Title: Ninety-nine in the shade
Author: Enkidu07
Beta Wizards: Mad Server and InSecret. Your comments and insights added new dimensions to this story. I don't know if I did them all justice, but do feel that this story is magically improved over the original version.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
A/N: This is a remix (Sam's POV) of Soncnica's story, "Going Up in Flames" (Dean's POV). You can read it alone, but if you like it and want to get your fingers on more delicious details of Dean's injuries, check out her story!
If you are looking for other good reads, please check out Soncnica's fic "There Is No Mathematics," Mad Server's "Canonized Bones," and PADavis' "In Good Company." All Needy Dean remixes and all going up today.
--
"Jesus, Sam."
Dean's anger blazes and Sam feels himself shrink back.
"Where were you? Why can't you just stay put for five minutes?"
Dean stares at him, eyes squinty and dark, mouth curled like he doesn't like what he sees. Sam shoulders the weapons bag and then shifts uncomfortably, feeling inadequate under Dean's penetrating gaze.
As hunts go, this one's been pretty par for the course. Sam had been hijacked by Casper, knocked around and worked over till he couldn't see straight while Dean had single handedly dug up the grave, dispatched of the bones, and swooped in, literally walking through fire, to make an heroic rescue.
Now, unsure what to say, Sam turns abruptly and starts back toward the car. The two miles had seemed like nothing when they'd trekked in. Now, Sam hobbles along, pissed at the ghost, wishing he could have torched the bones himself. Dean never pauses. He spends the first twenty minutes bitching Sam out before lapsing into stony silence. Sam brushes near him once but gets that stare, Dad's stare, in return, so he lets a little more distance and darkness fall between them, feeling awkward and all but thirteen again.
At the car, it starts up again.
Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean is stiff, unyielding. A wall that Sam can't safely scale.
On their way to the hotel, Sam watches quintessential Mayberry pass by through the windshield. Soft lights seeping between curtained windows lull him even as he struggles under the weight of Dean's displeasure.
Dean roughly stops in front of a lone convenience store and Sam looks at him uneasily.
"I need ice," Dean clips out.
"What?" Sam scans him, surprised.
"That thing... oozed something on me. I need ice."
"Where? Let me see," Sam demands.
"Sam." Dean's voice is sharp. "Ice!"
Sam's mouth snaps closed, heart pounding.
He gets ice.
Then he tries to shuffle Dean over to take the driver's seat. Dean is immobile.
He thinks back over the last hour and feels a surge of anger."Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
Dean levels a stare at him. "I can take care of it, Sam. It's a little burn. I'm not a kid." He waits a beat and then impatiently orders, "Get in."
Sam stares, mind racing. Dean isn't a kid. Sam tries to remember if he ever was.
--
By the next morning, Dean's bitchiness has eased, likely due the fact that he's mostly unconscious.
Sam had kept a steady stream of ice coming the night before until Dean had snarled, growled, and then promptly fallen into a restless sleep.
Now with the early sun peeking through the blinds, Sam stands uncertainly, fingering his phone and still watching his brother. He considers calling their dad. Considers the ER. Considers waking Dean and asking him what he should do. Research hadn't panned out and Dean's getting worse.
Scrolling through his contacts, his thumb hesitates over Bobby's number. He's not usually the one in charge. He just needs a second opinion.
--
"Bobby, it's Sam Winchester."
"What do you want?" Bobby's curt voice isn't reassuring.
"Uhhh, it's Dean. He was burned on our last hunt...."
"Burned? How bad? ER?"
"No, no. Just small burns on his arm and chest. We iced it and used holy water-"
"Holy water?" Bobby interrupts. "What kind of burn are you talking about?"
"Uhhh, the ghost... oozed something on him. We treated it with holy water and ointment, but he-"
"Damn it, Sam, a supernatural burn? You're gonna need more than ice. Do you have..."
Sam listens carefully, writing down everything he'll need. Proportions are key. He asks detailed questions and feels a little panic building as Bobby drones on.
Finally there is a pause. "That's it?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"Yeah," Sam breathes. "Okay. Do you know where I can find goldenseal?And how hot does the kava have to be? And how much can he have till it's poisonous?"
Bobby pauses long, and his harsh breaths have Sam's eyes going wide.
"Where are you, boy?"
"Fairmont. Just this side of 81."
"Can you get here?"
Sam looks at the list in his hand. Then his eyes drift to the spent first aid kit between the beds. Finally he focuses on Dean's pale sweaty face. He looks so... young.
Dean stirs as he's watching and mumbles, "C'n take care of it,Dad."
Sam makes up his mind. "We'll be there by tonight."
--
Dean's reluctant to move. He's more asleep than awake and a little confused as he lets Sam bully him into the Impala.
Sam snags one last towel of ice to press on his forearm. The angry wound has cracked open again and is leaving bloody stains on Dean's shirt front. Sam buckles Dean in as Dean tries to slap him away.
--
Twelve hours later, Bobby's yard comes into view, and Sam's stomach is climbing his throat.
Dean is slightly more coherent and blinks drowsily, hair matted, as they pull to a stop.
"Why're we here, Sam?" Dean's voice is harsh.
"Bobby's gonna help. Come on." He does his best to ignore Dean's argumentative stare, feeling uneasy.
Dean eventually pushes out of the car and wobbles to Sam's side, ignoring his outstretched hand.
--
They're ambushed just inside the front door.
"He eaten anything yet? How exactly did the holy water react? Running a fever? What time was he burned? How much ash was left?"
Sam answers the stream of questions as fast as he can.
"Bobby, I'm fine," Dean tries to interject.
Bobby whirls on him and growls, "Did I ask you boy? Get upstairs and get to bed before you keel over and we have to haul your heavy ass."
Dean starts to protest, and Bobby turns hard. "Git. And stop your whining, do I look like your daddy?"
Sam knows at this moment that he has made a mistake.
He tenses, ready to intervene. Dean isn't strong enough for a fight. As he opens his mouth to excuse them, Dean... wilts. In his peripheral vision, Dean morphs into the child that Sam never knew. Light flares briefly in Dean's fever bright eyes and then his shoulders slouch, head hanging, lip out. By the time Sam looks at him straight on, his eyes are low, his fists hang loosely at his sides, and he heads for the stairs.
Sam watches, mouth agape, until he catches Bobby's attention. Bobby barks, "What're you waitin' for? Get up there and help him. I have to finish the poultice."
Sam starts, wide eyes flickering between the empty staircase and Bobby's expectant countenance.
--
When Sam reaches the spare room, Dean's sitting on the small bed, unmoving.
"You okay?"
No response.
Sam sighs and then moves forward, cautiously broaching Dean's space."I'll help you with your shirt."
Up close he can see the pale glimmer of Dean's skin, the dark smudges under his eyes. Dean shoulder's bow forward and sharp lines crease his brow. He slowly undoes Dean's shirt, his fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons. He resists the urge to swipe his palm across Dean's forehead.
"I can do it, Sam. I'm not a kid." Dean's eyes don't quite make it to Sam's face. His voice is quiet.
"I don't think Bobby knows that. You wanna tell him?" Sam finishes tugging him out of his shirt, crouching in front on him and trying to catch his eye. "Just lay down," he whispers ineffectively as Bobby's footsteps approach. Dean stubbornly stays vertical.
Bobby comes in bearing poultice.
Dean holds his hand out, but Bobby ignores him and snaps directives at Sam.
Sam shifts uncomfortably as Dean tenses. Dean interrupts, "I can do it, Bobby."
"Was I talking to you, boy? Sam, we have to make the poultice match his body temp. Get the kit from the sink and bring the bandages and a wrap." Sam scrambles to obey. He sees Dean flinch, oddly silent, as Bobby yells after him, "And don't bring one of the good towels."
--
By the time Sam returns, Bobby has succeeded in getting Dean prone on the bed. The rough timber of his voice almost sounds soothing, pitched low.
"Why's it bleeding? This might smart, boy." Sam watches as Bobby cleans the deepest scores on Dean's arm.
With skilled hands, Bobby measures Dean's temperature, efficiently soothes his brow like Sam would never dare, and then leaves to heat the concoction.
Sam clears his throat. When a shiver racks Dean's body, he moves forward and pulls a blanket up carefully. Dean's eyes flit to his and then he looks away.
"How're you doin'?"
He's rewarded with Dean's eyes back on his face. "'M okay, Sam. Stop worrying."
--
Bobby returns and smears Dean's arm with the odorific green-tinged balm. Dean tenses as the thick goo infiltrates the wound on his arm, inching away, restless on the bed.
Sam clears his throat. "You know where our dad is, Bobby?"
Dean goes still.
Bobby spares Sam a glance, eyes roaming over his face, then growls, "Sam, you do his chest. Make sure it seals and then bind it tight. I'm going to bed."
He levels his gaze at Dean. "That should ease the burn a bit. Get some sleep. If the pain comes back we can do another coat."
"Bobby-" Sam starts, but stutters to a stop at Bobby's sharp look. "Uhhh, thanks."
"Don't get that stuff on the sheets."
Dean's tired and Sam watches the tension ease out of him as the pain cools and his eyes close.
Sam slathers the inflamed lines on Dean's chest and binds them as tight as he dares. Dean's loose and cooperative and Sam stays silent. His chest tightens as Dean's breathing slips into a steady pattern.
Sam maneuvers Dean's arm and gets him tucked under the faded spread. He feels oddly protective, unused to being the one playing the role of guardian. He had spent his whole life being the one who was shielded and protected, tucked in and kept safe. He breathlessly watches Dean sleep for a few minutes before finally falling into the other bed and melting into the lumpy mattress.
--
Sam wakens in the predawn light. He rubs his eyes and checks on Dean, only to find that Dean's already watching him. "You okay?" Sam asks quietly.
A grunt.
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
An aborted shrug.
"You hurting?"
Dean's eyes skitter away and fall closed.
Sam pulls himself up and retrieves the green poultice, now cool. He passes the thermometer to Dean and slips out to reheat the thickening paste.
Checking the mercurial reading, he comments, "You're hot, man." In response, the lines around Dean's eye momentarily smooth and Sam smirks.
He briefly skims his palm over Dean's warm brow and then softly commands, "Pull the sheet back." Dean moves slowly.
Sam makes quick work of the bandages and dabs cautiously at the wounds. Another thorough coat, and the tight lines around Dean's eyes start to fade.
"Wake me up next time," Sam murmurs, wary of waking Bobby. He pulls the covers back up methodically, manipulating Dean's injured arm with care. Dean's eyes are dark and never leave Sam's face. Paradoxically, the unyielding stare suddenly makes Sam feel capable instead of inadequate.
"Go back to sleep," Sam whispers. Then, wondrously, Dean blinks sedately a few times before his eyes obediently fall closed.
--
The end.
*Story title from a rockin' Bon Jovi song. *sigh*