Thief In The Night
It's the first entry in my new 'verse! I'm still not sure where this will go, so help me out. Leave me a prompt here.
This one's for iamthepasserby :D Hope you like it.
Sammy doesn’t know about what happened in Cleveland, and that’s why he isn’t careful.
And it’s fine that he doesn’t know. It’s deliberate. Bad enough that Dean’s been looking over his shoulder for witches since he was ten years old - bad enough, and stupid, since witches are rare, but you don’t want to mess with that shit - without Sam having to worry about something that happened decades ago.
Except.
Except that they haul themselves back into the motel room and Dean carefully peels off his shirt and carefully wads it up around the bloodstain on the shoulder where he hit the tree and takes it to the bathroom to soak in peroxide (he likes this shirt, thank you, Bela) and comes back into the room just in time to see Sam tossing his own bloody shirt on top of the dirty laundry pile.
“Jesus, Sammy!”
He snatches it up. Too late. There’s red on a sock for sure, and a little bit on Sam’s denim jacket, Sam’s only fall jacket, goddamn it.
Sam, sitting on the bed, gives him the what did I do? eyes, and Dean’s not going to tell him what he did because he’s got one arm hugged across his chest, opposite hand carefully cradling his bicep. He’s in pain, he’s got a bullet in his fucking arm, so they’re not going to talk about a witch from twenty years ago.
There’s never a good time to talk about these things.
**
For three weeks straight, she showed up in every town they hit. For three weeks straight they told themselves it was a coincidence.
“She’s got something to do with the werewolves,” John said after they’d gotten Sam to sleep. He and Dean sat up dismantling and oiling the guns, snapping the pieces back together, taking occasional swigs from John’s flask.
Dean couldn’t quite drink whiskey warm - it went down easier when it was cold, didn’t burn as much - but he spilled a bit on his lips every time his father passed him the flask. If he stopped drinking, John might stop offering. “Why would a witch have anything to do with werewolves?”
“Who knows why they do anything.” John fed bullets into the gun, cocked it, and took practice aim at a spot on the wall. “How’s the ribs?”
Dean moved his arms around, testing. “Good.”
“Healed up?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
“Good boy.” John cuffed him on the shoulder, as if he’d done something to be proud of. “Get some sleep.”
**
Sammy doesn’t pretend it doesn’t hurt when Dean fishes the bullet out of his arm. He grunts through bared teeth and hisses when Dean pours the rest of the peroxide over the wound. He’s shaking just a little, sweating, and Dean already knows he’s going to be up half the night monitoring for infection even though, in all likelihood, Sam is fine.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” he says.
Sam shakes his head, teeth still clenched. “What about you?”
“Me? I don’t need stitches, it’s just a scrape.”
“Did you-“ he hisses sharply and adjusts his arm. “Did you clean it?”
“Yeah. Lie back, c’mon.”
“I’m fine, Dean.”
“Like hell, she shot you.”
Sam chuckles quietly, with just a hiss of pain. “Bitch.”
Dean wraps gauze around his brother’s arm, miles of gauze, enough to bleed into all night without getting a drop on the sheets. Sam watches in mild amusement and Dean can hear what he’s thinking - overreacting much? “I want you to get some rest, okay? Sleep this off.”
“You want me to sleep off a gunshot wound.”
“What do you want, a flower arrangement?”
“You know, you never do get me a flower arrangement.”
“Go to sleep, Sammy.” He gets it. He gets how fucked up it all is, how they’re holed up in a shitty hotel with dirt under their nails and a package of saltine crackers for dinner, grabbing four hours of crap sleep before they get back on the road and back to work, and this isn’t how any normal human being would react to being shot in the arm. He may not know it as well as Sam knows it - Sam, who had four years of being a normal adult, who lived in a world where guns existed and were taken fucking seriously - but he knows. He understands.
It’s just that the gunshot wound isn’t what scares him.
**
She was wearing a familiar scrap of orange tied around her wrist, and as Dean watched through the window of the cabin, she tugged it loose and waved it over the little fire.
And then she disappeared.
John was running before Dean understood what had happened, back to the car, tugging Dean along by one hand, and then they were barreling down the road so fast the car jumped over hills and Dean thought he might cry, but he wouldn’t, Dad wouldn’t like that, and he wouldn’t give in to the urge to ask what was going on. He clung to his seat belt and the engine screamed for him.
He didn’t understand, even as he saw her crawling out the window of their motel room, even as his father yelled go get Sammy! and took off after her with his hand on his gun, what had happened. He found Sam weakened and barely conscious on the bed and held him, didn’t let go until Dad came back and threw the orange scrap at him. He turned it over and saw the stain and then he recognized it - the torn piece from the hem of his t-shirt, the day they first fought the werewolves, the day she started following them.
He wouldn’t understand for a long time.
**
He carefully burns Sam’s shirt, sock, and jacket in the bathtub while his brother sleeps. For good measure, he tosses his own shirt on the pile. It was his blood that let the witch find Sammy before, when they were young. He’s never going to let that happen again.
He tries not to think about Sam in the coming months, layering flannel over flannel and trying to stay warm until they can get the money together for another nice jacket. He tries not to think about how many socks he’s burned. Instead he thinks, thank God Sam will wear mismatched socks and not think anything of it, because he isn’t ready to explain himself.
There’s never a good time to tell your little brother that a witch stole his blood and you don’t know why.
But Dean will burn this whole world to the ground before they get one more drop.
This one's for iamthepasserby :D Hope you like it.
Sammy doesn’t know about what happened in Cleveland, and that’s why he isn’t careful.
And it’s fine that he doesn’t know. It’s deliberate. Bad enough that Dean’s been looking over his shoulder for witches since he was ten years old - bad enough, and stupid, since witches are rare, but you don’t want to mess with that shit - without Sam having to worry about something that happened decades ago.
Except.
Except that they haul themselves back into the motel room and Dean carefully peels off his shirt and carefully wads it up around the bloodstain on the shoulder where he hit the tree and takes it to the bathroom to soak in peroxide (he likes this shirt, thank you, Bela) and comes back into the room just in time to see Sam tossing his own bloody shirt on top of the dirty laundry pile.
“Jesus, Sammy!”
He snatches it up. Too late. There’s red on a sock for sure, and a little bit on Sam’s denim jacket, Sam’s only fall jacket, goddamn it.
Sam, sitting on the bed, gives him the what did I do? eyes, and Dean’s not going to tell him what he did because he’s got one arm hugged across his chest, opposite hand carefully cradling his bicep. He’s in pain, he’s got a bullet in his fucking arm, so they’re not going to talk about a witch from twenty years ago.
There’s never a good time to talk about these things.
**
For three weeks straight, she showed up in every town they hit. For three weeks straight they told themselves it was a coincidence.
“She’s got something to do with the werewolves,” John said after they’d gotten Sam to sleep. He and Dean sat up dismantling and oiling the guns, snapping the pieces back together, taking occasional swigs from John’s flask.
Dean couldn’t quite drink whiskey warm - it went down easier when it was cold, didn’t burn as much - but he spilled a bit on his lips every time his father passed him the flask. If he stopped drinking, John might stop offering. “Why would a witch have anything to do with werewolves?”
“Who knows why they do anything.” John fed bullets into the gun, cocked it, and took practice aim at a spot on the wall. “How’s the ribs?”
Dean moved his arms around, testing. “Good.”
“Healed up?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
“Good boy.” John cuffed him on the shoulder, as if he’d done something to be proud of. “Get some sleep.”
**
Sammy doesn’t pretend it doesn’t hurt when Dean fishes the bullet out of his arm. He grunts through bared teeth and hisses when Dean pours the rest of the peroxide over the wound. He’s shaking just a little, sweating, and Dean already knows he’s going to be up half the night monitoring for infection even though, in all likelihood, Sam is fine.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” he says.
Sam shakes his head, teeth still clenched. “What about you?”
“Me? I don’t need stitches, it’s just a scrape.”
“Did you-“ he hisses sharply and adjusts his arm. “Did you clean it?”
“Yeah. Lie back, c’mon.”
“I’m fine, Dean.”
“Like hell, she shot you.”
Sam chuckles quietly, with just a hiss of pain. “Bitch.”
Dean wraps gauze around his brother’s arm, miles of gauze, enough to bleed into all night without getting a drop on the sheets. Sam watches in mild amusement and Dean can hear what he’s thinking - overreacting much? “I want you to get some rest, okay? Sleep this off.”
“You want me to sleep off a gunshot wound.”
“What do you want, a flower arrangement?”
“You know, you never do get me a flower arrangement.”
“Go to sleep, Sammy.” He gets it. He gets how fucked up it all is, how they’re holed up in a shitty hotel with dirt under their nails and a package of saltine crackers for dinner, grabbing four hours of crap sleep before they get back on the road and back to work, and this isn’t how any normal human being would react to being shot in the arm. He may not know it as well as Sam knows it - Sam, who had four years of being a normal adult, who lived in a world where guns existed and were taken fucking seriously - but he knows. He understands.
It’s just that the gunshot wound isn’t what scares him.
**
She was wearing a familiar scrap of orange tied around her wrist, and as Dean watched through the window of the cabin, she tugged it loose and waved it over the little fire.
And then she disappeared.
John was running before Dean understood what had happened, back to the car, tugging Dean along by one hand, and then they were barreling down the road so fast the car jumped over hills and Dean thought he might cry, but he wouldn’t, Dad wouldn’t like that, and he wouldn’t give in to the urge to ask what was going on. He clung to his seat belt and the engine screamed for him.
He didn’t understand, even as he saw her crawling out the window of their motel room, even as his father yelled go get Sammy! and took off after her with his hand on his gun, what had happened. He found Sam weakened and barely conscious on the bed and held him, didn’t let go until Dad came back and threw the orange scrap at him. He turned it over and saw the stain and then he recognized it - the torn piece from the hem of his t-shirt, the day they first fought the werewolves, the day she started following them.
He wouldn’t understand for a long time.
**
He carefully burns Sam’s shirt, sock, and jacket in the bathtub while his brother sleeps. For good measure, he tosses his own shirt on the pile. It was his blood that let the witch find Sammy before, when they were young. He’s never going to let that happen again.
He tries not to think about Sam in the coming months, layering flannel over flannel and trying to stay warm until they can get the money together for another nice jacket. He tries not to think about how many socks he’s burned. Instead he thinks, thank God Sam will wear mismatched socks and not think anything of it, because he isn’t ready to explain himself.
There’s never a good time to tell your little brother that a witch stole his blood and you don’t know why.
But Dean will burn this whole world to the ground before they get one more drop.