Thanks for reading, drop me a comment if you can, and see ya in the next story. I still don't own 'em…
Stan had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, ashes falling onto his desk, as he flipped through his book of contacts. Three days and he had come up with squat. His contacts were either dead, pissed at the Winchesters (courtesy of their father), or had no idea who they were. Stan was quickly running out of people to call, and for once in his seventy years he actually wished he had a computer to search for more help.
He flicked his ashes in an ashtray, turned a page in his leather bound book, and was about to call the last name when there was a knock at the door. He was caught by surprise, not expecting anyone to show up. He put his cigarette out, walked around the desk, and headed toward the door. He unlocked it, revealing the two boys he was about to save.
As banged up as Dean had been when he first rode into town, it had nothing on how he looked now. He was bleeding out of his nose, a small wound above his eyebrow, and out of various cuts on his face. His shoulder was covered in blood, the material of his tee-shirt drenched. He wasn't awake, Sam supporting his weight with some difficulty. Stan knew neither boy had eaten since the morning they entered town, both looked pinched and pale (Dean paler than his brother).
"You look like hell," Stan commented stepping back to let the two guys in.
"Can you help him," Sam asked ignoring Stan's comment. He walked through the office, towards Stan's added-on apartment. He lowered his brother onto the couch, turning around to face Stan.
"What happened to him?" Stan asked already knowing the basics. He could imagine the hits Dean had taken, just to keep his brother safe. He would have done the same for his sister in a heartbeat. Hell, I would have become a vampire for her if I could.
"He was beat to hell by this really big guy…"
"Sebastian," Stan muttered heading toward a closet. He opened the door, pulling out a first-aid kit.
"You know him," Sam said quietly. Stan merely glanced at Sam, a 'you're kidding me' look on his face. "The psychic thing, right?" the younger Winchester looked mildly embarrassed. In return he received a 'no shit' glare. The older man set his kit on his coffee table, kneeling next to Dean's still form.
"I think I'll start with the easier wounds first," Stan muttered opening the kit and pulling out some gauze. He was never one to keep his kit particularly full, but something in the back of his mind kept telling him to do just that. Now, he figured out why that was.
Silence engulfed the room while Stan worked on Dean. He cleaned all of the hunter's cuts, making sure they were clear of blood before he bandaged them. He could hear Sam behind him, pacing back and forth. Could feel the younger guy throwing glances at him, could almost see him gnawing on his nails. He'd hate to see the younger Winchester if anything worse were to have happened to his brother.
Once all of Dean's face wounds were cleaned, Stan started on the shoulder wound. He could already tell it was going to need stitches. Lucky for Dean, Stan was good with a needle. Unfortunately, the older man had no sutures to stitch the hunter, so Dean was going to get stuck with just that: a needle.
"Sam, can you hold him up for me?" Stan asked as he pulled himself up, settling on his couch. The younger hunter was at his brother's side in seconds, pulling him into a sitting position. The sudden movement had Dean stirring, something agitating his arm.
"I think his right shoulder was dislocated," Sam said quickly.
"Of course it was," Stan muttered. "We'll pop it back once I stitch up his other shoulder." The older guy extracted a pair of med scissors from his kit and carefully cut around Dean's tee-shirt. Once the sleeve was out of the way, lying bloody on the coffee table, Stan got his first glance at the wound.
It was inflamed, the first sign of infection. That was all he needed, the kid getting an infection. The psychic pulled out a bottle of alcohol, pouring its contents all over the wound. Dean hissed in pain, stirring more than before.
"You may need to hold him down," Stan said as he pulled out needle and thread. Sam nodded, a look of determination on his face, and tightened his grip on Dean's arm. He was careful not to do any more harm to the dislocation. The older guy poured alcohol on the needle, sterilizing it to stop any bacteria from getting into the wound. Lord knows when the last time I used the damn thing.
Stan worked quickly, stitching up Dean's skin. The younger guy kept moving every time the needle entered his skin. Sam was mumbling inaudible words of comfort, trying to calm his clearly agitated brother. Finally, after a few moments, Stan cut the thread and set the needle on the table.
"Okay, let's deal with the dislocation."
Sam held his brother as still as he could; watching as Stan-with strength the younger hunter never believed the older man had-used his right hand to hold the arm still and his left hand to knock the bone back into place. Dean's eyes snapped open, a cry of pain escaping his lips.
"He hurt anywhere else," Stan asked getting to his feet. He pulled a pack of Winston's out of his pocket, shaking one out. He put the smoke between his teeth, stashing the rest back in his flannel. His lighter was in his hand in seconds, the smoke lit. The orange of the tip glowed brighter as Stan took a drag.
"He was kicked a couple times in the ribs," Sam replied trying to mask his disgust at the chain smoker. Stan could care less what the kid thought of him, it was his damn house and he'd do whatever he pleased in it.
He laid his cigarette in the ashtray, set right on the end table by the couch, and lifted Dean's shirt. Before he could run his hands across the hunter's ribs to make sure they weren't broken Dean whispered, "Hey, hey, Stanly, I don't roll that way."
"Believe me kid, if I rolled that way you wouldn't be my type," Stan replied before returning to his inspection. He was glad to see that the kid's ribs were bruised, not busted, and stated that Dean Winchester was a lucky SOB.
Stan stood up, grabbing his cigarette and sticking it in his mouth. He took a long drag on it, watching the two Winchesters talk amongst themselves. He mumbled something about making the something to eat and disappeared into the kitchen.
He slipped out the back door, closing it with a silent click. Stan lowered himself onto the stoop, taking another drag on his cigarette. He looked out in the horizon, blowing smoke toward the setting sun. He flicked ashes onto the ground, remembering how Spence's mom had begged him to stop smoking; she always told him that cigarettes could kill him. Stan never believed he'd outlive both her and her son.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Stan took one last drag on his cigarette. He threw it to the ground, standing up and blowing smoke into the air. He headed back into the house, figuring he'd better make those boys something before they raided his fridge: especially the older one.
Orange was beginning to become Dean's least favorite color. Pink was winning out on the damn color and Dean hated pink with every moral fiber of his being. He had bugged Sam for a week, actually begged, for them to leave; to find a new case, to do anything besides lying low at Stan's motel. Sam had replied, "Take the time to heal, please, for me." Then he flashed the puppy dog look and Dean stopped asking so much.
It had been ten days, his bruises were fading to yellow and his ribs didn't even hurt anymore. His shoulder wound was healing without infection, the dislocation wasn't even bothering him anymore (as far as Sam knew) and he was ready to go. He just prayed, after over a week of worrying, Sam would finally let up on the worrying and let them go hunting again.
At the moment, Dean was sprawled across his bed, head hanging off the edge, watching Gumby. He was waiting for Sam to return from getting lunch. He had protested to no ends about letting Sam go by himself. He did not want a repeat from West Texas. "Do you honestly think Bobby would give us these charms if he didn't expect they'd work," Sam said not in his pissy Sammy voice, but to put Dean's mind to rest. So, Dean let him go, and just sat on his bed worrying and thinking of ways to convince Sam to let them move onto a new hunt.
The door opened his brother's footsteps and the smell of food filling the room. Dean sat up, the blood rushing from his head to the rest of his body making him briefly dizzy, and turned to Sam.
"Dude, what took you," Dean asked getting to his feet. He flipped the TV off, throwing the remote onto his bed. He crossed the room, sitting at the table. Sam laid the food on the table, sitting across from his brother.
"I ran into Stan on my way here. He was cleaning the room next door, asked how you were doing…"
"Oh, okay," Dean said pulling his food out of the bag. He opened the Styrofoam container and looked down at the bacon cheeseburger settling amongst lettuce and surrounded by French fries.
"How you can eat that stuff is beyond me," Sam commented opening his own container, which contained a cob salad.
"I ain't a rabbit, that's how," Dean replied around a large bite of burger. His brother rolled his eyes but didn't say another word. They ate in silence, Dean still trying to come up with the words that would convince Sam to let them go on to the next town.
Before he could say anything, however, Sam said, "I texted this reporter from a college, after reading this strange article about this hunted campus."
"Hunted campus, huh?" Dean tried to sound nonchalant, but ended up sounding a little too eager.
"Yeah, and I thought, you know, since you're getting tired of this town…"
"When are we leaving," Dean asked shoveling fries into his mouth, hoping if he finished eating fast they'd leave as soon as possible.
"Tomorrow," Sam replied picking at his salad.
"We could go now."
"Stan is burning Spencer's body tonight," Sam replied quietly. He had finally told Dean how he had gotten to Frank's house, how Spencer had died trying to help Sam. It made Dean feel slightly sorry for the guy, but not as much as Sam. The man helped kidnap him, didn't exactly lift a finger to get Frank to stop, hell he hadn't even really seen the guy's face.
"So, he finally went and claimed the body," Dean said suddenly not so hungry. He put his burger down, picking up a napkin. He wiped his mouth, waiting for Sam to reply.
"Yeah, he did." There were many comments Dean wanted to say, many jokes he could have made, but he held his tongue. His brother didn't need him sounding like an unsupportive ass right now. Maybe later, he thought making a mental note.
"So, tomorrow then," Dean said nodding slightly. "Okay, that's fine." They continued to not eat for a few more minutes, and then they decided to clean up. Sam muttered something about taking their leftovers and storing them in Stan's fridge, leaving Dean alone in the room again.
The older hunter settled on his bed, grabbing the remote. As much as he liked Stan- the older guy was actually pretty informed about the supernatural even if he didn't hunt it- he really just wanted to leave. But if Sam wanted to stick around for Spencer's pyre funeral, then they would stick around for the funeral.
Until then, Dean thought. I'm going to watch Gumby and think about this new hunt. He flipped the TV back on and became once again emerged into the clay show.
Fire made everything brighter, everything warmer, unless it was a pyre funeral. To Sam everything went cold and dark and always made him think of his dad's funeral. Just like that funeral, Dean just stared into the fire with a stony mask on his face. Unlike their Dad's, however, Dean wasn't fighting tears. He was indifferent to Spence, Sam knew this, and he really had no emotional reason to miss him. So, why force him to grieve.
Thinking of grieving made Sam look across the flames; Stan had his hands in his pockets, watching the flames burn down. He wasn't crying, not really, but he was still hurting. It was his nephew, he had to feel something.
After the funeral, Stan invited the boys inside for a few beers. It was the magic word for Dean, who hadn't had a beer since before Sam was possessed. Just thinking about the possession made Sam dread the conversation they'd eventually have to have. Of course, getting Dean to talk about his feelings was about as easy as yanking someone's heart out of their throats.
"So, you two are heading out tomorrow," Stan muttered handing both boys a beer. He settled at the table, lighting a cigarette, not opening a beer himself. Sam found it odd that the older man would smoke like a chimney, but wouldn't let a single drop of beer enter his body.
"Beer screws with my psychic thing," Stan said so only Sam could hear. Raising his voice he said, "So, tomorrow?"
"You already know, Stan," Dean muttered taking a swig of his beer.
"Yeah, but to be all knowing is just a pain in the ass," Stan replied taking a drag on his cigarette. Sam smiled slightly, taking a sip of his beer. They sat in silence for a bit, just thinking of their own things. Then Dean brought up werewolves and Stan and he began swapping stories. Dean sharing their last hunt with a werewolf while Stan told him a couple his sister had shared with him. Sam just listened, the discussions becoming a big part of their stay.
After three beers-five for Dean-Sam and his brother headed back to their room, to get to bed, both planning to be gone before eight the day before.
Dean fell backwards on his bed, kicking his boots off. Sam watched him, sitting at the table. He wondered if Dean would be up to talking now, with a few beers in him.
"Dean," he started, but was greeted by a round of snoring. Shaking his head, wondering how many other ways his brother could unconsciously get out of talking, Sam got to his feet. He pulled the comforter off his bed, threw it over his brother, and kicked his own shoes off. He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments.
His mind wandered, back to when he was possessed. Steve didn't deserve to die, Jo didn't deserve to be knocked out and tormented, and definitely Dean didn't deserve to be knocked out, beat up, and shot. None of them did, and Sam knew he wasn't to blame but something kept nagging at the back of his mind. He wondered if he had asked Dean to come with him to get those burgers, if his brother would have been there, if Meg would have been capable of possessing him. Maybe, maybe not, he thought figuring the last thing he should be doing is dwelling on the past.
He snapped back to the present, the past like a crushing blow to his already guilt ridden stomach, and turned to look at his sleeping brother. Not only did Sam himself-with the aid of Meg-beat, shoot, and knock out his brother, but a group of guys who wanted revenge on him also did the same thing to Dean. Save a bullet wound, Sam thought thankful for that.
Glad his brother was alive, knowing he wouldn't be able to survive if his brother had died because of him, he flicked off the light. If he kept letting his mind wander he would never get to sleep, and it was important to Dean to hunt something. Rolling his eyes at his brother's restlessness, knowing he wouldn't want him any other way, Sam drifted off to sleep.