CREATURE COMFORTS

By: Karen B.

Summary: Season ten spoiler warnings! Episode related: 10-1 Black. Tag to the tag 'Somewhere Down the Road'. Darkness still ensues, but there just might be some neon light at the end of the tunnel. (Sounds like a country song.)

Disclaimer: Not the owner

I will save my brother or die trying. ~ Sam Winchester

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I opened the door to Sam's room and stepped in. He was right where I left him, hogtied and propped up nice and cozy in his bed.

He was awake and staring right at me with a scowl that seemed to be a permanent part of his face now.

"Hey." I moved to sit in the bedside chair, and scooted closer. "Made you a nice hot bowl of homemade chicken soup," I said, placing a clean kitchen towel under his chin for a drop cloth. "Celery, carrots, onions, pepper to taste." I dipped the spoon in and blew off the steam. "Here we go," I said with a grin, raising the spoon to his lips.

Sam continued to glare at me, tight-lipped.

"Chugga-chugga-choo, coo," I sung in a high-pitched voice trying to engage him like I used to when he was a kid.

Sam's scowl deepened and flaming arrows shot my way, yet he opened his mouth and took a bite.

"You look better today, more relaxed." I gave Sam the once over as I spoon fed him.

His face was still pale, his hair turned dark and greasy, and a shaggy beard had taken over his chin, but his neck wounds were healing and luckily didn't get infected. Worst part of him now was his busted nose. It was slightly twisted to the right, and a large purplish-black lump stuck up over the bridge. If Sam's nose was a mountain, it'd be one hell of a ski slope. At least I didn't have to stuff wads of cotton balls up his nostrils anymore to staunch the bleeding.

"How's the nose feeling today, Marsha?" I fed him another serving.

Sam made an angry, aggressive sound as he swallowed the soup.

"Okay, Streisand, change of subject." I spooned another bite into his mouth. "How's my awesome cooking taste?"

Sam smiled at me and then spit the soup back in my face.

"Damn you, Sam." I reached for the dribble towel under his chin. "I thought we were past all that rude shit?" I wiped the drops of soup off my face.

"You can quit with the Misery act, Dean," Sam yelled. "You can't keep me tied up like this forever."

It's fine," I said flatly. "That's all right. You need your strength, pal, let's try this again." I leaned forward over Sam, soup bowl balanced in one hand, spoonful of chunky chicken and vegies in the other.

"Bullshit!" Sam yelled, red faced. "Nothing's okay here, Dean. This is totally jacked up, keeping me prisoner in my own –"

I stuffed the spoon forceful into his mouth effectively shutting him up. "You never thought of this as your home, so just shut up and eat."

Sam swallowed hard, then yelled, "Cut the crap, Dean." He bucked hard against the ropes, his elbow hiking up just enough that it hit the bowl. My soup went airborne clattering to the floor, glass shattering, and soup splashing everywhere.

I drew back and looked Sam right in the eye. "Rude, Samantha, very rude."

Sam's face turned a deeper shade of red and he was huffing and puffing like a friggin' chain smoker. "What about Crowley?" he demanded for the thousandth time.

I rolled my eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, I don't know where he is? I didn't bring him here. I'm not an idiot."

"Untie me," Sam insisted.

"And then what?"

He didn't have an answer for me.

"Not happening, Sam." I nodded, and then stood, flipping the dishtowel over my shoulder. "So, while you cool your heels…I'm going to go get a little drink, maybe smoke a little smoke. I'll be back with another bowl of soup and you, my brother, will eat every last drop."

Sam huffed and threw his head back into the pile of pillows, pouting at the ceiling.

I walked to the door and paused, my back to him. "I'll bring you some ice for your schnozzola too, okay, Durante?"

All I got was a sigh of annoyance as I left the room and made my way through the corridors to the kitchen.

I walked past the table and ran my hand over the blade as I passed by. It was best I didn't keep it anywhere near Sam. As it was, just looking at it made my stomach feel strange, sort of like a million spiders crawling around trying to break out of a jar. Still, I liked to have it nearby.

I headed for the stove and turned the flame back on the pot of soup to heat it back up.

Being back at the bunker, back home, brought up feelings I thought were dead and buried. I was nesting again, feeling maternal toward Sam, but I still couldn't trust myself. The cold terror that was the blade still resided inside of me. But for some reason, I was able to tamp that rage down for the time being. I wondered if the bunker was warded against the blade somehow. The bloodlust was still there. Just now, when Sam had spit in my face and dumped my culinary creation to the floor, I felt my blood boil. I had to get out of there, away from him before I wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed until he went from angry-red to not-breathing-blue.

My hands started shaking as I stirred the soup.

"Damn it, Dean, you really do need that drink," I muttered.

Leaving the flame on low, I left the kitchen and went to the war room. I broke out the best bottle of scotch we had, sat in a comfy chair, and poured two fingers. "Bottom's up," I said taking slow sips.

Was a time nothing else had mattered to me in the whole-wide-world other than taking care of Sam, protecting Sam, saving Sam. Maybe I was trying to get that back, by being here with him now. But Sam was right. I couldn't keep him tied up forever. I was just afraid of what he would do if I untied him, and what I'd have to do to him in return.

Sam, me, and the blade was like milk, cookies, and tequila - a very bad combination.

I squeezed my glass so tight my knuckles went white. I couldn't take much more of this. The blade called to me morning, noon, and night. It was calling to me now from its spot on the kitchen table. Hot and cold flashes wracked my body, and my head hurt. All I could hear was thundering in my ears and the whoosh of my breath. All I could smell was the tang of blood and the stench of death. The blade was a habit I couldn't break.

I downed my drink and poured another. My anger simmered, hot confusion and loss blistering my insides. Did I really want to become this barbaric, heinous, man? A man who didn't flinch in the face of tragedy? A man who allowed the killer in him to bubble to the surface and overflow?

I tiredly slouched down in my seat, leaning my pounding head back against my chair to stare at the ceiling.

I wasn't sure. I didn't know. And even if I wanted to stop, could I? This life, the things I'd done…I was certain to burn in hellfire, eternally damned no matter what I did now.

I scoffed, "Come on, Dean, you're your own buzz kill." I sat up and swallowed the last of my drink. "Time to go back and check on Sam," I said, slamming the empty glass to the table. "And clean up his mess," I wiped the dishtowel off my shoulder and stuffed it in my back pocket as I left the room.

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I entered the kitchen, the soup bubbling away on the stove. And damn if it smelled good a few hours ago, it smelled beyond awesome now. I strolled over to the stove and picked up the spoon and started stirring.

"Mmmmm. This is going to be so damn yum –son of a bitch!" I left the spoon in the pot and whirled around. It took a fraction of a second of staring at the table to realize what I was looking at. "He did not," I clenched my fists, unable to take my eyes off the empty spot where I'd left the blade. "Oh, you friggin' got to be kidding me." I could feel my whole body begin to vibrate. My gaze darted around the room; I even looked under the table. No blade. My gaze landed on an axe hanging on the far kitchen wall. That would have to do. "Sam," I yelled out, crossing over to yank the axe from the bracket. I tilted the axe upward and ran my finger over the sharp angle of the blade. "You better be long gone," I muttered under my breath, surging out the kitchen door and down the hall.

Deep down I didn't want to hurt Sam, but the damage was done. The decision wasn't mine anymore. I rushed past Sam's room, giving only a hurried glance inside.

The bed was empty save for the rumpled blankets and tangled length of rope.

"You always could Houdini your way out of a jam." I moved down the corridor. "Ditch me will you, little brother," I roared, knowing damn well he was still in the bunker somewhere. I sneered when I saw a drop of blood on the pristinely mopped floor. "Bloody nose? Bloody wrists? Going to be a lot more blood when I find you," I stated to the empty hallway.

I moved through the bunker in a haze of smoke and fire, switching on lights, slamming through doors, checking in closets, and even under beds.

"I'm pissed off, Sam!" I repeatedly clunked the axe against the wall as I went, the metal blade chipping away pieces of the ceramic tiled walls. "I'm seriously, really, really very, very pissed off here, Sam." My voice echoed through the catacombs.

This foot chase could go on forever. I knew Sam wouldn't leave, and the bunker was huge. There were still so many rooms, cracks, crevices, and breakfast nooks we had yet to explore. He could be anywhere.

The blade…could be anywhere.

"Just like you, Francis, to get all emotional and take off on me." Sweat dripped down my back soaking through to my shirt. I had to smile through my anger. Ever since this whole crazy-ass trip had started, this was the first real challenge offered to me. Everyone and everything else I'd taken on went down easier than sweet cherry pie. "This is some fun, hey, Sammy?" I gasped for air, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. "This is what I'm talking about." I drug the axe along the wall, leaving a long scratch behind.

I came to a section of hallway I didn't recognize and slowed down, moving quietly. Sam wasn't hurt much, as I hadn't found anymore drops of blood to follow. But my little brother radar was thrumming out of control. He was down here somewhere.

The hallway was lined with doors. I listened intently, scrutinizing the space under each entry looking for moving shadows.

So far I'd heard and seen nothing.

I was about to turn down another section of hallway when I heard a muffled sound - something between a cough and a wheeze.

"Clumsy, little brother," I whispered to myself, choking up on the axe handle and carefully testing the knob on the door to the left of me where the noise had come from. Bolted from the inside, of course.

"It's a hard knock life," I rapped loudly on the door. "Nice Great Escape back there, little brother," I added proudly.

"Had a lot of practice over the years, big brother," Sam piped up right away from the other side.

"Open up, Sam." I leaned my head against the door and closed my eyes, taking in deep breaths to control my rage. It wasn't helping.

"We need to talk, Dean."

"Open up and we'll talk," I offered, opening my eyes and raising the axe, tapping it lightly on the door.

"Talk first," Sam counter offered.

Kid was clumsy, but he was smart. He wasn't going to open the door. Not just yet anyway, and the edgy need to get that blade back in my possession was turning my stained black heart into concrete. The bare truth was I needed the damn thing.

"Open the door now, Sam, or it's going to get rough," I ordered sternly.

There was some scrambling around inside, but Sam didn't open the door.

I'd had enough. "You thought Misery was scary, heeer's Johnny," I growled, raising the axe and hacking at the door.

The wood splintered right away and I stuck my face inside and took in the room. It was small, broom closet-sized. I scrutinized Sam, my lips twitching into a wry smile.

He looked scared and stayed hunched back away from the door, eyes wild and wide. I was the dog warden, and he was the cornered stray trapped in a dead-end alley.

"Dean, please." He took a few tentative steps toward the back of the room. "Please," he repeated desperately.

Two more swings of the axe, one heave-ho, and I was inside. "Where is it?" I rushed him.

"Back off, Dean." Sam drew a knife and held it out in front of him protectively.

"Ho, ho, ho, you sure do work fast, Sammy." I froze in place, looking at the demon killing knife in his hand.

I don't want to use this on you," Sam panted out of breath.

I laughed, axe gripped tight. "Go ahead and give it a try."

Sam shook his head no, raising his chin in defiance and keeping the knife held up in front of him.

"Chicken," I clucked.

"You can beat this, Dean. You're still my brother."

"Stop talking trash, Sammy, I haven't been your brother for a long time."

"Bullshit," Sam spit, his whole body a tight tense ball.

"No bullshit about it. You said so yourself."

"I was wrong, Dean. Okay. Let's just talk."

Both our emotions were running high. My gut was telling me to take the swing and chop my brother into bits. My brain raced as fast as my breath. It was telling me the same friggin' ass thing as my gut. The fireman's axe I held tight in my hand was no first blade, but I still could easily lob off Sam's head with it. The devil on my left shoulder told me to do it. Take Sam down. The angel on my right shoulder laughed in agreement, but something somewhere in the middle of the blackness wouldn't let me.

"Okay. Okay," I sighed. "So what do you want to talk about?" I asked, playing along for the moment.

"Curing you."

"You can't make me better, Sam. This isn't a head cold, bitch. You can't knock the snot out of me." I leaned forward getting in his personal space, axe still held high. "But I can sure knock the snot out of you…so where is it?"

Sam inched backward.

"There's nowhere to go, man." I sucked in a breath, trying to keep control, if I lost it the fun would be over and I knew I'd never find the blade. Sam was a crafty fox when it came to hide-and-go-seek. "Give back what you stole from me," I said calmly.

"It hasn't taken you completely over yet, Dean. Don't let it," Sam pleaded.

"Tell me where it is or I'll rearrange your nose." I glanced at the axe, then back at Sam. "Not using my fist this time either." I crowded in on him and spat, "Where! The hell! Is! It!"

Sam backed away further, crashing things over until he was cornered. "You'll never find it," he hissed, averting his eyes.

"It's just like when you were little huh, Sammy?" I ducked my head, keeping eye contact. "You won't play if you can't have your way." I moved in. "Nowhere else to go, man. Nothing you say or do is going to fix this."

"Maybe there still is a way," Sam assured, lost puppy eyes boring into mine. "You're forgetting about your B.F.F. Crowley."

"What about the big fat fish?" I said slowly.

"He knows a lot more than you think, Dean. He got you into this, said the only demon inside of you…is your own. He knows something, man, and he's using you for something. I just don't know what yet." Sam fidgeted from foot to foot, having nowhere else to go in the room.

I thought about that. My thieving brother probably did have a point. But the gnawing need to surround myself in a pool of blood didn't allow me to really care too much.

Sam continued to stare at me, telepathically willing me to see his light. Part of me wanted to or I would have killed him already.

"I'm a demon, Sam. The worst kind…broken. There's no coming back from that hell." I shrugged. "It's okay, though. You don't have to tell me where my precious is," I chuckled. "I'll find it eventually. Got nothing but time." I raised the axe over my head, the handle ice-cold in my hand. "Sorry little brother…or not sorry I should say…then again maybe I am sorry. I really can't decide." I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes, but didn't blink them away. "Say a prayer, Sam."

Before I could do what I really didn't know if I should do, or could do, Sam lunged forward and sliced my forearm with the demon knife.

I nearly dropped the axe in surprise, staring at the wound warily. The cut was fairly deep, stung like a bitch, and bled like one too. But the pain wasn't the excruciating, glowing hot-orange, sizzle-the-flesh-off-my bone kind of pain. It was the pain of a human.

"Wow!" We both gasped breathlessly.

"Dean, you didn't…it didn't..."

"I know," I said staring blankly at the regular-Joe knife wound. "I should have…it didn't affect me." I frowned, lifting my gaze to Sam.

"No, it didn't," Sam angled his head, unable to take his gaze off the cut. "Means we still have a chance," he choked back his own tears, still monitoring the wound in disbelief.

"Maybe it just means I'm immune."

"We have a chance to save you, Dean," Sam insisted.

"You're really betting on that aren't you," I said, in a burst of laughter.

"Yes, "Sam quirked a lip at me and wrinkled his nose. "Chips all in," he deadpanned.

"Why?" I questioned, lowering the axe slightly.

Sam looked at me sharply. "Because."

"Because? Because, Sam!" I leaned forward, the tip of his broken nose touching mine.

"Because," Sam confirmed and pulled his head back with a grimace.

"Because!" I yelled to the room and stood straight. "Not good enough, Sam!" I waved the axe in the air.

Sam swiped out with his hand and flicked the knife over my arm, inflicting yet another cut.

"Aw, you sneaky bitch," I gasped staring at the nick.

There still was no glowing-orange light, or sizzler steak platter going on with my arm.

"We have a chance, jerk," Sam said again, his eyes softening. "Come on, Dean.'" He flashed a sheepish smile. "What can it hurt to try? If it doesn't work you can go back to wanting to kill me."

"Could be fun," I laughed, then got serious. "You really want to try and jumpstart this Grinch's heart that badly?" I pulled the towel from my pocket and wrapped it around the laceration on my arm.

"Hasn't it grown one size already?" Sam scanned my face hopefully. "It's why you came to my rescue in the first place. It's why you fed me soup. It's why I'm still alive right now having this conversation with you."

Baby brother really did have guts. Guts hell…he had balls.

"It grew." I dragged a hand over my face and said, "A smidge." My voice cracked.

Sam nodded. "We can work with that. Do we have a deal?"

We stood not speaking for what felt like an eternity letting reality hang over us.

"You're still not going to tell me where the blade is are you?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"I'm not going to tell you where the blade is," Sam said firmly. "Not until we figure this out and we destroy the thing together. It's your call. Do we have a deal, Dean?"

"Not if I have to seal it with a kiss." I smiled weakly.

"No kissing." Sam made a face, coughed and cleared his throat. "And no more sucker punches to my nose."

"No more Houdini acts from you," I hissed. "And no more ruining my perfectly cooked meals."

"Deal," Sam muttered.

"Deal, Sammy," I said softly. "For now," I added, dropping the axe to the floor with a thunk. I half wanted to pull Sam into a bear hug, but the icy need to kill still flowed through me. It had been taken down a notch, but I was confused, missing heartbeats, gasping for breath, mad, scared, and struggling not to fall to my knees.

I jolted hard when strong fingers gripped my shoulder, worked their way up to the back of my neck and then pulled me in for a hug. "You can do this, Dean. We can do it." Sam held me tight against him.

I didn't hug Sam back, but in a matter of seconds familiar warmth I hadn't felt in a really long time bled into me. A lump came to my throat and my eyes pricked with tears. Fuck.

I yanked away from the hold, spying the axe on the floor.

Sam kicked it away with his socked foot before I could think to grab it, then bent to snatch up the demon knife, stowing it right away. "Let's go, Dean. After you." He waved me ahead.

I smirked. Sam wasn't going to trust me completely just yet. And for good reason, I didn't trust me either. I didn't understand much of anything I was feeling, but I did understand the rumble of Sam's stomach and my dry mouth.

"Crap. Might have to call a carpenter for this," I joked heading out the door, kicking splintered wood out of the way.

"Where do you want to start looking for Crowley?" Sam asked, trailing right behind me.

"You like Atlanta Rhythm Section?"

"Atlanta who?"

"Karaoke, pizza, and booze, Sammy," I said over my shoulder.

"A bar? Dean, I've barely eaten, drank, or pissed in the last twenty-two hours, and you want to go to a bar?"

"My point, dude."

The end