Beneath the Surface

SN Fic: Who We Are Instead

2009-05-09T03:18:11Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: Everything that made his little brother good and real and Sam was slipping away. And the more he tightened his grip, tried to hold on, the more Sam slipped through his fingers. Missing scene for Jump the Shark.
Word Count: 3,821
Author's note: This story is the result of a desperate need for a little comfort in what's been an extremely hurty season. Since I'm between betas right now and this is already later than I'd hoped, I'm flying without a net. All mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Man, the trouble is
We don’t know who we are instead

“Trouble Is” -- Jars of Clay

“Dean.”

At the sound of Sam’s voice, weak and breathy, Dean’s rage evaporated and the red haze cleared from his vision. He dropped the gore-splattered candlestick and moved quickly to the table, pulling his hunting knife on the way.

Crap, there was a lot of blood.

As he sliced through the ropes binding Sam’s right arm, then his left, he scanned his brother from head to toe in a quick, down and dirty triage. Sam’s eyes were glassy, and he breathed in short, hard pants fueled by adrenaline and pain. Blood from his right wrist pattered into a ceramic bowl, about a quarter full now, and it looked as if an equal amount had spilled from his left onto the floor. The bastards had used vertical cuts, which were going to make clotting a bitch, but the blood was trickling, not spurting, so they hadn’t managed to hit an artery.

With a quick glance around the room, Dean spotted a stack of cloth napkins on the buffet behind him. Snatching them up, he laid them beside Sam and moved around the table. Though he could feel the sticky-slickness of blood beneath his boots, he kept his face carefully neutral as he cut the duct tape binding Sam’s chest.

He grasped Sam’s arm and hauled him upright, slipping a steadying hand behind his back. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Sam was little more than dead weight, too woozy and hurting to be of much help. He held his arms out from his body, rigid with agony and moaning at the slightest movement.

Dean unfolded one of the napkins. “Hang on.”

From the time he’d played doctor to Sam’s first scraped knee, Dean had discovered the magic in talking him through pain. Not that what he said had to be profound; in fact, it ended up being mostly stream-of-consciousness stuff. The thing was, the words themselves didn’t seem to matter--Sam would calm at the sound of his voice, sobs turning to sniffles. And though his now stoic little brother could take a pretty hard beating without so much as a whimper, Dean found the habit hard to break. And he had a sneaking suspicion Sam still drew comfort from his babbling.

“All right, here we go. Here we go. Hang on, buddy,” he murmured. He wrapped a napkin around each of Sam’s arms from elbow to wrist, pressing firmly despite his brother’s gasps of pain. “All right. All right.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, still breathing raggedly.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “That’s what family’s for, right?”

Okay, so now wasn’t the best time to get in a dig, but Sam’s whole “hunting is life” speech to Adam still pissed him off. Since when did his bleeding heart little brother become Mr. Hardcore? He didn’t even talk like Sam anymore. If Dean closed his eyes he’d swear his brother sounded just like--

Refusing to take that thought any further, he patted Sam’s back. “Keep pressure on that.”

He made quick work of the ropes on Sam’s ankles. As if they’d somehow been keeping him upright, Sam swayed drunkenly and would’ve face-planted on the floor if Dean hadn’t caught him. “Easy, Sasquatch.”

Cupping Sam’s chin in his palm, he steadied his brother’s lolling head, not liking what he saw. Skin gray and clammy, eyes that kept drifting out of focus. And though Sam appeared to be trying his best to clamp down on the cuts, the napkins were already soaked through with blood.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered before injecting a lightness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Okay. Let’s get you wrapped to go.”

Leaving one hand on Sam’s back, Dean began yanking open buffet drawers. His third try unearthed a linen tablecloth. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Keeping Sam from toppling with one hand, while ripping the cloth into strips with his teeth and the other, gave the term multi-tasking a whole new meaning. When he finished, he had two long strips good for doubling as bandages in a pinch.

“This is gonna sting,” he warned, waiting for and receiving a bleary nod.

He eased the saturated cloths off Sam’s left arm and swallowed hard--blood was still flowing steadily. “You know what? These aren’t even that bad,” he said, winding one of the strips so it put pressure on the cuts and held the edges together. “Remember that time I got mauled by a black dog? These are just scratches compared to that.”

Sam shuddered and made a soft sound of distress, his muscles going impossible tighter, but he choked, “Bawled like . . . a baby.”

“Dude, I was 12,” Dean chided, his fingers moving as quickly as possible while still remaining gentle. “And that was sweat.”

“Uh-huh.”

When he had both arms snugly wrapped, Dean folded them vertically against Sam’s chest. “You know the drill, Sammy.”

“Elevate to slow bleeding,” Sam mumbled.

“That’s my boy.”

He helped Sam swing his legs off the table and drop his feet to the floor. Knotting two fists in Sam’s shirt and hauling upright, he propped him against the table and waited for the inevitable head rush to pass.

“You gonna make it to the car?” he asked. “‘Cause there’s no way I’m carrying your ass.”

“Car?” Sam blinked sluggishly. “Where we goin’?”

Dean’s stomach lurched. He’d hoped Sam wasn’t as bad off as things appeared--even a little blood could look like a lot--but if the kid was that loopy . . .

“We’re taking a little trip to the nearest ER,” he said. After a moment of puzzling out how the hell he was going to support 200-odd pounds of wobbly little brother without moving Sam’s arms, he slipped one hand under an elbow and the other around Sam’s waist. “C’mon, lean on me.”

Sam started moving on autopilot, the instinct to follow Dean’s lead kicking in. But even as he shuffled forward, he swiveled his head toward the dead ghouls. “We’re breaking rule number three.”

“First things first,” Dean said, keeping him moving. “We’ll come back to clean up once you stop looking like an extra from a crappy horror movie.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“Forget it, Jamie Lee. Just let me handle the driving.”

“Like I ever get a choice,” Sam grumbled.

Dean was encouraged by come-back, lame though it was, until he registered warm stickiness under the fingers curled around his brother’s waist. Leaning Sam against the wall beside the back door, he brushed aside the button-down shirt to reveal the bloodstained t-shirt beneath. Cursing under his breath--he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately--he peeled back the t-shirt.

“Something you forgot to tell me, Sammy?”

“Um . . . apparently I’m finger-lickin’ good?”

“You mean they . . . ?” Dean mimed the action with a grimace.

Sam nodded, his head falling back to thunk against the wall.

“Okay, that’s just sick.” Dean jerked open the door and manhandled Sam through it.

By the time he got his brother settled in the front seat of the Impala, blood had soaked through the bandages on Sam’s arms and was dripping onto his lap. As Dean slid behind the wheel, he was grateful, and not for the first time, for John Winchester’s obsessive hunting strategy, which included pinpointing the nearest hospital as soon as you hit town.

As he drove he kept one hand on Sam, who had sagged against the passenger door, his face pressed to the glass. “Hey! You stay with me, Sam.”

“Tired.”

“Yeah, well, me too. There’s a lot of that going around.”

Sam grumbled softly but struggled to sit up straighter. “You get rid of the bodies?”

After a silent count to three, Dean tamped down the frustration and worry and answered in an even voice. “No time right now. We’ll go back once you’re patched up.”

Sam shivered, fine tremors vibrating under Dean’s fingers. “Why’s it so cold?”

Though the car was already stuffy, Dean bumped up the heat. He quickly returned his hand to Sam’s shoulder when his brother’s eyes began fluttering shut. “Hey!”

Rather than startling, Sam jjust blinked blearily and looked down at his arms. “’M gettin’ blood on the seat.”

“You can make it up to me later.” The sign for the hospital emerged from the darkness on his left, and Dean turned, following the arrow for the ER.

When Dean pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the covered entrance, Sam furrowed his brow. “This isn’t the hotel.”

“Right on one, Einstein.” Dean hopped out and jogged around the car. Pulling open Sam’s door, he leaned inside. “Let’s go, Sam.”

Sam resisted, leaning away from Dean’s tug on his arm and nearly toppling. “Dean, no. Don’t need a hospital. You can--”

“Not this time, I can’t. Now get your ass out of the car.” Dean knew his tone was sharp but blood was everywhere, and Sam’s skin felt cool and clammy.

“Already wasted too much time,” Sam slurred, though he let Dean ease him from the car and walk him through the automatic doors. “Gotta clean up the bodies and get outta here.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean hissed, then raised his voice when his brother stumbled and nearly went down. “I need some help over here!”

A nurse immediately flanked Sam on the other side. “Get Chambers, stat,” she called to the woman behind the desk. “What happened?” she asked Dean, steering them toward a set of double doors.

“We’re doing some remodeling,” Dean said. “He fell through a window. Glass cut him up pretty bad.”

“Did he hit his head?” Once through the doors, she guided Sam to the gurney.

“Uh . . .” Dean fumbled for a moment before remembering the bruise on Sam’s cheekbone. “Yeah. He did.”

“Did he lose consciousness?” The nurse--her name tag read Angela--fired the question as she seated Sam on the bed.

Damn! Why hadn’t he asked Sam about this? “Um--“

“A few minutes,” Sam said. “I’ll sit,” he growled when Angela attempted to get him to lie down.

Though she couldn’t have been more than 110 pounds soaking wet, Angela didn’t back off. Hands still on Sam’s shoulders, she thrust out her chin and raised an eyebrow. “Look, Mr. . . .”

“Brigman,” Dean said quickly. “That’s Sam, and I’m Dean.”

Angela didn’t miss a beat. “Sam, your color is bad, your skin is cool and clammy, your respiration is too rapid--and that’s just what I’ve seen without examining you. You’re on the verge of hypovolemic shock and you’re damn well gonna lie down before you fall down. Got it?”

Sam swallowed hard, then let her gently push him onto his back, either too stunned to argue or, Dean suspected, too close to passing out. Angela wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sam’s bicep, a slight smile curving her lips.

The doors swung inward, admitting a male doctor with another nurse on his heels. “What’ve we got?”

As Angela began spouting a string of big words that equaled “this guy’s lost a crapload of blood,” the nurse began ushering Dean toward the doors. “You’ll need to wait outside, sir.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he gave in. He’d been in this position often enough, whether with Dad or Sam, to have learned arguing never got you anywhere, and pissing off a nurse was always a bad idea. Besides, Mr. Tough Guy had made it pretty clear he didn’t need Dean holding his hand anymore. He steeled himself against the sting of that truth and, with a last glance at Sam, let the nurse herd him to the waiting room.

Where he proceeded to fill out Sam Brigman’s bogus insurance forms, drink a substance posing as coffee, and pace. A little. It wasn’t like he was nervous or anything; Sam was fine. Hospital waiting rooms were just so damn boring, and the people were annoying. Dean listened with an inward smirk as some guy whined about the wait to the nurse behind the desk. Dude was bitching and moaning about a busted finger while Sammy had suffered being munched on and nearly bled out without complaint.

The smile faded from Dean’s lips and he sank into a chair, elbows propped on his knees. Every time he turned around lately, Sam surprised him. And not in a good way.

It was difficult to believe that he’d actually worried about Sam’s ability to survive after he was gone. That he’d actually wished Sam would toughen up, not take things so much to heart. He should’ve known wishes always come back to bite you on the ass. Sam had toughened up, all right--there was a granite edge just beneath everything he did, every decision he made. While his little brother had always been pragmatic, he’d never been heartless. Yet his treatment of Cole, of Adam, had bordered on ruthless; the only thing that had mattered to him was getting the job done. Just like--

“Mr. Brigman?”

Dean looked up; Angela stood near the front desk. He stood quickly, ignoring the dull ache from ghoul-Adam’s pounding. “How is he?”

Angela brushed aside an errant wisp of long brown hair with the back of her hand. “In pretty rough shape. Fortunately the cuts hit muscle and missed the major vessels. But he lost close to one-fifth his blood volume, and though I don’t have the final tally, Dr. Chambers is finishing up an impressive number of stitches. Plus, he sustained a puncture wound, about an inch deep, to his side and a mild concussion.”

Dean rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck. “Damn. I was hoping you weren’t gonna say the ‘C’ word. Sam gets unbelievably pissy when he has a headache.”

She quirked her lips, her brown eyes glinting in amusement. “You seem like a tough guy--I’m sure you can handle him.”

The good-natured teasing hit him on the raw; lately his attempts to “handle” Sam had failed. Spectacularly. Dean felt his smile turn brittle. “When can he get out of here?”

“Doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation. That way we can give him another unit of blood and IV antibiotics--the wounds were already starting to show signs of infection.” She paused. “Has Sam been feeling all right? Before this accident?”

Dean frowned at the barely detectable hesitation before the word accident. “Yeah. Why?”

Angela bit the inside of her lip, appearing to choose her next words carefully. “In the treatment room he seemed a little . . . off.”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean snorted. “That’s just Sam. Like I said, he’s a pain in the ass when he’s hurting.”

“He was awfully jumpy about anyone touching him,” Angela said. “In fact, if he’d been able, I’m pretty sure he’d have walked out of here without treatment.”

She was obviously working her way up to something. The first threads of uneasiness wound their way into Dean’s gut. “Yeah, well, he’s not a big fan of hospitals. Neither am I.”

“Were you with him when he had his accident?”

The pointed question increased his disquiet. “Yeah, I was. Why?”

Angela met his gaze squarely, as if she were searching for something. “Your brother’s cuts . . . They aren’t typical of a construction accident. The placement is odd, for one thing, and there were no glass fragments or debris left in the wounds.”

Bet you didn’t check for ghoul loogies. He shrugged, forcing a lack of concern, though his Spidey-sense was tingling. “I cleaned him up a bit before I wrapped his arms. What glass there was, I removed.”

Though she nodded, the intensity of Angela’s gaze didn’t diminish. “The thing is, we’re trained to look for certain things in the ER. And those cuts to Sam’s arms? They raise some alarm bells.”

“Alarm--” Dean broke off, speechless for a moment as he realized where she was headed. “Wait a minute. You mean you think Sam . . . that he--”

“The cuts are deep,” Angela said. “More important, they’re vertical. They fit a pattern, one we see when someone really meant business.”

“Sam would never deliberately hurt himself,” Dean said sharply, leaning in to emphasize his point. “I was there. I watched him fall. It was a freakin’ accident. End of story.”

After studying his face a moment longer, Angela nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell Dr. Chambers there’s no need for a psych consult.”

“I’d appreciate that. Now are we done?” He knew Angela didn’t deserve his anger but he had his own worries about Sam that had nothing to do with him trying to off himself--at least, not intentionally. And it had been a damn long night.

“Yes.” Angela tentatively placed a hand on his arm. “Dean. You understand, I had to ask.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Yeah. Can I see my brother now?”

“Of course.” Angela motioned him toward the treatment room doors. “If you need anything, just get someone at the front desk to page me.”

Dean nodded curtly and pushed through the treatment room doors, pausing just inside. Sam’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, he appeared washed of color, as pale as the bandages that wrapped from elbow to wrist--a sharp contrast to the dark red of the blood feeding into his arm. Despite his frail appearance, a heart monitor beeped steady reassurance, loosening the knot in Dean’s chest.

Movement to his left caught Dean’s eye. The doctor--Angela had called him Chambers--finished writing something on a chart and looked up with a smile.

“I’m Rick Chambers,” he said quietly, extending his hand. “You’re Sam’s brother?”

Dean shook it with a nod. “Dean.”

“I’m sure Angela’s already given you the rundown,” Chambers said. “We’ll let Sam rest here a little longer, make sure he’s stable, and then send him upstairs.”

Dean couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering back to Sam’s pale face. “I’d like to stay with him, if that’s okay.”

“No problem.” Chambers hung the chart on the end of the bed. “Don’t worry if he seems out of it. We gave him something for the pain--despite his protests.” He shook his head. “Your brother’s tough. And stubborn.”

Dean huffed. “Runs in the family.”

Chambers raised an eyebrow but simply said, “I’ll stop by to check on him once he’s settled in a room.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, knowing they’d be long gone before that happened. The insurance info, while good enough for a first pass, wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny.

He waited for Chambers to exit the room, then walked slowly to the gurney. Sam’s breathing was slow and steady, his face open and vulnerable in a way Dean only saw these days if he was sleeping. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and the sudden, sharp longing to turn back time and reclaim his little brother.

He found a chair and placed it beside the bed, sinking down with a soft sigh. The staff had stuffed the shreds of Sam’s bloodied t-shirt into a plastic bag beneath the gurney. The metallic bite of blood triggered an abrupt sense-memory: cradling the warm weight of Sam’s body, one hand pressed uselessly against the flow of lifeblood pumping from his back.

A shudder vibrated through Dean, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It was all burned into his brain in high-def, 3-dimensional clarity: feeling the soft puff of Sam’s breath against his neck as it stuttered and stilled, his body suddenly looser, heavier, his blood turning tacky and cool . . . Watching Sam die, being helpless to stop it--Dean had been certain nothing in his life could ever be worse.

Now . . . Now he wasn’t so sure.

In Cold Oak he’d lost Sam’s body. These days it seemed he was losing Sam’s soul. Everything that made his little brother good and real and Sam was slipping away. And the more he tightened his grip, tried to hold on, the more Sam slipped through his fingers. Hell, half the time it didn’t even feel like it was Sam beside him anymore. It felt a lot more like--

“Dean!” Sam bolted upright--or tried. Bandaged arms flailing, he made it halfway before dropping back with a groan.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy.” Dean placed his hand on Sam’s chest, felt rapid, shallow breaths as the heart monitor picked up the beat. “Hospital, Sammy. You’re safe.”

At the sound of his voice, Sam’s gaze--which had been darting around the room--locked onto Dean’s face. He sucked in a deep breath and the beeping dropped to a more normal pace. With a frown he lifted his arms and blinked at them.

“Arms hurt?” Dean asked, amused by the confused, pupil-dilated gaze. Sam on painkillers was always worth the price of admission.

“Dude, I can’t even tell I’ve got arms.” Sam’s eyelids drifted shut and he popped them open, comically wide. “You okay?”

Dean fought a grin--Sam got pissy if he thought he was being laughed at. Normally that was all good fun, but the kid deserved a break, at least for now. “Me? I’m not the one who was mistaken for an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

He regretted the words when Sam shivered and swallowed hard, looking nauseous. “She had her mouth on me, man. For a minute there I really thought . . .”

“Not on my watch,” he growled, anger at what little he’d seen surging afresh. “Anyway, she’s toast. They both are.”

The tension drained from Sam, and one corner of his mouth turned up. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Always, Sammy,” he said, voice rough. “You know that.”

After a moment of silence, Sam cleared his throat. “He really was our brother you know.”

“Yeah.” Dean scrubbed both hands over his face, the exhaustion he’d managed to hold at bay crashing abruptly through him. “Kid was dead before we knew he existed. I know I didn’t exactly jump on the Adam bandwagon, but . . . I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.”

“Me too.” Sam yawned, eyelids fluttering. “Might be for the best, though.”

Like a splash of freezing water, the words brought Dean fully awake. “What?”

“No skills . . . training,” Sam mumbled. “He’d’ve been liability . . . can’t afford now. Have to stay focused . . . find Lilith . . .” He trailed off with a soft sigh, asleep.

Dean stared, his throat dry and tight. Shaggy brown hair. Eyes that tilted at the corners. Mole on the cheek. He knew every line and angle. A face so familiar. So loved. So Sam.

Yet suddenly, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see his brother.

Suddenly, he could only see Dad.

End

Resolution 8/?

2009-03-26T01:00:10Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,680 (this chapter)
Author's note: Things are finally rolling again! Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

At first Sam just walked, so blinded by emotion he was oblivious to where he was going. Anger at being shunted aside like a child while the grown-ups decided what was best for him. Frustration that none of the choices before him felt right--not even his own. And always, coloring everything, a deep sense of shame. Not just at what he’d done, but at who--what--he was.

By the time he reached the edge of the salvage yard, Sam had barked his shin on a rusty tailpipe and run out of steam. Sliding onto the hood of an ancient Eldorado, he cradled his head in his hands and fought the urge to either scream or punch something. Suddenly he had a whole new appreciation for Dean’s freak-out with a crowbar and the Impala.

He got that Bobby and Dean were worried. That they wanted to protect him from the bad guys. The problem was that somewhere along the way they seemed to have forgotten that in this particular case, he was the bad guy. Three people were dead. And even if Meg had been driving, he was the vehicle.

Those guys Dean and Bobby expected him to hide from weren’t monsters. They were hunters who risked their lives every day to save people. Their friends, people they cared about, were murdered or missing. Didn’t they deserve to know the truth?

And damn it, he should be the one making that decision. It wasn’t like Bobby and Dean could stop him if . . .

“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”

He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”

God, was that what the vision meant? Yeah, he was pissed right now, but it was ridiculous to think he’d kill his own brother over it. Unless . . .

“You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there.”

No. No way. He’d know if he were losing control.

He’d know.

Sam sucked in a breath that caught in his chest. When he’d been five and Dean nine, Dad, on a rare break from hunting, had taken them to the beach. Forever trying to keep up with his big brother, Sam had ventured a little too far from shore, where a large wave had knocked him down. Choking and spluttering on a mouthful of salty water, he’d scrambled to his feet--and another wave had slammed into him, taking him under. It had happened again. And again. Until Dean had caught on to the fact that his little brother was in trouble and hauled his ass onto dry land.

Eighteen years later, and he was back on that damn beach. Jess’s death. The demon and its “plans” for him. The accident. Nearly losing Dean. Losing Dad. Secrets. Lies. Meg.

Rapist.

Murderer.

Sam wound his fingers in his hair and tugged. Hard. The waves just kept coming and he . . .

He was drowning.

And there was no way he was going to take Dean with him.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when he heard the crunch of boots on gravel and Dean’s voice floated out of the darkness. “Is this a private pissy party, or can anyone come?”

Sam flopped onto his back with a groan, one arm slung over his eyes. “Like my answer’s gonna make any difference.”

The car dipped with a soft screech of grinding metal, and he felt Dean’s warmth along his side. Sam braced himself . . . for platitudes, for arguments, for bad jokes. The only thing he wasn’t prepared for was what he got--nothing. For a long time, Dean simply sat beside him, a silent presence that was oddly reassuring.

“You know,” Dean said, “I’d forgotten what a great place this is for hide-and-seek.”

From beneath his arm Sam growled, “This isn’t a game, Dean.”

“Just as well. You sucked at hide-and-seek. Always picked the same lame places.” Dean snickered. “Like underneath that old pick-up truck.”

Dropping his arm, Sam glared. “I was six.”

Dean smirked, clearly pleased that he’d gotten a reaction. Sam huffed, tipping his head to stare up at the stars. Dean hummed a little Metallica under his breath and tapped out an accompanying beat on the hood.

After several more minutes, Dean paused. “You remember that time we were playing soccer with cans?”

Sam snorted. “You mean when we busted the window of that T-bird Bobby was restoring?”

“We didn’t break it. I did. Kicked that mother right through the windshield. You lied and said you’d done it.” Dean glanced back over his shoulder at Sam, the smile gone. “Dad tore you a new one and made you Bobby’s slave until you’d worked it off.”

“It might as well have been me,” Sam said with the shrug of a shoulder.

“How do you figure?”

Sam pushed up on his elbows. “You never wanted to play in the first place--I bugged you until you agreed. If you’d had your way, we’d’ve practiced bow hunting and it wouldn’t have happened.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s so not the point.”

Irritation bubbled up stronger. “Assuming there is one.”

“There is, smartass.” Dean pulled up one leg, twisting to face him. “You’ve always been too willing to blame yourself, Sammy. Even when it wasn’t your fault.”

His throat tightened and his eyes stung. “This isn’t the same.”

“You sure about that?” Dean held up a hand when Sam started to reply. “Look, I get that you want these guys to have some kind of closure, man, I really do. I just think that deep down, you wouldn’t mind if giving them the truth turned into some kind of penance for you.”

Sam looked away, his mouth clamped shut. While he wanted to sneer that Dean didn’t know what he was talking about, in reality his brother had hit a little too close to the mark. Maybe the best thing for both of them would be to let those hunters do their job.

Apparently taking his silence as an admission, Dean huffed, and his words took on the clipped, authoritative quality he’d picked up from their dad. “Well, you can forget it. You’re staying right here and keeping your head down, just like Bobby said.”

That snapped Sam’s head around, fury dropping his voice to a raspy growl. “I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

The muttered response pulled him upright, and he slid to his feet, turning to face Dean. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean stiffened a little but remained seated despite Sam’s looming. “These flashbacks are messing with your head, Sam. You’re not eating, you’re sure as hell not sleeping. And you’re reacting instead of thinking. First you run off to find Jo in the middle of the night, and now you’re ready to spill your guts to a bunch of guys--trained killers, by the way--who I guarantee aren’t going to thank you for it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So, what--now I’m incapable of making a rational decision? Keep telling yourself that, man, if it helps you sleep at night.”

“I sleep like a baby--not that I know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Sam threw up his hands, pacing away and then returning to glare at his brother. “You can’t just twist everything to suit you. Have you even once put yourself in their place? What if it were Jefferson or Bobby cut to pieces--hell, what if it were me?”

“But it isn’t you,” Dean said impatiently. “And as long as I’m around, it isn’t gonna be. Which is why you’re not going anywhere.”

It was like banging his head against a leather-clad wall. Sam gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. “You don’t get to decide for me. It’s my life.”

Dean stared at him a moment and then laughed, but it held no humor. “Keep telling yourself that, man, if it helps you sleep at night.” He stood. “You know, you’re all I got left, Sammy. Have you even once thought about that?” He turned and started walking back to the house.

Sam’s chest felt tight, as if someone were squeezing the air from his lungs. “Dean.”

His brother didn’t turn, just kept walking. “Maybe I can’t stop you from beating yourself up. But don’t ask me to sit around and let someone else do it.”

The darkness swallowed Dean, the angry scuff of his footsteps fading soon after. Sam paced in a tight circle, swearing with a degree of creativity that would have impressed his brother if he’d still been within earshot.

His fury eventually spent, he sagged against the fender. Way to go, Sam.

Why was it that disagreements between him and Dean always turned out the same? He was an adult--he’d lived on his own, taken care of himself, could take Dean in a fight . . . Well, sometimes. Yet the minute an argument heated up and Dean got all big brother on his ass, he reverted to Sammy. He might as well have stamped his foot and yelled, “You’re not the boss of me!”

Damn it.

Gritting his teeth, Sam sucked in a deep breath and uncurled hands that he’d unconsciously clenched into fists. He . . .

. . . wipes his bloody hands on his shirt and stares down at the still-twitching body, lip curled. “Stupid bitch. Didn’t Daddy teach you that monsters don’t always look the part?”

He dumps the body into the trunk and tosses the knife into the back seat. Folding his long legs behind the wheel is a pain in the ass, but he grits his teeth and . . .

. . . drives past the sign for Bear Lake, following the gravel road around the water and pulling into the cover of some trees. Dusk has fallen, turning the shadows long and deep. Humming under his breath he opens the trunk, hoisting her body over his shoulder and tucking the collapsible shovel . . .

. . . The undergrowth is thick, scratching his arms and snagging the pale silk strands of her hair. It’s a pain in the ass, and he doesn’t walk far before tossing her body to the ground so he can begin digging.

He makes the hole shallow--no sense working up a sweat over a useless hunk of meat. So what if someone finds the body, he thinks with a smirk, all the DNA evidence points to sweet little Sammy. Who’ll be sweet dead Sammy if all goes well--

Shards of pain shot through his palms and his knees ached dully. Sam sucked in a gasp and blinked; he was on all fours, his face inches from gravel and dirt. Dirt just like . . . He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding and hands shaking.

He’d agonized over what might have happened to Amanda Brigman’s body. Now he knew. Sam swiped the back of one trembling hand over his mouth. He could still smell the sharp scent of pine, feel the warm tackiness of blood. He plucked at his shirt, and his stomach turned over. Bracing his hands on his knees, he struggled to breathe slowly and deeply.

Anger mixed with revulsion, flushing hot across his cheeks and thudding dully behind his eyes. Meg. She’d set out to destroy him and Dean, and Steve Wandell, Jack and Amanda Brigman--they’d been sacrificed to that end with no more regard than squashing a few pesky bugs.

Except . . . She’d enjoyed it. Every second of the humiliation, the fear, the agony she’d inflicted. He knew that, felt the depth of it, because while he’d been Sam, for that endless week he’d also been Meg. And yeah, there were times he’d been strong enough to fight her, to scream and rail against what she was doing. But there were other times, the ones his brain was only now allowing him to recall in spurts, when her hold had been so strong, and he’d been so tied up in her that . . . God . . . he’d enjoyed it too.

With a growl that felt torn from his chest, Sam slammed his fist onto the Eldorado’s hood. Again. And again. His vision a red haze, he lost track of everything but the feel of his fist connecting. The sound of metal crunching. Until a steel band wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Knock it off! Right now!”

Dean’s voice in his ear stopped Sam’s instinctive struggle against being restrained; he stilled, panting.

His brother stepped back, spinning Sam to scan his face with equal parts anger and worry. “Are you nuts? What the hell, Sam?”

The satisfaction from punching something was already fading, and suddenly his hand hurt like a bitch. “Trying the Dean Winchester method of anger management,” he said, horrified when his voice cracked.

Dean grabbed his right wrist, grimacing at bloody knuckles and swollen fingers. “Got a tip for you, Einstein. You’re supposed to use a tire iron.”

“Knew I forgot something.” Sam tugged his hand from Dean’s grasp, bringing up the other to conceal burning eyes.

Dean’s voice softened. “You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

“Amanda,” Sam said, dropping his hand and forcing himself to meet Dean’s gaze.

With a huff of displeasure, Dean shook his head. “Sam, I already told you--”

“I know where I--where Meg buried her.”

The skin around Dean’s eyes tightened. “Another flashback?”

Sam nodded.

“And you got a location?”

Sam ducked his head, rubbing at the torn flesh over his knuckles. Wincing, he wiped the smeared blood on his jeans. “There was a sign. Bear Lake.”

Dean heaved a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Crap.”

“We’ve got to take care of her, Dean,” Sam said, working hard to keep his voice steady. “I . . . It’s a shallow grave. Meg wanted her body to be found.”

“You know how risky this is, right?” Dean snapped, but Sam knew the anger wasn’t directed at him. “You’re talking about going back to the scene of the crime. If anyone’s watching us . . .”

Relief flooded through Sam like a cool wave, muting the pain in his hand.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Sam’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “You said watching ‘us.’ Not ‘you.’”

“Yeah, well, if I could keep you here I would,” Dean replied gruffly. “But I’m sure Bobby won’t let me use drugs or handcuffs. And I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

With a nod Sam curbed the impulse to remind Dean he could watch out for himself, instead taking comfort in his brother’s solid support. “Thanks.”

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I have conditions.”

“Which are?” Sam asked warily.

“We leave in the morning. After I clean up the number you did on your hand and you get a decent night’s sleep.” Dean’s voice was steel, his gaze uncompromising. “And you hang back, let me do all the face work. I want you low profile, Sammy. I mean it.”

Sam knew better than to argue. “Okay.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Okay?”

With a shrug, Sam nodded. “We can’t find anything in the dark anyway. And my hand hurts like a sonuvabitch.”

“That hand’ll be the least of your worries when Bobby finds out you dented up his car,” Dean observed as they walked back toward the house.

“Hey, I took the blame for you all those years ago,” Sam pointed out. “You telling me you’re not gonna return the favor?”

“Sorry, kiddo.” Dean nudged Sam’s shoulder with a smirk. “I’ve seen the Bobby Singer method of anger management. You’re on your own.”

Continued in Chapter 9

Resolution 7/?

2009-02-09T21:14:14Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,709 (this chapter)
Author's note: I'm still alive! Major apologies for the unplanned hiatus of this story. A new puppy, a my firstborn heading off to college, and various work insanities conspired against me. I truly hope you're all still with me, and that the chapter is worth the wait. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived.

Sure, he looked like he was working--shoulders deep under the hood of a battered red Mustang, his cap turned backward and an oily rag trailing from his back pocket. But Dean saw the way his spine stiffened at the Impala’s purr. Detected the subtle shift of gaze from road to engine. Caught the flicker of anxiety before Bobby straightened, his expression neutral.

Sam, who’d barely moved a finger during the last 60 miles, turned abruptly twitchy. He sat up straight, one knee jiggling as he chewed a thumbnail.

“Relax,” Dean murmured, parking the car next to a battered pick-up. “It’s Bobby, not a firing squad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Sam let up on the thumbnail and swiped his palms over his jeans.

Dean cut the engine but didn’t get out. “The man’s our friend, Sam. He’s on your side.”

Sam turned to face him, his jaw clenched. “He looks at me different, Dean. Since Meg . . . He hasn’t looked at me the same way.”

For a moment Dean was shocked to silence as he tried to recall their interactions with Bobby once they’d sent Meg packing. Sure, the guy had been a little tense, a little gruff. But a fellow hunter was dead, and a smart-mouthed demon had just tried to kick the shit out of him. And Bobby wasn’t exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely on a good day.

“He was worried about both of us,” Dean said. From the corner of his eye he saw Bobby headed toward them. “This whole mess with Wandell’s buddies getting stirred up? Is exactly what he was afraid might happen. He knows none of it was your fault, Sam, and he doesn’t want you to take the fall for it.”

Sam bit his lip and looked away. When he saw Bobby approaching he pasted on a smile and got out of the car. “Hey, Bobby.”

Dean sighed and shook his head, opening his own door. As he watched Bobby shake Sam’s hand, he looked for hesitation or the slightest hint of suspicion. Bobby’s clasp seemed firm, and if his gaze was sharp, it quickly gave way to a warm smile.

“You boys made good time,” he said as Dean rounded the hood to join them. “Hungry?”

“Not really,” Sam said. When he caught Dean’s I told you so stare, he pressed his lips together. “We stopped for something a couple hours ago.”

“Well I’m starving, so you can c’mon in and watch me eat.” Bobby turned and headed for the house.

Dean pulled his duffel from the back seat and followed, smothering a grin. Bobby had obviously attended the John Winchester school of hospitality. Might explain why they always felt so at home here.

When they hit the porch, Dean snagged Sam’s bag and added it to his own, wincing at the pull on his tender shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m gonna drop these off and hit the can.”

For a moment Sam looked as if he wanted to protest, but he just tightened his jaw and nodded. Dean watched him stride toward the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, tension in every line of his body. A far cry from the guy who was normally content to sprawl on Bobby’s couch, spending hours poring over his extensive collection of books.

With a shake of his head, Dean lugged the bags up the stairs to the guest room--or the closest thing to it. To his surprise, most of the boxes had been shoved into a corner and a set of clean sheets sat on top of the worn double mattress. Huh. Bobby must be worried; he was going all out.

Dean took his time upstairs, hoping his absence would give Bobby a chance to resolve the tension--real or imagined--between him and Sam. He used the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and even changed his shirt before heading down to the kitchen.

As he descended the stairs, he heard the rattle of pans followed by Bobby’s terse voice. “You’re puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t what I meant, Sam.”

“You sure about that?”

Dean paused, not exactly encouraged by the irritation in Bobby’s voice, the defensiveness in Sam’s. He leaned against the wall, chewing his lip.

“Am I . . .” Bobby snorted. “Hell, just forget I said anything.” There was the slam of a cupboard door, followed by him muttering under his breath.

Sam huffed. “The answer is yes, I keep it on me at all times. Why would I leave myself open, Bobby? Unless you think I’ve already started to slip. That I want it to happen again.”

That got Dean’s feet moving. He rounded the corner and crossed the living room to find Sam glaring a hole in the kitchen table while Bobby stood beside him looking gob smacked, a cooking spoon clutched in his hand.

“Sam, you can’t honestly think that I . . .”

Bobby trailed off, looking helplessly at Dean, who lifted his hands--Don’t look at me.

With a growl, Bobby pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He yanked off his ball cap, ran a hand through his hair and replaced it, then drew in a long breath.

“Sam. Your daddy was a good friend. Obsessive, obnoxious, insufferably pigheaded--but a good friend. I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to one of his boys.”

Sam slowly raised his head to study Bobby’s face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t tell me that’s not fear.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Damn right it is. But for you, you idgit. Not of you.”

Sam averted glistening eyes, swallowing hard. “No one’s more scared than me. If it happened again, I . . .”

“It ain’t gonna happen again.” Bobby said fiercely. He stood and lightly cuffed Sam’s head. “Which is why I was making sure you still had that charm.”

Bobby turned back to the stove, and an awkward silence fell until Dean dropped into a chair, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Now that we got that out of the way, something smells awesome.”

“I’d rather hear what Bobby found out,” Sam said, pinning Bobby with eyes that Dean knew firsthand were hard to resist.

“It’ll keep,” Bobby said in a tone that discouraged argument. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and as for the two of you . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve seen zombies look better.”

Though the expression on Sam’s face said he clearly wanted to protest, he slumped back, jaw clenched.

A kick to the leg of his chair shook Dean from his observation.

“You know where the bowls and spoons are,” Bobby said, hooking a thumb at the cabinets over his shoulder while he stirred something in a large metal pot. “Make yourself useful.”

Dean sighed and set the table along with the required amount of grumbling, gratified to see the barest twitch of Sam’s lips. He deliberately set a bowl in front of his brother, ignoring the huff of displeasure. Bobby backed him up by filling it.

After setting three beers and some slices of bread on the table, Bobby joined them. “You boys been working?”

“Put down a zombie earlier this week,” Dean said, cracking open his beer. “You?” He watched from the corner of his eye as Sam hesitantly picked up his spoon.

Bobby shrugged. “Just a couple of werewolves. It’s been pretty quiet.”

Dean sat straighter, Sam momentarily forgotten. “Werewolves? The real deal?” At Bobby’s grunt of affirmation, he protested, “Damn, Bobby. You should’ve called us.”

“No need,” Bobby said, reaching for a slice of bread. “Day I can’t handle a couple werewolves on my own is the day it’s time for me to pack it in.”

“Yeah, but werewolves are badass.” Dean ignored Sam’s soft huff of amusement. “We haven’t seen one in years.”

“Pain in the ass is more like it,” Bobby said. “Nothing to get worked up about.”

“Unless you’re Dean,” Sam mumbled around a mouthful of stew. “Then it’s the equivalent of Disney World.”

“Tell me you don’t get tired of the same old poltergeists and shapeshifters,” Dean replied, secretly relieved to see Sam surface from his brooding, even if talking with food in your mouth was disgusting and . . .

Hang on. Dean froze midchew. Sam was listening to Bobby’s diatribe on why werewolves were no more than glorified black dogs and digging into his stew like, well, like someone who had eaten next to nothing for days. The bowl was already more than half empty.

And then, just like that, it clicked. Bobby’s stew.

Though Dad had avoided resorting to fast food as much as possible when they were kids, his idea of a home-cooked meal had usually come from a box or can. No surprise, then, that when Sam had tasted his first helping of Bobby’s stew, filled with chunks of fresh potatoes, carrots, celery, and mushrooms, the vegetable-loving freak had adored it.

And Bobby knew it.

As Sam began recounting one of their run-ins with a black dog, Bobby shifted his gaze to Dean. A quirk of his mouth and his full attention slid back to Sam, so quickly Dean would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.

Yep, Bobby knew it.

Dean squashed a grin. “It was Wisconsin, not Minnesota,” he said, slathering butter on a slice of bread.

Okay, so maybe he was yanking Sam’s chain and it really was Minnesota. Carrying on an argument distracted his brother long enough for the second helping of stew to disappear. Not to mention for a few precious moments things felt almost normal—for Winchesters, anyway.

Unfortunately, once the food was gone, Sam’s temporary lift in spirits followed. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded in a posture that would have looked mulish except for the haunted vulnerability in his eyes.

“Tell us about Jack and Amanda Brigman, Bobby,” he said. The don’t hold back was implicit in his flat tone and clenched jaw.

Pushing to his feet with a sigh, Bobby tipped his head toward the other room. “If we’re gonna do this, might as well be comfortable.”

Dean followed his brother into the living room and dropped onto the worn couch. Sam stood, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the world.

Bobby gathered papers from his desk and sat in an armchair, giving the same look he’d used on a 10-year-old Sam who wouldn’t stop reading and go to bed. “Kiddo, what’s done is done. You tyin’ yourself in knots ain’t gonna make it go away. Sit.”

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, but perched on the other end of the couch.

“Like I told Dean, Steve Wandell and Jack Brigman used to team up on hunts,” Bobby said. “Kinda like your daddy and Bill Harvelle before . . . Well, before.”

A soft sound from Sam drew Dean’s gaze. His brother was clenching his hands so tightly his nails were going to leave marks. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam swallowed and gave a quick jerk of his head, as if shaking off whatever he’d been thinking. He never took his eyes from Bobby. “Go on.”

“Thing is, they were more than just huntin' buddies, they were best friends,” Bobby continued. “Guess it’s not surprising considerin’ how similar their lives were. Both of ’em got into hunting because they’d lost the woman they loved—Wandell to a revenant, Brigman to a shifter. And both of ’em were left with a daughter to raise alone.”

“Both of them were murdered by the same person,” Sam said. “Now they’ve got even more in common.”

“The same demon bitch, you mean,” Dean snapped. “And are we sure about that?”

“A friend of a friend was able to get a look at the forensic reports,” Bobby said. “Same blade killed both men.”

Damn. Though he’d known it was a long shot, Dean had held out hope the deaths were unrelated. “Did you find out anything more about the daughter?” He stole a glance at Sam; his brother’s face was the blank mask he’d seen on and off since Jessica’s death, whenever Sam just didn’t want to deal.

“Just that she’s still missing.” Bobby paused, gaze shifting between the two of them as he laid a sheet of paper on the coffee table. “And she drove an old Volkswagon, also MIA.”

When Sam made no move, Dean picked up the paper--a DMV printout. A quick scan of the year, model, and color told him all he needed to know. Double damn.

“Is that her?” Sam asked roughly, indicating the remaining sheet in Bobby’s hand.

“Yeah.” Bobby laid the photo face up on the table. “It’s a little grainy, but . . .”

Dean leaned forward. Wavy blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. Early twenties and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. Sweet.

No need to ask if she were the one. Sam’s eyes were glassy, his face pale.

“It’s about time you boys told me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby said. “Do you know where the girl is?”

When Sam continued to stare a hole through the photo, Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. We--"

“She’s dead.” Sam stood and paced to the window, his shoulders around his ears. “I don’t know what I did with the body.”

Bobby rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Hell.”

“Wandell’s place had video surveillance,” Dean said. “Any chance Brigman’s was wired the same way?”

“There are at least a half-dozen hunters looking for Amanda and his killer,” Bobby said. “If they’d found evidence it was Sam, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Maybe we should tell them,” Sam said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Dean crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Sam by the arm. “Tell me you didn’t suggest what I think you did.”

Sam shook him off, his features set. “So what--we just let them keep looking? Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”

“And after you tell them, then what?” Dean snarled, fear feeding his fury. “You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?”

“You’re the one who keeps saying it wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault,” Sam snapped, his voice rising. “If we explain everything, tell them about Meg--"

“And if they’re not in a particularly understanding frame of mind? These guys are out for blood, Sam! You can’t reason with people like that. Didn’t you learn anything from Gordon?”

Sam went still. “Wait--is that what this is about? What are you really afraid of, Dean? That they’ll find out what I did, or that they’ll find out what I am?”

The accusation hit like a punch to the gut. “Damn it, Sam, that’s not what I--"

“Your brother’s right.”

In the heat of the argument, Dean had forgotten Bobby’s presence.

The older man stood, pinning Sam with a stern glare. “Those hunters don’t want answers, they want revenge. You tell them you were the one holdin’ that knife, you’ll only wind up the sacrificial lamb.”

“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Dean latched onto the back-up, hoping like hell Sam would listen.

“Best thing you can do right now is lay low until things cool down,” Bobby said, turning to Dean. “You boys are welcome to camp out here as long as you need.”

“Sounds good,” Dean agreed, hoping Bobby could read the gratitude in his eyes. “But while Sammy’s keeping his head down, I might take a little side trip.”

“Meaning?”

“We know where the girl’s car is. Think it’s too risky for some damage control?”

Bobby grimaced. “Depends. Where is it?”

Dean opened his mouth but never got the chance to reply.

“You know, why don’t I just leave you two alone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Seems like you’ve got things all figured out, and I could use some air.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook and stomped out the door.

Dean looked at Bobby. Seeing his own Oh crap mirrored on the older man’s face, he heaved a sigh. “That went well.”

Continued in Chapter 8

Resolution 6/?

2008-05-20T02:50:02Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,534 (this chapter)
Author's note: Hope everyone's still with me. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Dean turns, the shotgun clutched loosely in his hand. “No.”

Anger flares inside him--not white-hot, but a slow, cold burn. “It’s not your decision.”

“You’re what they’re hunting, remember?” Dean stares him down, his face set and hard. “I’m not letting you within a hundred miles of the bastards.”

He curls his fingers into fists, struggling against the overwhelming urge to smash them into Dean’s face. “You can’t stop me.”

The shotgun comes up, aimed at his chest. “Wrong again.” Dean’s voice is cool, but there’s anguish in his eyes. “You lost it this morning, Sammy. You’re out of control, and I can’t trust you out there. Now sit in the chair.”

Though the anger simmers higher, he does as he’s told. Until he sees Dean pull plastic restraints from the weapons bag

“What are you doing?”

There’s not a shred of sympathy on Dean’s face. “Keeping you safe.”

Disbelief, fury, betrayal bubble up. “No!” It bursts from him in what feels like a physical punch so strong his vision goes dark.

He gasps and blinks. Dean’s on his ass, and the plastic ties are skittering across the floor.

He’s out of the chair while Dean’s still fumbling to stand, reeling from whatever knocked him off his feet. Arm looped around his brother’s neck, he applies pressure, ignoring the way Dean’s limbs first flail, then gradually still.

“I have to do this,” he grits through clenched teeth. “And I can’t let you stop me . . .”

“. . . stop doing this because it’s really starting to piss me off. Sammy?”

Two sharp smacks to his cheek, and Sam came up swinging. Bright lights, cold tile, the sour odor of urine all assaulted his senses, and pain knifed through his forehead, blurring his vision. He gasped, curled forward, and would have taken a header if not for the hands that gripped his arms.

“Whoa! Easy there, tiger.”

Relaxing into the hold, he blinked again, and things slid into focus.

Dean’s eyes were lined with worry that belied the light tone of voice. “You with me now?”

“What happened?” The words came out a dry croak as he gazed past Dean’s shoulder.

A bathroom. He was sitting on his ass on the grimy floor of a public bathroom.

“You tell me.” Dean studied him with sharp intensity. “You said you had to take a leak. That was ten minutes ago. I found you on the floor, out of it.”

Images flickered through his mind--snugging his arm around Dean’s throat, his brother’s scrabbling fingers, the heavy, limp weight of Dean’s body--and Sam’s head throbbed dully. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.

Dean’s fingers, warm and steady, brushed the side of his face. “Talk to me, Sam, or I’ll haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”

With a grimace, Sam opened his eyes. “No you won’t.”

Dean scowled. “Smart ass. Was it another flashback?”

Maggie’s chicken soup churned sickly in his stomach, but he met Dean’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard against the nausea. “A flashback.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “What was it this time?”

“Just me knocking Jo around. Nothing we didn’t already know.” Sam grabbed hold of a sink and dragged himself upright, swaying with the head rush.

Dean steadied him. “Careful.”

“I’m okay, Dean.” He did his best to look reassuring around the unrelenting ache in his head. “Go pay the bill. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Dean hesitated, still watchful. “You sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like crap.”

“Thank you, Florence Nightingale.” Sam waved him off and turned on the nearest tap. “I’ll be right out.”

He held it together until he heard the soft whoosh-thunk of the door closing. Propping his hands on the sink, he dropped his chin as his breathing stuttered and hitched. His head continued to throb, his eyes felt dry and gritty, his chest too tight--all the usual post-vision side effects.

God, had it been a vision? A vision of him choking--killing--Dean?

Sam plunged his cupped hands under the cold water and splashed it onto his face, running his damp fingers back through his hair. He stared at the hollow-eyed, haggard face in the mirror. Remembered the cold burn of fury, the tangible explosion of raw emotion. Of power.

Just like he’d felt in Max Miller’s closet.

“My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you.”

Was this it? Had Meg been the catalyst, his first step down the path toward the dark side?

Though his heart was hammering in his chest, Sam straightened and drew in a deep breath, consciously smoothing the furrow in his brow and relaxing the set of his jaw. He had to get a grip before he walked out there, or Dean would know something was wrong.

And if there was one thing he was certain of, one thought that cut cleanly through the tangled web of confusion, shock, and fear, it was this:

Dean can’t know.

Dean would try to reassure him. He’d flash that annoying smirk and say the vision was crap because no way could Sam ever get the drop on him. Then he’d repeat the same thing he’d been saying for months--nothing bad would happen to Sam as long as he was around.

But what if Dean was the one that needed protecting? From Sam? The nightmare with Meg had taught him an important lesson: Dean would die before he’d do anything to hurt Sam.

And Sam was not about to let that happen. He’d put a bullet in his own brain first.

When he walked out of the restroom, Dean was slouched against the counter, chatting with Maggie. Though he appeared relaxed and completely focused on her, Sam knew from the subtle loosening of his brother’s shoulders that Dean had been watching for him. Worrying about him.

As he reached them, Maggie held up a white paper sack. “Some soup for the road,” she explained, then winked at Dean. “And a piece of pie.”

Beaming, Dean pressed a hand over his heart. “Maggie, you’re an angel.”

“Thank you.” Sam took the bag, warmth from the container of soup heating his palm.

“Don’t thank me. Just stay healthy,” she said, shaking a finger with mock severity.

Sam forced a smile. Great. Not only was he lying to Dean, he’d helped deceive poor Maggie into giving them free food.

Back in the car, the food stowed behind his seat, Sam turned away from Dean’s furtive looks and shut his eyes. Feigning sleep, he sorted through the confusing images from whatever cerebral event he’d experienced in the bathroom: Dean’s stony expression . . . “You’re what they’re hunting” . . . “I can’t trust you” . . . The pure, sharp edge of anger . . . Dean struggling . . . weakening . . .

Sam swallowed, his throat dry and burning. He’d done terrible things while Meg had possessed him. He’d become what they hunted, and he’d hurt Dean. Badly. If what he’d seen was a flashback . . . It would be just like his brother to keep something like this from him.

Except it didn’t feel like a flashback. It felt like a vision.

Sam’s heart thudded against his ribs, and he had to work to keep his breathing slow and even. If it was a vision, then it was going to happen. Unless he stopped it.

Of course, the quickest way to clear things up would be to ask Dean.

“Dude, did I happen to, like, choke you while I was possessed?”

Real smooth.

And one little problem. If it had never happened--and he was becoming more and more certain that it hadn’t--Dean would want to know why Sam had asked. And he’d never let it drop until he had an answer.

So, yeah. Not an option.

“What did you really see, Sam?”

Dean’s voice startled him, and Sam jerked before he could catch himself.

“I know you aren’t sleeping, so you might as well cut the act.”

With a soft sigh, Sam opened his eyes and uncurled. Dean was wearing the same face he’d worn every time Sam had tried to put one over on him since they were kids.

Sam did what he’d always done in response. “Huh?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You heard me.”

Déjà vu. That was how well it usually worked.

With a shake of his head, Sam sat up straighter. “I don’t know what you want from me. I already told you, it was about Jo.”

“That’s all of it?” Dean didn’t attempt to hide his skepticism. “You were practically catatonic, Sam.”

“What can I say? Punching and nearly sexually assaulting a good friend takes a lot out of me.” Sam pressed his lips together and glared at the ribbon of blacktop.

To his surprise, Dean let it go.

They drove in silence for the next several minutes. Lulled by the hum of tires on pavement and the tapping of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, Sam replayed what he was becoming convinced was a vision, searching for a way to make sense of what he’d seen.

“Remember that summer we lived in Iowa?”

Sam snapped his gaze to Dean, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, random.”

Dean ignored the jab. “You were what--eight?”

“Nine.” Sam furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“What was the name of that kid you hung around with? The one with the pansy-assed haircut?”

“Bailey.” Sam quirked his lips. “He couldn’t help it. His mom worked in a salon.”

“Kid was a walking trouble magnet,” Dean said, both irritation and admiration in his voice, “and he pulled you into all his stupid schemes.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t around much that summer.” Sam slumped lower in his seat, arms laced across his chest. “Too cool for your little brother.”

Dean flashed him a smirk before returning his gaze to the road. “Always have been, Sammy. Just took you awhile to figure it out.”

He’d walked right into that one. With a huff, Sam shook his head. “And again I ask, Why?”

“That was the summer--thanks to pansy-assed Bailey--that I figured it out.” Dean rested one wrist on the wheel, his eyes shifting between Sam and the road. “See, you do this thing when you lie, Sam. You tense up, just a little. You press your lips together. And you won’t look me in the eye.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You must’ve done it about ten times that summer.” His smile faded. “And you’ve done it every time I’ve asked what you saw in that flashback.”

“Dean, I . . .” Sam caught himself. Shit. He was doing it, every tell Dean had just described.

Dean pulled the car to the side of the road. Turning off the engine, he pinned Sam with unrelenting eyes. “Just spit it out, Sam. Considering the way you’re acting, I can pretty much guess it involves me.”

“Then why don’t we just drop it?” Sam snapped. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“So it was about me.” With a sigh, Dean scratched the back of his head. “Sam, don’t you think I’ve got a right to know?”

Pressing the back of his head against the cool window, Sam tried to think around the ache. “Dean, I’m not sure . . . It’s all messed up.”

“No problem.” Much of the anger had leaked out of Dean’s voice, leaving only stubborn patience. “You just tell me what you can, and we’ll figure it out together.”

He was tired, and his head throbbed, and a part of Sam wanted Dean to know. Hoped he’d have all the answers if he did. He drew in a deep breath. “It’s . . . I’m not sure where we are, but . . . I’m pissed, and you’re pissed, and you’ve got a gun. You say you want to keep me safe, but that just makes me mad, and . . .” He bit his lip and resolved not to let himself off the hook. “I . . . hurt you, Dean. It . . . it looks bad, and I don’t know--”

“You’re making it sound worse than it was.”

Sam broke off, his jaw dropping at Dean’s calm statement. “What?”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Dean pointed to himself. “Hey, look. I survived--and with my devastatingly good looks intact.”

It felt as if everything were moving a beat ahead of him. “You mean . . . you know what I saw?”

“Dude, flashback. I was there, remember?” Dean’s expression softened at Sam’s confusion. “I knew we should’ve talked about this. But it was no big deal, and I didn’t want you blaming yourself any more than you already were.”

Sam stared at Dean as he tried to process his brother’s total lack of concern. “But it looked like a big deal. It looked like . . . I could’ve killed you.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. It was a knock on the head, Sam. I’ve gotten worse from your garden-variety poltergeist.”

Sam’s stomach plunged, and his breath caught in his throat. He kept his expression carefully neutral as Dean talked on.

“And while we’re on the subject, I want to make it clear that next time you ask me to kill you? I’m going to hit you over the head. We are so not going there again. Understand?”

“Yeah.” Sam swallowed, trying--and failing--to moisten his desert-dry throat. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Good.” Dean started the engine, checked over his shoulder, and pulled onto the road. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t keep stuff from me, Sammy. You hold out on me, and I can’t help you. We’re in this thing together, and that means . . .”

Dean’s voice faded to an unintelligible buzz drowned out by Sam’s pounding heart and jumbled thoughts. He had no memory of the incident Dean had described. But he could piece it together.

He’d turned to his brother in a drunken moment of weakness and fear back at that creepy hotel they’d investigated. He’d begged Dean not to let him become evil, to kill him if the worst should happen.

And then Meg had come along. She’d plucked that incident from his brain like a piece of ripe fruit and tried to use it against Dean.

Sam had no trouble envisioning how things might have gone if Dean had fallen for Meg’s little ruse and shot him. Discovering Sam had been possessed and not evil would have done more than kill Dean. It would have destroyed him. And from what Dean wasn’t saying, the bitch had come damn close to succeeding.

Just thinking about it filled Sam with an icy rage as intense as what he’d felt in the vision. If given the chance, he knew he’d kill Meg without hesitation. And without regard to her host.

And if he could do that . . .

Maybe he could turn that rage on the only person who really mattered.

Who he’d die for.

Sam closed his burning eyes. He had some thinking to do.

Go to part 7

Resolution 5/?

2008-05-05T22:11:20Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,416 (this chapter)
Author's note: So sorry for the delay in this chapter. Having kids turn 18 and 16--with the required partying--doesn't leave much writing time! Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Dean had experienced more than his share of uncomfortable moments while riding in a car.

There was the time Sam dropped the bombshell about going to college--on the way to a hunt, for cryin’ out loud--which had sparked an argument so heated their dad had nearly sideswiped a semi before pulling to the side of the road.

There was the day Dean drove away from Stanford, the blackened ruin of an apartment building in his rearview mirror and a mute, grief-stricken zombie masquerading as his little brother in the front seat.

There was the endless drive back to the Roadhouse with a fuming, acid-tongued Ellen riding shotgun. And just for the record? That woman scared the crap outta him.

This trip ranked right up there with the rest of them.

Though Sam was close enough for Dean to touch, he’d never felt further away. He slumped in a defeated sprawl, his face turned toward his window, resisting--or worse, just plain oblivious to--all Dean’s attempts at baiting him. And after 24 years of practice, Dean was pretty damn good at baiting.

Crank some Zepplin? Check. Sing loudly and just slightly off key? Check. Drum solo on the steering wheel? Check. Bean and cheese burritos with the inevitable aftermath? Check and check.

And through it all, Sam . . . had done nothing. No rolled eyes. No bitchface. No “Dude!”

Nothing.

It was really starting to creep Dean out--and piss him off. Not at Sam, but at the whole screwed-up situation. So much had been thrown at his brother over the past year and a half--watching his girlfriend burn, the visions, Dad’s death, the yellow-eyed demon with his “plans,” and of course, Dad’s dirty little secret.

Sam had weathered it all. He’d picked himself up after each and every blow and kept moving. Battered and reeling, sure, and at times barely able to put one foot in front of the other. But beneath those floppy bangs and liquid eyes lay a core of steel. Sam might bitch and moan and whine, but he didn’t give up.

Until now.

Sam wasn’t just hurting this time--Dean could have handled that. Sam was resigned. And that resignation worried Dean more than the not eating, the nightmares, the tears. His brother was taking this incident with Meg as proof--proof that the yellow-eyed demon’s plans for him were inescapable. Proof that Dean would need to carry out their dad’s final, unthinkable order.

Like hell.

The sign for a truck stop advertising gas and food broke the tree line. With a flick of his turn signal, Dean moved into the right lane. He found the diner, pulled into a parking spot, and shut off the engine.

Sam straightened and looked around, blinking as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. “What are you doing?” His voice sounded dry and raspy from disuse.

“I’m getting coffee. You’re gonna eat something.” Dean put steel into the words. Occasionally, acting as if something was a done deal short-circuited Sam’s arguments.

Not this time. Sam’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “I’m not hungry.”

Dean made the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong answer.” He slid out of the car without waiting for Sam’s response.

Sam was out his own door and around the car in record time, stopping Dean with a hand to his chest. “I’m not a little kid, Dean. You want coffee? Fine. But I’ll eat when I want to.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? When’s that gonna be? ’Cause the last time you and food occupied the same space was yesterday at lunch, and from what I could see, most of it stayed on the plate.”

Hands shoved into his pockets, Sam hunched his shoulders and looked away. “We’re almost to Bobby’s.”

“So?”

“So, I’ll eat something there.”

Dean snorted.

Deepening his scowl, Sam snapped his gaze to Dean’s face. “I will!”

“Bullshit.” Dean held up a hand to cut off Sam’s protest. “The minute we walk through Bobby’s door, you’re gonna be all over him about this Amanda chick. Last thing on your mind will be making a sandwich.” He chased his brother’s evasive eyes. “Sam. You know it’s true.”

Sam swallowed, his face smoothing from anger to weariness. “Dude, I don’t know if I can.”

“Hold out your hand.” When Sam stared blankly at him, he wiggled his fingers in a “come on” gesture. “I mean it, man. Hold out your hand.”

Grumbling under his breath, Sam did as he was told. Instead of his normally rock steady control, fine tremors vibrated through his fingers.

With a huff, Sam curled them into a fist. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything, and you damn well know it.” Dean went for the kill. “I count on you. If we run into something on the way to Bobby’s, how are you supposed to watch my back? You couldn’t even hold a gun steady.”

It sucked the remaining fight out of Sam. “Fine.” He started walking toward the diner, shoulders bowed.

Dean pushed down the guilt that tried to well up. Yeah, insinuating Sam couldn’t protect him was dirty pool. But if that’s what it took to get the kid to eat, so be it.

The diner was quiet, the lunch crowd cleared out and only a few scattered stragglers sipping coffee or lingering over dessert. A sign by the cash register advised Please Be Seated, so Dean picked a booth against the back wall with a clear view of the door.

He tossed Sam one of the laminated menus, tapping the back of his own. “Looks like I get to have me some pie.”

Sam didn’t roll his eyes or crack a grin, just flipped doggedly through the pages as if cramming for a test. He was on his third time through, teeth gnawing his bottom lip, when their server bustled up.

“Sorry about that, boys, I didn’t see you come in.” She blew aside a stray wisp of gray-streaked blonde hair and pulled a pen and pad from her apron pocket. “My name’s Maggie. What can I get you?”

When it became clear that Sam was still wrestling with his choices, Dean flashed a grin. “How’s the pie, Maggie?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Blueberry’s canned, but the apple? Fresh. I make it myself.”

“Apple it is. And coffee. Black.”

“Good choice.” Maggie jotted it onto her pad and looked to Sam, still buried in the menu. “How ’bout you, hon?”

“Uh . . . I’m not sure.” He mustered a weak smile. “Maybe a few more minutes?”

“Sam.” Dean said it in the tone that clearly warned, We had a deal.

“I’m trying,” Sam said shortly but without any real heat. “I just . . .” He sighed and flipped to the front of the menu.

For the fourth time.

Dean turned to Maggie and was surprised by the softness with which she regarded his brother. He followed her gaze: shadowed hazel eyes, too pale, too thin--Sam looked as if his skin were stretched too tightly over his bones. Add that to the natural charm he always seemed to hold for middle-aged women, and it was no wonder Maggie was a goner.

“Getting over the flu,” Dean explained with an exaggerated shudder. “Wasn’t pretty.”

Maggie snicked her tongue against her teeth. “Damn bug’s been going around. I’ve got a pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove. Should be easy on your stomach.”

Sam’s glare at Dean withered in the face of her kindness. “Thank you, ma’am. That sounds good.”

When she left, the scowl returned full force. “Dude, the flu?”

“What?” Dean gestured toward the kitchen. “Did you see that? You’ve got her eating out of your hand.”

Sam slumped against the seatback. “Whatever.”

“At least it got you talking,” Dean muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam narrowed his eyes and propped his arms on the pitted formica table. “You deliberately trying to piss me off?”

Dean met his gaze with equal heat. “At least when you’re pissed I know you’re still breathing. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sorry if finding out I’m a rapist and a serial killer has put a damper on my conversational skills.”

Heads turned, at the words or the volume Dean wasn’t sure. He pasted on a smile--nothing to see here, folks, move along--and hissed, “Are you crazy? Or do you want someone to call the cops?”

Maggie chose that moment to return with their food. “Try that,” she said to Sam as she set the bowl before him and added several packages of Saltines from her pocket.

“Smells good.” Sam picked up his spoon and dipped it into the broth, receiving a pleased smile for his efforts.

“You boys need anything else, you just holler,” she told them and moved off to give a nearby trucker his check.

Dean forked a generous helping of cinnamony apples and crisp, buttery crust into his mouth--heaven--and watched Sam do an imitation of a guy eating soup. While it involved a lot of swirling and stirring, not much seemed to be making its way into his mouth.

“How’s the soup?” Dean asked around another bite of pie.

Sam locked eyes with him, pointedly spooned some broth into his mouth, and swallowed. “Delicious. Best I’ve ever had. Happy?”

Damn. Leave it to Sam to suck all the enjoyment out of a perfectly good piece of pie. “I’ll be happy, smartass, when you actually finish it. And just for the record, nagging you to eat isn’t my idea of a good time, but I don’t know what the hell else to do. It’s not like you can afford to lose any more weight.” He speared a bite of apple, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed for emphasis.

He expected Sam to fight back, not go quiet. Head bent over his bowl, Sam shoveled broth and noodles into his mouth with a kind of grim determination that made Dean’s stomach hurt.

He watched Sam for a few minutes, then dragged a hand down his face. “I want to help, Sam. I’m just not sure how.”

Sam didn’t lift his head, but his hand stopped moving, and his voice was soft and thick. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The words warmed him even as the sheer responsibility behind them tightened his chest. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Dean picked up his fork, and Sam went back to his soup. Though the only sounds between them were the scrape and clink of utensils on dishes, the air felt lighter, Sam’s shoulders a little less tense.

Dean had finished his pie and was working on his coffee when Sam shoved aside his nearly empty bowl and slid out of the booth.

“Bathroom,” he told Dean, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to where the restrooms were located.

Great. “Wait. Sit down a minute.” As Sam paused, Dean scrambled through his mental list of stomach remedies. “Take deep breaths. I’ll get Maggie to bring you a Sprite.”

Sam’s face twisted as if Dean had suggested he strip. “Wha . . . ? I don’t need a Sprite. I need the bathroom.”

“You’ve got to fight it, Sammy. Doesn’t do any good to eat if you just puke it back up.”

Huffing a soft breath of amusement, Sam shook his head. “I’ve just gotta take a leak, Dean. The soup was actually pretty good.”

“Oh.” Dean picked up his mug, flicking a dismissive hand to hide his relief. “Don’t let me stop you.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam headed for the men’s room.

Dean checked his watch. Despite more frequent caffeine stops to counteract sleep deprivation, they were still making good time and would reach Bobby’s well before dinner.

Though a part of him dreaded whatever new revelations Sam would have to face, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of relief that he’d have help holding his brother together. In the months since Dad’s death, Bobby had become the closest thing to home and safety. His no-nonsense practicality and gruff affection were a grounding force that Sam--and Dean--desperately needed, now more than ever.

“Looks like the soup was a hit.” Maggie cleared Sam’s bowl and Dean’s plate off the table.

Dean nodded, his smile genuine and without the usual intent to charm. “Just what the doctor ordered. Thanks, Maggie.”

“Pffft.” She waved him off. “I raised four boys of my own. I can still recognize when one needs a little mothering.” She set the check on the table. “You can pay up front when you’re ready.”

Her words pierced an unexpected sore spot. Dean wondered, not for the first time, what he and Sam would be like if they’d had the benefit of mothering as they grew up.

Though faded to a misty, dreamlike quality, he could still recall freshly baked cookies, soft, soft skin, and butterfly kisses.

Sam’s only memory of their mother was a fleeting glimpse before she’d burst into flames. Again.

He could still hear the choked awe in his brother’s voice that night as they’d both laid sleepless in a darkened motel room. “I never knew she was so beautiful.”

Dean shrugged off memories best left unexamined and looked again at his watch. Ten minutes. Yeah, Sam could be a ginormous girl, but not even he needed that long to take a piss. Uneasiness prickled his spine, and he slid out of the booth and headed for the restroom.

As he pushed through the door, Dean’s gaze panned the urinals and two stalls, both empty. Soft, ragged breathing caught his attention, and he turned to his left, where a row of sinks lined up beneath a large mirror. Sam was huddled in the corner between the final sink and the tiled wall, arms locked around his legs, face pressed to his knees. Rocking.

“Sam?”

Dean rushed to kneel beside his brother. One hand clasping the clammy skin at Sam’s neck, he tried to assess Sam for injuries.

“What’s going on? Is it a flashback?” Dean briskly rubbed Sam’s back, feeling the shivers under his hand. “C’mon, Sammy. Talk to me.”

Sam lifted his head. His face was so pale the skin looked translucent, and he stared through Dean with blank, unseeing eyes. “I have to do this,” he croaked, his voice rough and cracking. “And I can’t let you stop me.”

His lashes fluttered, his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed against Dean.

Go to part 6

Resolution 4/?

2008-04-15T22:13:30Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,957 (this chapter)
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

There was a crack in the ceiling that looked disturbingly like George Bush.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see the damn crack if the cheap, threadbare drapes would actually block the light from the parking lot. Dean turned his head and squinted at the alarm clock. 4:32. Great. Though his eyes felt sticky and his body heavy with weariness, his mind had apparently decided sleep was for wusses.

Heaving a sigh, he rolled to the side of the bed, shoved off the blanket, and swung his feet to the floor. As he rubbed his stiffened shoulder, his gaze automatically drifted to the other bed.

Sam was stretched on his back, one arm curled above his head, the other across his stomach. His expression was peaceful, his breathing slow and even. In fact, he looked as if he’d barely moved since Dean turned out the light.

A little of the tension melted from Dean’s neck and shoulders. He’d known Sam was eaten up with worry over what might have happened with Jo--it was why Dean had agreed to pack up in the middle of the night and drive 15 hours cross-country, stopping only when the needle hit “E” or his back teeth were floating. So, yeah, he’d gotten the whole urgent thing.

What he hadn’t fully understood was just how truly terrified Sam was that he’d left Jo with more than a few bruises. ’Course, he’d begun to buy a clue when they reached the bar and Sam began to unravel right in front of his eyes.

Sam was funny that way. He could whine like a prissy bitch over a hangnail, but when the hurt ran deep--girlfriend burning on the ceiling deep, or “I couldn’t save him deep”--he tended to close down. Oh, he was all about everyone else sharing their pain. The same rules just never seemed to apply to him.

So in typical Sam fashion, he hadn’t really volunteered the details of his conversation with Jo. Thing is, he hadn’t needed to.

Dean had been sitting at the bar, sucking down his second beer and admiring Emily’s dimples--and other assets--when Jo came back inside. She’d nodded at Dean with a faint smile and disappeared into a back room. He’d turned his gaze from her to the door, Emily’s voice fading to a faint buzz in his ears as he’d waged an internal debate--his feet itching to move, to go after Sam, while his head cautioned him to stay put, give the kid a little space.

And then the door had opened, and Sam had stepped inside. And it wasn’t until that moment that Dean fully realized just how twisted up Sam must have been because his face . . . His face bore the intense relief of a man strapped in the chair when the governor calls with news of a pardon.

And the fist squeezing Dean’s lungs had loosened its grip, and he could breathe.

With Sam stumbling--literally, the big klutz--with weariness, and Dean one step from hitting the wall himself, he’d coaxed a motel recommendation from Emily, stuffed the cocktail napkin bearing her number into his pocket, and guided his brother out to the car.

Though he'd been sure Sam would nod off and leave Dean to haul his ginormous ass to the room, his brother had stoically remained awake. If his chin dipped toward his chest, he’d snap up his head and glare wide-eyed at the dark ribbon of road, fighting sleep with a tenacity that seemed to hold more than a little desperation.

But even Sam’s stubborn streak had its limitations. Once in the motel room, he’d tossed his duffel onto his bed and sat to remove his shoes, conceding the first shower to Dean without argument.

When Dean had emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Sam was passed out on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed, one shoe off and one shoe on. Dean had tugged off the remaining shoe, coaxed and prodded until Sam’s trailing legs were fully on the mattress, and covered him with a blanket as if he were four again and worn out from a hard day of play.

That had been nearly nine hours ago--which these days was more sleep than Sam managed over two or three nights. And yet he’d remained down for the count, with no apparent signs of waking.

Dean’s mouth curved, and he silently blessed Jo for whatever she’d said--or hadn’t. Hell, at this point he didn’t care if she’d lied through her teeth, if the end result was giving Sam a moment’s peace.

He blew out a long breath, gazing around the room. The trick now was finding something to occupy himself until Sam woke up. He eyed the TV remote but didn’t pick it up. Though both he and Sam had engaged in their share of muted, middle-of-the-night television, he had no idea how loud the room’s last occupant had left the volume. Normally he’d consider scaring the crap out of Sam his big-brotherly duty, as well as hilarious. But in Sam’s current condition? Not so much.

Dean eyed the laptop bag, which was within easy reach. He could try to scare up a new hunt--or better yet, check out BustyAsianBeauties.com. Personally, he wasn’t that into Internet porn, but Sam’s bitchface when he discovered where Dean had been surfing was always worth the price of admission.

Of course, the room’s quiet would magnify the click of every keystroke. Not to mention his eyes felt too dry and gritty to stare at a computer screen.

Sam drew in a sharp breath, frowning as he mumbled something unintelligible. Dean leaned over and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was a trick he’d picked up when they were kids, a way of using warmth and touch to short-circuit a nightmare without waking Sam. And just like the little boy he’d been, Sam stilled, his brow smoothing and respiration steadying.

When he was certain Sam had returned to a deeper slumber, Dean removed his hand and used it to rub his burning eyes. Even now, despite all the crap Dean had put him through, despite Sam’s self-doubts and fears, Sam showed an implicit trust in him that was humbling--and terrifying. It made him want to pack it all in, just grab Sam and drive. See the Grand Canyon, the redwoods--hell, even the world’s biggest ball of twine. Live the lie that had so effortlessly fallen from their lips for the past year.

It also made him more determined than ever to kill the yellow-eyed son of a bitch and every one of the bastards who followed him. Because if there was one creed he’d come to live by, a mantra far stronger than saving people and hunting things, it was that nobody messed with his little brother and walked away.

Nobody.

Suddenly the walls felt a little too close, the need to move irresistible. Dean stood and picked up his duffel, carrying it into the bathroom. He dressed quickly and, with the exception of a dropped shoe, quietly. Pulling on his jacket, he navigated carefully across the room, pausing for a last look at Sam before he slipped out the door.

There was a convenience store just across the two-lane strip of blacktop the locals called a highway, its flickering neon sign declaring, “OPEN 4 HO S!”

Dean smirked and turned up his collar against the chill as he headed across the street.

A jangling bell announced his entrance, but the rumpled clerk simply peered over the tops of his bifocals before returning his attention to a dog-eared copy of Weekly World News. Dean filled two large cups with coffee, then balanced the cardboard tray in one hand so he could snag a few packaged pastries on the way up to the register.

He flashed a grin. “Mornin’--” he tilted his head to read the clerk’s name badge “--Harold.”

Harold set aside the magazine with a sigh and began ringing up Dean’s purchases.

“Saw the sign out front,” Dean said. “Always nice to find a place that doesn’t discriminate.”

“Eight dollars and eighty-six cents.” Harold’s voice was as expressionless as his deeply lined face.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that, Harold?” Dean tossed nine dollars on the counter and gathered up his purchases. “Keep the change.”

The sky was just beginning to lighten, and Dean quickened his pace as he headed back to the room. Though he knew he couldn’t have been gone more than 15 minutes, suddenly leaving Sam alone seemed like a bad idea. Yeah, his brother was a big boy and plenty able to take care of himself, but he’d also gone on a simple burger run and disappeared for a week--not to mention got himself possessed.

Back at the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was still sleeping, though he’d kicked off the blankets and rolled onto his stomach. Dean tugged up the covers, set the extra coffee on the bedside table, and slipped back outside, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear if Sam had another of his screamers.

He slouched on the Impala’s hood, alternating between sipping coffee and warming his fingers with the cup. The clouds had rolled through without delivering any snow, but the air held a definite bite. Dean huddled into the warmth of his coat, grateful that he and Sam wouldn’t be battling slick conditions once they hit the road.

The driving beat of “Down on Love” broke the peaceful quiet, and Dean nearly dropped his coffee. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he looked at the display. Huh.

He flipped it open one-handed and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, Bobby. Kind of early for you, isn’t it?”

“Where are you?”

Though he was never exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely, Bobby’s voice held an edge that had Dean instantly on alert.

“Minnesota,” he said, all the humor draining from his voice. “Near Duluth. Why?”

“How’s Sam doing?”

Dean frowned. “He’s sleeping. And again I ask--why?”

A long pause, and Dean could almost hear Bobby searching for words. “He, uh . . . remember anything more?”

Okay, now his Spidey sense was really tingling. “Just spit it out, man.”

Bobby sighed. “Fine. Seems Steve Wandell isn’t the only hunter to turn up dead.”

The bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. “Who?”

“Guy by the name of Jack Brigman. He lives about fifty miles from Wandell. The two of 'em used to partner up on bigger hunts.”

“Hunting’s a dangerous gig. How can you be sure the deaths are related?” Dean knew he was grasping at straws, but damn, Sam was going to freak.

“His throat had been slit with a hunting knife,” Bobby snapped. “Does that sound related?” He drew another deep breath, and his voice softened. “It’s Sam, Dean.”

“You mean it’s Meg. Shit, Bobby, I have a hard enough time trying to convince Sam that none of this was his fault!”

“All right, I hear you. And I’m sorry, it’s just . . . You’ve gotta understand how bad this is. There are a dozen hunters out for blood right now, and the fact that Brigman’s daughter is missing just adds fuel to--”

“Wait a minute, what?” Dean sat up straight, his heart thudding against his ribs.

“Brigman’s 20-year-old daughter, Amanda, is MIA,” Bobby explained. “No one seems to know where she might have gone. That’s why it took so long to discover his body. Brigman was a loner--Amanda and Steve Wandell were the only family he had.”

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I, uh . . . I don’t suppose you know what kind of car she drives.”

“What kind of-- How the hell would I know something like that?” There was a raspy sound, like Bobby had run a hand down his bearded cheek. “Tell me what’s going on, Dean.”

The order implicit in Bobby’s tone was so achingly like Dad’s, Dean snapped open his eyes. “I need you to get your hands on a picture of the girl. And use your PD contact to find out what type of car she drives,” he said. “We should get to your place by dinnertime.”

Bobby was silent a moment. “You think Sa-Meg had something to do with Amanda Brigman’s disappearance?”

“We’ll tell you everything when we get there. Just . . . fly under the radar when you get that info, okay?”

Bobby snorted. “You think you’re talking to some snot-nosed kid?” He dropped his voice to the affectionate growl Dean remembered from childhood. “You watch your backs, you hear?”

“You too.”

Dean snapped his phone shut and pressed it to his forehead. The coffee in his hand was now lukewarm, and what had made it to his belly churned sickly. He was beginning to feel like one of those pop-up clowns, surviving one punch after another, only to be knocked down again.

And he was so tired.

“Dean?”

He startled, sloshing tepid coffee onto his hand.

Sam leaned in the now open doorway, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. With his rumpled clothing and bedhead, he looked like a toddler after a long nap.

“’Bout time you woke up, princess.” Dean forced a smirk as he slid off the hood.

“Were you just talking to someone?” Yawning, Sam stepped back to allow Dean into the room.

“Got you coffee and a couple of those nasty Hostess pies you’re so fond of.” Dean faked a shudder, hooking a thumb at the nightstand as he slipped off his coat. “Man, I don’t know how you eat those things.”

“Says the guy who thinks grease is one of the food groups.” Sam grabbed the coffee and sat at the small table, fishing one of the pastries from the bag.

“You seriously lack taste, Sammy. Don’t know where I went wrong.” Dean silently congratulated himself on his diversionary tactics. He needed time to think, to figure out just how he was going to lay this latest bomb on--

“So who were you talking to?”

Of course his bulldog of a brother couldn’t let it go.

Dean busied himself with checking over the weapons bag--not that it needed it. “Bobby.”

“Bobby?” Sam said, his mouth full of apple pie. He swallowed. “Why would Bobby call this early?”

“It’s not that early, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean checked the rounds in his favorite gun and slipped it back into the bag. “Sun’ll be up soon. Why don’t you take a shower so we can hit the road?”

Though he didn’t hear Sam move, suddenly his brother was beside him, his eyes narrowed. “Dean. Why did Bobby call?”

So much for figuring things out.

“Sit down, Sammy,” he said quietly, motioning to the bed.

Face tight with apprehension, Sam perched on the edge of the mattress.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and tried to gauge his brother’s state of mind. Just how much could he spin this to soften the blow? The answer wasn’t encouraging.

Sam licked his lips. “Dude, say something. You’re scaring the crap outta me.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean took a breath. “Bobby called to give us a heads up.” He moved to sit beside his brother. “Sam, another hunter is dead.”

Though his expression didn’t change, Sam’s fingers tightened on the bedspread. “I take it he didn’t die on the job.”

“He was Steve Wandell’s partner. And his throat was cut.”

With a jagged laugh, Sam shook his head. “You know, I’d actually started to tell myself the worst was over.” He studied Dean’s face and went still. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Fighting the compulsion to look away, Dean nodded. “This hunter--Brigman? Has a 20-year-old daughter who’s gone missing.”

All the color drained from Sam’s face. “Oh, God. It’s her, isn’t it? The girl in the alley, the one I . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast and hard.

From the time Sam had been a little kid skinning his knees, Dean had learned the art--the absolute necessity--of becoming an island of calm in a crisis. As he shoved aside his own freak-out, he found himself wishing for the days when a hug and a bandage could solve everything.

“We don’t know that,” he calmly told Sam.

But his brother was up and pacing. “The hell we don’t! I killed Wandell, I killed this . . . this Brigman, and I killed his daughter. And, hey, let’s not forget--I raped her too! And who knows what else I might’ve done? A week’s a long time, I could’ve . . . could’ve--”

Dean stepped in front of him and grabbed Sam’s hoodie in both fists. “Stop.”

The stern order pulled Sam up short, just as he’d known it would. They were both John Winchester’s boys, after all.

Dean uncurled his fingers and patted Sam’s chest. “We’re gonna figure this out. But that means not jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts. Okay?”

They locked gazes for a long moment, Sam wide-eyed and breathing hard, Dean projecting a steady assurance he didn’t really feel.

Sam’s shoulders curled, and he looked away. “Okay.”

With another pat, Dean turned back to the weapons bag. “Bobby’s expecting us, so get cleaned up, and I’ll pack the car.”

His brother didn’t answer, just pulled clothes from his duffel and headed for the bathroom. He paused in the doorway. “Dean . . .”

He couldn’t look up, couldn’t see the brokenness on Sam’s face, or he’d give everything away. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy.”

He wished like hell he believed his own words.

Go to part 5

Resolution 3/?

2008-03-29T05:34:50Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,453 (this chapter)
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

The drive to Duluth was 18 hours. Dean made it in 15.

He put the car in park and turned off the engine, turning to face Sam with one arm stretched along the seatback. “This is it.”

Sam sat up straight and peered out the window. When he’d tracked down Jo to apologize, she’d been at the Roadhouse, visiting Ellen and Ash, so this was his first real glimpse of the tavern. He studied the lot filled with trucks and SUVs, the bright Sandpiper sign boasting “Dark Hills Premium Beer,” the surrounding warehouses and docks.

“Look familiar?”

Sam slowly shook his head. “How’d she ever wind up here?”

Dean yawned and rubbed the back of his head. “According to Ellen, an old Army buddy of her dad’s owns the place.”

Guilt prickled Sam’s conscience as he took in his brother’s red-rimmed eyes and the lines around his mouth. Dean had insisted on doing all the driving, pointing out what might happen--to the Impala--if Sam had a flashback at 70 miles an hour. To stave off sleep he’d cranked the radio, cracked his window when the car became too stuffy, and sent Sam on numerous trips for strong, truck-stop coffee.

Sam hadn’t minded. All Dean’s tricks for staying alert had the added benefit of keeping him awake, as well. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep.

“You think she’s in there?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out.” Dean reached for the door handle and paused. “Unless you’d rather sit here and watch Jim Bob,” he indicated a large man staggering around the corner of the building, “take a piss.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam yanked open his door and got out, stretching until his back popped. The sun had set, and thick gray clouds obscured the moon and stars, promising to add more snow to the light dusting already on the ground. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet along the icy ground. His mouth felt desert dry, and he kept his gaze fixed on the neon orange letters over the door.

Inside, the tavern was dark and noisy, the buzz of conversation overlaid by the blare of rock music. Sam looked through the sea of flannel and denim to the large windows overlooking the docks. He noted that most of the Sandpiper’s largely male clientele were either lined up along the bar or clustered around rough, wooden tables.

As he pulled his gaze back to Dean, one of the heavy support posts caught his eye. An image of Jo tied to the beam, her face obscured by a curtain of blonde hair, popped like a flashbulb across his vision, and his stomach dropped.

Dean gripped his arm, and Sam bit back a gasp. His brother’s gaze was sharp, assessing. “You still with me?”

Sam swallowed hard and tipped up his chin. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Right.” Dean glanced around, then steered him toward an empty booth tucked against the wall. “Park it. I’ll see if I can track Jo down.”

Sam shrugged off Dean’s hand, but slid into the booth without argument. He dropped his eyes to the scarred tabletop, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze for a long moment before his brother moved off toward the bar.

With a sigh, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. From the moment he’d stepped into the bar, he’d had the tingly, hair-raising feeling that Dean liked to call a “Haley Joel” moment. Though his head swore that he’d never set foot in this place, that nothing was familiar, his gut seemed to be connecting with the Sandpiper on a primal level.

And it was taking all his self-control not to head for the nearest exit.

Sam scanned the crowd, finally spying his brother’s leather jacket. Dean was slouched against the bar, chatting up the pretty redhead serving drinks. As she slid a mug of beer toward him, he flashed the patented Dean Winchester grin and slid his hand

over hers to encircle her wrist, the small bones as fragile as a bird’s beneath his fingers.

“Sam, what’s going on?” Jo tries to pull away, but he tightens his grip.

“I can be more to you, Jo.” The fear in her eyes thrills him, but he keeps his expression guileless.

“Maybe you should leave.” She’s doing her best to sound tough, but he hears uncertainty lurking beneath.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then curves his lips in the barest hint of a smile. “Okay.”

She snatches away her hand as soon as he releases it. When he gets off the stool, she turns her back, obviously fighting for composure. He smirks--stupid bitch.

He grabs her and spins her around, reveling in the way she squirms against him.

“Sam, get off me!” Her voice wavers. Not so tough now.

He buries a hand in her hair and yanks, exposing her neck to his lips and teeth, loving the frantic hammering of her pulse. She reaches for an empty bottle, but he easily overpowers her.

“Jo, Jo, Jo.”

Smashing the bottle, he shoves her against the bar, pressing himself along her back. All the wriggling and fighting just makes it better.

She’s sobbing now, terrified. “Sam, no! Please! Please!”

“Sam.”

He jerked away from the hand on his shoulder, scrabbling blindly toward the back of the booth. Voices, motion, music all assaulted his senses, and he blinked hard, struggling to bring it all into focus.

Dean was staring at him with the little line between his eyebrows that meant he was worried and trying not to show it. “Dude, it’s just me.”

“I’m okay.” Sam said the words automatically, self-defense against the concern.

“Yeah, catatonic’s a good look for you.” Dean sat and slid a mug across the table. “Brought you a beer.”

Just the smell set Sam’s stomach to churning. It must have showed on his face, because Dean raised an eyebrow and pulled the drink back. “Or not.”

He breathed slowly through his mouth, willing the nausea to pass. “What’d you find out?”

“Her shift starts at seven, so she should be getting here any minute.” Dean took a drink from his mug and shook his head. “I still think maybe we should’ve given her a heads up, Sam. Let her know we were coming.”

“And she’d have asked why.” Sam pressed his trembling hands against the table top. “It’s better this way.”

Dean looked unconvinced. “Whatever, man. Anyway, the lovely Emily,” he hooked a thumb at the bartender and waggled his eyebrows, “promised she’d send her over.”

Steel bands tightened around Sam’s chest. The air felt too thick, the clatter of scraping chairs, boisterous laughter, and music too loud. When he swallowed, his throat made a dry click. “No.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

Sam shook his head, scooting toward the end of the booth. “No, I won’t . . . I mean, I don’t think I . . .

“Whoa, hold on.” Dean clamped a hand around his wrist, only to release it when Sam shuddered. “What’s going on? You were the one that wanted to come here, that had to see her, remember?”

“I do. I will.” Sam felt sweat break out on the back of his neck as he stood. “I just . . . I can’t do this here.”

Understanding flooded Dean’s gaze. “What exactly did you remember?” When Sam just looked away, he sighed. “Okay, okay. See that door over there? It opens onto the docks. Go get some air. I’ll bring her to you.”

Not trusting his voice, Sam nodded and fled. He wove his way through crowded tables, tripping over someone’s foot and nearly taking out a girl juggling several pitchers of beer. Muttering apologies, he pushed through the door and stumbled outside.

For a moment it was enough just to draw the crisp air into his lungs. Sagging against a wooden railing, he let the darkness and silence envelop him, slowly calming his jittering nerves.

As he stared out at the water, Jo’s wide, terrified eyes--and worse, his own feelings of excitement--rose in his memory. His stomach twisted, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. He’d gotten off on her pain and fear. No matter that it was Meg in control, it was still his body, he still felt and enjoyed every minute of it.

Just like the monsters he and Dean hunted.

Only this time, he was the monster. And Dean hadn’t been there to stop him.

He opened his eyes and stared down into the inky black water as it lapped against the wooden pilings. Behind him the door opened, spilling light and warmth. Pulling in a deep breath, Sam turned. Jo stood beside Dean, wearing the same guarded expression that had begun to haunt him.

He pasted on a smile. “Hey, Jo.”

“Sam.”

He started to fold his arms, stopped, shoved hands into his pockets instead. “You look good.” He flushed, horrified. “Uh, that is, I mean--”

“Thanks. You look like shit.” She quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “So do you.”

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.” Dean looked at Sam. “Totally worth the 15-hour drive.”

“And speaking of that . . .” Jo glanced between the two of them. “What’s this all about?”

“I needed to talk to you.” Sam took a breath. “Alone--if that’s all right with you.”

She was good. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he’d probably have missed the fear that briefly flickered in her eyes. “Sure. You want a drink?” Her mouth set in a straight line. “It’s on the house.”

Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking for a specific reaction to that. “Uh, actually . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, then curled his fingers into a fist when they trembled. “Out here would be better. If you don’t mind.”

She stuffed her hands in her pockets and inclined her head. “Okay. But you’ll have to make it fast. My shift started five minutes ago.”

All three stood in silence for a moment before Dean threw Sam a worried look, then cleared his throat. “Okay, then. If anyone needs me, I’ll be dazzling Emily with my awesome good looks and sparkling personality.”

After he disappeared inside, Jo looked at Sam with raised eyebrows. “So?”

Hearing the edge in her voice, Sam moved back to lean against the railing, putting a healthy distance between them. “I need to talk to you about what happened . . . before.”

Jo regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

It wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Huh?”

“Why do we need to talk? I thought we were past it.”

“We were, it’s just--”

“You were possessed, you apologized, there’s barely even a bruise left--it’s all water under the bridge, right?” She delivered the words with her gaze fixed just over his left shoulder, never making eye contact.

Her obvious discomfort only increased the sick sense of wrong in Sam’s gut. “Yeah, sure, but--”

“Because it’s not really something I want to reminisce about, you know?” she said, posture rigid and expression stony. “Like, ‘Hey, Sam, remember the time you tied me to that post?’ doesn’t really work for me. I’d just as soon let the whole thing drop.”

Frustrated, he straightened from his slouch. “I can’t.”

It came out sharper than he intended, and Jo flinched back, her hands shifting restlessly in her pockets. She recovered quickly, though, and her eyes were flinty when they finally challenged his. “Why the hell not?”

Sam swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve been getting flashes of things that happened while I was possessed,” he said quietly. “Some of them are from that night.”

“And?”

“There are still holes--gaps. And I need to know . . .” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I hurt you. I need to know exactly how bad.”

With a huff, she rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, you threw me around a little, knocked my head against the bar.” As she studied his face some of the stiffness leaked out of her shoulders. “It was a mild concussion, Sam. I stopped having headaches after the first day.”

He shook his head, his agitation rising even as Jo calmed. “That’s not what I mean. I want you to level with me.”

She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you’d better tell me just what it is you expect me to say.”

“The truth!” His voice cracked, and his eyes burned. Turning away, he scrubbed at them with the heel of one hand.

“Sam . . .”

He dropped his hand, surprised by the concern in her voice and the fact that she’d moved to face him. It took all his courage to meet her gaze. “I remember some of the things I said, things I did. And I’ve got to know how far it went. Did I . . .” His voice cracked. “Jo, did I . . . rape you?”

Her eyes widened, then went soft with emotion. “Oh, Sam. No. God, no.”

The intense wave of relief turned Sam’s legs to rubber, and he sat on the cold wooden boards, his back pressed against a post. Jo crouched down beside him but remained silent, giving him space. He had a sudden memory of the two of them sitting in the back seat of the Impala, trading amused glances as Ellen reduced Dean Winchester, badass hunter, into a stammering little boy.

He wondered if they’d ever share that easy camaraderie again.

“You--she--messed with my head,” Jo said. “And I’ll admit there was a moment when I started to worry . . .” A shiver rippled through her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She gave him a tentative smile to prove her words. Then it faded. “The truth is she wasn’t really interested in me at all. It was Dean she was after.”

Seeing a ghost of the wariness that had troubled him, Sam cleared his throat. “Jo, did I say or do anything else I should know about?”

Pain drifted across her face, but she shook her head. “No.”

Sam frowned. “Are you sure? ’Cause that didn’t look like a no.”

She set her jaw, but he could tell the hardness in her eyes wasn’t for him. “Demons lie, right? And even when they don’t . . . Nothing she said matters.”

She stood, dusting off her jeans before extending a hand. “I’ve got to get to work.”

Sam accepted the tug upright. “Thanks. For, you know . . .” He gestured vaguely. “And for talking to me. Considering the last time I came here, well . . . Agreeing to be alone with me was pretty brave.”

Jo cocked an eyebrow. “Not really.” She pulled her father’s hunting knife from a pocket, and one corner of her mouth turned up.

Sam chuffed a startled laugh, the knot in his chest loosening a little.

“You two heading out soon?”

“If I can drag Dean away from Emily,” Sam said dryly.

Jo rolled her eyes. “Good luck.” She opened the door to the tavern, but turned back. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “You, too.”

Go to part 4

Supernatural Fic: Resolution 2/?

2008-03-22T03:59:39Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,796 (this chapter)
Author's note: I forgot to mention that I'm drawing inspiration for this fic from the vid "Resolution" by the very talented wolfpup2000. You can find it here: http://wolfpupsden.us Go, watch, and send feedback! Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Sam was losing it.

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, arms propped on his knees, and watched his brother sleep--or what came closest to it these days. Sam twitched and moaned, his hair damp with sweat despite the coolness of the room. His hands clenched the sheets and his legs moved restlessly as if he were doing battle even in slumber.

Dean didn’t want to think about what he was fighting.

He pulled a hand down his face and stood, stripping off his T-shirt with a wince. Shoveling all that dirt hadn’t done his shoulder any favors. He gingerly prodded the still-healing skin, puckered and reddened around the edges. A sense memory ambushed him--Sam’s big fingers grinding into the wound--and he grimaced, then darted a look over his shoulder. Sam slept on, looking four instead of twenty-four, and Dean’s heart rate slowed from a gallop to a trot.

For once the motel had decent water pressure, and he turned it on hot, wincing at the initial sting, then sighing as tight muscles loosened under the spray. He’d been struggling to hold it together--to hold them both together--for months, and the stress was taking a toll on his body as well as his mind. He was starting to lose his edge--nothing dramatic, but in their line of work a split-second loss of reaction time could mean the difference between life and death for him, for Sam.

And Sam . . .

It was bad enough when Sam was determined to single-handedly balance the cosmic scales by saving as many people as possible. But ever since Meg had taken him for her warped version of a joyride, Dean had watched his brother begin to unravel at the seams. At first he’d seemed to accept Dean’s pledge to save him at face value. Then the nightmares kicked in, his subconscious revealing in sleep horrors he could never remember once awake. Until tonight.

The flashback, memory, whatever you called it, had rattled Sam, destroying the small steps Dean had made with inked-on protection symbols and “I’m the big brother” reassurances. He’d begun to withdraw on the way back from the cemetery, and by the time they reached the room, the most Dean was able to coax from him were monosyllabic answers and shakes of his head. He reminded Dean of the Sam he’d pulled from a burning apartment building, and the thought of going through that again--the insomnia, the nightmares, the depression, the guilt--made Dean’s stomach churn.

After shutting off the water and toweling himself dry, he pulled on a pair of clean boxers and a T-shirt and snagged his toothbrush from the glass by the sink. As he brushed he used an arm to swipe the steam from the mirror, then wished he hadn’t. The dark smudges under his eyes rivaled Sam’s, and his too pale skin made every freckle stand out.

Dean snorted. Good thing he wasn’t planning on hitting a bar tonight. Hot chicks didn’t go for a guy who looked like an extra from Night of the Living Dead.

Problem was, Dean wasn’t going to get a decent night’s sleep anytime soon--not until Sam did. And the problem with that was he had no idea how to help Sam, who was hurting in ways even Dean’s awesome big-brother skills couldn’t fix. And with Henrikson hot on their trail, they couldn’t exactly risk contacting a shrink. Dean snorted--as if Sammy would ever go along with that plan anyway.

When he came out of the bathroom, Sam had quieted, sprawled on his stomach with his face mashed in the pillow the way he only slept when truly exhausted or drunk.

Dean navigated by the single bar of moonlight that had managed to squeeze through the curtains and stretched out on his own bed with a soft grunt of satisfaction. The shower had worked magic on his aches and pains, and Sam’s soft, rhythmic breathing was better than any drug. Within minutes he was asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The crash had him on his feet, knife in hand, before he’d fully opened his eyes. Sam’s bed was empty, the chair where he’d set the weapons bag tipped over, and someone was blundering around in the bathroom.

Dean flicked on the light just in time to see Sam drop to his knees in front of the toilet, where he proceeded to do his best to puke up his toenails.

“Damn it.” Dean tossed the blade onto his bed and grabbed a washcloth off the towel bar, wetting it with cold water from the sink.

He hovered in the doorway for what seemed an eternity, hating the feeling of helplessness. When Sam finally propped his folded arms on the rim and dropped his head onto them, he knelt down and pressed the cold cloth to the back of his brother’s neck.

“Geez, Sammy. Is this some kind of payback for that crack about not hurling in my car?” He grimaced a little at the lameness of his own joke.

Sam didn’t answer, and it took Dean a moment to register the shudders rippling through his brother’s huddled form.

“Sam? Sam, look at me.”

With a reaction time way too sluggish for Dean’s comfort, Sam lifted his head. His skin was chalky under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescents, his eyes glassy, and he was shivering hard enough to set his teeth chattering.

Muttering a soft curse, Dean looped Sam’s arm over his shoulders. “C’mon, Sasquatch, we’ve got to get you warm.”

He managed to drag his brother to his bed, only bouncing off two walls in the process. Once he had Sam seated and wrapped in a blanket, he went back for a glass of water.

“Take it slow,” he warned as he steadied the tumbler in Sam’s hands. “I’ve seen enough puke tonight to last me a lifetime.”

Sam managed two anemic sips before handing Dean the glass. Though the shivering had eased and a little bit of color had returned to his cheeks, he clutched the blanket in a white-knuckled grip and seemed to find the frayed edge fascinating.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Dean asked.

Sam ducked his head, his already tense shoulders stiffening further. Dean abruptly realized his brother hadn’t spoken a word since the whole incident began, which was even more disturbing than Sam’s sudden passion for vomiting.

“Talk to me, Sammy,” he said, tilting his head to see his brother’s evasive face. “You’re really starting to freak me out.”

“Sorry.”

It was barely more than a mumble, but it was something.

Dean kept his own voice gentle. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s going on.” When it seemed Sam would remain silent, he added, “Bad dream?”

Sam finally met his gaze with dull, lifeless eyes. “You could say that. Except it wasn’t a dream.”

Great. Dean had the uncomfortable sense of speeding toward a head-on collision with no hope of turning the wheel. He’d give it try, though.

“You were asleep. Sounds like a dream to me.”

“It was the same girl I remembered in the cemetery, Dean. It wasn’t a dream then, and it isn’t now.” Sam’s voice was as flat as his expression, and damn, things were bad when Dean found himself missing the bitchface.

“All right, I get it.” Dean rubbed the tight muscles at the back of his neck. “Meg wasted her while wearing your skin, and now your freaky brain has decided to give you a front-row seat. But Sam, you’ve got to--”

“I didn’t see myself wasting her! I saw--” Sam bit off the word, pressing the backs of his curled fingers against his mouth.

“What?”

“I raped her.” Sam’s eyes welled up and his voice cracked. “God, Dean, I raped her.”

It felt as if someone had swept his legs from beneath him. For a moment, Dean could only gape as he fought to regain his balance.

As if shocked anew by his own words, Sam’s breathing sped up, and the tremors returned full force.

“Okay, Easy, easy. Sam.” He spoke the name in the low growl that usually got Sam’s attention, coupled with a firm hand on his knee. “Slow it down.”

Sam struggled to comply, bringing one hand up to scrub at his eyes. “No wonder she was so scared.” He choked out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I thought it was because of the knife.”

Dean winced. “Sam.”

He moved to sit beside his brother, resting a hand on his back. For a moment Sam resisted, all rigid spine and sharp elbows, then he leaned into Dean’s side.

Dean listened to the strangled breaths that signaled Sam desperately trying to stave off tears and counted the ways he was going to make Meg pay.

He gritted his teeth, thinking he really should have anticipated something like this. After all, Meg was a kinky bitch--she’d made that plain when she was feeling Sammy up in that crappy abandoned building. She must have gotten off on using him to act out her perverted little fantasies.

Dean could only hope this was the worst of it.

“It wasn’t you, Sam.” It sounded empty, even to him, but what the hell.

Sam pulled back, his jaw clenched. “Yeah, well . . . that’s just semantics.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snarled.

“Is it? It was my face she saw, Dean. My hands, my body that . . .” Sam swallowed and closed his eyes.

Dean clenched his hands into fists. He had to stop this, now. “So I guess that means you blame Dad, huh?”

“What?” Sam’s eyes popped open, and he frowned.

“For what happened in that cabin. For throwing you up against the wall and trying to rearrange my guts.”

Sam looked away, his throat working. “It’s not the same.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Dean sucked in a calming breath. “You know how demons operate, Sam. They lie and manipulate and do whatever it takes to twist you up inside. Meg possessed you, used you for one purpose--to destroy both of us. Don’t let her win.”

Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either.

Dean stood and retrieved his knife from the end of the bed, then slid it back under his pillow. The clock’s digital display flicked from 2:47 to 2:48, which meant he’d gotten a whopping three hours of sleep before Sam’s little freak-out.

“You want me to get you some ginger ale for your stomach?” He watched Sam from the corner of his eye as he picked up the toppled chair and checked the spilled weapons bag.

A shake of Sam’s tousled head was all the answer he got. Dean contented himself with the fact that his brother was no longer clutching the blanket, and his color had improved.

“How ’bout I turn out the lights and we try for some more sleep?” He couldn’t help the thread of longing that crept into his voice.

From Sam’s horrified reaction, you’d have thought he’d suggested torturing small animals.

“Okay, so sleep’s a no-go.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face to hide a yawn. “Could turn on the TV, find some of that--” He caught himself--barely--before he said porn. “--those infomercials you’re so fond of.” He waved the remote. “Hawaii chair? Flowbee? Stop the Insanity?”

Sam shrugged off the blanket, looking past Dean with a thousand-yard stare. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later Dean heard the click of the lock engaging.

“Or you could take a shower.” Dean flopped onto his bed and glared up at the cracked ceiling. “That went well.”

He listened to the patter of water on tile, knowing damn well the kind of clean Sam craved couldn’t be achieved with hot water and soap. As much as he could assure Sam he wasn’t responsible for Meg’s actions, the truth of the matter was that Sam had to live with the fallout.

Dean ground the heels of his hands into gritty eyes. For most of his life, he’d been good at two things--hunting, and taking care of Sam. It was something he counted on, that he could put his back against when everything else was falling apart. But lately when it came to hunting, he felt off his game. Maybe because the personal cost was becoming higher than he was willing to pay--Caleb, Pastor Jim, Dad. He’d be damned if he was going to lose Sam too.

Of course, it didn’t seem like he was doing such a hot job of that, either.

A loud thump, like a body hitting tile, sounded from the bathroom. Dean launched himself off the bed and pounded on the door. “Sam? You all right in there?”

When Sam didn’t answer, he pressed his ear to the cheap plywood. The water shut off, and he could hear his brother moving around the room--crashing into and dropping things, from the sound of it.

He’d opened his mouth to call Sam’s name again, when the door jerked open and he tumbled forward, bouncing off Sam, who plowed past him without a word.

“Damn it, Sam, what are you doing?” He took in a spilled shampoo bottle, puddled water, and discarded towels before turning to watch Sam, who was pulling on clothing as if the building were on fire.

Sam didn’t even look at him, just zipped his jeans and began digging through his duffel, presumably for a shirt. “Get dressed, Dean, we gotta go.”

Dean closed his eyes and counted to five. He was tired, frustrated, and in no shape for another of Sam’s freak-outs. “Go where?”

Already wearing a T-shirt and hoodie, Sam had one sock clutched in his teeth as he pawed through clean clothes. “To Jo’s place.” He snatched a second sock from the bag with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Sam.” He kept his voice oh-so-reasonable, which really, he deserved a gold star for. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know.” Sam sat on the end of the bed and reached for his shoe, pausing to scowl at Dean. “Why aren’t you getting dressed?”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I don’t care. We’ve gotta go now.” Sam reached for his other shoe, but Dean got there first, dangling it just out of reach. Sam made an unsuccessful grab for it. “What’s your problem, man?”

Dean matched his brother’s glare. “My problem is I’m tired, my shoulder hurts, and I have no idea why I’ve got to drive all the way to Minnesota in the middle of the freakin’ night.”

Sam’s gaze slid to Dean’s shoulder and he frowned, then looked away. “I told you, I have to see Jo.” He reached for the shoe, and again Dean pulled it away, placing a palm on Sam’s chest to hold him in place. “Dean!”

“Yeah, you told me. The question is, why?” When Sam wrapped his arms around himself and looked away, Dean shook his head. “I’m the one holding the keys, Sammy. Way I see it, you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sam muttered, “I’ve got to know how bad I hurt her.”

With a sigh, Dean sat beside his brother. “We’ve done this, Sam. Yeah, you knocked her around, but you apologized and . . .” The true meaning behind Sam’s words broke through, and he trailed off, his throat tight. “Sammy, you don’t think--”

“I don’t know!” Sam ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly on end. “What I do know is that something happened that night, something worse than me hitting her over the head and tying her to a post. When I apologized--it was in her eyes every time she looked at me. And now that I remembered that I . . .” He bit his lip, blinking furiously. “I have to know.”

As Sam talked. Dean mentally replayed the incident at the bar, searching for anything that could allay his brother’s fears. But the truth was, he’d been so focused on Sam that he’d barely given Jo a second glance.

“Dean?” Sam was staring at him with red-rimmed eyes.

Dean gave Sam the shoe. “Let’s go.” He held on a moment, forcing Sam to look at him. “Not because I think you did it. But because I know you’re gonna beat yourself up until you get proof that you didn’t.” He went to his own duffel and pulled out a clean shirt.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was very soft.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re making all the coffee runs, bitch.”

Inwardly, he sighed. It was gonna be a long drive.

Go to part 3

Supernatural WIP: Resolution 1/?

2008-03-13T01:52:26Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,683 (this chapter)
Author's note: I've been grappling with writer's block and this fic has been sitting on my hard drive since shortly after the episode aired. I'm hoping that posting it will give me the kick I need to get it finished. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

I’m standing on the edge of my fear
And I see it clear

Resolution -- Nick Lachey

"Sam! Incoming!"

Sam raised his gun as Dean burst through the trees, head thrown back, arms and legs pumping. Ellie Watson was hot on his brother's heels, teeth bared and unruly blonde hair flying. As they drew closer, she growled and flung out a pale arm.

"Dean, now!"

Dean dodged sharply left, but in the same instant, Ellie's fingers locked onto his flannel shirt. Her vicious shove sabotaged Dean's attempt at a graceful tuck and roll and sent him tumbling. His head struck a marble tombstone, and he slid to the ground in a tangled heap.

"Dean!"

Sam watched his brother squint unfocused eyes and struggle to stand, his movements slow and clumsy. He shifted his gaze to Ellie, who had pulled up less than a yard from the open grave. As he tightened his finger on the trigger, he noted with some fascination the stillness of her chest.

"Wait! Please, don't." She slowly stretched out a hand, palm up.

He froze. Something in her voice . . .

"You don't have to do this." She stepped closer. "Please. Just . . . Just let me go."

Ice water flooded his veins and he broke out in gooseflesh. His pulse pounded in his ears and the air felt too thick and heavy for his laboring lungs. Her voice . . . soft and broken. Wide, liquid blue eyes . . . pleading . . .

"Please, don't."

She scrabbles backward, dirt and broken glass cutting her palms and soiling a tattered floral dress. Wisps of blonde hair straggle free from a gold clip; a bruise darkens her cheekbone and blood trails from her nose.

"S-sam, no. You don't have to do this," she pleads, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Just . . . just let me go. I promise I w-won't . . . I won't t-tell."

He leans in close, stroking the razor-sharp blade against the swollen flesh of her split lip, the wayward strands of hair at her temple. His smile widens when she flinches with a strangled whimper.

Tipping his head, he lets his lips brush her ear. "Oh, sweetheart. I know you won't."

A flick of his wrist, and warmth splatters his face and neck.

He doesn't flinch.

Sam flinched.

He slammed into his body--sights and sounds rushed at him with dizzying speed. The pop-bang of a gun. Dean crashing into Ellie with enough force to send her tumbling into the grave, then diving after her. An enraged shriek. The wet crunch of metal meeting flesh and bone.

Silence.

His stomach churning, Sam blinked, the world tilting, then settling. He realized he was still standing on the lip of the grave, gun outstretched.

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

With a shake of his head, Sam struggled to focus. Dean glared at him from where he straddled a now-motionless Ellie, his hands still wrapped around the knife driven through her ribcage.

"You nearly got yourself killed! If I'd been a little slower she'd've snapped your neck." Dean climbed out of the grave, wiping dirt and blackened blood from his fingers with a grimace. He glared at Sam, then did a double take. "Sammy?"

Sam's gun hand dropped limply to his side and his legs folded. As his knees hit the grass, he swayed, but Dean was there, holding him up. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, staring at his fingers when they came away clean.

"Talk to me, Sam." Dean gripped Sam's cheeks between his palms. His voice had moved from irritation through concern to full-blown worry. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"No . . . I . . . I don't know." Sam clutched Dean's arms, sucking in a ragged breath. He was so damn confused, but one thing was crystal clear. "Dean, I . . . I killed her."

Dean continued to study Sam's face, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little, and he dropped his hands. "No, I killed her. Well, technically she was already dead, but, you know what I mean."

Sam stared back, Dean's words gradually filtering through the terror and making sense. His eyes flicked to the corpse, then back to his brother. "No, not . . . not her. The other girl."

"What other girl?"

"The one in the alley." Sam swallowed hard but the nausea rose up, his gut clenching and bile stinging his throat. "The one I . . ." He scrubbed both hands over his face, his eyes hot and wet. "Oh, God, Dean. I just . . . I killed her."

Dean rubbed a hand across his lips, then through his hair. He glanced at the open grave and scanned the cemetery before standing. "C'mon."

Sam looked at his brother's outstretched hand, then up at his face. "Huh?"

With a huff, Dean grabbed hold of his elbow and hoisted him to his feet. "Let's go."

Before he could move away, Sam curled his fists in Dean's shirt. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

Uncharacteristically gentle, Dean pried loose Sam's fingers. "I heard. And we'll talk, okay? But not now, and not here. Just shut up and follow me."

It was easier to obey than question. Sam's wobbly legs steadied as they walked, and by the time they neared the Impala his heart rate had slowed. He sagged against the front bumper while Dean went around to the passenger door and rummaged in the back seat.

After stealing several glances over his shoulder, Sam frowned and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, Dean? What are you doing?"

Dean emerged with a bottle of water. "Drink," he said as he thrust it into Sam's hands.

Sam scowled at the order. "Dean, I--"

"Five minutes ago you looked ready to pass out or hurl. Or both. Drink it." Threads of worry ran through the sharpness.

Sam cracked open the bottle and drank, thirst kicking in after the first couple swallows. Dean watched him, his gaze assessing, and Sam braced himself for the inevitable questions. Instead, his brother sat beside him, just close enough that their shoulders brushed.

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "I was in an alley. There was a girl. About my age, I guess, or a little younger. Pretty. She . . . she was hurt, bruises, bloody nose . . . And she was terrified. Of me." The words caught in his throat, and he took another swig of water.

"Are you sure it was you?" Dean asked.

S-sam, no. You don't have to do this.

"Yeah." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "She, uh . . . She called me by name . . . begged me to let her go. I had a knife and I . . . I . . . cut her throat." He rubbed a hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. "I felt the blood."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment, just leaned his shoulder into Sam's. "Could it have been one of your freaky visions? Like River Grove?"

He never thought he'd wish for a vision, but man, he wanted it to be. The events he saw in his visions were preventable--despite his poor track record with making that happen. But this . . .

Sam slowly shook his head. "I didn't get a headache. But it's more than that. When I have a vision, it's like I'm detached, an observer.
This . . ." He swallowed, throat clicking. "I was there."

"What are you saying?" Dean asked. "That it was a memory?"

Nausea rose up, hot and liquid in his belly. "Ellie was standing there, begging me to let her go, and then . . . it wasn't Ellie anymore. It
was . . . her."

Dean frowned. "Sounds like it could be a flashback."

Sam flung out an arm. "Could be? Dean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is about. I killed that girl the same way I killed Steve Wandell."

With a stubborn jut of his jaw, Dean shook his head. "Your girlfriend Meg killed Wandell."

"You know what I mean! There's a whole week of my life that I haven't been able to account for." The anger bled out of him, leaving exhaustion and a pounding headache in its wake. "Looks like I found one of the missing pieces."

He closed burning eyes, but that brought her face into sharp focus--the blood, the bruises, the fear. Who was she? Where did she come from? Was her family mourning her--parents, sister, brother? Or were they still looking? God, he didn't even know what he'd done with her body.

It wasn't until Dean's hand pressed the back of his neck that he realized he was practically hyperventilating. "I'm okay," he choked and concentrated on slowing his breathing.

One squeeze, and Dean released him. "Look, Sammy. We're gonna figure this out. But for now I want you to just sit tight, okay?" He slid off the hood and began walking back toward the grave.

Sam stood too quickly, and for a moment sparkles dotted his vision. "Dean? What are you doing?"

Though he turned to face Sam, Dean kept walking. "Finishing what we started. That caretaker may be partying with José and Jack, but he's bound to make the rounds sometime soon."

"Hang on--"

Dean waved him off. "Just chill, Sammy. You look like crap. You try handling a shovel and you'll wind up face planting on our girl Ellie."

He couldn't find it in him to argue--especially since he suspected Dean was right. His head throbbed as if it might split open, his arms and legs felt too loose and shaky, and he kept seeing flickers of the girl's face like dust motes at the edges of his vision.

The breeze kicked up, stirring dirt and sending a stray pop can clattering down the pavement. The temperature had dropped significantly over the last hour; the chill dried the sweat at the nape of his neck and started him shivering.

Sam retreated to the passenger seat of the Impala, wrapping himself in his arms. It was happening. For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did.

It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined.

He closed his eyes, unable to resist pulling out the existing pieces, like poking a sore tooth with your tongue.

Steve Wandell, by all accounts a good man. A hunter who'd killed a lot of nasty stuff, saved a lot of people. A father. Dead, his throat cut.

Jo, smart and tough, but just a kid really, and more naïve than she'd ever admit. Bruises. A mild concussion. And something else, something never spoken, that lurked beneath her stubborn assurances of "I'm fine" and "I don't blame you." A darkness in her eyes whenever she looked at him . . .

Eyes that looked a lot like the girl in the alley.

Sam shivered.

And Dean. The first person he trusted, depended on. The last he'd want to hurt. He'd shot his own brother, then beaten him so severely that Dean still stiffened up at night, his arm and chest a palette of fading purple, green, and yellow. Worse than the bruises, though, was the hurt he sometimes caught in his brother's eyes in those rare, unguarded moments when Dean didn't realize Sam was looking. Sam had learned at an early age that words could be as destructive as weapons. Whatever he'd said--the words had wounded Dean with brutal accuracy.

Meg's words, sure, but spoken through his mouth. He'd been nothing more than a tool, a . . . a meatsuit. Images assaulted him in rapid, short bursts like a strobe light: smooth cut of a knife, spurt of blood, screaming, his hand buried in strands of blonde hair, a face--God, Jo's face--slammed against wood, a gunshot, Dean jerking, falling, water . . .

Sam shoved the car door open and twisted, dropping his feet onto the pavement. Cradling his head in his hands, he worked to draw air past the iron bands tightening his chest.

Was this what it would be like when he went dark side? A prisoner inside his own body, destroying not just strangers but everyone he cared about?

Sam rubbed the inside of his right arm, where Dean had drawn the symbol from Bobby’s anti-possession charm with permanent marker. Sam knew his brother had viewed it not only as a fail-safe, but as the means to help him regain some measure of control--and maybe even ease the nightmares that had haunted his sleep.

“No demon, no matter how bad ass, can get past this,” Dean had assured him with that cocky grin that Sam found alternately amusing and irritating. “It’s like deadbolting the door, Sammy. What’s out is gonna stay out. Trust me.”

And Sam had nodded and kept his mouth shut because there was no point in bursting Dean’s bubble with what he knew to be the flip side of that metaphor: Locking the door was no damn good if the monster was already inside with you.

Was you.

"Just . . . just let me go. I promise I w-won't . . . I won't t-tell."

"Oh, sweetheart. I know you won't."

His stomach rolled and twisted. Lurching upright, he staggered to the grass before his legs gave out. His vision tunneled, and static filled his ears as he struggled to drag air past the breath-stealing clenching in his gut while he lost the water he’d just drank and what remained of his dinner.

Eventually he became aware of a hand on his back and the steady drone of words. His body reacted to the familiar sound even before his brain could tag it with a name. The retching slowed, then quieted, leaving him huddled on hands and knees, panting raggedly.

“. . . can’t take you anywhere.” Dean’s voice was calm and steady and warm with affection despite his words. “I mean, dude--you know how I feel about puking. At least you didn’t do it in my baby, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t say I’ve never done nothin’ for you.” Sam cleared his throat and spat, scrubbing his sleeve across his mouth as he sat back on his heels. His face felt hot, his body frozen. He wrapped his arms around his ribs and willed himself to stop shivering.

Dean removed his hand but continued to watch him. “Another flashback?”

BlondehairbonecrunchingnoSamstopgunshotwarmblood . . .

Sam shuddered, squeezing shut his eyes and breathing through his mouth as he forced down another surge of queasiness. Barely.

“Sam?”

“Huh?” He stared at Dean, disoriented.

“Was. It. Another. Flashback?” Dean repeated it with exaggerated clarity but worry etched lines around his eyes, lurked in the tight set to his mouth.

Worry for him. And damn it, he was tired of putting that look there.

“Guess so. I’m okay, Dean.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, you look it.”

He tightened his arms, suppressing a shiver. “I am. I just . . . Can we go back to the motel?”

“Sam.”

“I just need some sleep.” He squarely met Dean’s gaze, dredging up every ounce of bullshit he’d cultivated over years of hiding things from their dad. “Really.”

It either worked, or Dean was too weary to call him on it. “Fine.”

He stood and grabbed Sam under the arm, hauling him upright and steering him back to the car on unsteady feet. Sliding behind the wheel, Dean reached for the ignition, only to pause and wrinkle his nose.

“Dude.” He reached across Sam and rolled down the window.

“Jerk,” Sam muttered, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

The water bottle tossed into his lap and the warm hand on the back of his neck said Dean’s wasn’t either.

Go to part 2

Magnificent 7 Fic: Comfort and Joy

2008-01-21T23:47:41Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG
Summary: Vin makes a big decision without consulting his teammates.
Word Count: 1,400
Author's note: I'm late putting up this challenge fic but I wanted to be sure I add it to LJ, so here it is. This story was written for the Vinfeedback list "Finish the Story" challenge. The first paragraph was provided--the rest is all mine.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace . . .

There had been a time when Vin hadn't needed to consider how his actions might affect anyone but himself. That time was gone. He now had family. A family that would stand with him no matter the consequences of recent events. He looked around at the others and wondered . . . Could he have done anything differently?

Buck shook off his surprise and spoke first. "What the hell you been up to, Junior?"

Josiah leaned one arm on the door jamb and peered over Vin's shoulder. "Bible says we should make a joyful noise unto the Lord, brother. Looks like you're well on your way."

Ezra appeared equal parts stunned and horrified. "Good heavens. I knew I shouldn't have worn this new sweater."

J.D., as always, was blunt. "Wow, that's a lot of kids."

Nathan clucked his tongue against his teeth. "They keep that up, an' someone's gonna get hurt."

And Chris, the picture of calm but for the way the corners of his mouth kept twitching: "Something you want to share with us, pard?"

A loud crash cut off Vin's response. "Aw, hell. C'mon on in," he snapped, darting inside the apartment.

Just as he'd feared--his tabletop Christmas tree sprawled drunkenly on its side in a puddle of tinsel and broken ornaments while four-year-old twins Elena and Hector huddled together with their small hands clasped behind their backs.

"Look what you did," Isabel scolded with all the superiority of her eight years, baby Anna propped on one hip. "Uncle Vin told you not to touch. You two are in big trouble now."

"Sorry, Uncle Vin," Elena sniffed, while Hector wailed, "We didn't mean to!"

As if he could possibly resist the tears in those big dark eyes. "Don't go scarin' 'em, Izzy," Vin soothed. "Accidents happen, and I'm sure--"

"Uncle Vin, Javier won't share the sparkles," six-year-old Sophia protested, kneeling precariously over his glitter-speckled kitchen table as she tried to grab the jar from her three-year-old brother.

Javier stuck out his lip and tightened his grip. "Mine."

"Now, hold on a minute," Vin warned, detouring around the fallen tree, one hand stretched toward the wrestling siblings. "If you ain't careful that glitter's gonna--"

Sophia pinched Javier, who howled in outrage and promptly dropped the jar, sending an avalanche of glitter across the kitchen floor.

"--spill." Vin rubbed the tense muscles at the back of his neck. He could feel a killer headache coming on. "Hell."

"Mama says God hates swearing," Isabel said reproachfully. "And Anna's got a stinky diaper."

Vin sighed. "'Course she does."

He'd almost forgotten about his teammates until Chris took his elbow and the others gathered around them. "What's going on, Vin? Thought you wanted us here for Christmas Eve dinner. Did we get our signals crossed?"

Vin's shoulders slumped. "No, you--" His eyes slid to the activity in the kitchen. "Hector, don't touch them broken ornaments, you're gonna cut yourself." He looked back at Chris. "--you didn't get it wrong. I got all the food, an' I was gonna start cookin', but--" He glanced over Chris's shoulder, eyes widening. "Sophie? Javier don't want glitter in his hair an' you're makin' a bigger mess. Cut it out!" He blinked and looked at Chris. "What was I sayin'?"

"You was tryin' to explain why your apartment's suddenly crawlin' with pint-sized terrorists," Buck said helpfully.

"These are your neighbor's kids, aren't they?" Josiah asked, deftly rescuing the glitter jar before Javier could bop Sophie on the head with it.

"The Garcias." Vin looked around at the chaos, feeling defeated. "I know I promised y'all dinner, but Mario an' Esperanza didn't have no one to watch the kids so they could go Christmas shoppin', an' I couldn't stand the thought of them little ones wakin' up to no presents under the tree, an' . . ."

"It's okay, pard," Chris said, stopping him with a hand pressed to his chest. "We get it."

"'Course we do!" J.D. chimed in. "We didn't have much, but my ma always made sure I had at least one new toy for Christmas."

"You've done a good deed, Vin." Josiah gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm proud of you. And I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say we'll be happy to lend a hand."

Ezra squeaked, but subsided under Josiah's glare.

Vin winced at the spike of guilt the big man's words provoked. "Y'all might not feel that way when you hear the rest."

"Wait--you got more rugrats hidin' around here somewhere?" Buck searched the apartment as if he were being stalked by a particularly dangerous wild animal.

"Igave'emallthemoney," Vin mumbled, ducking his head.

"What?" Puzzlement echoed in his teammates' voices.

Vin glanced at the children and lowered his voice. "Mario--Mr. Garcia--got laid off two weeks ago. The unemployment check he gets barely covers the stuff they need. Him an' Esperanza, they was tryin' to figure how to tell the kids Santa wasn't comin' this year."

"Had a few Christmases like that myself," Nathan said quietly, his gaze fixed on little Hector.

"Yeah, well . . . I couldn't let that happen." Vin squared his shoulders. "I gave 'em the money for the cabin. All of it." He bit his lip. "I know it don't mean much now, but . . . I'll pay y'all back."

Determined to take advantage of Travis's Christmas gift of downtime, Vin had called in some markers, getting them a deal on a cabin in the mountains where they could spend the week between Christmas and New Year's skiing, ice fishing, snowboarding, and snowmobiling to their hearts' content. They'd each kicked in 100 dollars to cover food and rent. That added up to 700 dollars--a wad of cash he'd placed in the tearful Garcias' hands before shooing them out the door to go shopping.

He'd given away their vacation, spoiled holiday plans they'd anticipated for weeks, all without consulting them or asking permission. Vin braced himself for their well-deserved anger.

"Can't think of a better use for the money," Josiah said after a brief pause, his warm brown eyes showing nothing but approval. "Now how about I get a broom and sweep up those ornaments before the terrible twosome cut themselves?"

"We'll help." J.D. took Hector and Elena's hands. "C'mon, kids. We've got to get this cleaned up before Santa comes." He sent Vin a wink over his shoulder.

"Personally, I've never understood the allure of braving the elements." Ezra looked down at the tug on his pant leg. When Sophie lifted tiny, glitter-covered hands, he hesitated only momentarily before scooping her into his arms. He flashed his gold tooth at Vin. "A glass of wine by the fire is a far preferable activity I can experience in the comfort of my own home."

"He means it can get damn cold in the mountains in December," Buck said, tossing Javier into the air until he erupted in giggles. "Hey--we'll just camp out at Chris's. Saves all that time drivin' in the car." He smirked at his friend's glare, proceeding to airplane Javier across the room.

"Hell, someone woulda caught cold or broken a bone, for sure," Nathan said. "Maybe now I can actually relax." He locked eyes with Vin, his expression solemn. "No one should go without on Christmas. 'Specially when God's given some of us more than enough." He smiled and took the baby from Isabel. "Let me deal with this little one. Compared to patchin' up y'all, one dirty diaper's a piece of cake."

Vin blinked stinging eyes, his throat too tight to speak.

Chris's warm hand covered the back of his neck. "You okay, Cowboy?"

"I was sure y'all would be mad. I mean . . . I shoulda asked first."

"Yeah, you should. You got a family now, pard. Means you need to consider the rest of us before you go making decisions like this." Despite the rebuke, Chris gave Vin a playful shake. "Fortunately, it also means you got people who'll stand by you, even when you don't." He released him with a grin. "Merry Christmas, Vin."

Vin listened to delighted giggles and watched as his apartment was swiftly set to rights. Seemed like Santa had come early this year--at least for Vin Tanner. He smiled. "Merry Christmas."

End

Magnificent 7 Fic: O Holy Night

2007-12-22T00:25:42Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Vin, Chris
Summary: Vin Tanner was dying. And all because the stubborn fool had more heart than head.
Word Count: 5,900
Author's note: This is a bit of an experiment. Two years ago I wrote a little OW Christmas story called "Upon the Midnight Clear," which evolved from a single phrase that had popped into my head: "It was Christmas Eve, and Chris Larabee hated God." I thought it might be fun to take the basic events of that fic and see how they played out in the ATF universe. This story is the result. Though reading the original isn't necessary, you can find it at Blackrapter, here: http://www.blackraptor.net/m7fic-35/midnightclear.htm
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees,
O hear the angel voices
O night divine
O night when Christ was born.
--O Holy Night by Adolphe Adam

It was a beautiful night. Crisp and cold, a full moon peeked through the clouds, spilling its pale light across glittering, snow-dusted rooftops and turning the thickly falling flakes into a sparkling white veil. Below, the streets were oddly quiet, neon lights darkened and businesses closed in honor of this holiest of nights.

It was Christmas Eve, and Chris Larabee hated God.

Chris pressed his forehead against window, his breath frosting the cool glass, and wished for a smoke. Or a drink. Anything to distract him from the ragged breathing and delirious ramblings of the man in the bed behind him.

Vin Tanner was dying. And it was all because the stubborn fool had more heart than head.

Vin had been going toe to toe with Los Lobos, Purgatorio's toughest street gang, since the day he moved into his apartment. Determined to loosen their iron grip on the neighborhood, he'd begun encouraging kids and their families to use the safety of the community center, or even his own apartment, as alternatives to the false "protection" offered by the gang. Five days ago he'd impulsively put himself between several gang members and 14-year-old Ricky, their newest recruit. When things had quickly turned ugly Vin, fresh from a shift volunteering at the community center, didn't have a gun.

The gang bangers did.

Gutshot, Vin had dragged himself back to his apartment before collapsing on the front steps. Thanks to his landlord's 911 call, paramedics arrived in time to prevent him from bleeding out.

The kid he'd tried so hard to protect wasn't as lucky. The police found Ricky's body crumpled next to a pool of Vin's blood. They were still hunting for the two shooters, who seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Sheets rustled and Vin's mumbling grew louder, decipherable words breaking through the gibberish. "No . . . I can't . . . stop . . ."

Striding to the bed, Chris leaned over the rail, pressing his palm to the hot, dry forehead. "Shh. Easy, pard. Whatever it is, it's over. You're safe."

He continued to murmur reassurances until Vin quieted, limbs stilling as the heart monitor backed down to a more acceptable level. Pushing aside lank, tangled curls, Chris winced inwardly at the sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes. Five days--how had his friend lost so much ground so quickly?

"Everything okay in here? I saw a spike on the monitor." Jill, the night nurse, stepped into the glassed cubicle, perusing readouts with a critical eye.

"Bad dream." Chris pulled back his hand but remained leaning on the rail.

Jill slipped an aural thermometer into Vin's ear, frowning at the result. "One hundred four point one," she told Chris. "No wonder he's having nightmares. Seems like fever stirs up all the bad stuff."

"Yeah, well . . . He's got plenty to stir up."

"I know." She eyed him as she jotted on Vin's chart. "I had to change his gown earlier. I saw the scars."

Not much he could, or would, say to that--Vin was his best friend, but getting him to admit anything about his childhood was like squeezing blood from a stone. He watched Jill record Vin's vitals; noted the deepening creases around her eyes and the tight set to her mouth.

"He's not getting better, is he," he said quietly. "Hell, if anything he's worse."

She froze, then resumed writing. "Dr. Lorenzo's got him on a new antibiotic. I know it's hard to be patient, but--"

"It's the third antibiotic in three days, and you and I both know it's not working any better than the previous two."

Flipping the chart closed, she slowly lifted her eyes, and Chris's gut churned at the barely veiled sorrow. "He's so weak, Chris. The surgery and blood loss tapped all his reserves, and now this damn infection . . ."

"How much longer?" he asked, working to keep his voice level.

Shaking her head, she moved to leave. "I'll call Dr. Lorenzo. When he gets here--"

Chris rounded the bed to intercept her. "Jill, please. Just . . . level with me." Though he wasn't a man to beg, he'd learned early on that in the ICU, orders got him nowhere.

Jill looked at him, and Chris could guess what she saw. A face in need of a razor and yesterday's rumpled clothes. Too little food and too much caffeine. Desperation. Despair.

She placed a cool hand on his arm, her voice soft with empathy. "You sent the others home?" At Chris's nod, she said, "I'd get them back. Soon."

"All right." His throat closed up and it was a moment before he could speak. "I don't want to leave him. Would you mind . . .?"

"Of course not." She smiled wryly, but there were tears in her dark eyes. "Might as well put that phone number Buck gave me to good use."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." She bit her lip. "I wish . . ."

"Yeah. Me too."

When she'd left, Chris pulled the single chair close to the bed and sank into it. Vin was mumbling again in that odd mixture of Spanish, English, and nonsense, long fingers twitching against the sheets.

Chris placed a calming hand on his friend's chest, grimacing at the heat and the too rapid flutter of a heartbeat. "Don't you give up on me," he said, the words as rough as sandpaper in his throat. "You hear me, Vin? Don't you lie down."

To his surprise Vin's lashes flickered, his eyelids cracking open to reveal a hint of blue. "Chris?"

"Hey." Chris leaned forward so that Vin could easily see his face. "'Bout time you decided to wake up.

A shiver raced through Vin, and he huddled beneath the thin blanket. "Cold."

"Yeah. Sorry, Cowboy, but I can't do anything about that. They've got a cooling blanket under you to bring down the fever."

Vin blinked and licked his lips. "Water?"

"Right here." Chris grabbed the plastic cup off the bed table.

Vin didn't even try to lift his head, passively allowing Chris to position the straw so he could drink. After only a few lethargic swallows, he pushed away the cup. In the time it took Chris to set it aside, his eyes were already starting to close.

Heart pounding, he gripped Vin's arm. "Hang on, pard. I was hoping we could talk for a bit."

Sick as he was, Vin picked up on the tremor in his voice. "You okay?"

Chris barked a laugh. "I'm not the one hooked up to all those tubes and wires."

"Still look like shit." Vin's normally smooth tenor was little more than a croak. "I'm the one dyin', remember?"

"Don't." Chris didn't realize how hard he'd tightened his fingers until he saw Vin flinch.

"We both know it's true. Pretendin' otherwise . . . won't change it." Vin panted, worn out by his own words.

"You can't just give up." Chris looked away from the softness in Vin's eyes, his throat working. "You stubborn bastard, you've never quit on anything in your life. Don't start now."

"Hurts."

The weary, pain-filled confession drew Chris's gaze, and he was struck again by his friend's wraithlike appearance. Vin's collarbone stood out sharply above the thin gown; his normally sparkling eyes were dull and glassy.

For a moment, Chris couldn't breathe. "I know, kiddo."

"Been dreamin' 'bout my ma." Vin's lips curved. "Can feel her."

"Your ma wouldn't want this," Chris said sharply. "Tanners don't give up. She'd want you to keep fighting."

"She promised we'd be together again . . . someday."

"Well that day isn't today, damn it!" Chris swiped a hand over his burning eyes. "We need you here, Vin, watching our backs."

Vin turned his hand so that he was clasping Chris's forearm. "Sorry, Chris. Been fightin', but . . . so tired."

Pain, sharp and clean as a knife, pierced the defensive shield Chris had tried so hard to maintain. As he squeezed his eyes shut, the years melted away, and he was standing with Buck outside Sarah's hospital room.

"My son is dead, Buck. You expect me to just give up on my wife too? Go to hell!"

"She's got burns over 50 percent of her body. The docs say she's--don't you walk away from me, Chris--they say she's in agony. She should be dead already, but she's hanging on. For you. So what I expect is for you to pull your head outta your ass. You gotta tell her you'll be all right, pard. You gotta let her go."

"All right? She's my whole world. How am I supposed to do that?"

A hand on his neck, warm, comforting. "God, Chris, I don't know. But if you love her, you'll find a way."

Chris opened his eyes to Vin watching him, his heavy lids and restlessly shifting limbs betraying how hard he was struggling to stay awake. The ache in Chris's chest grew, and for one horrifying moment he was certain he'd break down.

"I don't know how to do this," he choked through clenched teeth. "God, Vin, how . . . How the hell am I supposed to just let you go?"

"Don't got . . . much choice." Vin coughed weakly, and even after the spasms passed, Chris could hear the uneven edge to his breathing.

"Never thought I'd say this to you, pard, but maybe you'd best not talk," Chris said, trying hard for humor but merely sounding desperate.

"Got somethin' needs sayin'."

God, Vin, don't do this to me. "It can wait." Chris tried to lean back, but froze when Vin's fingers scrabbled for purchase on his sleeve.

"Jus' . . . shut up 'n listen."

Under any other circumstances he'd have found it amusing--the fierceness of Vin's words delivered with no more force than a breath of air. Now it just fired the already spectacular ache in his chest. He swallowed hard, sliding his hand up until he'd returned Vin's clasp.

"Don't want you usin' me . . . 's another reason to hate God," Vin said, pinning him with his gaze. "Had a good run. Got no complaints."

Anger bubbled up in him, hot and strong, and Chris grabbed onto it with both hands. "How can you say that? Hell, Vin, if I believed in God--and I'm not saying I do--then I'd say He's done nothing but dump on you your whole life."

"Guess it depends how you look at it."

"I'd say it's pretty obvious." Chris turned Vin's arm, revealing the pale, jagged scar that ran from elbow to wrist. "You may not have told me everything, but I've figured out enough. Hell, Vin, what's God ever done for you?"

Rather than the anger Chris expected, Vin smiled. "Gave me a ma who loved me. Who taught me bein' a Tanner's somethin' special . . . an' made sure I never forgot it."

"All right, I hear you," Chris soothed, regretting his words. Vin was hanging on by a thread; the last thing he needed was Chris goading him. "You don't have to--"

"Ain't done," Vin panted, shivering even as sweat trickled down his temple. "Gave me mountains at sunrise--pink, purple, gold . . . Remember, Chris?"

Chris thought of early morning horseback rides to their spot on the ridge, cold stone against his back and Vin's face bright with wonder as they shared a thermos of hot coffee and watched nature's light show. "Yeah," he admitted, picking up a cloth and gently wiping Vin's sweaty face. "I remember."

With a sigh, Vin leaned into the coolness. Just when Chris was certain he'd slip into sleep, he murmured, "Know what else, Chris? God's even better 'n Santa."

Hit with a confusing mixture of amusement, affection, and sadness, Chris's ragged chuckle sounded more like a sob. "Is that so?" he asked, certain the fever was talking.

"When I's a little . . . wanted a brother for Christmas."

"Yeah? I wanted a puppy."

"Santa never delivered," Vin slurred. "But God? He brung me six." One corner of his mouth turned up as his eyes fluttered closed. "Way I see it, makes up for the other shit."

When the fingers around Chris's wrist went limp, he caught his breath, but the heart monitor continued its soft beeping. Curling forward, he rested his head on his folded arms and tried not to think about the box of Captain Crunch in his cupboard. The two tickets for next week's hockey game in his desk. The damn mule in his barn that somehow managed to look disappointed every time Chris walked through the door alone.

Life without his best friend.

A soft shuffling sound and a whisper of cool air jerked Chris from a doze. He sat up, blinking sleep-blurred eyes and groaning softly at the crick in his neck.

On the other side of the bed, a nurse he didn't recognize adjusted Vin's blanket and smoothed a lock of hair from his brow. When she saw Chris watching, she smiled.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Chris ran a hand over his jaw, grimacing at the rough burn of stubble. "It's okay. I didn't mean to sleep." His gaze automatically swept the monitors. "How is he?"

She looked at Vin, her blue eyes filled with compassion. "As well as can be expected for someone caught on the cusp between this world and the next. That's a difficult place for any soul to be."

Chris frowned at the odd words delivered in a mild southern accent. "Who are you?" Hearing the harshness of his question, he explained, "I thought Jill was Vin's nurse."

"I'm covering for her while she's on break. My name is Maggie."

He accepted the small hand, smiling a little at the firm grip. "Chris." He looked at his watch. Two o'clock. Where the hell were the boys?

"Your friend Buck called," Maggie said as if reading his mind. "He said that with all the snow the roads are . . ." She blushed. "Well, not good. But he and the others will get here as soon as they can."

"Damn snow," Chris growled. "Weeks without a single flake and it's got to pick tonight to blizzard."

Vin muttered and tossed his head, his voice rising in distress. Though Chris quickly stood, Maggie got there first. She leaned in close, stroking her hand through his hair and whispering words of comfort. Almost immediately Vin stopped thrashing and settled.

"I can't believe it," Chris said, surprise and a kernel of resentment in his tone. "You actually managed to calm him down."

Maggie ducked her head. "Sorry if I overstepped my bounds."

"Don't be silly." He returned to the chair but continued to study her. "It's just . . . Vin doesn't like to be touched. Not by strangers, anyway."

She tucked a strand of wavy auburn hair behind her ear. "Maybe he sensed I was only trying to help." She looked at Vin, her eyes soft. "It's hard to see him in so much pain."

"'Specially when no one seems to be able to do a damn thing about it," Chris said. He forced a smile. "No offense."

"It's okay. I understand how hard this is."

Chris shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am, but hard doesn't even begin to cut it."

She circled to his side of the bed, propping one hip on the mattress. "Jill said you're ATF agents. That he was injured trying to save a young boy."

"Something like that."

Her blue eyes seemed to look straight into Chris. "He must be very brave."

Fatigue and grief loosened his tongue. "Or stupid."

"You're angry with him," Maggie said, but she didn't seem shocked.

"No, I'm angry at the two punks who shot him. And I'm angry at the idiot kid he was trying so damn hard to save, who should've known better than to . . ."

"What? Need help?" She tilted her head in a way he found vaguely familiar. "Don't you think we all need someone to take up for us now and then? I'll bet your friend's been through a rough patch or two himself."

"What's your point?" he asked sharply.

"No point," she said with a shrug. "Just . . . Having someone help you when you really need it is a special kind of gift. Makes you want to turn around and pass it on to someone else."

Her words hit too close to home. Vin had been a kid like Ricky once, caught up in a gang and living on the streets. Until Nettie Wells saw something more in him and offered a way out.

He gritted his teeth. "Can't pass it on if you're dead. Besides, it was all for nothing. The kid never even made it to the hospital. And the shooters? They're still walking around free."

"You're wrong."

Chris leaned forward, dropping his voice to a low growl. "Excuse me?"

Half the federal building knew to back off at that sound, but she only regarded him calmly. "A selfless act is never wasted. Even one good deed can shine in this dark world."

"You call this shining? He's going to die, and--" Chris's voice cracked and he drew in a deep breath. "And the bastards who killed him are probably going to get away with it."

"They might." She gazed at him with such sympathy he had to look away. "You must know better than most that justice isn't always served--at least not in this world. Sometimes you've got to leave that to more capable hands."

Every muscle in his body tensed, and he twisted his face into a sneer. "So I'm supposed to believe God will punish them? Pardon me, ma'am, but that's a load of horseshit."

"Maybe it is." She looked at him, and Chris had the uneasy feeling that she could read his deepest secrets. "But the alternative is to let grief and anger eat you alive. Do you really think that's better?"

Chris resisted the urge to squirm. Truth was, he'd been there, done that, and it hadn't worked out so well for him. "In my experience God doesn't give a crap what goes on down here."

She didn't even blink at his irreverence. "Well, when's the last time you tried talking to him, Chris?" When Chris glared daggers at her, she just raised an eyebrow. "Kind of hard to give someone what he needs if he refuses to ask for it."

"What if He doesn't give a damn about what I need?"

"You'll never know unless you try." She stood. "I've got to go. But it's been real nice talking with you, Chris." She looked at Vin, and a smile lit up her face. "I'm glad to know he's got a friend like you."

Chris watched her disappear down the hallway, wondering how the hell he'd ended up discussing justice and his views on the Almighty with a complete stranger. Except . . . she hadn't really felt like a stranger.

Vin mumbled something that sounded like a string of consonants and Chris's name, quieting with a touch and the sound of his voice. The trust implicit in the response tightened Chris's throat. He pressed his forehead to their joined hands, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn of tears.

Kind of hard to give someone what he needs if he refuses to ask for it.

Oh, hell. What could it hurt?

Are you listening, God?

Let's get one thing straight--I'm not saying I believe in you. And even if I do, I'm not ready to forgive you for Sarah and Adam. Far as I'm concerned, for someone who's supposed to be all about love, you've got a pretty piss poor way of showing it.

Anyway, I know I swore I'd never ask for anything, ever again. And if it were just me, I'd tell you to . . . But I'm not asking for me, God. I'm asking for him.

Vin seems to think the two of you are on speaking terms. If that's true, then you must know what a good man he is. Hell, he wouldn't even be in this mess if he wasn't so damn selfless. He doesn't deserve to die, not when he was only trying to help.

Way I see it, he makes this world a better place. And I know he makes me a better man. So if you're still harboring hopes to reform me, it'd be best you let him live.

Please, God. Let him live.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chris awoke to hushed voices and the nagging sense that something was missing.

"Ow! Watch it, Buck! You're dripping snow down my back."

"Well, excuse me. If you'd been the one had to keep diggin' out the car, you'd be drippin' too."

"I suggest both of you cease this bickering before we're all removed from Mr. Tanner's bedside."

"It's not often I find myself agreeing with Ezra, but . . . Amen, brother."

"You see that? He's so exhausted he's asleep sittin' up. Damn fool's gonna make himself sick."

With a groan, Chris opened his eyes and straightened. Rolling his head until he neck gave a satisfying pop, he glared at the red-cheeked and slightly soggy men surrounding him. "'Bout time you showed up."

"Came as fast as we could," Buck said. He jerked a thumb at the window. "Case you hadn't noticed, there's one helluva storm going on out there."

"What time is it?" Chris asked, gaze instinctively drifting to Vin. "I must have . . . He trailed off, his heart hammering in his chest.

Vin was curled on his right side, one hand tucked under his chin. The first pale threads of dawn spilled through the window, lighting his face with an ethereal glow. Abruptly, Chris registered the stillness. No beeping monitor. No ragged breathing.

Silence.

"Vin," he choked, rising on wobbly legs. "No."

Buck was at his side in an instant, big, warm hand on the back of his neck. "Easy, Chris."

He shut his eyes against his friend's sorrow as anger and grief twisted inside him. Vin was dead, and he'd never really had a chance to say goodbye. He'd slipped away while Chris was sleeping, oblivious.

"Chris."

Nathan's voice, and God, Chris didn't want to hear it. Didn't want Vin's death made any more real than it already was.

"Chris, damn it, look at me."

He opened his eyes, bewildered to see something that looked like joy on Nathan's face.

"He ain't dead, Chris. You hear me?"

Chris opened his mouth, wanting to argue because Nathan was wrong, he must be wrong. Vin was too quiet, too still, and the machines, the damn machines . . .

"Look at the heart monitor, Chris. See?" Nathan gestured at the regular spikes crawling across the lighted screen. "Seventy-two beats per minute--nice and steady. That's a lot better than it's been."

Relief flooded his body like a cool wave. "Then why the hell isn't it beeping?" he snapped.

"It appears someone turned down the volume," Ezra said, studying the machine. "Perhaps in deference to your slumber."

"He's so quiet," Chris said. "I thought . . ."

"Fever's down." Nathan's grin was contagious--suddenly they were all beaming like idiots. "He's just sleepin', Chris. Poor boy's done in."

"Well, would you look what Santa dragged in." Dr. Lorenzo breezed into the cubicle, a gaudy Christmas tree tie around his neck and red high tops on his feet. "For a minute there I was afraid there'd been a hostile takeover of the ICU."

"Somehow I forgot what a smart mouth he's got," Buck confided to J.D. as Lorenzo checked readouts and turned down the blankets to examine Vin's belly.

"What is your assessment our friend's condition, Doctor?" Ezra asked, doing his best to peer over Lorenzo's shoulder.

"Lucky as hell," Lorenzo said, scribbling a note onto Vin's chart in something that looked like hieroglyphics.

"That's official medical lingo," Josiah said, nodding sagely.

"Result of years of med school," Buck told J.D.

"Y'all mind keepin' it down? Some of us'd like to die in peace." Vin rolled onto his back with a wince and glared at them.

"Hey, Vin!" J.D. elbowed his way to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit. But it's good to see you, J.D." He looked around the room, and his mouth turned up in a lopsided smirk. "Good to see all of you. Even the doc."

Lorenzo snapped shut the chart and tucked it under his arm. "You never cease to amaze me, Vin. Three hours ago I'd have bet you'd seen your last Christmas. But I'm happy to say your temperature is dropping and there's already a marked decrease of inflammation at the wound site."

"Breathin' sounds better too," Nathan observed. "This antibiotic must be working."

"Seems like third time really is the charm," Lorenzo agreed.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Chris asked, tightening his fingers to a white-knuckled grip on the bed rail. "He's going to be okay?"

Lorenzo must have seen how close he was to losing it; forgoing his usual flippancy, he met Chris's gaze with a smile. "He's got a long road ahead of him, but . . . yeah. Barring further complications, he should be just fine."

"He's right here, you know," Vin groused, but spoiled the effect by yawning.

"Looks like God delivered us a Christmas blessing, just as he did that long-ago night in Bethlehem," Josiah said, patting Vin's blanket-covered foot.

"Ain't no babe in a manger, 'siah," Vin said. "But thanks."

"That ain't the only blessing," J.D. said, nudging Josiah with his elbow. "Tell 'em, Josiah."

"Detective Henderson from the Denver PD called. It appears Vin's neighbors decided to take matters into their own hands," Josiah said. "A bunch of the kids from the center and their parents formed a kind of . . . neighborhood patrol. They hunted down those Los Lobos boys and hauled 'em into the station. They're spending Christmas in a jail cell, waiting to be arraigned for murder."

"Justice isn't always served--at least in this world. Sometimes you've got to leave that to more capable hands."

"I'll be damned." Chris looked at Vin. His friend's lips were parted in shock, his eyes bright.

"Well, there you go. I'd say we got plenty of reasons to celebrate!" Buck said.

Recovering, Vin rolled his eyes. "Not like you need a reason, Bucklin," he said, his voice still a little unsteady with emotion. "Reckon you'd use your own funeral as an excuse to throw a party."

"Indulge him, Mr. Tanner," Ezra said. "I must admit, I'm in the mood for a bit of revelry myself."

"Not here, you ain't," Nathan said. "Boy needs to rest--he's barely off death's doorstep."

"He's right," Lorenzo agreed, squelching Buck's protest. "As much as I enjoy watching this floor show, I'm afraid I've got to kick you all out. Come back later." He narrowed his eyes. "Preferably one at a time."

"Got a case of beer back and some munchies back at our place, Doc," Buck said as they each bid Vin goodbye and began filing out. "You're welcome to stop by later. And, hey! Any of those sweet young things at the nurses' desk gettin' off duty? I'd be happy to offer them a little Yuletide cheer."

"It's Christmas, Mr. Wilmington. You could at least attempt to display a shred of good taste."

"Okay, Ez, you can bring wine and some of that smelly cheese."

Ezra's sigh was longsuffering.

Josiah paused in the doorway. "You coming, Chris?"

He looked at Vin, reading the request in the lines around his friend's weary eyes. "You go on. I'm going to stay a bit longer."

"How's the pain?" Lorenzo asked when it was finally just the three of them, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"Not good," Chris answered, returning Vin's glare with one of his own. "Sorry, Cowboy, but you're busted."

"Damn pain meds mess up my head," Vin said, but there wasn't much heat behind the words; he was clearly exhausted and hurting.

"I'll have Jill give take care of it." Lorenzo added the note to Vin's chart.

Chris caught his arm as he turned to leave. "Hey, Doc, would you mind sending in Maggie when she has a minute? There's something I'd like to tell her."

Folding his arms around the chart, Lorenzo frowned. "Maggie?"

"The nurse who filled in for Jill while she was on break." When Lorenzo continued to look baffled, Chris added, "Long, wavy brown hair, blue eyes, looked about twenty-five . . .?"

Lorenzo shook his head. "I wish I could help you, Chris, but we don't have an ICU nurse named Maggie. As far as I know, there are no nurses named Maggie in this entire hospital."

Chris dropped his jaw. "But that's impossible! I saw her, she sat right there and I talked to her . . ." He caught himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Never mind."

Lorenzo gave his shoulder a gentle thump. "You'll be no help to him if you're running on fumes. Get some sleep." He pointed at Vin. "You too."

"Like I a got a choice." Vin grumbled. He watched Chris walk to the bed and reclaim his chair. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing."

"Don't sound like nothin'." He cocked an eyebrow. "You takin' lessons from Bucklin now, sniffin' around my nurses?"

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Chris said with a scowl.

Vin just looked at him.

"Hell." Chris propped his elbows on his knees. "It wasn't like that. We talked, that's all. She said some things, got me thinking."

"What kind of things?" Vin persisted, wincing as he gingerly shifted to face Chris.

Chris blew out a long breath. "Well, if you must know, she seemed to share your opinions about God."

"Yeah?" Vin looked too damn amused for Chris's liking. "Knocked some sense into that thick skull of yours?"

"Shut up." But Chris smiled in spite of himself. "She told me God can't give me what I want if I don't ask for it."

Vin went abruptly still, his blue eyes huge in his pale face.

"What?" Chris asked, bolting upright. "Is something wrong? Your stomach--"

"I'm okay, sit down," Vin rasped. He licked dry lips. "What . . . What did you say her name was?"

"Maggie," Chris replied, mystified. "Why?"

"And she had reddish-brown hair with a little bit of curl to it--kinda like mine?"

"Yeah. What's your--"

"And blue eyes? And when she smiled, did she have a dimple, here, in her right cheek?" Vin gestured with a shaking finger.

"How did you know? And why do you look like you've just seen a ghost?"

Vin swallowed, and his throat made a dry click. "Get my wallet out of the bed table."

He wanted to refuse, to demand Vin tell him exactly why he suddenly looked sucker punched, but he shut up and rummaged through the drawer until he'd found the wallet.

Vin held it for a long moment, his thumbs caressing the worn leather. "Don't think I ever showed you a picture of my ma, did I, Chris?"

What the hell?

"No," he said, keeping his voice soft and even. "You never did."

Vin opened the wallet and pulled a photo from an inner pocket. He lifted his gaze, and Chris was stunned to see the glisten of tears. "My ma's name was Margaret. But everyone called her Maggie." He pressed the photo into Chris's palm.

Faded and smudged, its edges tattered and torn, Chris still recognized immediately the smiling face of the young woman--little more than a girl, really--holding a small boy. "Oh my God."

"She used to say prayers with me every night before bed," Vin said. "She'd tell me God couldn't give me the things I needed if I didn't ask. That He wasn't no genie in a bottle, waitin' to grant all our wishes, but He was up there, listenin'. And He'd do the best he could."

"It was you," Chris said. At Vin's questioning look, he explained. "Kept thinking that she reminded me of someone. Her eyes, her smile . . . the way she'd tip her head." He shook his head, his throat tight. "It was you, Vin."

Jill chose that moment to enter the cubicle. Gazes locked, they waited in silence as she added the pain medication to Vin's I.V. Perhaps sensing the somber mood, she marked Vin's chart and left without speaking.

"Wish I could've seen her," Vin murmured.

"You were delirious, but you quieted when she touched you, when you heard her voice," Chris said. "Guess you sensed it was her." He smiled. "She's still watching over you, Cowboy. I'm pretty sure she was checking me out."

Vin's lips curved. "Then I reckon she must've decided I's in good hands," he slurred, his eyelids heavy. "You know, Chris, seein' my ma ain't the only Christmas miracle around here."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure?" Chris settled back in his chair, kicking off his shoes to prop his feet on the end of the mattress.

"Got you talkin' to God, didn't she?" Vin's snicker turned into a cavernous yawn. "That ain't a miracle, don't know what is."

"Go to sleep," Chris growled, smiling.

For once, Vin did as he was told. Chris stared at the pale, peaceful face, an odd feeling bubbling up in his chest.

Damn if it wasn't joy.

You still there, God?

Not sure how I feel about you enlisting help just to get me talking. But if you had to send an angel, I suppose you picked the right one.

I still don't agree with the way you run things down here, but . . . Guess I owe you my thanks. As for giving you a second chance, well . . . Jury's still out on that one.

But I'm willing to give it some thought.

"Merry Christmas, Cowboy." Vin was three-quarters asleep, his voice little more than a whisper.

Chris tipped his head back and closed his eyes, welcoming the smile that curved his lips.

"Merry Christmas, Vin."

End

Magnificent 7 Fic: Worth It (1/4)

2007-08-22T03:41:31Z

Magnificent 7 Fic: Worth It (2/4)

2007-08-22T03:36:01Z

Magnificent 7 Fic: Worth It (3/4)

2007-08-22T03:29:55Z

Magnificent 7 Fic: Worth It (4/4)

2007-08-22T03:20:06Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Vin, Chris
Summary: When does the cost become too high?
Word Count: 11,410
Author's note: Dabbling in another fandom in a desperate attempt to break a nasty case of writer's block. Unbeta'd, so all the mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Buck met him at the door, a distinctly wary expression on his face. "Didn't expect to see you so soon. Thought we had an understanding."

"Yeah, well." Chris scratched the back of his neck. "You might say Ezra helped with the...extraction."

Buck stared at him for a moment before barking a startled laugh. "You don't say. Guess I owe ol' Ez a bottle for that one." He moved aside and waved Chris through the door.

Stepping inside, Chris blinked a little as his eyes adjusted to the dimness after bright winter sunshine. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and he heard the faint popping of gunfire from the den.

He raised an eyebrow. "Video games?"

"J.D.'s idea." Buck chuckled and shook his head. "Kid knows the only time he can beat Vin is when he's stoned on pain meds."

Rather than sharing Buck's amusement, guilt twisted Chris's stomach. "Did Nathan check him over? He bust any stitches?"

"Everything's okay; he's just hurtin'." Buck's gaze was sharp. "More ways 'n one."

Chris sagged against the door jamb. "Hoping I'll be able to do something about that."

"That'd be good." Buck hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. "Coffee? Or should I be offerin' you something stronger?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Squaring his shoulders, Chris headed down the hallway to the den. When he got to the doorway, he paused, Buck's solid presence at his back. J.D. sat hunched forward in an armchair, eyes glued to the TV and thumbs tapping a furious beat to match the gunfire onscreen. Across the room Vin lay sprawled on the oversized couch, eyes shut and lips slightly parted, a controller dangling from one hand.

His chest tight, Chris walked over and stared down at his slumbering friend for a long moment before carefully removing the device from limp, unresisting fingers. Pulling a blanket from the back of the couch, he spread it over Vin, who furrowed his brow, shifted restlessly, and then settled, his breathing falling back into the steady pattern of deep sleep

The television fell silent, and when Chris turned J.D. was standing beside Buck, his expression closed. Chris sighed inwardly. It seemed he had more fences to mend, but for now, Vin came first.

"How long has he been out?" he asked.

J.D. shrugged. "Half an hour or so."

Chris glanced over his shoulder, troubled by the fact that Vin, the guy with hair-trigger reflexes, hadn't even twitched--first when touched and now at the sound of Chris's voice. "He's awful far under, isn't he?"

"No big surprise. He had to take two pain pills." The accusation in J.D.'s voice was clear.

Chris chose to ignore it. Hell, he'd beaten himself up, Ezra had twisted the knife, and even Buck had taken his shot. Might as well let J.D. get his licks in too.

"How about you boys take a drive out to the ranch." He removed the house key from his key ring and tossed it to Buck. "Game's on tonight. The TV's all yours, and you can help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

Buck neatly fielded the throw. "Uh...don't know if you've noticed, Stud, but it ain't even two o'clock."

"Was hoping you'd take care of the horses. Since you'll already be out there." Chris watched them both process the fact that he was essentially kicking them out of their own home: Buck equal parts irritated and amused; J.D. just bewildered. "I'd consider it a favor," he added quietly, standing firm under the weight of Buck's assessing gaze.

Buck fingered the key. "You'd better have plenty of beer--the good stuff, not that microbrewery crap."

"Just stocked up."

Buck hesitated a moment longer, then nudged J.D. "Let's go, kid."

To Chris's surprise, J.D. planted his feet. "Wait a minute. We're gonna leave? Just like that?"

"That's the idea," Buck replied. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Hell, yeah, there's something wrong!" J.D. waved an arm at Chris, scowling. "I don't see why we're leaving him here alone. How do we know won't lose his temper again and get Vin all riled up, or even hurt?"

"Now just hold your horses, J.D." Buck gave Chris the same look you'd give a bomb set to go off any minute. "You got no call to--"

"Yes, he does." Chris stepped closer, proud as hell of the way J.D. held his ground despite looking a little white around the eyes. "You know because I give you my word. Beyond that... You'll just have to trust me."

J.D. licked his lips and nodded. "Guess I can do that." His voice cracked a little, and he ducked his head. "Chris, I--"

"Got nothing to apologize for," Chris said, cutting him off. "You're a good friend, J.D."

"And damn lucky." Buck grabbed him by the neck and steered him from the room, muttering the whole way. "What the hell got into you? Didn't your mama ever teach you 'bout pokin' sticks at a bear? Next time--" The front door slammed, cutting him off mid-stream.

Chris cringed, but Vin slept on, oblivious.

With a sigh, Chris turned back toward the kitchen. Maybe he could use a hit of caffeine after all.

He'd been sitting at the kitchen table for about a half an hour, nursing a cup of coffee and paging through one of J.D.'s gaming magazines, when he heard the bathroom fan kick on, followed by retching.

"Shit." Chris shoved back his chair and dashed down the hallway.

Vin was kneeling on the tile, arms curled around toilet bowl, the smell of sickness thick in the air. Without stopping to think, Chris dropped beside him, pulling tangled curls from Vin's pale, sweaty face.

Another spasm wracked Vin's body, and he moaned, spat, and glared at Chris. "The hell're...you doin' here?"

"Keeping you from puking in your hair."

Vin screwed up his face to retort, but was hit with another bout of dry heaves. Chris gathered the hair into one hand and rubbed Vin's back with the other, wishing he could do more to relieve his friend's misery. When Vin's stomach finally settled, he sagged forward, pressing his forehead against his folded arms.

Chris grabbed a paper cup from the dispenser on the sink and filled it with water. "Here." When Vin cracked open an eye he handed him the cup. "Spit, don't swallow."

Vin took it with an unsteady hand. "I know the drill. Damn pain meds."

When he'd finished rinsing his mouth, Chris disposed of the cup, then offered Vin his hand. Though he looked as if a stiff breeze could knock him over, Vin rebuffed the offer of help and hauled himself to his feet.

Gritting his teeth, Chris resisted an instinctive grab for Vin's arm when his friend swayed. "You really are a stubborn sonuvabitch."

"You made yerself clear back at the hospital, Larabee." Vin walked slowly back to the couch, one hand skimming the wall. "Give it a rest."

Chris trailed behind, not touching but close enough to latch on if Vin started to fall. "You didn't let me finish."

"Heard enough." Vin stretched out on the couch and curled an arm over his eyes. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on yer way out."

Damn, he was terrible at this stuff. When it became clear Vin intended to ignore him, Chris went to the kitchen and got a ginger ale from the fridge. He popped the top and set it on the coffee table, parking himself beside the can.

Vin peered from under his arm, mouth turning down when he saw Chris. Still, the lure of the soda proved too strong, just as Chris had hoped. With a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, Vin pushed upright and reached for the can.

Chris leaned forward. "Look, Vin, I really--"

"I don't wanna fight anymore, Chris. Can we please just not do this?" The weary hurt in Vin's voice thickened his drawl.

"I'm not here to fight. I--" He caught hold of Vin's wrist, forcing his friend to meet his eyes. "Vin. I'm here to say I'm sorry."

An admission he wasn't used to making, not even with Sarah. Chris felt a stab of both shame and satisfaction when Vin blinked. "Never thought I'd hear those words comin' from your mouth."

"They don't come easy," he admitted. He scrubbed both hands over his face and sighed. "Hell, Vin, I just get done spouting off how you can count on us, on me, and then I turn around and--"

"Yeah." Vin looked away, his face blank. "Don't matter."

Chris frowned. "It sure as hell does."

Vin shook his head and laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "You think that's the first time someone ain't lived up to their promise? It's a fact of life, Chris. One I learned a long time ago."

The cynicism cut deep, and for a moment Chris had trouble drawing breath. For the first time he began to truly comprehend what Ezra had been trying to tell him.

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't write me off just yet," he said. "'Cause despite all that shit I was shoveling back at the hospital, I still intend to live up to my end of the deal."

Vin eyed him over the rim of the soda can. "Didn't sound like shit to me. Sounded like you were pretty damn pissed."

"Yeah. That's how I sound when someone I care about scares the crap out of me." When Vin's eyes widened, Chris nodded. "I was losing you, pard. I could hear it in your voice, you were fading fast, and I was so damn helpless. I was sure I wasn't going to get there soon enough."

"'M sorry." Vin rolled the can between his palms. "Things were kinda mixed up. Doc said it was a combination of the knock on the head, the cold, and the blood loss. The one thing I was clear on was that I had to call you. That you'd be able to help. I didn't think how it must've been from your end."

"Don't apologize." Chris caught himself, gentling the sharpness from his tone. "God, Cowboy, don't ever apologize for calling on me when you need help. You're my friend. I want to be there for you."

"So long as I do things your way." Vin looked away, jaw clenched. "Not interested in that kinda help, Chris. Too many strings attached."

Chris opened his mouth to protest, only to snap it shut. Wasn't that exactly what he'd wanted? For Vin to move to a better neighborhood, to stop hanging out with kids consumed by guns and drugs and violence. To stop caring so damn much about something that could get him killed.

It's that very idealism that goes a long way toward making our extraordinary friend the man he is.

"No."

The force behind the denial snapped Vin's head around, his gaze wide-eyed.

Chris shook his head, fumbling for the right words. "That's not what I want. I'd never expect you to stop being...who you are. I just... I need to understand, Vin. Please, just...help me understand."

Vin stared at him for a long moment--so long that Chris was certain he'd remain silent. Then he leaned forward and handed over the half-empty ginger ale. "Gonna need somethin' stronger than this."

With a raised eyebrow, Chris accepted the can. "You're on pain meds. Not to mention you just finished puking your guts up."

A twitch of his shoulder, and Vin's smile never reached his eyes. "Don't matter." When Chris hesitated, he sighed. "Only way I'm gonna get through this."

Chris's hands shook a little as he pulled the bottle from beneath the bar. A quick shot of his own and he passed Vin his glass with a steady grip. Vin knocked it back in one go, gesturing for Chris to join him on the couch.

"You already know I spent some time on the street." Vin tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Up until you joined the Army," Chris said. "Yeah, you've told me."

"What I didn't bother to fill you in on was exactly why I joined the Army." Vin rolled his head to the side, studying Chris. "Weren't like I had much choice."

Chris nodded. "Go on."

"I was only fourteen when I ran away from my last foster home. I ain't gonna talk about why I had to leave. You just gotta know things were bad."

"For a fourteen-year-old to run away to the city? Alone? I'd say they must have been pretty damn bad," Chris said quietly.

Vin flashed him a grateful look. "Found out real quick that things in the big city weren't much better, though. Not many jobs fer a kid my age, 'less you were willin' to turn tricks. And that was something I swore I'd never do. The few times I did manage to earn a little money, one of the bigger kids'd beat the shit outta me and take it. I was hungry most of the time; scared all the time."

Chris kept quiet--just leaned in until his shoulder brushed Vin's.

"And then the Vice Lords took me in. It was just dumb luck, really. I saw one of 'em rob a liquor store and kept my mouth shut when the cops questioned me about it. Guy who did it said he figured he owed me."

"So you joined the gang." Chris was careful to keep his tone free of judgment.

"Suddenly, I had a family, brothers who made sure I had plenty of food and a place to live, protection." Vin swallowed hard, emotion thick in his voice. "I never had anything like that, Chris, not even when it was just me and my ma."

"I'm sorry," Chris murmured.

Vin narrowed his eyes. "For what? That it turns out you got an ex-gang banger for a friend?"

"That being part of a gang was the closest thing you had to a real family," Chris said calmly. "I wish things could've been different. I wish I'd known you then."

With a snort, Vin shook his head. "Nah, you really don't. I lied, stole anything wasn't nailed down, fought, drank... Did drugs, but not the heavy stuff, mostly 'cause I didn't trust anyone that much to watch my back." He twisted his lips into a bitter smile. "Guess you could say I was a no-good little bastard."

How could he possibly answer that? Chris forced himself to meet Vin's sharp gaze. "What happened?"

To his surprise, Vin's smile transformed into something warm and genuine. "Nettie Wells happened. I used to hang around the YMCA, watch the martial arts classes until they kicked me out. Nettie was teachin' reading in a room nearby, and she just...latched on and wouldn't let go." He laughed softly. "Kept tellin' me if I'd just learn how to read I could get myself a real job, move to a better neighborhood, and I wouldn't need to figure out better ways to beat people up."

Chris snickered. "Sounds like Nettie."

The laughter faded from Vin's face. "She was the only one who saw me, Chris. Everyone else just took one look an' wrote me off as nothin' but trouble, a lost cause. But Nettie, she saw something better. No matter how much trouble I caused her--and hell, I caused plenty--she said I was worth it. After a while, I started to believe it could be true." Vin curled forward, propping his elbows on his knees despite the discomfort it must have caused his stitches. "Then it all went to hell."

Chris held his breath, Ezra's words echoing in his head: Some mistakes are inconsequential, but some...some are life-altering.

"It was so stupid. A dust up with the Bloods over turf. Started out with words, then turned ugly. When it was all over I was in jail and two kids...two kids were dead. One was a Blood, but the other, Ricky...he was a real good friend."

Chris licked his lips, carefully feeling his way. "Were you the one...?"

"Killed the guy? No. But I could've. I was there, and I was packin'. Only thing saved me from a murder rap was I didn't have the dead kid's blood on my knife." Vin scrubbed trembling hands over his face. "Ain't never gonna forget the look on Ricky's mom's face, the sound of her cryin'. All over some crappy little piece of city block."

Though he kept silent, Chris placed a hand between Vin's shoulder blades.

"I was seventeen years old," Vin continued, his voice raspy. "Coulda ended up in juvy, or worse, tried as an adult. Reckon I would've if it weren't for Nettie. She fought for me, convinced the judge to suspend my sentence and release me into her custody on the condition that I'd enlist once I turned eighteen." He darted a look over his shoulder at Chris. "The rest you know."

"I never realized." Chris shook his head. "There's nothing in your records."

"Sealed," Vin replied. "Thanks to Nettie."

Chris slid his hand up to tug the long hair. "You could've told me."

"I almost did. Lots of times." Vin shrugged. "Lost my nerve."

"Can't say I'm surprised, considering some of the things I've said," Chris admitted. "But I'm real glad you told me now."

Vin sat up straight, turning to face him with a wince. "I need you to understand, Chris. Nettie saved me. If it weren't for her, I'd be rottin' in prison right now, or dead. If I can do that for even one of those kids--"

"Shut up," Chris said, his voice gruff. "I'm the jackass here. You don't owe me any explanations."

Vin ducked his head. "Maybe not. But I do owe you a helluva lot."

The tension curling in his stomach slowly unwound. Thank God he hadn't broken things beyond repair.

Chris smiled. "Then do me a favor, Cowboy." At Vin's raised eyebrow he added, "Watch your back."

"I do, Chris, honest. What happened the other night, it was an accident. Kid I been workin' with was gettin' sucked into dealin' drugs. I showed up at the buy, hopin' to talk him outta it, but one of the other guys made me for a cop and things flipped outta control. Some threats, some shovin', weapons got pulled, my kid panicked, and..." He lifted his shoulders with a grimace.

With effort Chris tamped down on the urge to point out that the situation had been ripe for disaster from the start. Where his kids were concerned, Vin had always led with his heart rather than his head. At least now Chris understood why.

"So next time play it safe," he told his friend. "If you think there's even a remote possibility things could go south, bring back up." He nudged Vin's knee with his own. "I know just the guy for the job."

Vin's eyes lit up. "You'd do that?"

Chris inclined his head. "Said I'd be there, didn't I?" He pinned Vin with an intense stare. "That's a promise I plan on living up to, Cowboy. Count on it."

Vin flushed, one corner of his mouth turning up in a lopsided grin. "Reckon if I can count on anyone, it'd be you."

"Damn straight."

The doorbell rang. Chris rolled his eyes as he stood. "If that's one of Buck's women..."

"Better that than one of J.D.'s computer geeks," Vin said with a smirk.

It was Josiah and Nathan. Raising an eyebrow, Chris swung the door wide.

"Got some news I think you'll want to hear," Josiah said as they headed for the den. "Vin. How are you feeling?"

Any reply Vin might have made was cut off when Nathan snatched the shot glasses off the coffee table and skewered Chris with a glare. "You gave him whiskey? Are you outta your mind?"

"Now hold on," Chris spluttered. "You don't--"

The doorbell rang. Ignoring Vin's snickered "Saved by the bell" Chris opened the door.

It was Ezra.

Chris scowled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Ensuring you don't say anything we'll all regret." Ezra brushed past him. "It appears my timing, as always, is impeccable."

Shutting the door harder than necessary, Chris trailed down the hallway. Vin was patiently enduring Nathan, who was currently checking pupil response with his penlight. Josiah was flipping through a novel from the bookshelf. Ezra, damn him, had gone straight for Buck's good whiskey.

"Don't you all have someplace to be?" Chris growled. "Josiah, what--"

The front door opened and slammed shut.

It was Buck and J.D.

"Looks a lot like a party, but where the hell're the women?" Buck plucked the bottle from Ezra's fingers and thrust a large bag of cheese puffs into his hands.

"Why don't you go and search for some," Ezra suggested, holding the bag by one corner as if it might bite. "I understand there's a bowling alley right around the corner."

"And people wonder why I've got an ulcer," Chris muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Josiah, you said you have news?"

"Got a call about an hour ago from Detective Williamson." Josiah sank into the large recliner with a soft grunt. "Seems one of the Lobos, a kid named Alexander Vega, showed up at the station earlier this morning."

Chris glanced at Vin, who had stiffened, his expression blank. "Go on," he told Josiah.

"Kid claimed he'd accidentally killed a cop. Wanted to turn himself in."

J.D. frowned. "Killed? Oh! You mean he thought Vin was dead?"

"Apparently," Josiah replied.

"Vin?" Chris took a seat beside his friend. "You okay?"

Vin slowly lifted his gaze to Josiah. "Alex? He turned himself in?"

"Way I hear it, he was pretty broken up," Josiah said. "Shocked the hell out of Williamson."

"He turned himself in." Vin sounded dazed, as if he were struggling to believe his own words.

"Kid was pretty damn happy to hear you're alive. Wants to see you when you're up to it." Josiah's expression was gentle. "If you put in a good word, I think Williamson will go easy. He's a pretty decent guy once you get to know him."

"Goes both ways," Vin said. "Alex is a pretty decent kid."

"So let's get this party rollin'!" Buck waved a paper menu. "Who wants pizza?"

"No pizza for Vin, he just got outta the hospital," Nathan grumbled. "Bad enough Chris's givin' him whiskey."

"For the last time, I did not--"

"Get some of those bread sticks, Buck." J.D. flicked on the television and tuned to the football game. "And we need more beer!"

"Some wine would be appreciated." Ezra curled his lip, dumping the snack bag onto the bar. "To go with the cheese puffs."

"You okay with all this?" Chris asked, concerned by Vin's silence.

"Yeah. I just..." A slow smile spread across Vin's face. "He turned himself in, Chris."

"Took a lot of guts," Chris agreed. He cocked an eyebrow. "Someone must've made a big impression on the kid."

Vin's grin, bright with gratitude, told Chris that this time he'd said exactly what his friend needed to hear.

It was time he stopped fighting who Vin was and started appreciating him for it. Building a friendship with a stubborn, often-infuriating, always-selfless guy like Vin Tanner wasn't always easy.

But damn...it was worth it.

End

Video--"How to Save a Life"

2007-08-10T20:41:57Z

My 15-year-old daughter and fellow Supernatural fan (yes, I'm so proud) just finished her first music video, set to "How to Save a Life" by The Fray. Thought I'd share it with you all.

Being fairly computer illiterate, the best I've managed is to upload it to YouTube. Here's the link:

How to Save a Life

If you like it and want to leave her a comment, Mom will pass it along. :)

Fic: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

2007-05-26T23:11:26Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: Dean pressed his lips together and hung onto his temper. "Why are you having nightmares about Mom?"
Post-ep for All Hell Breaks Loose 2.
Word Count: 3,000
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for the speedy and insightful beta.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

The sun was setting over the Grand Canyon in spectacular shades of gold and pink, Lindsay Lohan was curled in his lap, nibbling that spot just behind his left ear, and--

And, damn it, Dean woke up.

He glared blearily at the ceiling, a little turned on and a lot frustrated. Why did the good dreams always cut off just as things were getting interesting, but when it came to nightmares he got the director's cut? Not that he had many nightmares these days; that was Sammy's--

Shit.

Before he turned his head, Dean knew what he would find. Pillows scattered, sheets rumpled and untucked from the mattress, blanket trailing onto the floor--Sam's bed was a mess.

And empty.

Shit, shit, shit.

Dean pushed himself up against the headboard, elbows resting on his knees. The LED on the battered clock radio read 4:32; beside it lay a Taco Bell receipt bearing Sam's serial-killer scrawl.

Don't freak. Went for a run.

With a snort, Dean scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Though he appreciated Sam's new resolve not to take off without warning, these middle-of-the-night wanderings had become alarmingly routine. Three weeks since they'd killed that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch, and Dean could count on one hand the number of times Sam had slept through the night. For someone who'd always despised their father's emphasis on physical conditioning, he was spending an awful lot of time pounding the pavement.

Something was going on. Dean just wasn't sure exactly what.

How certain are you that what you brought back is 100-percent pure Sam?

Cursing, Dean slid out of bed and stomped over to his duffel. Jeans, tee shirt, flannel... He was rummaging for socks when he touched something with a soft crackle. Swallowing hard, he pulled out the plastic bag, fingering soft cotton. He didn't need to unbundle the shirt to see the jagged slice, the edges stiff and blackened with dried blood--it was all burned indelibly in his memory. Even now, he could smell salt and copper, feel the warmth--the life--leech from his brother's heavy, pliant body.

Sam had stripped off the shirt with a grimace and tossed it into the trash, but Dean had rescued it and tucked it away--a talisman and a promise. Or maybe just penance.

With a sharp shake of his head, he stuffed the shirt into the bottom of the duffel and--yahtzee!--located his last pair of clean socks in the process.

It was June, but in northern Minnesota the night air still carried a bite--much like the wendigo-turned-oversized-black bear they'd just finished hunting. Dean slipped on his leather jacket and pocketed his keys. He had no idea where the hell Sam had gone, but sitting around, waiting for him to turn up was just... Nope, not gonna happen.

Ely, Minnesota, wasn't exactly known for its night life, and anyway, the motel was on the outskirts of the small town, surrounded by Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness. Dean glared at the star-studded sky--he should be in bed, dreaming, damn it--then began walking around the building, away from the parking lot and toward an open field that led into the trees.

It was a new moon, dark as hell with a thick, low-lying mist, and he kept tripping over rocks, large sticks, and holes in the ground. Just when he was starting to get truly pissed, he heard a soft pop followed by the bright tinkle of broken glass.

Pulling up short, Dean snapped his head in the opposite direction he'd been headed. If he squinted hard, he could just make out a shadowy figure near the tree line. With a sigh that was both relief and irritation, he changed course.

By the time he was halfway across the field, he knew the shape slouched on a large boulder was his brother. Sam's sheer bulk made him loom in a way few could duplicate. His back was turned, and he didn't even react to Dean's approach.

Dean leaned in close, just behind Sam's left ear. "Hey."

Sam startled, a full-body jerk complete with a gasp, and there was the fresh chink of broken glass. Spinning so fast he nearly tumbled off the rock, Sam glared at him. "The hell, Dean?"

"You realize you're like the stupid chick in every bad horror movie." Dean circled around to stand in front of him. "You know, the one who wanders off alone in the woods in the middle of the night and has everybody yelling, 'Look out, you crazy bitch!' at the movie screen."

"You scared the crap outta me," Sam snarled, but Dean was sure he saw guilt in the gaze that slid away.

"Yeah, well, I never should've gotten the drop on you like that. You're slipping, Sammy." Dean studied his brother's face. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"

"Nothing. Just couldn't sleep."

The answer was too sharp and too quick, and Sam's eyes flicked over Dean's shoulder before darting back to his face.

Intrigued, Dean turned to look. Ten feet from where he stood was a fallen tree, the bark cracked and weathered smooth. Two beer bottles perched atop the trunk, while at least three more lay in pieces on the ground.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Throwing rocks at bottles? Dude, I got at least five better cures for insomnia." He waggled his eyebrows. "Some of 'em you can even do at the same time."

"Shut up." Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, sounding more weary than annoyed.

Dean returned to the boulder, scooting up to sit beside his brother. "It's been three weeks, Sam. Don't you think it's about time you told me?"

It was as if every muscle in his brother's body turned to iron; Dean felt tension thrumming like current where their shoulders brushed.

"Told you what?" Sam asked.

So that's the way it was gonna be. Dean huffed and shook his head. "You're barely eating. You're not sleeping. Something's got you tied up in knots, man. I'm just wondering when you're gonna let me in on what it is."

Sam curled his lip. "Gee, I don't know. I suppose the fact that my brother sold his soul to a demon for me might have something to do with it."

"Oh, screw you," Dean said, recognizing the tactic for exactly what it was--a diversion.

"What, you don't think I have a right to let that one-year deadline make me a little tense?"

"That's not what this is about, and you know it."

Sam thrust out his jaw, and his voice dropped to the husky tone that meant he was becoming seriously pissed. "Why don't you tell me what it is about, since you know so much?"

Dean pressed his lips together and hung onto his temper. Didn't mean he couldn't take the gloves off, though. "Why are you having nightmares about Mom?"

Sam physically recoiled, eyes wide and briefly defenseless. "What?"

"You call out her name--it's like Jessica all over again." Even in the darkness, Dean could see Sam had paled. He softened his voice. "Talk to me, Sammy."

"We just killed the Demon we've spent our whole lives hunting," Sam said, evading his gaze. "I guess it just dredged up bad memories."

"And I might buy that--if they were your memories. You were a frickin' baby, Sam." He gripped the back of Sam's neck, forcing him to make eye contact. "Level with me. What's going on in that freaky head of yours?"

Sam just looked at him, but God, Dean didn't need the words. There was so much pain there, buried but not completely masked by the defiance. And more--shame, and something that looked a lot like fear.

Sam made a small sound in the back of his throat, and his eyes welled up. "Don't," he choked, his voice rough and unsteady. "I...please, let it go, Dean. You don't want to know."

After holding Sam's gaze a moment longer, Dean released him. He rasped a hand over the stubble on his chin. Far from letting it go, Sam's behavior convinced him that he needed to keep pushing.

But carefully. Very carefully.

"How about I tell you what I do know?" he said, drawing a leg up and propping his arm on it. When Sam didn't answer, he continued. "I know that when I asked if the Demon had told you anything else, you lied to me."

Sam scowled and opened his mouth to protest, but subsided at Dean's steady glare and raised eyebrow.

Dean lifted one corner of his mouth in an affectionate smirk. "Note to self, Sammy. You may have one hell of a game face when you're dealing with strangers, but you can't lie for shit to your family. Dad and I saw Stanford coming for months before your big declaration of independence. I know you had some serious doubts about Roy LaGrange but took me to him anyway. You've still got a thing for Sarah despite all the 'I'm too dangerous' bullshit--"

"All right! I get it. Just...shut up." Sam raised a shaking hand and rubbed a spot above his right eye. His face looked pinched and washed out.

Headache, Dean thought, but he didn't let up. "I know firsthand how good that sonuvabitch was at messing with your head. What did he tell you? That you're evil? That it's only a matter of time before you become like Ava? That Mom's death was all your fault?"

With a hiss, Sam caught his breath and turned away, confirmation in every line of his body. Damn.

"Sam, we've been over this. What happened to Mom--" Sam muttered something barely above a whisper, and Dean broke off, certain he'd heard wrong. "What?"

"He didn't tell me. He showed me." Sam slid off the rock and paced left, then right. Stopping abruptly with hands on hips, he looked at Dean, his mouth twisting in a humorless smile. "He took me back to that night. He called it a 'high-def instant replay.'"

Dean frowned. "What--you mean you were there?"

"Stood right next to my crib. No one could see or hear us, but..." Sam shrugged, sinking his teeth into his lip. "He said it's always been about me. That Mom just got in the way, and--"

"C'mon, Sam!" Dean snapped. "The bastard was just winding you up, he--"

"He fed me his blood, Dean. I saw it, I saw him do it." He curled his arms over his head and resumed pacing, his voice high and shaky. "He cut his wrist and held it over the crib, and the blood, drops of it went into my mouth and I was crying and then Mom walked in and..."

He stilled, hands falling to his sides, and gave Dean the look.

The one that pleaded, Fix this.

The one that broke him every damn time.

"She interrupted," Sam said, all emotion abruptly extinguished. "She tried to stop him, and he killed her."

It felt like rabbit punches--quick, sharp jabs that drove the air from his lungs before he could find breath to answer. "Sam..."

"That's not all," Sam gritted out, and Dean heard a sick note of you asked for this in his voice. "The Demon... Mom recognized him, Dean. She knew him."

Dean couldn't move, could barely breathe. "That's a lie," he growled.

Sam didn't flinch. "It's not. She looked straight in his eyes and said, 'It's you.'"

Dean launched himself off the rock, burying his fingers in Sam's jacket. "So you're just going to believe something a demon--that Demon--showed you?" He let go, adding a shove for good measure. "Demons lie, Sam. Hell, you should know that."

The push sent Sam stumbling back a few steps, but he untangled his feet and wrapped himself up in his arms. "I do. But not this one--at least, not this time."

He looked so stubbornly certain--and friggin' miserable about it--that Dean was torn between wanting to knock him on his ass and hug him.

God, just kill him now.

"How do you know?" he asked gruffly.

Sam hunched his shoulders. "How many times did Dad talk about that night? It was just like he described, right down to where he found Mom, the way she died."

Dean grimaced. "Did you see--"

"No!" Sam shook his head, looking queasy. "No, he pulled me out, and then I woke up."

Blowing out a long breath, Dean scratched the back of his neck. "The bastard was in your head, Sam. He could've made you see anything. Doesn't mean it happened."

"I know." Sam looked away, throat working. "I just... It felt right, Dean. It felt real." He dropped back onto the rock, clenched fists pressing against his thighs.

Dean's thoughts raced, and his stomach lurched. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He'd brokered a deal and made peace with himself in the process. The Demon was dead and Sam was alive. Everything else was supposed to be minor details.

How certain are you that what you brought back is 100-percent pure Sam?

He looked at his brother--long, lanky legs and shaggy hair. Large hands that could handle a weapon with deadly efficiency, then gently suture a gashed forehead. Eyes that found good where Dean would have sworn it didn't exist.

You sacrifice everything for me--don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother--there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.

"It doesn't matter," he said, joining Sam on the boulder.

Sam looked at him as if he'd done something unthinkable, like toss his entire tape collection out the window. "Did you hear a word I said? Mom knew that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch, and I have demon blood, in me. Are you really gonna tell me none of that matters?"

Dean met his incredulous glare without wavering. "Demon's dead, Sam. Whatever connection he may have had to Mom--to you--is broken. End of story."

"How can you possibly be certain of that?"

One corner of Dean's mouth turned up. "'Cause it feels right. It feels real."

Sam studied him, his expression guarded. "You aren't the least bit afraid of me? Of what I could still become?"

"How could I be scared of you? You're my little brother," he said, nudging Sam with his shoulder. Waited a beat. "Not to mention the biggest damn girl on the planet."

Sam huffed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Jerk."

Dean elbowed him in the ribs. "We won, Sammy. You can let yourself off the hook."

Sam's smile slipped away. "No, you won the first round. Now it's my turn."

He knew where Sam was headed, and there was no way he was going there. Not now, maybe not ever. Dean stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't know about you, but I'm tired, and this fine ass is getting numb. I'm going to bed."

Sam looked up at him, eyes too bright and jaw clenched. "I meant what I said, Dean. I'm gonna get you out of this."

It warmed and terrified him all at the same time. "You coming?"

For a moment Sam looked as if he would press the issue, but then he gave a small shake of his head. "Nah. You go ahead."

"You need to sleep." He tried hard to keep it a suggestion. He'd learned the effect orders had on Sam back when his brother was still in footy pajamas.

"I will." Sam offered him a thin smile. "I just need a few more minutes."

"You fall asleep out here, and you're on your own. I won't drag your gigantic ass back to the room."

The smile grew, became something much more genuine. "Yeah, you would."

"Nope." Dean turned and started walking to hide his grin.

"You so would," Sam called.

Dean just kept walking. No way in hell was he gonna admit Sam was right.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam watched his brother's retreating back, rolling his head in an effort to loosen the tight muscles in his neck. The headache behind his right eye had downgraded from spike-through-the-brain to dull throb; he was grateful Dean hadn't picked up on just how badly he'd been hurting earlier.

He should have known Dean would sense that he was hiding something. Irritating as it was, Dean was right--Sam had never been able to conceal the truth from him, not since he was four years old and trying to convince his brother it was a poltergeist that had raided his candy stash.

Fortunately, he'd learned a few things since then. Like how giving up part of the truth could be an effective smokescreen for what you were holding back.

After a quick check over his shoulder to make sure Dean was out of sight, Sam turned back to the fallen log. He took a deep breath and blew it out, focusing on one of the remaining bottles. After a moment it twitched, then shivered, clinking softly against its mate.

Slowly, steadily, the bottle rose until it was suspended several feet above the log, then hovered there. Sam narrowed his eyes, sweat breaking out on his upper lip and trickling between his shoulder blades. The bottle descended with a jerk, then slowed, settling back into place. Upright and unbroken.

With a gasp, Sam curled over, pressing the heels of both hands against his temples. For a moment he was certain he was going to throw up, but the nausea passed and the pain eased.

As he squinted at the bottle, he felt a rush of triumph.

Only a few feet, but he'd done it. He was improving, getting better every day. It was all about control, after all.

I don't care what it takes. I'm gonna get you out of this.

And motivation.

No more running scared.

This time, he was playing to win.

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

Fic: Far from Home

2007-05-01T02:45:13Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He wasn't that bewildered little boy anymore, constantly asking when Mommy was coming home, searching for her in the shabby little apartment, the grocery store, the mall. Post-ep for "Home."
Author's note: Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for polishing it up so it's nice and shiny.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Dean drove.

He drove until the sun dipped below the horizon and stars pierced the darkness. Until too many miles with too few rest stops put an ache in his lower back and left every muscle feeling tight and brittle. Until his eyes burned and the yellow lines blurred.

When the headlights hit the blue sign signaling food and lodging, he flicked on his turn signal and took the ramp without asking for a second opinion.

Not that he expected one.

Sam had barely said ten words since they'd left Lawrence. He'd slumped into the passenger seat, curling his long-limbed body until he appeared unnaturally small, his forehead pressed to the glass and his eyes fixed on the passing scenery. For all the times Dean had wished he could shut his brother up, he now found himself hating the long silences and monosyllabic answers.

"Lodging" turned out to be either a hole-in-the-wall no-name motel or a decent-looking Comfort Inn. After a brief hesitation, Dean picked the Comfort Inn. Considering the last 48 hours, the least he and Sam deserved was a clean bathroom and a lump-free mattress.

The lobby felt too bright after the darkness of the car, the desk clerk overly friendly after Sam's brooding withdrawal. Dean handed over a credit card that was nearing its limit and signed with a secretive smirk--adios, James Page. Gotta be moving on.

Sam didn't comment as he parked in front of the room, and Dean had the bags out of the trunk before his brother extricated himself from the car.

He quirked an eyebrow when Dean handed him the little cardboard sleeve. "Dude, we get key cards?"

Dean grinned as he plugged his into the slot below the knob. "Livin' high, Sammy. Courtesy of my friend James Page--may he rest in peace."

Sam snorted as he dropped his duffel onto the nearest bed, then just stood, staring at the bland watercolor hanging over the headboard with unseeing eyes.

Dean kept his gaze on his brother as he moved around to his own bed. He sank onto the mattress, kneading the tight muscles at the small of his back. No lumps or exposed springs, but damn, looked like the only magic fingers in this motel were his own.

Sam was still zoned, absently rubbing under the collar of his shirt and chewing on his lip. Dean narrowed his eyes. The lip thing was a dead giveaway--had been since Sam was a little boy.

"Hey. What's up with you?"

The question carried an edge, a sharpness he hadn't intended.

Sam didn't appear to notice. He blinked, then rummaged through his duffel, pulling out his toiletries and a clean pair of boxers. "Gonna shower." He disappeared into the bathroom, and the door shut firmly behind him.

Okay.

Dean flopped onto his back, hands laced behind his neck, and closed his eyes. In the bathroom the toilet flushed, and the shower came on with a hiss. Something--shampoo? soap?--hit the tile with a dull thud, and Sam cursed softly. A moment later the curtain rattled across the rod.

Sounds he'd heard countless times over the past few months--ordinary, boring, routine.

Except nothing about the last 48 hours had been ordinary, boring, or routine. Sammy wasn't just having nightmares, he was having nightmares that came true. With eerie accuracy.

It all made sense now--the guilt so liberally mixed with Sam's grief over Jessica's death. His absolute certainty that he'd be able to summon Bloody Mary. His insistence that something wasn't right inside Jenny's house, despite Missouri's assurances that the poltergeist was history.

Sam was...psychic.

Dean rolled the word around in his head, flooded with a fresh sense of stunned disbelief. Sam--all arms and legs, shaggy hair and big, liquid eyes--could see the future like some kind of oversized Zelda Rubenstein.

It should be funny, right?

He wasn't laughing. Because that thing in Jenny's house...it had wanted Sam. Dean, Sari, Richie--they'd all been allowed to leave. Hell, the damn door had been slammed in their faces. Sam was the one it had grabbed, had tossed around and pinned to the wall like a bug. If it hadn't been for Mom...

Mom.

Dean pressed the heels of his hands to eyes that felt suddenly hot and wet. Twenty-two years had come and gone. He wasn't that bewildered little boy anymore, constantly asking when Mommy was coming home, searching for her in the shabby little apartment, the grocery store, the mall.

Mommy's gone, Dad would repeat in the mechanical, dead tone that Dean had grown to hate. Eyes red-rimmed and a little wild, tremors in the rough-gentle hands that squeezed his shoulders. Mommy's gone, Dean, and she's never coming back.

But she had. Twenty-two years, and her hair was still the color of early morning sunlight. She still smelled like soap and sugar cookies and baby powder. And she still made "Dean" sound just like "I love you."

For a moment twenty-two years had melted away, and he'd forgotten that those feelings of comfort and safety were just an illusion. For a moment Dean was that little boy again, ready to throw himself into her arms, bury his face in her neck, and breathe her in.

And then, for the second time in his life, he'd watched his mother disappear in a burst of flames.

Mommy's gone, Dean, and she's never coming back.

This time he wouldn't go looking.

The bathroom door creaked open and a waft of humid air clung damply to Dean's skin. From the corner of his eye he saw a boxer-clad Sam bend over his duffel.

Dean sucked in a deep breath and wrestled himself upright, dragging a hand down his face. "You want something to eat?" His own stomach cringed a little at the idea.

"Nah. I'm not--really hungry." The slight catch in Sam's voice was imperceptible--to anyone who hadn't been attuned to his every ache and pain for twenty-three years.

Dean sat up straighter, senses sharpening. Sam hadn't turned the light on for his side of the room, so he was shrouded in shadows as he slipped his arms through a tee shirt. Dean caught a quick flash of skin before his brother tugged it to his waist.

His suspicion ratcheted up a notch. The room was stuffy, overly warm. And Sam rarely slept in a tee. "What's wrong?"

With a huff, Sam pulled back the comforter on his bed, staying on the far side of the mattress. "Nothing," he said, evading Dean's gaze. Lifting a pillow, he scowled. "Damn it, this one's ripped. So much for the comfort in Comfort Inn."

"Sam."

"I'm just tired, Dean, okay? Not like we got much sleep last night." He dropped the offending pillow on the floor and peeled back the blanket and sheet.

Sam was speaking with the measured, through-his-teeth tone that signaled tight control, and his movements were unnaturally stiff. Dean narrowed his eyes as he reached for a pillow. "I don't need both of these. Here." He lobbed it at Sam.

His brother reacted without thinking, just as Dean had expected. Sam jerked up his arms to grab the pillow, then doubled over with a soft gasp. As he struggled to catch his breath, Dean walked over and lifted his shirt.

A spectacular array of black-and-blue patches mottled Sam's sides and back, a gruesome addition to the livid bruising around his throat. Dean gently pressed the darkest area on Sam's left side, just over his ribs. "Holy crap, Sammy."

With a hiss, Sam twitched away. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said, smoothing down his shirt.

Dean snorted. "That's good. 'Cause it looks pretty damn bad. You take anything?"

"Not yet."

"Sit."

For once, Sam obeyed without argument--a clear indication he was hurting more than he'd admit.

Dean circled the bed and fished the first-aid kit from his duffel. After shaking three ibuprofen into his palm, he filled a glass with water and returned to where his brother perched rigidly on the edge of the mattress.

"Why the hell didn't you say something?" he asked as Sam swallowed all three pills at once.

Sam shrugged, aborting the motion with a wince. "It didn't hurt that much when we left Jenny's. I stiffened up in the car."

"You sure those ribs aren't cracked?"

Sam shook his head. "Just bruised."

Dean took the empty water glass. "Fine. But if the pain gets worse or you start pissing blood, we're finding the nearest ER."

"Yes, mo--" Sam bit off the retort, blinking hard. "I will." He gingerly stretched onto his stomach, wrapping his arms around a pillow, and closed his eyes.

Dean stared at his brother for a long moment, absently tracing the rim of the glass with one finger. Sam didn't have his own memories of Mom, just recollections and stories shared by Dean and Dad, stitched together like a beloved quilt. Seeing her last night--not a photo in a frame but a three-dimensional being--had to have shaken him. Badly.

With a sigh Dean, moved toward the bathroom. Despite his big-brother instincts, his own emotions were too raw to offer comfort.

A hot shower left his body loose and clumsy with exhaustion, but his brain wouldn't shut off. Like a hamster on a wheel, his thoughts ran in circles, never really getting anywhere. Sam's dreams, his sensitivity to the poltergeist's presence, their mother's soft apology... Dean intuitively sensed they were all pieces to a larger puzzle. And that made him damned uneasy.

Sam was sprawled in the same position, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. Dean turned off the light and tumbled into bed. He laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes, trying all the little relaxation techniques he'd picked up over the years to settle himself before a hunt--deep, slow breathing, relaxing one muscle group at a time, visualizing a safe, tranquil place.

It wasn't working.

His deep, slow breathing turned to a hammering heartbeat as he considered how Sam's new ability might impact his own ability to keep Sam safe. His muscles clenched as he recalled seeing Sam, battered and pinned to the kitchen wall. And every attempt to visualize tooling down a country road in the Impala morphed into his mother's beautiful face--and the accompanying ache of loss.

"She was really beautiful."

Sam's soft voice pierced the silence, eerily mirroring Dean's thoughts.

"Yeah. She was." Forced past the tightness in his throat, the words came out sandpaper rough.

Silence stretched between them, but Dean waited it out.

"I asked Missouri what happened. She said Mom's spirit and the poltergeist's canceled each other out." Dean didn't have to see Sam's face--he heard the tears in his voice. "She sacrificed herself for us." Sam's breath hitched. "For me."

Dean propped himself on an elbow, peering hard through the darkness. "Sam, it wasn't--"

"Don't." Sam sucked in a shaky breath. "Just... That fire started in my nursery, Dean. And now... It's like, she's dead all over again. Because of me."

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Dean reached up and turned on the lamp.

Sam shaded his eyes with one hand, gingerly pushing himself upright. "Dean? What the--"

"You are not responsible for what happened to Mom." When Sam opened his mouth to argue, Dean cut him off, his glare fierce. "Just shut up and listen, okay?"

Sam pressed his lips together but gave a sharp nod.

Dean drew in a deep breath. "You were just a baby," he continued, working hard to keep his voice calm and even. "Mom and Dad would have done anything to protect us. That doesn't make you responsible. Sam." He chased his brother's gaze, forcing Sam to look him in the eye. "You didn't kill mom. And we're going to find and kill the thing that did."

"Dean..." The name caught in Sam's throat, and he swallowed hard. "You don't get it."

Apprehension prickled Dean's spine and twisted sickly in his stomach. Sam was looking at him like a drowning man grasping for a hand held just out of reach. "Then explain it to me."

With a strangled laugh, Sam shook his head. "I can't even explain it to myself." He rubbed the back of his neck and pulled in a shaky breath. "Something's happening to me, man. And whatever it is...it's not over."

"You don't know that."

Sam looked away, but not before Dean caught the too-bright shine to his eyes. "Yeah. I do."

Dean bit his lip, silence weighting the air between them. "We'll deal with it," he said, then fought to not grimace. It hadn't sounded nearly as lame in his head.

"We'll deal with it?" Sam scowled, stiff-lipped. "Great. I feel so much better."

The sarcasm sparked Dean's anger, and he latched on to it like an old friend. "What the hell do you want from me, Sam? You want me to start wringing my hands, freak out over a few dreams?"

"A few dreams? Dean, my mother burned on the ceiling of my nursery, twenty-two years later my girlfriend dies the same way, and I'm suddenly seeing shit before it happens," Sam said, voice cracking. He scrubbed an unsteady hand across his forehead, shielding his eyes. "Don't try to tell me you think it's a coincidence. Dad's pulled together jobs from a lot less."

How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? Sam wasn't saying anything different from the nagging little voice in his own head.

"Look," he said, gentling his tone when Sam's slumped shoulders stiffened. "I'm not gonna pretend to know what's going on in that freaky head of yours. But we'll figure it out, Sammy. Are you hearing me?" He waited for Sam to drop his hand and look at him. "We'll figure it out."

"How?" There was no challenge to Sam's question, just the tug of weary hopelessness Dean had heard all too often since Jessica's death.

Good question, Dean thought, but he kept his uncertainty from his face. "We find Dad. He's got a line on the thing that killed Mom and Jessica, I'm sure of it. Find him, and we'll find the answers."

"What if you're wrong?" Sam persisted, but Dean heard a kernel of hope amidst the doubt. "What if he's no closer to catching this thing than we are?"

"Then we work together, just like old times. With three Winchesters on its ass? That evil sonuvabitch won't stand a chance." Dean cocked an eyebrow. "But you're forgetting something important."

Sam took the bait. "Yeah? Like what?"

"I'm the older brother. And I'm never wrong."

After gaping a moment, Sam barked a laugh, only to clutch his ribs. "Jerk," he groaned, but a little of the darkness left his eyes.

Mission accomplished. The knot in Dean's gut loosened, just a little. "Can I turn out the light now? 'Cause I gotta tell you--you really need your beauty sleep."

"Least some of us aren't beyond help," Sam muttered, stretching carefully onto his stomach.

"Sam, Sam," Dean tsked, shaking his head. "Jealousy doesn't become you."

With a flick of the light switch, he sank onto his mattress. He listened to rustling sheets and soft hisses followed by a gusty sigh as his brother searched for and finally found a comfortable position.

Though his own muscles were stiff with tension, he forced himself to lie still, relieved when Sam's breathing slowed and deepened. Certain his brother had drifted off, Sam's voice startled him.

"Dean... Thanks."

Soft and slurred, filled with an implicit trust Dean hadn't heard in years--since before Jessica and Stanford and a terrible night filled with raised voices and divided loyalties.

Though he swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice came out raspy with emotion.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

He closed his eyes and willed himself to do the same.

End

Fic: Never Say Die

2007-02-10T06:04:39Z

By Sunrize83

Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working. Missing scene for "Faith."
Author's note: This fic was written for iamstealthyone, the best beta ever. Happy Birthday, hon! I hope you don't mind I did this one without you. Many thanks to swanseajill for stepping up to the plate.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Five minutes.

That's all it takes Sam to hustle two terrified, sobbing little kids to the Impala.

Five minutes to load them into the back seat, pry loose small, clutching fingers, make soft, reassuring noises.

Five minutes to warn them to stay put, to lock them in.

Five minutes too long.

He's flying down to the basement, feet pounding on rotten wood, when his eyes register the scene at the bottom of the steps and everything slows and stutters to a series of snapshots:

The rawhead, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling, limbs twitching.
Click.

Wires coiled across the floor and the acrid smell of burning.
Click.

Dean, sprawled in a puddle, dirty water soaking into his jeans, Taser in one limp hand. Motionless.
Click.

Just like that, every single one of his father's painstaking lessons flies out of Sam's head. He doesn't check to be sure the rawhead is dead, or whether there's still live current flowing through the Taser. He doesn't insure the basement is secure, doesn't confirm that there are no more monsters lurking in the shadows. He doesn't care that the creature is behind him, that he's possibly vulnerable to further attack.

The only thing he does care about is getting to his brother.

"Dean!"

He leaps over the last few steps and crashes to his knees, reaching for Dean with shaking hands. Dean's still, so still, and that's just wrong because his brother is always in motion--fingers drumming, leg bouncing, cleaning guns, sharpening knives, making those dumb-ass faces when he's bored...

"Hey, hey."

He slips his palm under Dean's skull and his brother's head lolls like a baby's. His skin is clammy and chalky pale, his lips dusky blue. Sam's stomach twists into a knot as he presses his ear to the soft, worn cotton stretched across Dean's chest.

Silence.

Oh, God, oh, God.

Dean's not breathing.

Dean's heart isn't beating.

Dean's...

"No!" Sam digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and shakes him. "Dean! Breathe, damn it! Breathe!" He slaps Dean's face hard enough to leave marks, but his brother's head just rolls with the force of the blow, no resistance.

Swearing under his breath, Sam grabs Dean under the arms and drags him from the water. "You can do this, you can do this," he chants to himself. "Just like Dad taught you."

His breath rasping in harsh pants, he lays Dean flat, tipping his chin up to insure an airway. Pinching Dean's nose, he covers his brother's mouth with his own and delivers two breaths. Then, placing the heels of his hands in the middle of Dean's chest, he presses firmly.

"One, two, three--damn it, Dean, don't you do this to me--seven, eight, nine--c'mon, please--twelve, thirteen..."

When he reaches thirty he stops and puffs two more breaths into Dean's mouth. "Dude, you're never gonna live this down," he says, his voice cracking, as he returns to the compressions. "If you stop this shit right now, I promise I won't mention it."

...five, six, seven... Dean's body rocks gently under the force of Sam's hands, and his fingernails scratch against the concrete. Sam's vision blurs, and he scrubs his face against his sleeve, surprised when it comes away wet.

Damn, damn, damn. He needs to call for help, but he can't stop, has to keep pumping, keep breathing.

"Mister?" A child's voice, soft and hesitant.

Sam snaps his head around, rhythm faltering.

The little boy stands halfway down the steps, dirty, tear-streaked face twisted with apprehension. "I know you said to stay in the car, but--"

"Get over here!" Sam curses himself when the kid flinches and turns, ready to bolt. "No, wait! Please. I... I need your help." ...twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three... "What's your name?"

The boy watches him for a moment before inching down one step, then two. "Luke." He frowns and tilts his head. "What's wrong with him?"

...twenty-nine, thirty. Sam pinches Dean's nose, blows two more breaths. "My name's Sam and this is my brother, Dean. He's hurt real bad." One, two, three... "Luke, do you know how to use a cell phone?"

"Yeah."

"There's one in my jacket pocket. Take it outside and call 911. Tell them where we are and that we need an ambulance right away." Twelve, thirteen, fourteen... His shoulders ache and his skin feels stretched too tight, as if he may just explode any moment.

Luke's at the bottom of the stairs now, but he's not moving any closer. Sam bites back the urge to yell, but the words catch in his throat and sting his eyes.

"Luke, my brother and I--we helped you, right?" he says, and he doesn't care that his voice trembles, that he's one step away from begging. "Now it's your turn to help us."

And thank God, Luke gives a little nod and shuffles forward. Sam indicates the pocket with a tip of his chin, and Luke reaches in, keeping his body as far away from Sam as possible. It would almost be funny if Sam didn't feel like screaming.

"Hurry," he grits between his teeth. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... "Hurry, Luke."

The kid jackrabbits up the steps, and Sam grasps Dean's chin. One breath. Two. He shakes out his arms as he moves back to Dean's chest, and oh, God, this isn't going to work. Dean's dying or dead and he must be doing something wrong, because it's not working.

"Don't you quit on me, you bastard," he chokes, and it sounds as if he's speaking through ground glass. "You do, and I'll sell that stupid car for scrap metal, I swear to God, I will. You hear me?"

And maybe Dean does, maybe Sam should've been threatening Dean's baby all along and to hell with CPR, because his brother jerks, arms flailing, sucks in a ragged breath, and coughs weakly.

"Dean!" Sam hauls him up by his jacket and props him against his body. "That's it, deep breaths. You can do it."

He's got one arm looped around Dean's chest, his cheek pressed against Dean's temple, and it scares the hell out of him that his brother doesn't resist, doesn't spit out some wiseass remark, just leans his head on Sam's shoulder and pulls in short, choppy gulps of air.

"You're gonna be okay, man. Everything's gonna be okay." He knows he's babbling but can't seem to stop, the relief so sharp and pure he feels lightheaded.

"Chest hurts...like a bitch." Dean scrabbles weakly at Sam's sleeve until his fingers curl around Sam's wrist. "...happened?"

"What happened is you were supposed to zap the rawhead, genius, not yourself." Sam tries for sarcasm but his voice breaks and the damn tears are back.

"That fugly bastard...dead?"

"Yeah." Sam sneaks a look over his shoulder, grimaces. "Yeah, you got it."

"Kids?"

Sam huffs, exasperated. "The kids are safe. Now would you just shut up and breathe? Help's on the way."

"Don't need--" Dean goes rigid, fingers digging into Sam's wrist, and his respiration speeds up. "God...this...this sucks."

"Easy, easy," Sam says, massaging still-twitching muscles. "Try to relax."

Dean bats at his hands. "Dude, stop...feeling me up. Just...get me outta here."

It's the first glimpse of the real Dean, and Sam's simultaneously relieved and annoyed. "Forget it. You're not going anywhere but the hospital."

"No hospital," Dean snaps, pushing upright. "'M okay. We should get out...before the cops come."

Sam tightens his grip and it's easy, way too easy to restrain the guy who can usually knock him on his ass. "You're not okay. You just took 100,000 volts. So lay back, shut up, and stop being a pain in the ass."

"Fine." Dean sags with a pained grunt. "Bossy bitch."

He's ashen, dark circles bruising the flesh beneath his eyes, and the heartbeat under Sam's palm feels weak and erratic. Add to that the fact that he's just given in way too easily, and a chill prickles the back of Sam's neck.

"Whatever," Sam says, wishing the damn ambulance would hurry up. "Truth is, you look like crap. And you can't tell me you don't feel like it, too."

"No reason to be...such a freakin' girl...about this."

He knows how much Dean hates being helpless, especially in front of his little brother. Knows Dean's just mouthing off, venting his frustration. The insult doesn't even have any teeth. But something inside Sam just...snaps, the dam bursts, and all his carefully checked terror overflows. "How about because you died, you stupid jackass! Is that a good enough reason?"

Dean goes still. "What?"

Sam clenches his jaw and blinks hard. "Your heart stopped, Dean. Your heart stopped and you weren't breathing and I thought..." He catches himself, barks a ragged laugh. "But hey, I got to try out that CPR Dad taught us."

He hears the faint wail of sirens, and then Luke appears at the top of the steps. "Mis--Sam? The ambulance is coming." There's a note of pride in the kid's voice.

"That's real good, Luke," Sam calls, the words thick and sticky in his throat. "Send them down, okay?"

"Sam..." Though Dean doesn't look at him, cool fingers creep up to cover Sam's hand on his chest.

"Yeah. Me, too." Sam says quietly.

They don't talk while they wait for the paramedics. Dean sucks in air as if just filling his lungs is a full-time job, and Sam holds on, concentrating on the throb of Dean's pulse as if there'll be an exam later on.

As if he can cause it to strengthen by sheer will alone.

When the EMTs descend he's asked a few rapid-fire questions and nudged gently but firmly out of the way. Dean is passive under their hands, and Sam tells himself he's overreacting, that his brother doesn't look worse than he did five minutes ago. But the EMTs are grim-faced, speak in clipped tones, and use words like arrhythmia and cyanotic.

"Sir?" The cop tries to draw him away from the action, giving up when Sam stubbornly refuses to budge. "Can you give me your name?"

"My name? Ah..." Sam drags his eyes from Dean, his brain a half-step behind. Insurance. They're gonna need insurance. "Berkovitz. Sam Berkovitz."

The cop jots it down on his pad, then cocks an eyebrow. "Kids upstairs say you and your brother saved them from a monster."

With a forced laugh, Sam shakes his head. "Don't know about a monster, but the guy's right over there." He gestures to the sprawled body, his gaze drifting back to Dean.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Well, my brother and I--"

The paramedics have Dean hooked up to an EKG, an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth, and are easing him onto a gurney. Sam leaves the cop mid-sentence, striding to his brother's side.

"Is he okay?"

The older of the two glances over his shoulder. "We've got him stabilized. We'll be taking him to Lutheran General Hospital."

Sam locks eyes with Dean, then looks at the EMT. "I'm riding with you."

The guy just shakes his head. "I'm sorry, that's not possible."

He turns back to the gurney but Sam stops him with a hand to the chest. "He's my brother, and I'm the only family he's got right now. I'm coming with."

Compassion seeps in, and the guy seems to really see him for the first time. "Sir... Sam, is it?" When Sam nods, he continues. "I can't let you ride with us--it's against policy and there's just no room. I'm sure you don't want to get in the way of your brother receiving the treatment he needs."

Sam bites his lip, a thousand arguments bubbling up inside him. He opens his mouth, but Dean's voice, little more than a raspy whisper, cuts him off.

"Sammy."

He shoulders past the paramedic. "I'm here."

Dean blinks up at him. Pain lines his eyes and mouth, but his gaze is clear. "I need you...to take care of the car. Don't leave it here."

"Dean--"

"I mean it, Sam. One scratch...and I'll kick your ass."

Sam's shoulders slump and he nods. "Okay. But I'll be right behind you."

The paramedic taps him on the shoulder, and Sam steps back. He trails the EMTs up the steps and watches as they load the gurney into the ambulance. When the doors shut, concealing Dean from view, it feels as if something tears loose deep inside him.

As the ambulance pulls out of sight, the cop clears his throat. Sam turns to him with a sigh. "Sorry. I just--"

"Hey, no problem." He gestures to where his partner has buckled the two kids into the cruiser. "We need to get them checked out. Why don't you follow us and we can finish this at the hospital."

Sometimes he gets so used to all the evil in the world, the good takes him by surprise. Sam's eyes sting, and he looks away, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That'd be good."

He slips behind the wheel of the Impala and guns the engine. The car feels impossibly empty without Dean's humming and tapping and griping. For a moment he just curls his fingers around the steering wheel and breathes.

Dean's gonna be fine. He's one of the strongest people Sam knows--the hardest head on the planet, doesn't bat an eye when you're stitching him up... Hell, he's breezed through having a bullet dug out of his leg with just a few swigs of Wild Turkey to cut the pain. He'll be okay.

He has to be okay.

The cruiser pulls out, and with a shaky exhale of air, Sam follows.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fifteen hours later Sam lets himself into their darkened motel room. He shuts the door, engages the deadbolt, the chain. Stares at Dean's flannel shirt, tossed carelessly on a chair when he changed to a button-down a lifetime ago. Everything blurs, colors jumbling together, and he presses his back to the wall, sliding slowly down.

"We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most, maybe a month."

Dean's gonna die.

His breath catches, stutters, and he grinds the heels of his hands into wet eyes.

No.

No.

He hauls himself off the floor and starts a pot of coffee brewing, then boots up the laptop and gets to work.

Two days later he's gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and jittery from too much caffeine, but he's tracked down his dad's friend Joshua and his first real lead.

"So the guy's an honest-to-God faith healer? Not a fraud?" he asks, chewing his lip as he paces the room.

"That's what it looks like. People are heading out there in droves, hoping for a miracle." Joshua pauses and his voice deepens. "Sam, no one's investigated this guy, we can't be sure what he might be up to."

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "But you said he's healed people, right? For real."

A long pause, and Joshua sighs. "Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a new kidney."

"Okay." He works hard to keep his voice carefully neutral. "Thanks for the info, Joshua. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome. I hope this is what you're looking for. Just...be careful, Sam. And when you find your old man, tell him to give me a call."

"I will." Sam disconnects, drops into a chair, and closes his eyes, pressing the phone to his temple.

"There's gotta be something you can do, some kind of treatment."

"We can't work miracles. I'm really sorry."

"No one's investigated this guy. We can't be sure what he might be up to."

"But you said he's healed people, right?"

"Yeah. Cancer. Emphysema. Even a guy who needed a kidney."

Sam opens his eyes. Lips pressed to a thin line, he tugs the laptop closer, pulls up Google, and types in three words:

Reverend Roy LeGrange.

End

It's all about me

2007-02-08T22:35:59Z

Okay, so it seems into posts are going around and since I've never posted anything but fic to this journal, I figured I'd go ahead and say hello.

My name is Dawn, and my mother tells me she picked it because the sun was just coming up as she held me in her arms for the first time. Awww. She gave me Annette as my middle name after Annette Funicello, who she'd seen on the Mickey Mouse Club and thought was cute. Okay, it was the 60s--I'll cut her some slack. :)

I've got a husband and two teenagers, and I'm currently in a second career as a magazine editor. My first career, BC (before children), was as a microbiologist for a large pharmaceutical company. So I know a lot about bacteria and wash my hands frequently.

I got into this crazy fanfiction/fandom thing when I fell head over heels for The X-Files. Since then I've dabbled in Starsky and Hutch, Stargate SG-1, and The Magnificent Seven. And believe it or not, I owe my current position as editor to my fanfiction addiction.

But that's another story.

These days I seem to have lots of teenagers around the house, but when I get a moment to myself I like to ring handbells at church and write. I've got an original novel I'm supposed to be hammering out but I don't spend nearly enough time on it since Supernatural has eaten my brain.

But enough about me. Tell me a little about you, if you're so inclined...

Leap of Faith (6/6)

2007-02-05T02:04:42Z

Fandom: Stargate SG-1

Author: Sunrize
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Jack, Daniel
Category: Gen, H/C
Season/Spoilers: Season 4, post "The Curse"
Synopsis: A trip to the mountains becomes a battle for survival

"...never really got into the spirit of things. All he'd do was stand there on the dock and look...menacing. Which, I'll admit, he does well. Probably scared the crap out of the fish. Guess I can't really blame him, though. Those mosquitoes were all over the T-man like white on rice. Must be something about Jaffa blood."

Jack leaned over to check on his friend. Daniel's eyes were open--barely. He stared sightlessly into the darkness, one hand clutching Jack's sleeve as he fought for each and every breath.

"You with me?" Jack's voice was a hoarse rasp from holding an endless monologue.

"No...choice."

"Very funny." He used a corner of the blanket to wipe the blood from Daniel's lips. "Everyone's a critic."

"Sleep."

"Uh-uh. No way. You're going to stay bright and chipper and listen to every single one of my amusing anecdotes until help gets here."

"Not...coming."

"Yes, it is."

"Jack."

"Daniel. Shut up."

Silence, except for Daniel's ragged gasps for air. Then Daniel's grip tightened, his fingers digging into Jack's arm.

"Been...good friend."

Jack tipped his head back and shut his eyes against the rush of moisture. "I do the talking, remember? You just listen."

"Best...ever had."

"Don't do this."

"So tired...Jack."

"I don't give a rat's ass how tired you are. You're going to hang in there and keep breathing until help gets here. That's an order."

"Can't...order."

"The hell I can't! I promised my kid I wouldn't let you quit on me."

Daniel's eyes widened. "Charlie?"

"That's the one."

Licking his lips, Daniel struggled for enough breath to speak. "Thought...didn't...believe."

Jack shrugged, clenching his jaw. "Can't a guy change his mind?" When Daniel just stared at him, he growled, "Let's just say I took a leap of faith."

Daniel tried to answer, but began coughing instead. Jack held him, cursing softly as blood ran down Daniel's chin and spattered Jack's shirt. Eventually Daniel's eyes rolled back in his head and he sagged bonelessly in Jack's arms. Only the movement of his chest, light and rapid as a hummingbird's wing, reassured Jack that he was still alive.

"Don't do this." Jack lifted his eyes to the starry sky, anger welling up inside him. "He doesn't deserve it, and...neither do I." The rage evaporated--snuffed out by exhaustion. "Should've kept my damn feet on the ground."

"...'ello?"

He thought the cry was an illusion, just the sound of the breeze in the trees. Until he saw a dancing flicker of light at the top of the incline.

"Hello...hear me? Is...down there?"

A man's voice, ebbing and flowing on the wind.

"We're here!" Jack squirmed out from under Daniel and laid him on the ground, battling his stiffened leg to stand. "I've got an injured man; I need help!"

He listened, heart pounding, terrified by the silence.

"...911. Help...the way. Hold on."

Jack dropped back down beside Daniel and pulled his friend back into his lap. "Hold on. We can do that, can't we, Danny? Piece of cake."

*************************

Beeping.

The steady, high-pitched sound filtered into Daniel's consciousness. It was familiar, comforting in its own way, if only because it signified an abdication of responsibility. Content to just listen, he drifted.

More noises gradually penetrated his protective cocoon: a rhythmic hiss of air, the whisper-soft squeak of crepe soles, the clank and rattle of a cart, and under it all, the drone of voices.

As his awareness sharpened, other, less pleasant stimuli buffeted his senses. The acrid bite of alcohol in his nostrils. The stiff scratchiness of chemically laundered sheets beneath his fingertips. And pain pulsing through his skull and settling like an elephant on his chest.

Infirmary.

Hurt.

Jack?

It required an enormous amount of concentration and effort to pry open his eyelids. Light, brilliant and blinding, spiked through his already aching head. He slammed his eyes shut, clenching his fingers in the scratchy sheet.

"Tone down the lights, will ya, Doc? Looks like sleeping beauty is finally waking up."

Jack.

"C'mon, Daniel. Open those baby blues. We've got mood lighting, just for you."

Daniel complied. As promised, some of the overhead fluorescents had been turned off. His blurred vision gradually cleared, revealing Jack and Janet, poised on either side of him like bookends. They both smiled in perfect sync.

"Good to see you, Dr. Jackson."

"Welcome back, Dannyboy."

Thoughts flitted through his mind like elusive butterflies. What happened? Why am I here? And why does Jack look like shit? He couldn't seem to grab hold of one long enough to examine it, so he lay there, blinking stupidly.

"I'm just going to check your vitals, Daniel. You've been out for a quite a while." Janet took his pulse and blood pressure, listened to his chest, then shined a penlight in each eye, wincing when it provoked a fresh stab of pain. "Sorry."

She slipped an aural thermometer into his ear, nodding at the readout. "One hundred point five. Still a little high, but it's coming down. Your lungs sound good. What do you say we take you off the ventilator?"

Ventilator. Wha--?

And like the flick of a light switch, realization flooded his foggy brain. Now he could identify the hissing sound as a respirator and sense the tube down his throat. Suddenly the tempo at which his lungs filled with air felt all wrong. Daniel choked, fighting the alien rhythm of the machine, eyes wide with panic. The heart monitor doubled its beat and chaos erupted.

"Daniel! Daniel, don't fight the-- Damn it!" Janet fiddled with something, then leaned in close, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Daniel, I want you to take a deep breath, and when I count to three, blow as hard as you can. All right?"

Still battling for air, Daniel managed a jerk of his head. He could hear Jack growling at Janet and the shuffling of hurried footsteps.

"One. Two. Three. Blow, Daniel."

The tube slithered and tickled its way out of his throat. Daniel coughed until he saw stars, moaning whenever he managed to draw breath between spasms. By the time gentle hands eased him back against his pillow he was wrung out from pain and exhaustion.

Someone placed a straw to his lips, and he sipped gratefully, the cool water a balm to his abraded throat. He looked up, surprised to see Jack attached to the hand holding the cup. His friend's eyes were heavily shadowed, his movements stiff and uncharacteristically graceless as he set the cup on the table and sank into a chair.

"Wh--happened?" His throat felt as if it were lined with broken glass.

Jack cocked an eyebrow and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a smile. "We had an accident. Car ended up a couple thousand feet down the side of the mountain."

Memory trickled back. "I've asked you that before, haven't I?"

"A time or two, yeah."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Doc said you've got quite the concussion--among other things. Your brains are a little scrambled. It'll wear off."

Daniel frowned as fuzzy images resolved themselves. "Ran us off the road."

Jack scowled. "That's right. We'll probably never catch the little bastards."

"You hurt your leg."

"Yeah. Wracked up my knee--again. Fraiser tells me I'm in for some surgery once the swelling goes down."

Daniel lifted his head but couldn't see past the edge of the mattress. Bad move--the drumbeat in his skull increased and the dull ache in his chest sprouted teeth. He groaned.

"Guess we forgot to mention that moving around isn't a good idea right now. Bad?"

"Been better. You?"

"Nah. Doc's got me on the good stuff. Hang in there--she went to get some for you, too."

"How long?" He knew he was close to speaking in code, but at the moment full sentences eluded him. Jack, bless him, understood.

"Nearly two days on the mountain before they found us. That was Tuesday night. It's Friday morning." Jack smiled, but his gaze was intense. "We were starting to think you were never gonna wake up."

Daniel brought an unsteady hand up to his chest. "Couldn't breathe."

"You were bleeding into your chest. After a while all that fluid kept your lungs from inflating properly. At least, that's the way the Doc explained it to me. We nearly lost you twice on the way in. You're lucky to be here, Daniel. Very lucky."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Getting us out of there."

Jack shrugged. "Wasn't me. We had some help."

Everything clicked into place. "Charlie."

Janet chose that moment to swoop down on them, hypodermic in hand. "All right, Daniel. This will help with the pain." She injected the contents into his I.V. line, then gave Jack a pointed glare. "What you need now is to rest and heal."

Jack raised both hands. "Two minutes and I'm outta here. Promise."

"I'll hold you to that, sir." Janet patted Daniel's leg. "Use the call button if you need anything."

Jack hauled himself upright, wincing. "Think I hear an ice pack calling me."

Daniel grabbed hold of his wrist. The drug was beginning to work, blunting the pain and spreading tendrils of warmth through his body. He blinked hard, fighting the urge to sleep. "How?"

Jack sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'll be damned if I know. The body shop tells me there's no way those headlights should've worked--but they did. Even so, the odds that someone would actually see them are about a million to one."

"But someone did."

Jack's eyes skittered away from his. "Yeah."

"Jack?"

"The couple that found us were on their way home from a camping trip. They got a late start and decided to drive through the night. The guy said his wife was sleeping, and he was starting to get tired himself. He figures maybe he dozed off for a moment, that what he saw was a just dream."

He knew where this was headed, but he wanted to hear Jack say the words. "What did he see?"

Jack finally met his gaze. "A little boy in a red baseball cap, standing in the middle of the road."

"Charlie."

"He slammed on the brakes and got out of the car, looking for the kid. Imagine his surprise when he found our headlights instead." Jack shook his head. "If not for... He'd've driven right by, Daniel."

Daniel smiled. "He said to trust him." He punctuated the words with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Yeah, well... Get some sleep." Jack pulled a pair of crutches from beside the bed and tucked them under his arms.

Daniel watched him hop awkwardly toward the door. "Jack?"

He turned with raised brows. "Daniel?"

"You all right?"

The line creasing Jack's forehead smoothed and his lips curved in a gentle smile. "Yeah. I am."

Satisfied, Daniel surrendered to the pull of sleep.

*************************

He could hear their voices before he turned down the hallway. Carter's infectious laughter and Teal'c's rumbling bass interspersed with Daniel's soft replies. Jack adjusted the crutches to a more comfortable position and painstakingly hopped onward.

Fraiser had released Daniel early that morning with the stipulation that he continue recuperating in his on-base quarters for at least another three days. You had only to look into the doc's eyes to see just how close Daniel had come to that big wormhole in the sky. Recovery would be slow--and painful.

"...seems pretty obvious to me." Carter looked up from her perch on Daniel's bed as Jack appeared in the doorway. She grinned. "Colonel, we were just talking about you."

He lounged against the doorframe. "All good, I'm sure."

"Depends on your perspective." Daniel was propped up on a stack of pillows. Though he looked a hundred times better than the man they'd hauled up the side of the mountain, his eyes were still hollowed by fatigue and pain.

"We've decided these fishing trips of yours should be outlawed, sir," Carter explained. "They seem to be a recipe for disaster."

"Really? How do you figure?"

"Well, Jack, you have to admit our trip didn't turn out so well." The slight slur to Daniel's speech coupled with his goofy grin told Jack his friend was definitely under the influence of Fraiser's drugs.

"And look what happened when you went off with Teal'c," Carter chimed in before he could respond. "Osiris turned up, Daniel got zatted, Janet and I were thrown against a wall..."

"And I myself sustained many wounds from the carnivorous insects that inhabit the woods surrounding your lake, O'Neill. Fortunately my symbiote was able to neutralize their ill affects."

"Et tu, Teal'c?" Jack shook his head. "Ya know, I think we need to plan a group fishing trip as soon as Daniel and I are on the mend. It's obvious none of you truly grasp the almost cosmic significance that fishing holds."

"Yes...well...I'd have to check my schedule on that, sir. I'm working on a way to streamline the dialing system and then there's that naquada generator that--"

"Carter."

"Sir?"

"I get the picture."

She ducked her head, smiling.

"Major Carter and I are on our way to lunch, O'Neill. Perhaps we could bring you and Daniel Jackson nourishment?"

"Got it covered, T, but thanks."

"I'm glad you guys stopped by. And Sam, thanks for the chocolate." Daniel gestured to a large package of 5th Avenue bars lying on the bedside table.

Carter leaned over and kissed his cheek, then stood. "You're welcome. It's good to see you looking so much better."

Teal'c inclined his head. "I concur with Major Carter's assessment, Daniel Jackson. Your condition has indeed vastly improved. When you first arrived in the infirmary you appeared to have been transported by a feline."

When Daniel just gaped at the Jaffa, lips parted and forehead creased, Jack took pity on him. "He means you looked like something the cat dragged in, Daniel."

Daniel blinked, then beamed a loopy grin. "Good one."

Carter exchanged an amused glance with Jack. "I'll be back later, just to see if you need anything. And thanks again for agreeing to help."

"No problem, Sam. Later, Teal'c."

Jack hopped over to the now-empty chair and eased into it with a soft grunt. Setting aside the crutches, he propped his injured leg on the bed.

Daniel was studying him closely, no longer smiling. "How's the knee?"

"Swelling's down. Fraiser says another couple days and I'll be ready to go under the knife--so to speak." When Daniel grimaced, he waved his hand. "It's not the first knee surgery I've had, and it most likely won't be the last. No big deal."

"I know. I'm just...I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

Leave it to Daniel to be worrying about him. Didn't the guy have at least one selfish bone in his body?

"Me? Daniel, I got a bump on the head and tore cartilage in my knee. A few weeks and I'll be back to planet hopping with the best of them. You, on the other hand, sustained a grade three concussion, four broken ribs, and internal bleeding that damn near collapsed your lung. You'll be lucky to get back out there in a couple months. Why the hell are you sorry for me?"

And why are you getting so angry about it, huh, Jack?

Daniel just looked at him, all big blue eyes full of patience and affection. "I had it easy--relatively speaking. I mean, yeah, it hurt like hell. And I was scared." He smiled that self-deprecating little smile that never failed to tug on Jack's heartstrings. "Really scared. But a lot of it is a big blur for me.

"You were the one who had to take care of me. That knee wouldn't be nearly as bad if you hadn't been hauling me around, saving my ass--Janet told me," he added quickly when Jack started to protest. "You kept both of us going until help arrived." He hesitated. "And you did it while trying to deal with a visit from your dead son."

For the first time in five years the sound of Charlie's name carried no real pain, just a bittersweet ache. If he concentrated real hard, he could swear he felt the warmth of a small hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Daniel."

Daniel narrowed his eyes, then smiled. "You really are."

"Yeah. I am. And don't sell yourself short. You did a damn fine job of hanging on...and making me finally see what was right in front of me." Jack shrugged off his pensive mood. "Now, how about a game of gin?" Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a pack of cards onto the bed.

"You always beat me at gin."

"And your point is?"

Daniel squinted at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay."

Way too easy. Suddenly Carter's parting words echoed in Jack's head.

"Daniel?"

"Hmm?"

Jack split the deck, then fanned the two halves together. "Why was Carter thanking you?"

"What?"

"Carter. As in Major Doctor Samantha? She thanked you for agreeing to help her."

"Oh, that!" Daniel flicked his hand negligently. "She's chairing the committee for this year's SGC family picnic and she really needed someone to head up the talent show."

Gotta hand it to you, Carter. You sure know how to strike when the iron's hot.

"Daniel?"

"Yeah, Jack?"

"Don't you hate the talent show?"

"Ah...well...yeah."

"Didn't Carter railroad you into doing it three years ago?"

"Um...has it been that long?"

"And didn't you swear you'd never get stuck running the talent show ever again?

"Well, yeah, but she was in a real bind and no one--"

"Daniel?"

"Jack?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't Fraiser have you on Vicodin right now?"

Dead silence.

"Shit!"

Jack started dealing cards, not even bothering to hide his smirk. Score one for the home team.

End

Leap of Faith (5/6)

2007-02-05T01:56:41Z

Leap of Faith (4/6)

2007-02-05T01:49:22Z

Fandom: Stargate SG-1

Author: Sunrize
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Jack, Daniel
Category: Gen, H/C
Season/Spoilers: Season 4, post "The Curse"
Synopsis: A trip to the mountains becomes a battle for survival

The next time Charlie appeared, Daniel was wide awake.

It was late afternoon, and lengthening shadows crept across the ground, swallowing patches of sunlight. Daniel had passed most of the day in a pain-induced haze, slipping in and out of restless sleep. He knew his periods of clear-headedness were becoming more and more infrequent, but couldn't muster the energy to care.

The ibuprofen was gone. Jack had forced him to swallow the remaining two tablets several hours ago, and the gnawing, relentless pain in his ribs and head had already begun to pierce the drug's thin blanket of relief. They were down to one granola bar and three bottles of water. And the dark clouds brewing in the western sky threatened they'd be wet as well as cold before morning.

Jack was hobbling carefully along the rocky incline, gathering whatever wood he could find for a fire. Daniel watched, his heart stuttering every time his friend lost his balance, or stumbled, or slid on treacherous shale. He wrapped his arms around his ribs and turned his face into his shoulder to smother a cough. The annoying tickle in his chest had been steadily worsening since early afternoon, and he was pretty sure he had a fever. It was going to be hell trying to keep it from Jack.

"He knows."

All the spit dried up and Daniel's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He turned his head slowly to regard the boy crouching near his left shoulder, a solemn expression on his small face. Twenty feet away Jack stumbled, cursed lustily, and continued his search for sticks.

"Wh...what?" Daniel's lips formed the question but it came out as little more than a puff of air.

"My dad. He already knows you're sick, so you might as well stop worrying about hiding it from him."

Daniel gaped at the child for a moment, then, with some hesitation, reached for the jersey-clad shoulder. His hand met no resistance, continuing through the little boy's upper body with barely a ripple.

"Shit!"

"Daniel? You all right?" Jack had dropped his small pile of branches and was eyeing him intently, lines of worry creasing his brow.

Daniel's gaze ping-ponged between Jack and Charlie and gooseflesh broke out on his arms. Jack was staring right through the boy, as if he wasn't there. "I--I... Jack, d-don't you... He's..."

"He can't see me."

Charlie's soft, sorrowful words pulled his attention from Jack. "He can't?"

"Daniel? You're getting me a little worried here. What's with the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest imitation?"

Daniel looked at Charlie, who simply raised both eyebrows. He cleared his throat. "I'm...ah...Sorry. I'm not...I'm fine."

Jack folded his arms. "You are."

"Yes."

"Fine."

"Yes."

"You're sure."

Daniel gritted his teeth. "Yes. I'm positive."

"Then would you please explain who you were just talking to?"

Daniel locked his eyes with Jack's, doggedly ignoring the presence at his side. "Myself."

"Yourself?"

"Yes, Jack. Sometimes I talk to myself, okay?"

"Is that a geek thing?"

"Don't you have some wood to gather?"

Jack pointed his finger, like he was going to argue, then shrugged and picked up the pile of sticks. Daniel waited until Jack had moved further away before turning cautiously toward Charlie.

"If I'm not going crazy...why can't he see you?"

Charlie sat back on his butt and picked up a rock. "I hurt him too much." He rubbed some dirt off the stone and squinted up at Daniel.

"By dying?" When Charlie nodded, Daniel frowned. "That's...that doesn't make sense. He's not mad at you; he doesn't blame you
for--"

"Not mad. Sad." Charlie's tone was patient and weighted with wisdom beyond his years. "It hurts him to remember me."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." It was so hard to think, to keep his muddled brain on track. "Are you saying he can't see you...because he doesn't want to?"

"He shut the door between us," Charlie replied. "I can't get in."

Jack chose that moment to glance over his shoulder. Daniel let his eyes slide shut, as if dozing. Though it fooled Jack, opening them proved harder than he'd anticipated. "Why are you here? Does this mean...?"

Charlie scrunched up his forehead. "Huh?"

Daniel stole a quick peek at Jack, then licked his lips. "It's just...I thought maybe you were here to, you know...take me with you."

Charlie's eyes went wide. "Oh! You think I'm here because you're gonna die."

"Well, the idea had crossed my mind."

"Nah. Well, not exactly. I mean, you could die. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can see the future."

"Then why...?"

"I'm here to help you. I guess you could call me a guardian angel." Charlie snickered. "But not like those girly looking ones you see in church."

"Good." Daniel sucked in a breath as pain shot through his ribs. "We can use...all the help we can get."

"I think I can get you out of here. There's just one problem."

"Just one?"

Charlie frowned. "You know, sometimes you sound an awful lot like my dad."

He didn't even want to go there. "What's the problem?"

Charlie jerked a thumb toward Jack, who had left off gathering twigs in favor of massaging his injured knee. "You've gotta get him to do what I say. And he's not going to believe you."

Daniel closed his heavy eyes. "You're right. Don't suppose they make...you angels come up with a plan B?"

A warm palm touched his forehead, then cupped his cheek. Daniel jerked, his eyes flying open. Jack's face was inches from his own, and his friend was swearing softly.

"You're burning up. No wonder you're over here talking to yourself."

Daniel batted weakly at the hand. "'M not delirious, Jack."

The little line between Jack's brows deepened. "Uh-huh. Here. Drink this."

Daniel swallowed the water pressed to his lips, his gaze drifting over Jack's shoulder to where Charlie still stood. The little boy was looking at his father was such undisguised longing that Daniel's chest ached.

Jack set aside the water bottle and tucked a blanket around Daniel. "It's just like you to go and get pneumonia when we don't have any ibuprofen left," he growled, but Daniel heard fear and not anger in the words.

Daniel drew in a breath. The air seemed to catch in his chest and he barked out a string of harsh, wet coughs until black spots danced before his eyes. "Jack, I...I gotta te-...tell you something."

"What you gotta do is shut up and breathe. And I've gotta get you out of here."

"That's what--" Daniel coughed again, his respiration a harsh wheeze. "--what 'm trying...say. Know...know how."

"Oh yeah? Got it all figured out, huh?" Jack wiped his face, the cool, damp cloth heavenly against Daniel's hot skin.

"Yes."

"Well lay it on me. I'm all ears."

Daniel blinked. His conversation with Charlie had zapped his already flagging stamina, and Jack's ministrations were lulling him toward sleep. "Huh?"

"I said I'm listening."

"To what?"

Jack pulled back the cloth and scowled. "For cryin' out loud, Daniel! To the grand plan you've got for getting us out of here."

So tired. Daniel squinted at Jack through slitted eyes. There was something...something he had to tell Jack. Something important. Movement at the periphery of his vision gave him his answer. "Charlie."

Jack went very still. "What?"

A distant corner of Daniel's brain registered the thin, tight sound to Jack's voice, but he couldn't seem to focus. Mesmerized, he watched Charlie reach out tentatively toward his father.

Jack gripped Daniel's arm, hard. "Daniel? What about--?"

Charlie's fingers brushed Jack's head and a breeze ruffled the short, silver strands of hair. Jack blinked, faltering, then quickly recovered. "Damn it, Daniel! What are you trying to say?"

"See?" Charlie's blue eyes were filled with regret. "I told you. He doesn't want to see me. I think maybe he wants to forget me."

"You're wrong." Daniel's tongue felt lazy and too large for his mouth. "He doesn't want...forget you. Just can't...forgive himself." His eyes slid shut. Leaving them closed really seemed the best way to go.

The last thing Daniel heard was two voices calling his name.

*************************

What the hell just happened?

Daniel was out cold--asleep, unconscious, in a fever-induced stupor. Jack wasn't sure which and it was scaring him. Badly. He wiped his friend's flushed face, then tugged the blanket more firmly into place around his shoulders, shivering a bit at the growing nip in the air. There was no sign of rescue, clouds had blotted out the setting sun, and it seemed they'd be spending another night out in the open.

Meanwhile, Daniel had developed a set of symptoms that looked uncomfortably like pneumonia and was spouting...

Jack ran a hand down his face, wincing at the combination of sweat, grime, and stubble. Why would Daniel be talking about Charlie? And who was he talking to? He could chalk it all up to pain, fever, and sickness, but that still didn't explain why Daniel would be rambling on about Jack's dead son. It made no sense. And he really, really disliked it when things didn't make sense.

Losing Charlie was a private pain, one he guarded jealously. As close as Jack had grown to his teammates, as much as they had become family to him, he balked at sharing the intimate details of his earlier years. He'd divided his life into two distinct compartments--before and after the SGC, and he'd become adept at patrolling the wall between the two.

With everyone except Daniel.

Jack looked at his friend, lips curving in a rueful smile. Daniel was a pushy little bastard who refused to respect Jack's self-imposed boundaries. He'd fumbled his way into Jack's life, disarming him with keen intelligence combined with wide-eyed wonder. And he'd stayed--despite Jack and the kind of crap he'd pulled a few weeks ago.

He'd stayed.

Jack shook his head. He hadn't done much lately to deserve that kind of loyalty. It was high time he rectified that situation. Otherwise the day just might come when Daniel would decide he'd had enough and say when.

And even a hardheaded, frequently oblivious guy like Jack knew that that the SGC in general, and his own life in particular, would suffer from the loss.

He snagged a corner of the blanket and scooted underneath, his mouth twitching with repressed amusement when Daniel's head dropped onto his shoulder with a soft sigh. One more night. He'd get them through one more night on this god-forsaken hunk of rock and then he was climbing up to the road, come hell, high water, or bad knees. He owed Daniel much more, but it was a start.

*************************

Daniel. C'mon, Daniel, you gotta get up!

Something tickled his ear. Daniel frowned, bringing up a hand to swat at the offending bug. Cool air raised goose bumps on his arm and brought him abruptly awake as he groped for the blanket. Two blue eyes, directly in front of his own, wrenched a breathy yelp from his lips. Beside him, Jack snorted, smacked his lips, and continued to snore.

Charlie backed off but glared at him. "I thought you were never gonna wake up. I've been yelling in your ear for an hour!" When Daniel raised an eyebrow, he huffed, "Okay, maybe not an hour. But a really long time!"

Daniel shivered, smothering a cough that struggled to break free. His face was hot, his body cold, and the gorilla sitting on his chest had gained ten pounds. In short--he felt terrible.

"Sorry." He punctuated the apology with a cough.

"It's okay. It's just--it's time."

"Time?" Time for what? He peered into the darkness, trembling harder with the cold. "To go back through the 'gate?"

Charlie blew out a long breath, but stopped scowling. "No, Daniel. You're on Earth. You had an accident, remember?"

Accident? Daniel looked in the direction Charlie was pointing, barely able to make out the hulking shape of the SUV in the darkness.

Oh yeah.

"Still don't get...what it's time for."

"To get you and my dad rescued. But you gotta make him do what I say."

Daniel's snort turned into hacking and wheezing. "Doesn't do...what I say...and he can see me."

Jack groaned and nudged his hip. "Dreaming, Daniel. Wake up."

When Charlie gestured pointedly at Jack, Daniel squirmed upright and shook his shoulder. "I'm not asleep, Jack. You wake up."

Jack sat up, grumbling under his breath. His hair stuck out at odd angles and his eyes were bleary. "It's the middle of the night." His gaze sharpened. "Is something wrong?"

"Not...not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

Daniel glanced at Charlie, who simply made shooing motions with both hands. "Ah...I've got a plan."

"You've got a plan."

"That's right."

"For what?"

"For what? For getting us out of here."

"I see." Jack laid the back of his hand against Daniel's forehead, then his cheek. "And this plan just...came to you, I take it?"

Daniel batted at his hand away. "Stop it. You have...have to listen to me."

"I am listening." Jack's uncharacteristically patient tone screamed "humor him."

"Tell him to turn on the headlights," Charlie said, popping his head over Jack's shoulder.

Daniel jumped, wincing. "God! Don't do that! You about scared the life out of me."

Jack gaped at him. "What? What the hell did I do?"

Charlie stamped his foot. "Pay attention, Daniel. He needs to put the headlights on so they're...what do you call it? When they get really bright."

Daniel's jaw dropped. "Wait a minute. That's your plan? Turn on the high beams?"

"High beams! Yeah, that's what Dad always called 'em."

"Daniel. Who are you talking to?"

"What...what possible good is that going do?"

"Daniel." The indulgence was gone from Jack's voice.

"It's gonna let people know you're down here, that's what. Gee, I expected this from my dad, not you."

"Let people know... We're thousands of feet down the mountain! Those...those headlights will never reach--" Daniel broke off, shaken by a round of harsh, barking coughs.

"Damn it, Daniel! What in the hell is going on?"

Jack caught him around the chest, trying to brace his ribs while Daniel did his best to hack up a lung. When the spasms finally eased off, he could barely hold up his head. He let Jack manhandle him until he was propped in a semi-reclining position against the tree.

"I can't," he gasped at Charlie, who had come to crouch by his side. "'S no use."

"Yes you can." Jack growled through clenched teeth. "You're going to hang in there, damn it! You've never been a quitter and I'm not about to let you start now."

"You're gonna die," Charlie said, blue eyes glistening. "And I don't think my dad can get over losing another person he loves. Please. You've gotta trust me."

Jack slipped a hand behind Daniel's neck and helped him sip some water. "Maybe if you got some sleep instead of chatting with...your invisible friend, you might not be in such bad shape."

"Jack."

"Shut up, Daniel."

"Jack, you've got...got to turn on...headlights."

"Forget it--"

"Know it...sounds crazy, but--"

"Not as crazy as you talking to thin air."

"I'm serious. You don't understand--"

"No, you don't understand."

"Trying to tell you--"

"Daniel, the battery is dead."

"Wha--?" Daniel stared at Jack, then Charlie. "Dead?"

"As a doornail. I tried the engine when I was scavenging for blankets and water. Nearly got myself killed in the process."

Charlie leaned in closer. "It will work. But he's gotta turn 'em on."

"You're sure?"

Charlie nodded.

"Now see, that's creeping me out." Jack waved a hand in Charlie's direction. "You still haven't mentioned who you're talking to. And please don't say yourself."

He was so achingly tired. Daniel didn't know if he had the strength to deal with what was coming.

"You have to," Charlie said. "He might give you a hard time, but he listens to you. You know he does."

"You're not going to believe me." Daniel turned his whole focus onto Jack, desperately trying not to slur his words.

"Won't be the first time."

"Jack."

"Daniel. Just...level with me."

Daniel licked his lips. "Charlie. I've been...I've been talking to...Charlie."

Jack didn't blink. "Have you now."

"God! I knew...knew you wouldn't believe me."

"Did I say that?" Jack got out cloth and doused it with water. "I think it's great you two have been shooting the breeze. Tell him I said hello."

"Tell him you..." Daniel shut his eyes, grinding his teeth in frustration. The cloth felt wonderful on his overheated skin, and part of him--the exhausted, hurting, hopeless part--wanted to just give in and enjoy it.

"Daniel."

"I know, I know." He glared at Charlie. "This would be...lot easier if you'd...talk to him yourself."

"I told you..."

"So, what's Charlie been doing with himself? They got a baseball team up there? Charlie was always working on his pitching, but--"

"Stop it."

"I didn't start it, Daniel. You did."

Daniel welcomed the edge in Jack's voice. If Jack continued to treat him like a toddler with a vivid imagination, they were doomed. Anger he could work with.

"I'm not delirious...or...or hallucinating. He's here; you just can't see him."

"Right. Because why would I be able to see my own kid? It makes so much more sense that he'd appear to you."

"I asked him about that."

"Really? Care to share?"

No, Daniel thought. Then he looked at Charlie, wearing that same expression of naked yearning as he watched Jack fume.

"He said... He said you shut him out. That remembering...hurts you too much."

Jack froze. Even in the darkness, Daniel could see that his entire body had gone rigid. After a moment he lurched to his feet and hobbled away, the night quickly swallowing him up.

"I told you," Daniel said quietly.

"He'll be back."

"How can you be sure?"

Charlie shrugged, evading Daniel's gaze. "'Cause deep down inside, he knows you're right."

A few minutes later Daniel heard the crunch of footsteps and Jack stalked into view, limping heavily. He lowered himself to the ground, grunting when the movement jarred his leg. Daniel waited him out.

"Say I believe you--which I don't. None of this really matters." When Daniel opened his mouth to argue, Jack waggled his finger. "The battery is dead, Daniel. Those lights won't work. And you said it yourself--they'd never reach the road even if they did."

"Why?"

"Why? How the hell should I know? Carter's the mechanical whiz kid; I pay someone else to fix my car."

"No, no." Daniel struggled to draw breath into lungs that felt waterlogged. "Why...won't you believe me? How long...how long have we...been friends? Why can't...you trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust! For God's sake, Daniel, you're concussed and burning up with fever! It's not that I'm surprised you're seeing things; I'm just surprised what you're seeing is my son."

"God, you are so-- Okay." Daniel glanced over at Charlie. "He's wearing a Minnesota Twins jersey." He blinked against blurry vision. "Rick...Rick Aguilera. And a...a red ball cap."

Jack jerked as if he'd been slapped. "What?"

"Charlie had...a jersey like that...didn't he, Jack?"

"That's...it's coincidence. I'm from Minnesota and I've told you often enough that Charlie loved baseball."

"He bought it for me on my eleventh birthday," Charlie said, fingering the striped material. One corner of his mouth turned up. "He took me to a game and we ate all kinds of junk--sodas, hotdogs, popcorn, and candy. When we got home, I threw up and Mom read Dad the riot act for letting me eat all that stuff. That's what he always called it--the riot act." He sighed and looked up at Daniel. "It was the best birthday I ever had."

Daniel swallowed but couldn't seem to dislodge the lump in his throat. "He says you got it for him...when he turned eleven. You went to a game...bought him junk food. Sara got mad at you...when he threw up."

Jack's mouth moved as he struggled to form words. What finally emerged was a gravelly croak. "You...you can really...see him?"

"Yeah." Daniel looked away from the pain in Jack's eyes. "He wants us...to turn on the lights. Says...trust him."

Jack scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Daniel, I already tried, and nearly plunged down the mountain for my trouble. If we just
wait--"

"He says...I'm dying, Jack." Daniel forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Think I'm...out of time."

Jack stiffened. "Don't say that!" But as his gaze moved over Daniel from head to toe, his shoulders slumped.

"No one's coming. And you and I both know...you're never gonna make it...up that mountain." When Jack's head snapped up, Daniel chuckled raggedly. "Did you really think...I didn't know?"

Jack sighed. "You are a pain in the ass, you know?"

"Jack."

"I know, I know. Not in front of the kid." Chin tucked to his chest, Jack added quietly. "Daniel...tell him I--"

Daniel laid a hand on his leg. "He can hear you. And he already knows."

"Yeah." Jack hauled himself upright. "Then I guess he knows I wouldn't do something this crazy for anyone but him." He cocked an eyebrow at Daniel. "And, God help me, you. Wish me luck, Dannyboy."

He'd won. Gotten Jack to do what needed to be done--according to Charlie, anyway. So how come he felt so rotten? "Jack."

Jack turned to look at him and Daniel couldn't help flinching at the fresh lines of pain around his friend's eyes and mouth. "Yeah."

"Just...be careful."

Jack's jaunty salute came out as more of a weary wave. "Aren't I always?"

Daniel watched him lumber toward the truck while his stomach did flip-flops. The answer, of course, was no.

Go to part 5

Leap of Faith (3/6)

2007-02-05T01:38:20Z

Leap of Faith (2/6)

2007-02-05T01:31:41Z

Fandom: Stargate SG-1

Author: Sunrize
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Jack, Daniel
Category: Gen, H/C
Season/Spoilers: Season 4, post "The Curse"
Synopsis: A trip to the mountains becomes a battle for survival

Fingers. Tapping his cheek.

Daniel tried moving his head, but the maddening touch not only followed, it grew rougher. With great effort, he lifted his hand and batted at the annoyance. Fire lanced across his chest, and he groaned. Instinctively curling into a ball, he panted, his own ragged breathing and a persistent buzzing filling his ears.

He hurt everywhere, but the worst of it centered in his head and chest. Pain pulsed rhythmically through his skull with each beat of his wildly thumping heart, and every breath he drew provoked a corresponding stab of agony, like a knife to his ribs. Fear combined with confusion added to his distress. He hurt, but he didn't know why. His muddled brain urged him to move, to escape...but he didn't know where.

As he lay there, gasping and shivering, he gradually became aware of two things: The persistent buzz was the sound of his own whimpering; and someone was talking to him, his voice low and gentle. Daniel concentrated, and the words began making sense.

"...concussion...pretty bad...Fraiser...check you out..."

"Jack?" His mouth and throat felt desert dry; he couldn't find enough moisture to wet his lips. He abruptly realized he was laying on a hard, lumpy surface that felt gritty beneath his cheek.

"Right here."

Hands, touching him, rolling him onto his back. His head was lifted, cradled by a large palm, and then lowered onto something soft. He whimpered again, this time with gratitude, as the throbbing ache receded a little.

The relief was short-lived. Callused fingers pried open one eyelid. The sudden explosion of light was like an ice pick driven into his brain--the pain was tremendous. Daniel didn't even think, just reacted, arms flailing as he tried unsuccessfully to roll away from those cruel, relentless fingers.

"Daniel. Daniel, stop!"

He flopped onto his back, his heart pounding and his chest cramping with each labored breath. Hands again, cupping his face, and now Jack's voice was strained with irritation and...worry?

"Damn it, Daniel! Hold still. I know it hurts, but I've got to get a look at your pupils. Help me out here."

Pupils? Daniel thought. I'm dying and Jack's talking about school? What?

A shadow fell, reducing the light that filtered through his eyelids. "Can you open your eyes for me? I'll try to block the light."

Clenching his teeth, Daniel eased his eyes open a bit. The glare still aggravated his already pounding head, but with Jack's body as a shield, it was bearable.

"Good, good." Jack carefully pried open one eye, then the other. "Hang on. Just a minute more. Follow my finger."

Daniel struggled to track a shapeless blob as tears leaked and ran down the sides of his face. Despite the earlier impatience in his voice, Jack's brown eyes were warm with sympathy. He released Daniel and sat back, his lips pressed tightly together and a tense, pinched expression on his face.

Daniel blinked furiously, fighting against a rush of nausea. He found he could now leave his eyelids at half-mast without too much discomfort.

Jack ran his hands down each of Daniel's arms and legs. "I know your head hurts like hell. Anything else I should know about?"

"Chest." Daniel tried once again to lick his lips, his voice little more than a froggy croak. "Ribs...broken, maybe."

Jack felt along Daniel's torso. When his hands reached a spot just above Daniel's waist, something shifted, and Daniel sucked in a sharp gulp of air.

Jack winced. "Yeah. Broken, all right."

"Jack?"

"Yeah?" Jack worked Daniel's tee shirt free of his jeans and hiked it up, carefully retracing the hard ridge of his ribs. His face wore the carefully neutral expression that signaled they were in deep shit.

Daniel tracked a hawk flying overhead, closing his eyes when the sky rippled and wavered. His lips felt numb, his tongue too large for his mouth. "What happened?"

Jack faltered, hands stilling for a moment before resuming their investigation. "A car full of kids--most likely very drunk kids--ran us off the road. We slid down the side of the mountain--only partway, thanks to this tree."

"You--" Daniel hissed, his eyes popping open when Jack's relentless fingers found another sore spot.

"Sorry, sorry." Jack muttered the words through gritted teeth, swiping the crook of his arm across his sweaty forehead.

Daniel puffed through his mouth for a moment. Thinking was like wading through mud--his normally sharp mind thick and sluggish. "You...all right?"

"I wracked up my knee, but otherwise..." Jack tugged the shirt down. "I had my seatbelt on, unlike a certain archeologist who shall remain nameless."

Daniel frowned. Jack's words chugged past him with the speed of a freight train while he floundered to keep up. "Huh?"

"You, Daniel. You were digging in the back seat for your journal, remember? That's why you took such a beating. Here."

Jack slid a hand under his neck and something brushed his lips. After a moment water, deliciously cool and wet, trickled into his mouth and slid down his parched throat. Daniel sucked greedily, whining in protest when the bottle disappeared.

"Slow down or you'll puke it back up. And I've gotta say, I've seen enough of your puke to last me a lifetime."

A few more swallows and then a cool, soft cloth stroked across his cheek. When it reached his hairline, Daniel flinched and pain sparked across his vision. "Ouch."

"Sorry. I'm trying to be gentle but there's a helluva lot of blood here. I need it cleared away before I can see how badly you're cut."

Daniel clamped his teeth together and held still, sighing when Jack finally finished. "Bad?"

"Enough." Jack said cryptically. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "From what I can see, you've got at least four busted ribs, a bazillion cuts and bruises, and a pretty nasty concussion. That head wound is going to need stitches, but for now I can clean and bandage it with stuff from the first aid kit. Can't do much for the ribs except wrap 'em--I think I can make do by tearing up a few shirts."

Bazillion? Daniel screwed up his face in concentration, trying to untangle the long string of words. What?

Jack huffed and shook his head. "Never mind. You just lay there and I'll do my Doc Fraiser imitation."

Daniel frowned. "Don' be ridiculous, Jack. You don' look anything like Janet."

Jack disappeared. Daniel blinked, staring at the empty space where he'd been. He heard an odd, dragging sound, then a lot of thumps and thuds mingled with Jack cursing under his breath. Sunlight dappled through the branches above him, making his head throb more fiercely. He shut his eyes against the glare, gritting his teeth against the nauseating sensation that the earth was spinning beneath him.

"Daniel?"

He opened his eyes, startling at the close proximity of Jack's face. Confused by the way his friend seemed to appear and disappear without warning, he nodded. "Here."

"Head first, then ribs. Try not to move because this peroxide is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch."

Before he could attempt an answer, liquid fire seared his forehead. Daniel dug his fingers into the dirt beneath his hands, his body taut with the strain of holding still. Jack, damn him, was nothing if not thorough, and the procedure went on forever. Finally Jack pressed a clean gauze pad to his head and secured it with medical tape.

He re-wet the cloth and mopped tears and sweat from Daniel's face. "How are ya doing?"

"Jus'...peachy."

Jack grinned. "That's my boy. Now comes the tough part. We've got to get you upright so I can stabilize those ribs."

Tough part Daniel thought woozily. What do you call setting a blow torch to my head?

Sound of ripping cloth. Daniel could tell Jack was doing something with his hands but he didn't have the energy or the will to see what it was. After a few minutes, Jack looked down at him.

"Okay, here's the game plan. You let me do all the work. I'm going to sit you up, and you can lean against me while I wrap the bandage. Sound good?"

Daniel squinted at him, wishing vaguely for his glasses. "Game? Don't feel like playin'."

Jack stared at him for a moment, then heaved a sigh. "Yeah. All right, here we go."

He leaned over Daniel, then froze, sucking in a harsh breath. Daniel watched the color drain from his face. "Jack?"

"'S okay, 's okay." He puffed through his mouth for a moment, jaw clenched. Gradually, his tense body relaxed. "Note to self: Don't do that again." He didn't smile so much as show Daniel his teeth. "Let's try that again."

Daniel grunted as Jack slipped one hand behind his neck, the other under his shoulders. Panic washed over him. "Jack, wait, I really don't think--"

"Hang on, Daniel. Here we go."

Agony stabbed through his chest, pulling the air from his lungs. Daniel tried to scream but couldn't make a sound. He saw spots dance across his vision, as everything became a mixed up jumble of color and sound. His head thudded against Jack's shoulder, then, mercifully, he faded away.

**************************

They were in a world of trouble.

Jack tipped his head back, the rough bark from the tree trunk digging into his spine. The sun, a ball of red fire, was rapidly disappearing behind the trees. Lengthening shadows and the marked drop in temperature told him night was just around the corner.

And it was gonna get damn cold for a couple of guys stuck on the mountainside with only lightweight jackets and a couple of blankets between them.

When Daniel had passed out, Jack had momentarily panicked, terrified he'd done something to exacerbate his friend's injuries. Once he'd stopped being Jack and reverted to Colonel O'Neill, he'd realized that Daniel's pulse was still relatively strong, his respiration steady--if a bit labored.

He'd taken advantage of Daniel's unconsciousness, quickly and efficiently wrapping his ribs while his friend was oblivious to the pain. When finished he'd tucked one of the blankets snugly around Daniel's body and gone to scavenge what he could from the remainder of their luggage.

The results were dismal.

A half dozen bottles of water, four granola bars, and a thermos of cold coffee. Clothing--mostly useless except for their lightweight jackets and a couple of flannel shirts. A fishing pole and tackle box--that was gonna be REAL helpful. And the contents of the first aid kit, which included hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic cream, some bandages, and a much-too-small bottle of ibuprofen. Daniel's prescription-strength painkillers were MIA--if he'd even remembered to bring them in the first place. It would be just like his friend to pack reference books and journals and forget his headache meds.

Desperate, Jack had risked another attempt at starting the SUV's engine--and nearly got himself killed in the process. His weight moving around inside the truck somehow had caused it to shift, throwing off its precarious balance against the tree. A shotgun pop of cracking branches alerted him an instant before the back end lost purchase on the loose shale and the truck slid ass-first down the mountain, jerking to a teeth-jarring stop when the front wheels caught on a rocky outcrop. Jack had flung himself out of the car, relief temporarily obliterating the pain in his knee.

Talk about your close calls.

And it had all been for nothing. Turning the key in the ignition had produced only an impotent click and then silence. Battery was dead, maybe, or disconnected. Any way you looked at it, the vehicle wasn't going to be any help in getting them rescued. The horn didn't even work.

Neither did his cell phone.

His knee was swollen to the size of a grapefruit, hot beneath the fabric of his jeans. He'd barely been able to crawl back from the truck; he'd never in a million years make it up the steep mountainside to the road. Daniel's busted ribs were bad enough to impede his breathing. That, coupled with the chill night air, could all too easily land him a case of pneumonia. But what really had him worried was the head injury. Daniel was dizzy, nauseous, and confused. And to Jack's admittedly untrained eye, his pupils looked a bit sluggish. Of course, it could be just a really bad concussion. Maybe.

They were in a world of trouble.

Jack wiped beads of cold sweat from his upper lip, squirming a bit as he searched for a position that would ease the pressure on his knee Again he replayed the last few minutes before the accident, scrutinizing his actions and searching for something, anything, he might have done differently. Had he driven too fast? Were his reflexes too slow? Had he allowed himself to be distracted by Daniel hanging over the seat?

No matter what angle he chose, the final picture looked the same. The sharp bend in the road, the speed of the oncoming car, and the condition of its driver--hell, of the whole bunch--had left Jack no option but to meet the vehicle head on or get out of the way. Considering where he and Daniel wound up, it had been a lose-lose situation.

And somehow he didn't think any of those boys were going to be much help. If they'd even noticed what they'd done--and from his quick glimpse of the partying going on in that car, those idiots were probably oblivious--he doubted they'd be in any hurry to own up to it.

Daniel jerked, whining softly, arms and legs twitching. Jack leaned forward, intending to calm his friend before he could aggravate his injures. Unfortunately, in his haste he twisted too far to the left, wrenching his stiff and unforgiving knee. The grumbling pain blossomed into a squeal, and he slumped back, clutching his leg and gasping while tears rolled down his cheeks.

After a few minutes he fumbled open the bottle of ibuprofen, extracted three of the small brown pills, and washed them down with a gulp of water. All afternoon he'd gritted his teeth and endured the agony in his knee, hoping to save the painkillers for Daniel, but after his ill-fated adventure in the truck, he needed some relief simply to keep functioning. He was no good to Daniel curled into a ball, sobbing like a baby.

Not that he seemed to be of much use anyway.

Frustration gnawed at him as relentlessly as the pain in his leg. He was a man of action. He'd built a distinguished career by being the guy the brass called to make the impossible possible. The "go-to-it" guy. He'd damn near convinced himself that there was no problem too big, nothing he couldn't handle if given the chance.

Until a single gunshot changed his life forever.

Charlie's death couldn't be fixed, not even by the "go-to-it" guy. He'd held his son in his arms as life drained from his small body with every beat of his heart. Helpless.

Just like now. Jack looked at Daniel--dark bruises stark against pale skin, his brow furrowed with pain even in sleep--and anger welled up inside him like a dark tide. He was NOT going to lose Daniel, damn it. Somehow, some way, he was going to fix this one.

Daniel frowned, mumbling something unintelligible and moving his head back and forth. Jack placed a hand on him, but Daniel only became more agitated. When his friend crossed the line from restless to distressed, he decided it was time to intervene.

"Daniel. Daniel, it's all right. Wake up."

"...impossible...you're dead...can't...can't...not seeing...I..."

"Daniel."

"Jack!" Daniel gasped the name, halfway to sitting up before his battered body forcibly reminded him it was a bad idea. He latched onto Jack's outstretched arm with a strangled cry.

"Bad idea--but then, you've already figured that one out, haven't you?" Jack eased Daniel to a semi-reclining position against his shoulder, and placed a bottle of water and three ibuprofen tablets into his hand. "Here. It's not exactly Doc's happy juice, but it'll at least take the edge off."

Daniel did as he was told, mechanically and without protest. He downed the pills, but after a few swallows of water he froze and his breathing sped up. Even in the rapidly fading light Jack could see sweat break out on his forehead.

"Daniel?"

"Gonna...gonna be sick."

"No you're not. Listen to me, okay? I want you to take nice deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth."

"Jack, can't--"

"Concentrate! In. Out. In. Out. Nice and slow. That's it. Mind over matter, Daniel."

"Easy...easy for you...to say." Daniel ground the reply out through gritted teeth, but after several minutes his tense body relaxed a bit and he sighed. "Better."

He seemed content to remain propped against Jack's chest, and Jack had to admit, the shared body heat helped combat the chill. They sat in silence, watching as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the first stars shimmered into view.

"What...what happened?"

Jack closed his eyes. Breathed. "There was an accident, remember? We were run off the road by a bunch of kids. You've got a knock on the head and some busted ribs, and I wracked up my knee."

Daniel's head thumped onto his shoulder. "I can't...I don't remember."

"Yeah, well, it's okay. Your brains are a little scrambled right now."

"Cell phone?"

"No signal." It was maddening to regurgitate the same information, but Jack held onto his patience. "We slid a couple thousand feet down the mountain. We're stuck."

"Getting dark."

"You noticed."

"Why are you still here?"

Daniel's soft question caught him completely off guard. Jack jerked his gaze from the sky and glared at his friend. In the dusky twilight, it was hard to read the subtle nuances in Daniel's guarded expression.

"What are you talking about?"

"You could climb up to the road. Maybe flag down a car...hike to...'s there a town nearby?"

"My knee is cashed. I'd never make it up the mountain, let alone five miles to the nearest town." Frustrated by his own impotence, his words came out sharp and angry.

"You made it out of Iraq. Telling me...you can't make it up one little mountain?" Daniel grabbed Jack's arm, his fingers curling painfully around his wrist. "This isn't a mission, and you're...you're not the team leader here. You don't need...to die for me."

Was there a more irritating pain in the ass on the planet? "You're right, I'm not your team leader here; I'm your friend. Doesn't matter. Same rule applies."

"No one gets left behind." Daniel said it very softly. "But, Jack--"

"Forget it. We got into this mess together, and that's the way we're getting out of it." He huffed and shook his head. "And it pains me to point this out, but Iraq was fifteen years ago. This body's seen some wear and tear since then."

Daniel didn't answer but a shiver wracked his frame. Jack pulled the blankets up around them. "You were out of it for a while. How are you doing?"

"Been better." Daniel shivered again, turning his face toward Jack's neck. "Ribs aren't bad if I don't move, but..."

"Head?"

He felt Daniel swallow hard. "Yeah. Feels like it's gonna crack into pieces and..." He blinked, lashes tickling Jack's skin. "Everything's all mixed up. Can't...can't think."

"It's okay." Jack kept his voice light. "Just let me be the brains of this outfit for a change."

Daniel's breathy chuckle quickly turned to a hiss of pain, and Jack felt moisture against his neck. "Gotta appreciate the irony."

"How's that?"

"All the close calls...Goa'uld, prison planets, giant bugs. Can't believe...gonna die because of a...bunch of kids."

Jack grasped Daniel's shoulders and sat him up, ignoring the fact that he was causing his friend pain. He looked into Daniel's eyes, his own expression grim. "Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. No one is going to die here, Daniel. Not me, and sure as hell not you. Help will come eventually, and we'll be waiting for it when it does. You got that?"

Daniel blinked and a tear tracked through the dirt and blood on his cheek. He bit his lip hard and nodded. "Yeah."

Regretting his harshness, Jack settled Daniel against him and adjusted the blankets. "Try to rest, conserve energy. You're going to need it." He tipped his head back and gazed at the stars. "We both are."

Go to part 3