Against the Clock 13/13 Complete (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, Casefic)
Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Chapter 13
Dean woke little by little, as if dragging himself up through a thick fog. His head pulsed with a dull, persistent throb, uncomfortable but manageable. As he became more aware, vague aches and a few stabbing pains began to make themselves felt in different parts of his body. He cracked open an eye to see Sam looking down at him, brow wrinkled in that familiar frown of concern.
It was his brother’s “I’m worried about you” expression rather than his, “The shit’s about to hit the fan” expression, so he was not overly concerned that they were in immediate danger.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam said softly. “How do you feel?”
How did he feel? Sore and weak, but mostly tired. Bone-weary, in fact, as if he still needed to sleep for a week. But it seemed like he had already been sleeping, so he should be awake, shouldn’t he?
He tried to say, “Sam?”, and it came out as a weak croak. He realized that his throat felt like coarse sandpaper, and he was opening his mouth again, this time to ask for water, when Sam held a bottle to his lips. Too weary to protest that he could hold the bottle himself, thank you very much, he gratefully took a couple of sips. Even the effort of swallowing was hard work, and he felt his eyelids drooping, despite his efforts to keep them open. He heard Sam say, “It’s okay. Go back to sleep. Everything’s okay,” before sleep claimed him once more.
………………………………
The next time he woke, the first thing he saw was Sam. That felt familiar; he had a vague recollection of seeing Sam’s face the last time he’d been awake. How long ago had that been?
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey back,” Sam replied and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands laced. “Nice of you to join me again. I thought you were going to sleep straight through into next week. How do you feel?”
Dean seemed to remember answering that question before. He did a quick internal inventory. “Almost human,” he answered truthfully. Compared to the last time he’d been awake, whenever that had been, he was definitely better. The headache was now more a background pain, his body ached less and he was more alert. He looked around the unfamiliar room that was definitely not their usual style of rundown motel and frowned. “Where are we?”
“At Doctor Jackson’s clinic. Remember him? Rachel’s grandfather. We interviewed him about the murders.”
Everything came flooding back: Sam’s abduction, the desperate search for answers that would lead him to Sam and the killer, the final confrontation at Miller’s cabin - and feeling like he was about to die on his feet at any minute. “Of course I remember him,” he said impatiently. “I’ve had the flu, not a lobotomy. What did you tell him?”
Sam hesitated. “Everything.”
Dean frowned. “Like, ‘We’re hunters and we just discovered that Karen Miller’s spirit is the murderer and put her to rest,’ everything?”
Sam chewed his lip. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Sam, are you nuts?” He pushed himself up a little, batting away Sam’s hand as he tried to help, and finally managed to sit up, trying to ignore the protest from his ribs and the sudden stab of pain that shot through his skull.
“About as nuts as you,” Sam retorted, pushing the pillows up behind Dean so he could lean back more comfortably. “Or have you forgotten you told Rachel everything?”
Ouch. “That is so not the same,” Dean said firmly. “I needed her to help me find you. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Neither did I! You were really sick, Dean, and you needed help. I couldn’t take you to the hospital, and it wasn’t like there were any other options.” At Dean’s doubtful expression, he went on. “It’s okay, Dean. Art understands, and he’s fine with it.”
Dean arched an eyebrow. “Art?”
Sam’s features relaxed. “Doctor Jackson. I’m getting to know him pretty well. He’s really interested in hearing stories about hunting.”
Dean sighed. It was so like Sam to make friends with the doctor. “Okay, fine. We can be out of here soon anyway. Dig out my clothes-”
“No way,” Sam said firmly. “Art says you have to stay in bed at least another twenty-four hours.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam. I’m fine.”
Sam glared. “You’re not fine. You’re getting over a really bad bout of the flu, not to mention the dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and cracked ribs. Art says you need to rest, or you’ll have a relapse.”
Dean humphed. “You’re both overreacting.”
“Oh, really?” Sam seemed almost angry now. “What would you know - your temp went up to 104.6, and you were totally out of it and delirious for almost a whole day. You realize it’s Friday?”
“Friday?” Dean thought back. “But… we arrived here on Monday. That means I’ve been out of it for three days.” Three whole days? “No way. …really?”
“Glad to see you can still count,” Sam said dryly. “Like I said, you’ve been really sick.” A shadow crossed his face and he swallowed. “You scared me, Dean. Please. Just stay here a little longer.”
Dean saw the remnants of fear in his brother’s eyes. He sighed. Much as he wanted to be up and out of this bed, if it would make Sam happy … and since he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was still feeling a little weak …
“Whatever. So long as you know I’m gonna make your life hell and expect you to wait on me hand and foot, bitch.”
Sam gave him a tight smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. How about we start with lunch. Are you hungry?”
At the mention of food, Dean’s stomach rumbled, and his mind’s eye conjured up an enormous, juicy steak with a pile of onion rings and a mound of fries on the side. “Starving.” he said.
Sam stood up. “I’ll get you some soup.”
“Soup!”
Sam gave him the patented, “Don’t argue with me” look. “You’re not up to steak and onion rings, Dean. You’re getting soup.”
How did Sam do that mind-reading thing? “How about a cup of coffee to go with it?” Dean asked hopefully.
Sam shook his head. “Not until your headache’s totally gone. Art says caffeine’ll just dehydrate you.”
“Art says,” Dean mimicked grumpily. “Anyway, the headache has gone,” he said as convincingly as possible. “I feel fine.”
Sam studied him closely. “Uh huh. You’re lying. I’ll bring you some juice with your soup.”
Dean sank back against the pillows after Sam left, a little worried about how weak he felt. That short conversation had sapped all the strength from him, and he felt like going back to sleep. Maybe there was time for a short nap before Sam came back with lunch.
He was about to sink down in bed again when there was a sharp knock and the door opened a crack. Rachel’s head peered around it.
“Hi, hotshot,” she said cheerfully. “Sam said you were awake. I came to check the miracle for myself. Can I come in?”
Dean hesitated, not sure he wanted her to see him so weak and confined to bed. And if he’d been here three days, he must look like hell, not to mention in desperate need of a shower. On the other hand, she’d probably been around when he was out of it, so it was a bit late to worry about it now. “Sure.” With an effort, he pulled himself up a little more, noting that while still sore, his ribs didn’t protest the movement too violently.
Rachel crossed the room and perched on the edge of the armchair. “You’re looking better.”
“Feeling better, thanks.”
Rachel studied him and seemed satisfied with what she saw. “You were really out of it for a while,” she went on. “We were worried.”
“You shouldn’t have been,” he said lightly. “It takes a lot to bring down a Winchester.”
She smiled. “So I noticed.”
There was a short, awkward silence until Dean said, “So. I guess you didn’t exactly get the story you wanted, huh? At least not one you could use.”
Rachel shrugged. “Yeah, you were right - there was no way I pitch my editor the truth. It’s okay, though. There’ll be other stories.” Her face clouded. “I feel bad for Del and Vic’s family and friends, though. We know now that Scott was killed by Karen. They’ll never know what really happened, will they?”
Dean shook his head. “They wouldn’t believe it if you did tell them the truth.”
She sighed heavily. “I guess not.” She looked down for a moment, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, then gave herself a little shake and looked up. “Well, the important thing is that Karen’s gone and you saved Sam.” She stood up. “Anyway, I just popped in to see if you were back in the land of the living. I have to go back to work. I’ll stop by again tonight, if that’s okay.”
He brightened at the thought, but said casually, “Sure. I’m not going anywhere - your grandpa has me trapped in this bed. Any chance you could persuade him to let me go?”
Rachel grinned. “Not me. I know better than to question Grandpa’s instructions.”
She turned to walk away.
“Rachel, wait,” Dean said quickly.
She turned back, one eyebrow raised.
“Look.” Dean cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for your help. If it hadn’t been for you, Sam might not have made it.”
She smiled. “Thanks, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for you Sam wouldn’t have made it. You worked it all out and you saved him. I was just the source of information.”
“You were a lot more than that,” he said softly, and meant it.
She reddened slightly and looked at him for a moment. Then she smiled again, a slightly mischievous expression in her eyes. “Well, if you really are grateful, how about you take me out to dinner when Grandpa lets you out of this place?”
“Dinner?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yes, dinner. You must have heard of it. Expensive food, vintage wine, candles…”
“You mean the kind of place where you have to wear a suit and tie?” Dean asked cautiously. Vintage wine and candles he could handle. A suit and tie? Only on a job, and never in his spare time. No way. Not even for a courageous woman who was looking more attractive by the minute.
His horror must have shown on his face, because she laughed. “You know, I’m not much for expensive restaurants either. I’m more a pizza and beer kind of girl.”
Dean relaxed. “Finally, you agree with me on something,” he teased.
“Hey!” Her lips quirked up. “Are you implying I’m difficult?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s see. I tell you to stay outside Miller’s place, and you come in anyway. I tell you even more clearly not to come into the cabin no matter what happens, and you --”
“That was different. You were sick and obviously not thinking straight.”
He was opening his mouth to defend himself when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Take me out for dinner,” she whispered, “and I’ll show you how agreeable I can be.”
Dean was searching for a smart come back when the door opened and Sam walked in, balancing a tray.
Rachel stood back quickly. “Hi, Sam. I was just leaving.” She wrinkled her nose. “Got a piece to write on a feud between two rival manure companies.”
Sam grinned. “Good luck with that.”
She gave Dean a suggestive grin. “See you later. I’ll book that table.”
After she left, Sam shot Dean an incredulous look. “I don’t believe it. You’ve been awake for less than an hour, you look like road kill and still you’re hitting on the hot chick.”
“Hey!” Dean said indignantly. “She was the one hitting on me.” Then he grinned smugly and waggled his eyebrows. “She wants me. What can I say?”
Sam let it go and began to fuss, plumping up pillows and helping Dean sit up straighter before putting the tray carefully on his lap. Once done, he sat down on the chair beside the bed, silent, fidgeting with a fold in the comforter.
Dean knew him well enough to sense that he had something on his mind that he wasn’t ready to share. He decided not to push and instead looked suspiciously at the soup. The vibrant pea-green color was unappealing, but it smelled good. He took a spoonful, blew on it and swallowed it thankfully. It tasted as good as it smelled, whatever was in it, and he vaguely wondered who had made it.
He gestured in Sam’s direction with the spoon. “So, tell me what’s been happening. Did the police find Miller?”
Sam looked up and nodded. “They got an anonymous call. I didn’t think they’d find him quickly otherwise. Looks like they aren’t questioning that his death was a suicide, but now that it’s been a few days and it’s clear that the pattern of murders has been broken, they’re getting suspicious and wondering if Miller’s connected. Looks like they’re going to look into the cases again, check if he had an alibi around the times of the killings.”
“They probably won’t find anything.”
“No, probably not,” Sam agreed, and went back to fingering the comforter.
Dean swallowed some more soup and allowed silence to reign for several minutes before putting the spoon down. “Spill it, Sam,” he said firmly.
Sam looked up. “Spill what?”
“Oh, come on. There’s something on your tiny mind, and you’re gonna burst if you don’t get it out. So, spill it.”
Sam scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Dean, you could have been killed back at the cabin.”
Dean waved a dismissive hand. “No way. I can handle a seven-pound weakling and a vengeful spirit with one hand tied behind my back.”
Sam shook his head, ignoring Dean’s attempt at levity. “When you’re on your game, yeah. But you were sick, Dean. You could barely stay on your feet, and Miller came close to taking you out.” He frowned as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. “It’s true, Dean, and you know it.”
Dean shrugged. “So it was a tough situation. We’ve been in worse. What’s your point, Sam?”
Sam paused. “I just keep thinking… if I hadn’t been so set on proving that Dad was wrong, if I’d been willing to look objectively at the facts right from the start, maybe we’d have worked out what was going on at the beginning. You wouldn’t have had to push yourself so hard, make yourself so sick trying to find me.”
Dean shook his head. “Sam, that’s crap. We’d barely had time to gather all the facts before you went missing.”
“We talked about it,” Sam persisted. “You said the cause was supernatural, and I wouldn’t hear it. We could have worked it out.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “No we couldn’t. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because we’re both alive, and that’s what counts.”
Sam blew out a long breath. “Maybe. I just… I’m sorry, Dean. I let my feelings about Dad get in the way of the case, and I won’t let it happen again.”
Dean looked at him seriously. “Okay.” He paused, reluctant to say the next words but knowing Sam deserved to hear them. “Look, maybe it’s not just you who’s the problem here. I know I’m too…” He cleared his throat. “You think I blindly follow Dad’s orders, no question. I don’t do it out of blind faith, Sam. I do it because I know he’s good at his job, and he’s usually right. But lately… I don’t know. I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I have to trust he’s doing the right thing, but maybe… maybe you’re right and I should question his orders sometimes, you know? We’re on our own now. Things are different.”
Sam shot him a surprised look, then nodded. “The important thing is we trust each other and keep watching each other’s backs.”
“Always, Sam. Batman and Robin, right?”
Sam gave him a half grin. “If you like, but I’m not wearing the costume.”
Dean grinned and went back to his soup. He watched Sam surreptitiously through mouthfuls. He knew the discussion about Dad wasn’t over, but for now, Sam seemed to be more at peace.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully after a while, “talking of seven-pound weaklings, you haven’t explained how you let Miller take you. I mean, come on Sam, that’s just embarrassing.”
Sam looked sheepish. “I was wondering when you’d bring that up. I guess I felt sorry for the guy, and when I met him in the parking lot, I never thought… I let him catch me off-guard.”
Dean waved his spoon at Sam, smirking as a few drops of green flew between them and landed splat on Sam’s white shirt. “I think it’s time you went back to self-defense school.”
Sam gave him a withering look and dabbed at the stains with a tissue. He sighed theatrically. “Maybe I should. Still, at least I wasn’t the one who dropped my gun. Oops, sorry, I forgot - dropped both guns. That was pretty impressive, Dean.”
“I was sick!” Dean exclaimed indignantly. “You’re the one who keeps telling me how sick I was. I should get a medal really, what I went through that day…”
Sam held his eyes and his lips twitched. “How about instead of a medal, I go see if I can find you a piece of homemade pie?”
Dean lay back, satisfied. Sam was safe, they were still on the road together and there was pie on the horizon. For now, that was all he needed.
The End
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
by Swanseajill
Chapter 13
Dean woke little by little, as if dragging himself up through a thick fog. His head pulsed with a dull, persistent throb, uncomfortable but manageable. As he became more aware, vague aches and a few stabbing pains began to make themselves felt in different parts of his body. He cracked open an eye to see Sam looking down at him, brow wrinkled in that familiar frown of concern.
It was his brother’s “I’m worried about you” expression rather than his, “The shit’s about to hit the fan” expression, so he was not overly concerned that they were in immediate danger.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam said softly. “How do you feel?”
How did he feel? Sore and weak, but mostly tired. Bone-weary, in fact, as if he still needed to sleep for a week. But it seemed like he had already been sleeping, so he should be awake, shouldn’t he?
He tried to say, “Sam?”, and it came out as a weak croak. He realized that his throat felt like coarse sandpaper, and he was opening his mouth again, this time to ask for water, when Sam held a bottle to his lips. Too weary to protest that he could hold the bottle himself, thank you very much, he gratefully took a couple of sips. Even the effort of swallowing was hard work, and he felt his eyelids drooping, despite his efforts to keep them open. He heard Sam say, “It’s okay. Go back to sleep. Everything’s okay,” before sleep claimed him once more.
………………………………
The next time he woke, the first thing he saw was Sam. That felt familiar; he had a vague recollection of seeing Sam’s face the last time he’d been awake. How long ago had that been?
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey back,” Sam replied and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands laced. “Nice of you to join me again. I thought you were going to sleep straight through into next week. How do you feel?”
Dean seemed to remember answering that question before. He did a quick internal inventory. “Almost human,” he answered truthfully. Compared to the last time he’d been awake, whenever that had been, he was definitely better. The headache was now more a background pain, his body ached less and he was more alert. He looked around the unfamiliar room that was definitely not their usual style of rundown motel and frowned. “Where are we?”
“At Doctor Jackson’s clinic. Remember him? Rachel’s grandfather. We interviewed him about the murders.”
Everything came flooding back: Sam’s abduction, the desperate search for answers that would lead him to Sam and the killer, the final confrontation at Miller’s cabin - and feeling like he was about to die on his feet at any minute. “Of course I remember him,” he said impatiently. “I’ve had the flu, not a lobotomy. What did you tell him?”
Sam hesitated. “Everything.”
Dean frowned. “Like, ‘We’re hunters and we just discovered that Karen Miller’s spirit is the murderer and put her to rest,’ everything?”
Sam chewed his lip. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Sam, are you nuts?” He pushed himself up a little, batting away Sam’s hand as he tried to help, and finally managed to sit up, trying to ignore the protest from his ribs and the sudden stab of pain that shot through his skull.
“About as nuts as you,” Sam retorted, pushing the pillows up behind Dean so he could lean back more comfortably. “Or have you forgotten you told Rachel everything?”
Ouch. “That is so not the same,” Dean said firmly. “I needed her to help me find you. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Neither did I! You were really sick, Dean, and you needed help. I couldn’t take you to the hospital, and it wasn’t like there were any other options.” At Dean’s doubtful expression, he went on. “It’s okay, Dean. Art understands, and he’s fine with it.”
Dean arched an eyebrow. “Art?”
Sam’s features relaxed. “Doctor Jackson. I’m getting to know him pretty well. He’s really interested in hearing stories about hunting.”
Dean sighed. It was so like Sam to make friends with the doctor. “Okay, fine. We can be out of here soon anyway. Dig out my clothes-”
“No way,” Sam said firmly. “Art says you have to stay in bed at least another twenty-four hours.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam. I’m fine.”
Sam glared. “You’re not fine. You’re getting over a really bad bout of the flu, not to mention the dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and cracked ribs. Art says you need to rest, or you’ll have a relapse.”
Dean humphed. “You’re both overreacting.”
“Oh, really?” Sam seemed almost angry now. “What would you know - your temp went up to 104.6, and you were totally out of it and delirious for almost a whole day. You realize it’s Friday?”
“Friday?” Dean thought back. “But… we arrived here on Monday. That means I’ve been out of it for three days.” Three whole days? “No way. …really?”
“Glad to see you can still count,” Sam said dryly. “Like I said, you’ve been really sick.” A shadow crossed his face and he swallowed. “You scared me, Dean. Please. Just stay here a little longer.”
Dean saw the remnants of fear in his brother’s eyes. He sighed. Much as he wanted to be up and out of this bed, if it would make Sam happy … and since he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was still feeling a little weak …
“Whatever. So long as you know I’m gonna make your life hell and expect you to wait on me hand and foot, bitch.”
Sam gave him a tight smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything else. How about we start with lunch. Are you hungry?”
At the mention of food, Dean’s stomach rumbled, and his mind’s eye conjured up an enormous, juicy steak with a pile of onion rings and a mound of fries on the side. “Starving.” he said.
Sam stood up. “I’ll get you some soup.”
“Soup!”
Sam gave him the patented, “Don’t argue with me” look. “You’re not up to steak and onion rings, Dean. You’re getting soup.”
How did Sam do that mind-reading thing? “How about a cup of coffee to go with it?” Dean asked hopefully.
Sam shook his head. “Not until your headache’s totally gone. Art says caffeine’ll just dehydrate you.”
“Art says,” Dean mimicked grumpily. “Anyway, the headache has gone,” he said as convincingly as possible. “I feel fine.”
Sam studied him closely. “Uh huh. You’re lying. I’ll bring you some juice with your soup.”
Dean sank back against the pillows after Sam left, a little worried about how weak he felt. That short conversation had sapped all the strength from him, and he felt like going back to sleep. Maybe there was time for a short nap before Sam came back with lunch.
He was about to sink down in bed again when there was a sharp knock and the door opened a crack. Rachel’s head peered around it.
“Hi, hotshot,” she said cheerfully. “Sam said you were awake. I came to check the miracle for myself. Can I come in?”
Dean hesitated, not sure he wanted her to see him so weak and confined to bed. And if he’d been here three days, he must look like hell, not to mention in desperate need of a shower. On the other hand, she’d probably been around when he was out of it, so it was a bit late to worry about it now. “Sure.” With an effort, he pulled himself up a little more, noting that while still sore, his ribs didn’t protest the movement too violently.
Rachel crossed the room and perched on the edge of the armchair. “You’re looking better.”
“Feeling better, thanks.”
Rachel studied him and seemed satisfied with what she saw. “You were really out of it for a while,” she went on. “We were worried.”
“You shouldn’t have been,” he said lightly. “It takes a lot to bring down a Winchester.”
She smiled. “So I noticed.”
There was a short, awkward silence until Dean said, “So. I guess you didn’t exactly get the story you wanted, huh? At least not one you could use.”
Rachel shrugged. “Yeah, you were right - there was no way I pitch my editor the truth. It’s okay, though. There’ll be other stories.” Her face clouded. “I feel bad for Del and Vic’s family and friends, though. We know now that Scott was killed by Karen. They’ll never know what really happened, will they?”
Dean shook his head. “They wouldn’t believe it if you did tell them the truth.”
She sighed heavily. “I guess not.” She looked down for a moment, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, then gave herself a little shake and looked up. “Well, the important thing is that Karen’s gone and you saved Sam.” She stood up. “Anyway, I just popped in to see if you were back in the land of the living. I have to go back to work. I’ll stop by again tonight, if that’s okay.”
He brightened at the thought, but said casually, “Sure. I’m not going anywhere - your grandpa has me trapped in this bed. Any chance you could persuade him to let me go?”
Rachel grinned. “Not me. I know better than to question Grandpa’s instructions.”
She turned to walk away.
“Rachel, wait,” Dean said quickly.
She turned back, one eyebrow raised.
“Look.” Dean cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for your help. If it hadn’t been for you, Sam might not have made it.”
She smiled. “Thanks, but the truth is, if it wasn’t for you Sam wouldn’t have made it. You worked it all out and you saved him. I was just the source of information.”
“You were a lot more than that,” he said softly, and meant it.
She reddened slightly and looked at him for a moment. Then she smiled again, a slightly mischievous expression in her eyes. “Well, if you really are grateful, how about you take me out to dinner when Grandpa lets you out of this place?”
“Dinner?”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yes, dinner. You must have heard of it. Expensive food, vintage wine, candles…”
“You mean the kind of place where you have to wear a suit and tie?” Dean asked cautiously. Vintage wine and candles he could handle. A suit and tie? Only on a job, and never in his spare time. No way. Not even for a courageous woman who was looking more attractive by the minute.
His horror must have shown on his face, because she laughed. “You know, I’m not much for expensive restaurants either. I’m more a pizza and beer kind of girl.”
Dean relaxed. “Finally, you agree with me on something,” he teased.
“Hey!” Her lips quirked up. “Are you implying I’m difficult?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, let’s see. I tell you to stay outside Miller’s place, and you come in anyway. I tell you even more clearly not to come into the cabin no matter what happens, and you --”
“That was different. You were sick and obviously not thinking straight.”
He was opening his mouth to defend himself when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Take me out for dinner,” she whispered, “and I’ll show you how agreeable I can be.”
Dean was searching for a smart come back when the door opened and Sam walked in, balancing a tray.
Rachel stood back quickly. “Hi, Sam. I was just leaving.” She wrinkled her nose. “Got a piece to write on a feud between two rival manure companies.”
Sam grinned. “Good luck with that.”
She gave Dean a suggestive grin. “See you later. I’ll book that table.”
After she left, Sam shot Dean an incredulous look. “I don’t believe it. You’ve been awake for less than an hour, you look like road kill and still you’re hitting on the hot chick.”
“Hey!” Dean said indignantly. “She was the one hitting on me.” Then he grinned smugly and waggled his eyebrows. “She wants me. What can I say?”
Sam let it go and began to fuss, plumping up pillows and helping Dean sit up straighter before putting the tray carefully on his lap. Once done, he sat down on the chair beside the bed, silent, fidgeting with a fold in the comforter.
Dean knew him well enough to sense that he had something on his mind that he wasn’t ready to share. He decided not to push and instead looked suspiciously at the soup. The vibrant pea-green color was unappealing, but it smelled good. He took a spoonful, blew on it and swallowed it thankfully. It tasted as good as it smelled, whatever was in it, and he vaguely wondered who had made it.
He gestured in Sam’s direction with the spoon. “So, tell me what’s been happening. Did the police find Miller?”
Sam looked up and nodded. “They got an anonymous call. I didn’t think they’d find him quickly otherwise. Looks like they aren’t questioning that his death was a suicide, but now that it’s been a few days and it’s clear that the pattern of murders has been broken, they’re getting suspicious and wondering if Miller’s connected. Looks like they’re going to look into the cases again, check if he had an alibi around the times of the killings.”
“They probably won’t find anything.”
“No, probably not,” Sam agreed, and went back to fingering the comforter.
Dean swallowed some more soup and allowed silence to reign for several minutes before putting the spoon down. “Spill it, Sam,” he said firmly.
Sam looked up. “Spill what?”
“Oh, come on. There’s something on your tiny mind, and you’re gonna burst if you don’t get it out. So, spill it.”
Sam scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Dean, you could have been killed back at the cabin.”
Dean waved a dismissive hand. “No way. I can handle a seven-pound weakling and a vengeful spirit with one hand tied behind my back.”
Sam shook his head, ignoring Dean’s attempt at levity. “When you’re on your game, yeah. But you were sick, Dean. You could barely stay on your feet, and Miller came close to taking you out.” He frowned as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. “It’s true, Dean, and you know it.”
Dean shrugged. “So it was a tough situation. We’ve been in worse. What’s your point, Sam?”
Sam paused. “I just keep thinking… if I hadn’t been so set on proving that Dad was wrong, if I’d been willing to look objectively at the facts right from the start, maybe we’d have worked out what was going on at the beginning. You wouldn’t have had to push yourself so hard, make yourself so sick trying to find me.”
Dean shook his head. “Sam, that’s crap. We’d barely had time to gather all the facts before you went missing.”
“We talked about it,” Sam persisted. “You said the cause was supernatural, and I wouldn’t hear it. We could have worked it out.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “No we couldn’t. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because we’re both alive, and that’s what counts.”
Sam blew out a long breath. “Maybe. I just… I’m sorry, Dean. I let my feelings about Dad get in the way of the case, and I won’t let it happen again.”
Dean looked at him seriously. “Okay.” He paused, reluctant to say the next words but knowing Sam deserved to hear them. “Look, maybe it’s not just you who’s the problem here. I know I’m too…” He cleared his throat. “You think I blindly follow Dad’s orders, no question. I don’t do it out of blind faith, Sam. I do it because I know he’s good at his job, and he’s usually right. But lately… I don’t know. I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I have to trust he’s doing the right thing, but maybe… maybe you’re right and I should question his orders sometimes, you know? We’re on our own now. Things are different.”
Sam shot him a surprised look, then nodded. “The important thing is we trust each other and keep watching each other’s backs.”
“Always, Sam. Batman and Robin, right?”
Sam gave him a half grin. “If you like, but I’m not wearing the costume.”
Dean grinned and went back to his soup. He watched Sam surreptitiously through mouthfuls. He knew the discussion about Dad wasn’t over, but for now, Sam seemed to be more at peace.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully after a while, “talking of seven-pound weaklings, you haven’t explained how you let Miller take you. I mean, come on Sam, that’s just embarrassing.”
Sam looked sheepish. “I was wondering when you’d bring that up. I guess I felt sorry for the guy, and when I met him in the parking lot, I never thought… I let him catch me off-guard.”
Dean waved his spoon at Sam, smirking as a few drops of green flew between them and landed splat on Sam’s white shirt. “I think it’s time you went back to self-defense school.”
Sam gave him a withering look and dabbed at the stains with a tissue. He sighed theatrically. “Maybe I should. Still, at least I wasn’t the one who dropped my gun. Oops, sorry, I forgot - dropped both guns. That was pretty impressive, Dean.”
“I was sick!” Dean exclaimed indignantly. “You’re the one who keeps telling me how sick I was. I should get a medal really, what I went through that day…”
Sam held his eyes and his lips twitched. “How about instead of a medal, I go see if I can find you a piece of homemade pie?”
Dean lay back, satisfied. Sam was safe, they were still on the road together and there was pie on the horizon. For now, that was all he needed.
The End
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12