SPN: These Days (6/9)

[moogsthewriter]

Title: These Days
Rating: T
Genre: Angst, family, h/c
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 3.16. AU after that.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: This is the sequel to "One Hundred Nine Hours and Thirteen Minutes." I'd recommend reading that first if you haven't. Also, this was written in the summer and was completed before Season 4 ever aired. (Also written without ever looking at any spoilers for Season 4.) Partly journal, partly third person POV.
Notes the second: For egorstandish , who's been patiently reminding me to update this thing.

Summary: The path to recovery is more like a winding mountain road. Post 3.16, AU Season 4.

( Day 1 ) | ( Day 6 )| ( Day 15 )| ( Day 19 ) | ( Day 26 )

Day 39

We just finished our first hunt since… everything.

It actually went really well. I don’t think Dean feels that way, but I think considering the circumstances, things went okay. Better than normal, actually.

Okay, so the spirit had an affinity for sharp objects. And yeah, he nearly impaled me a couple of times. But he didn’t – just a scratch, actually. Didn’t even need stitches.

Dean handled himself a lot better than I thought he would. I guess I shouldn’t have doubted him so much – I mean, he is a Winchester after all. And I’m pretty sure if you were to look up the word “stubborn” in the dictionary, Dean’s picture would be there. Well, in the hunting dictionary, anyway.

Obviously he doesn’t feel that way at the moment. He’s still ranting in his head, I bet. Probably stuff about “hesitation” and “role reversal” and “stupid little brothers” and “frickin’ pissed off spirits”. Basically everything he’s been ranting about since he decided I wasn’t going to bleed to death.

Man, it’s good to have Dean getting back to normal.

But he doesn’t fully understand just why I have to make sure he stays safe – and I don’t think I want him to, either. I mean, yeah, the deal is a huge part of it. But every time we go into a hunt now, it’s hard for me to not think about what happened at the Mystery Spot.

And yeah, I’ll be the first to admit – it’s a definite role reversal on several levels. I mean, not only am I the one trying to lure away spirits, but I’m also the one being secretive – about a lot of things. Although I’m sure there’s still things Dean’s keeping to himself. That’s just the way we are.

But as annoying as it is, it’s a definite sign that Dean’s coming back. And that’s worth being fussed over.

At least… for a couple more weeks. As long as it doesn’t get out of hand. I can only handle so much over-protective Dean.

“Eyes open, Sammy. Last thing we need is for you to become a human pincushion,” Dean murmured as they crept up the stairs.

Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide a faint smile as he readjusted the grip on his sawed-off. “I still can’t believe the guy confessed.”

Dean shrugged, the movement brushing against Sam’s upper arm. “Well, he is practically on his deathbed.”

“He’s sixty-nine with pneumonia, and he’s been hospitalized. He’s probably gonna make it, Dean,” Sam shot back.

Dean smirked, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. “Then I guess the guilt just got to him. Or maybe the spirit.”

“I’m going with door number two,” Sam muttered as they stepped onto the third-floor landing of the abandoned apartment complex. “A guy who kills four people, chops them up to bits, and then turns on the guy who did it with him probably doesn’t suffer from too much guilt.”

“It’s like I always say, man – people are crazy,” Dean affirmed. “Which room was it?”

Sam stared at his brother for a beat. I guess you probably really do get demons now, huh? “He said the skeleton should be in the back wall of the kitchen in 306,” he replied, pointing towards a door that was sagging forward in its frame, only one hinge holding it up. He frowned as the bag across his shoulders slid slightly, bumping at his lower back. He quickly readjusted it to take the pressure off his wound.

Dean strode forward, adjusting his hands so his shotgun was in his right and the axe was in his left. “Let’s do this, then.”

The pair quietly made their way down the hall, keeping their eyes and ears alert for any sign of Alexander Dodd’s vengeful spirit. “Does it seem odd that he hasn’t shown up yet?” Sam whispered.

Dean lifted the door up and swung it so it was against the wall. He wrinkled his nose as flecks of paint fluttered into his hair. “Way to jinx it, Sammy,” he hissed, brushing the flakes out. “Haven’t you ever seen the movies? Anytime someone says something like that, it’s bound to make the spirit show up.”

Sam rolled his eyes again as they entered the apartment. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Why? You got somewhere you need to be?”

“Yeah – anywhere but here. It sounds like it could collapse at any minute,” Sam replied as the floor groaned loudly beneath their feet.

“Maybe you should start cutting back on those girly lattes you keep drinking – have to maintain your figure after all,” Dean said with a grin as he gingerly took another step.

Sam snorted. “Maybe you should empty out your stash of Twinkies and Ding-Dongs in the trunk.”

Dean paused, glancing over his shoulder at Sam, not quite fully hiding his surprise at being discovered. “Those are for quick energy, I’ll have you know.”

“Right,” Sam replied skeptically with a smirk. Dean huffed and started moving forward again. Sam shook his head, his hair fluttering around his face as he grinned. He’d missed this back-and-forth banter with his brother.

“Did Eriksen happen to say just where in the wall he stuffed Dodd?” Dean asked as they entered the apartment’s small kitchen, the cracked linoleum squeaking beneath their feet.

“No,” Sam answered, his eyes darting over the far wall of the kitchen. A beat up counter with a cracked Formica top was set against two-thirds of the wall, leaving a wide spot for a refrigerator and a stove in the corner. “But if he was living here, there would’ve been a stove and a fridge in that spot,” he pointed out.

Dean strode forward, his eyes roaming the wall. “There’s a pretty good crack here,” he declared, rubbing his hand against the wall in the corner. He glanced back at Sam. “You think he moved the fridge, stuck the body there, and walled it up again?”

“Possibly. It would be easier than trying to heft the thing up over a hole above the counter,” Sam said, joining his brother. He gingerly set the bag on the ground, flinching as the floor groaned again.

Dean wordlessly handed Sam his shotgun and held the axe in both hands. Sam backed up a step, his eyes wandering over the kitchen looking for any sign of the spirit. Dean settled into a firm stance and launched the axe at the wall.

Two whacks in, a hiss of air suddenly escaped from the small hole in the drywall. Sam whirled as Dean started gagging, wrinkling his nose a moment later as the stale smell of decay wafted under his nostrils. “I think we hit pay dirt,” Dean choked out, glancing up at Sam with watery eyes.

“We definitely hit something,” Sam replied, swallowing several times and turning back to face the apartment. His eyes widened when he caught sight of a shimmering figure. In one smooth motion he raised his gun and fired. The rock salt fanned out as it hit Dodd, causing the spirit to disappear. “Y’better hurry up, man,” he called over his shoulder as he set Dean’s gun aside so he could get a better grip on his own.

“Question, Sam,” Dean grunted as he started swinging the axe rapidly. “How’re we supposed to salt and burn the damn thing? This wall’s gonna go up with it.”

Sam paused thoughtfully, his eyes still searching for any ghostly movement. “Well… the place is scheduled for demolition, anyway,” he finally replied with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder at his brother.

Dean grinned, pausing mid-swing to glance at Sam. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” he replied, attacking the wall full-force again.

Sam snorted, turning back again. He came almost nose-to-nose with a hovering two-by-four. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees. He felt the wind rustle his hair as the board swung over his head. He aimed the shotgun up and fired, gasping as the kickback jarred his shoulder and the board landed on his back, colliding with his scar.

“Sam?”

“I’m fine – just make it fast!” Sam replied to the panicked call as he scrambled to his feet. He swiftly grabbed a couple of spare shells from his pocket and reloaded his gun. Raising it back up to shoulder height, he started sweeping the room, making sure to stick as close to his brother as he could without getting nailed by the backswing of the axe.

“Yahtzee!” Dean suddenly exclaimed, ripping away a few more boards to reveal a skeleton that had been jammed into the small space between the drywall and the outer wall. Dodd’s body had been folded in half, his feet up by his head. The body had mummified in the dry Arizona air, leaving his clothes, skin, and hair relatively intact. “Hello, fugly.”

The elder Winchester nearly jumped as another shotgun blast cut through the air. “Dean, move it!” Sam called, cocking the shotgun again.

He could hear his brother hurriedly unzip the duffel bag, digging through the various items searching for the tin of salt and the bottle of lighter fluid. “Geez, Sam, how much crap did you throw in here?”

Sam chose not to reply, instead grabbing up a discarded piece of wood Dean had tossed aside and using it like a bat to deflect a screwdriver the ghost had found. “Really not a good time, Dean!”

He heard Dean mutter something under his breath before giving a small “Ha!” of triumph. Shortly thereafter he heard the large grains of rock salt hitting the walls of the metal canister as Dean shook it over the bones.

“Damn, this guy’s persistent!” Sam grunted as Dodd appeared again. He took a step back as the spirit hoisted an arsenal of debris into the air, its ghostly features twisted into an angry leer. With a startled gulp, Sam raised his gun as Dodd sent the debris flying at the Winchesters. The rock salt caused the spirit to disappear, but not in time to prevent a dulled and dented kitchen knife from connecting with Sam’s outstretched forearm.

A great whoosh nearly drowned out Sam’s hiss of pain, but Dean still caught the sound. He whirled around and grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “Where?” he demanded, the flickering firelight casting long shadows on his face.

Sam was already applying pressure on the four-inch gash. “Dean, it’s fine-”

“Where, Sammy?”

Sam huffed a sigh, turning to face Dean head-on now that Dodd’s remains were on fire. “See? Not that bad,” he said, suppressing a squeak of pain as Dean probed at the gash. He gestured at the fire which was rapidly consuming the kitchen wall. “Can we deal with this later?”

Dean made a face, but quickly gathered up their equipment and led the way down the stairs and out to the Impala. Smoke was already billowing up towards the early-morning sky, orange flames flickering out of a third-floor window. “We need to book before the fire department shows up,” Dean said tersely, tossing the duffel bag into the trunk. He grabbed a towel and tossed it to Sam before slamming the lid shut. “Don’t even think about getting blood on the leather,” he added with a hint of a smirk as he jogged to the driver’s side.

Sam rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arm with the towel and yanked the door open. He settled into his seat with a sigh, his eyes sliding closed as needles of pain raced up his forearm and across his lower back. The ache in his back eased slightly with the familiar rumble of the car as Dean pulled away from the burning building.

“You okay?”

Sam smiled faintly, leaving his eyes shut as he nestled his head in its familiar spot on the top of the bench seat. “Feels good to be doing this again,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Even when you get sliced open?”

Sam popped an eye open at Dean’s skeptical tone. “Dude, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just a scratch.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz scratches bleed through towels,” Dean shot back sarcastically.

Sam raised his head off the seat to stare at his brother. “What’s your problem?” he demanded. “We’re back on the hunt. We just frickin’ burned a three-story building down! Why aren’t you more excited about this?”

Dean fidgeted in his seat, his grip on the steering wheel tightening to white-knuckled strength. “I just… I dunno,” he finally muttered.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Well that’s specific.”

“You’re not supposed to be the one getting hurt!”

“Since when? Aren’t you the one always pointing out that my ‘shining’ or whatever always attracts trouble?” Sam pointed out. “Besides, you were the one who wanted to chop the place up.”

“Only ‘cuz I knew you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dean replied firmly. Sam’s head jerked in surprise. “Don’t give me that look,” Dean said, glancing out the corner of his eye. “You know what I’m talking about. Even before… before, you were always trying to throw yourself in front of me. That’s my job.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly as he readjusted his grip on the towel. “No, it’s not. We’re a team, Dean. That’s both our jobs.”

Dean sighed forcefully but didn’t reply, and they traveled the rest of the way to the hotel in silence. Sam stared out the window as the sun rose, his frustration with his brother not completely drowning out the euphoric feeling the hunt had given him.

Thirty minutes later Sam was stepping out of the bathroom, his shaggy wet hair plastered to his head as he readjusted his dark t-shirt, making sure to hide the stitches still in his back. “Let me see,” Dean declared softly, breaking the silence and pointing at Sam’s bed.

Sam’s lips twitched in a faint smile as he silently sat down on the bed and allowed Dean to examine the knife wound on his arm. The elder Winchester probed at it carefully before rinsing it with holy water and rubbing alcohol. “I think we can get away without stitches,” he said, grabbing the bandages from the first aid kit. He wrapped Sam’s arm quickly and efficiently.

“Thanks,” Sam murmured gratefully as Dean packed away the kit.

Dean glanced at him out of one eye as he set the kit on the floor. “Better have left me some hot water, Francis,” he said finally, digging through his duffel for a change of clothes. He paused before closing the bathroom door. “Oh, and don’t spend too long writing in your diary.”

“It’s a journal, Dean. I know you have one, too,” Sam shot back, a touch of exasperation in his voice.

Dean smirked as he framed his face between the door and the doorframe. “You write a lot more than I do, Samantha. It’s one chromosome away from being a diary, bitch.”

“Jerk!” Sam called as Dean slammed the door shut. He shook his head ruefully as he dug out the leather-bound book and propped it open on the mattress in front of him.

We just finished our first hunt since… everything.

tbc...

 

 

Comments

[sendintheklowns.livejournal.com]

I love the whole dynamic between the brothers. Dean so wants to protect Sam but they're past that -- Sam is now full partner rather than just junior partner. But the h/c is still intact which is a fave of mine :D

[moogsthewriter.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you like it! As you well know, I'm a fan of h/c myself. :D So get ready for it, cuz the next couple chapters are gonna be chock full of angst and h/c. ;)

[ex-egorstan.livejournal.com]

Seriously! This is just wonderful.

The interaction between Dean and Sam. It's just like watching the show :) Love the way you write the brothers!

[moogsthewriter.livejournal.com]

Aw, thanks! I'm so glad to hear that--it can be hard to capture them sometimes, especially after everything that's happened in Season 4. But I'm glad you like it. :D