Hope Has No Boundaries - a fic
Jan. 30th, 2012 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberdreamsAn unfinished fic - finally done!
Title: Hope Has No Boundaries
Author: Amber1960
Characters: Sam & Dean (Gen)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3113
Summary: Sometime between Hollywood Babylon and Folsom Prison Blues, the brothers take on a case in New Mexico. They thought it was a chucacabra, it wasn’t.
Some time late March early April, and sort of en route for Arkansas. There’s probably not enough time in canon for this kind of injury and recovery but hell, that is what fiction is for, right?
Warnings: Episode level gore with a touch of schmoop amid the hurt!boys and angst…oh and swearing.
*******
Sam fired. The creature was freakishly fast though, and dodged the shot. His brother was not so lucky. Sam watched with horror as blood blossomed obscenely red through Dean’s hands that were clasped instinctively to his stomach, a look of surprise on his rapidly paling face.
Before Sam could react, or even think about reloading, the creature reappeared from nowhere, and the next few moments were filled with a flurry of frantic action; no time to do anything but fight for his own survival.
But all the while Sam struggled with the monster, he was hyper aware of Dean. Dean sliding almost gracefully to the ground, his blood a vivid smear of crimson where his hand trailed down the grubby off-white wall that was refusing to hold him up. The sound of Dean moaning faintly with the pain. Dean bleeding because he’d shot him. Fuck. He’d shot his own brother with a fucking silver-quarrelled crossbow bolt. Should have known that was a dumb idea, choosing the pistol crossbow as his weapon against this unknown creature tonight.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
----------
Dean cursed himself for a dumbass. He’d known Sam was directly on the other side of the crumbling courtyard to him, and had still managed to get himself plumb in the line of fire behind the creature; gotten himself shot bad.
Like he said (silently to himself, as the sun darkened, and he felt his life oozing out between his fingers, however hard he was trying to hold it in) Pretty fucking stupid, Winchester.
His knees buckled underneath him and the wall wasn’t any damn good – what’s the point of a wall that fucking moves when you lean on it? – and he was fuck all use to Sammy now; so what was the point of him at all, if he couldn’t help when the kid needed him? He was filled with impotent anguish as the monster reappeared – what the fuck was that thing anyway with those claws and all that howling and that shaggy fur? – and starting laying into his little brother.
Fucking useless. Story of his life. Now the story of his death too, looked like. Goddammit.
Then Sam went down to a heavy slashing blow to the head, and the creature reared up, triumphant.
And somehow Dean’s colt was back in his blood-slippery hand, and somehow that hand didn’t shake one tiny bit as he raised the gun and fired – once, twice.
Once - and the creature staggered as the cold silver penetrated its back. It swung round towards him, roaring with rage.
So. Silver bullet to the heart was a bust then.
Twice - and the huge hairy head exploded in a sickening mass of blood and grey matter and bits of bone. Well, it always was an ugly fucker, he thought. A bullet renovating its skull was an improvement, really.
Dean’s hand dropped down to rest, lax and open fingered, on one outstretched thigh. The pearl handled Colt 1911 slid to the floor with a clatter he didn’t really hear. Dean wished that he could see the stars from here; it was so damnably dark. Then he remembered it was supposed to be daytime, hot and sun-kissed here in New Mexico – all tequila and senoritas, he’d promised Sammy, only to be rewarded with a epic bitch-face – and that anomaly puzzled him somewhat, until he closed his heavy lids and let the strange premature starless darkness carry him away.
----------
Sam’s head might have been spinning from the mysterious hirsute monster’s blow but he was quicker and slicker than mercury in his slide across the tramped-down, dark stained earth of the courtyard. Dean was slumped on his side, back still pressed against the whitewashed garden wall, and Sam was reminded of the time the Yellow Eyed Demon had torn Dean apart and left him bleeding, just like now, on the floor. Except this time, it was Sam who’d put him there. Sam’s shot that had taken Dean down.
Sam’s mouth was dry, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of desert dust. He croaked out “Dean!” His long fingers groped his brother’s neck, desperately searching for signs of life. Dean was so pale and still.
A wave of relief swept over Sam as he felt a pulse at his fingertips, weak and erratic but there.
The icy fist loosened, just a little, that had closed so tightly around his heart when he’d seen the bolt (his bolt) bury itself in his brother’s flesh. With a start he realised that Dean’s eyes were open, dark as a pine forest, unfathomable with pain.
“Y’alright, S’m?”
Sam exhaled, a long huff of exasperation. “I’m not the one with a crossbow bolt in his gut, Dean.”
His brother lifted a blood-soaked hand to the jagged gash in Sam’s cheek, his touch soft, feather-light.
“Fugly gotcha, S’mmy.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah, well, it’s nothing serious. Here, let me see. Gotta get you…” As he spoke Sam was pulling carefully at Dean’s layers, trying to see the extent of the damage he’d caused. He felt the blood drain out of his own face to pool, claggy and cold, into his feet, as his fingers moved over Dean’s exposed stomach, ghosted over his brother’s sweat soaked back.
It was bad. Very bad. The crossbow bolt was buried deep, less than an inch of the fletching protruding, and there was no exit wound. The Montoya hacienda was miles from anywhere that passed for civilised. San Juan Antonio was the nearest place calling itself a town, and Sam had wondered at its audacity in giving itself such a fancy label when all it could boast by way of amenities was a tiny general store attached to a gas station whose pumps were twenty years older than the Impala. It certainly didn’t have medical facilities sophisticated enough to deal with a wound like this. Sam doubted there was even a doctor there.
San Juan Antonio was close to the old ghost town of Hachita, but both were out of reach for the Winchesters right now, being at least a two hour drive. Sam couldn’t risk it. Dean would be dead by the time he bumped the old Chevy halfway along the dirt tracks that led out of the hacienda to the Southline. No, Sam was going to have to deal with this himself, right here. Make do with whatever supplies they had left in the Impala’s trunk.
This simple chucacabra-hunt-that-wasn’t had turned into a disaster of epic proportions. In any other circumstances, Sam might have been actively engaged in the intellectual puzzle posed by a creature that hunted in broad daylight, that was no chucacabra or anything the Winchester brothers had even seen before, but somehow, holding Dean, shocky and bleeding out in his arms, was proving a little distracting.
----------
Darkness hovered at the edges of his vision, but Dean ignored it, concentrating instead on Sam. Who was clearly freaking out, big time. He needed to keep his own shit together a bit longer, try and talk the kid through this clusterfuck of a hunt, or Dad would whup his ass.
‘Cept Dad was dead, wasn’t he? Yeah right…no John Winchester to the rescue this time…all alone on this one, come on Dean, get a grip…
Through the agony emanating from his core as bad as anything else he’d ever known, all his instincts were screaming even louder than the pain that their troubles had not been ended by exploding the big giant head of Mystery Monster. And that was without the whole arrow in the gut issue.
It’s a bolt, Dean, crossbows shoot bolts, not arrows….
yeah whatever, geek boy…
Sam was at Dean’s back, had Dean propped up in his lap somehow, long legs bracketing either side of his body, keeping him upright. Dean leaned his head back against Sam’s shoulder, allowing little brother take his weight, just for a fucking minute. Just while he collected those errant thoughts of his that wanted to run around inside his skull like a whole flock of headless chickens. No fucking time for that, had to – had to stay awake, make sure Sammy was ok. That’s right. That was his job, looking after Sam. Always had been and that didn’t change just because Sam had shot him. Again.
“You shot me, Sam.”
He thought he said, but he wasn’t sure whether that was out loud or in his head. Man, this sucked.
Dean made one last heroic effort. There was something important to be said here, too important to let the winter chill that was creeping over him, limb by limb, distract him from saying it. Sammy needed to know this. Especially after Sam had squeezed Dad’s parting words out of him, back in Oregon.
Dean might have no faith in God or angels or religion of any kind, but what he did have was a deep and abiding faith in Sam.
“Sam. You can do this, I trust you.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Sam’s arms tighten their embrace while he stared up at the cloudless brassy blue sky.
----------
The summer sun beat down on the silent Hacienda Montoya, oblivious to the plight of the two young men whose shadows stood out stark on the bright sand.
Sam looked around the empty courtyard, wishing they hadn’t thought it was a good idea to send the Montoya family away while the two Winchesters did what Hunters do best - you know, Sammy, saving people and ganking monsters. The family business.
Sam wasn’t going to panic. Dean needed him to keep calm, so he would damn well keep his shit together. First he needed to get his brother out of this killing sun, and find somewhere clean so he could deal with this wound.
He managed to drag Dean into the single storey villa, blessing the fact that the Montoya’s home was a traditional one with smooth marble tiles and polished wood floors throughout, which made it so much easier to slide his mostly unconscious brother along. He couldn’t risk lifting the solidly built hunter up to carry him, as he was terrified of pushing the short crossbow bolt deeper into the elder Winchester’s abdomen. It was going to be hard enough to get a grip on the shaft to extract it as it was.
It took a great deal of careful effort to lift Dean without jostling him, onto the pristine white bed in the master bedroom, uncaring of the mess this was going to make of the Montoya marital bed. Sam was sweating profusely by the time he eventually settled his brother on the bed, trying not to panic as he noted that Dean’s face was nearly as pale as the pristine sheets he had laid him on.
----------
Dean had lost time somewhere, because that brassy blue sky had changed into a white plaster ceiling while he wasn’t looking, and the comforting warmth of his brother at his back was gone. He raised his head with difficulty (when did someone fill his skull with lead, he wanted to know?). The room he was lying in was clean and bright and empty save for deep shadows and the dust dancing in the sunlight, and a lizard on the wall that scuttled away quick as a thought when Dean moved. The bed underneath him was soft and comfortable and smelled like summer flowers.
He realised he was inside the house, in what looked like the main bedroom of Rancho Montoya. Before he could have a freak-out of his own, Sam walked in. So that was okay. Sam was here and upright, and walking around so he must be unhurt. So everything would be fine.
The fierce sun was streaming through the open doorway, outlining Sam in gold so Dean couldn’t see his brother’s features, silhouetted dark against the bright light. Didn’t need to see though, to know how Sam’s brow would be furrowed with that little concerned frown he had, eyes wide and solemn and dark.
“You have to get this damn thing out, Sammy.”
Dean thought his voice sounded raspy, creaking like a rusty hinge.
Sam’s head was shaking in denial, and Dean didn’t have the energy to argue. Couldn’t even remember if he’d managed to say the words out loud.
Time slipped again. Dean slipped with it.
----------
Sam steadied himself with an effort. He had dealt with worse wounds, even before he had left for Stanford the Winchesters’ way of life had meant each of them had been faced with a wider variety of traumatic injuries than most ER staff would face in their entire careers. He told himself this was no different, just because he had been the one who’d inflicted the damage this time. The mechanics were the same, and he knew exactly how to get the bolt out without tearing his brother’s flesh any further on that wickedly barbed head.
Gathering himself together he left Dean unconscious on the bed to raid the Montoya mansion for the tools he needed.
He arranged the sterilised knives and the large stripped goose feather (split down the middle so that it formed two halves of a hollow curve) onto the highly polished bedside table. He lifted Dean’s head and helped him swallow the vicodin. Washing it down with whiskey was dangerous, but the most effective anaesthetic they had to hand, having run out of morphine some weeks ago.
“Go on, S’mmy,” Dean was slurring badly, and Sam waited a few more moments until he was fairly sure his brother was under, before picking up the two halves of the quill. He’d never seen this done, only read about it a long time ago, and he had been reminded of it when he saw the small flock of geese penned out the back of the hacienda.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and breathed deeply. Dark blood was welling up from around the base of the quarrel but he knew it was as clean as he could get it. There was no reason to wait any longer.
Firmly but with great care, Sam took the first half of the hollow quill and worked it into Dean’s stomach, following the shaft of the quarrel by feel until it met resistance. Wincing on Dean’s behalf he wiggled the quill around until it was past the barrier and hoped it was slotting round the barbed head as he planned. Leaving it protruding from the wound, he reached for the second half and followed the same manoeuvre on the other side of the quarrel.
Dean didn’t stir but Sam could see his brother’s hands fisted into the bed-sheets as if he was trying to claw his way through the bed. He could see the muscles in Dean’s jaw clenching and knew he had to work faster.
When he was as sure as he could be that each half of the quill was slotted around the barbed head, he was ready to start pulling the quarrel out. He wiped his hands clean and wished for another pair – he really needed to hold the quills steady at the same time as pulling on the shaft.
“Sam.”
He started. “Dammit Dean, you should be out!”
“Lemme…,” Dean was breathing heavily as he struggled to lift both hands, but he managed to place them either side of the wound, steadying the quills in place.
The elder Winchester’s eyes were dark with pain but he managed a wry, encouraging smile for his little brother. Sam swallowed hard.
“C’mon, Sammy. Lets do this, quick.”
----------
Sam held the bloody bolt in his hand and closed his eyes. It was over. He’d done it, and Dean was going to survive. He’d make sure of it.
In the wake of the relief that washed over him came the realisation of how close they had come – yet again – to death. His hand started to shake, and he carefully placed the blood stained offending bolt onto the table by the bed before he gave himself away by dropping it.
Guiltily he glanced across at Dean and found his brother’s eyes open, glinting dark in the lamplight. He flushed and hoped Dean hadn’t noticed his lapse, though he knew that was unlikely. Even drugged to the hilt and drowning in pain, Dean was always tuned to Sam’s every move, every nuance.
“Hey.” Dean’s voice was barely audible, but his faint smile was dazzling, Sam was so glad to see it.
Sam swallowed, managed a Hey in return.
After a few minutes, long after Sam had thought Dean had sunk into unconsciousness, he spoke.
“You need to see to that head wound now, Sam.”
Sam gave him and incredulous look. “I’m fine, Dean. You’re the one with a massive hole in your belly!”
“Don’t make me get up and kick your ass, kiddo,” Dean tried a frown but it just came out kind of constipated, like he didn’t even have the strength to move his facial muscles any more.
“I’d like to see you try, you’re not half as hard as you think,” Sam felt himself pout a little, in an attempt to cover his smile.
He shuffled himself farther up the wide bed, closer to Dean. He couldn’t help himself, he reached out a hand and laid it on his big brother’s chest, over Dean’s heart. He just needed to feel it beating. Needed to feel the warmth of his big brother’s life strong under his finger-tips. He was fully expecting Dean to shrug him off with some flippant comment about chick flick moments or how Sam was such a big girl – but Dean didn’t say a word.
Eyes finally closed, Dean simply raised a calloused hand and covered Sam’s with his own.
Note:
Rancho Montoya is situated in the Boot heel of New Mexico, not far from the abandoned turquoise mining town of Hachita. A ghost town abandoned in 1902, one of the Ghosts of the Southline railway.
The monster is probably a yenaldooshi – Navajo skinwalker.
Title: Hope Has No Boundaries
Author: Amber1960
Characters: Sam & Dean (Gen)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3113
Summary: Sometime between Hollywood Babylon and Folsom Prison Blues, the brothers take on a case in New Mexico. They thought it was a chucacabra, it wasn’t.
Some time late March early April, and sort of en route for Arkansas. There’s probably not enough time in canon for this kind of injury and recovery but hell, that is what fiction is for, right?
Warnings: Episode level gore with a touch of schmoop amid the hurt!boys and angst…oh and swearing.
*******
Sam fired. The creature was freakishly fast though, and dodged the shot. His brother was not so lucky. Sam watched with horror as blood blossomed obscenely red through Dean’s hands that were clasped instinctively to his stomach, a look of surprise on his rapidly paling face.
Before Sam could react, or even think about reloading, the creature reappeared from nowhere, and the next few moments were filled with a flurry of frantic action; no time to do anything but fight for his own survival.
But all the while Sam struggled with the monster, he was hyper aware of Dean. Dean sliding almost gracefully to the ground, his blood a vivid smear of crimson where his hand trailed down the grubby off-white wall that was refusing to hold him up. The sound of Dean moaning faintly with the pain. Dean bleeding because he’d shot him. Fuck. He’d shot his own brother with a fucking silver-quarrelled crossbow bolt. Should have known that was a dumb idea, choosing the pistol crossbow as his weapon against this unknown creature tonight.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
----------
Dean cursed himself for a dumbass. He’d known Sam was directly on the other side of the crumbling courtyard to him, and had still managed to get himself plumb in the line of fire behind the creature; gotten himself shot bad.
Like he said (silently to himself, as the sun darkened, and he felt his life oozing out between his fingers, however hard he was trying to hold it in) Pretty fucking stupid, Winchester.
His knees buckled underneath him and the wall wasn’t any damn good – what’s the point of a wall that fucking moves when you lean on it? – and he was fuck all use to Sammy now; so what was the point of him at all, if he couldn’t help when the kid needed him? He was filled with impotent anguish as the monster reappeared – what the fuck was that thing anyway with those claws and all that howling and that shaggy fur? – and starting laying into his little brother.
Fucking useless. Story of his life. Now the story of his death too, looked like. Goddammit.
Then Sam went down to a heavy slashing blow to the head, and the creature reared up, triumphant.
And somehow Dean’s colt was back in his blood-slippery hand, and somehow that hand didn’t shake one tiny bit as he raised the gun and fired – once, twice.
Once - and the creature staggered as the cold silver penetrated its back. It swung round towards him, roaring with rage.
So. Silver bullet to the heart was a bust then.
Twice - and the huge hairy head exploded in a sickening mass of blood and grey matter and bits of bone. Well, it always was an ugly fucker, he thought. A bullet renovating its skull was an improvement, really.
Dean’s hand dropped down to rest, lax and open fingered, on one outstretched thigh. The pearl handled Colt 1911 slid to the floor with a clatter he didn’t really hear. Dean wished that he could see the stars from here; it was so damnably dark. Then he remembered it was supposed to be daytime, hot and sun-kissed here in New Mexico – all tequila and senoritas, he’d promised Sammy, only to be rewarded with a epic bitch-face – and that anomaly puzzled him somewhat, until he closed his heavy lids and let the strange premature starless darkness carry him away.
----------
Sam’s head might have been spinning from the mysterious hirsute monster’s blow but he was quicker and slicker than mercury in his slide across the tramped-down, dark stained earth of the courtyard. Dean was slumped on his side, back still pressed against the whitewashed garden wall, and Sam was reminded of the time the Yellow Eyed Demon had torn Dean apart and left him bleeding, just like now, on the floor. Except this time, it was Sam who’d put him there. Sam’s shot that had taken Dean down.
Sam’s mouth was dry, as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of desert dust. He croaked out “Dean!” His long fingers groped his brother’s neck, desperately searching for signs of life. Dean was so pale and still.
A wave of relief swept over Sam as he felt a pulse at his fingertips, weak and erratic but there.
The icy fist loosened, just a little, that had closed so tightly around his heart when he’d seen the bolt (his bolt) bury itself in his brother’s flesh. With a start he realised that Dean’s eyes were open, dark as a pine forest, unfathomable with pain.
“Y’alright, S’m?”
Sam exhaled, a long huff of exasperation. “I’m not the one with a crossbow bolt in his gut, Dean.”
His brother lifted a blood-soaked hand to the jagged gash in Sam’s cheek, his touch soft, feather-light.
“Fugly gotcha, S’mmy.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah, well, it’s nothing serious. Here, let me see. Gotta get you…” As he spoke Sam was pulling carefully at Dean’s layers, trying to see the extent of the damage he’d caused. He felt the blood drain out of his own face to pool, claggy and cold, into his feet, as his fingers moved over Dean’s exposed stomach, ghosted over his brother’s sweat soaked back.
It was bad. Very bad. The crossbow bolt was buried deep, less than an inch of the fletching protruding, and there was no exit wound. The Montoya hacienda was miles from anywhere that passed for civilised. San Juan Antonio was the nearest place calling itself a town, and Sam had wondered at its audacity in giving itself such a fancy label when all it could boast by way of amenities was a tiny general store attached to a gas station whose pumps were twenty years older than the Impala. It certainly didn’t have medical facilities sophisticated enough to deal with a wound like this. Sam doubted there was even a doctor there.
San Juan Antonio was close to the old ghost town of Hachita, but both were out of reach for the Winchesters right now, being at least a two hour drive. Sam couldn’t risk it. Dean would be dead by the time he bumped the old Chevy halfway along the dirt tracks that led out of the hacienda to the Southline. No, Sam was going to have to deal with this himself, right here. Make do with whatever supplies they had left in the Impala’s trunk.
This simple chucacabra-hunt-that-wasn’t had turned into a disaster of epic proportions. In any other circumstances, Sam might have been actively engaged in the intellectual puzzle posed by a creature that hunted in broad daylight, that was no chucacabra or anything the Winchester brothers had even seen before, but somehow, holding Dean, shocky and bleeding out in his arms, was proving a little distracting.
----------
Darkness hovered at the edges of his vision, but Dean ignored it, concentrating instead on Sam. Who was clearly freaking out, big time. He needed to keep his own shit together a bit longer, try and talk the kid through this clusterfuck of a hunt, or Dad would whup his ass.
‘Cept Dad was dead, wasn’t he? Yeah right…no John Winchester to the rescue this time…all alone on this one, come on Dean, get a grip…
Through the agony emanating from his core as bad as anything else he’d ever known, all his instincts were screaming even louder than the pain that their troubles had not been ended by exploding the big giant head of Mystery Monster. And that was without the whole arrow in the gut issue.
It’s a bolt, Dean, crossbows shoot bolts, not arrows….
yeah whatever, geek boy…
Sam was at Dean’s back, had Dean propped up in his lap somehow, long legs bracketing either side of his body, keeping him upright. Dean leaned his head back against Sam’s shoulder, allowing little brother take his weight, just for a fucking minute. Just while he collected those errant thoughts of his that wanted to run around inside his skull like a whole flock of headless chickens. No fucking time for that, had to – had to stay awake, make sure Sammy was ok. That’s right. That was his job, looking after Sam. Always had been and that didn’t change just because Sam had shot him. Again.
“You shot me, Sam.”
He thought he said, but he wasn’t sure whether that was out loud or in his head. Man, this sucked.
Dean made one last heroic effort. There was something important to be said here, too important to let the winter chill that was creeping over him, limb by limb, distract him from saying it. Sammy needed to know this. Especially after Sam had squeezed Dad’s parting words out of him, back in Oregon.
Dean might have no faith in God or angels or religion of any kind, but what he did have was a deep and abiding faith in Sam.
“Sam. You can do this, I trust you.”
He heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Sam’s arms tighten their embrace while he stared up at the cloudless brassy blue sky.
----------
The summer sun beat down on the silent Hacienda Montoya, oblivious to the plight of the two young men whose shadows stood out stark on the bright sand.
Sam looked around the empty courtyard, wishing they hadn’t thought it was a good idea to send the Montoya family away while the two Winchesters did what Hunters do best - you know, Sammy, saving people and ganking monsters. The family business.
Sam wasn’t going to panic. Dean needed him to keep calm, so he would damn well keep his shit together. First he needed to get his brother out of this killing sun, and find somewhere clean so he could deal with this wound.
He managed to drag Dean into the single storey villa, blessing the fact that the Montoya’s home was a traditional one with smooth marble tiles and polished wood floors throughout, which made it so much easier to slide his mostly unconscious brother along. He couldn’t risk lifting the solidly built hunter up to carry him, as he was terrified of pushing the short crossbow bolt deeper into the elder Winchester’s abdomen. It was going to be hard enough to get a grip on the shaft to extract it as it was.
It took a great deal of careful effort to lift Dean without jostling him, onto the pristine white bed in the master bedroom, uncaring of the mess this was going to make of the Montoya marital bed. Sam was sweating profusely by the time he eventually settled his brother on the bed, trying not to panic as he noted that Dean’s face was nearly as pale as the pristine sheets he had laid him on.
----------
Dean had lost time somewhere, because that brassy blue sky had changed into a white plaster ceiling while he wasn’t looking, and the comforting warmth of his brother at his back was gone. He raised his head with difficulty (when did someone fill his skull with lead, he wanted to know?). The room he was lying in was clean and bright and empty save for deep shadows and the dust dancing in the sunlight, and a lizard on the wall that scuttled away quick as a thought when Dean moved. The bed underneath him was soft and comfortable and smelled like summer flowers.
He realised he was inside the house, in what looked like the main bedroom of Rancho Montoya. Before he could have a freak-out of his own, Sam walked in. So that was okay. Sam was here and upright, and walking around so he must be unhurt. So everything would be fine.
The fierce sun was streaming through the open doorway, outlining Sam in gold so Dean couldn’t see his brother’s features, silhouetted dark against the bright light. Didn’t need to see though, to know how Sam’s brow would be furrowed with that little concerned frown he had, eyes wide and solemn and dark.
“You have to get this damn thing out, Sammy.”
Dean thought his voice sounded raspy, creaking like a rusty hinge.
Sam’s head was shaking in denial, and Dean didn’t have the energy to argue. Couldn’t even remember if he’d managed to say the words out loud.
Time slipped again. Dean slipped with it.
----------
Sam steadied himself with an effort. He had dealt with worse wounds, even before he had left for Stanford the Winchesters’ way of life had meant each of them had been faced with a wider variety of traumatic injuries than most ER staff would face in their entire careers. He told himself this was no different, just because he had been the one who’d inflicted the damage this time. The mechanics were the same, and he knew exactly how to get the bolt out without tearing his brother’s flesh any further on that wickedly barbed head.
Gathering himself together he left Dean unconscious on the bed to raid the Montoya mansion for the tools he needed.
He arranged the sterilised knives and the large stripped goose feather (split down the middle so that it formed two halves of a hollow curve) onto the highly polished bedside table. He lifted Dean’s head and helped him swallow the vicodin. Washing it down with whiskey was dangerous, but the most effective anaesthetic they had to hand, having run out of morphine some weeks ago.
“Go on, S’mmy,” Dean was slurring badly, and Sam waited a few more moments until he was fairly sure his brother was under, before picking up the two halves of the quill. He’d never seen this done, only read about it a long time ago, and he had been reminded of it when he saw the small flock of geese penned out the back of the hacienda.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and breathed deeply. Dark blood was welling up from around the base of the quarrel but he knew it was as clean as he could get it. There was no reason to wait any longer.
Firmly but with great care, Sam took the first half of the hollow quill and worked it into Dean’s stomach, following the shaft of the quarrel by feel until it met resistance. Wincing on Dean’s behalf he wiggled the quill around until it was past the barrier and hoped it was slotting round the barbed head as he planned. Leaving it protruding from the wound, he reached for the second half and followed the same manoeuvre on the other side of the quarrel.
Dean didn’t stir but Sam could see his brother’s hands fisted into the bed-sheets as if he was trying to claw his way through the bed. He could see the muscles in Dean’s jaw clenching and knew he had to work faster.
When he was as sure as he could be that each half of the quill was slotted around the barbed head, he was ready to start pulling the quarrel out. He wiped his hands clean and wished for another pair – he really needed to hold the quills steady at the same time as pulling on the shaft.
“Sam.”
He started. “Dammit Dean, you should be out!”
“Lemme…,” Dean was breathing heavily as he struggled to lift both hands, but he managed to place them either side of the wound, steadying the quills in place.
The elder Winchester’s eyes were dark with pain but he managed a wry, encouraging smile for his little brother. Sam swallowed hard.
“C’mon, Sammy. Lets do this, quick.”
----------
Sam held the bloody bolt in his hand and closed his eyes. It was over. He’d done it, and Dean was going to survive. He’d make sure of it.
In the wake of the relief that washed over him came the realisation of how close they had come – yet again – to death. His hand started to shake, and he carefully placed the blood stained offending bolt onto the table by the bed before he gave himself away by dropping it.
Guiltily he glanced across at Dean and found his brother’s eyes open, glinting dark in the lamplight. He flushed and hoped Dean hadn’t noticed his lapse, though he knew that was unlikely. Even drugged to the hilt and drowning in pain, Dean was always tuned to Sam’s every move, every nuance.
“Hey.” Dean’s voice was barely audible, but his faint smile was dazzling, Sam was so glad to see it.
Sam swallowed, managed a Hey in return.
After a few minutes, long after Sam had thought Dean had sunk into unconsciousness, he spoke.
“You need to see to that head wound now, Sam.”
Sam gave him and incredulous look. “I’m fine, Dean. You’re the one with a massive hole in your belly!”
“Don’t make me get up and kick your ass, kiddo,” Dean tried a frown but it just came out kind of constipated, like he didn’t even have the strength to move his facial muscles any more.
“I’d like to see you try, you’re not half as hard as you think,” Sam felt himself pout a little, in an attempt to cover his smile.
He shuffled himself farther up the wide bed, closer to Dean. He couldn’t help himself, he reached out a hand and laid it on his big brother’s chest, over Dean’s heart. He just needed to feel it beating. Needed to feel the warmth of his big brother’s life strong under his finger-tips. He was fully expecting Dean to shrug him off with some flippant comment about chick flick moments or how Sam was such a big girl – but Dean didn’t say a word.
Eyes finally closed, Dean simply raised a calloused hand and covered Sam’s with his own.
Fin
Note:
Rancho Montoya is situated in the Boot heel of New Mexico, not far from the abandoned turquoise mining town of Hachita. A ghost town abandoned in 1902, one of the Ghosts of the Southline railway.
The monster is probably a yenaldooshi – Navajo skinwalker.
