GG/SPN fic: One of a Kind 7/8
May. 4th, 2009 03:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faye_dartmouthA/N: One chapter to go after this, so it’s working its way toward its resolution. Preseries stuff makes me so nostalgic--even in their angst, it was at least sort of reassuring because I still felt like Sam and Dean LIKED each other. Now, I just want to go cry after each ep and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better! All other relevant notes in chapter one. Thanks for continuing to read and review :) Previous chapters here.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Coming to consciousness again just made Sam realize with more than a little chagrin that he’d passed out. Flat on his face, sprawled on hardwood floor, right in front of his brother no less.
He supposed he should be grateful that he’d waited that long to do it. He’d wanted to take a nosedive all day long, so the fact that his body let him actually get past all the running through the woods and rescuing nonsense was actually pretty impressive.
Didn’t make coming to any easier.
His senses were coming back gradually. First, the ability to think, which was always good, followed by the ability to hear.
“Make sure it’s tight, Dean. We don’t want them getting away.”
His dad. His dad was here.
Which...made sense. He knew his dad would come. He just seemed to have slept through that part.
Then it occurred to him that he was moving. How, he wasn’t quite sure, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t doing it. Which meant--Sam wanted to groan but his voice hadn’t come back yet--he was being carried.
“You sure I can’t just take a shot at a knee?” Dean was saying, his voice strained. Even only semiconscious, Sam could tell it was only partially a joke.
“They’re not worth the bullets,” was his dad’s deadpanned reply.
Hearing was all well and good until the sense of touch came back into play. The movement stopped, and it smelled like leather and oil, the Impala, and his dad and his brother, and pain.
And that’s when hearing, seeing, smelling, thinking all went out the window. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Sam had already taken that far too literal in the last few days.
The thought made him nauseous, and he wanted to curl away from it, but there was no place to go, not even as he buried his nose into the Impala’s back seat. Because the pain sharp and aching, tingling through his entire body and he wished for unconsciousness again. The grating in his head had ratcheted up to nearly incapacitating levels and he sort of thought he’d lost the ability to move his injured arm.
Then touch again. Firm but gentle. Probing but careful. Reassuring. “Easy, Sam.”
It was his father’s voice, deep and sure, rumbling in his chest like the Impala’s engine under the hood. “Can you open your eyes?”
There was a difference between ability and desire, though, and surely his dad knew that. But his dad had asked--he’d asked and since when did his dad ask him anything? Orders, sure. But requests, especially ones so laden with concern and hope--
Sam’s eyes were opening before he had the presence of mind to stop them or even consider if that was the best course of action, all things considered.
His father was kneeling outside the car door, looking at Sam, rubbing light circles on the shoulder of Sam’s good arm. “Sammy?”
Sam blinked, focusing his gaze. His father’s face hovered closer now, craning down to look Sam in the eyes. “Dad?” he said, not because he doubted his father’s presence--on the contrary, his father’s presence was unmistakable, but because--
Was it over? Was it really over?
“How do you feel?”
Sam took a moment with that one, tried to separate the pains throughout his body, old and new, searing and throbbing, but they all blurred together. Lying was easier. Not lying--fibbing, downplaying the truth, selective reality. “Okay.”
His dad actually laughed at that, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair. When he looked up, the lines were crinkled around his eyes, which looked oddly wet. “Sam, you’ve got a gash that will need stitches on your arm, a broken wrist, a handful of bruised ribs, and more bruising than I’ve ever seen on one of you boys in my life. And you feel okay?”
Sam considered that for a second, thinking about the catalogue of injuries and then gave up the argument. “Relatively speaking,” he said, which was the truth this time. He swallowed, shifting his weight tentatively. “Better than before.”
“Oh, you mean before you got kidnapped? Or before you escaped? Or maybe before you charged in to take on an armed man by yourself?” There was humor in that, humor and fear and something maybe like pride.
To Sam’s credit, it had seemed less ridiculous when he’d come up with the plan--and he’d truly expected Dean to get out of the closet, though logically, Sam wasn’t sure why. “They wanted to kill you,” Sam said, trying to remember. “I couldn’t let them--I mean, I couldn’t just--” His voice broke off as a cough choked him out, ripping through his chest.
He bent over, or tried to, and his father’s hands shifted to support him before Sam face planting right out the open door. “Just--take it easy,” his father said curtly. “If one of those ribs is broken--”
Sam closed his eyes tight and willed the pain away, his body going limp against the leather. It didn’t work this time. Without the adrenaline, without the need to act, he felt like he was fading--and fast. “They had Dean,” he murmured, keeping his eyes closed. “You weren’t here yet...they had Dean.”
His father shook him a little, enough to pry his eyes open. “Stay with me, son. Until we get you looked at. We’re nearly ready to go,” his father said. “What happened?”
Two words--such a simple question--and Sam didn’t even know where to begin. He swallowed, trying to stay awake a little longer. “What part?” he asked.
“Hell, Sammy, any part.”
Then his brother was there, standing over both of them, and it occurred to Sam for the first time since coming to that time had passed. Not just a few seconds, but a lot of time. Maybe not hours, but time Sam couldn’t remember, time--
“Dean,” he breathed. His brother in peril--that memory was clear enough. “You okay?”
His brother looked a little flabbergasted at that. “You’re the one who charged in here like Rambo,” he said.
His father’s eyes narrowed traveling from Dean to Sam again. “Did you even have any weapons?” he asked.
Sam thought about that, and remembered the log, though he couldn’t remember what had happened to it. He had come in with it, through the window in the bedroom. But somehow he’d dropped it.
His eyes roamed the woods, as if they held an answer, and then he became vaguely aware that something was off. Not just him and the pain and the guys locked in the cabin, but what had Dean been doing?
Straining, Sam took in his surroundings a bit clearer. There was still woods, that much was certain, but they were in some kind of parking lot, a pull off maybe. How far away from the cabin were they? Had his father carried him? Then what had Dean been carrying?
Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw the answer. A kid--stretched out on the seat opposite him. The not-Sam. “Who’s he?” Sam asked, only vaguely aware that he’d neglected his father’s question.
Dean and his dad glanced beyond Sam before looking at each other briefly. “It’s a kid,” Dean said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. “When they--lost you, they took him instead.”
Sam thought about that, tried to make sense of it, and the conclusion came to him like a bowling ball. Concern flared up, because suddenly there was a loose end Sam hadn’t anticipated. He tried to push himself up using his elbows. “They used him instead?” Sam asked, needing to see him now. “But--so--it’s my fault? He’s just some kid and he’s hurt and it’s my fault?”
His dad restrained him easily and Sam lacked the strength to fight him. “It’s no one’s fault but the guys who did this.”
Sam’s eyes went wide again. “They wanted to kill you,” he blurted, and the memories were coming faster now, clearer. “That’s why they took me, to kill you. I was bait. And that’s why I had to get away, because I couldn’t be bait for you. I couldn’t do that, I didn’t want to. So I got out.”
“We’ve figured that much out,” his father said. “And you did the right thing, getting away. But why’d you come back?’
“To stop them,” Sam said, his words tumbling out now. “I wanted to stop them because they didn’t need me to hurt you, I didn’t think, and I didn’t know where else to go, so I came back here and I saw Dean--I saw him and I saw--I saw--that kid--and I had to do something. You weren’t here, Dad. You weren’t here.”
It was dangerously close to a whine and Sam realized that his eyes were tearing. He didn’t know why, couldn’t stop it, but it hurt and he had been scared and he’d tackled a grown man with little more than a stick. A big stick maybe, Sam couldn’t totally remember, but a stick wasn’t exactly high up in the repertoire of effective Winchester weapons.
A stick. What had he been thinking? He risked his life, Dean’s life, and--
“Just take it easy, okay?” his dad said, softer than Sam expected. Worried. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Not a threat. A promise. No, a reassurance.
Was everyone suffering from a head wound today or was Sam just completely out of it? His dad should be angry, about the kidnapping, about Sam’s botched escape, about the sloppy rescue--
The sloppy rescue. One of Sam’s stupidest moves ever. He’d resorted to lunging and swinging blindly and for all the good it did him--the initial scuffle might have gone his way had he not landed on his sore ankle, which had prompted given out and put him on the wrong end of the gun.
How had he even gotten out of the way? Sam should have been dead right now--from that, from the trek in the woods, from the kidnapping. The fact that he was even breathing was a testament that there had to be some kind of God out there after all.
“Sam, focus,” his father said, a little sterner now. “You’re doing okay, but I want to watch that head wound.”
A wall. He’d been thrown into a wall. Or rather rammed. He needed to work on his sparring. When he’d lost the stick, he’d jumped on the guy’s back but he sucked at choke holds--those were Dean’s thing--and he’d used the stick after all. After the guy had almost shot him and Sam found the thing again. Primitive but effective. Boys apparently didn’t need their toys. One clean swing was all he’d needed. One clean swing and the guy was down like a ton of bricks.
After pummeling Sam, of course. Sam couldn’t forget that, what with the swelling on the other side of his face and a new stitch of pain seated on his hip.
“Dude, Sammy,” his brother was saying. “You don’t want to make Dad mad when he’s in such a chipper mood. Not even you could be that contrary.”
Sam wasn’t sure about that. “Jerk,” he breathed, because he couldn’t think of much else.
Dean grinned. “I’d call you bitch, but not today. I’ll wait till we get you checked out so I can know all the things I get to help you rehab.”
Right, by kicking his ass. Sam knew that tone.
“You ready to go?” his father asked, but he wasn’t talk to him.
Dean glanced over Sam’s shoulder and Sam remembered not-Sam again. “He’s still out,” Dean said. “Bleeding has slowed, but--yeah. We should move.”
“You sure they’re secure?”
“They were both tied to chairs in the back room when we left, which, trust me, is just about impossible to break out of. And the younger guy’s so freaked by the way you kicked his ass that I don’t think he’d run even if he could.”
“That one doesn’t have the heart for this kind of thing,” his father said. “There’s a reason that they sent him after me. He’d be closer to pulling the trigger on me than either one of you boys.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you got here,” Dean said. “Between Sammy passing out cold and the kid in shock, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of here.”
Sam hadn’t even thought of that. He hadn’t thought about getting out of there. He should have, though. Dean would have. His dad would have. His dad did. His dad had overtaken the other kidnapper and if Sam had just used his head and waited, he could have helped his dad and not ended up all over the floor. And spared himself a lot if trouble. That was so typical, Sam thought. His dad always told him he needed to get the big picture, that he didn’t always know everything.
Stupid, Sam thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“You sit in the back, watch them both,” his father said. “I’ll drive.”
Sam’s self-recriminations stilled. Sweet words. Words of rescue. Of release. Of over.
After all of this, after all of it, kidnapping and escape and pain and cold and rescues, it was finally over.
“Just relax, Sammy,” his father said, his hand ghosting through Sam’s hair now, settling on his face gently. “It’s almost over, kiddo.” Sam might have protested, might have scowled for being treated like a baby, but it felt so warm, so safe, that for once, Sam didn’t even have to ask why.
-o-
Light.
There was light.
Bright, which he supposed light was by definition, but really bright. Sun stuffed artificially into a box and then left to ferment for years before opening kind of bright. Sterile bright, like someone was trying to scorch the world back into a pristine condition.
Either that or annihilate everything.
Or maybe just Dean.
Because the light seemed to be focused on him. Searing and effusive, pounding on his eyelids as if asking for permission to come in.
He was personifying light. Something had to be wrong. But hey, wouldn’t his English teacher be so very proud.
Noise.
Voices.
Professional. Adult. Unfamiliar.
If there was ever a time that Dean longed for coherent thought, now was about it.
“...vitals are low, but the O2 is helping. I can’t tell if there’s any vascular damage or not, but at least the bullet didn’t seem to nick any vital organs.”
“No, but it got something, all right. This kid’s a bloody mess. We’re looking at a fairly substantial amount of blood loss. How many units do we have in?”
So maybe coherent thought wasn’t the way to go. Because that sounded like doctor-speak, medical jargon in its finest, which meant there was some poor unsuspecting patient getting all hooked up and ready to be wheeled off, which would be rather surreal if he thought about it, all that action and nonsense and to not know what was going on because you were laid out on some table with bright lights--
Bright lights.
It clicked.
He was the patient on the table. That was the bright light. The doctors, in all their professionalism and medicalese, were talking about him.
His gunshot wound.
And to think his mother worried about him working under the hood of a car. She was paranoid about it, about it staying up. She thought it could accidentally collapse and crush him.
Or Rory and her fear of stairs in winter. It was random, but true, Rory didn’t like walking down them at all, not outside with the snow and slush, not inside with the monster boots she liked to don. “It’s just so cumbersome, those shoes,” she told him once. “Good for traipsing, of course, because you don’t want wet socks all day, but not so good for stairs. One wrong step and you’re down the whole flight. Seems like a perfectly horrible way to die. Snapping your neck. Smacking your head. I think I’d rather snap my neck. Quick, painless...”
Pain. Dean remembered pain--
Like a gunshot. A gunshot and being punched and--
He coughed suddenly, eyes blinking and he was conscious whether he liked it or not.
And with consciousness came memory and with memory came immediacy and with immediacy came pain.
“He’s awake,” someone said, but Dean could see who. His eyes were still trying to make sense of this place, of the light in his face and the hands--all over him--and the cold air on his skin.
He was naked. Naked and cold and it all hurt.
“Dean, can you hear me?”
Dean swallowed, blinking again, and a head bobbed in front of the light. Someone he didn’t recognize. Dark skin, kindly features. Brown eyes. Earnest.
Rory had nice eyes. But hers were blue. And it hurt.
“Dean?”
He licked his lips, noticing for the first time something on his face. An oxygen mask. “I...,” he tried, his eyes roaming, trying to see something. He caught flashes of metal and of bloody gauze and the room smelled like disinfectant.
“Do you remember where you are? Do you remember what happened?”
Too many questions, too fast, like Rory when she was nervous or Lorelai at any point in time. But those were fun questions, or funny ones; not these, not ones that seemed important.
Home. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew where he wasn’t. He wasn’t home, he wasn’t at the market or at Luke’s or at Rory’s. He wasn’t even in the cabin anymore, and just like Rory and his mom and Clara weren’t here, neither were Kenny and Ryan and...that other guy, the Dean guy--
The rescue that wasn’t meant for him.
But a rescue nonetheless.
So this was--
“Hospital?” he asked, his voice thin and raking hard against his throat.
“Good guess,” the doctor smiled.
Hospital and rescue, two factors that didn’t quite compute anymore, no more than kidnapping and gunshot. None of it made any sense, not even for a kid who had grown up in Chicago, especially not for a kid who lived in Stars Hollow and dated Rory Gilmore.
Funny, though, how he defined himself by everything that he was associated with. The bag boy. Rory’s boyfriend. Clara’s big brother. The kid who was kidnapped.
But hey, at least it wasn’t personal. Rory could break up with him and people glared at him for days. Some new kid rolled to town and Dean just happened to be lucky enough to have the girl to make his life hell. Rory couldn’t say I love you, Jess couldn’t get his head out of his butt, Clara couldn’t see beyond please, Dean, please, and two random guys couldn’t hold onto their kidnapping victim long enough.
It wasn’t him. It was someone else, anybody else, and suddenly Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the doctors told him that they needed to change rooms because someone more important was on their way.
They were talking to him, Dean realized distantly. More hands and more voices and Dean couldn’t even remember how he got to the hospital and he sort of gave up caring. He was just tired.
Maybe they were right. Not just the kidnappers, not just Kenny and Ryan. But Richard Gilmore and Jess and Lorelai. That they were right that he wasn’t worth taking, that he wasn’t worth dating, that he was too stupid to matter, too aimless to be important, too pathetic to even be worth telling the truth to.
He could remember Rory in the flush of moonlight, tucked next to him in the car he was going to build for her. He’d planned it all out, saved his wages for two months to buy the hulk, and there she was, next to him, with him, like that was all that mattered. It had been the defining moment, a moment when he had looked at all the options, all the pros and all the cons, and then decided he didn’t care about anything but the very basic fact that he knew what he wanted.
So he’d taken the leap, told Rory he loved her, and landed flat on his face. Like the first kiss, the first conversation, the first dance--all of it. Dean took chances and failed, even though sometimes it worked out after all.
Some chances were worth taking.
Others weren’t.
So Dean closed his eyes and didn’t know if this one was worth it or not.
-o-
As far as hospitals went, Dean knew he probably shouldn’t complain too much about this one. After all, help had been prompt and professional and they’d been lax enough on the rules to keep Dean and his dad fully in the loop on Sam and even in the know on the kid, seeing as they did bring him in and all.
And really, the only measure that really mattered in the end was if Sammy was okay. Sure, that wasn’t really the hospital’s fault, what condition the Winchesters arrived in, but it greatly changed Dean’s attitude toward the place.
The verdict on Sam was good. The kid was banged around pretty badly. The ankle was sprained but the wrist was actually broken so Sam would be sporting a cast for a bit. The cut on the arm had needed stitching and the blood loss had been just enough to make the kid woozy and earn him a couple of bags of fluid courtesy of the state of Connecticut. The ribs were badly bruised, along with the rest of Sam and the concussion was nothing to ignore and there was dehydration and the earliest hints of exposure.
And to think: Sam had rescued him.
What the kid didn’t have in style, he excelled with in sheer determination. To the point of stupidity.
It had been a mixed blessing on the car ride in to have Sam only semi-aware. It was hard to see his normally bright kid brother incapacitated in any form, but he was damn straightforward with his answers when he was like that.
It was quite a story. From the abduction on the way home from school (which his father offered a reproving look for being so sloppy) to the harsh beatings and fledging escape (a window, of all things, but at least Sam could run) to the foolhardy move to come back (though by that time, Dean didn’t doubt that Sam’s reasoning skills had taken a serious hit or two).
Sam told it all to them, without hesitation. He was slumped in the front seat, resting heavily against the seat back, eyes heavy and voice thick. Their dad had driven, white-knuckled and faster than the speed limit.
But only partly for Sam. Partly for the other kid bleeding in the back with Dean.
Normally Sam would be back there under Dean’s watchful eye, but the other kid was in a bad way and getting worse. Taking him in was a risk, as was anything that brought Winchesters in close contact with a world of respectability and legality. But the kid was shot and he was scared and he was just a kid and Dean had insisted.
Luckily the kid looked so much like Sam that their father acquiesced. The fact that they were already making a hospital run probably didn’t hurt either.
It had been strange, of course, having some other kid share the space with them, to worry about someone else, to try to stem the flow of someone else’s blood. They saved people, that much was true, but they were a tight knit family, even in their conflict. It was an intimate lifestyle, and Dean rarely opened up to outsiders for any reason.
But this kid--this wee Dean, this alternate Sam--this was Dean’s fault in so many ways. But it was more than that. Guilt could have pushed him to drag the kid to a hospital, but to sit there, in a waiting room, looking out for him--well, that was another issue entirely, no matter how hard Dean tried to spin it in his own mind.
He’d kept pressure on the gunshot and tried not to look at the bruised face and wonder. Not just about who he was and what he did. But about what the kid was losing today.
Kidnapping, getting shot--true, it wasn’t ghost hunting, but it was still the same sharp loss of innocence that no one deserve. Ever. The same kind of thing that Dean was still reeling from even sixteen years later.
And there was just no reason for it. That was the hard part to take. Because this kid didn’t fit any pattern. He wasn’t chosen for any reason other than really bad luck and some damn coincidental genetics.
He hated that. He hated that it was his fault and his dad’s and Sam’s and that some other kid out there might not get the apple pie life he deserved. The one Sam seemed so hell-bent on wanting for himself.
Maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age.
Either way, there he was, in the waiting room. Sam was already settled and asleep, their father keeping steady vigil by his side with that way of his. His father had something to say about all this, and from the anxious set of his father’s shoulders, Dean knew it wasn’t good. Dean had seen it enough to know--and to not look forward to it on his own or Sam’s behalf.
So Dean was here. In the waiting room. It was stupid because he wasn’t family, but he needed to know.
The brunette two chairs down from him was flipping through a magazine, sighing heavily before she closed it abruptly and looked up.
Dean had been too busy checking her out to look away.
She smiled. Not flirtatious. Tired. “You would think they’d try to keep up with some more up-to-date reading material,” she said with a sardonic expression. “I mean, people sitting here are already tired and freaked and everything else and what is offered to placate them? Old news. I mean, who wants to read old news. Because, well, it’s old. And sometimes I like old news, I do, because it’s sort of like a flashback or something. But this isn’t even old enough news for that. This is like only somewhat old news. The news that just got old so it’s not old enough to be new again. Which is no way to keep people occupied when they’re already worrying in a waiting room.”
So this one was a talker. Which, maybe not so much his thing on most occasions, because too much talking meant not enough of other things. But even sitting down, Dean could see her curves and the hint of smooth skin under her v-neck top. Older than he would have first guessed, but not too old by any stretch of the imagination.
He smiled back. “You got to hit the oncology floor for the new magazines,” Dean said. He shrugged. “Not the most uplifting place in the world, so I guess they figure if anyone will need a real distraction, it’s them.”
She seemed to consider that. “That’s some pretty rare knowledge,” she said. “You come here often?”
Dean glanced around. “Here? No,” he said. “But I’m no stranger to hospitals.”
She raised her eyebrows. “A man of danger?”
He snorted a little. “Something like that.”
“Well, since you appear to be in one piece tonight, what brings you here this time?”
It was chitchat of the most polite variety but it wasn’t the reminder Dean wanted. “My brother’s here.”
She looked sorry she asked. “I’m sorry. Wow. Dumb question, right? I mean, a guy’s in a hospital, and I ask why he’s here. It’s not like a business or pleasure question. It’s like a why-your-life-sucks question.” She paused, seeming to consider exactly what she was saying. Wincing, she continued, “I’d like to say that usually I’m not quite this, well, neurotic, but I’d hate to lie to you.”
That made him smile. “My brother’s fine,” he said. “Just some observation.”
This seemed to make her relax a little. “So why are you hanging out here? Just here to check out the old news?”
“Maybe just for some interesting conversation.”
“A hospital pick up line,” she exclaimed. “Seems like there should be a joke. A heart and a liver walked into a bar.”
“What? And the heart says only one of us is getting out of here alive?”
“Smart move by the heart then, taking a liver to a bar. Talk about knowing the weak spot.” She stopped, shaking her head. “I’d also like to say that usually I’m not this bad at making jokes, but a little more time sitting next to me will make me a liar.”
It was like this chick lacked the filter between her brain and her mouth. Like Sam when he got into a fight with their dad, only in the most positive twist.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Hospitals aren’t really a place where we get to see people at their best.”
She sighed at that, leaning back on her chair. “No kidding. I hate these places. All their equipment and the doctors with their clipboards.”
“You’re freaked out by the clipboards?”
She looked incredulous. “Um, yeah. It’s like they keep secret notes on them in this secret language that no one else can understand. For all we know, they’re really just passing silly notes to one another and not paying attention to our physical needs at all.”
“Interesting conspiracy,” he said with a nod.
“Normally I’d work harder to be a bit more Holden Caulfield for you, but hey, we’ve already established I’m not at my best.”
Dean couldn’t even imagine what her best was at this point. “So why are you here?” he asked. Then looked a bit apologetic. “One bad question deserves another.”
“Very true,” she agreed, though a bit reluctantly. “It’s my daughter.”
Her daughter. She had a daughter? Dean hadn’t seen a ring--he’d done the single mom circuit before, but she did not look like she had a daughter. But hey, with eyes like that and that head of hair, surely the little thing would be pretty darn cute.
“Actually my daughter’s boyfriend.”
So much for little. “I’m sorry,” Dean managed to say.
She sighed again. “It’s such a mess,” she said. “Rory--that’s my kid--she’s been freaking out for the last two days ever since Dean didn’t show up for work. He’s not like that, you know. Irresponsible. I mean, sure, once they went out and accidentally stayed out all night, but this is the kid who calls to check in like five times a day. He’s never late. He’s never too early. He catches our spiders and changes our water bottle and he just doesn’t miss things. His parents didn’t know where he was, and no one had seen him, and Rory, you can imagine, was just beside herself. Made up all these fliers, even though everyone in town knew we were looking for him. And search parties and the six o’clock news and everything we could think of but he was just gone.”
This sounded familiar. This sounded really familiar. Was she talking about--Dean--wee Dean? Of all the coincidences and damned good luck.
She ran a hand through her hair. “And then just out of the blue. We were with his dad when the call came. Someone had found him, brought him in, and here we are. I don’t know what happened to him or how he is or anything. Rory went to go see if she could find Dean’s family and see if they know anything, and sorry--” she cut herself off with a sheepish grin. “I’m rambling. I do that, just usually not so personal. You’re just catching me at a really bad time.”
“So wait, you’re here for a kid named Dean? Who was kidnapped?”
The woman cocked her head. “Yeah, I mean. Did you hear about it on the news?”
“No,” Dean said. “I mean, yes. But, I--well, I brought him in.”
She stared at him, blankly, before she looked vaguely suspicious and attempting to cover it with a smile. “That’s. Not very funny.”
Dean just shook his head. He probably should have kept his mouth shut. Hell, he probably should have just stayed with Sam. But she was his ticket to answers. They didn’t need the risk of publicity more than they already had. They didn’t, but--he needed to know. He didn’t leave a job undone. He straightened, leaning closer. “Tall kid. Ridiculous looking hair. His name was Dean, he said. Dean--Forester.”
Her eyes narrowed, her expression guarded. “Yeah.”
“My dad and I--we were looking for my brother and we stumbled across this Dean kid, too. He’d been kidnapped. In a cabin, in the woods.”
Her eyes were still suspicious, but widening, doubt edging in. “You--you found Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I’ve been lurking around trying to catch a glimpse of how the kid was doing, but--”
“You found him? You’re the guy? The reason he’s back? I mean, is he okay? How was he? What happened? Who had him?”
Too many question. A lot of questions. Understandable questions. Dean would give what he could--and hope for the best in return. “Like I said, we found him in a cabin. He was tied up and--well, he’d been clocked a few times. The guys who took him, though,” Dean tried to explain, but swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He looked down. Admitting to rescue was one thing. Admitting to the rest--not so much.
“The guys who took him--they what? What about them?”
Resolved, Dean looked up. She would find out sooner or later. Ignorance was only bliss when it wasn’t on a crash course with shattering anyway. “They shot him.”
It was not the news she’d been expecting, clearly. Not that Dean could blame her. No one expected gunshots or kidnapping. She seemed to be talking herself out of it, into some form of denial. “They--they shot him? Like with a sedative? Or like glamor shots? Or--?”
Dean almost hated to tell her. She didn’t look innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something pure about her, something essentially good that just seemed to wrong to dampen.
But she was going to find out. “Like a gunshot,” he said. “I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t--I wasn’t fast enough.”
It came out as full of self loathing as it sounded in his head.
Her mouth flattened, her face losing all of its humor. “I--I’m sorry,” she said, her brow creased. “Is he--I mean, is he okay? I mean, besides being shot. Or I mean--I don’t even know. He was shot?”
She was still making sense of it in her head, and Dean wasn’t sure there was much he could do to help her get there--or if there even was anything. “He was alive when we got him here,” Dean offered. “But that’s why I’m here. I want to make sure he’s okay.”
She had no response to that, and she seemed to have pulled into herself.
“I’m sorry,” Dean offered again. “About the kid. I really am. But, if it helps, he seems like a tough kid.”
That made her smile a little, a nostalgic quirk of her mouth. “Tenacious is a better word for it,” she said. “That’s a kid who knows what he wants and goes after it without thinking twice. Sometimes it can come across as obsessive or blind but underneath it come from something sweet. Well intentioned. He’s, like, the best first boyfriend. I just--he doesn’t deserve this. Kidnapped. Shot. He doesn’t.”
She was shaking now, her hands running trembling through her hair. He moved deftly a seat over, putting a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey,” he said. “No one deserves it, I know.”
Dabbing the corners of her eyes, she forced a laugh. “He’s not even my kid,” she said. “Not even my boyfriend, I know. But he’s just such a good kid. He’s been so good to Rory--and to me. I was so afraid about that, her first boyfriend. And Dean--he had his moments where I wanted to string him up by his intestines. But he always proved himself. I mean, how many first boyfriends call when they say they will? Will do chores at other people’s houses? And--kidnapped. Shot? This stuff doesn’t happen here, not to kids like that. Does it?”
The question he wanted to say no to, the question he wanted to scoff at and reject and write off as inane and silly. Because it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t.
But it did. Dean Forester had to learn it the hard way, and so did she. So did every person in that diner, every person in that market, every person in that town.
All because a hunter died and his kids didn’t know how to deal with it.
It wasn’t fair.
But it happened.
She was looking at him, wide eyes, pretty face. And Dean told her the only thing he could. “Sometimes it does.”
Her jaw clenched at that a little, and Dean could see her eyes moisten. She ducked her head, dabbing again. “Just when I thought the nightmare was over,” she said. “It’s like, as long as you’re searching you sort of hold out this weird hope that everything will be okay. That he just got waylaid helping some little old lady cross the road or something. And all the time you spend trying not to think about what could go wrong.”
“It could have been worse,” Dean offered, remembering the gun and the callous voice holler if he dies.
She threw her hands up, a little hysterical. “But he’s been shot. I mean, it was one thing for him to be kidnapped, but--shot? My kid’s boyfriend? It’s just--so--I don’t know. Scary?”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “I would say scary might be an understatement.” So often he didn’t have to deal with this--the aftermath. He knew about horrors and deaths and disappearances, and sometimes he did talk to grieving widows or confused relatives. It happened, but it was an act he pulled, a gig to get more info. Part of the job.
This was just--not. This was just so much harder.
She met his eyes and returned his smile. Shaking her head, she seemed to try to get a handle on herself. “Rory is off, talking to Dean’s family, so when she gets back, she might know something new. I know his mother okay. But--wow. I can hardly even think. It’s sort of like mental overload, like when my parents used to give me the list of instructions for all the things I was supposed to keep in mind for a dinner party. You know, who to talk to, for how long, which fork to use first, where not to stick my napkin--at a certain point, my brain just couldn’t handle it.”
“Where to stick your napkin?”
“I know,” she said. “I mean, you think it doesn’t matter, right? It’s a napkin, nothing big. But there’s a real etiquette involved and apparently something about putting it too low on one knee which is an open suggestion that you’re an easy lay.”
Dean considered that. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
She barked a laugh. “I didn’t even thank you,” she said finally. “For--finding him.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No,” she said. “You did. You found Dean. And I know you probably don’t know anything about him, but he’s a good kid. There were a lot of people worried about him. And--just thanks.”
He hadn’t done it for thanks. He hadn’t done it for the kid at all. He’d been there for Sam, plain and simple, and wee Dean had just been caught in the crossfire. Literally.
So to be thanked--after everything--it was hard to hear. Harder still to accept.
Suddenly, Dean felt out of place. Not just comforting her, but here. Waiting for news on this kid. This kid who had a girlfriend and a job and people who cared about him. A whole town looking for him. And who was Dean to all of this? Who was he to care at all?
He shifted, pulling his arm away. “It was nothing,” he said. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I should probably get back to my brother.”
She nodded quickly--too quickly. “Yeah, of course,” she agreed. “I’m glad he’s okay--your brother.”
“Thanks,” Dean said. “So, um. If you hear anything and see me around--” He let it hang awkwardly.
“Definitely,” she said. “You know, you should come to Stars Hollow. You and your family. That’s where Dean’s from. Now, I mean. I think he’s from Chicago or something but his family moved there awhile ago so I guess he’s not from Stars Hollow but that’s entirely beside the point. All I’m trying to say is that we’d love to thank you. All of us. For Dean.”
Being a hero. Hunting things, saving people. The family business.
But they didn’t do it for thanks. They didn't tell anybody about it.
He just smiled. “Who knows?”
She smiled back, and he could see it in her eyes: she knew he’d never come. “Hey, I never caught your name,” she said.
“Dean.”
She looked perplexed. “No, I meant, your name.”
“My name is Dean,” he clarified. “Hell of a coincidence, I know.”
A bemused expression crossed her face. “Well, Dean, maybe I just don’t believe in coincidences.”
Funny, because neither did he.
He just shrugged his shoulder, letting his smile linger, before turning and walking back down the hall.
Next
CHAPTER SEVEN
Coming to consciousness again just made Sam realize with more than a little chagrin that he’d passed out. Flat on his face, sprawled on hardwood floor, right in front of his brother no less.
He supposed he should be grateful that he’d waited that long to do it. He’d wanted to take a nosedive all day long, so the fact that his body let him actually get past all the running through the woods and rescuing nonsense was actually pretty impressive.
Didn’t make coming to any easier.
His senses were coming back gradually. First, the ability to think, which was always good, followed by the ability to hear.
“Make sure it’s tight, Dean. We don’t want them getting away.”
His dad. His dad was here.
Which...made sense. He knew his dad would come. He just seemed to have slept through that part.
Then it occurred to him that he was moving. How, he wasn’t quite sure, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t doing it. Which meant--Sam wanted to groan but his voice hadn’t come back yet--he was being carried.
“You sure I can’t just take a shot at a knee?” Dean was saying, his voice strained. Even only semiconscious, Sam could tell it was only partially a joke.
“They’re not worth the bullets,” was his dad’s deadpanned reply.
Hearing was all well and good until the sense of touch came back into play. The movement stopped, and it smelled like leather and oil, the Impala, and his dad and his brother, and pain.
And that’s when hearing, seeing, smelling, thinking all went out the window. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Sam had already taken that far too literal in the last few days.
The thought made him nauseous, and he wanted to curl away from it, but there was no place to go, not even as he buried his nose into the Impala’s back seat. Because the pain sharp and aching, tingling through his entire body and he wished for unconsciousness again. The grating in his head had ratcheted up to nearly incapacitating levels and he sort of thought he’d lost the ability to move his injured arm.
Then touch again. Firm but gentle. Probing but careful. Reassuring. “Easy, Sam.”
It was his father’s voice, deep and sure, rumbling in his chest like the Impala’s engine under the hood. “Can you open your eyes?”
There was a difference between ability and desire, though, and surely his dad knew that. But his dad had asked--he’d asked and since when did his dad ask him anything? Orders, sure. But requests, especially ones so laden with concern and hope--
Sam’s eyes were opening before he had the presence of mind to stop them or even consider if that was the best course of action, all things considered.
His father was kneeling outside the car door, looking at Sam, rubbing light circles on the shoulder of Sam’s good arm. “Sammy?”
Sam blinked, focusing his gaze. His father’s face hovered closer now, craning down to look Sam in the eyes. “Dad?” he said, not because he doubted his father’s presence--on the contrary, his father’s presence was unmistakable, but because--
Was it over? Was it really over?
“How do you feel?”
Sam took a moment with that one, tried to separate the pains throughout his body, old and new, searing and throbbing, but they all blurred together. Lying was easier. Not lying--fibbing, downplaying the truth, selective reality. “Okay.”
His dad actually laughed at that, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair. When he looked up, the lines were crinkled around his eyes, which looked oddly wet. “Sam, you’ve got a gash that will need stitches on your arm, a broken wrist, a handful of bruised ribs, and more bruising than I’ve ever seen on one of you boys in my life. And you feel okay?”
Sam considered that for a second, thinking about the catalogue of injuries and then gave up the argument. “Relatively speaking,” he said, which was the truth this time. He swallowed, shifting his weight tentatively. “Better than before.”
“Oh, you mean before you got kidnapped? Or before you escaped? Or maybe before you charged in to take on an armed man by yourself?” There was humor in that, humor and fear and something maybe like pride.
To Sam’s credit, it had seemed less ridiculous when he’d come up with the plan--and he’d truly expected Dean to get out of the closet, though logically, Sam wasn’t sure why. “They wanted to kill you,” Sam said, trying to remember. “I couldn’t let them--I mean, I couldn’t just--” His voice broke off as a cough choked him out, ripping through his chest.
He bent over, or tried to, and his father’s hands shifted to support him before Sam face planting right out the open door. “Just--take it easy,” his father said curtly. “If one of those ribs is broken--”
Sam closed his eyes tight and willed the pain away, his body going limp against the leather. It didn’t work this time. Without the adrenaline, without the need to act, he felt like he was fading--and fast. “They had Dean,” he murmured, keeping his eyes closed. “You weren’t here yet...they had Dean.”
His father shook him a little, enough to pry his eyes open. “Stay with me, son. Until we get you looked at. We’re nearly ready to go,” his father said. “What happened?”
Two words--such a simple question--and Sam didn’t even know where to begin. He swallowed, trying to stay awake a little longer. “What part?” he asked.
“Hell, Sammy, any part.”
Then his brother was there, standing over both of them, and it occurred to Sam for the first time since coming to that time had passed. Not just a few seconds, but a lot of time. Maybe not hours, but time Sam couldn’t remember, time--
“Dean,” he breathed. His brother in peril--that memory was clear enough. “You okay?”
His brother looked a little flabbergasted at that. “You’re the one who charged in here like Rambo,” he said.
His father’s eyes narrowed traveling from Dean to Sam again. “Did you even have any weapons?” he asked.
Sam thought about that, and remembered the log, though he couldn’t remember what had happened to it. He had come in with it, through the window in the bedroom. But somehow he’d dropped it.
His eyes roamed the woods, as if they held an answer, and then he became vaguely aware that something was off. Not just him and the pain and the guys locked in the cabin, but what had Dean been doing?
Straining, Sam took in his surroundings a bit clearer. There was still woods, that much was certain, but they were in some kind of parking lot, a pull off maybe. How far away from the cabin were they? Had his father carried him? Then what had Dean been carrying?
Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw the answer. A kid--stretched out on the seat opposite him. The not-Sam. “Who’s he?” Sam asked, only vaguely aware that he’d neglected his father’s question.
Dean and his dad glanced beyond Sam before looking at each other briefly. “It’s a kid,” Dean said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. “When they--lost you, they took him instead.”
Sam thought about that, tried to make sense of it, and the conclusion came to him like a bowling ball. Concern flared up, because suddenly there was a loose end Sam hadn’t anticipated. He tried to push himself up using his elbows. “They used him instead?” Sam asked, needing to see him now. “But--so--it’s my fault? He’s just some kid and he’s hurt and it’s my fault?”
His dad restrained him easily and Sam lacked the strength to fight him. “It’s no one’s fault but the guys who did this.”
Sam’s eyes went wide again. “They wanted to kill you,” he blurted, and the memories were coming faster now, clearer. “That’s why they took me, to kill you. I was bait. And that’s why I had to get away, because I couldn’t be bait for you. I couldn’t do that, I didn’t want to. So I got out.”
“We’ve figured that much out,” his father said. “And you did the right thing, getting away. But why’d you come back?’
“To stop them,” Sam said, his words tumbling out now. “I wanted to stop them because they didn’t need me to hurt you, I didn’t think, and I didn’t know where else to go, so I came back here and I saw Dean--I saw him and I saw--I saw--that kid--and I had to do something. You weren’t here, Dad. You weren’t here.”
It was dangerously close to a whine and Sam realized that his eyes were tearing. He didn’t know why, couldn’t stop it, but it hurt and he had been scared and he’d tackled a grown man with little more than a stick. A big stick maybe, Sam couldn’t totally remember, but a stick wasn’t exactly high up in the repertoire of effective Winchester weapons.
A stick. What had he been thinking? He risked his life, Dean’s life, and--
“Just take it easy, okay?” his dad said, softer than Sam expected. Worried. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Not a threat. A promise. No, a reassurance.
Was everyone suffering from a head wound today or was Sam just completely out of it? His dad should be angry, about the kidnapping, about Sam’s botched escape, about the sloppy rescue--
The sloppy rescue. One of Sam’s stupidest moves ever. He’d resorted to lunging and swinging blindly and for all the good it did him--the initial scuffle might have gone his way had he not landed on his sore ankle, which had prompted given out and put him on the wrong end of the gun.
How had he even gotten out of the way? Sam should have been dead right now--from that, from the trek in the woods, from the kidnapping. The fact that he was even breathing was a testament that there had to be some kind of God out there after all.
“Sam, focus,” his father said, a little sterner now. “You’re doing okay, but I want to watch that head wound.”
A wall. He’d been thrown into a wall. Or rather rammed. He needed to work on his sparring. When he’d lost the stick, he’d jumped on the guy’s back but he sucked at choke holds--those were Dean’s thing--and he’d used the stick after all. After the guy had almost shot him and Sam found the thing again. Primitive but effective. Boys apparently didn’t need their toys. One clean swing was all he’d needed. One clean swing and the guy was down like a ton of bricks.
After pummeling Sam, of course. Sam couldn’t forget that, what with the swelling on the other side of his face and a new stitch of pain seated on his hip.
“Dude, Sammy,” his brother was saying. “You don’t want to make Dad mad when he’s in such a chipper mood. Not even you could be that contrary.”
Sam wasn’t sure about that. “Jerk,” he breathed, because he couldn’t think of much else.
Dean grinned. “I’d call you bitch, but not today. I’ll wait till we get you checked out so I can know all the things I get to help you rehab.”
Right, by kicking his ass. Sam knew that tone.
“You ready to go?” his father asked, but he wasn’t talk to him.
Dean glanced over Sam’s shoulder and Sam remembered not-Sam again. “He’s still out,” Dean said. “Bleeding has slowed, but--yeah. We should move.”
“You sure they’re secure?”
“They were both tied to chairs in the back room when we left, which, trust me, is just about impossible to break out of. And the younger guy’s so freaked by the way you kicked his ass that I don’t think he’d run even if he could.”
“That one doesn’t have the heart for this kind of thing,” his father said. “There’s a reason that they sent him after me. He’d be closer to pulling the trigger on me than either one of you boys.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you got here,” Dean said. “Between Sammy passing out cold and the kid in shock, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of here.”
Sam hadn’t even thought of that. He hadn’t thought about getting out of there. He should have, though. Dean would have. His dad would have. His dad did. His dad had overtaken the other kidnapper and if Sam had just used his head and waited, he could have helped his dad and not ended up all over the floor. And spared himself a lot if trouble. That was so typical, Sam thought. His dad always told him he needed to get the big picture, that he didn’t always know everything.
Stupid, Sam thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“You sit in the back, watch them both,” his father said. “I’ll drive.”
Sam’s self-recriminations stilled. Sweet words. Words of rescue. Of release. Of over.
After all of this, after all of it, kidnapping and escape and pain and cold and rescues, it was finally over.
“Just relax, Sammy,” his father said, his hand ghosting through Sam’s hair now, settling on his face gently. “It’s almost over, kiddo.” Sam might have protested, might have scowled for being treated like a baby, but it felt so warm, so safe, that for once, Sam didn’t even have to ask why.
-o-
Light.
There was light.
Bright, which he supposed light was by definition, but really bright. Sun stuffed artificially into a box and then left to ferment for years before opening kind of bright. Sterile bright, like someone was trying to scorch the world back into a pristine condition.
Either that or annihilate everything.
Or maybe just Dean.
Because the light seemed to be focused on him. Searing and effusive, pounding on his eyelids as if asking for permission to come in.
He was personifying light. Something had to be wrong. But hey, wouldn’t his English teacher be so very proud.
Noise.
Voices.
Professional. Adult. Unfamiliar.
If there was ever a time that Dean longed for coherent thought, now was about it.
“...vitals are low, but the O2 is helping. I can’t tell if there’s any vascular damage or not, but at least the bullet didn’t seem to nick any vital organs.”
“No, but it got something, all right. This kid’s a bloody mess. We’re looking at a fairly substantial amount of blood loss. How many units do we have in?”
So maybe coherent thought wasn’t the way to go. Because that sounded like doctor-speak, medical jargon in its finest, which meant there was some poor unsuspecting patient getting all hooked up and ready to be wheeled off, which would be rather surreal if he thought about it, all that action and nonsense and to not know what was going on because you were laid out on some table with bright lights--
Bright lights.
It clicked.
He was the patient on the table. That was the bright light. The doctors, in all their professionalism and medicalese, were talking about him.
His gunshot wound.
And to think his mother worried about him working under the hood of a car. She was paranoid about it, about it staying up. She thought it could accidentally collapse and crush him.
Or Rory and her fear of stairs in winter. It was random, but true, Rory didn’t like walking down them at all, not outside with the snow and slush, not inside with the monster boots she liked to don. “It’s just so cumbersome, those shoes,” she told him once. “Good for traipsing, of course, because you don’t want wet socks all day, but not so good for stairs. One wrong step and you’re down the whole flight. Seems like a perfectly horrible way to die. Snapping your neck. Smacking your head. I think I’d rather snap my neck. Quick, painless...”
Pain. Dean remembered pain--
Like a gunshot. A gunshot and being punched and--
He coughed suddenly, eyes blinking and he was conscious whether he liked it or not.
And with consciousness came memory and with memory came immediacy and with immediacy came pain.
“He’s awake,” someone said, but Dean could see who. His eyes were still trying to make sense of this place, of the light in his face and the hands--all over him--and the cold air on his skin.
He was naked. Naked and cold and it all hurt.
“Dean, can you hear me?”
Dean swallowed, blinking again, and a head bobbed in front of the light. Someone he didn’t recognize. Dark skin, kindly features. Brown eyes. Earnest.
Rory had nice eyes. But hers were blue. And it hurt.
“Dean?”
He licked his lips, noticing for the first time something on his face. An oxygen mask. “I...,” he tried, his eyes roaming, trying to see something. He caught flashes of metal and of bloody gauze and the room smelled like disinfectant.
“Do you remember where you are? Do you remember what happened?”
Too many questions, too fast, like Rory when she was nervous or Lorelai at any point in time. But those were fun questions, or funny ones; not these, not ones that seemed important.
Home. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he knew where he wasn’t. He wasn’t home, he wasn’t at the market or at Luke’s or at Rory’s. He wasn’t even in the cabin anymore, and just like Rory and his mom and Clara weren’t here, neither were Kenny and Ryan and...that other guy, the Dean guy--
The rescue that wasn’t meant for him.
But a rescue nonetheless.
So this was--
“Hospital?” he asked, his voice thin and raking hard against his throat.
“Good guess,” the doctor smiled.
Hospital and rescue, two factors that didn’t quite compute anymore, no more than kidnapping and gunshot. None of it made any sense, not even for a kid who had grown up in Chicago, especially not for a kid who lived in Stars Hollow and dated Rory Gilmore.
Funny, though, how he defined himself by everything that he was associated with. The bag boy. Rory’s boyfriend. Clara’s big brother. The kid who was kidnapped.
But hey, at least it wasn’t personal. Rory could break up with him and people glared at him for days. Some new kid rolled to town and Dean just happened to be lucky enough to have the girl to make his life hell. Rory couldn’t say I love you, Jess couldn’t get his head out of his butt, Clara couldn’t see beyond please, Dean, please, and two random guys couldn’t hold onto their kidnapping victim long enough.
It wasn’t him. It was someone else, anybody else, and suddenly Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the doctors told him that they needed to change rooms because someone more important was on their way.
They were talking to him, Dean realized distantly. More hands and more voices and Dean couldn’t even remember how he got to the hospital and he sort of gave up caring. He was just tired.
Maybe they were right. Not just the kidnappers, not just Kenny and Ryan. But Richard Gilmore and Jess and Lorelai. That they were right that he wasn’t worth taking, that he wasn’t worth dating, that he was too stupid to matter, too aimless to be important, too pathetic to even be worth telling the truth to.
He could remember Rory in the flush of moonlight, tucked next to him in the car he was going to build for her. He’d planned it all out, saved his wages for two months to buy the hulk, and there she was, next to him, with him, like that was all that mattered. It had been the defining moment, a moment when he had looked at all the options, all the pros and all the cons, and then decided he didn’t care about anything but the very basic fact that he knew what he wanted.
So he’d taken the leap, told Rory he loved her, and landed flat on his face. Like the first kiss, the first conversation, the first dance--all of it. Dean took chances and failed, even though sometimes it worked out after all.
Some chances were worth taking.
Others weren’t.
So Dean closed his eyes and didn’t know if this one was worth it or not.
-o-
As far as hospitals went, Dean knew he probably shouldn’t complain too much about this one. After all, help had been prompt and professional and they’d been lax enough on the rules to keep Dean and his dad fully in the loop on Sam and even in the know on the kid, seeing as they did bring him in and all.
And really, the only measure that really mattered in the end was if Sammy was okay. Sure, that wasn’t really the hospital’s fault, what condition the Winchesters arrived in, but it greatly changed Dean’s attitude toward the place.
The verdict on Sam was good. The kid was banged around pretty badly. The ankle was sprained but the wrist was actually broken so Sam would be sporting a cast for a bit. The cut on the arm had needed stitching and the blood loss had been just enough to make the kid woozy and earn him a couple of bags of fluid courtesy of the state of Connecticut. The ribs were badly bruised, along with the rest of Sam and the concussion was nothing to ignore and there was dehydration and the earliest hints of exposure.
And to think: Sam had rescued him.
What the kid didn’t have in style, he excelled with in sheer determination. To the point of stupidity.
It had been a mixed blessing on the car ride in to have Sam only semi-aware. It was hard to see his normally bright kid brother incapacitated in any form, but he was damn straightforward with his answers when he was like that.
It was quite a story. From the abduction on the way home from school (which his father offered a reproving look for being so sloppy) to the harsh beatings and fledging escape (a window, of all things, but at least Sam could run) to the foolhardy move to come back (though by that time, Dean didn’t doubt that Sam’s reasoning skills had taken a serious hit or two).
Sam told it all to them, without hesitation. He was slumped in the front seat, resting heavily against the seat back, eyes heavy and voice thick. Their dad had driven, white-knuckled and faster than the speed limit.
But only partly for Sam. Partly for the other kid bleeding in the back with Dean.
Normally Sam would be back there under Dean’s watchful eye, but the other kid was in a bad way and getting worse. Taking him in was a risk, as was anything that brought Winchesters in close contact with a world of respectability and legality. But the kid was shot and he was scared and he was just a kid and Dean had insisted.
Luckily the kid looked so much like Sam that their father acquiesced. The fact that they were already making a hospital run probably didn’t hurt either.
It had been strange, of course, having some other kid share the space with them, to worry about someone else, to try to stem the flow of someone else’s blood. They saved people, that much was true, but they were a tight knit family, even in their conflict. It was an intimate lifestyle, and Dean rarely opened up to outsiders for any reason.
But this kid--this wee Dean, this alternate Sam--this was Dean’s fault in so many ways. But it was more than that. Guilt could have pushed him to drag the kid to a hospital, but to sit there, in a waiting room, looking out for him--well, that was another issue entirely, no matter how hard Dean tried to spin it in his own mind.
He’d kept pressure on the gunshot and tried not to look at the bruised face and wonder. Not just about who he was and what he did. But about what the kid was losing today.
Kidnapping, getting shot--true, it wasn’t ghost hunting, but it was still the same sharp loss of innocence that no one deserve. Ever. The same kind of thing that Dean was still reeling from even sixteen years later.
And there was just no reason for it. That was the hard part to take. Because this kid didn’t fit any pattern. He wasn’t chosen for any reason other than really bad luck and some damn coincidental genetics.
He hated that. He hated that it was his fault and his dad’s and Sam’s and that some other kid out there might not get the apple pie life he deserved. The one Sam seemed so hell-bent on wanting for himself.
Maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age.
Either way, there he was, in the waiting room. Sam was already settled and asleep, their father keeping steady vigil by his side with that way of his. His father had something to say about all this, and from the anxious set of his father’s shoulders, Dean knew it wasn’t good. Dean had seen it enough to know--and to not look forward to it on his own or Sam’s behalf.
So Dean was here. In the waiting room. It was stupid because he wasn’t family, but he needed to know.
The brunette two chairs down from him was flipping through a magazine, sighing heavily before she closed it abruptly and looked up.
Dean had been too busy checking her out to look away.
She smiled. Not flirtatious. Tired. “You would think they’d try to keep up with some more up-to-date reading material,” she said with a sardonic expression. “I mean, people sitting here are already tired and freaked and everything else and what is offered to placate them? Old news. I mean, who wants to read old news. Because, well, it’s old. And sometimes I like old news, I do, because it’s sort of like a flashback or something. But this isn’t even old enough news for that. This is like only somewhat old news. The news that just got old so it’s not old enough to be new again. Which is no way to keep people occupied when they’re already worrying in a waiting room.”
So this one was a talker. Which, maybe not so much his thing on most occasions, because too much talking meant not enough of other things. But even sitting down, Dean could see her curves and the hint of smooth skin under her v-neck top. Older than he would have first guessed, but not too old by any stretch of the imagination.
He smiled back. “You got to hit the oncology floor for the new magazines,” Dean said. He shrugged. “Not the most uplifting place in the world, so I guess they figure if anyone will need a real distraction, it’s them.”
She seemed to consider that. “That’s some pretty rare knowledge,” she said. “You come here often?”
Dean glanced around. “Here? No,” he said. “But I’m no stranger to hospitals.”
She raised her eyebrows. “A man of danger?”
He snorted a little. “Something like that.”
“Well, since you appear to be in one piece tonight, what brings you here this time?”
It was chitchat of the most polite variety but it wasn’t the reminder Dean wanted. “My brother’s here.”
She looked sorry she asked. “I’m sorry. Wow. Dumb question, right? I mean, a guy’s in a hospital, and I ask why he’s here. It’s not like a business or pleasure question. It’s like a why-your-life-sucks question.” She paused, seeming to consider exactly what she was saying. Wincing, she continued, “I’d like to say that usually I’m not quite this, well, neurotic, but I’d hate to lie to you.”
That made him smile. “My brother’s fine,” he said. “Just some observation.”
This seemed to make her relax a little. “So why are you hanging out here? Just here to check out the old news?”
“Maybe just for some interesting conversation.”
“A hospital pick up line,” she exclaimed. “Seems like there should be a joke. A heart and a liver walked into a bar.”
“What? And the heart says only one of us is getting out of here alive?”
“Smart move by the heart then, taking a liver to a bar. Talk about knowing the weak spot.” She stopped, shaking her head. “I’d also like to say that usually I’m not this bad at making jokes, but a little more time sitting next to me will make me a liar.”
It was like this chick lacked the filter between her brain and her mouth. Like Sam when he got into a fight with their dad, only in the most positive twist.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Hospitals aren’t really a place where we get to see people at their best.”
She sighed at that, leaning back on her chair. “No kidding. I hate these places. All their equipment and the doctors with their clipboards.”
“You’re freaked out by the clipboards?”
She looked incredulous. “Um, yeah. It’s like they keep secret notes on them in this secret language that no one else can understand. For all we know, they’re really just passing silly notes to one another and not paying attention to our physical needs at all.”
“Interesting conspiracy,” he said with a nod.
“Normally I’d work harder to be a bit more Holden Caulfield for you, but hey, we’ve already established I’m not at my best.”
Dean couldn’t even imagine what her best was at this point. “So why are you here?” he asked. Then looked a bit apologetic. “One bad question deserves another.”
“Very true,” she agreed, though a bit reluctantly. “It’s my daughter.”
Her daughter. She had a daughter? Dean hadn’t seen a ring--he’d done the single mom circuit before, but she did not look like she had a daughter. But hey, with eyes like that and that head of hair, surely the little thing would be pretty darn cute.
“Actually my daughter’s boyfriend.”
So much for little. “I’m sorry,” Dean managed to say.
She sighed again. “It’s such a mess,” she said. “Rory--that’s my kid--she’s been freaking out for the last two days ever since Dean didn’t show up for work. He’s not like that, you know. Irresponsible. I mean, sure, once they went out and accidentally stayed out all night, but this is the kid who calls to check in like five times a day. He’s never late. He’s never too early. He catches our spiders and changes our water bottle and he just doesn’t miss things. His parents didn’t know where he was, and no one had seen him, and Rory, you can imagine, was just beside herself. Made up all these fliers, even though everyone in town knew we were looking for him. And search parties and the six o’clock news and everything we could think of but he was just gone.”
This sounded familiar. This sounded really familiar. Was she talking about--Dean--wee Dean? Of all the coincidences and damned good luck.
She ran a hand through her hair. “And then just out of the blue. We were with his dad when the call came. Someone had found him, brought him in, and here we are. I don’t know what happened to him or how he is or anything. Rory went to go see if she could find Dean’s family and see if they know anything, and sorry--” she cut herself off with a sheepish grin. “I’m rambling. I do that, just usually not so personal. You’re just catching me at a really bad time.”
“So wait, you’re here for a kid named Dean? Who was kidnapped?”
The woman cocked her head. “Yeah, I mean. Did you hear about it on the news?”
“No,” Dean said. “I mean, yes. But, I--well, I brought him in.”
She stared at him, blankly, before she looked vaguely suspicious and attempting to cover it with a smile. “That’s. Not very funny.”
Dean just shook his head. He probably should have kept his mouth shut. Hell, he probably should have just stayed with Sam. But she was his ticket to answers. They didn’t need the risk of publicity more than they already had. They didn’t, but--he needed to know. He didn’t leave a job undone. He straightened, leaning closer. “Tall kid. Ridiculous looking hair. His name was Dean, he said. Dean--Forester.”
Her eyes narrowed, her expression guarded. “Yeah.”
“My dad and I--we were looking for my brother and we stumbled across this Dean kid, too. He’d been kidnapped. In a cabin, in the woods.”
Her eyes were still suspicious, but widening, doubt edging in. “You--you found Dean?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “I’ve been lurking around trying to catch a glimpse of how the kid was doing, but--”
“You found him? You’re the guy? The reason he’s back? I mean, is he okay? How was he? What happened? Who had him?”
Too many question. A lot of questions. Understandable questions. Dean would give what he could--and hope for the best in return. “Like I said, we found him in a cabin. He was tied up and--well, he’d been clocked a few times. The guys who took him, though,” Dean tried to explain, but swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He looked down. Admitting to rescue was one thing. Admitting to the rest--not so much.
“The guys who took him--they what? What about them?”
Resolved, Dean looked up. She would find out sooner or later. Ignorance was only bliss when it wasn’t on a crash course with shattering anyway. “They shot him.”
It was not the news she’d been expecting, clearly. Not that Dean could blame her. No one expected gunshots or kidnapping. She seemed to be talking herself out of it, into some form of denial. “They--they shot him? Like with a sedative? Or like glamor shots? Or--?”
Dean almost hated to tell her. She didn’t look innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something pure about her, something essentially good that just seemed to wrong to dampen.
But she was going to find out. “Like a gunshot,” he said. “I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t--I wasn’t fast enough.”
It came out as full of self loathing as it sounded in his head.
Her mouth flattened, her face losing all of its humor. “I--I’m sorry,” she said, her brow creased. “Is he--I mean, is he okay? I mean, besides being shot. Or I mean--I don’t even know. He was shot?”
She was still making sense of it in her head, and Dean wasn’t sure there was much he could do to help her get there--or if there even was anything. “He was alive when we got him here,” Dean offered. “But that’s why I’m here. I want to make sure he’s okay.”
She had no response to that, and she seemed to have pulled into herself.
“I’m sorry,” Dean offered again. “About the kid. I really am. But, if it helps, he seems like a tough kid.”
That made her smile a little, a nostalgic quirk of her mouth. “Tenacious is a better word for it,” she said. “That’s a kid who knows what he wants and goes after it without thinking twice. Sometimes it can come across as obsessive or blind but underneath it come from something sweet. Well intentioned. He’s, like, the best first boyfriend. I just--he doesn’t deserve this. Kidnapped. Shot. He doesn’t.”
She was shaking now, her hands running trembling through her hair. He moved deftly a seat over, putting a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey,” he said. “No one deserves it, I know.”
Dabbing the corners of her eyes, she forced a laugh. “He’s not even my kid,” she said. “Not even my boyfriend, I know. But he’s just such a good kid. He’s been so good to Rory--and to me. I was so afraid about that, her first boyfriend. And Dean--he had his moments where I wanted to string him up by his intestines. But he always proved himself. I mean, how many first boyfriends call when they say they will? Will do chores at other people’s houses? And--kidnapped. Shot? This stuff doesn’t happen here, not to kids like that. Does it?”
The question he wanted to say no to, the question he wanted to scoff at and reject and write off as inane and silly. Because it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t.
But it did. Dean Forester had to learn it the hard way, and so did she. So did every person in that diner, every person in that market, every person in that town.
All because a hunter died and his kids didn’t know how to deal with it.
It wasn’t fair.
But it happened.
She was looking at him, wide eyes, pretty face. And Dean told her the only thing he could. “Sometimes it does.”
Her jaw clenched at that a little, and Dean could see her eyes moisten. She ducked her head, dabbing again. “Just when I thought the nightmare was over,” she said. “It’s like, as long as you’re searching you sort of hold out this weird hope that everything will be okay. That he just got waylaid helping some little old lady cross the road or something. And all the time you spend trying not to think about what could go wrong.”
“It could have been worse,” Dean offered, remembering the gun and the callous voice holler if he dies.
She threw her hands up, a little hysterical. “But he’s been shot. I mean, it was one thing for him to be kidnapped, but--shot? My kid’s boyfriend? It’s just--so--I don’t know. Scary?”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “I would say scary might be an understatement.” So often he didn’t have to deal with this--the aftermath. He knew about horrors and deaths and disappearances, and sometimes he did talk to grieving widows or confused relatives. It happened, but it was an act he pulled, a gig to get more info. Part of the job.
This was just--not. This was just so much harder.
She met his eyes and returned his smile. Shaking her head, she seemed to try to get a handle on herself. “Rory is off, talking to Dean’s family, so when she gets back, she might know something new. I know his mother okay. But--wow. I can hardly even think. It’s sort of like mental overload, like when my parents used to give me the list of instructions for all the things I was supposed to keep in mind for a dinner party. You know, who to talk to, for how long, which fork to use first, where not to stick my napkin--at a certain point, my brain just couldn’t handle it.”
“Where to stick your napkin?”
“I know,” she said. “I mean, you think it doesn’t matter, right? It’s a napkin, nothing big. But there’s a real etiquette involved and apparently something about putting it too low on one knee which is an open suggestion that you’re an easy lay.”
Dean considered that. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
She barked a laugh. “I didn’t even thank you,” she said finally. “For--finding him.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No,” she said. “You did. You found Dean. And I know you probably don’t know anything about him, but he’s a good kid. There were a lot of people worried about him. And--just thanks.”
He hadn’t done it for thanks. He hadn’t done it for the kid at all. He’d been there for Sam, plain and simple, and wee Dean had just been caught in the crossfire. Literally.
So to be thanked--after everything--it was hard to hear. Harder still to accept.
Suddenly, Dean felt out of place. Not just comforting her, but here. Waiting for news on this kid. This kid who had a girlfriend and a job and people who cared about him. A whole town looking for him. And who was Dean to all of this? Who was he to care at all?
He shifted, pulling his arm away. “It was nothing,” he said. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I should probably get back to my brother.”
She nodded quickly--too quickly. “Yeah, of course,” she agreed. “I’m glad he’s okay--your brother.”
“Thanks,” Dean said. “So, um. If you hear anything and see me around--” He let it hang awkwardly.
“Definitely,” she said. “You know, you should come to Stars Hollow. You and your family. That’s where Dean’s from. Now, I mean. I think he’s from Chicago or something but his family moved there awhile ago so I guess he’s not from Stars Hollow but that’s entirely beside the point. All I’m trying to say is that we’d love to thank you. All of us. For Dean.”
Being a hero. Hunting things, saving people. The family business.
But they didn’t do it for thanks. They didn't tell anybody about it.
He just smiled. “Who knows?”
She smiled back, and he could see it in her eyes: she knew he’d never come. “Hey, I never caught your name,” she said.
“Dean.”
She looked perplexed. “No, I meant, your name.”
“My name is Dean,” he clarified. “Hell of a coincidence, I know.”
A bemused expression crossed her face. “Well, Dean, maybe I just don’t believe in coincidences.”
Funny, because neither did he.
He just shrugged his shoulder, letting his smile linger, before turning and walking back down the hall.
Next
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Date: 2009-05-04 09:32 pm (UTC)I just love the leap in time! and while we're on the topic- I just love this cute!Dean because this is definitely before Lindsey and the stupid affair!
excellent, Faye!
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Date: 2009-05-11 11:42 pm (UTC)And I hope we get the brotherly love soon--I don't count on this season, but next season? Maybe?
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Date: 2009-05-12 07:40 pm (UTC)I want my brotherly LOVE!!! but I also want them to do it realistically and not have the boys back together without dealing with the fallout, you know?