Sam's expression was momentarily open and defenseless with shock before his brow furrowed and he gave Dean a hard push that sent him staggering backward. "Selfish? You knew how freaked out I was over these visions, over the demon's plans for me. You sat there and listened and said nothing. And then, when I finally drag the truth out of you, you want time? Screw that! You had months!"
"Then you tell me that to my face, damn it! Don't nod and wait for the first opportunity to sneak off behind my back." The anger flowed out of Dean as abruptly as it had flared, leaving behind a relentless pounding in his head and a chunk of ice in his gut. "Conversation's over." He scooped up the boxers and tee from where they'd fallen to the floor and headed for the bathroom without giving Sam a second glance.
He took his time in the shower. For once he'd picked a motel with decent plumbing and he let the hot water pound, easing stiff and aching muscles. By the time he walked out of the bathroom the headache had receded and all he wanted to do was sleep.
He expected Sam to continue the argument, because--Hello? Pit bull. But his brother just gave him a long look before disappearing inside the bathroom and shutting the door.
Dean removed his knife before tucking the weapons bag out of the way, then bundled up his dirty clothes and stuffed them in the bottom of his duffel. He'd slilpped the knife under his pillow and started to peel back his blankets when something caught his eye.
On the night table by his bed sat a steaming cup of coffee--the good stuff--and two aspirin.
Dean snorted and shook his head. Apology accepted.
Sam took his own sweet time in the shower--but then, his brother had always been a girl that way.
Despite the lights, and thanks to a generous helping of fatigue and a mattress free of lumps, Dean slipped into a doze. With a distant corner of his brain he registered the bathroom door opening, a rush of humid air, and Sam quietly moving around the room.
The lights went out. Bare feet padded to the other bed and the mattress creaked as Sam laid down. The sheets rustled and his breathing stuttered and caught as he searched for a comfortable position, then settled with a muffled sigh.
Eyes shut, Dean's lips curved in response. How well did you know someone when even their sounds made perfect sense?
"You're right."
Dean snapped his eyes open, jerked back from the brink of sleep. He turned his head, peering through the darkness. Sam lay on his stomach, his cheek pillowed on his folded arms, probably in deference to the lump on the back of his head. He didn't move, and for a moment Dean wondered if he'd imagined the words.
"I should have told you I was leaving." Sam's voice was low and rough. "I just... I'm sick of feeling like a pawn in some cosmic chess game. I've got to do something, and that means finding out what the demon really wants from me. What I am. God, Dean, I don't even know what I am."
Sam drew in a hitching breath, and the words spilled faster. "Dad never should've laid this on you. And you sure as hell shouldn't have kept it from me. But that's not why I left without telling you."
He lifted his head, and his eyes shone in the sliver of light that crept between the curtains. "You wanted time, and I needed answers, and... Look, I get that you're tired and you're hurting, man, I do. And I wish I could change that, but I can't. Truth is, it's all I can do to hold my own shit together right now. I just...I couldn't deal with yours too."
Dean clenched his jaw and closed burning eyes. The truth was he'd never have made it through the past few months without Sam. His brother had been solid ground when it felt as if everything around him was turning to quicksand. It was about damn time he took his turn.
Sam must have taken his silence for anger. He dropped his head onto his arms, and resignation colored his voice. "Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You deserved--"
"I know what you are." Dean said it quietly but firmly, the tone he'd used to win a thousand different arguments over the years. The one that said, "I'm the big brother, and I'm always right."
Caught off guard, Sam went still. "What?"
"I said, I know what you are." Dean paused, just to make sure he had his brother's undivided attention. "I watched you take your first steps, Sammy. I patched you up when you got hurt--and considering what a klutz you were, that was practically every other day. I covered for you with Dad when you practiced soccer instead of shooting..." He huffed a breathy laugh. "I helped you get a date with Marina Carter--who was way out of your league, by the way--and picked up the pieces when she broke your emo heart."
Sam shook his head. "I don't... What are you trying to say?"
Dean propped himself up on one elbow and leaned closer. "I know what you are, better than anyone. You're a Winchester. You're my brother. And you're a good person, Sam. None of what that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch, or Gordon, or even Dad said changes that."
"I want to believe that," Sam said, sounding uncertain and very young. "You know, Gordon said I'm no better than the things we hunt."
Dean fisted the blankets. "Gordon's a jackass and I still wish you'd let me take him out," he said between gritted teeth.
"Maybe. But the truth is, you can't be sure he's not right. Max, Anson, Scott... They didn't start out evil. But they became monsters just the same." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "I'm not going to become one of them, Dean. I'd rather be dead than some demon's trained killer. If it comes to that... You'll take care of things, won't you?"
The question hit him like a knife, low in the belly, and Dean was absurdly grateful for the cover of darkness. It took everything he had to keep his voice even. "I promised I'd never let anything bad happen to you, Sammy. I meant it."
Sam let out a long breath, and Dean could sense the release of tension. "Thanks."
Feeling a little as if he'd dodged a bullet, Dean stretched out on his back. Whether distracted by exhaustion or his own fears, Sam had accepted his words at face value. Just as he'd hoped.
"'Course, I can't keep bad stuff from happening if I'm not there to watch your back," he added.
Sam huffed, but there was a smile in his voice. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Won't happen again."
"Good. 'Cause next time I promise you, I will kick your ass."
"I know I can count on your promises," Sam said quietly.
Dean's throat tightened. "Damn straight."
He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, listening as Sam's movements gradually stilled and his breathing settled into the rhythm of sleep. His own muscles felt twitchy and restless, his thoughts dark.
He'd told Sam he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, but how far was he willing to take that promise?
Dean wasn't sure what scared him more--that if the time came he wouldn't be able to pull the trigger. Or that he would.
Minutes turned to hours, Sam muttered and dreamed, but it was a long time before Dean slept.
End