Summary: Conclusion of Page Eight - with no TBC interruptions…he he.
Rated: Nothing horrible with a bunch of soapy/sappy added in to sweeten.
Thank you so much! You guys are most wonderful and giving of yourselves and time! Very dear to my heart - indeed!
Sunshine even in rain,
Previously:: "Shiiiittt!" Dean yowled as he and Sam both sailed through the air right out the open window, and splashing into the river below.
At least it wasn't a long fall into the deep river below. Dean immediately somersaulted, righting himself underwater, and swimming upward through the blackness and fizz of bubbles. He surfaced cursing, sputtering and totally pissed at himself for misjudging distance and strength. He hadn't meant for them to take the dive, just needed to get Sam's head out of the way of baby moth's jaws.
A few yards away Dean saw Sam struggling to stay afloat, his head bobbing just above the surface. The kid still seemed stunned, barely treading water, bubbles and foamy waves swirling around him as if he were soaking in a Jacuzzi.
"Sam," Dean shouted. "Don't drown, you hear me." He started swimming toward his brother.
"De…" A wave rolled over Sam, and he went under gurgling.
"No!" Dean swam faster.
What seemed like two hours to Dean had in fact only been two seconds as Sam's head popped back up into sight, the kid kicking and splashing to keep above water. Obviously, the cold plunge had knocked some of Mothman's stun-gun venom out of Sam - and thank god for that.
"That's my boy," he yelled, noting Sam looked tired, but was handling the 'no drowning on my watch' rule. "Hold on, Sam." Dean neared. "Here, right here." He reached out the last few inches, taking Sam by the shoulders and helping to hold him afloat. "You okay?" He treaded water for the both of them.
"I'm o-okay." Sam's teeth chattered. "W-wa' happened?"
"Like page eight says, Mothman stuns its victims just long enough so they can't get away while he and his family chow down. Good thing my handsome self came along. Pushed your ass away from the jaws of death."
"G-g-good thing." Sam looked down at himself. "I-I-I'm soaking wet."
"Jumping out a second-story window into a river has a funny way of doing that to a guy." Dean nodded toward a rickety old dock. "Sink or swim?"
"Ffff I choose swim," Sam stuttered, teeth-chattering cold. "Y-y-you gonna dunk my he-he-head under w-w-wa-water?"
"Bro." Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Would I do that?"
Sam hesitated, obviously thinking the question through- and-through. "S-swim," he finally stammered, "but stay-stay close," he added, a nervous hitch in his tone.
"You bet, pal," Dean assured softly.
They swam side-by-side through the inky black water; Dean keeping a weary eye on Sam.
"I'm okay, D-Dean. You better st-stop looking at my 'dumb face' - might turn t' stone."
"I'll brave it," Dean quipped.
"Ah-ah-ah-" Sam squeezed his eyes shut, the action sending him off center. "Chooo." He gave a wet sneeze, hands faltering, his head slowly dipping under the waterline.
"Hey, hey, hey." Dean nabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and held him above the surface. "You chose swim, Sam, so swim," Dean berated.
"I got it." Sam coughed up water, but didn't budge.
"Uh-huh," Dean drawled. " You got what? Sea Monkey or water up your nose?" He asked, still hanging onto Sam's jacket collar.
Sam snuffled thickly. "Le' me work on that, g-get back to you." Sam glanced across the river toward the dock
Dean followed his gaze. "It's not far," he said softly.
Sam shuddered. "Dee, pppffffttttt," he muttered weakly.
"Must be something in the water, dude, your IQ is dropping."
"Shhhhdddduuuppp," Sam shivered.
"It's okay, Sammy." Dean braced one arm across Sam's chest. "Come on, buddy, let's get you to dry land."
"Deeee." Sam craned his neck to keep above water, arms and legs tussling feebly trying to help.
"Just lean back." Dean pulled him closer. "Let me handle this one, okay?"
"'Kay," Sam relaxed back, his head falling to Dean's shoulder.
Fog lay heavy over the water, creeping and swirling around them carrying the scent of dead fish. Luckily it didn't take Dean long to swim them both to the floating dock. He clambered up onto the weathered planks first, quickly extending his hand down to Sam, and pulling him out of the drink; both saturated and dripping wet.
Sam flopped down heavily sitting next to Dean. Fr-fre-freezing," Sam chattered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, and rocking back and forth.
"Damn." Dean reached up checking out a leaking cut above Sam's right eye. "Look what that bitch did to your dumb-face." He wiped the thin line of blood away.
"You, you," Sam coughed and sputtered, "Sent us out the window."
Sam looked shocked.
"Huh." Dean regarded the window they'd fallen from. "Over guesstimated," he swiped water from his blurring eyes. "My bad," Dean laughed lightly
"Snuh, funny." Sam pawed at Dean's jacket. "Have to destroy them, fffffast." He started to climb to his feet, the action jarring him back down. "Guh." He squirmed, trying to glance over his shoulder at the stinging pain mid-way down his back.
"I thought you said you were okay," Dean growled, immediately up on his knees, and leaning over Sam. "Where'd he get you?" Dean clapped a hand to Sam's back, feeling around. "Nice puncture wound, bro. Probably from when that friggin' flying monkey flew away with you."
"Flying moth…aaahaha." Sam balked, jerking away from Dean's probing fingers.
"Flying moth also gnawed on your shoulder and left some nasty looking teeth marks." Dean noted, staring at Sam's torn jacket and wincing.
Sam glanced down at the top of his shoulder. "Bleedings stopped," he informed.
"Maybe so, but I need to get these wounds cleaned up before they get infected."
"After the hunt is finished." Sam's trembling, wet fingers gripped Dean's jacket and both men pulled each other to standing. "Dean, we can't sit around licking wounds while those cocoons finish hatch," Sam coughed, "Hatching and…hurrraaah," he gagged, spitting water from his mouth and struggling to maintain equilibrium. "This thing moving?"
Dean lowered his head peering up under the curtain of Sam's poker-straight, dripping wet hair. "Dude, I love your enthusiasm, but you were almost dismembered, nearly drowned."
"And you nearly lost an ear." Sam's unsteady hand reached out toward the bloody mess on the side of Dean's head.
"Doesn't hurt." Dean grabbed Sam by the forearm, steadying him. "And we're not talking about me, we're talking about your green around the gills ass."
"We're wasting time, Dean. Those cocoons are going to finish hatching and devour this whole town."
"You and Dad." Dean dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head. "Stubborn asses," he let out a low whistle. He was the one who wanted to gank something so badly, and now here the tables were turned. He raised his head. It was unnerving to see his dad staring back at him - shining through Sam's eyes. As much as the kid protested the life, Sam was a well-trained beagle, going over, under, and through any and all obstacles to get the job done.
"Shooter or fire starter?" Sam asked doggedly.
Dean gave Sam a long, suffering look.
"Shooter." Dean turned, away. "Let's do this." He stomped off toward the Impala to get the goodies needed, Sam trotting hot on his heels.
Replacing wet weapons with dry weapons, gas can and lighter ready, they stormed back across the pier, into the building and up the spiraling stairs. Entering the no longer 'not so hidden' room, they stood a moment, scouting. No sign of pa pa or ma ma moth, and the baby caterpillars seemed to have tierd, taking their little, baby moth naps.
"Dean, you sure about this? Maybe it would be easier if we both…"
"I called shooter." Dean gave Sam a confident nod. "Go."
Using the rooms dark shadows, Dean hid himself, stalking about the room. He kept one eye on Sam - fire starter - the other on anything that dared make a move. Sam made quick work of the hatched napping caterpillars. The strong whiff of gasoline Sam now glugged over the half-hatched cocoons, made Dean's heart pick up pace. Every instinct, every muscle and nerve was at the ready. This was what he'd been missing. The excitement, that moment just before you knew you were about to kill and rid the world of another evil son of a bitch. The rush was a drug he could taste without ever having to inject a syringe, pop a pill, or swallow a Tequila shot.
Tequila, Dean licked his lips, they'd need some of that when…"Crap." He caught sight of a white blur zooming down from somewhere up above, like greased lightning. "I got you now," he growled, like a formidable jungle panther. Dean swung his gun's muzzle instinctively - gun-eye coordination practiced to perfection. He didn't even have to think about shooting the fast moving form flying toward his brother in an attempt to save its nest. "Toast them, Sam, now!" Dean shut out the sudden brightness of orange flames, screeching larva, and awful smell of burning flesh. He pulled the trigger, the single shot - clean, hitting Mothman in the heart and dropping the creature to the cement floor, before the overgrown insect could make a grab for Sam again. Stepping over to his kill, Dean booted the creature's bloody shoulder he'd wounded early. "That's for messing with my little brother, you fugly bastard." Dean smiled, taking great pleasure dragging the heavy body by one leg and adding daddy Mothman to the fire, like a log. "Gives a whole new meaning to the words, like a moth to the flame. Ha," Dean snickered across the crackling blaze at Sam.
"Cliché." Sam cringed. "Avoid them at all cost, like anchovies."
"What are you high on gas fumes?" Dean frowned.
Sam shrugged. "Creative writing 101."
"Damn things aren't attracted to the golden arches are they?"
"Forget it, Dean."
They watched the flickering flames eating mothman's body and his cocooned kids up fast.
"So, you'd think mommy moth would have come to the rescue where do you think the bitch is?" Dean asked, watching ash from the fire float out the nearby window.
"Don't know," Sam kneaded the back of his neck, "but we have to find her, if she's still here. If she's flown the coup, she'll probably find another mate, spawn more larvae."
"That tramp." Dean stared into the already dying flames. "Let's hook us up with a moth lady, then, Sam. We'll have to split up, double-time the search, do a sweep of the entire area, top to bottom." He wasn't sure Sam was up to that, the kid was still quivering. "Inside or outside?" Dean chuckled, checking his gun.
Dean never heard a reply, only the flapping of wings and his brother screaming out his name. His chuckle was knocked out of him along with his breath as Sam barreled him to the ground. Dean rolled up to his knees, weapon ready.
"Sam," Dean blurted out, just in time to see Sam and moth-woman vanish out the window from his sight.
"Talk about cliché" Dean exploded to his feet.
Not even bothering with the window, he headed out the room and down the spiral stairs. His feet barely touched each step as he made it in record time to ground level. Dean flew out the front door, terror pulsing in his neck, mind racing. Sam was injured. Sam was fighting moth-lady, alone, with no weapon. Sam was in the river - again.
"Crap, crap, crap." Dean urged his feet to move faster. "Sam, you stupid, dumb…" Dean rounded the building. He slowed his roll-then froze, standing on the edge of the floating dock - scanning the blackened water. The river bubbled lazily along over branches and rocks, but there was no sign of Sam, or moth bitch. The silence was only followed by sharp, invisible fingernails scrapping down his spine and screeching like a blackboard. Losing Sam would be the worst thing that could ever happen to Dean. The thought alone made every little neck hair stand straight, electrified by fear - something no zombie, ghost, or teeth- baring black dog could ever do.
"Oh, my, God, Sammy," Dean breathed, laying his gun on the dock, about to jump in.
Before he could, the quiet exploded in a splash of gurgling, strangulating Sam, only a few feet away.
Sam's head jerked far back. "Uhhhhhhhhhh," he sucked at the air, like he was sucking it through a straw.
"Sam." Dean hit both knees at the same time, close enough to reach out. "Here! Sammy, here," he yelled gaining his brother's attention.
"De," Sam sputtered.
"Dude, give me your hand." Dean reached down to him.
Sam raised his hand, panting hard, like he'd been running against the wind.
"Hurt bad?" Dean asked, pulling Sam up and reaching for his waistband, hiking him the rest of the way out of the water.
"Nuh," Sam hacked, falling to his back, arms spread limp, sloppy wet and staring up at Dean through narrow eyelids. "Not much worse than before."
"You scared the crap out of me, bro." Dean kneeled beside him.
"Ah…ah…ah…choo," Sam sneezed, his body bucking off the ground. "Gah." He winced.
"Kazuntite." Dean lowered his head, perched over Sam. "Dude, you chose out?"
"W-was tha' wrong?" Sam coughed bay water from his mouth and nose.
"Too late to change your mind now," Dean wisecracked.
"My ba-bad." Sam continued to spit up the river.
"Easy." Dean slipped a hand under Sam's back helping him to sit forward. "Try to take deep breaths." He looked around. "Where's Moth bitch?"
"Drowned." Sam's eyes fluttered, taking in sharp gasp after sharp gasp. "Atishooooo." He wetly sneezed.
"Atishoo," Sam sneezed again, snot hitting Dean's jacket.
"Stop donating your snot, man."
"Dean," Sam sniffled. "I think I really am."
"Sick," Sam said nasally.
"In the head." Dean gave Sam's arm a gentle squeeze, only half-joking.
Sam coughed raggedly, "Dean, I'm serious."
"Cold or flu?"
"You pick, man, I'm to tired to care which." Sam covered his mouth to cough.
"You're so fragile." Dean put a hand to Sam's forehead, brushing damp hair back. "Flu," he quickly deduced. "Come on, back to the car." Dean stood - Sam didn't make a move. Just sat there sopping wet, shivering, teeth chattering a mile a minute. "Want a helping hand, little brother?"
Sam nodded gratefully.
Dean reached a hand down. "You're a monster pain in the ass," he said, half-jokingly. You do know that, right?"
Sam stared for a moment. "Guess we have a lot in common," he volleyed, raising a hand to clasp Dean's. "'Cause you're a monster pain in mi…guh," Sam groaned as Dean yanked him up to staggering feet.
Dean grasped both Sam's shoulders, steadying him. "You were saying?" He smiled, through a light mist of rain that just began to fall.
"Forget it," Sam sighed heavily. "It's raining, and this thing is moving." He wobbled dizzily.
"No kidding, Captain Moron." Dean carefully maneuvered Sam against his side, and wrapping an arm around his waist, took a step.
"Damn." Sam winced, blowing out a breath.
"You okay?" Dean paused.
"I'm okay," Sam ground out hoarsely.
Dean nodded, continuing in the direction of the car, the squish-squish of wet boots, and the soft pitter-patter of rain dotting their jackets. Sam had sagged against Dean with each step, eyes blinking fiercely to stay awake.
"Almost there, Sam." They hit the end of the pier, striding across the weed-infested parking lot. "Oh. My. God!" Dean bellowed.
Sam snapped to attention. "What? What, 'oh, my, God'?"
"Look at what those paint wreckers did to my baby." Dean swept an angry hand through the air. "She looks like a spotted horse."
"For the love…Dean, pigeon poopy is not a national disaster."
"Dude, if there was a clown face painted on her, you'd be singing a different tune. Baby's a work of art and now," Dean huffed, "Just remind me to add a car cover to our supply list." A squealing cat-sized rat crossed their path. "Holy Swiss cheese, batman," Dean danced both he and Sam around the rodent that skittered off into the night. "And rat poison," he added to the growing list. "Friggin' hell, this means war." Dean opened the car door and lowered Sam to the passenger seat "I'm gonna rip them apart." He tucked Sam's feet in. "I am going to splatter their guts. I am going to wipe them all off the face of the earth. I am so gonna…" Dean bent forward. "Sam?" He studied his brother with concern. "Hey?" He leaned closer. Sam's left cheek was pressed against the seat, eyes closed, his breathing steady and even. Dean smiled, a warm gooey feeling passing over him - the same feeling he always got from the time he was a kid, watching over his sleeping brother. "You always did fold over and fall asleep anywhere. Lame bro, really lame." Dean reached over Sam to the back seat, snatching a wool blanket. He bit into his lower lip as he lay the blanket softly over Sam. Sam, asleep - breathing easy and slow - always made Dean feel alive. There was a peaceful silence as Dean reached out and gently swiped a strand of wet hair off Sam's forehead.
Sam's heavy eyes barely fluttered open. "Hey." He smiled groggily up at Dean, before his eyes rolled under his lids and he slipped back into a sound sleep.
"Okay, maybe not so lame." Dean smiled wistfully. "Fact is…you always were sorta cute when you were asleep." Dean ever so quietly shut the car door, not wanting to alert Sam to the ever rare and elusive 'chick- flick' moment.
Motel Save-A-Lot, sucked major ass. With only one queen they were forced to share the bed. Sam had tossed and turned all night, leaving Dean with pretty much nothing to do. He stared longingly at the old black and white set, wishing he knew where he'd put the damn remote.
It was four in the morning and Sam, only half-awake, had been restlessly tugging and pulling at the sheets for the last thirty minutes - now completely tangled in them.
"You good?" Dean peered down at his trapped brother.
Sam pried his eyes open, breathing heavy and congested, he stared at the ceiling. "'I'm good." He kicked at the sheets, grimacing when they tangled further around him.
"Sam," Dean's voice held a rough-edge. "Stop." He tugged and pulled at the sheets until Sam was free.
Sam turned toward Dean, the redness of his eyes barely noticeable through narrowed slits. "Tanks," he snuffled, sitting up against the wall as there was no headboard.
"Well…ahhh…choooooo," Dean sneezed.
Sam plucked a tissue from a small box on the nightstand next to him, handing the tissue over.
Dean took the offering and blew his nose hard and loud.
"Atichoo." Sam's turn to sneeze.
Dean plucked a tissue from a second box on the nightstand next to his side of the bed, handing the Kleenex over to his sick brother.
Sam blew his nose like a Trumpet.
Sam reached over and pulled the comforter up around Dean's neck. "This bites," he coughed and hacked.
"Tell me." Dean dug two cherry flavored cough drops out of his tee-shirt pocket, popped one in his mouth and handed the other to his 'not so attractive' bedmate.
Sam unwrapped the paper and popped the lozenge into his mouth.
"Bored," Dean murmured, wiping the sweat off his brow.
Sam searched under the covers, finding the remote, he handed the control to Dean.
"Thirsty," Sam whimpered, pointing to the carton on the table across the room.
"Nah, got whiskey." Dean held up his flask and took a swig.
Sam continued to gaze at the orange juice carton.
"It's not going to just float over here by itself."
"I know." Sam frowned, his gaze never faltering.
Dean sighed, "Dude, just go get it."
"I found the remote. 'S your turn." Sam rubbed at his throat, his voice scratchy.
"I'm your brother, Sam, not some Ooo-la-la, hot French maid."
"You're a jerk," Sam flicked an outraged glare on Dean, flopping down flat.
"That's me." Dean smiled sweetly. "Here." Dean held the flask out to Sam.
"Dean, I don't want…booze." Sam shifted on the bed, his face contorting in pain.
"Stubborn…sit back up," Dean insisted, scooting near. "Just trust me and do it. This will help. Those stitches I put in your shoulder and back have got to be killer, and you're all fevered up with flu." He waggled the flask in his hand, the liquid inside sloshing about.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, lips pressed tight - staying still as a rock.
"What are you, two?" Ignoring Sam, Dean worked a hand under Sam's shoulders and lifted. "Stop fighting me, Sam," Dean gritted out clenched teeth as Sam let his body go dead weight, forcing Dean to work harder at getting him upright. "Why do I have to do everything?" Dean grunted, propping Sam up stacking his own pillow on top of Sam's. "There," he claimed in a self-satisfied voice.
"Cause," Sam gave a low grunt, "It's easier." He raised himself higher up on the set of plump cushions.
"Now, drink." Dean physically took Sam by the wrist and shoved the flask into his hand.
Sam raised the flask, took a whiff and grimaced. "What is this?"
"Page twenty-four," Dean shrugged, "of dad's journal. It's a cold remedy. Try it. I feel better already."
Sam eyed the drink suspiciously.
"Oh, for the love, Sammy, drink it."
Sam gave a 'here goes nothing' look, quickly pressing the flask to his lips and taking a long drink. "Not bad." He swiped at his mouth. "Throat feels better already." He took another swig. "What's in this?"
"Honey, sea salt, lemon juice, half an onion wrapped in my sweaty boxers all rolled together and boiled in whiskey."
"Gah." Sam thrust the flask back at Dean, closing his eyes, he sank deeper into the pillows. "You suck." He closed his eyes.
"According to page twenty-four, was grandma's, grandma's, next door neighbors grandma's recipe. Tried and true." Dean pressed the back of his hand to Sam's cheek. "You're really hot, dude."
"Hotter than you?" Sam peeked open a curious eye.
"Major league, bro." Dean reached over to the basin on his nightstand. Wringing out the wet cloth, he folded the fabric into a square, placed it on Sam's forehead and held the cloth in place.
"Might even say I was 'sorta cute'." Sam laughed/ coughed.
Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You little bitch. You were awake. Listening? The whole time?" He asked, stunned and embarrassed. "The whole time," he stated more firmly. "I was…I'm gonna…gonna…gonna…"
"Not such a 'dumb face' after all, huh, Dean."
"Give me back my pillow."
"Not a chance." Sam snuggled down, cuddling the two pillows firmly and closing his eyes. "Night, night, Dean."
"Son of bitch."