Title: The Tiend
Characters: Dean, Sam
Spoilers: Through episode one of season two.
Summary: Every seven years fairies are forced to pay a tiend, and send seven of their own to Hell. One of them has no wish to spend eternity burning, and he plans on using Sam to escape the selection.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. That right belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke. However, everyone else who shows up here does belong to me.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and read this. I'm always happy to hear from you. Also, thank you to everyone here who reviews who doesn't have an account here! Which at the time of this posting is Kuriei137. So, thank you Kuriei137!
I do have a fic journal on livejournal where I post all my stories silverkit(underscore)fic(dot)livejournal(dot)com (the dots and the underscore are only written out here because this webside doesn't like web addresses.) what's neat is that even if you don't have an LJ account you can comment and I can respond to you properly (Jenilee, if you're reading this I'm looking in your direction since you always leave such wonderful and kind words and I'm never able to respond and thank you properly. If that's not your cup of tea, no problem, but you still get a HUGE thank you and hug from me anyway).
The sodium yellow light of the street lamps halo his brother's head, and cause the slick grease across his eyelids to shine with an almost ethereal light. Sam sits in the Impala, the door flung open, and his feet on the pavement.
Dean doesn't answer too busy kneeling in the motel parking lot, sawing the rope away from Sam's hands. Sam means to press, but then the ropes are off. His arms feel as through they've been filled with lead, and the dead weight of them makes a small coil of panic lash out in his gut. Then the sensation floods back in, pins and needles and pain rushing through his blood after three days of having his arms forced into uncomfortable positions. The pads of his fingers are scratched, and his wrists and forearms are a mess of dried blood and sweat.
"All this and you still couldn't get free?" Dean asks, eyeing Sam's bloodied chest, the first aid kit open at his feet.
"Don't be a prick."
They're two states over and one state down before Dean finally pulls the car into a motel. The sun has risen and set in that time and the black star speckled sky looks down on the two of them as they stumble across the parking lot.
Their room is decorated in colors of green and yellow. The lamps are stamped with the imprints of wildflowers that arch around their gold plated bodies, and the carpet is a deep green that fades into matching tiles in the bathroom floor.
Dean leads Sam to the bed furthest from the door, and settles him before disappearing into the bathroom. Sam presses his nose into a slick polyester bedspread that smells like laundry detergent and summer. His arms are on fire, and he can feel the muscles jumping and shuttering underneath his skin. The appendages, for now, are useless to him.
Sam dozes lightly, not quite ready to sleep, but grateful for the opportunity to stretch out and rest. A hand brushes his bangs away and presses against his forehead.
You've got a fever," Dean announces with a frown.
Sam leans into his brother's hand, happy to have Dean so near.
"I need you to sit up, Sammy," Dean says.
Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean is in no mood to wait for him to comply and manhandles him into a sitting position. Sam's shirt is in tatters, the buttons popped off by Shel like dandelion heads, and both the back and front stained with sweat and dirt and dried blood. When Dean removes the soiled bandages some of the cuts bleed freely once exposed to the air, but others have already started to scab. Sam hisses when the wet washcloth Dean retrieved from the bathroom makes contact with the cuts, and Dean's jaw goes so tight Sam is afraid his brother may crack his back molars.
"What do you have on your eyelids?" Droplets from the corners of the dark green washcloth fall across Sam's jean clad leg, and when Dean lifts his face to Sam the light from the lamp caroms off Dean eyelids.
"It's an ointment," Dean responds. Tossing the washcloth to the side he reaches for the roll of clean white bandages. "It lets you see through glamours. Had to raid some chick's garden for the ingredients."
"How'd you know I'd be hidden by a glamour?"
"I didn't. I ran into a kid outside a diner screaming about a red haired guy and a guy no one else could see correctly. Kept trying to get his friends to call the cops, but no one was buying it."
There are small red freckles of blood scattered across the end of the green comforter, and Sam suddenly feels dizzy and lost.
"What did his friends say they saw? What did they see when they looked at me?"
Dean shrugs his hand busy unwrapping the cotton bandages. "Just a guy."
"Just a guy?"
"Yeah, Sam. A guy."
"With the glamour on would you have been able to recognize me?"
Some of the bandages slip, and Dean grumbles softly under his breathe.
"He was going to give me to Hell, Dean."
Sam feels his brother's hands pause, bracing themselves on either side of Sam's torso. The Dean fastens the last bit of cotton down, and begins to collect the stripes of soiled bandages that he'd scattered across the floor and bed. Dean wads them into a tight ball, his fingers squeezing the cloth tightly.
"I know." Tossing the ball of bandages away, Dean returns to the bed. "I want you to swallow these." Two tan colored pills rest in Dean's open palm, and Sam feels the heat of embarrassment flush through his body when he realizes that his hands are going to prove too clumsy to navigate them to his mouth.
A hand touches his cheek and Dean huffs as he turns his brother's face toward him.
"Did that thing feed you?"
Sam shakes his head. "I think he had a big last meal planned, but we never got that far."
"I'll get you something."
"It better come in liquid form," Sam says, with a strained smile nodding to his limp arms. "Can't exactly lift a fork right now."
Dean shrugs. "I'll help you."
Sam immediately feels something snarl through his body at the thought of being so helpless, so dependant. Some of it must show on his face because Dean scowls at him and flicks Sam's forehead with his pointer finger.
"Don't give me that look. I'm the one who's got to wait on you hand and foot."
Sam shakes his head and looks away. There's a strong sense of claustrophobia piggy backing the sudden anger, and he tries to push both feelings away. Tries to find the grateful, thankful, love emotions that he knows are right behind his stubborn independence.
"It's just for a few days, Sam," Dean says softly. "That's all. A couple of days off for your arms to heal, and then you'll be back to your same annoying, independent, college-boy self."
Sam concentrates on the ache in his arms, the sharp thudding pain that would be his companion. Dean's hands encircle Sam's wrists and Sam looks up to meet Dean's earnest, worried gaze.
"Ok." Sam answers. "Ok."
Some of the tension leaks from Dean's shoulders, and face. He rattles the pills around in his closed fist and gives his brother a smile that's tired and strained, but real. "Good."