Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: When Dean's near misses with death start adding up, Sam is brutally reminded that there is no such thing as just having a bad day when you are a Winchester. No Slash.

Author's Note: The medical procedures/knowledge in this story is pure hogwash. Do not test it out on your younger siblings! I simply picked from old wives' tales, some medical jargon I learned from tv and what I felt would be fun to have Dean or Sam endure. (I nearly pass out just watching medical shows these days but somehow seeing Dean hurt doesn't upset me, turn my stomach or make me cringe…I seem to enjoy it. Maybe I should look into getting the "other" type of medical assistance!)

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Prologue: Dawn

Dawn. It had been Dean Winchester's sanctuary on more than one occasion. Its beckoning light ending some horrific standoff he had engaged in with an evil incarnate. Dean had always considered Dawn his last line of defense.

Not so today. Today darkness was his ally, in its dark depths he was safe, protected, unmarked. The first glint of sunlight through the motel blinds would signify the first volley of the war. A war he had waged before, a war he had won before, if just barely. But then he wasn't usually one to squabble about how bumpy the road to a victory was.

So, in the predawn darkness, he shouldered his bag and picked up the Impala keys silently from the motel room table, determined that his escape would go undetected. His hand was on the motel room's door knob but his eyes disobeyed his every rational command and flickered over to the still sleeping figure of his brother. Sam would not understand, just as he didn't understand that letting their Dad go in Chicago was for the best. For all of his experiences in his twenty two years, Sam was naive to the sacrifices one had to be willing to make to protect the ones you loved.

To Dean, sacrificing was a hardwired response, it was Option A before he even contemplated an Option B. It wasn't even a difficult conclusion to make. His life verses Sam's, verses his Dad's, verses…well anyone else's…long ago he had forgotten that there was even another viable equation. And yet, when no life hung in the balance but his own, his will to live rivaled the best of them. How many times had his stubborn refusal to die, to admit defeat to whatever evil he hunted, allowed him to escape the cold grasping unmerciful hands of death? He had lost count before he had even become a teenager.

Today he needed to engineer that escape again. Knew in his gut, that it would take everything he had to survive to see the sun go down, to win this war again. A war he needed to wage alone. He was nearly over the room's threshold when Sam's voice stopped him cold.

"Dean," Sam growled, his voice suspiciously void of the hue of sleep, "Where do you think you're going!"

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Chapter 1: Off to a Bad Start

Frustration and desperation vibrated through Dean Winchester, Sam's intense inspection of him across the diner's Formica table only tacking his ire higher. Though Dean had envisioned many scenarios for the start of this particular day, Sam had not figured into any of them. But Sam had given Dean little choice. Having sabotaged Dean's early morning escape by surging from his bed, Sam, since then, had been displaying the loyalty tendencies of a family pooch, refusing to leave Dean's side all the while seething. 'Now Sam decides to play the loyal brother! Just freakin' great!' Dean internally growled.

Leaning across the table, nailing his silent brother with a demanding glare, Sam hissed, a concession to their fellow breakfast crowd that it didn't come out as a shout, "Where were you going this morning, Dean?" Watching Dean's jaw clench, Sam recognized the break in his brother's stoicism that had fallen two days ago. "Where were you going, Dean!" Sam's repeated, his voice raising a notch. Dean's eyes unflinchingly met his own, mocking Sam for believing that Dean's baby brother could make him talk.

"Fine," Sam conceded, leaning back in his seat as if he didn't have a care in the world, setting his focus on the menu he hadn't even realized the hostess had provided. Concentrating on the menu, however, was another task entirely. Blueberry Pancakes topped with…why was he leaving? Why wasn't he taking me along? Where was he headed? No! He brought his mind back on track…food, menu..breakfast. Eggs with a side of meat and homefr…Sam slammed the menu on the table, the metal corners making a loud enough sound in the 6am crowd to garner attention.

Oblivious to the stares of the other diner patrons, Sam sought out his brother's face only to be met with the sight of the lunch side of the menu. Reaching a long arm over the table, he ripped the menu from his brother's hands, earning him an exasperated look from Dean. "You were just gonna leave!" Sam accused, his tone a bit louder than he intended.

As if he was reassuring a child, Dean calmly began, "Sam, Dude I was just taking my bag…"

"No!" Sam cut him off, a new fire in his eyes. "I woke up to find you half way out the door."

"Like I said then, I needed .."

"To pack the car? To take a walk? To get coffee?" Sam scoffed, then lowered his voice, his eyes turning dark with worry. "I saw that look in your eyes, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean drawled as a taunt. "What look?"

Sam swallowed. Looking away to the other diners, he wished, not for the first time that he had their lives instead of his, lives that weren't terrorized by the real threat of losing everyone he loved.

"Come on , Sammy. What look was I wearing? The Clint Eastwood, "go ahead, make my day punk" look? The Arnold Swartz.." Dean's words caught in his throat when Sam's brittle gaze hit him, anguish pouring out of his brother's brown eyes.

"Like you weren't coming back," the words were like gasps of air from starving lungs. Sam wanted to look away, to not see his brother's reaction to his fear or worse, to see confirmation in Dean's eyes. However, Sam found that he couldn't tear his look from his brother, from the precious thing that seemed likely to slip from his fingers if he didn't keep up his guard.

"Huh," Dean said almost in contemplation before the other words slipped past his brain's better judgment. "Musta been the same look you had when you left for Stanford." Regret and some sick satisfaction seared through Dean as Sam paled, swallowed and dropped his eyes to the menu on the table. 'Great, this is just great. As if today's not going to be bad enough but now I just added emotional bad karma to the tally…and hurt Sam on top of it all.' He was about to open his mouth, to say what he didn't have a clue but their waitress had finally decided to make an appearance. 'Perfect timing, Flo', Dean thought disdainfully as he looked up to the fifty something year old waitress, a tight smile on his face.

"Coffee?" she grunted out, her features set in a contorted grimace that age alone could not be the culprit for.

'No, a freakin' smoothie! Yeah, Coffee!' Dean wanted to shout but Sam's quiet, "Yes, please," earned the waitress' attention, that being what it was and she poured the black liquid into the cup in front of Sam. Then she pointedly looked to Dean, a scold in her eyes that he hadn't yet answered her grunt. 'Oh, I'ld love to give you my answer,' Dean ranted but outwardly gave a nod.

But the coffee never made it into his cup. Just as the waitress was tipping the coffee pot, a burly man tried to slip between the row of counter seats and the waitress. He had almost made it clear when one of the truck drivers decided to swing off their counter seat in front of the man. It was like a chain reaction. The burly man tried to stumble to a halt, ended up tilting to the left, bodily impacted with the waitress, knocking her forward a pace or two and causing her arm to swing wildly. Pain seared into Dean as the "just made a minute ago" coffee splattered on his right hand and across his arm.

Reflexively, Dean pulled his arm back but it was too late, the nearly boiling liquid had already damaged his first layer of skin. Clenching his teeth, he gripped his arm against his chest, the pain intensifying as time passed. 'So it begins,' he thought, unable to adopt an attitude to offer up a taunt of 'Bring it on!'

Sam knew how quickly things happened in life, how things went from happy to sad and good to bad. His whole life he had tried to gear himself for the whims of fate. Fate he was armed to fight. Accidents, they took his breath away. He had watched, seemingly in slow motion, the comedy of errors, the man, the trucker, the waitress and finally the climax, the coffee blazing into Dean's bare arm and hand. For all his sharp reflexes, honed instincts, Sam just sat there, stunned as his brother got hurt.

Breaking from his daze, Sam cursed, identifying the pain in his brother's face by the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. Frantically, he sought to help Dean, only to find that his first aid resources were limited. There was no freakin' water even on the table and the butter came in those tiny quarter-sized containers. "Water! Get some water or ice and some butter!" he shouted to the waitress, fully prepared to push the stunned waitress aside, run to the car and retrieve the burn cream they still had left over from Dean's last burn experience with the Benders.

With unexpected speed, the waitress stepped to the right, into Sam's planned path, deftly grabbed two glasses of water from the other table and promptly doused Dean's arm and hand with the liquid. "Sal we have a burn! Get the butter!" she called over her shoulder. Resettling her look on the now wet Dean, she cooed, "I'm so sorry, hun! You're gonna be alright. I've burned myself a fair amount of times to know how it hurts but the skin, it'll grow back good as new in a few weeks." Unexpectedly, the waitress had morphed from the hard grumpy waitress who hated her life and everyone who dared to traipse into it into a doting mother.

It would have been comical if it wasn't so heartbreaking. Dean sitting there, water soaking the bottom of his shirt and his jeans, a waitress soothing him like he was a vulnerable child. Sam would have choked back a laugh if he wasn't so close to crying. And for the life of him, he didn't understand why this accident was breaking him down in more ways than Dean's heart trouble had.

A white bearded man wearing an apron and baring more tattoos than un-inked skin, pushed past the waitress and smeared a stick of butter on Dean's burned flesh like it was corn on the cob, gentle, slow, precise. "Maggie, go get some Tylenol," he ordered and the waitress scurried hurriedly through the kitchen door.

Trying to shake loose his stunned surprise at the compassion of these strangers and marshal the pain, Dean offered, "I'm Ok," his voice sounding tight with pain even to his own ears. He didn't dare look to Sam, not yet ready to see the younger man's anger at his lie, his newest lie.

The man gave a chuckle, not of mirth but surprised respect as he smiled at Dean. "Oh, you're a tough one. I used to be one too, took wounds in the war like they were metals. Now I complain and wail about a little arthritis." When the cook lifted the butter to inspect his handiwork, Sam leaned forward, dreading the sight even as he needed to see the hurt his brother had sustained. Underneath the smeared butter, Sam could just make out the rough unnatural texture of his brother's arm, what lay protected under the layer of epidermis skin exposed. "Looks like a first degree burn," the cook gently diagnosed, "had enough in my career to know." Then he looked up and studied Dean's eyes, "Pain any better?"

"Yeah," Dean replied and it was even the truth, the old time remedy of butter doing its thing. "Thanks," he sincerely said.

Arriving at the cook's side, the waitress was already shaking out some of the pain pills into her palm. Offering Dean the three pills from her hand, she fell back into her apologies, her voice cracking and nearly shattering apart. "I really am so sorry, hun! I'll pay your doctor bills …or…well you can sue me. It'd be your right. I ..I ain't got much but I owe you…".

Dean kindly interrupted her, his eyes holding hers, making sure his words hit home. "It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you."

Sam recognized his brother's tone, the reassuring and firm timbre that Dean used with victims of the supernatural who thought they were somehow at fault for something they would never understand. Confusion and resentment flared in Sam. This was NOT some blameless event, sure it was an accident but it had still been the waitress's fault. And he was not feeling as forgiving as Dean was, not when his brother sat over there in pain.

Tears sprang to the waitress's eyes at Dean's forgiveness. "Thank you. Thank you for …for understanding. I …I just feel so bad about it."

"It's alright," Dean soothed, pulling one of his charming smiles onto his face as he loosened his death grip on the injured wrist. "It's not bad really, just hurt at first but it's feeling better," he lied, forcing himself to move the arm from his chest and down to his side. The cook's expression was both censorious and grateful, appreciating the younger man's deception even as he reprimanded it but he remained silent. "I don't even need to see a doctor ."

'You mean won't see a doctor!' Sam scoffed, clenching his jaw to prevent himself from interfering so hard that it ached. 'At least take the pain pills, Dean. Have some common sense!'

Continuing to ooze his charm, Dean joked, "But I will have to change my clothing. I like the smell of coffee..just not as a cologne."

The waitress couldn't help breaking into laughter, her frayed nerves eased at the release, just like Dean intended. Sam watched the exchange with wonder and pride. That was Dean, always worried about someone else's wellbeing before his own. It took Sam a moment to realize that Dean was moving out of the booth, making good on his escape from the scene of the "no fault" accident. Hurriedly, Sam got to his feet, raising a hand toward Dean as if he would aid him but he dropped it immediately as Dean's eyes flared into his. 'Right, I'm not supposed to do anything to uncover his "doesn't hurt' scam he's doing on the waitress so she can sleep that night, free of guilt. But what I worry about is, how's Dean gonna sleep tonight with his arm throbbing in pain, especially since the fool is walking out of here without taking any of those pills!'

"I really am sorry," the waitress said again.

As he made to walk past her, Dean reached out with his uninjured hand and reassuringly squeezed her trembling hand. "I'm fine. Accidents happen, no one's at fault. Understand?" Dean said in his gentlest tones, his green eyes searching the waitress's expression for agreement. When she gave a nod, he smiled, squeezed her hand and slipped past her and Sam before either one could anticipate it.

Sam nearly bounded across the diner to catch up with Dean, again his hand almost reaching for Dean's elbow to aid him but he forced himself to refrain from the protective action. Shouldering his way out the door, Dean stood a moment, soaking up the sunlight that was just starting to stream its way between the buildings of the city.

"How bad is the pain, really?" Sam worriedly asked as he joined Dean on the sidewalk.

"It's basically a sunburn, dude. Don't go all Clara Barton on me too," Dean retorted, his eyes still focused on the horizon.

"Yeah, sunburn…if you lived on Neptune," Sam mumbled, studying his brother's profile, surprised to not be the audience for an angry tirade about sucky luck. "Come on, let's get a motel in town."

"One outta town," Dean countered instantly, firmly, not looking at Sam as he headed to the Impala with purpose.

Slipping by his brother to reach the Impala's driver's side first, Sam swung around to see that Dean was complacently making his way to the passenger side. His mad rush for the door, his fighting stance, his ready words of protest seemed stupid as Dean sank into the passenger's seat as if the thought of trying to drive never crossed his mind. Quickly getting into the car, Sam watched as Dean drew the car door shut with his left hand and settled back onto the seat, a far away look on his face as he stared blankly out of the windshield. All of this complacency from Dean had alarms going off in Sam's head, making him wonder just how seriously his brother was hurt after all. "No, Dean. We're taking a motel in town, close, as close as we can get. I need to see to your arm."

"No, it's good Sam. It's all buttered up, looking good. Feeling fine," Dean reassured, finally looking to Sam, bearing a smile of bravado.

"Sure, Dean," Sam patronized, started the Impala's growling engine and backed out of the parking space. Before he put the car onto the street, he shot Dean a smile, "Lucky for you we're overstocked on burn cream," his taunt concealing the way his gut was churning at seeing Dean baring yet another burn.

"Great, I wanted to get my money out of that burn cream," Dean sarcastically drawled.

Forcing the smile to remain on his face, Sam sent the Impala streaking down the city street, already on the lookout for a motel. When silence lingered in the car, he spared a glance to Dean. The older man was looking out the side window like his favorite movie was playing. 'Standard avoidance technique', Sam surmised and felt his shoulders tense as he remembered his brother's tactics to slip away from him that morning. It would be unfair to press Dean now, injured, in pain, vulnerable…liable to let something slip. "I thought we worked this out," Sam began quietly, trying to bury his emotions in a monotone.

Turning to Sam with a raised eyebrow, Dean scoffed, "Is this one of those conversations that you started in your head, Sam? Work out what?"

Sam didn't dare meet Dean's look. "That if you wanted time alone, all you had to do was ask."

A scowl marred Dean's face. Sam made it sound so simple and without repercussions, short term or long term. 'Yeah right,' Dean bitterly disagreed. 'Sure, Sam. I would just say to you, 'Hey dude I need some space for two days, you cool with that? Oh and by the way, if I don't come back, don't bother sending out the search party. And don't do that whole guilt thing cause there was nothing you could have done, or even anything I wanted you to do.' Yeah, simple, easy. Why didn't I think of it!'

When a response did not come back from Dean, Sam whipped his head around to look to his brother, worry pouring off of him. Immediately Dean looked away, their brotherly trait of making eye contact now appearing insufferable to him. That sent a pang of pain through Sam. 'Oh, crap! What did I do to push him away? Why can't he even look at me!' "Dean," Sam's voice was a plea, "tell me what's going on, what I did."

"Geez, Sam! It's not all about you!" Dean exploded, his focus never leaving the windshield. "Motel on the right! Turn!"

Rattled at his brother's outburst and started at the quick order to turn into the motel, Sam jerked the wheel to the right, way too soon and nearly side swiped a parked car, frantically veered away almost clipping a bicyclist cutting through traffic. Then, seeing the opening in the sidewalk that was the motel entrance that he was nearly past, he made an unmercifully sharp turn to the right, running over the curb and getting the Impala airborne. It touched down in the motel parking lot with a jolt and as Sam slammed the car to a halt, Dean had to brace his hands, both of them, against the dashboard to avoid cracking his skull on the windshield.

They sat there in silence for a few moments, Sam breathing hard, Dean fisting his injured hand in his shirt. Simultaneous they looked at one another. Dean's sputtering laughter was the last response Sam had expected.

At Sam's worried, scared look, Dean laughed harder, his stomach beginning to hurt. "Your face…" he wheezed out between his laughter, " the bicyclist's face…the old homeless guy sitting on the street corner…" he couldn't draw in any more breath and leaned back heavily on the seat, laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face.

A small start of laughter broke free from Sam's tight chest, but it was the gleam in his eyes that spoke the most. Suddenly he felt ridiculously happy to hear Dean's laughter, a rare thing, a precious thing. Catching sight of Dean's buttered up arm, Sam's mirth faded. "It's still early in the morning and it's already been a bad day," Sam sighed, resting his head back on the seat, his head still turned to face Dean.

"Yeah," Dean drawled, sobered instantly, the weight of the one word filling the car. "Check us in Sammy. The smell of this butter is making me wanna hurl."

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To Sam's relief, the burn really wasn't that bad. Of course that didn't mean it didn't hurt like crazy, not like Dean would ever admit to a silly little thing like being in pain. Even Dean's face was schooled into impassiveness as he sat on the motel bed, leaning against the headboard, remote control to the tv in his hand, hair still wet from his shower. Effectively he ignored Sam's outstretched hand bearing two pain pills.

"Take 'em Dean," Sam growled, feeling his limbs tremble with anger as he stood beside his brother's bed.

"Which part of "no" do you not understand, Sammy?" Dean said, lancing his granite look into Sam. "Now go run along and play in the city but be home before dawn."

Sam closed his fist on the pills not in anger now but disregard and shifted on his feet. "Ok, so it's not about me then what is it about?" To Sam's surprise, Dean flicked off the tv, came off the bed on the other side and headed for the door. Instantly Sam trailed behind him, absently pulling the room door shut behind him. "I'm not letting this go, Dean," Sam warned dodging his brother's steps as Dean walked through the outside hallway and began making his way down the two flights of stairs. A whistle pierced the air, without warning, Sam felt something whoosh by him on the stairs then another whoosh. Then, in front of him, he saw the two Great Dane dogs playfully snapping at each other, racing for the bottom of the stairs, unmindful of the obstacle in their path, namely Dean.

Opening his mouth to give a call of warning, Sam knew he was too late. The dogs bowled into Dean, taking his legs out from under him and worse still, knocking him to the side, right over the railing.

TBC

I would love to hear your thoughts on this story!

Thanks for reading!

Cheryl W.