Culpable 2/?
Summary: Dean was hurt because Sam had been careless, and now Sam had to get on with what needed to be done. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Pre-season, hurt/ sick! Sam, minor hurt/ major angst! Dean, angst! John.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?
Part 1
Dead rat...
Rotting garbage...
Unflushed toilet...
Open drain...
“What the hell is that smell?”
Somewhere between brain and mouth the question fell apart. Dean was pretty sure the garbled moan that he produced wasn’t what he’d intended.
He tried again, but the brain-to-mouth short-circuit was still in operation.
I... what...
I’m asleep.
That’s it. I’m asleep, and I’m dreaming -
But that smell!
“Dean?”
Small voice.
“S’mmy...”
Okay, that was a real word. Sorta.
Ah, I know. I’m drunk.
“Dean, can you hear me? Please wake up.”
Sammy sounds...
Scared.
Scared?! What the...
The harpy!
With a rush, it all came back to him. The hunt... hiding in the trees... Sam had the shotgun. Sam was supposed to shoot...
The harpy attacked Sam!
Sammy... no... please be okay...
“Sammy!”
A burst of fear thrust him up. He needed to get to Sam! Sam was hurt -
“Uhhh...”
Somebody had chopped his head off.
There was no way it could hurt that badly and still be attached to his body.
Dean slumped back to the ground with a whimper that would have embarrassed him exceedingly had he been in any position to care.
“Dean...”
Cold hands were pressed against his face.
Need to...
Have to check...
Sammy...
“S-sammy...”
He could just vaguely make out that his eyes seemed to be glued shut.
Guess that fugly female got the drop on me, too...
Need to check on Sam!
His thoughts were hopping around, frantic and disjointed. Only one came through with any clarity.
Sam.
Is Sammy okay?
Need to check Sam.
C’mon... c’mon eyes. Open already!
**************************************************************
“S’mmy...!”
Heavy eyelids flickered, revealing slits of green. Dean seemed to pale even more as his eyes opened.
“Uhhh... Sam...” His voice was a groan.
Sam winced in sympathy. He’d hurt his head before and could distinctly remember the nauseating pain.
Dean tried to lift his head, and groaned again.
“No, don’t move... just lie still. S’okay, Dean, just relax.” Sam tried his best to control the shake in his voice, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. Dean looked terrible, even though he was at last waking up, and all of Sam’s fears were back in full force.
“S-sammy...”
“I’m here, it’s alright.”
“Y’ okay...?”
Sam blinked, and bit his lip hard.
Dean got hurt, and he’s worrying about me...
“I... I’m okay.”
“Harpy...?”
“Uh... she’s dead. Burning. That’s what the smell is.”
“Y’ get... hurt?”
“N-no.”
Bruises don’t count.
Dean seemed to relax a little, although the tight lines of pain around his mouth and eyes didn’t disappear. His eyes closed and he lay still for a while.
“Dean?”
“Mmm.” His voice was marginally stronger.
“Are you... how’re you feeling?”
“M’ okay.” Dean opened his eyes again, as if to prove how okay he was, and promptly threw up.
Sympathy triggered Sam’s gag reflex. He wanted to comfort his brother, rub his back as Dean would have done had their positions been reversed. But somehow he couldn’t. Somehow that was the action of a big brother, and he didn’t think Dean would want it from him. He contented himself with putting a cautious hand on Dean’s shoulder. His grip tightened when Dean appeared to be readying himself to dive into his resurrected lunch, and he pulled his brother back.
Dean groaned again, and mumbled something. One hand came up, and he rested his arm across his eyes.
“Dean?”
“Saaammm...” Dean swallowed, scrunched up his face, and tried again.
“S-sam...? D’I hit m’head?”
“Yeah.”
“Harpy?”
“Yeah, she... she threw you into a tree.” Sam’s voice trembled slightly as he relived that moment. Dean’s arm lifted and he blinked at Sam with momentary concern.
“W-what... w-where... is she?”
Sam bit his lip.
He’s really hurt - I just told him that she’s dead!
“She’s dead. I burned the corpse.”
“D’d I... get her?”
“Uh... no. No, I stabbed her with your knife.”
A weak but unmistakeably pleased smile curled Dean’s mouth.
“Y’ killed her? Tha’s... my boy...”
Sam was too worried to appreciate the praise. It was getting later, and colder, and Dean needed help. He needed warmth and medical attention. Sam wasn’t sure whether he should move him or call 911.
A glance at the cell phone that he’d slid from Dean’s pocket decided him. Deep in the forest as they were, there was no reception, and he wasn’t leaving his brother to find a place where he could make a call. They were going to have to walk out, and he’d just have to trust that the movement wouldn’t worsen any injuries Dean might have sustained.
The trip to the Impala was not easy for either of them. Dean became more aware of what was happening, but his body was sluggish and uncooperative and he leaned heavily on Sam. The latter had one arm wrapped around his brother’s waist while his other hand gripped the shotgun.
Supporting Dean’s weight would have been difficult enough under normal circumstances. With the bruises Sam had collected in his fall over the tree trunk it bordered on impossible. He was soon drenched, the sweat due almost as much to the ache in his midriff as to the physical exertion. He could hear the pain in Dean’s heavy breathing; it was an effort to keep it out of his own. By the time they reached the Impala he was staggering almost as much as his brother, and wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and just lie there.
But this time he couldn’t relax. This time he had to be the responsible one.
Sam grimaced at the thought. He was the responsible one. He was responsible for Dean’s condition. He looked at his white-faced brother, propped against the side of the car, and felt a stab of guilt that was far worse than the dragging pain in his torso.
I deserve that pain. Dean is hurt because of me, because I was careless, and now I must grit my teeth and get on with what needs to be done, without whining and moaning.
My bruises are nothing compared to Dean’s concussion.
It was like having his father inside his head.
Get the keys. Get Dean into the car. Get us both back to the motel. Get Dean into the motel, out of those clothes, into bed, clean and bandage that cut - please don’t let it need stitches - and give Dean painkillers. Wake Dean up every hour to check that he’s okay.
He repeated the litany to himself over and over, angrily, commanding himself. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Now was not the time to be weak, to be the things his father had accused him of.
I screwed up once, exactly as Dad said I would. Not again. Not now. Not ever.
**************************************************************
“Dad, it’s me. Sam. Uh... Dean’s hurt... he hit his head... I think he’s gonna be okay but... but... yeah. I just thought you oughta know. Uh... later, Dad.”
Sam disconnected the call and slowly put the cell phone down. His eyes were on the unmoving figure of his brother in the opposite bed. Dean was asleep, his face pale but the breath coming deeply and evenly. A neat dressing covered the gash on his temple.
Sam swallowed, running a slightly unsteady hand over his face.
He had driven them both back to the motel after wrestling Dean into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean’s lack of protest at Sam’s appropriation of the car keys had only heightened his concern; by the time they reached the motel, Dean was barely conscious and almost unresponsive. Getting him out of the car and into the room had been almost impossible. In the end Sam had hooked his arms under Dean’s and dragged him backwards, his heels sliding along the ground. The strain on his bruised muscles had been intense, and after pulling his brother onto the bed Sam had slumped to the floor with his back against the mattress, head down, willing himself not to pass out.
Fortunately Dean hadn’t needed stitches. Cleaning and dressing the cut had brought him round, and Sam had managed to get two Tylenol into him before Dean faded out again. This time, though, he seemed to be sleeping rather than unconscious. His pulse was strong and regular, and when Sam checked his pupils they were even and reactive.
In all likelihood he was going to be fine.
Sam called their father anyway, and as usual, the call went to voicemail. He had no idea when his father would get the message or when he’d be home.
For the first time Sam allowed himself to take stock of his own injuries.
Dragging his heavy brother around had done his midriff no good. The pain was a dull, constant ache, hunching him over like an elderly woman. When he lifted his sweater and hoodie he was not surprised to see the spectacular wash of colour that spanned his abdomen.
He knew he should take a shower. He should check the weapons, clean the knife, reload the shotgun. He should make sure that the wards and the salt lines were in place. He needed to check on Dean again.
He would do it. All of it. He couldn’t afford to sleep now, even if his head felt heavy and his eyelids kept drooping...
Bedsprings creaked. The lumpy pillow curved under the sudden weight as the tousled dark head came down. Sneaker-clad feet still resting on the ground, Sam’s aching body relaxed into the gentle darkness of exhausted sleep.
**************************************************
“Sam?”
“Mmmm.” No, don’ wanna... le’ me sleep...
“Sam. Sam, wake up!”
The hand on his shoulder was heavy and none too gentle, tugging him towards consciousness. Reluctant green-blue eyes half-opened, slid shut, and then flew open again as awareness crashed in on him.
Dean! What... how... I fell asleep? Stupid... stupid...
“Dad?!”
For a moment he was disoriented. The overhead light was on, casting brittle yellow light over the shabbiness of the room. The curtains were drawn incompletely across the single window, and the sliver of black that remained told him it was night.
John Winchester stood between the two beds. He looked dishevelled, his chin stubbled and his eyes bloodshot. He was frowning.
“Sam, what happened?”
Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, swallowing back an involuntary groan at the pull on his sore abdomen. His eyes flew instinctively to Dean.
I was supposed to wake him! I shouldn’t have gone to sleep - needed to check on him...
“Sam!” His father’s voice was impatient, and Sam could hear the beginnings of anger.
“We... uh... the harpy. She knocked Dean... she threw him into a tree. He hit his head.” Sam swallowed, lubricating the dry huskiness of his voice. He saw the instant worry in his father’s eyes.
“Has he woken up yet?” The oldest Winchester leant over his sleeping son, one hand going to his neck to feel his pulse. Careful fingers touched the dressing that Sam had applied earlier. Sam, watching apprehensively, was relieved when a little of the tension seemed to leave his father’s shoulders.
“Yeah, a couple of times - he woke up after... after I killed the harpy, and spoke to me, and then when we were going back to the car. And also when I cleaned the cut.”
His father nodded. His hand strayed and rested for just an instant on his older son’s hair in a rare tender moment. Dean stirred a little, mumbling something, and then settled again.
Sam relaxed. If his father was being affectionate, he couldn’t be too upset. Maybe there wouldn’t be another massive argument. Maybe they’d just be able to move on - and then he saw his father’s eyes, and the relief faded.
“So, how did this happen? You had a plan. She shouldn’t have had a chance to get the drop on you like this.”
Sam didn’t want to describe what had happened. He knew it was his own fault, and goodness knew he blamed himself even more than his father could, but he quailed at the thought of admitting the extent of his crime.
“We... uh... she came for me, and Dean tried to stab her with the knife, and she turned on him.” Sam had never been as good as Dean at concealing the truth. He knew his story sounded weak, and he wasn’t surprised when his father’s eyes narrowed.
“Dean tried to stab her with the knife? What happened to the shotgun?” His gaze went to his older son. “He should have known better than to attack her like that! No wonder she threw him!”
Even as apprehensive as he was, Sam wasn’t having Dean take the blame. Of course he’d known better. And if Sam had only been paying attention, his older brother wouldn’t have had to jump in to rescue him. He took a deep breath, his shoulders hunching unconsciously against the wrath that he knew was not far off.
“I... uh... I had the shotgun. I didn’t... I didn’t see her coming, and when I did I tripped so I couldn’t shoot. Dean... Dean attacked her because otherwise she would have attacked me.”
There was a brief silence as his father assimilated this.
“You didn’t see her coming.” His voice was ominously quiet. “Why not?”
Sam’s gaze flicked to his, and then away. His silence was answer enough.
“You weren’t paying attention. Is that it?”
Sam chewed his lip, not wanting to meet his father’s eye.
“Is that it?”
He couldn’t avoid it forever. He lifted his chin and looked up at his father.
I’m not scared of Dad. I’m not. I just wish he wasn’t so... tall... and that he’d sit down. I don’t like him... looming... like that.
“Well...uh... kinda...”
“Kinda.”
“Uh... yeah. I... I got distracted -” Sam hated himself for the quiver he could hear in his voice. He’d fought with his dad before. This was nothing new.
He’s only going to yell. He’s always yelling at me. It’s nothing to be scared of. Nothing to be scared of!
But this time you deserve it.
The implacable little voice in his head was unanswerable. This was different, because this time he didn’t have an excuse. This time he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have anger to throw back at his father.
All his anger was against himself.
His head dropped again and he stared at the floor in tense anticipation of the explosion.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“...exactly what we talked about...”
“...said this would happen...”
“...careless...”
“...irresponsible...”
“...selfish...”
“...thoughtlessly put others in danger...”
He was a sapling in the path of a flash flood of words.
Sam didn’t even hear them all. At some point his arms wrapped unconsciously around his middle, and only in part because the bruises were hurting. The anger directed against him was an almost physical assault.
“... could have been seriously hurt...”
“...could have been killed...”
“Did you even think of taking your brother to hospital?”
Sam flinched at that, his eyes widening as they stared at the floor.
I didn’t... I should have taken Dean to the hospital!
Nightmare scenarios played through his mind. Bleeding on the brain... skull fracture... coma...
“...you hear me?”
He could have been seriously hurt and I wouldn’t have known.
His guilt and self-directed anger reached new levels.
“Sam! Did you hear me?”
Sam started, and his head lifted involuntarily. His father’s voice was low-pitched in deference to the injured young man sleeping in the bed beside them, but Sam could hear the fury that vibrated through it. His face was pale with wrath.
Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father so angry, and he shrank back a little.
“I’m not putting up with this any longer! If Dean had been killed today it would have been your fault! Would you have wanted to live with that? With the knowledge that you caused your brother’s death? You’re a liability, Sam! A danger to yourself and, more importantly, to Dean and me! It’s time you learnt to pull your weight! It’s time you stopped being a burden and started to take some responsibility!”
Sam’s teeth sank into his lower lip.
I. Will. Not. Cry.
It’s true. I am a liability and a danger. Someone could get killed because of me.
Dad’s right. He’s right. I’m a burden.
With a supreme effort he held back the betraying tears and listened in silence.
“...extra training...”
“...Latin...”
“...rituals...”
“...sparring...”
“...weapons...”
He was aware that his father was laying out an impossibly tough program, but he couldn’t find it within himself to challenge it. It was only what he deserved, after all. If the extra training could prevent today’s nightmare from happening again, he would just have to find time for it.
“And when the semester is finished, that’s it. Sixteen is old enough to leave school.”
Sam’s breath caught.
“But Dad -”
“Don’t argue with me, Sam! It’s a distraction, and it’s not worth it.”
John Winchester’s jaw was jutting, and his teeth were tightly clenched, and Sam knew that there would be no changing his mind.
Lying in the dark later that night, listening to the heavy, regular breathing of his brother beside him and his father across the room, Sam couldn’t prevent the words from replaying in his head.
“Careless... irresponsible... selfish... liability...”
“It’s time you stopped being a burden...”
“It’s time you stopped being a burden...”
The pain of knowing his father’s poor opinion of him was even worse than the gnawing ache in his abdomen. The awareness that it was warranted was his undoing.
Sam curled onto his side, pulling his knees up against his chest, turned his head into the pillow and gave in at last to the burning tears which washed silently down his face.
Part 3
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?
Part 1
Dead rat...
Rotting garbage...
Unflushed toilet...
Open drain...
“What the hell is that smell?”
Somewhere between brain and mouth the question fell apart. Dean was pretty sure the garbled moan that he produced wasn’t what he’d intended.
He tried again, but the brain-to-mouth short-circuit was still in operation.
I... what...
I’m asleep.
That’s it. I’m asleep, and I’m dreaming -
But that smell!
“Dean?”
Small voice.
“S’mmy...”
Okay, that was a real word. Sorta.
Ah, I know. I’m drunk.
“Dean, can you hear me? Please wake up.”
Sammy sounds...
Scared.
Scared?! What the...
The harpy!
With a rush, it all came back to him. The hunt... hiding in the trees... Sam had the shotgun. Sam was supposed to shoot...
The harpy attacked Sam!
Sammy... no... please be okay...
“Sammy!”
A burst of fear thrust him up. He needed to get to Sam! Sam was hurt -
“Uhhh...”
Somebody had chopped his head off.
There was no way it could hurt that badly and still be attached to his body.
Dean slumped back to the ground with a whimper that would have embarrassed him exceedingly had he been in any position to care.
“Dean...”
Cold hands were pressed against his face.
Need to...
Have to check...
Sammy...
“S-sammy...”
He could just vaguely make out that his eyes seemed to be glued shut.
Guess that fugly female got the drop on me, too...
Need to check on Sam!
His thoughts were hopping around, frantic and disjointed. Only one came through with any clarity.
Sam.
Is Sammy okay?
Need to check Sam.
C’mon... c’mon eyes. Open already!
**************************************************************
“S’mmy...!”
Heavy eyelids flickered, revealing slits of green. Dean seemed to pale even more as his eyes opened.
“Uhhh... Sam...” His voice was a groan.
Sam winced in sympathy. He’d hurt his head before and could distinctly remember the nauseating pain.
Dean tried to lift his head, and groaned again.
“No, don’t move... just lie still. S’okay, Dean, just relax.” Sam tried his best to control the shake in his voice, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. Dean looked terrible, even though he was at last waking up, and all of Sam’s fears were back in full force.
“S-sammy...”
“I’m here, it’s alright.”
“Y’ okay...?”
Sam blinked, and bit his lip hard.
Dean got hurt, and he’s worrying about me...
“I... I’m okay.”
“Harpy...?”
“Uh... she’s dead. Burning. That’s what the smell is.”
“Y’ get... hurt?”
“N-no.”
Bruises don’t count.
Dean seemed to relax a little, although the tight lines of pain around his mouth and eyes didn’t disappear. His eyes closed and he lay still for a while.
“Dean?”
“Mmm.” His voice was marginally stronger.
“Are you... how’re you feeling?”
“M’ okay.” Dean opened his eyes again, as if to prove how okay he was, and promptly threw up.
Sympathy triggered Sam’s gag reflex. He wanted to comfort his brother, rub his back as Dean would have done had their positions been reversed. But somehow he couldn’t. Somehow that was the action of a big brother, and he didn’t think Dean would want it from him. He contented himself with putting a cautious hand on Dean’s shoulder. His grip tightened when Dean appeared to be readying himself to dive into his resurrected lunch, and he pulled his brother back.
Dean groaned again, and mumbled something. One hand came up, and he rested his arm across his eyes.
“Dean?”
“Saaammm...” Dean swallowed, scrunched up his face, and tried again.
“S-sam...? D’I hit m’head?”
“Yeah.”
“Harpy?”
“Yeah, she... she threw you into a tree.” Sam’s voice trembled slightly as he relived that moment. Dean’s arm lifted and he blinked at Sam with momentary concern.
“W-what... w-where... is she?”
Sam bit his lip.
He’s really hurt - I just told him that she’s dead!
“She’s dead. I burned the corpse.”
“D’d I... get her?”
“Uh... no. No, I stabbed her with your knife.”
A weak but unmistakeably pleased smile curled Dean’s mouth.
“Y’ killed her? Tha’s... my boy...”
Sam was too worried to appreciate the praise. It was getting later, and colder, and Dean needed help. He needed warmth and medical attention. Sam wasn’t sure whether he should move him or call 911.
A glance at the cell phone that he’d slid from Dean’s pocket decided him. Deep in the forest as they were, there was no reception, and he wasn’t leaving his brother to find a place where he could make a call. They were going to have to walk out, and he’d just have to trust that the movement wouldn’t worsen any injuries Dean might have sustained.
The trip to the Impala was not easy for either of them. Dean became more aware of what was happening, but his body was sluggish and uncooperative and he leaned heavily on Sam. The latter had one arm wrapped around his brother’s waist while his other hand gripped the shotgun.
Supporting Dean’s weight would have been difficult enough under normal circumstances. With the bruises Sam had collected in his fall over the tree trunk it bordered on impossible. He was soon drenched, the sweat due almost as much to the ache in his midriff as to the physical exertion. He could hear the pain in Dean’s heavy breathing; it was an effort to keep it out of his own. By the time they reached the Impala he was staggering almost as much as his brother, and wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and just lie there.
But this time he couldn’t relax. This time he had to be the responsible one.
Sam grimaced at the thought. He was the responsible one. He was responsible for Dean’s condition. He looked at his white-faced brother, propped against the side of the car, and felt a stab of guilt that was far worse than the dragging pain in his torso.
I deserve that pain. Dean is hurt because of me, because I was careless, and now I must grit my teeth and get on with what needs to be done, without whining and moaning.
My bruises are nothing compared to Dean’s concussion.
It was like having his father inside his head.
Get the keys. Get Dean into the car. Get us both back to the motel. Get Dean into the motel, out of those clothes, into bed, clean and bandage that cut - please don’t let it need stitches - and give Dean painkillers. Wake Dean up every hour to check that he’s okay.
He repeated the litany to himself over and over, angrily, commanding himself. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Now was not the time to be weak, to be the things his father had accused him of.
I screwed up once, exactly as Dad said I would. Not again. Not now. Not ever.
**************************************************************
“Dad, it’s me. Sam. Uh... Dean’s hurt... he hit his head... I think he’s gonna be okay but... but... yeah. I just thought you oughta know. Uh... later, Dad.”
Sam disconnected the call and slowly put the cell phone down. His eyes were on the unmoving figure of his brother in the opposite bed. Dean was asleep, his face pale but the breath coming deeply and evenly. A neat dressing covered the gash on his temple.
Sam swallowed, running a slightly unsteady hand over his face.
He had driven them both back to the motel after wrestling Dean into the passenger side of the Impala. Dean’s lack of protest at Sam’s appropriation of the car keys had only heightened his concern; by the time they reached the motel, Dean was barely conscious and almost unresponsive. Getting him out of the car and into the room had been almost impossible. In the end Sam had hooked his arms under Dean’s and dragged him backwards, his heels sliding along the ground. The strain on his bruised muscles had been intense, and after pulling his brother onto the bed Sam had slumped to the floor with his back against the mattress, head down, willing himself not to pass out.
Fortunately Dean hadn’t needed stitches. Cleaning and dressing the cut had brought him round, and Sam had managed to get two Tylenol into him before Dean faded out again. This time, though, he seemed to be sleeping rather than unconscious. His pulse was strong and regular, and when Sam checked his pupils they were even and reactive.
In all likelihood he was going to be fine.
Sam called their father anyway, and as usual, the call went to voicemail. He had no idea when his father would get the message or when he’d be home.
For the first time Sam allowed himself to take stock of his own injuries.
Dragging his heavy brother around had done his midriff no good. The pain was a dull, constant ache, hunching him over like an elderly woman. When he lifted his sweater and hoodie he was not surprised to see the spectacular wash of colour that spanned his abdomen.
He knew he should take a shower. He should check the weapons, clean the knife, reload the shotgun. He should make sure that the wards and the salt lines were in place. He needed to check on Dean again.
He would do it. All of it. He couldn’t afford to sleep now, even if his head felt heavy and his eyelids kept drooping...
Bedsprings creaked. The lumpy pillow curved under the sudden weight as the tousled dark head came down. Sneaker-clad feet still resting on the ground, Sam’s aching body relaxed into the gentle darkness of exhausted sleep.
**************************************************
“Sam?”
“Mmmm.” No, don’ wanna... le’ me sleep...
“Sam. Sam, wake up!”
The hand on his shoulder was heavy and none too gentle, tugging him towards consciousness. Reluctant green-blue eyes half-opened, slid shut, and then flew open again as awareness crashed in on him.
Dean! What... how... I fell asleep? Stupid... stupid...
“Dad?!”
For a moment he was disoriented. The overhead light was on, casting brittle yellow light over the shabbiness of the room. The curtains were drawn incompletely across the single window, and the sliver of black that remained told him it was night.
John Winchester stood between the two beds. He looked dishevelled, his chin stubbled and his eyes bloodshot. He was frowning.
“Sam, what happened?”
Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, swallowing back an involuntary groan at the pull on his sore abdomen. His eyes flew instinctively to Dean.
I was supposed to wake him! I shouldn’t have gone to sleep - needed to check on him...
“Sam!” His father’s voice was impatient, and Sam could hear the beginnings of anger.
“We... uh... the harpy. She knocked Dean... she threw him into a tree. He hit his head.” Sam swallowed, lubricating the dry huskiness of his voice. He saw the instant worry in his father’s eyes.
“Has he woken up yet?” The oldest Winchester leant over his sleeping son, one hand going to his neck to feel his pulse. Careful fingers touched the dressing that Sam had applied earlier. Sam, watching apprehensively, was relieved when a little of the tension seemed to leave his father’s shoulders.
“Yeah, a couple of times - he woke up after... after I killed the harpy, and spoke to me, and then when we were going back to the car. And also when I cleaned the cut.”
His father nodded. His hand strayed and rested for just an instant on his older son’s hair in a rare tender moment. Dean stirred a little, mumbling something, and then settled again.
Sam relaxed. If his father was being affectionate, he couldn’t be too upset. Maybe there wouldn’t be another massive argument. Maybe they’d just be able to move on - and then he saw his father’s eyes, and the relief faded.
“So, how did this happen? You had a plan. She shouldn’t have had a chance to get the drop on you like this.”
Sam didn’t want to describe what had happened. He knew it was his own fault, and goodness knew he blamed himself even more than his father could, but he quailed at the thought of admitting the extent of his crime.
“We... uh... she came for me, and Dean tried to stab her with the knife, and she turned on him.” Sam had never been as good as Dean at concealing the truth. He knew his story sounded weak, and he wasn’t surprised when his father’s eyes narrowed.
“Dean tried to stab her with the knife? What happened to the shotgun?” His gaze went to his older son. “He should have known better than to attack her like that! No wonder she threw him!”
Even as apprehensive as he was, Sam wasn’t having Dean take the blame. Of course he’d known better. And if Sam had only been paying attention, his older brother wouldn’t have had to jump in to rescue him. He took a deep breath, his shoulders hunching unconsciously against the wrath that he knew was not far off.
“I... uh... I had the shotgun. I didn’t... I didn’t see her coming, and when I did I tripped so I couldn’t shoot. Dean... Dean attacked her because otherwise she would have attacked me.”
There was a brief silence as his father assimilated this.
“You didn’t see her coming.” His voice was ominously quiet. “Why not?”
Sam’s gaze flicked to his, and then away. His silence was answer enough.
“You weren’t paying attention. Is that it?”
Sam chewed his lip, not wanting to meet his father’s eye.
“Is that it?”
He couldn’t avoid it forever. He lifted his chin and looked up at his father.
I’m not scared of Dad. I’m not. I just wish he wasn’t so... tall... and that he’d sit down. I don’t like him... looming... like that.
“Well...uh... kinda...”
“Kinda.”
“Uh... yeah. I... I got distracted -” Sam hated himself for the quiver he could hear in his voice. He’d fought with his dad before. This was nothing new.
He’s only going to yell. He’s always yelling at me. It’s nothing to be scared of. Nothing to be scared of!
But this time you deserve it.
The implacable little voice in his head was unanswerable. This was different, because this time he didn’t have an excuse. This time he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have anger to throw back at his father.
All his anger was against himself.
His head dropped again and he stared at the floor in tense anticipation of the explosion.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“...exactly what we talked about...”
“...said this would happen...”
“...careless...”
“...irresponsible...”
“...selfish...”
“...thoughtlessly put others in danger...”
He was a sapling in the path of a flash flood of words.
Sam didn’t even hear them all. At some point his arms wrapped unconsciously around his middle, and only in part because the bruises were hurting. The anger directed against him was an almost physical assault.
“... could have been seriously hurt...”
“...could have been killed...”
“Did you even think of taking your brother to hospital?”
Sam flinched at that, his eyes widening as they stared at the floor.
I didn’t... I should have taken Dean to the hospital!
Nightmare scenarios played through his mind. Bleeding on the brain... skull fracture... coma...
“...you hear me?”
He could have been seriously hurt and I wouldn’t have known.
His guilt and self-directed anger reached new levels.
“Sam! Did you hear me?”
Sam started, and his head lifted involuntarily. His father’s voice was low-pitched in deference to the injured young man sleeping in the bed beside them, but Sam could hear the fury that vibrated through it. His face was pale with wrath.
Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father so angry, and he shrank back a little.
“I’m not putting up with this any longer! If Dean had been killed today it would have been your fault! Would you have wanted to live with that? With the knowledge that you caused your brother’s death? You’re a liability, Sam! A danger to yourself and, more importantly, to Dean and me! It’s time you learnt to pull your weight! It’s time you stopped being a burden and started to take some responsibility!”
Sam’s teeth sank into his lower lip.
I. Will. Not. Cry.
It’s true. I am a liability and a danger. Someone could get killed because of me.
Dad’s right. He’s right. I’m a burden.
With a supreme effort he held back the betraying tears and listened in silence.
“...extra training...”
“...Latin...”
“...rituals...”
“...sparring...”
“...weapons...”
He was aware that his father was laying out an impossibly tough program, but he couldn’t find it within himself to challenge it. It was only what he deserved, after all. If the extra training could prevent today’s nightmare from happening again, he would just have to find time for it.
“And when the semester is finished, that’s it. Sixteen is old enough to leave school.”
Sam’s breath caught.
“But Dad -”
“Don’t argue with me, Sam! It’s a distraction, and it’s not worth it.”
John Winchester’s jaw was jutting, and his teeth were tightly clenched, and Sam knew that there would be no changing his mind.
Lying in the dark later that night, listening to the heavy, regular breathing of his brother beside him and his father across the room, Sam couldn’t prevent the words from replaying in his head.
“Careless... irresponsible... selfish... liability...”
“It’s time you stopped being a burden...”
“It’s time you stopped being a burden...”
The pain of knowing his father’s poor opinion of him was even worse than the gnawing ache in his abdomen. The awareness that it was warranted was his undoing.
Sam curled onto his side, pulling his knees up against his chest, turned his head into the pillow and gave in at last to the burning tears which washed silently down his face.
Part 3