Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Fool Me Twice ❯ Fool Me Twice ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: Supernatural and all affiliated characters/settings belong to the brilliant Eric Kripke, and to the CW and all other related conglomerates. Not mine, nor do I make the green off of this.

 

Written expressly for MediaMiner's Autumn 2006 Quarterly Contest (Trick-or-Treat). Please see the appropriate thread in the forum for the contest requirements.

 

Thanks to Kellen for checking characterization for me, and to Nekotsuki for tossing me the most ridiculous name she could find.

 

--

 

Fool Me Twice

Supernatural

 

Springfield, Missouri

October 31, 1999

 

Dean Winchester hated Halloween. God, he hated it. Lingering children and late-night parties always made it ten times as hard to fight ten times the number of angry spirits and other oddities who came to celebrate the holiday dedicated to them. Dean was no genius at mathematics, but he knew that the numbers added up to a rather sucky night. And that was only one issue he had with the stupid “holiday.” Spending nearly a lifetime fighting the same creatures that seemed to be the trends of choice for Halloween didn't help his perception of the holiday. The frickin' costumes were always wrong when it came to the usual parade of those foolish enough to dress up and go around harassing complete strangers - in their own homes - for candy. Dean just didn't understand that kind of mentality, and he especially didn't understand how it became such a common practice among what was considered a “normal” childhood.

 

Dad was right on the money on that - normal being overrated and all, he decided, growling when the doorbell rang for what seemed like the millionth time. No. He wasn't going to answer the damn door, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give out candy to weird kids dressed in mangled versions of witches and ghosts and ghouls. And zombies - now those kids really had it wrong. If they'd ever actually tried fighting one, they sure as hell would avoid dressing like one at all costs. Damn, those things were creepy as hell and pain to kill.

 

He was too old to bother, anyway. He'd graduated high school two years ago and had better things to do with their time than run around playing inaccurate dress-up. Like charming and feeling up the girls at the local bar (hey, it wasn't his fault he looked older than his twenty years), fixing his dad's Chevy Impala (which he knew would one day be in his own willing hands) or going out on hunts to save the sorry, ignorant asses of the masses. At twenty, he was far more than capable of handling things on his own; heck, even Dad recognized that - Dad put more responsibility in Dean's hands on hunts these days.

 

Then again, Dad had left him home to do some research at the local library, telling him that they were going to head out much later - after sixteen-year-old Sammy was done studying for this so-called “huge test” and after the nightly crowds died down. Translation from Dad-ish to English: Watch Sam, or there will be hell to pay. Even if Sam was far too old now for a babysitter, and even if he hated doing it, he wouldn't dare disobey a direct order from his father ever again. He'd learned that lesson years ago, with the Shtriga incident. It was something he'd never forgotten, nor could he forget the look his father shot him that night Sammy had nearly been killed.

 

With a grunt, Dean plucked a magazine he'd been reading earlier off the couch and plopped down to read it, bored. Springfield - their home for the last month or so - was a fun city at night, but he was stuck watching his kid brother. Dad was tracking down a few incidents in the area at once, and tonight's target was from a previous acquaintance of Dad's - Craig Harrison - who lived a little further south and had called for some assistance. Something about a little boy's spirit stirring up trouble or whatnot. Easy job.

 

“Trick or Treat!”

 

The set of eerily gleeful childish voices startled Dean into ripping one of the magazine's thin pages. With a defeated sigh, he threw the ruined magazine onto the coffee table and abruptly stood in preparation to stomp to the front door. Shit. Sammy…

 

“So have ye boys heard of the new pirate movie?”

 

Oh god, no. He didn't.

 

“Sammy…” he started to call after his brother, walking faster. If he didn't stop now, this whole thing could escalate into something—

 

“It's rated arrrr!” Sam's voice growled and the children giggled delightedly.

 

“Oh god, kill me now,” Dean muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and squinting his eyes as though in pain. But after hearing the overused, cliché pun, maybe he was in pain. God, that was awful; hadn't he taught Sam better?

 

“Have a nice Halloween, me laddies, and be ye cautious!” Sam called out the door, the handle clicking loudly into place as it closed.

 

The horrible fake accent and bad puns were enough to make Dean gag as he rounded the corner, but the costume - oh, the costume - really took the cake. Sam had somehow managed to scrap together the most ridiculous-looking pirate attire from God knew where. His kid brother was parading around in an open white-collared shirt with old jeans that had been cut off and frayed at the knees, a plastic pirate's hat with tufts of Sam's unruly brown hair sticking out at random from its brim, one of Dad's wide old belts, and an eye patch covering his left eye made of a messily cut leather almost-square cloth scrap and floss.

 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

 

Sam whirled to greet his brother with a sheepish grin, revealing several blackened teeth before he set the filled basket of candy - where had Sam come up with money for that shit, anyway? - on the stand near the front door. Dean groaned loudly, causing his younger brother to scowl.

 

“It's a Halloween costume, genius,” Sam replied curtly as he crossed his arms in front of him. “In case you didn't notice, it's the last night of October.”

 

“Duh, I know it's Halloween,” Dean snapped back. “And in case you didn't notice, Dad's out for the night. You and I both know damn well that he doesn't want us drawing attention, especially on hunting nights.”

 

“Dean, we'd draw even more attention by not doing normal things like everyone else. Passing out candy to trick-or-treaters on Halloween night is normal. Being antisocial is not.”

 

Damned if Sam didn't have a point there, but Dean wasn't about to let his brother get away with such ridiculous behavior. It would ruin his reputation with the ladies if word got out. “Don't you have that huge test tomorrow that you're supposed to be studying for?”

 

“I am studying,” Sam said defensively.

 

“Uh, no you're not. You're arguing with me.”

 

“I'm studying when I'm not answering the door or talking to you.”

 

The doorbell rang again, and Dean shot Sam a harsh look as he turned to answer it. “And because the doorbell's ringing off the hook, genius, looks like you won't be studying much.”

 

“Then if you have a problem with that, why don't you answer the door for a while? Hm?” Sam quipped back. “If I wasn't so busy keeping up our `normal' guise, then I could focus completely on studying, and then on the hunt.”

 

Dean frowned; like hell he wanted to answer the damn door, but if it'd make Sammy stop… “I don't have to dress up, do I?” he asked sullenly. “Because I ain't going to do it if I have to wear a poorly-done get-up like yours.”

 

Sam sighed. “No, you don't have to dress up. Just don't harass the kids.”

 

“Easy enough.”

 

Nodding, Sam pressed the bucket of candy into Dean's hands, patted him on the shoulder, and turned away - and for a moment Dean wondered if he was seeing things. Had Sammy just smirked at him? What the hell had he gotten himself into? The sneaky little brat; hadn't even left him a way to weasel out of it without looking like an absolutely ridiculous child.

 

The doorbell rang again - twice - and Dean groaned. He'd forgotten about the damn meddling kids earlier. Sam shot him an expectant look, at which Dean snorted and turned his back on his brother. This was going to be a long night, and he already wasn't looking forward to it. Sam paused at the doorframe between the entry hall and the family room, offering his brother another quick smirk before he disappeared to study. Dean barely managed to keep himself from hurling one of the staler candies in the bowl in his brother's direction. Taking a deep breath, he turned and opened the door with as charming a smile as one could muster when one was quite angry with one's sly - but still geekish - younger brother.

 

“Trick or Treat!”

 

Dean repressed a shiver as he started picking out every wrong detail in the children's costumes, and tossed several pieces of candy in each child's bucket and sack as they were held out to him. One of the kids - the vampire-wannabe - ventured a look up at Dean and narrowed his lined eyes. Dean raised an eyebrow back at the kid, not quite sure what was going to be said, but very sure he wasn't going to like it.

 

“You're not in a costume, mister,” vampire-boy stated matter-of-factly.

 

“Yeah!” another - smaller - devil-brat agreed. “You're s'posed to dress up for Halloween.”

 

“Maybe I'm just dressing up as myself,” Dean said defensively, looking down at his leather jacket, AC/DC t-shirt, worn jeans, and heavy boots as he pulled back into the doorway.

 

“That doesn't count,” said a third kid, who at least had the sense to dress up like a knight - something realistic and accurate. “You should only wear costumes that others might want to wear next year. That's what my mom always says. I wouldn't want to dress up like a crazy old man like you.”

 

A choked grunt caught in Dean's throat, but before he could throttle the kids, a supervising parent standing by the road - so that's where they'd gone - called after them, and they turned and walked back out to the sidewalk. Closing the door, Dean let out a shaking breath.

 

This was going to be a long night, and at this rate, Sam owed him big time.

 

-

 

Ozark, Missouri

Later that night.

 

“Why are we pulling into a school lot, Dad?” Sam asked suddenly from the back seat of the Impala as its wide-set tires crunched over the gravel and dead, dry leaves coating the back lot. “I thought you said we were going to a theater in Springfield, not an elementary school in Ozark.”

 

“The theater's in the school, and Ozark's basically in Springfield,” John replied, only sparing a quick, stern glance in his review mirror back at his son. He was still angry over finding his youngest son in a ridiculous costume when he'd gotten home; his patience had worn paper-thin, even if the costume hadn't been something they hunted. “We're going to have to break into the school to get to this spirit.”

 

“You're sure this is just a kid's spirit?”

 

“Sam…” Dean hissed in warning. Sam's tone was uncalled for. He must really want a fight - he must still have been angry with their father after being yelled at to take the damned pirate crap off - and would question his father at every turn in order to get one. Dean wasn't in the mood to hear his brother and father argue again; they'd already been at it once that night, and it'd been happening a lot more often lately. If they were to lose their concentration on even a smaller hunt like this one, it could easily become dangerous.

 

John sighed, exasperated. “Yes, I'm sure, Sam. Elementary school boy died in an accident during his father's magic show, and his spirit's still tied to the stage. They only recently started to renovate the gymnasium and the stage. The reconstruction might've awakened the spirit and caused all the recent fuss there. And besides, it's Sunday night, so nobody will be there now.”

 

Sam didn't reply, allowing the answer to sink in. “But why would the spirit still be tied to the stage if it was an accidental death?” he asked suddenly.

 

“Children don't think the same way adults do,” Dean said, answering for his father. “Nor do spirits. Say the kid didn't die instantly, sees his father screw up as he dies, and decides his father's at fault for his death. It's like we're dealing with a murder victim's spirit, even if there wasn't foul play actually involved here.”

 

Frowning, Sam nodded slowly. “But we do have to salt and burn his bones as well, don't we?”

 

“He's buried at a nearby cemetery. You boys are going to go take care of that while I tackle the stage.” John put the car in park and turned off the engine before he turned to look at his son, who cast him a dark look at the mention of splitting up on the job. “It shouldn't matter much, since this shouldn't be too tough of a job. The kid's spirit may be feisty, but Craig says it's not dangerous; hasn't hurt anybody seriously so far.”

 

“But we're taking precautions anyway.”

 

John nodded. “Exactly; just because it hasn't been too hostile doesn't mean it won't become that way once it knows we're on to it.”

 

“How far away is this cemetery?” Dean asked as he got out of the car, following his father to the now-open trunk of the classic car. The floor of the trunk raised to reveal a metal box with a broad array of ammunition and weapons below, held under the trunk's fake floor by a hidden lock near the tail end of the car.

 

John peered down the dark, quiet, two-lane highway, then turned back and jerked his head once in that general direction. “About a block that way. It shouldn't be terribly hard to find; it's right off the highway. Here, take these.” He tossed a tall cylinder of iodized salt and a can of gasoline to his eldest son, who quickly packed them into an empty knapsack he held. To Sam, John tossed a set of matches and a pair of flashlights. “Boy's name is Trevor Biggs, grave is marked with a death in November of 1995. Call me if you have any trouble finding it. I'll keep it distracted here until you can finish with the corpse there.”

 

Sam started to grumble a reply about back-up, but Dean cut him off with a jerk at his shirt collar and Sam stumbled after him in the direction John had indicated.

 

As promised, the cemetery wasn't far, and was in a little secluded clearing inside a grove of trees. It was decent-sized for a small town like Ozark, but ill-lighted. Then again, what kind of sane people wanted to visit cemeteries after dark? The Winchesters were anything but sane, so in the end Dean supposed it was fine. He turned his head partially as Sam groaned behind him - his brother also realized just how many headstones they were going to have to pick through before they found the right one.

 

“Well, little brother,” Dean sighed, “Time to get to work.”

 

-

 

John Winchester watched his boys walk away before he sighed, snagging an EMF meter, a flashlight, a few munitions - rock salt and a rifle - and a lock-picking set before he hit up the double door leading to the gymnasium. The lock was easy to jimmy open, and no alarm went off when he opened the door. Good old back country schools. He peered briefly inside the darkened gym before he turned to close the door quietly behind him.

 

You've found me, Daddy.

 

John whirled, bringing the rifle, rock salt canister and flashlight up to bear before he was flung back into the door, the flashlight clattering across the lacquered wood floor. Stars danced before his eyes and briefly illuminated the young boy's glowing, grinning face before they finally twinkled out.

 

And so have they.

 

It was the last thing he heard coherently, and he realized barely that the apparition was referring to his sons, but before he could do anything about it, he lost consciousness.

 

-

 

“Hey, you sure this boy was merely killed by an accident?” Sam asked as he stepped around another banana peel left on the ground. “Looks like the spirit booby-trapped the graveyard, or someone else did it for him. Maybe he got caught in one of his own traps.”

 

Dean scowled as he scanned another couple of headstones, none bearing the name `Trevor Biggs' or anything remotely similar to it. “Yeah, well, you never know what these spirits are thinking once they become spirits. Who knows, maybe the kid was a prankster himself. Oh, and watch out for that roller skate.”

 

“Geez,” Sam muttered as he nearly tripped over it anyway.

 

“Nice going, twinkle toes.”

 

“Shut up, jerk.”

 

Dean chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I suppose the brat's starting to get on my nerves, too. Let's find the damn grave and get this over with before he decides to get nasty.”

 

Sam grunted in agreement, but suddenly noticed that the next little obstacle wasn't so friendly. “Uh, Dean… that's a rake head.”

 

“What? Where?” And suddenly the wooden handle of an old rake flipped up with a rustle of dirt and leaves and nearly smacked Dean full-on in the face. If he hadn't trained his reflexes and crossed his arms in front of his face defensively, it probably could've knocked in a few of his teeth, he realized morosely.

 

“What the—shit!” Sam lost his footing on a patch of slick ground, and as his gangly legs flailed for purchase, he grabbed the closest thing he could find - which happened to be Dean, wholly unprepared for the action - and sent them both into the mud and leaves below.

 

Before Dean could curse out his clumsy kid brother, the light from his fallen flashlight reflected off a thin line just above his eye level, strung between two graves just feet away from them. “Well, damn. This kid's spirit's getting a little nastier, looks like. Doesn't want us snooping around his bones. You should be more careful, Sammy.”

 

“It's Sam,” Sam corrected, pulling himself to his feet and offering a hand to his brother to do the same. “And yeah, I kinda noticed. Think he knows we're coming?”

 

Dean unsuccessfully tried to wipe the mud off his prized leather jacket once he was on his feet, and scowled. “Possibly. Wouldn't surprise me.”

 

“But isn't Dad supposed to be distracting him over at the school?”

 

For a moment, Dean paused. If the spirit was at the graveyard, then Dad was at the school alone. Was something wrong? …He shivered, not pleased with the direction those thoughts were going.

 

“Dean?”

 

“Let's get this over with; the sooner, the better.”

 

Sam frowned at his brother - knew he was hiding something - but said nothing, for which Dean was relieved. It didn't matter much anyway, since they were going to take care of the brat's spirit before anything bad could happen. Of course, that triumphant feeling vanished the moment he felt the ground give beneath one of his feet, and something sharp scraped against his ankle before he could rebalance himself and pull his foot free, muttering curses. Glaring down at the now-opened hole, he realized it too was a trap - had been camouflaged with sticks and leaves, which hid an array of rusted old barbed wire and sharpened wood sticks beneath.

 

“God damn that little son of a bitch!” Dean swore, stumbling backwards a few steps in recoil away from the newer set of traps. Glowering across the minefield of a graveyard, he chanced on look backward and growled, “Don't step in the covered holes unless you want to start your very own collection of stigmata!” And quietly, he muttered, “Fuck, I'm glad I've had my tetanus shot recently. That would've sucked so much.”

 

Sam snickered at the comment, and when Dean shot him a glare, he quieted. They both continued to pick their way through the graves. Suddenly, Dean heard Sam's footsteps halt behind him, and he turned to see what his brother was doing. Sam stared down at one of the headstones, reading it under his flashlight's illumination briefly before raising one eyebrow and looking sideways at his brother.

 

“`Trevor Biggs, September 24, 1989 - November 3, 1995. Beloved son, talented young magician.' That's him, all right.”

 

“'Bout damn time,” Dean grumbled, dropping his knapsack on the ground and rummaging through it for the shovel with the folding handle. He fished it out, straightened the handle, and jammed the tip into the mound in front of the headstone as he stood. “Ready to dig?”

 

Sam sighed, dropping his sack as well. “Yeah, as soon as you—”

 

The younger Winchester was cut off as he suddenly flew across the graveyard as if thrown by an invisible hand, his surprised cry cut off when he hit a larger, more ornate marker stone with a sick crack. He crumpled to the ground bonelessly.

 

“Sammy!” Dean cried, stark terror in his widened eyes, the sound of his brother's body hitting against stone reverberating in his ears. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his fallen brother as fast as he could get there. “Oh God, Sammy! Wake up!”

 

Sam lay face-down in the soil in an awkward tangle of lanky limbs, and looked so still that Dean thought - was sure he was dead. It had happened so fast that it made his fingertips and toes and lungs numb, and he could only stand by and watch it happen. God, Sam! With shaking hands and a choked sob, he reached out to check his brother's neck for a pulse, afraid that he wasn't going to find one. But before he could check, he felt an icy hand grip his ankle roughly. His head whipped around and he locked gazes with the sunken, blazing eyes of what had to be Trevor Biggs' wandering spirit.

 

“You've found me,” Trevor said with a ghoulish grin, voice buzzing statically in Dean's ears.

 

“You son of a bitch,” Dean hissed angrily. “I swear to God if you killed Sammy—”

 

And the next thing he knew, he too was flying through the air, back smacking painfully against a nearby tree and knocking the wind out of him. Blinking the stars out of his eyes, he coughed and pulled himself shakily to his feet, glaring irately at the ghost.

 

“That's it, kid. You're going down.”

 

Trevor smiled eerily, and Dean scowled as he dove for the pack back by Trevor's grave. Debris - dried leaves, soil, pebbles, sticks - flew at him wildly and an unnatural wind whipped at his face, but he managed to curl his fingers around the canister of rock salt. A harsh twist of the lid jerked it free, and he shook a small mound of salt into his hand as quickly as he could. Blinking against the whirling ghost-tornado, he tossed the salt into the wind and grinned with satisfaction as he heard a high-pitched screech before the winds died down and all was silent. He'd bought himself a little time.

 

Check on Sammy!

 

God, how he wanted to. He had to. But for now, he had a homicidal spirit kid's corpse to dig up and salt and burn before they'd both be safe, even if he did go check on his brother. It was one of the hardest decisions he had to make at that point in time. But for now, he could put a salt ring around the grave and his brother for protection long enough for him to get the job done. He wondered briefly what the hell their father was doing if the spirit was after them here. Gripping the canister in sweaty palms and white-knuckles, he staggered over to his brother and began quickly laying down a salt ring. Not quickly enough.

 

One moment, he felt the wind stirring, but in the split-second before he could react he was already sailing into another headstone monument, much like Sam had. But he had been a little more prepared for it this time; he was able to twist mid-air and take the blow entirely to his left shoulder. It hurt like hell - he was sure he felt something give - but he managed to keep his feet and staggered back to Trevor's grave.

 

“Sammy! Wake up, dammit, or this ghost-brat's going to beat our asses!” he shouted to his prone brother, who seemed more than content to lay where he was without a sign of movement. Now Dean was getting worried; was his brother really dead? Oh god he hoped to Heaven he wasn't. “Sam! Please!”

 

“You found me…” Trevor's ghost whispered again with that same nasty grin on his misshapen, cruel face. “I have a trick I want to show you.”

 

“Oh hell no, bitch,” Dean snapped, throwing more salt in the ghost-boy's direction. The spirit scattered once more with a shriek; this time Dean was moving as soon as the ghost dissipated back towards his brother. He wasted no time in sprinkling more salt in a circle around his brother, and had nearly completed it this time when the ghost returned again.

 

“You're not very nice,” Trevor chided with a slight pout in his chubby pale lower lip. “Don't you want to see my trick?”

 

“Not really,” Dean growled, ignoring the boy as he finished off the salt ring before all hell could break loose. “I'd prefer not to be killed by a crazy spirit-y whelp, thank you very much.”

 

The wind stirred up again, and Dean chanced a look at the spirit. Bad idea. The boy's face was twisted in anger - like a temper tantrum, Dean realized - and the winds were growing stronger and stronger. It was going to get ugly, fast. He quickly stepped inside the ring of salt next to his brother, and gave the boy a look that dared him to come closer. The boy stared back. Then Dean chanced a quick glance down at his brother, hoping to have a chance to check on him.

 

Mistake one.

 

Salt rings were meant for protection, meaning that they could keep the ghoulish nasties out, along with whatever wind they stirred up. But that was all the rings could protect from. And so Dean wasn't watching when Trevor's spirit conjured up a wind outside the ring strong enough to hurl heavier debris at him. A large rock struck Dean's back hard enough to bruise, and it was all the warning he had to duck from the next one.

 

“Shit!” he gasped, trying to catch his breath as he flattened himself over his brother. “Sammy! Come on, buddy - I can't do this by myself!” A tree branch whipped by his face, leaving a stinging cut in its wake. Sam still wasn't moving, and this was getting him nowhere. He wished his father was there. “God damn it.”

 

“I want to show you my new trick,” Trevor repeated again, voice rising softly above the winds. “Let me show it to you.”

 

“Shut the hell up, you freak!” Dean growled, snagging up the canister of salt and shaking a little into his palm again. He flung it into the winds, which immediately dispersed along with the whining cry of the ghost-boy. It was starting to get annoying, Dean decided.

 

Wasting no time, he dashed to Trevor's headstone and shook out the ring around the grave faster than he had before. He barely had the circle closed off when Trevor reappeared, looking rather angry as the winds became more violent than before. Dean snatched his shovel and started to dig as quickly as possible, taking care not to disturb the salt circle with the mound of dirt. Trevor continued to whisper pleadingly to him to watch his little magic show, and kept sounding angrier and angrier with Dean as he was being ignored. The hole went deeper, the winds blew harder, and Dean couldn't stop fearing about his brother all the while. He couldn't shake the small doubt that his brother might've been killed, and he couldn't let himself think that way right now.

 

But he did anyway, and that's when he cast a worried glance at his brother. The ghost must have seen the look as it shrieked in rage and picked up a full headstone with the winds, poised to throw it in Sam's direction.

 

“The hell you will!” Dean shouted, dropping everything and climbing out of the hole and stumbling out of the ring to his brother.

 

Mistake two.

 

Instead of flying at Sam, the headstone went flying at Dean, who had left the protection of the salt circle around the grave. He looked over his shoulder once to see it flying at him, and only just turned out of the way to avoid a direct blow. Instead, the headstone glanced off his shoulder - still hurt like a bitch, but not dangerous - and knocked him to the ground. Turning quickly, he threw more salt at the ghost, but this time, Trevor dodged it.

 

Goddamn, he's evolving, Dean realized with sudden panic. Now he really wished his father was here. Dad would know what to do.

 

Mistake three.

 

He'd flung the shovel just outside of the second protective circle. And Trevor noticed it, flinging it forcefully in Dean's direction. The shovel's head caught him off guard, catching his ribs as he tried to stand. He cried out, was sure he'd heard something crack as he fell to his knees, clutching his side. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to move the last few steps it would take to get back into the ring with Sam. He had to make sure nothing hit his brother. Had to protect Sammy, make sure the ghost-brat didn't hit him long enough for him to make sure his brother was alive and for their father to come find them. Had to… had to keep breathing.

 

Have to stay awake.

 

But he felt the world darkening even further, Trevor's laughing died off in the distance and the world narrowed down to just him crouching over the motionless Sam and his own harsh panting and the blood pounding in his ears. He felt himself falling further, head resting against Sam's back, and detachedly realizing that Sammy was breathing ­- that he wasn't really dead - and it was the best sound he'd ever heard until he picked up his father's voice calling his name and Sammy's name so far away and Trevor's shrill shrieking.

 

The ground shifted beneath him, and he felt cold hands on his face and his brother repeating his name in a panicked voice, barely registering his own voice whispering `Thank God you're alive, Sammy…' just as all went completely dark.

 

-

 

Dean knew something was wrong when he awoke to the muffled sounds of a heated argument between his brother and father. It wasn't unusual, but the fact that he had a hard time waking up enough to yell at them both to shut the hell up was telling enough. Never mind the fact that he couldn't quite remember what he was doing when he fell asleep. His eyes felt like they had leaden weights on them, keeping him from opening them, and everything smelled… wrong. Sick, but clean like antiseptics.

 

Then he realized he was surprised to hear Sammy's voice - Sammy really wasn't dead. He hadn't imagined it; Sammy was alive. And so was he, and he was going to wake up and tell the two of them to quit arguing because it was cutting into his beauty rest and giving him a headache. Well, he did manage to get as far as opening his eyes, but they watered with the effort and nearly didn't stay open until he noticed the walls above him were a bleached white, and that he saw a few other things that indicated he was in a place he absolutely did not want to be right at that moment.

 

The argument stopped dead, and he heard Sam call his name uncertainly. “Dean…?”

 

“God, you two are loud,” Dean said hoarsely. “Wake the dead, even.”

 

“Thank God,” Sam breathed, a relieved expression on his face as it suddenly appeared in Dean's blurred line of sight. “We were worried about you, you know.”

 

“Why the hell are we at a hospital?” Dean demanded, blinking the world into focus, trying to sit up but failing as a sharp twinge cut into his side and two sets of hands pushed him back down. And then they were moving the head of the bed so he was propped up just enough to see around the room.

 

“Take it easy, son,” his father's deep voice commanded as he adjusted the pillows behind Dean's back. “And you have your brother to thank for that. He insisted we bring you here.”

 

Dean shot his brother a glare. “Sammy…”

 

“Damn it, Dad! He was bleeding all over the place and you and I both know he could have died if we hadn't brought him here!” Sam shouted, ignoring Dean's glare and shooting one of his own at their father. “You heard what the doctor said! Dean was damned lucky he didn't have a collapsed lung!”

 

John was quiet, and that alone was frightening enough to Dean. If his father wasn't arguing back with Sam about this issue, then he must have been in really bad shape.

 

“Woah, okay, hold it. I'm right here,” Dean said, frowning. “I get it.”

 

“Do you?” Sam snapped, turning his ire on Dean.

 

Dean flinched. “I think I do,” he said quietly, meeting his brother's angry gaze.

 

Sam sighed, the fiery anger bleeding from his expression. “Good, so you won't mind if the doctors tell you that you're going to have to stay here another couple of days.”

 

“You're shitting me,” Dean started to protest. “No way in hell am I going to be staying that much longer in this nasty place.”

 

“I'm afraid you might have to, Mr. Pongpat—,” a new - decidedly feminine - voice piped up from the door, but choked on the last name as she was reading it on the chart. The nurse. The very, very attractive-looking nurse with long, straight blonde hair, full red lips, hourglass-shaped curves that were just asking for—

 

“Pongpattanangitchote,” John supplied, deadpan. “Dean Pongpattanangitchote.”

 

What the hell kind of last name is that?! Dean shot his father a glare, snapped out of his daydream. Dude, that last name was so not going to bode well with the ladies.

 

“Mind if I call you Dean?” said the nurse as she turned a hopeful gaze to Dean. “I'm Claire, your nurse for the next shift.”

 

“Yeah, I think that's fine, Claire,” he replied with a broad grin, biting back the oh-so-tempting reply of, `You can call me anything you'd like.'. High time to turn up the Winch—err, Pongpattanangitchote charm.

 

He saw Sam roll his eyes out of the corner of his vision, but he didn't care.

 

“I'm going to have to check his vitals, now that he's awake,” Claire informed Sam and John. “And I'll fill him in on the details, since you two can't seem to get them straight.”

 

John and Sam both visibly squirmed, but said nothing. Daaamn. Dean decided he liked this girl.

 

When his vitals had been thoroughly checked and bandages and bindings changed - apparently, he'd busted a few ribs and punctured a lung, picked up a few really nasty bruises and one very deep slice that laid him open like a Christmas turkey and nearly nicked a few organs - he was content to allow this Claire to tend to his every need. He couldn't wait for his sponge bath. If he wasn't hurting so badly in a place he usually abhorred, he would venture to say that this was most definitely heaven - a far cry better than any at-home patch-up job would've been.

 

Even so, hot nurse aside, he couldn't explain how relieved he was that the job was over. After Claire left them alone for a little while - much to Dean's chagrin - Sam explained to him how their father had been attacked at the school and had realized that they were in danger at the graveyard. He put two and two together, realized that the stage was merely part of the rogue ghost's trap, and then went to help his boys out only to find Dean already injured and Sam just barely regaining consciousness. He'd finished the job as quickly as he could with Sam to cover him, and they'd argued on calling the ambulance for Dean. In the end, Sam won out when Dean's lips turned blue and he started coughing up blood.

 

When Sam asked Dean what had happened, he'd merely shrugged and simply said he was trying to save Sam's unconscious ass. Sam didn't seem convinced that it was the only explanation - must've heard Dean back at the graveyard before he'd passed out - but he said nothing more, and seemed to accept the fact that his older brother was just glad they were both alive. And when John didn't berate him for leaving the job half-finished, Dean was glad that his father really did feel the same way, even if he said nothing. With their father, his actions spoke louder than the few words he might spare them.

 

Dean also came to one other conclusion that night - Sammy, his kid brother, was a damned trickster. Twice, man. On fucking Halloween. Now that had to give him all kinds of bad luck, or something. But if Nurse Claire was any indication of his current state of luck, he had a good feeling that he would survive.

 

--

 

end.