Dogtown

By Tidia & MOG, September 2006


Chapter 9/10

They leaned heavily on each other as they made their way back to the Impala, each acting as if he was the one who was helping the other. The soft clinking of spent shell casings gathered in Dean’s backpack was the only sound to accompany their unsteady gait and intermittent stops and starts.

Finally, they sat in the dirt, backs against the Impala. Dean laid his hands first over the deep scratches of his brother’s leg, then on the puncture wounds in the forearm. Warmth surged through his palms and he winced as he felt his body taking on the injuries. Closing his eyes, he let his head drop back against the driver’s side door and tried to breathe through the pain.

Sam’s injuries intermingled with his own, rising to a pulsating throb, which he hoped would soon pass. He heard Sam push himself to his feet and anticipated his brother’s actions. Even the motion of digging into his jacket pocket for the car keys was an effort. He dropped his hand onto his thigh and let Sam retrieve the keys from his loosely closed fist.

Dean cracked his eyes open and looked at his brother. “How ya feeling?”

“Score another for ‘the molting’.” Sam’s voice was positive, but echoed Dean’s exhaustion. He looked at the blood-stained shirt that covered Dean’s wounded side. He didn’t understand why the healing powers would fix the injuries Dean took on, but wouldn’t mend anything directly inflicted. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m ready to go dancing.”

“You hate dancing.”

“Question answered.” He showed a lop-sided grin. “And cut the molting crap. If it weren’t for you acting like a damned dog biscuit I wouldn’t be down here…now, give me a hand.”

Sam gripped his brother’s uninjured arm and hauled him to his feet. Dean, however, was only upright for a few seconds before a wave of pain and weakness drove him to his knees with a gasp. He felt blood slip down his leg, arm and torso.

“Whoa!” Sam gripped his brother’s shoulders and felt a harsh shudder rack the lean frame. “What’s wrong?”

Dean took in several deep breaths before he tried to speak. He knew exactly what was wrong. “It’s not working.”

“What’s not working?” Sam tried to pull his brother up. “C’mon let’s just try to get in the car- ”

“No!” Dean charged, through gritted teeth. He lowered his head, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He pushed out an ironic laugh. “That was the payment…That’s what Emily meant – she did what she could.”

Sam stared at his brother, not fully understanding. “What are you talking about?”

Dean laughed again but it sounded harsh and hollow. “That old bitch wanted a life…Emily made it so all she could take was the healing.”

“But Emily disappeared too. Wasn’t she-”

Dean sat back against the Impala again, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. “She said it herself, she didn’t have much life left. She was gonna die anyway. Tammy’s hold was probably the only thing keeping her around. Looks like the queen of the witches got one last toll.”

Sam shook his head. “That can’t be; it worked, you just did it.”

Dean closed his eyes. “In case you didn’t notice, bro, it should have at least started fixing the arm and leg by now. It ain’t happenin’.”

Sam moved quickly. He secured their gear and weapons in the trunk and opened the rear driver’s side door. He crouched in front of his brother but got no response.

“Dean?”

The older Winchester opened his eyes. “Sorry, workin’ the mojo kinda takes it out of me.”

Despite the low light, Dean saw Sam’s brow furrow with concern and tried to distract his brother. “You gonna keep staring at me, or you gonna help me into the car?”

Sam’s mouth tightened in a small frown but he secured a hold on Dean and helped him stand. Dean took in a sharp breath and wasn’t shy about leaning against his brother as Sam guided him to the back seat. Sam let him get mostly settled before shutting the door and getting behind the wheel.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror at the shadowed figure behind him. “Do you know where the closest hospital is?”

“Yeah, back in our room.”

“Dean-” Sam started, clearly irritated.

“Sam. Back to the motel. I mean it, I’m not messin’ around.”

“Neither am I-”

Dean’s voice was weary as he stated his case. “How many weeks worth of newspapers have we scanned since we’ve been here? You notice anything? These people are freakin’ obsessed with the idea of an out-of-control coyote population. We go to the hospital and somebody is going to yell ‘coyote attack’. I’m not gonna risk the morning news or the front page of the local paper for something we can do ourselves.”

Sam looked over his shoulder with disbelief. “Something we can do ourselves? Have you looked at yourself!”

Dean didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. A lifetime spent together made his thoughts quite clear to his younger brother.

“Sammy…” The corners of Dean’s eyes creased slightly – a soft, weary pleading. “Don’t make me come up there and kick your butt.”

With frustration, Sam acquiesced. His brother was right. They couldn’t risk the local hospital. Ben had stocked them with medical supplies; Sam supposed he would have to be thankful and content with that.


In the motel, Sam helped his brother to one of the beds before grabbing their medical kit. Setting it on the opposite bed, he shuffled through its contents, scanning the amber-colored bottles until he found the two he needed. Taking out two pills, he handed them and a bottle of water to his brother. “Painkiller and antibiotic.”

Dean tossed them both toward the back of his throat and swallowed a large mouthful of water. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting, before he pushed himself off the bed and limped toward the bathroom. “I need to clean up.”

He gingerly stripped off the fabric that was stuck to his skin with congealed blood and tried his best to wash his wounds.

‘Another reason not to go to the hospital – they’d probably think they have to cut the clothes off.’

Sam briefly squeezed into the small bathroom to gather some towels, moistening one with water. The preparation would allow some time for the painkiller to take affect.

Dean eventually hobbled back to the bed, positioning himself on the towels and strategically-placed suture kit drapes. Sam glanced over the scratches and bites and sighed to himself. Suturing each other up wasn’t new. Suturing wounds that should have been his, however, gave Sam a weighted feeling in his chest. He did his best to push the guilt away and focus on helping Dean.

The talon scratches down the side of the thigh were still oozing blood and clear fluid when Sam pulled on a pair of latex gloves and gently used the moistened towel to clean around the wound, rinsing it with saline. He scooped up a plastic pouch from where he’d set out equipment on the second bed.

“Holy water...this might hurt.” He liberally poured the fluid over the leg, generating a hiss and a few choice curses from Dean.

Sam picked up a pre-threaded needle from one of the two opened suture kits and concentrated on his work.

“And keep the stitches small,” Dean ordered.

“This from the guy who’s always saying chicks dig scars?”

“Just shut up and sew.”

Minutes passed in silence, and while Sam hoped Dean’s closed eyes signaled a relinquishing of consciousness to the painkiller, he knew where his brother’s mind really was. The younger Winchester watched the tender edges of skin move with each gentle tug of needle and thread. He couldn’t do much to soothe the physical pain, but if he could provide soothing words to alleviate any of the guilt that he knew Dean felt for Emily’s death, it was something.

“Hey, about what happened with you and Dad…”

“Shut up, Sam.” Despite the exhaustion setting in, Dean answered in a firm voice. He was not in the mood to have his feelings commandeered. Everything was too fresh and raw.

Sam continued, filled with conviction, but the focal figure was their father, John Winchester. “He should have listened to you. He never should have put you in that position.” Sam had the simple-minded hope Dean would see that the blame did not rest in his character.

“All right, I get it.” Dean found Sam’s words immaterial. Two years ago in that small room he hadn’t done what he should have; and tonight he hadn’t been able to fix it. Fault, blame, responsibility – it had different names but, as he had with other events in his life, he would learn to carry it with him.

Sam tied off the first line of stitches and started on the next gash, finishing in silence. The forearm wound was next. He could do little for the four distinct punctures other than irrigating them with holy water, removing blood clots and covering the marks with bandages.

“You were-- I mean, I was lucky…guess the dog didn’t like my taste too much.”

Dean smirked. “Not even touching that one.” His tired eyes followed what his brother was doing as Sam retrieved another pre-threaded suture needle.

The slices along the torso would take a little more finesse but Sam followed the same protocol as before, cleaning and purifying the unholy marks. The younger hunter took a moment to study his brother, reading him easily. There was doubt in Dean.

Sam could tell his brother had drifted into hindsight. Reliving what happened years ago, reviewing what happened an hour ago, and wondering what he could have done differently. Sam collected himself, refocused his attention and began to stitch.

“There isn’t anyone else I would want by my side,” Sam said plainly, needing to articulate his thoughts. He sought to liberate his brother, and to impress upon him how highly he was measured. “When it comes down to it, you always do what’s right, Dean, always, that’s the one thing I can trust.”

“Jesus, Sammy, back off, would ya?” Dean grunted as if his brother’s words were blasphemous.

Sam looked up, observing the man before him. Truly, there was no one finer, but Dean would never accept it. That was what made him a hero and a better person than most. Sam smiled, about to speak again, but chose to oblige his brother and said no more.