Carole's Supernatural fanfic

KazCon 2009

2009-06-02T01:04:21Z

Supernatural Fan Convention
August 6 - 9, 2009
Lawrence, Kansas
For registration info visit:
www.Kazcon.us

Panels, Episode Discussion, Dealers Room, Silent Auction, Pizza Party, Vid Contest, Theme Party, Charity Auction, Fanfic Contest and more...

Six Times John Missed Mary

2009-02-09T00:45:07Z

Title: Six Times John Missed Mary
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: John, Sam, Dean
Rating: Gen/Suitable for all ages
Summary: John knew things would have been different
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me

Originally published in Road Trip With My Brother #5

Six Times John Missed Mary

by Carole Seegraves

One

"Shh, Sammy, daddy's here," John crooned, removing the twist cap from the bottle of calamine lotion and reaching for a white cotton washcloth. He quickly dipped the corner of the cloth into the pink liquid and covered the angry-looking spots that dotted the toddler's skin, but despite his efforts, the two-year-old continued to scream in misery at the top of his lungs. Dean was still valiantly trying to distract his little brother, making silly faces and stroking his hair, but even his touch, usually one of the only things that would calm Sammy down when he was out of sorts, wasn't working.

Mary would have been able to soothe her youngest. She would have held him tenderly, cradled him in her arms, sung soft lullabies. She would have gently rubbed his little back, read his favorite books, gathered up the tiny fingers that wanted to scratch in a quest for relief.

She would have had the right medicines, known the right doses, made sure Sammy's temperature had stayed below fever level. She would have found a way to convince the fussy toddler to eat.

John shook his head and picked up the phone. Maybe someone down at the local pharmacy could tell him what to do before the neighbors started banging on the thin walls between their apartments and complaining about his kids again.

Two

"Ready, Sammy?" John asked, glancing down at the five-year-old beside him. He stifled a sigh when he discovered that the previously excited little boy now wore a wide-eyed expression of fear and was clutching his pant leg in a tight grip. He nodded toward the classroom, used his hand to gently move his son forward, but Sammy resisted, and next to him, Dean looked almost as stricken as his little brother as the time came for their separation.

Mary would have known how to encourage Sammy to enter the room, join in on the activities, make friends with the other children who were playing, laughing, and chattering happily with each other just beyond the door.

She would have prepared him for his first day of school, let him pick out a new lunch box and backpack, bought him new clothes and shoes, made sure he had brand new crayons and pencils and scissors. She would have brought him to 'Meet Your Teacher Day,' made sure he knew where to put his things and where to find the bathroom. She would have had him at school well before the bell rang.

John tried one more time to move Sammy forward, but when this effort failed, he caught the attention of the kindergarten teacher. As she approached, a smile on her face, he swiped his hand roughly through Sammy's hair, pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, and peeled his son's fingers away, one by one. Then he handed him over into her care. All the while, doing his best to ignore Sammy's soft sobs and Dean's accusing stare.

Three

"Don't forget the cookies, Sammy," John called, watching as his youngest grabbed his lunch box and backpack, trying to catch up with Dean, who was already half-way to the door.

Sammy backtracked just far enough to grab the cardboard box of cookies from the kitchen counter, then raced off, not wanting his big brother to get too far ahead of him. It didn't take him long to catch up, though, because Dean was waiting patiently for the younger boy, and as soon as Sammy reached the door, the two of them set off for school together.

Mary would have made the cookies herself. She would have been thrilled with the opportunity to provide Sammy's class with two dozen home-made treats, and she and the boys would have spent an entire afternoon baking. She would have had flour smudged in her hair, chocolate smeared on her face, a smile on her lips. She would have met him at the door with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

She would have carefully packed the cookies inside a special tissue-lined tin box, and instead of the required two dozen, there would have been at least thirty-six, because she knew how much little boys loved cookies.

John knew that Sammy would be happy passing out the cheap, mass produced cookies his father had purchased the night before at the all-night convenience store, regardless of how they tasted. Because Sammy had never known anything else.

Four

"Nice to meet you," John responded with as much sincerity as he could muster, ignoring the chair positioned in front of the desk and remaining on his feet. He took a deep breath, forced himself to meet the teacher's gaze, hoped the meeting wouldn't last more than a few minutes.

Mary would have loved this. She would have smiled and laughed, and the two women would have talked about Sammy's accomplishments and difficulties, shared their devotion for the ten-year-old. They would have gushed over his art work, and science projects, and book reports, and smiled over the way he still sometimes wrote his name with the "S"'s backwards.

She would have told his teacher how much he looked forward to attending school every day, and reminisced about the three days in a row that Sammy had brought her an apple, and how he had come home, wearing a bright smile on his face each afternoon after giving it to her. She would have stayed well beyond the allotted time, and regretted when it was time to leave.

But all John could think about at that moment was the shapeshifter in the next town over. So he rushed through the parent/teacher conference, nodding at the appropriate times and making promises he'd never be able to keep, all the while knowing he'd have to leave his boys alone to fend for themselves again that night.

Five

"Dean'll pick you back up at eleven," John reminded, grimacing as he propped his cast foot on the second-hand coffee table and leaned back against the couch cushions.

Sammy just nodded, his cheeks flushed pink in response to Dean's relentless teasing. He checked to make sure he still had the tickets in his pocket, ran his hands through his hair, and then, after letting out a sigh, headed for the door with Dean in tow.

Mary would have helped him pick out a suit to wear, straightened his tie a thousand times, made sure his shoes were polished within an inch of their life.

She would have taken his picture with the old Polaroid camera, reminded him to get a flower or a corsage or whatever a guy was supposed to get for his date these days. She would have smiled, given him a hug, told him how handsome he looked, whispered into his ear that she wanted to hear all about his evening when he got home.

The truth was, though, John knew, that if he hadn't been laid up, Sammy wouldn't have been on his way to his first dance. He would have been joining his father and older brother on a hunt. Because dances - and other extra-curricular school activities - always came in second when there was a job to do.

Six

"Don't bother to come back," John shouted, standing toe to toe with his son, ignoring the efforts of his oldest boy to get between them. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides and it was all he could do to keep them there.

Sam walked away, only to reappear a few minutes later with duffle bag in hand and a desperate-looking brother trailing behind.

Mary would have done it differently. They would have pored over the college catalogs together, visited campuses, studied majors and class descriptions. She would have been so excited, so proud, celebrating each and every acceptance letter.

She would have taken him shopping, made sure he had all the clothes and supplies he needed, insisted on buying a few luxuries he didn't. She would have cried as they drove away, leaving Sammy behind, a college freshman, ready to begin the next step in his life.

John did none of those things. Sam's jaw was set and his mind was clearly made up. And there was no way to take the words back. So instead, he just stood there and watched his son walk out the door.

Six Times Sam Wore Dean's Jacket

2008-07-14T21:43:31Z

Title: Six Times Sam Wore Dean's Jacket
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: Gen/Suitable for all ages
Summary: A countdown of comfort
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me

Originally published in Chinook #7

Six Times Sam Wore Dean's Jacket

by Carole Seegraves

One

Curled up on the back seat of the Impala, three-year-old Sammy was dozing, his thumb in his mouth. Blinking his eyes sleepily, he listened to the muffled voices of his dad and brother, coming from the front seat.

The words were indecipherable, but the familiar tones washed over him in a soothing wave. It had been a long, scary day for the youngster. Assigned to wait in the car until his dad and Dean had taken care of the poltergeist troubling a small town library, he'd started to cry when his brother had to be carried back to the Impala, dripping blood from a wound on his arm. He'd watched, his bottom lip trembling, as his dad had cleaned and stitched up the cut, then picked out a large bandaid for Dean to wear over the injury.

His brother had given him a hug, which had gone a long way towards convincing the small boy that Dean would be okay, but even several hours later, he still wasn't relaxed enough to sleep.

His eyes at half-mast, he heard the two voices grow silent just before Dean leaned over the seat. The older boy studied Sammy for a moment, then carefully placed something warm over his body.

As Dean gave his arm a pat and moved back into the front, Sammy smiled around his thumb before using his free hand to pull his brother's jacket closer.

Two

Hefting a load of recently washed clothes, Dean paused in the doorway of the small bedroom he shared with his brother.

Inside the room, a salt container held tightly in both hands, Sammy was busily pouring crystals on the floor in what was probably as close to a circle as the five-year-old could manage.

Inside the misshapen space were positioned several items. There was a bedraggled teddy bear, with one ear missing and most of its fur "loved" away, a slightly dented hot wheel car that the youngster had inherited from Dean, a Golden Book without a cover, and Sammy's favorite blanket. The same blanket he'd been wrapped in when Dean had carried him out of their burning house a few years before.

Dean almost laughed at the younger boy. Tongue sticking out in concentration, Sammy was wearing one of Dean's jackets, despite the fact that the sleeves reached to the ends of his fingertips and the hem hung almost to his knees.

But he didn't. And he didn't need to ask what Sammy was doing. It was obvious. Sammy was pretending to be the most important person in his life: his big brother.

Three

Sam paused, watching the black Impala squeal its way out of the parking lot, before entering the high school and heading for his first class. Carrying his backpack by its strap, he nodded at a few friends as he made his way down the hall.

He couldn't help but smile as he fingered the jacket he was wearing. It wasn't his usual jacket. Actually, it wasn't his jacket at all. He hadn't planned to wear a jacket today, with the temperatures forecast to be in the seventies, but as he'd headed up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the school, Dean had suddenly pulled the car to a halt, rolled down his window, and tossed his jacket at Sam.

Dean had started to say something, but with several other students close enough to hear any conversation the brothers might have, he simply gestured toward Sam's arm.

Sam had followed his gaze, giving a nod of understanding when he spotted the marks. While bruises were usually easy enough to explain away, teeth marks would be a bit harder to pass off as an accident, especially when they were obviously not made by any normal-sized animal.

Their Dad had always reminded them to cover up any injuries received on one of their hunting trips, not wanting them to receive any undue attention, especially attention that could lead to someone calling the local Child Protective Services.

In his hurry to get to school, Sam had simply forgotten about them.

But Dean hadn't.

Four

Sam hadn't packed much, just enough to fill a small brown duffle bag, but that was all he really owned anyway. Toiletries went into the bathroom, his extra pair of shoes ended up under the edge of his bed, and his clothes were headed for the small dresser that sat next to the bed, in the room he and his roommate would be sharing.

It didn't take long to unpack. Underwear went into the top drawer, along with socks. T-shirts were refolded and placed in the middle drawer. Jeans were tucked into the bottom drawer. Miscellaneous items were added wherever they fit. And he was done. Except for one more thing, something that Sam hadn't expected to find.

Dean's denim jacket. Well-worn, but clean, it had been neatly folded and set in the bottom of his bag. At first he didn't know how it had got there. He was pretty sure he hadn't packed it by mistake, and the last time he'd seen that jacket, it'd been hung over the back of a chair in their bedroom.

And then he remembered. Dean had been the one to take the old duffle out of the closet, the one to set the bag on Sam's bed, and the one who'd reminded him to retrieve his things from the bathroom. And while he'd been doing that, Dean must have been the one that placed his own jacket into the bag.

He hadn't said anything, of course, that was Dean's way. But the action spoke volumes.

He gave a sigh, looking around the room. It held his things, but it really wasn't his room. Wasn't really his home. And he wasn't sure it ever would be.

With a sad smile, he slid into Dean's jacket, and headed for the door.

Five

Dean glanced across the seat at his brother, worry etched on his face. Sam was slumped against the door, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his middle, holding a towel in place under his shirt.

Seeing the faint pain lines around Sam's eyes, Dean took his eyes off the road just long enough to carefully peel back the edge of the towel, checking the wound. He was relieved to find that the bleeding had stopped. It would definitely need stitches, he knew that, but that was something he could take care of back at the hotel.

For now, he just wanted to keep Sam as comfortable as possible. Noting the way his brother was shivering, despite the heat of the day, he let the Impala slow to almost a stop. Then, he quickly shrugged out of his jacket, and reached across to drape it over Sam's limp form, before hitting the gas again.

Sam didn't acknowledge his actions, at least with words, but his eyes opened slightly, and the corners of his mouth lifted just barely. That was enough thanks for Dean.

Six

Dean stared at his brother.

Sam stared back.

It just wasn't how they usually did things. It was true that the jobs of interviewing and researching were usually shared by both of the brothers. In fact, that's how they worked most of their gigs. But when there was a need to divide the chores up, it was usually Sam who would take care of the library research, and Dean who would employ his social skills in chatting up witnesses to whatever supernatural event they were investigating.

After all, Sam enjoyed doing research, and Dean, he enjoyed meeting people. Especially girls.

But this time around, Sam had decided that he wanted to interview the waitress who'd almost been the most recent victim of a Gwyllgi. And he wanted Dean to handle the research.

Dean wasn't sure why. Maybe Sam wanted to do things differently for a change. Or more likely, his brother was just in a "pain-in-the-ass" mood. Either way, it didn't really matter, so Dean shrugged and agreed. He turned back toward the car, intending to leave Sam at the bar while he headed for the library, but came to a sudden halt. Calling Sam's name, he grinned, then removed his leather jacket. As Sam watched in surprise, Dean passed the jacket over to him, motioning for him to put it on.

Sam hesitated for only a moment, before laughing and donning the coat. He'd just pulled it around himself when Dean tossed him a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses Dean always wore.

Shaking his head in amusement, Sam put the sunglasses on, affecting a smug expression.

Dean nodded in satisfaction. If Sam was going to be playing "Dean" tonight, he might as well look the part.

What's In A Name?

2008-06-08T19:12:07Z

Title: What's In A Name?
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: Gen/Suitable for all ages
Summary: What name is on that credit card?

Originally published in Road Trip With My Brother #3

What's In A Name?

by Carole Seegraves

Sam heaved a sigh of relief as the Impala took exit #41 off the interstate, heading for the small town of Greencastle, Indiana. Three days spent tracking a haunted panther through a wilderness preserve had taken its toll, even though he and Dean had both emerged unscathed. And now, after twelve long hours on the road, "tired" had given way to "exhausted," and the young man was ready to find a place to crash for the night.

Motoring slowly down the main street at the legal speed of twenty-five miles per hour gave them a good look at the available accommodations in every price range, and it wasn't long before Dean was pulling into a parking space directly in front of the Happy Haven Motel office, featuring low rates, cable T.V. and a free continental breakfast.

"I'll get us a room," Sam offered, opening the door as his brother turned off the engine, leaving the keys dangling from the ignition.

"Here, dude, use one of these." Shuffling through the container he kept in the glove box, Dean tossed two credit cards in Sam's direction.

Sam frowned, but deftly caught the cards. He had never enjoyed participating in the credit card fraud that Dean seemed to delight in, simply considering it to be a necessary evil in their line of work, since the brothers were rarely, if ever, paid for the services they provided.

Without looking at them, Sam tucked the cards into his pocket and headed for the office. Behind him, he could hear Dean jacking up the music, and could picture him, without even turning, using his hands to tap out the beat on the steering wheel.

The bell above the office door jingled as he went through, drawing the attention of the young woman at the counter. On the phone, she smiled at him and mouthed, "I'll be right with you," before continuing with her conversation.

Like most budget motels, the lobby consisted of two rooms, a larger waiting room, and a small office area behind the counter. Arranged along the wall was a tall rack, holding what looked to be at least fifty different brochures for various local attractions. The clerk was still engaged in conversation, accepting reservations for the following weekend, if the few words Sam had overheard had been interpreted correctly, so he thumbed through the tourist information. He smiled at some of them, shook his head at a few, and picked up a couple that seemed geared toward their line of work.

"Sir? Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam responded, heading back across the room. "I'd like a room for tonight."

The clerk was already on the computer, her hands flying over the keys. "Two doubles or a king?"

"Two doubles, please."

"Your name?"

"It's-" At that moment, Sam realized that he hadn't actually looked at the credit cards Dean had given him, and that he didn't have a clue who he was supposed to be claiming to be.

Sighing quietly, Sam's mind raced for a solution. His brother would have flirted, distracting the clerk long enough to check the name on one of the cards, but that really wasn't Sam's style. So instead, he settled for coughing, a tried and true diversion that usually proved to be just as effective.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Coughing a couple more times for maximum effect as he slid his hand into his pocket and grasped one of the credit cards Dean had handed him, he finally "recovered" from his coughing fit and gave the woman a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that, I'm, uh, just getting over a bad cold."

"That's okay," she reassured him.

"Here you go," he said, glancing at the name before laying it on the counter. "And the name is Roberto Salazar."

"Thank you, sir," the woman answered, taking the card and swiping it through the machine. She paused a moment, waiting for the information to go through the system and the receipt to print out. When it took longer than expected, she leaned over the machine, squinting a bit to read the small text on the screen.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Salazar, but your card has been rejected." Her voice was a blend of sympathy and suspicion.

"Huh." Sam attempted to adopt a mystified expression, but suspected he'd failed miserably. "I don't know what could have happened."

"Perhaps you forgot to activate it?" she suggested, pointing at the "a member since" date. "You've only had it for a short time."

"Oh, yeah, maybe. I thought I did, but you know what it's like when you get busy and things start to, uh, pile up." Realizing he was babbling, Sam shut his mouth with a snap.

"Would you like to use another card?"

"Uh, yeah." Without thinking, he reached back into his pocket, pulling out yet another credit card. His hand outstretched, he suddenly froze in place, reading the name on the second card. Bernard Schmidt.

"Sir?"

Deftly covering the name on the card with his fingers before it could be seen, he slowly and casually pulled his hand back. "You know what, I think I'm just gonna use cash."

“That will be fine, sir.”

He removed his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, and found himself staring at a ten dollar bill and three singles. He'd forgotten about stopping at the gas station whose credit card machine had been out of order, and the small coffee shop that only took cash.

"And I'll need to see your drivers license."

Sam sighed, silently cursing his brother under his breath. While Dean had a stockpile of fake ID cards, Sam still only carried one, and it didn't bear the name of Roberto Salazar or Bernard Schmidt. It bore his own. A series of possible scenarios flew through his mind, each more outrageous than the previous one: He had suddenly decided to change his name, for religious reasons. He was in the Witness Protection Program. He was a spy for the United States government.

Maybe he should just admit that he was a liar and a fraud, and get the hell out of there?

"Sir?"

"Never mind," Sam mumbled, his shoulders slumping. Unable to meet her eyes, and aware of the light blush that colored his face, he hung his head in defeat, and beat a hasty retreat back toward the Impala, feeling the clerk's gaze focused on his back the entire way.

"What room?" Dean asked, preparing to move the Impala, as Sam opened the passenger side door and climbed into his seat.

"Didn't get one."

"Why not?" Dean twisted around to check the flashing neon sign on the side of the building. "It still says vacancy. What happened?"

Sam speared his brother with a glare. "Oh, they had plenty of rooms."

"Then what was the problem?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "Maybe Mr. Salazar..." He paused to throw the first credit card at his brother. "...forgot to activate the card."

"You could have used the other one," Dean suggested helpfully.

"Right, like she wouldn't have noticed that Mr. Salazar had just changed his name to Mr. Schmidt." This time his tone carried disgust. The second card followed the first one, flying through the air and ending up in Dean's lap.

"Cash?"

“Didn’t have enough.”

"Why not?"

"Gas station. Coffee shop. Ring a bell?" Sam retorted.

Dean reached for his wallet. “Here.”

Sam shook his head. "She probably already thinks I'm an idiot, or some kind of criminal. I'm not going back in there." He leaned back in his seat. “With our luck, she’s probably calling the cops, to report ‘suspicious credit card activity.' Let's go somewhere else, Dean, and this time, you go in and pay."

Dean shrugged. "Okay." He started the car, pulling back out into the street. The search didn't take long, and a few minutes later, he slowed the Impala to a stop, turned into a parking lot, and pulled up in front of the Budget Inn, featuring extremely low rates, free HBO, and a heated pool.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam turned to look at his brother. "What?"

"Here, pick one." Wearing a mischievous grin, Dean took a handful of credit cards out of his stash, and after shuffling them like a deck of playing cards, he fanned the cards out.

Sam shook his head, rolling his eyes dramatically, but reached for a credit card and silently read the name to himself.

"Well, who am I?"

A small smile teased at the corner of Sam's mouth.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Sam?"

Unable to contain himself, Sam broke out in laughter. "Carla Baxter," he managed to get out between chuckles.

"What?" Dean tried to snatch the card from Sam's hand, but his brother held the card just out of his reach, laughing even louder. "Give me that."

Finally relenting, Sam handed the card over to Dean, who stared at it in dismay. "It was supposed to be Carl, not Carla. I'm not using that card." He made a move to toss the card back into the box.

"Uh, uh," Sam protested. "You said I could pick the card, and that's the one I picked."

Dean stared at him. "I can't use a card with a woman's name on it."

Sam stared back. "Do the words 'bikini inspector' mean anything to you?"

Two minutes later, Dean was standing at the front counter of the small hotel, credit card in hand. Sam loitered a few feet away, ostensibly looking through the local restaurant fliers posted on the wall, but in fact keeping his attention on his brother.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"We'd like a room for tonight."

"Double beds or a king," the woman asked, barely taking her eyes off the computer screen in front of her.

"Double," Dean answered.

"Double," she repeated, beginning to type in the information. "Will that be cash or credit?"

"Credit."

"Thank you, uh, Mr. Baxter. I'll just slide this through for you and..." Her voice trailed off as she took a good look at the name.

Dean affected an innocent expression, the kind that Sam suspected his brother practiced in front of a mirror, and tipped his head slightly to the side. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir. I don't mean to be personal, but I've just never met a man named 'Carla' before."

"Carla?" Dean asked, ignoring the muffled snort that came from Sam's direction. "What do you mean?"

"Your credit card, sir. The name on it is Carla Baxter."

Dean's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Look, sir." The woman held up the card, pointing at the printed name. "Carla Baxter."

"I can't believe this," Dean huffed.

At that moment, Sam moved closer in order to see the master of obfuscation in action. He couldn't help it. It was like a car accident: You didn't really want to watch, but you couldn't take your eyes away.

"I've contacted that credit card company three times about this, and they're still sending me credit cards with the wrong name." He leaned slightly over the counter, gazing directly into the woman's eyes, and using what he obviously considered to be his lowest, smoothest, and most seductive voice. "I just received this replacement in the mail last week. I guess I forgot to make sure it had been corrected before putting it into my wallet. I am so sorry."

"Oh, that's quite all right, sir," she gushed.

"Will I still be able to use it? I mean, it's the only card I have, and it was issued to me. They just messed up my name."

Sam almost laughed at the "poor, poor, pitiful me" expression Dean had donned, but at the last second managed to contain it.

"I don't see why not," she agreed. "After all, it is your card, Mr. Baxter."

"Please, call me Carl."

"Please, call me Carl," Sam mimicked under his breath, making a face.

"I'm Noreen."

"Thank you so much for your help, Noreen," Dean said, oozing sincerity out of every pore.

"Oh, you're very welcome."

Sam sighed. If this mutual admiration society lasted much longer, he'd be asleep on his feet.

Without any further hesitation, the now smitten clerk slid the printout in front of Dean, and after he'd signed it, handed him a receipt and a room key.

"That's room number six," she said, pointing to the left helpfully. "Just around the corner."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and Carl?"

At Dean's uplifted eyebrow and encouraging smile, she added, "I'm off at eleven."

Dean's smile grew impossibly wider.

Sam rolled his eyes. If Dean wanted to spend the night carousing, that was fine with him, but he was more interested in a hot shower, a comfortable bed, and a good night's sleep.

"Coming, Sammy?" Dean asked, a triumphant look on his face as he headed for the car.

"Right behind you, Carla."

"Oh, shut up."

When Pigs Fly

2008-02-15T00:08:19Z

Title: When Pigs Fly
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: Gen / Suitable for all ages
Summary: It's just a ghost pig...

Originally published in Road Trip With My Brother 2

When Pigs Fly

by Carole Seegraves

"Pork chops."

A bemused expression on his face, Sam looked at his brother over the Impala's hood. "Pork chops?"

"Pork chops," Dean repeated almost cheerfully, in direct contrast to the curses he'd uttered only moments before. After making one last attempt to scrape off the remaining muck from the bottom of his boots, he climbed into the car and sank down on the towels that he'd placed on the seat in an attempt to protect his "baby."

Settling into his own seat, Sam turned to face his brother. "What about pork chops?"

Dean smiled. "Pork chops," he repeated for a third time, adding a decisive nod. "That's what I'm gonna have for dinner tonight."

"Dean..." Sam shook his head, clearly wondering about the state of his brother's mind.

"Come on, Sammy, what else would I be eating for dinner tonight?"

"Uh, the usual hamburger and fries?"

This time it was Dean who shook his head. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy..."

"It's Sam."

"Whatever, dude." Dean shrugged. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his keys out, preparing to start the car.

"So, what's with the pork chops?"

Dean leaned back in his seat, giving his brother a disbelieving look while swinging the keys between his fingers. "What did we just spend the past hour doing?"

There was a long pause before comprehension dawned. "Huh."

"Seems only fair."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"After what it did."

Sam laughed softly. "What it did to you, you mean?"

Dean immediately speared him with a glare, which Sam met with an innocent expression.

"I did try to warn you," Sam reminded him.

"Well, next time warn me a little faster," Dean retorted. "Not after I've got two hundred pounds of pork sitting on my chest."

Sam snickered. "Two hundred pounds of love-struck pork."

Dean scowled. "Oh, shut up."

"Here piggy, piggy, piggy. Hey-" Sam quickly twisted away from the arm that seemed determined to lock around his neck, moving as far over as he could, taking refuge next to the door.

"I told you not to say that again," Dean spit out, his teeth clenched.

Sam held up a hand. "Okay, okay." He tried to wipe the smile off his face, but gave up and began to laugh again. "If you could have seen your face."

"Shut up!" Dean huffed, before deciding that ignoring his annoying brother would be the best route to go. Sliding the key into the Impala's ignition, he started the car, determined to forget the past hour.

*******

"How're we supposed to know which one it is?" Sam asked, eyeing the dozens of pigs that wallowed in the mud in front of them.

Dean pointed the EMF meter in their direction, sighing when it let out a low but certain squeal. "Well, it's definitely in there somewhere." Pocketing the meter, he picked up the shotgun that he'd placed next to his feet and took aim.

"Dean! You can't shoot all of them."

Dean turned to look at Sam. "Why not?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't think the farmer would be too happy if we took out his entire flock, er, herd, uh, whatever."

"You got a better idea?"

"Well..." Sam contemplated the pigs for a long moment, then brightened. "What if we got closer?"

"And...?"

"We could, you know, separate the pigs," Sam continued, "check them out one at a time."

Dean directed an incredulous look at his brother. "Separate the pigs," he echoed. "How?"

"Uh, here piggy, piggy, piggy?" Sam offered with a laugh.

"Cute. And somehow I don't think this particular pig is gonna come running right to us."

"Why not?"

"Does the word possessed mean anything to you?"

"Possessed?"

"Haunted. Possessed." Dean pursed his lips together, then proclaimed loftily, "There is a biblical precedent, you know."

Sam did a double take. "And how would you know that?"

Dean looked smug. "I have my sources."

"Huh. And do your sources say what to do with a possessed pig besides driving it over a cliff?"

This time Dean did the double take.

"I have my sources, too," Sam said just as smugly. "Hey, maybe it's not haunted or possessed, maybe it's just a ghost pig, like the newspaper article said."

"Just a ghost pig," Dean echoed, accenting "just" with a roll of his eyes.

"Will you stop repeating everything I say."

"Will you stop repeating everything I say," Dean muttered in a sing song voice.

Ignoring Dean's childish behavior, Sam continued. "If it's a ghost pig, all we need to do is use the rock salt."

Dean nodded in agreement. "But, we still need to know which one, unless..." He aimed his gun at the group of oblivious pigs.

"Dean..." Sam warned.

"Okay, okay." Dean raised his hands in surrender.

"Whatever we're going to do, we need to do it soon. Who knows when that farmer's gonna come back." Sam took a quick look over his shoulder, making sure they were still alone and unobserved.

"Nah, he was headed for the south forty, or whatever it's called. I think he'll be gone for a while. The kids are in school, and the farmer's wife is doing whatever a farmer's wife does."

Sam sighed. "We need a plan."

"I had a plan," Dean complained, raising the shotgun as a reminder.

"A plan that doesn't involve taking out all of the pigs, Dean."

"Picky, picky." Dean surveyed the mass of swine flesh again. "So, you wanna go for the 'separate the pigs' idea?"

"Yep. How 'bout you climb in the pig pen, get close to the pigs, and see if you can tell which one it is." Ignoring the sight of Dean's eyebrows rising with every word until they almost reached his hairline, Sam added, "I'll cover you. When you spot the right pig, sing out."

"I'm not going in there," Dean announced, grimacing at the thought.

"It's just a pig, Dean. I mean, what could happen?"

Dean slowly shook his head. "I really wish you hadn't said that."

"What?"

"You want me to get in the pig pen?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugged. "It's your turn. I did the last swamp, if you remember."

"But..."

"Dean, I don't see any other way to do it," Sam admitted, keeping his smile undercover, at least while his brother was looking at him. "And if we don't take care of it, someone's going to get hurt."

"Oh, man." Dean's shoulders slumped, and he sighed a dramatic, put upon sigh. "All right. But next time, I don't care whose turn it is, you get to check out the pigs."

"It's a deal," Sam agreed.

As Dean retrieved the meter, slowly opened the gate and trudged forward, like a man on his final walk, Sam clambered on top of the fence rail, wanting to give himself an unobstructed view of the pen and its inhabitants.

Making sure Sam had his gun raised in readiness, Dean took another reluctant step. His boots immediately sank into the quagmire. "Oh, god, kill me now," he moaned.

Ignored by the pigs, who were either engrossed in wallowing, or eating the small corn cobs the farmer had tossed in earlier, Dean made his way across the ground, muttering invectives under his breath with every step.

"Anything?" Sam called.

"I just got started, Sam," Dean retorted, continuing forward.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Just a sec."

"Uh, Dean, I think-"

Dean waved him off. It was a mistake. With one eye on the meter, and the other on the closest pig, he failed to see the small pink piglet that had suddenly decided to make a beeline for its mother.

"Dean!"

"Son of a-" Dean cursed, windmilling his arms in an attempt to keep his balance. He failed. Landing flat on his back in the mire, he almost immediately found himself face to face and nose to snout with a snuffling, snorting, inquisitive, and very affectionate two hundred pound mother pig.

"Oh, that's just gross," the two brothers said in unison.

Gingerly rolling out from under the too-attentive sow, Dean tried to use his mud-encrusted hand to wipe off some of the muck that covered his clothes and hair.

"You okay?"

Dean turned his head slowly, his lips pressed tightly together, and stared at his brother in reproach. "Fine," he finally muttered. "Just fine." After swiping futilely at the mud one last time, he took a deep breath, mumbled a not-very-polite word under his breath, and took another step toward the center of the pen, his eyes back on the meter in his hand.

"Whoa." Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Dean?"

This time Dean didn't wave him off. Instead, he whirling around, expecting to see another piglet making a mad dash between his feet, but when he failed to spot one, or anything else that might send him back to the ground, he looked at Sam.

Sam just nodded, toward the far end of the pen. "Think maybe it's that one?" Accompanying his words was the now-frantically-squealling sound of the EMF meter.

As they watched, the pig in question faded in and out of view, his form hovering several feet off the ground and his eyes glowing with an unearthly light.

"I'd say that's a yes," Dean confirmed, pocketing his meter and lifting his shotgun.

Suddenly, the ghost pig raised his head and looked directly at Dean, and as the other pigs cleared out of the way, grunted loudly several times and charged.

Frozen for just a second by the sight of a several hundred pound pig storming toward him, through the air, no less, Dean took a quick step to the side, slipped in the mud, and landed in the muck. Again.

"Dean, look out!"

"Shoot it!" Dean yelled.

Jumping down from his perch on top of the fence, Sam didn't spare the breath to respond. His attention completely on the mountain of pork barreling toward his brother, he aimed his shotgun, and fired, Dean firing his own gun almost simultaneously.

As the rock salt impacted his body, the rampaging swine dissipated into the air, a loud snort all that was left to mark its departure.

"Well, that was... weird." Sam peered down at his brother, still on the ground. "Dean?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Crap."

Sam sniggered. "Is that how you feel or what you're sitting in?" he asked without a shred of sympathy.

"Ha, ha, Funny Boy." Scooping up a handful of the nearest, and messiest muck, Dean flung it toward his brother, who deftly dodged to the side, managing to avoid being splattered.

"Gotta work on that aim there, big brother," Sam laughed.

*******

"Pork chops," Dean sighed in satisfaction, patting his stomach and letting out a loud burp. His hair still damp from a recent shower and wearing clean clothes, he was the picture of contentment.

"Does the phrase 'eat like a pig' mean anything to you?" Sam asked, still staring in awe at Dean's now empty plate.

"Nope," his brother retorted.

"You ate six of those things!"

"So?" Dean answered defensively. "They deserved it."

"It was embarrassing to watch."

Dean shrugged.

"And everyone was watching."

Dean looked around the small restaurant. "They weren't looking at the food. They were admiring perfection." Wearing an expression that could only be described as wicked, he polished his fingernails on his shirt.

"Dean, sometimes I wonder about you."

Giving his brother a "who me?" look, he simply responded, "That's okay, sometimes I wonder about you, Sammy."

"Sam." Taking a last sip of his beer and sliding out of the booth, Sam asked, "Ready to go?"

"Yep." Dean got to his feet, one hand reaching for his wallet. He took a step toward the front counter, then came to a sudden stop.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes raked the restaurant.

When Dean didn't answer, Sam followed the direction of his brother's intent gaze. At first, he thought Dean was focused on the short-skirted waitress picking up a food order. But a second look revealed he was staring at the chalkboard next to the counter. As he watched, the hostess finished listing all of the next day's breakfast specials, then moved to the register, anticipating their payment.

"We need to hit this place on our way out of town tomorrow."

"Why?"

A wide grin lit up Dean's face. "One word." He paused, his grin growing even wider. "Bacon."

Six Times Dean Ate Pizza When He Wasn't Really Hungry

2007-11-15T23:26:39Z

Title: Six Times Dean Ate Pizza When He Wasn't Really Hungry
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Rating: Gen / Suitable for all ages
Summary: Six pizza-related moments in the life of the Winchesters

Originally published in Chinook Volume 5
Special thanks go to Swanseajill and TAE for their wonderful beta job!

Six Times Dean Ate Pizza When He Wasn't Really Hungry

by Carole Seegraves

One

"Eat your pizza, son," John instructed, moving the plate in front of the four-year-old. He thanked the waitress with a nod, and turned back to the baby cradled in his arms.

Dean just stared at it, his bottom lip trembling. Pepperoni pizza, with lots and lots of cheese. His favorite kind. But right now, he didn't feel like eating. Sammy was crying, avoiding the bottle that his dad was holding to his mouth, and he felt like crying too. He didn't want pizza. He wanted his mom.

His mom would have tucked a napkin into the front of his shirt like a bib, even though he was a big boy. Then she would have smiled, and moved his plate a little closer, so it was easier to reach. But his mom wasn't here. And while he didn't know where she was, he was pretty sure she wasn't coming back.

Dean glanced at his brother. Sammy was still crying, still squirming in his dad's arms. Maybe he missed Mom, too.

"Dean," John said softly. "Eat your pizza, son."

The little boy looked back down at his plate, his eyes brimming with tears, and picked up the slice of pizza.

Two

"Here we go, children," Mrs. Cotti announced. "Your pizzas are ready."

Dean watched as his teacher placed his home-made English muffin pizza on the table in front of him.

The other children, eager and excited, were happily reaching for their own food, and his teacher wore a smile, the same one she wore every day when spending time with "her" kids, but Dean wasn't hungry. It smelled good. It really did, but the youngster was busy looking out the window.

It was Sam's first day of kindergarten, and Dean knew his little brother was scared. Right now, the five-year-old was sitting by himself on the playground, his little hand occasionally reaching up to wipe at his eyes. And his teacher was over on the other side of the playground, not even noticing the crying little boy that was supposedly in her care.

It was all Dean could do to stay in his seat. Sammy would be okay, he knew that. There wasn't anything here that could hurt him. At least, nothing supernatural in nature. Their dad had made sure of that. But seeing his brother's tears made him want to run out of the classroom, down the hall, and outside. It made his stomach feel funny, too.

"Dean, eat your snack, honey."

With a sigh, Dean complied, hoping that he wouldn't throw up in front of his whole class.

Three

"Eat your dinner, Dean," John said, his jaw set and his eyes glaring daggers into the newspaper article he held.

"Yes, sir."

It had only been forty-five minutes since he'd seen Sammy off, dropping him at the bus station, and watching as the bus departed the station. As his brother departed his life.

He still couldn't believe how fast the fight between Sam and their dad had escalated. One minute, Sam was telling them that he'd been accepted into Stanford, the next, John was telling him not to come back. They had been at each other's throats a lot lately, but Dean had never dreamed that it would come to this.

He had always known that Sam wanted to go to college, wanted to put the hunting life behind him, but it wasn't until it happened, that he realized just how much it would hurt. And how empty it would make him feel.

He'd sat in the parking lot until the bus was out of view, then pulled out with a squeal of tires, heading in the other direction. And on the way back to the motel, Dean had picked up two large pizzas. It was their normal order, the same amount of pizza they'd been ordering ever since Sam had reached young adulthood and started to fill out his lanky frame.

But now, it was way too much for them to eat.

Dean raised a slice to his mouth, chewing on it half-heartedly.

Four

"Aren't you going to eat?" his date asked.

Dean shrugged. For some reason, the bright lights and loud music just didn't seem satisfying tonight. And as for Sandy, or Sophie, or Silvia, or whatever her name was, he couldn't muster any enthusiasm about her either. Just another in a long string of meaningless one night stands. She was pretty enough, her looks garnering lots of attention from the other men in the room, but there was just something about her. She seemed too eager, too easy. Maybe he was just another in a string of one night stands, for her. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

Laughter broke out at the next table, and he glanced that direction. Two men, brothers by the looks of things, were shoveling chicken wings into their mouths as fast as they could. He and Sam had done something similar only a few weeks earlier, after a successful ghoul hunt. The contest had been a draw. He smiled at the memory.

Right now, Sam was back in their room--on the internet, reading a book, or maybe already under the covers, enjoying a well-deserved rest. To be honest, Dean envied him, just a little. But he'd never admit it.

"How 'bout another one?"

Shaking his head at the waitress, Dean took a sip of his beer, ignoring the barely-touched pizza on his plate.

Five

"That will be $6.99, sir," the cashier said.

Taking his wallet out of his pocket, Dean paid for his lunch, then looked for an empty table. It wasn't hard to find. Most people didn't eat meals in the middle of the afternoon, so the room was almost empty, with only a few people sitting here and there, sipping at coffee and fidgeting nervously in their chairs.

The doctor had made him a deal. He'd be able to see Sam as soon as he was moved to a room, if, after cleaning up, he went down to the cafeteria. Had a meal. Relaxed for at least an hour. Or he could sit out in the waiting room, his hands bathed in Sam's blood, denied access to his brother.

It wasn't a hard choice to make. Two seconds later he'd been heading for the bathroom, three minutes after that he was on the elevator that would take him down two floors, where the cafeteria was located.

Pizza. That's what he'd ended up with. It didn't matter, though. It could have been cardboard for all he cared. Maybe it was. Cardboard covered with pizza sauce and decorated with cheese and pepperoni. Setting his jaw, he went through the exercise of eating, counting the minutes until he could see Sam.

Six

"Uncle Dean, Uncle Dean!"

Dean braced himself as a four-year-old whirlwind of energy launched himself into the air, trusting his uncle to catch him. He smiled at the little boy, tousling his light brown hair with one hand as Sam watched in fond amusement.

When the child wiggled in the universal sign of "put me down," Dean set him on his feet, then found himself being dragged in the direction of the kitchen.

On the table were plates, napkins, drinks, and two closed pizza boxes. He watched as his nephew flung one of the lids open in excitement.

"Where's your mom?" Dean looked around, realizing she hadn't yet joined them.

"She went shopping for clothes." He scrunched up his nose, giving his opinion of that idea before adding, "And she's gonna eat when she gets home. But you're gonna eat with us, right, Uncle Dean?"

Dean couldn't help but grin. While he wasn't hungry in the least, having stopped for dinner on the road an hour or so back, there was no way he could resist the set of pleading "puppy dog eyes" aimed in his direction. He had no doubt as to where his nephew had learned that expression. He'd seen Sam wearing the same one too many times.

Seconds later, Dean found himself seated at the table across from Sam and his son, beer in one hand, and a slice of pizza in the other. It didn't matter that he wasn't hungry, he wouldn't miss eating with his family for all the world.

Standing Watch

2007-11-15T23:13:02Z

Title: Standing Watch
Author: Carole Seegraves
Email: carolej126@yahoo.com
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: Gen / Suitable for all ages
Summary: Sam takes care of his injured brother

Originally published in Chinook Volume 6
Special thanks go to Swanseajill and TAE for their wonderful beta job!

Standing Watch

by Carole Seegraves

The attack had seemingly come out of nowhere.

The old walkman-transformed-into-an-EMF-meter had only registered residual readings, so the two young men had searched the rundown warehouse, flashlights in one hand, shotguns in the other.

Not exactly sure what they were looking for, since the descriptions they'd read in various newspaper articles and on the net were all different, ranging from things like "a strange creature" and "a human-like shape," to "an alien from another planet," they'd moved as one, alert to every noise and movement. But by the time Dean's meter, tucked inside his pocket, had let out an almost deafening squeal, it was already too late to react.

Too late to prevent Dean from being injured.

There wasn't anything Sam could have done. He knew that. Couldn't have been any faster, any stronger, any... anything. But knowing something in your head doesn't necessarily mean that your heart can be convinced to feel the same way.

Three fifty-something a.m. The bright red numbers of the cheap clock sitting on the bedside table were supposed to provide a weary traveler with the accurate time, but only the three and the five could actually be seen, so the last number was a mystery.

Sam took a quick glance at his watch, using the faint light provided by the bedside lamp, set on the lowest setting, to see. Three fifty-seven a.m. Four hours. It had only been four hours since they'd returned to the hotel room, battered and bruised. It seemed more like a lifetime.

He'd thought Dean was okay.

While a concussion was nothing to play around with, even a mild one, it was also something they had dealt with before, and Dean would never have agreed to go to the hospital, choosing instead to lay low in their room, fussing when Sam tried to take care of him, arguing that he was fine, just fine, and suffering silently until he felt better.

And the two small bites on Dean's thigh hadn't bled much.

So Sam had dosed him with tylenol and treated his wounds, and while few doctors would have recommended using a combination of antiseptic cream and holy water, that's what he'd used, just as a precaution. Dean had muttered curses under his breath, then finally let himself slump back on the bed.

Sam had been glad at first, relieved that Dean could have some relief from the pain, however short-lived.

But then, he hadn't regained consciousness. And it had been more than four hours.

Sam's heart skipped a beat as he remembered the moment Dean had been thrown into a solid wall, headfirst, then attacked by the whatever-it-was. Large. Luminescent. Fanged.

He'd lain motionless, unresponsive to Sam's frantic calls, even when the younger hunter had emptied an entire clip at the thing menacing him. Twice. Rock salt hadn't done the trick, and precious time was lost when Sam was forced to lay aside his weapon and lunge for Dean's, loaded with consecrated iron rounds.

And then the creature was dead. As dead as something already dead could be, anyway. Dean was trying to sit up, cursing, twisting around to check on his brother, using one hand to cup his head.

And Sam thought that maybe they'd been lucky again.

Four hours later, he wasn't thinking that anymore.

Across the room the a.c. unit clicked on, and the blast of cold air made Sam shiver. At least he thought it was the air. Goosebumps dotted his bare arms, and he reached for Dean's leather jacket, hanging on the back of his chair. Laying it across his shoulders, he pulled it around him tightly, expecting the shivering to stop.

It didn't.

At first Sam had talked almost non-stop, intent on providing a life-line to his brother, in case it was needed to pull Dean back from wherever he had gone. Reminding him of him what had happened, where he was, what Sam was doing. But as the hours had gone by, he'd grown weary of talking to himself.

Now, the silence was almost oppressive.

Sam reached for the television remote, a move born of habit more than desire. He couldn't count how many times, on the road with his brother and father, or just with his brother, he'd filled the late night hours watching mindless programing when he couldn't sleep. The 19-inch television, precariously perched close to the edge of the imitation wood dresser, came on slowly, providing a faint light that illuminated the room just enough to dispel most of the shadows. He quickly turned the volume down, and stared at the image on the screen, the same choice every T.V. offered in the middle of the night. Infomercials. And if he'd actually had a need for a magic sweeper, he probably would have jumped at the "save twenty dollars if you order in the next five minutes" offer, which despite its advertising, would be offered over and over again, throughout this night and the next.

But he didn't.

Letting out a sigh, Sam turned the television back off and got to his feet, moving closer to the bed. He used the back of his hand to check Dean's temperature, although he'd read somewhere that only a thermometer could provide an accurate reading. He shrugged, knowing it would have to do, since the thermometer usually found in their first aid kit was unexplicably missing, and he wasn't comfortable with the idea of leaving his brother alone while he ran down to the drugstore, even though it was only a few doors down.

Finding Dean's skin a lot warmer than he knew was normal and heading toward hot, he shook his head before retrieving a heavily bleached washcloth from the bathroom. The ice in the small ice bucket was steadily melting, providing enough cold water to wet the cloth, and wipe it over his brother's face and neck. Finishing that task, he lowered the comforter slightly, dipped the wash cloth into the cold water again, and did the same over Dean's bare chest. He thought for sure that the icy cold water would bring about some kind of reaction: a flinch, a gasp, a "That's cruel, dude."

But it didn't.

Sam returned the washcloth to the bathroom, rinsing it out in the sink, and hanging it over the side of the tub. He took a few seconds to take care of some personal needs, washed his hands, and tried to avoid looking in the mirror.

It didn't work.

Clenching his jaw he stared at his own reflection. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, vividly standing out amidst his pale and drawn features. It hadn't been his fault, despite the guilt he felt. He'd done nothing wrong. He knew that. But he couldn't help it. Trusted to watch Dean's back, he felt like he'd failed in a big way. He let out a sigh. If his brother had been awake, Dean would have been reassuring him that it wasn't his fault, throwing Sam's own words back into his face: sometimes bad things just happen. But the bedroom remained quiet, his brother silent.

Turning the faucet back on, he quickly splashed some water over his face, dried his hands and face on the waiting towel, and returned to Dean's side.

In the short time he'd been gone, Dean had moved, however slighty. Seeing his right hand was now uncovered and hanging slightly over the edge of the bed, Sam tucked the errant hand back under the blankets and gave his arm a gentle pat. Dean would have been irritated by the hovering, had he been awake. Conscious.

But he wasn't.

Sam glanced at the clock. Four twenty-something a.m. Time to check the puncture wounds again. The small marks left behind in the attack had looked innocent at first. Just a little red. Not very sore. Something to be treated, covered with a bandaid and forgotten.

The second time Sam had checked, the wound looked different. Radiating heat that could be felt by placing one's hand just above the injury, it looked... ugly.

If he'd been in a better mood, he might have even called it "fugly," one of Dean's favorite words. But levity had been the farthest thing from Sam's mind. He'd treated it again, cleaning it with soap and water before applying the same mixture he'd used before, and then covered it with a fresh bandaid.

Almost holding his breath, Sam carefully lifted the comforter, uncovering Dean's thigh. The bandaid was still in place, and there were no tell-tale signs that the redness had spread. His shoulders relaxed slightly, having half expected to see vivid red lines making their way from the wound and toward Dean's heart.

He carefully removed the bandaid, glad that the adhesive wasn't putting up a fight, and took a look. The two bite marks, while still slightly red, were no longer angry-looking. There was no sign of blood, pus, or anything that would indicate the infection was spreading. In fact, he couldn't see any signs of infection at all.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Sam replaced the bandaid, and then pulled the comforter back into place.

Resting his hand on Dean's head, not sure if he was offering or receiving comfort, he closed his eyes for just a moment, before hooking a chair with the toe of his shoe, and sitting back down.

Five forty-something a.m. Sam's stomach unexpectedly rumbled, surprising him. They had skipped dinner, planning on eating after their job was finished despite the late hour, but circumstances had dictated otherwise. He had made some soup earlier, thinking that Dean might wake up hungry and need something that would be easy on his stomach, but when his brother had remained unconscious for so long, he'd thrown the soup out, not even thinking about eating it himself.

Several plastic-wrapped packages of saltine crackers, two to a pack, were on the small table across the room, and Sam thought briefly about eating them, but then scrunched up his nose, really not in the mood for a few dry crackers. Instead, he decided to make do with the hotel-provided coffee he'd been sipping every once in a while, and maybe in the morning, Dean would be up to eating breakfast.

And answering questions. Like "What's your name?" "Where are you?" What year is it?" "Who is the president?" All of the typical questions that concussed patients were expected to be able to answer, regardless of the fact that the questions were usually asked upon waking said patient out of a sound sleep. Sam snorted, remembering the last time Dean had suffered a concussion. Like the diligent little brother he was, he'd faithfully woke his brother every two hours or so, asking him asinine questions, and watching Dean get more and more frustrated at the interruptions to his sleep. His final attempt, occurring somewhere near the six a.m. hour, had resulted not in correct responses, but the oh-so-subtle raising of a certain finger.

He couldn't really blame him, though, Sam admitted to himself. He'd reacted the same way, back when he'd received a concussion of his own. Minus the finger, of course.

Or so he thought.

It wasn't really the concussion he'd been worried about, though. Dean had been coherent after the attack, and his pupils were both equal and responsive. Sam had made sure of that. It was those bites. Sam heaved another sigh of relief. Maybe it was just coincidence that the suspected infection had cleared up after two "supernatural" treatments, but he doubted it. It was more likely that the creature's fangs had left some sort of poison, causing Dean's temperature to rise, and only a Winchester-type solution would have worked.

Speaking of temperatures, Sam thought, it was time to check Dean's again. When he found that his brother's skin was only slightly warmer than what would be considered acceptable, he decided that an ice water wipe down would be unnecessary this time around. Instead, he simply returned to the bathroom, retrieved a clean washcloth from the stack folded above the toilet, and folded it in thirds. Leaving it folded, he dunked it into the ice bucket, then squeezed it out and placed it on Dean's forehead. It might not be necessary for a fever any longer, but it might help with the headache that Dean was sure to have upon waking.

Six something-something a.m. Sam blinked. The clock's third number had apparently given up the ghost, and now the current time was anyone's guess. He almost lifted his arm to check, but changed his mind. It didn't really matter if it was six thirty or six something something.

Either one was fine.

Sam leaned back in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. Now that the morning sun was beginning to stream into the room, he could do some reading, some research, some... thing. He almost reached for the magazines stacked beside the chair, magazines that had apparently been left behind by a previous occupant and ignored by the cleaning staff. He'd browsed through them earlier, back when they'd first arrived, but when he'd found himself trying to choose between more-than-a-year-old copies of Women's Day, Family Circle, and Good Housekeeping, he'd snorted and dropped them to the floor.

They didn't look any more appealing now. In fact, he couldn't believe he'd even looked at them in the first place. Dean had shaken his head, giving him that disbelieving, "Sammy!" look, before turning back to cleaning his weapons in preparation for the night's "field trip."

The weapons they'd taken were locked back inside the Impala's trunk. Intent on getting his brother into the hotel room and examining his wounds, Sam had still made sure the guns were locked safely away. And while Sam could have spent some of the early morning hours checking and cleaning the weapons, he knew Dean would prefer to do it himself. They'd spent many an evening, Sam doing research on the computer, Dean caring for the weapons. It was just the way they did things.

Yawning, and scrubbing his face with his hands, Sam lifted his feet to the edge of the bed, being careful not to disturb his brother. A brief nap sounded good. In fact, it sounded really, really good. And closing his eyes for more than a minute or two would probably result in just that.

But he couldn't let go just yet. He was still on duty, still watching his brother's back, and until Dean was awake, aware, and his normal annoying self, he'd stand watch.

Just like Dean always did when Sam was the one in need. He had always been the one pushed to "watch out for Sammy," and he didn't take that job lightly. And while it may have started out that way, way back when he was just a four year old, carrying his infant brother out of a burning house, it wasn't something he now did out of duty. It was out of a need to keep his brother safe.

It was out of love.

Sam's lips twisted in a smile. He could just picture the expression on Dean's face if he'd said that out loud. The king of "no chick-flick moments" would have been groaning with embarrassment. At least, he would have pretended to be embarrassed.

But Sam knew his brother's heart.

"'ammy?"

"Dean?" Sam sprang to his feet so quickly the chair fell on its side behind him.

Dean's eyes were barely open, but he graced Sam with a faint smile before asking, "Wha' 'appened?"

Sam smiled back. "Nothing you need to worry about right now."

"You 'kay?"

"Yeah." Sam leaned a little closer, patting Dean's chest gently. "And you're okay, too. Or at least you will be."

"Good." As Sam watched, Dean's eyes drooped closed again, and he snuggled a little deeper into his pillow.

"Go back to sleep," Sam said softly, deciding that the questions didn't need to be asked after all. "I've got your back."

And reassured, Dean did just that.

Two out of three wasn't bad, Sam thought, as he picked up the fallen chair, moving it back into position beside Dean's bed. Dean was awake and aware, or at least had been. And he had no doubt that once his brother was up and around again, Dean would be as annoying as ever. But until then, he was going to stay right where he was, at his brother's side.