Title: Back To Me
Summary: One month after Sam leaves for Stanford, Dean almost dies alone. Good thing his little brother has weird dreams, huh? One-shot.
A/N: Another idea that won't leave me alone, so I have to write it. Please enjoy.
Rating: K+ for implied abuse
Disclaimer: Nope. Still not mine. Wish it was, but Kripke's got bragging rights.
Back To Me
Dean stumbled through the door of his latest motel room. His, and no one else's. He was alone, had been since his brother had left. Since his father had followed.
He hated hunting alone, hated feeling so unprotected. He needed to know that someone had his back, that someone would be there should he trip up.
He hated them both at the moment, hated them for walking out on him. Sam claimed he'd needed space from their father, but Dean knew it was a lie. After all, John was hardly ever home. He gave his boys space.
John had said it was a routine hunt, one that wouldn't last more than two or three days. He'd left the day after he'd yelled at Dean about Sam leaving, left after he'd seen the bruise on his remaining son's face in the stark light of day. He'd left one week after Sam had, and hadn't returned.
Three weeks after his departure, and he hadn't returned.
Dean didn't even bother to lock the door behind him. He'd killed the fugly-ass thing. Nothing was after him anymore. Nothing wanted him.
His had been a routine hunt. Two, maybe three days, tops. He'd gotten it done in one. In truth, he wasn't even sure what it had been, just knew that shooting it with silver had worked.
He'd found the hunt about a week after his father had left. He'd been worried about leaving their motel room, thinking that John might come back and think that his good son had gone the way of his favored one, that he had been abandoned. Dean had left him a message on his phone explaining the situation.
The hunter shook his head, trying to clear it of the painful memories from the past month. His mind was wandering. His brain hurt. He put a hand to the back of his head and brought it away bloody. It was bloodier than it should have been.
Dean didn't care about the blood, about the wounds. He wasn't supposed to care about himself. He was supposed to care about Sammy. He'd thought Sammy had cared about him.
He was tired, too tired to tend to his wounds. The world was fading to black around him and he knew that was a bad thing, but he didn't care. He fell onto the single bed and laid his head back on the white pillow. He'd have to explain the blood to the motel manager, but that could wait.
He was so tired.
Dean hadn't been aware that he'd fallen asleep, so the sensation of waking up to someone's hands on him was definitely unexpected. He meant to snap his eyelids open, but they wouldn't obey, choosing instead to flutter uselessly, his eyelashes tickling his cheek as he was pulled into a sitting position on the bed.
Someone gasped. The voice was too soft to belong to his father, and even through the haze of pain and surprise, Dean was scared. What had found him? Who had found him? Was he dead?
Tender fingers began prodding the cut on the back of his head, and he barely stopped a hiss of pain of escaping his lips. The last thing he needed was for this… thing to know that he was hurt.
And then it spoke. "Oh, man, what happened to you?"
Dean stiffened at the sound of the voice. It was impossible, wasn't it? Of course it was. He was in upstate Maine, nowhere near Palo Alto. There was no way. No way. He was being tricked.
He forced his eyelids to slide up and turned his head slightly. Shape-shifter. Had to be. There was no other way, no possible way. Unless…
"You came back?" Dean whispered, hating the pathetic quality that somehow managed to seep into his voice.
Sam furrowed his brow, fingers still working over the bleeding gash in his brother's head. "What?"
Dean smiled. "You came back." He sighed, every horrible word his father had spoken to him during their fight leaving his body in the exhalation. "He lied to me."
Sam spun him around, cupping his beaten face in large hands. He pulled Dean's eyelids open, searching for signs of a concussion. When he didn't find any, he turned the older man back around to continue probing the cut. "What are you talking about?"
"Dad," Dean mumbled, wincing as Sam's finger hit a little too close to the bloody gash for comfort. "He said… said it was me… my fault. Too clingy."
"Is the first aid kit still in the car?" Sam asked, laying Dean carefully back down on the bed and scooting off the mattress. Dean nodded and dug the keys out of his pocket, handing them to his brother.
Sam disappeared, the door closing behind him, and dread suddenly took over Dean's system. What if he didn't come back? What if their father had been right? What if-?
And then the door opened and Sam reappeared and Dean let himself relax. He was going to be ok. Sam would look after him.
He was pulled up again into strong arms. There was no hint of a protest from him. He was still too tired to do much more than marvel at the fact that his brother had returned to him, that their father had been wrong.
"It was dad," Sam said, breaking the silence as he stitched up the wound. "It wasn't because of you."
"Know now." Dean smiled. "You came back."
"Course I did," Sam said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Dad." Dean stated. "Me."
"Where is dad?"
The older hunter had to search his mind, push past the muddled confusion and the shining hope. "Hunt," he finally said. "Long hunt. Routine my ass." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough.
"How long's he been gone?"
Dean shrugged. "Three weeks. Left after you did. After the fight."
"I left over a month ago, Dean. What fight?"
"Said I was clingy," Dean repeated. "Too close. Couldn't breathe. You… you can breathe now?" He tired to turn around, to search his brother's face for an answer, but Sam held his head still.
"It wasn't you."
Sam's hands stopped their practiced motions mid-stitch, the thread pulling painfully at the older man's scalp. "What?"
"He was mad, man. Lucky you weren't here. Lucky I always step in. He's used to me. I don't fight… fight back."
"Are you saying he hit you?" Sam asked, anger apparent in his voice.
Through whatever haze the hunt had left him in, Dean felt panic. Pure, animalistic panic. Sam was mad. Sam was mad, and when Sam got mad, he left. He left and he swore to never come back. "No."
He could feel his brother's gaze boring into the back of his head, his lie detected so easily in his foggy state. "Ok."
Dean sighed, slumping his shoulders as Sam finished stitching him up. "Came back."
"Yeah, Dean. I came back." There was a sound of small things being jumbled as Sam packed up the kit and leaned over to set it on the nightstand by the bed. "What happened to you?"
"Hunt," he stated simply, his tired mouth slurring the words. "Alone. Got hurt."
"Almost got killed," Sam corrected. "You're lucky I showed up."
Dean nodded, easing himself back onto the pillow. "No more. Came back."
The younger man sighed. "Yeah, I came back." He looked around the room, taking in the grimy furniture, the dirty floors.
Dean reached up with a weakening hand and grabbed his brother's jacket in a slack grasp. "Sleep," he whispered, pulling him back onto the only bed in the room. He closed his eyes as Sam obeyed and climbed under the covers with him. He wrapped his arms around him brother, curling into him, laying his face on the younger man's chest.
Sam squirmed under the contact, but Dean didn't care. He was solid. He was there. He was back. That was all that mattered. He buried his face in the younger man's jacket and smiled. "You came back for me."
Sam Winchester awoke with a stretch and a yawn, a little surprised to find himself back in his dorm. Man, that had been a weird dream. It had seemed so real. He'd been able to feel his brother curling up beside him, to smell the familiar mixture of leather, blood, and motel soap.
He shook his head. Only a dream. He'd gone to sleep in California, woken up in California. Never mind the realistic side trip to Maine in between. No, it had just been a dream.
Dean Winchester awoke to find himself alone. He rolled out of the bed, grimacing at the amount of blood on the white pillowcase. He wasn't looking forward to explaining that one.
He stumbled into the bathroom, running a hand over his face. He'd been so sure Sam would be there. He'd been there the night before, after all. He'd come back.
The hunter stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his pale reflection. Judging by the blood on his pillow, he shouldn't have been alive. He should have bled out, gone into shock, done something other than dream of his brother coming back for him.
He shook his head, reaching back to gently prod the cut that whatever the hell he'd been hunting had left him with. His eyes went wide as he fingered the stitches Sam had put there the night before.
So, that's it. All there is. I mean, ok, yeah, there's technically more, but it's all jumbled in my head and I don't have time to write it right now. But who knows? Maybe if enough people like it, it'll turn out like "Bedevilled" and "And That Was That?"
So, reviews are love, and I love love. Thanks a ton for reading adn don't hesitate to drop a line if you enjoyed it :)