... Can We Keep Him?

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, none of it. And I'm cool with that. Really. If I'm honest, I'm not really a Sam girl or a Dean girl… just have Bobby Singer washed and brought to my cabin, heh heh…(pauses until the shrieks of horror subside) Ahem.

SUMMARY: Not sure exactly where this might be headed right now, although I have a vague idea – sooner or later it'll have to involve dogs, though. Anyone noticing a pattern here? Well, my English teachers always said 'write about what you know', so…

Sam and Dean encounter an incompetent Hunter who wants to kill them. Even Sam's 'therapeutic interventions' can't dissuade him. With much reservation, Sam agrees to let Dean 'motivate' the would-be assassin to leave them alone – the results just go to show that Karma likes a good laugh as much as anyone else, and if you insist on being a smartarse, sooner or later it will come back to bite you on the bum. Possibly leaving teeth marks. And stains on the carpet.

Setting is some non-specific time after S4 (which is as far as we've seen Down Under – sucks to be us), when we can only hope that Sam gets his soul back, Cas gets his Dad back, and the Gruesome Twosome drive off into the sunset to go Hunting again in as close to a happy ending as you can get in the Supernatural verse… oh, and Bobby has another dog. Her name is Rumsfeld.

RATING: T, because there's bound to be language sooner or later, although I suppose you could try sewing Dean's mouth shut.

NOTE: Rating changed from M to T, after I've done a bit more surveying; if anyone reads the later chapters and thinks it really should be M, I'll change it back. I just don't think it contains anything that would make any 13-year-olds I know bat an eyelid. *rolls eyes* It was different When I Was That Age...

FAULT: Lies entirely with the reviewers who were so encouraging about my other stories. Yep, all their fault.

Chapter One


Dean loved his baby brother. He did, really, and always would. Since the moment he first laid eyes on the tiny, sleeping bundle held in his mother's arms, he knew it.


Wild horses wouldn't drag a chick-flick-moment admission out of him except under the direst, most excruciating and emotionally fraught of circumstances, but it was true. He'd kill for his brother. He'd die for his brother. Shit, he'd done both, already.


It's just that right now, he wanted to strangle him. Slowly. Painfully. Maybe with his own hair. Maybe with his own intestines.


Preferably before Sam's latest idea sent him deaf.


"That's great, Tom, that's great," encouraged Sam, smiling at the red-faced panting man sitting cross-legged opposite him, "You let it out! You have to let it go! Don't let Pain control your mind and your life! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Sam let fly with a shriek of his own that made Dean's eyes cross.

Hair like a girl. Talks like a girl. Screams like a girl.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my little sister, Samantha.

The problem, Dean decided, was that Sam was officially Too Nice. It was Compensation for Feeling Guilty about The Evil Things he'd decided he'd done.

Okay, so nobody could blame Sam for feeling a bit guilty, what with, well, everything, you know – Dean blocked out another ear-shattering burst of Primal Screaming that made his teeth wiggle, and let his mind wander, cataloguing the things for which Sam held himself responsible and deemed himself evil.

- thinking that his mother and his girlfriend were dead because of him (not his fault)

- having a less-than-healthy relationship with his father (but Dad hadn't been any better)

- seeing his brother go to Hell and believing it was all his fault (not true, but Dean could relate to that one)

- starting the Apocalypse (yep, Dean could relate to that one, too, and yeah, technically it probably counted as 'evil', if you didn't take into account the way the Amazing Flying Dicks had played them both)

- screwing Ruby and drinking her blood (probably also technically 'evil', but he could relate to the screwing bit, and Sam's heart had been in the right place even if his dick hadn't)

- scribbling all over Dean's new comic with a blue crayon when he was three years old (kind of evil, since new comics had been a rarity)

- putting holes in Dean's one pair of decent winter socks to make puppets when he was four (yeah, pretty evil, he hadn't had new socks for two months)

- eating the last piece of pumpkin pie at Bobby's place after Thanksgiving when he was five (okay, that had been the moment when Dean had known for sure that Sam would go straight to Hell when he died)…

Yep, Sam probably had his fair share of things to be guilty about, and God knows he beat himself up over it endlessly.

But that didn't excuse him for wanting to handle a complete douchebag like Tom Henderson with kid gloves.

Said complete douchebag was a youngish, scrawnyish Hunter with an unfortunate case of lingering acne, who looked more like he'd been thrown out of Accountancy for being too much of a wimp. Being youngish and scrawnyish didn't automatically qualify a guy for douchebagdom – what automatically qualified him for Level One Douchebagdom on the Dean Index was the fact that he wanted to kill Sam.

As if that wasn't enough to set Dean's hackles up, all Sam wanted to do was talk to him. Politely and reasonably. That sort of attitude just wasn't natural. It wasn't healthy. And Sam wouldn't let Dean beat the crap out of him, not even a little bit. It was just… vexing. Terribly, terribly vexing.

He suddenly felt two pairs of eyes boring into him.

"Dean," said Sam reprovingly, "I thought we'd agreed on this - you aren't helping Tom if you won't take him seriously."

Dean bit back the squawk of outrage – it was like being asked to take someone seriously after they'd jumped into a swimming pool, then decided to sue somebody because nobody told them specifically that they'd get wet – but when he saw the bitchface brewing on his brother's face, he decided to let it out after all. Hell, it might actually make him feel better, you never knew.

"YAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!" he howled, until he was sure his tonsils were on the point of rupture along with his eardrums.

Tom Henderson looked out of breath, and slightly shell-shocked. Sam relaxed, and looked decidedly pleased. "Well, I think that went really well," he announced, smiling, "And I hope you found it helpful, Tom. Thank you, Dean, for participating, and helping Tom."

"Yeah, that was, um, great, Sam," said Tom hesitantly. He shared a brief glance with Dean. It was a glance shared across Christmas Lunch tables around the world every year, between relatives and work colleagues who loathed each other, when a particularly drunk and incomprehensible uncle or boss rose to speak. It said, "I despise you, and all that you are and do, and would cheerfully slit your throat with a rusty razor blade, in fact I'd pay for the privilege, but right here and right now, I acknowledge that we are both trapped in the presence of true insanity."

"Well then," said Sam cheerfully as they all stood, "I guess we can all be on our way, now, in mutual respect?" Tom and Dean nodded warily. "Great! Well, goodbye, Tom," he stuck out a hand, which Tom took and shook carefully, as if expecting Sam to explode, "Stay safe." Tom left without a backward glance.

Sam sighed with satisfaction. "You know, I think that might really have done the trick, this time," he said.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, now all we have to do is find an ENT surgeon who can repair my eardrums…"

Sam pulled a Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "And you call me a drama queen."

"I'm not kidding! My ears are ringing!" complained Dean. "Primal scream therapy, Sam? Was that really necessary?"

"A lot of people find it helpful," countered Sam, "And Tom clearly has a lot of resentment, and anger, and hurt that he needs to work through…"

"Can't he work through it quietly? Why won't you just let me beat it out of him?" whined Dean, like a six-year-old being denied a favorite toy.

"That attitude really isn't constructive," tutted Sam, "Rather than resorting to violence, if we can find out what's motivating Tom, and help him deal with it…"

"Stupidity, Oprah," said Dean in frustration, "Tom Henderson is motivated by overwhelming stupidity! For crying out loud, this is a guy who took sugar to a salt and burn by mistake! He made toffee! If the ghost hadn't been a diabetic in life, he'd have been ganked on the spot! He got holy water mixed up with Sprite! And as for what happened when someone told him you need to do a head job to stop a zombie... Stupid is his middle name! If you cut him into slices, the word 'Stupid' would be written on him all the way through! If you look up 'stupid' in the dictionary, there's a picture of him…"

Sam looked hurt. "I'm just trying to deal with him without anybody getting hurt, Dean. I thought you understood that."

"Sam," growled Dean, "Sam, that guy keeps trying to kill you. He. Wants. To. Kill. You. Which bit of 'he wants to kill you' do you not understand?"

"But he hasn't," answered Sam, infuriatingly calm, "And really, I think now he might stop trying." Dean let out a non-specific grumble of disbelief, but decided to let it go. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe that dope had got the message.

At the very least, hopefully he'd at least develop the smarts to stay the hell out of the way of any more potential 'therapeutic interventions' from Sam. Dean wasn't sure he could cope with too much more of Sam's compassion. Not without a blood vessel bursting or a rash breaking out somewhere.