Fic - I've Got Your Back
Title - I've Got Your Back
Summary - A hunt for a Phantom Gasser makes it clear there are no limits to how far Sam and Dean are willing to go to save each other. Hurt Boys!
Rating - PG13 (language)
Genre/Spoilers - Gen. No Spoilers
Word Count - 3,400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - This was written for soserendipity for the spn_j2_xmas secret santa exchange. I used your 'vanilla' likes under category (a) of your list and combined a bit of prompts 2 and 3. I really hope you like this and I wish you all the best for the holiday season. A massive thank you to scullspeare for betaing this more than once and for all her help and support (including the title suggestion which I've snagged!) I've tweaked and tinkered so any mistakes are mine. bertee, thank you for all your hard work.
A/N 2 - This fic also fills the 'attacked by a creature' square for the h/c bingo card team at spn_littlebro.
I've Got Your Back
The Phantom Gasser pulses back into the cabin with a crackle, its long black coat dusting the edges of the salt circle protecting the brothers. As Dean squeezes the trigger, the Gasser slams its sturdy boot into the old floorboards. The sharp bang of Dean’s shotgun is followed by the snap of splintering wood. A splinter flies up, hitting his jaw. The next thing Dean knows, he’s on the floor and everything around him looks out of focus.
“Sam?” Dean calls, his jaw flashing white hot with pain. “Sam!”
Pushing himself up so that he's sitting, Dean plants his palms onto the floorboards as everything in the cabin tilts sharply to the right. It isn't until the room rights itself that Dean sees Sam standing in front of him, his knees bent like he knows he can't trust them, his sawed-off pointed at Dean's chest.
“What did you do with him? Tell me now or I'll shoot.”
Sam's voice sounds off. Dean blinks his vision clear, sees the conviction in Sam's set jaw, along with the pink smudges high on his cheeks and the damp tendrils of hair glued to his forehead.
Damn it. The Gasser got to Sam.
Phantom Gassers had been pretty much unheard of since the nationwide hunter cull in the 1940s in the wake of an unexplained surge of attacks. But their M.O is clear; tall figures wearing gas masks, who break into houses late at night and spray a sickly sweet gas that causes the victims to commit suicide.
From the few reports the brothers could find, they figured that the gas acted fast, causing disorientation and a high fever, but Dean couldn't have been out of it for more than a few minutes. This is too fast.
“Sam, I need you to listen to me. OK?”
Sam blinks away the sweat that's sliding into his eyes; his trigger finger twitches but he doesn't fire.
Dean takes a steady breath and tries to explain. “We're hunting a Phantom Gasser, and we came to this cabin to summon and banish the son of a bitch. But it got the jump on us and you got a face full of its gas and we don't have much time-”
“What did you do to him?” Sam's hands are shaking and Dean sees him grip the gun tighter as he takes a few unsteady steps towards Dean, teeth gritted.
“Look,” Dean says, holding his hands up, palms open because even though he'd never say it out aloud, Sam's all kinds of intimidating right now. “I don't know what you're talking about, but I do know that you don't want to blast my chest with rock salt. Again.”
“Tell me where my brother is!” Sam shouts, his bloodshot eyes wide open. Although he's looking at Dean, it's like he's staring straight through him.
Dean pushes himself up to his feet, ignoring the static that fills his vision, the worry chewing at his guts. “I'm right here.”
Sam locks his gaze onto Dean, a deep frown carving into his forehead as he lowers the sawed-off. Then the whole cabin starts to shake. The floorboards under Dean's feet groan and a gust builds up from nowhere blowing dust into the air, but the mixture of glue with the salt is keeping the protective circle intact. For now.
“Where's the ritual?” Dean yells, because Sam was clutching the papers before Dean got sidelined by a piece of wood. But now his brother is staring over Dean's shoulder at the wall of the cabin, like he has no clue where he is, let alone what Dean's talking about.
“You know what?” Dean says, taking a few steps towards Sam, who instinctively raises the sawed-off so that it's pointing at Dean's head. “I just don't have time for this.” Dean swipes the gun out of Sam's grip and then reaching into his own pocket, Dean pulls out a set of handcuffs, snapping the metal cuff around his brother's wrist before locking the other cuff around his own wrist.
The move was sloppy, and there's no way it would have worked if Sam hadn't been dosed with the Phantom's gas, his reactions shot-to-shit as the fever continues to burn.
Tensing his muscles, Dean tucks the sawed-off at the small of his back and waits for the fallout after cuffing his own brother.
Sam yanks his hand towards him like he expects the handcuffs to just fall to the floor. “Take them off!”
“I can't,” Dean says cooly, around a sly grin, “I don't have the key.”
“What's wrong with you? Why the hell would you do this?”
Dean locks eyes with Sam, making sure that he hears every damn word. “You really think I'm just gonna sit on my ass until that gas messes with your grey matter so bad that you commit suicide? Hell no! I'm your brother and that's not happening. Period.”
Sam just stares, his breath punched short and sharp out of his lungs as waves of heat roll onto Dean.
Gripping Sam's shoulders hard, Dean forces his brother's attention. “Look, whether you believe me or not, we've gotta fight this thing together. You with me?”
Sam's eyes are misty. He looks lost, like he doesn't know who to trust or what to believe.
“We watch each other's sixes, Sammy. That's what we do. That's what we've always done."
Something in Dean's words must make a connection because Sam locks his gaze onto Dean. While there isn't a sudden spark of recognition in Sam's fevered eyes, Dean sees a glimmer of trust, and he can work with that.
Sam nods his head, his voice gravelly. “OK.”
With a sigh of relief, Dean slugs his brother lightly in the shoulder. “Such a little bitch.”
Sam frowns, looks down at his shoulder and then at Dean, like he has no idea what just happened.
Dean shakes his head. “Never mind.”
A gust of wind blows down the open fireplace. Dean pulls out the sawed-off from the waistband of his jeans, feeling resistance as the handcuff tugs on Sam's arm.
“Sam!” Dean shouts, but Sam's already moving into position, back to back as they scan the cabin. Dean's holding onto the gun whilst trying to get closer to his brother. He needs the slack to move but he also needs to be able to push his way in front of Sam.
There's a deep Darth Vader-like breath to Dean's right and the Phantom Gasser is toeing the edge of the protective salt circle. It looms over them at well over seven feet tall, a large bulky black gas mask covering its face. Before it has time to fire another dose of gas, Dean's finger is squeezing the trigger.
Rock salt slams into the Gasser's chest as it pulses in and out of focus before disappearing with a static fizz. A second later and there's a crash of splintering wood behind him. Dean spins, just in time to see the Gasser's booted feet slam into the already weakened section of floorboard that hit Dean earlier. He's just about to fire another shot when something pulls on his arm, hard.
There's no time to react, no time to do anything but watch as the floorboards under Sam's feet collapse. Then his brother is falling down into the cellar below, the handcuff around Dean's wrist dragging him along for the ride as they both fall into the pitch black.
XoXoX
Dean jerks awake, alert and in agony. It's hard to breathe, and it takes a while for the winded sensation to ease and even longer for the pain in his head to recede, allowing him to open his eyes.
It's dark and dusty and it takes longer than it should for the light streaming in from the hole in the ceiling to make sense. He fell. No wait, they fell.
“Sam!” He grunts, his lungs hacking at the dust and dirt that's packed into the back of throat. “Sam!”
His brother's close; he has to be - he's attached to Dean's arm. Rolling his head to the right he sees Sam lying on his side, his back to Dean, his cuffed arm trapped awkwardly behind him.
Dean crawls over piles of broken floorboards, splinters and nails scratching the skin off his kneecaps, a shrill ringing in his ears. “Sammy?”
Sam doesn't move. Dean's free hand runs over Sam's shoulder, fingers feeling a raised tent of bone that shouldn't be there. Something's definitely broken, but the way Sam's arm is twisted behind him, there could be all kinds of damage. This is bad. Really bad.
Sam flinches at his touch, and there's a whistle of pain as air is sucked in through clenched teeth.
“Don't move,” Dean says, swallowing back a rush of bile as his gut roils. He drags himself forward, trying not to jostle their cuffed hands, and peers over Sam's shoulder.
Sam's face is covered in grey dust; the only colour is the dark red blood that has matted the hair across forehead. His eyes are open, but he's staring blankly ahead into the dark. Dean taps his cheek gently; it's still too warm with the gas's fever. “You with me, Sam?”
There's no reaction, but there's also no time to wake him gently. They need to get out of here, before the Gasser shows its face for round three. Or is it four? Dean shakes his head clear, and now that the dust has settled, he scans his surroundings; it looks like they fell into some sort of storage cellar under the cabin, but luckily they didn't fall far, maybe eight feet. But there has to be a trap door somewhere.
He snatches the fallen sawed-off he sees to his left, tucking it in the small of his back and looks down at Sam's twisted shoulder. He thinks about trying to find something to pick the lock on the handcuffs but he can barely see straight - not to mention there's a warm trickle of blood running down the nape of his neck and his head feels weirdly light and detached.
Breathing in through his nose, he tries to still the sickness in his gut as he wraps his hands around Sam's good shoulder and gently guides his brother up into a sitting position. A sharp cry pierces through the dim light. Now that they're sitting up, all Dean can do is tightly grip to Sam's uninjured shoulder as he rides through the pain.
“We gotta get out of here, so I need you to focus. OK?”
Sam's breathing is stuttered, his right shoulder dipping at a lower angle than his left and the only reaction Dean gets is a shallow nod.
Dean takes that as a yes. “Just follow me and don't move your right arm.”
It's not until Dean pulls himself up to his full height that the shit hits the fan; his vision frays around the edges and before he knows it, he's puking uncontrollably onto the floor, just as the Gasser pulses into the cellar only a few feet away.
Dean pulls out his sawed-off from the waistband of his jeans, spitting onto the floor as he lifts his head, but there's five, or maybe six Gassers spinning in a circle in front of him. Dean picks one and fires.
He must miss because the Gassers sliding in and out focus are now all lifting gas tanks and hoses, the nozzles pointing towards them. Dean shoves himself into the line of fire, nudging Sam behind him and as far away from the Gasser as the handcuffs will allow, but then his knees weaken and a icy chill spreads though his body like it's shutting down.
Something inside him takes over, his numb finger somehow squeezing the trigger over and over, his feet stumbling as his focus shrinks to pushing Sam backwards and away. A deep growl rumbles from his chest and the air is thick with gunfire.
He loses time because the next thing he notices is the click of the empty chamber of the sawed-off but he's still firing, even when everything greys out and he feels an arm curl under his armpit keeping him on his feet. A scream of pain drills into his ears; it's primal and shoots through Dean like lightning. It snaps his eyes open because it sounds like Sam.
His brother's face appears through the haze, sweat and dirt clinging to his furnace-red cheeks and clumping his eyelashes into peaks. The muscles in Sam's face are strained, and he's breathing heavily through his nose, controlling the pain Dean thinks. But now Sam's dragging them both backwards, his mouth opening as strangled Latin begins to spill from his lips; “Nos eiciant vos, omnis immundus spiritus...”
Sam flicks his gaze down at Dean, like he's checking that his brother's OK, like he's worried. His eyes lock with Dean's and he nods to say he's got this one, his arm tightening around Dean as the Latin continues to rolls quickly off his tongue. With a numb grin, Dean knows he's got his brother back.
He feels lighter now. Maybe its relief, or maybe its his head injury, but Dean fights his body, tries to help Sam out by holding his own weight, but it takes all of his strength just to keep his eyes open.
He drifts. Sam's still dragging them both backwards but Dean can't feel much of his body any more. He's staring at the sweat pooling in the hollows of Sam's throat, when something hard slams into his back. It takes Dean a minute to notice that they're not moving anymore, that they've run out of room. Sam's right arm is still gripping him fiercely, pushing him further into the packed dirt of a wall.
Dean's got a front row seat when sparks fly as something explodes in front of them, spitting balls of fire high into the air before they snuff out or crash land.
Sam's crushing him so tightly against the wall that he can feel his brother's chest rise and fall. Then Sam's looking at him, his eyebrows knotted with fear and pain, dirt stuck to the bloody streaks running down his temples and jaw. Dean squints because it looks like Sam's calling his name but he can't hear anything.
Dean's gaze shifts away from Sam's face because it feels like he's forgotten something, but they're still stuck in the cellar of the cabin. He can see the hole they fell through and the pile of debris beneath it. Above them to his left, Dean can see the sunlit outline of what looks like a large square.
He stares hard at it until it all makes sense. “Sam, I think I found the trapdoor.”
Sam's face is hovering worriedly in front of him but then the darkness comes and there's nothing.
XoXoX
Staring at his now uncuffed wrist, Dean slams the heel of his hand against the soap dispenser and scrubs his hands in the small basin. Images of Sam dragging him out of the cellar and cabin stab at his aching head.
Weirdly, he doesn't remember much about getting to the hospital, but he does remember every detail of the moment the handcuffs were cut away with bolt cutters.
Each pounding heartbeat feels like a mallet to the brain. He squeezes his eyes shut and rides out the worst of it. His hand is shaking as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pill bottle and takes out two small blue pills, swallowing them dry.
He probably shouldn't be on his feet, and maybe he should have listened to the nurses. But then again, this was never about his health.
Dean lifts his head, blinking until the blurry image in the mirror clears; the bruising is still blossoming along his jaw but the swelling has reduced. Gingerly he runs his fingertips over the section of hair they buzz-cut on the back of his head, wincing as they catch on the edges of the bandage. It's probably a good job that he can't see it.
Pulling himself up straight, Dean tosses the hospital scrubs into the trash can, feeling much more comfortable in his jeans and shirt, blood-stained or not. He walks out the door and down the corridor, pulling his dark blue jacket tighter over his chest to hide the blood stains as an old man using a walker gives him the stink-eye.
He pushes open the door to his brother's room and finds a pale-faced Sam sitting up in his hospital bed, his shoulder and arm heavily bandaged and immobilized, his left hand gripping a fistful of needles and wires, like he's about to rip them collectively out of his arm.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dean words sound wrong, the vowels sliding lazily off his tongue as he crosses the room towards Sam, maybe too quickly because it's spinning a little.
Sam's staring at Dean, his forehead furrowed, worry deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. “You OK?”
Dean grins. “I can take a licking and keep on kicking!”
Sam pinches his lips. “Dean, you look like hammered crap.”
Dean sinks into the chair by Sam's bed, the room righting itself almost immediately. “My bell just got rung a little harder than usual. I'll be fine.”
Sam's gaze is still locked on him but eventually he nods, still gripping the wires in his left hand. “Just give me a minute and we'll get outta here.”
“You're not going anywhere.”
Sam snaps his head to face his brother. “We can't stay here. I gave them false names and insurance details. Our time is up.”
“I spoke to your doctor,” Dean says, knowing that he's caught Sam between a rock and a hard place. “I know how badly you screwed up your shoulder, I know that you made it worse by dragging me out of that cellar and I know about the surgery. So no, you're not going anywhere.”
Sam clenches his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching as he pulls his eyes away from Dean. “Possible surgery. I might not need it if the physio works. And what was I supposed to do? Leave you in there?”
“Hell yes!”
“And that's what you would have done, right? Left me in the there while you went to get help.” Sam's eyebrows are raised. “Something happened to me down there, OK? I saw you shooting at that Gasser like it was your final fight, like you were going down swinging, and it cut through the haze and I just...I just went on autopilot.”
“Sam-”
“I knew exactly what I had to do and I did it.” Sam swallows deeply, his eyes shiny. “I would have done anything to get you out of there. Anything.”
Dragging a hand across his forehead Dean tries to scrub away the headache behind his eyes. He knows that feeling all too well, the terror of knowing there isn't anything you wouldn't do for your family. “Yeah well, I'm glad you did.” He scratches at the stubble framing his jaw. “Besides, you were kinda bad ass back there. What was that Latin you were Rain Man-ing?”
Sam looks down at his hand. “It was the banishing ritual - with a few amendments.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You were high on God knows what, and made up your own ritual and it actually worked?”
Sam shrugs his good shoulder.
“Not bad little brother, not bad.” Dean stretches out his legs and rests them on the edge of Sam's bed, crossing them at the ankles. “Just remember that I taught you everything you know!”
Sam snorts, dimples showing as he shoots Dean a look over his shoulder before tossing him the remote for the small TV in the corner of the room. “One more day, and then we're outta here.”
Dean picks up the remote and stabs the 'on' button, surfing through the channels. With a grin he winks at his brother. “That's my boy.”
The End
Summary - A hunt for a Phantom Gasser makes it clear there are no limits to how far Sam and Dean are willing to go to save each other. Hurt Boys!
Rating - PG13 (language)
Genre/Spoilers - Gen. No Spoilers
Word Count - 3,400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - This was written for soserendipity for the spn_j2_xmas secret santa exchange. I used your 'vanilla' likes under category (a) of your list and combined a bit of prompts 2 and 3. I really hope you like this and I wish you all the best for the holiday season. A massive thank you to scullspeare for betaing this more than once and for all her help and support (including the title suggestion which I've snagged!) I've tweaked and tinkered so any mistakes are mine. bertee, thank you for all your hard work.
A/N 2 - This fic also fills the 'attacked by a creature' square for the h/c bingo card team at spn_littlebro.
I've Got Your Back
The Phantom Gasser pulses back into the cabin with a crackle, its long black coat dusting the edges of the salt circle protecting the brothers. As Dean squeezes the trigger, the Gasser slams its sturdy boot into the old floorboards. The sharp bang of Dean’s shotgun is followed by the snap of splintering wood. A splinter flies up, hitting his jaw. The next thing Dean knows, he’s on the floor and everything around him looks out of focus.
“Sam?” Dean calls, his jaw flashing white hot with pain. “Sam!”
Pushing himself up so that he's sitting, Dean plants his palms onto the floorboards as everything in the cabin tilts sharply to the right. It isn't until the room rights itself that Dean sees Sam standing in front of him, his knees bent like he knows he can't trust them, his sawed-off pointed at Dean's chest.
“What did you do with him? Tell me now or I'll shoot.”
Sam's voice sounds off. Dean blinks his vision clear, sees the conviction in Sam's set jaw, along with the pink smudges high on his cheeks and the damp tendrils of hair glued to his forehead.
Damn it. The Gasser got to Sam.
Phantom Gassers had been pretty much unheard of since the nationwide hunter cull in the 1940s in the wake of an unexplained surge of attacks. But their M.O is clear; tall figures wearing gas masks, who break into houses late at night and spray a sickly sweet gas that causes the victims to commit suicide.
From the few reports the brothers could find, they figured that the gas acted fast, causing disorientation and a high fever, but Dean couldn't have been out of it for more than a few minutes. This is too fast.
“Sam, I need you to listen to me. OK?”
Sam blinks away the sweat that's sliding into his eyes; his trigger finger twitches but he doesn't fire.
Dean takes a steady breath and tries to explain. “We're hunting a Phantom Gasser, and we came to this cabin to summon and banish the son of a bitch. But it got the jump on us and you got a face full of its gas and we don't have much time-”
“What did you do to him?” Sam's hands are shaking and Dean sees him grip the gun tighter as he takes a few unsteady steps towards Dean, teeth gritted.
“Look,” Dean says, holding his hands up, palms open because even though he'd never say it out aloud, Sam's all kinds of intimidating right now. “I don't know what you're talking about, but I do know that you don't want to blast my chest with rock salt. Again.”
“Tell me where my brother is!” Sam shouts, his bloodshot eyes wide open. Although he's looking at Dean, it's like he's staring straight through him.
Dean pushes himself up to his feet, ignoring the static that fills his vision, the worry chewing at his guts. “I'm right here.”
Sam locks his gaze onto Dean, a deep frown carving into his forehead as he lowers the sawed-off. Then the whole cabin starts to shake. The floorboards under Dean's feet groan and a gust builds up from nowhere blowing dust into the air, but the mixture of glue with the salt is keeping the protective circle intact. For now.
“Where's the ritual?” Dean yells, because Sam was clutching the papers before Dean got sidelined by a piece of wood. But now his brother is staring over Dean's shoulder at the wall of the cabin, like he has no clue where he is, let alone what Dean's talking about.
“You know what?” Dean says, taking a few steps towards Sam, who instinctively raises the sawed-off so that it's pointing at Dean's head. “I just don't have time for this.” Dean swipes the gun out of Sam's grip and then reaching into his own pocket, Dean pulls out a set of handcuffs, snapping the metal cuff around his brother's wrist before locking the other cuff around his own wrist.
The move was sloppy, and there's no way it would have worked if Sam hadn't been dosed with the Phantom's gas, his reactions shot-to-shit as the fever continues to burn.
Tensing his muscles, Dean tucks the sawed-off at the small of his back and waits for the fallout after cuffing his own brother.
Sam yanks his hand towards him like he expects the handcuffs to just fall to the floor. “Take them off!”
“I can't,” Dean says cooly, around a sly grin, “I don't have the key.”
“What's wrong with you? Why the hell would you do this?”
Dean locks eyes with Sam, making sure that he hears every damn word. “You really think I'm just gonna sit on my ass until that gas messes with your grey matter so bad that you commit suicide? Hell no! I'm your brother and that's not happening. Period.”
Sam just stares, his breath punched short and sharp out of his lungs as waves of heat roll onto Dean.
Gripping Sam's shoulders hard, Dean forces his brother's attention. “Look, whether you believe me or not, we've gotta fight this thing together. You with me?”
Sam's eyes are misty. He looks lost, like he doesn't know who to trust or what to believe.
“We watch each other's sixes, Sammy. That's what we do. That's what we've always done."
Something in Dean's words must make a connection because Sam locks his gaze onto Dean. While there isn't a sudden spark of recognition in Sam's fevered eyes, Dean sees a glimmer of trust, and he can work with that.
Sam nods his head, his voice gravelly. “OK.”
With a sigh of relief, Dean slugs his brother lightly in the shoulder. “Such a little bitch.”
Sam frowns, looks down at his shoulder and then at Dean, like he has no idea what just happened.
Dean shakes his head. “Never mind.”
A gust of wind blows down the open fireplace. Dean pulls out the sawed-off from the waistband of his jeans, feeling resistance as the handcuff tugs on Sam's arm.
“Sam!” Dean shouts, but Sam's already moving into position, back to back as they scan the cabin. Dean's holding onto the gun whilst trying to get closer to his brother. He needs the slack to move but he also needs to be able to push his way in front of Sam.
There's a deep Darth Vader-like breath to Dean's right and the Phantom Gasser is toeing the edge of the protective salt circle. It looms over them at well over seven feet tall, a large bulky black gas mask covering its face. Before it has time to fire another dose of gas, Dean's finger is squeezing the trigger.
Rock salt slams into the Gasser's chest as it pulses in and out of focus before disappearing with a static fizz. A second later and there's a crash of splintering wood behind him. Dean spins, just in time to see the Gasser's booted feet slam into the already weakened section of floorboard that hit Dean earlier. He's just about to fire another shot when something pulls on his arm, hard.
There's no time to react, no time to do anything but watch as the floorboards under Sam's feet collapse. Then his brother is falling down into the cellar below, the handcuff around Dean's wrist dragging him along for the ride as they both fall into the pitch black.
XoXoX
Dean jerks awake, alert and in agony. It's hard to breathe, and it takes a while for the winded sensation to ease and even longer for the pain in his head to recede, allowing him to open his eyes.
It's dark and dusty and it takes longer than it should for the light streaming in from the hole in the ceiling to make sense. He fell. No wait, they fell.
“Sam!” He grunts, his lungs hacking at the dust and dirt that's packed into the back of throat. “Sam!”
His brother's close; he has to be - he's attached to Dean's arm. Rolling his head to the right he sees Sam lying on his side, his back to Dean, his cuffed arm trapped awkwardly behind him.
Dean crawls over piles of broken floorboards, splinters and nails scratching the skin off his kneecaps, a shrill ringing in his ears. “Sammy?”
Sam doesn't move. Dean's free hand runs over Sam's shoulder, fingers feeling a raised tent of bone that shouldn't be there. Something's definitely broken, but the way Sam's arm is twisted behind him, there could be all kinds of damage. This is bad. Really bad.
Sam flinches at his touch, and there's a whistle of pain as air is sucked in through clenched teeth.
“Don't move,” Dean says, swallowing back a rush of bile as his gut roils. He drags himself forward, trying not to jostle their cuffed hands, and peers over Sam's shoulder.
Sam's face is covered in grey dust; the only colour is the dark red blood that has matted the hair across forehead. His eyes are open, but he's staring blankly ahead into the dark. Dean taps his cheek gently; it's still too warm with the gas's fever. “You with me, Sam?”
There's no reaction, but there's also no time to wake him gently. They need to get out of here, before the Gasser shows its face for round three. Or is it four? Dean shakes his head clear, and now that the dust has settled, he scans his surroundings; it looks like they fell into some sort of storage cellar under the cabin, but luckily they didn't fall far, maybe eight feet. But there has to be a trap door somewhere.
He snatches the fallen sawed-off he sees to his left, tucking it in the small of his back and looks down at Sam's twisted shoulder. He thinks about trying to find something to pick the lock on the handcuffs but he can barely see straight - not to mention there's a warm trickle of blood running down the nape of his neck and his head feels weirdly light and detached.
Breathing in through his nose, he tries to still the sickness in his gut as he wraps his hands around Sam's good shoulder and gently guides his brother up into a sitting position. A sharp cry pierces through the dim light. Now that they're sitting up, all Dean can do is tightly grip to Sam's uninjured shoulder as he rides through the pain.
“We gotta get out of here, so I need you to focus. OK?”
Sam's breathing is stuttered, his right shoulder dipping at a lower angle than his left and the only reaction Dean gets is a shallow nod.
Dean takes that as a yes. “Just follow me and don't move your right arm.”
It's not until Dean pulls himself up to his full height that the shit hits the fan; his vision frays around the edges and before he knows it, he's puking uncontrollably onto the floor, just as the Gasser pulses into the cellar only a few feet away.
Dean pulls out his sawed-off from the waistband of his jeans, spitting onto the floor as he lifts his head, but there's five, or maybe six Gassers spinning in a circle in front of him. Dean picks one and fires.
He must miss because the Gassers sliding in and out focus are now all lifting gas tanks and hoses, the nozzles pointing towards them. Dean shoves himself into the line of fire, nudging Sam behind him and as far away from the Gasser as the handcuffs will allow, but then his knees weaken and a icy chill spreads though his body like it's shutting down.
Something inside him takes over, his numb finger somehow squeezing the trigger over and over, his feet stumbling as his focus shrinks to pushing Sam backwards and away. A deep growl rumbles from his chest and the air is thick with gunfire.
He loses time because the next thing he notices is the click of the empty chamber of the sawed-off but he's still firing, even when everything greys out and he feels an arm curl under his armpit keeping him on his feet. A scream of pain drills into his ears; it's primal and shoots through Dean like lightning. It snaps his eyes open because it sounds like Sam.
His brother's face appears through the haze, sweat and dirt clinging to his furnace-red cheeks and clumping his eyelashes into peaks. The muscles in Sam's face are strained, and he's breathing heavily through his nose, controlling the pain Dean thinks. But now Sam's dragging them both backwards, his mouth opening as strangled Latin begins to spill from his lips; “Nos eiciant vos, omnis immundus spiritus...”
Sam flicks his gaze down at Dean, like he's checking that his brother's OK, like he's worried. His eyes lock with Dean's and he nods to say he's got this one, his arm tightening around Dean as the Latin continues to rolls quickly off his tongue. With a numb grin, Dean knows he's got his brother back.
He feels lighter now. Maybe its relief, or maybe its his head injury, but Dean fights his body, tries to help Sam out by holding his own weight, but it takes all of his strength just to keep his eyes open.
He drifts. Sam's still dragging them both backwards but Dean can't feel much of his body any more. He's staring at the sweat pooling in the hollows of Sam's throat, when something hard slams into his back. It takes Dean a minute to notice that they're not moving anymore, that they've run out of room. Sam's right arm is still gripping him fiercely, pushing him further into the packed dirt of a wall.
Dean's got a front row seat when sparks fly as something explodes in front of them, spitting balls of fire high into the air before they snuff out or crash land.
Sam's crushing him so tightly against the wall that he can feel his brother's chest rise and fall. Then Sam's looking at him, his eyebrows knotted with fear and pain, dirt stuck to the bloody streaks running down his temples and jaw. Dean squints because it looks like Sam's calling his name but he can't hear anything.
Dean's gaze shifts away from Sam's face because it feels like he's forgotten something, but they're still stuck in the cellar of the cabin. He can see the hole they fell through and the pile of debris beneath it. Above them to his left, Dean can see the sunlit outline of what looks like a large square.
He stares hard at it until it all makes sense. “Sam, I think I found the trapdoor.”
Sam's face is hovering worriedly in front of him but then the darkness comes and there's nothing.
XoXoX
Staring at his now uncuffed wrist, Dean slams the heel of his hand against the soap dispenser and scrubs his hands in the small basin. Images of Sam dragging him out of the cellar and cabin stab at his aching head.
Weirdly, he doesn't remember much about getting to the hospital, but he does remember every detail of the moment the handcuffs were cut away with bolt cutters.
Each pounding heartbeat feels like a mallet to the brain. He squeezes his eyes shut and rides out the worst of it. His hand is shaking as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pill bottle and takes out two small blue pills, swallowing them dry.
He probably shouldn't be on his feet, and maybe he should have listened to the nurses. But then again, this was never about his health.
Dean lifts his head, blinking until the blurry image in the mirror clears; the bruising is still blossoming along his jaw but the swelling has reduced. Gingerly he runs his fingertips over the section of hair they buzz-cut on the back of his head, wincing as they catch on the edges of the bandage. It's probably a good job that he can't see it.
Pulling himself up straight, Dean tosses the hospital scrubs into the trash can, feeling much more comfortable in his jeans and shirt, blood-stained or not. He walks out the door and down the corridor, pulling his dark blue jacket tighter over his chest to hide the blood stains as an old man using a walker gives him the stink-eye.
He pushes open the door to his brother's room and finds a pale-faced Sam sitting up in his hospital bed, his shoulder and arm heavily bandaged and immobilized, his left hand gripping a fistful of needles and wires, like he's about to rip them collectively out of his arm.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dean words sound wrong, the vowels sliding lazily off his tongue as he crosses the room towards Sam, maybe too quickly because it's spinning a little.
Sam's staring at Dean, his forehead furrowed, worry deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. “You OK?”
Dean grins. “I can take a licking and keep on kicking!”
Sam pinches his lips. “Dean, you look like hammered crap.”
Dean sinks into the chair by Sam's bed, the room righting itself almost immediately. “My bell just got rung a little harder than usual. I'll be fine.”
Sam's gaze is still locked on him but eventually he nods, still gripping the wires in his left hand. “Just give me a minute and we'll get outta here.”
“You're not going anywhere.”
Sam snaps his head to face his brother. “We can't stay here. I gave them false names and insurance details. Our time is up.”
“I spoke to your doctor,” Dean says, knowing that he's caught Sam between a rock and a hard place. “I know how badly you screwed up your shoulder, I know that you made it worse by dragging me out of that cellar and I know about the surgery. So no, you're not going anywhere.”
Sam clenches his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching as he pulls his eyes away from Dean. “Possible surgery. I might not need it if the physio works. And what was I supposed to do? Leave you in there?”
“Hell yes!”
“And that's what you would have done, right? Left me in the there while you went to get help.” Sam's eyebrows are raised. “Something happened to me down there, OK? I saw you shooting at that Gasser like it was your final fight, like you were going down swinging, and it cut through the haze and I just...I just went on autopilot.”
“Sam-”
“I knew exactly what I had to do and I did it.” Sam swallows deeply, his eyes shiny. “I would have done anything to get you out of there. Anything.”
Dragging a hand across his forehead Dean tries to scrub away the headache behind his eyes. He knows that feeling all too well, the terror of knowing there isn't anything you wouldn't do for your family. “Yeah well, I'm glad you did.” He scratches at the stubble framing his jaw. “Besides, you were kinda bad ass back there. What was that Latin you were Rain Man-ing?”
Sam looks down at his hand. “It was the banishing ritual - with a few amendments.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You were high on God knows what, and made up your own ritual and it actually worked?”
Sam shrugs his good shoulder.
“Not bad little brother, not bad.” Dean stretches out his legs and rests them on the edge of Sam's bed, crossing them at the ankles. “Just remember that I taught you everything you know!”
Sam snorts, dimples showing as he shoots Dean a look over his shoulder before tossing him the remote for the small TV in the corner of the room. “One more day, and then we're outta here.”
Dean picks up the remote and stabs the 'on' button, surfing through the channels. With a grin he winks at his brother. “That's my boy.”
The End