Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward Son ❯ Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

Wayward Son

Chapter One

 

“Dammit, Sam. Don't die on me.” Dean scowled, pressing some gauze down on the wound that was hemorrhaging blood like oil through a rain-rusted pan. It had slowed some, seeping from Sam's side and through the bandage. But it hadn't slowed enough, not nearly enough.

“Dean.” Sam fisted his hand in the front of his brother's shirt, spitting out his name like a protective invocation.

Dean looked down at his brother, his gut wrenching so hard that he felt it in his knees. Sam was lying on a cheap hotel bed, his body twisted up with pain. His skin was sick and clammy with the loss of blood, his pores spilling out sweat. When Sammy said his name, he didn't even bother to open his mouth, just pried the word out between clenched teeth.

Dean swallowed hard. He swallowed all his fear, his inadequacy, even some of his rage, but it still slipped through, bubbling up to the surface to remind him of the unfairness of it all

“I did not trade my soul so you could go toe up nine months later, Sammy,” he spat, certain that if his brother refused to listen to his order not to die, then a threat with a dollop of guilt would do it.

Sam just moaned in response, and Dean's panic flared. He removed the gauze, peering down at the hole it had covered.

“The bullet is still in there, and you've lost way to much blood. I have to take you to the hospital, man.”

Where threats had failed, the word hospital galvanized Sam.

“No! No you can't, Dean. They have to report a gunshot wound, and the Feds will be there before they even dig the slug out. We don't know anyone around here, Dean. We won't make it out of prison this time. We only have three months left. We can't risk it.”

With that warning, Sam's strength seemed to slip away. He lost his grip on Dean's shirt, and he tried to curl in on himself to guard from the agony, but the wound flared white hot, paralyzing his body.

Dean thrust himself away from the bed, his hands scraping across his skull as if he could push all his problems out of his brain so he could think straight.

“This is why we don't hunt humans, Sam. With the Supernatural there is a pattern. A way things are done. Salt and burn bones to banish spirits. Silver for werewolves. There's a rhythm to it, like Metallica.”

Sam groaned behind him, but Dean ignored it.

“But humans, man. They are so sick and twisted. You can never tell what they are thinking. Way too unpredictable. Like that Alternative crap that's always on the radio nowadays. We should have turned around and left the minute we realized that he wasn't under a demon's influence.”

“We couldn't leave without stopping him, Dean. He was ritually sacrificing children. He had to be stopped.” Sam's voice was a whisper, draining away just like his life's blood.

Dean rummaged through his bag, pulling out what little supplies he had. Without hesitation he uncapped a bottle of rubbing alcohol, pouring it on the wound, recognizing Sam's screams only enough to cover his mouth with his hand so he wouldn't alert their neighbors that some shaky shit was going down in their room.

“What we should have done was called the cops and then high-tailed it out of town,” Dean growled, while fixing a field dressing over the wound.

“A demon would have showed eventually. You can't spill that much innocent blood without something getting a whiff.” Those were Sam's last words before passing out, leaving Dean to stand over him helplessly.

He knew what he should do. He should stop being such a pussy boy and pick up the phone to dial 911. Only Sammy's words stopped him. He couldn't stand the idea of his brother spending the rest of his life never bending over in the shower, because of crimes that he hadn't even committed. Crimes that were Dean's. Crimes that wouldn't matter in three months when his soul got yanked by the bitch queen and sent south.

He hated the fact that he was thinking about making that call and then hitting the road with the fantasy that he could break Sam out. `Cause that's what it was. A fantasy. Never mind the near mind-numbing, gut-clenching, knee-shaking fear that thought ensued. Just thinking about being separated from Sammy again made his stomach rot.

Dean set his jaw, the dim motel lamplight reflecting raw fury and pain in his eyes. He swept up his green duffel, spilling out everything onto his bed to make room inside. He shoved his .45 into its holster under his brown, well-worn, leather jacket and palmed the Impala's keys. He paused at the door, looking grimily back at his brother.

“I'll be back, Sammy. I promise. Don't you die on me. I've got nothing left to barter with if you do.”

He slammed the door on the way out, locking it tight so no one could sneak in. He scanned the dark lit parking lot, finding what he was looking for at the far end. He ran up to the phone booth, nearly growling when he saw that it was occupied by a homeless man.

“Dude, I need to use the phone.” Dean shouted, before he could check himself. He did not want to be remembered as a nut job. It was bad enough that he hadn't washed before leaving the room. If anyone looked close enough they'd realize that it wasn't dirt that stained his clothes and hands.

The old man, dressed in dirt gray clothes, from his ratty jacket to oversized pants, shuffled around inside the booth. He peered up at Dean from under shaggy brows, his eyes the same color as his clothes.

“Sure, thing there, Sonny. Let me just get my old bones together.” The man moved how Dean imaged stone would if it was coming to life. Molasses slow and somewhat rickety, the simple action of standing almost forgotten.

Dean wiped his hand across his brow, wondering how deep his soul would descend into The Black if he dragged the old man out and dumped him on the ground. Sammy could be dying right that second, and this drunk couldn't find his feet if they kicked him in his own ass.

“Look, do you know where there is a hospital or clinic nearby.”

“Sure, sure. There's the free clinic down the street. Isn't open now, not twenty-four hours. But the doc there is real nice. Yes sir, a real angel she is. Doc Green. As pretty as pie on a plate.”

Dean about-faced, hearing all that he needed from the man. He raced to the Impala, briefly acknowledging the homeless man as he leaned out of the booth to shout at him.

“Just turn right at the light, Sonny. Can't miss it. Surely not. It's like a beacon from heaven.”

Dean found the clinic easily. A beacon from heaven like the old man had said. It seemed to be lit up from the outside in, and he could almost hear the angels singing. The parking lot was dark, and the doors were locked, but such things were trivial to him as he checked his watch. He had already been away from Sam for five minutes, and it felt like a life time.

He circled around back finding a small electrical box. He figured the place was hard wired with an alarm, but he knew from experience that rent-a- pigs were slow to put down their donuts for a downed circuit rather than for a tripped line. He figured that once he blew the fuse he would have about ten minutes to get the supplies he needed and double-time it out.

He shorted the fuse, found a small window that he jimmied open and slithered in as quick and silent as any professional burglar. He hurried down the hall, his eyes already adjusting to the dim light. In front of him he heard a rustle of movement before a form appeared out of the shadows. Instinctively he pulled his flashlight and gun, pointing both at the shadow.

Delilah raised her arm to cover her eyes as she was caught in a blinding light. She had been in her office, tackling the mound of paperwork on her desk that was threatening to spill over onto the floor when her small lamp went out. It didn't take her long for her to figure out that the rest of the lights in the building were out as well. She was slowly making her way to the fuse box, figuring she was the only one left in the clinic, but obviously she was wrong. The cleaning crew must have snuck in to swab the toilets while she was concentrating on her work.

The light dropped away a little, and her eyes adjusted enough for her to see. She gasped in shock, then blinked, certain that her eyes were playing tricks on her, but they weren't. It was a gun. Held by a man. A man whose clothes and hands she was pretty sure weren't stained with dirt.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked, his voice guttural, almost desperate. A junkie looking to mainline some prescription meds, she thought. She knew what kind of neighborhood she worked in. She saw junkies and crack whores all day long, and she treated them with respect due to them as human beings. Because that was what she had to do, because that's what kept them coming back. And she kept helping them. That was her penitence in life.

When she didn't answer right away the nose of the gun lifted, a silent prodding for her to get her head out of the clouds and focus on the moment. She nodded, unable to find her voice just yet.

Dean's eyes narrowed. The woman in front of him didn't look like any doctor he had ever seen. She could have just stepped out of his own personal candy striper fantasy that he had been having since he was fourteen and was in the hospital for a broken arm.

Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a messy knot on the top of her head. He was pretty sure that when she left the house that morning, it had been neat and tidy, but a long day of work had loosened some tendrils so that they flowed down to frame her heart-shaped face. Her whiskey-colored eyes were impossibly large, and he knew that had a lot to do with the pistol he had pointed in her direction. People tended to get doe-eyed around weapons, especially the ones that went boom.

“I'm going to need some supplies, doc.”

She nodded again, and he wondered what her voice sounded like. Probably nasally or bitch-ass bossy. Something to offset her beauty. After all, she was a doctor, and in his experience they were all dicks.

“Penicillin, antiseptic, gauze, and blood.”

Delilah's brow winged up. That was not the grocery list she was expecting. As a matter of fact, the longer she stared at the man in front of her, the more she realized that he was far from some cracked-out junkie. He stood steadily, determination stamped metal-hard on his handsome features. There was something about him. A raw intensity that was frightening. He wasn't crazy though. Not in the traditional sense. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He wagged his gun at her, and she got the message. Lead on, doc. Realizing that there was absolutely no reason to argue, she motioned him to follow her down the hall. She stopped at the supply room, using her key to unlock it so he could enter. He pushed her inside first, putting her up against the far wall so he could keep her in sight.

He opened a green duffel that he had slung over his shoulder, and began dumping supplies into the bag. Bandages, syringes, medicine. Everything that he would need to treat a wound. And something told her that he had treated a lot of wounds in his time. There was a warrior-esque vibe about him. He was someone who was intimate with pain, who was on a handshake, howdy-do basis with it.

He moved over to the locked cabinet where the quality meds were kept. His eyes shot over to her, hard and cold, all business.

“Open it or I will.” The words were clipped, spat out between clenched teeth. He checked his watch and his square jaw hardened. He was on a clock. Of that she was sure.

She sidled up next to him, trying her best not to brush against him. She unlocked the cabinet without protest, watching unsurprisingly when he dumped morphine into his bag. It had a high street value, undoubtedly he would sell what he didn't use.

“You know, we have an alarm.” She had no idea what possessed her to say that. If she was warning him that the cops would be there any minute and he should get out while he still could or if she was reminding him that it would be a bad idea to hurt her, she wasn't sure. Although, other than point a gun at her, he hadn't as much as looked her up and down.

“I disabled it.” He didn't even bother to look at her as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet, dismissing her as any sort of a threat. Seeing his inattention, she tried to slide away, only to freeze when she heard the gun cock. He still wasn't looking at her, but she got the message. He may not see her, but he was still aware of her every move.

“Blood.”

She blinked, and then swallowed. Never in a million years did she think someone would break in looking for blood. Maybe he was crazy. One of those cold, calculating, serial killer types that liked to do awful things with people's blood. Some children had gone missing around the county of late, and she wondered if he had anything to do with it. She must have been contemplating too long because his mouth tightened into a straight line that made her shiver.

“Doc, I don't have a lot of time. Show me where you keep your blood supply.”

“Yes, of course. Follow me.”

Dean sighed, disappointed. Her voice wasn't nasally or strident. It was soft and soothing. Downright pleasant. If Sam wasn't lying in a pool of his own blood right now, Dean would have turned on the old Winchester charm. That would have had her handing over the meds, the blood, and her phone number, but he didn't have time to mess around. Besides, since the moment she told him she was a doctor, he knew what he was going to have to do. It was high time he added a real charge to the list of crimes slated against him.

They entered a cool room and Delilah led him over to a large refrigerator. She unlocked the door, noticing that the man was stuffing several yards of tubing in his bag along with needles.

“Any particular type?”

“B negative.”

Delilah faltered. Why oh why couldn't he ask for something less rare?

“I only, uh, have about a unit.”

The man pinned her to the spot with hard green eyes, his full mouth pulled down into a frown. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe, like the weight of his eyes were centered on her chest and was pushing all the air from her lungs. Then just as suddenly the weight was gone as he swung his gaze away from her.

“Fine. Load it into a cooler. Where are your surgical tools?”

She winced at his question, but did as he bid, afraid that he would glare at her again.

“We don't have surgical tools. We are a free clinic.”

“But you have scalpels for lancing boils, forceps, and stuff like that, right?” He was prowling around the room, looking through drawers for anything useful.

“They are kept in that cabinet.” She pointed across the room, watching briefly as he riffled through the drawers, before remembering her chore of packing the blood.

“O negative can be given to someone with B negative blood, right?”

He had come up behind her so quietly, that she hadn't heard him. She nearly dropped the cooler full of blood, but he reached out and rescued it from her numb fingers. Her heart started to pound, and she had to fight down the panic.

“Well, yes, it can be.”

“Do you have any?”

Again she swallowed. “A unit or two. Like I said. We are a free clinic. We don't have very much funding.”

He didn't reply, just looked away, and readjusted his duffel so it sat securely on his shoulder. He held the handle of the cooler in a white-knuckled grip that belied his outward calmness as he glanced around the room, looking for anything he missed.

“Get it.”

She obeyed, packing it in the cooler while he held it steady.

“So did you need anything else?” she asked shakily. More than ready for him to leave.

His green eyes returned to her, and this time they weren't so hard. In fact, they were almost apologetic.

“'Fraid so, doc. I'm going to need you to come with me.”

Delilah's breath was expelled from her body in a shuddering gasp. She hadn't been expecting this. She felt like kicking herself. He was obviously a homicidal manic who knew that he didn't have enough time to torture and kill her in the clinic and wanted to take her elsewhere to finish up the job. He must have seen the stark terror in her eyes, because his brow winged up in surprise.

“It's not what you think.” For the first time, his voice wasn't full of rough edges and sharp impatience. It was brandy-smooth and horse-whisperer calm. If she had been a skittish filly she would have meandered her way over to him and eaten out the of the palm of his hand just by his tone alone. Her eyes widened and she stepped back.

“My brother, Sam, is hurt pretty bad, Doc. I need you to come take a look at him.”

“If he's hurt so badly, then perhaps you should take him to the hospital.”

Something flickered in the back of his green eyes, and she knew that she had hit a nerve. The feeling she had earlier, the one she couldn't pin down came to the forefront of her mind. His intensity, his warrior-like stance. He was a man who knew how to kill, and kill well. She shuddered, bone deep and cold.

“Can't.”

Delilah felt her rebellious streak rise up, and before she could strangle it down, it slipped out her mouth. “Can't or won't.”

His mouth thinned and she felt her skin tighten across her bones.

“I'm not going to argue with you.” He raised his gun, pointing it at her, his threat clear.

“Yes, well it does look like you have the winning hand.”

“I've found that a .45 trumps aces every time.”

“I'm sure.” At his prodding she exited the room, making her way towards the front door. Silently she unlocked it, allowing them both out before relocking it. He led her out to the darkest part of the parking lot where he left his car. His vehicle was a sleek, liquid-black-metal monster, perfectly suited to its master.

He herded her around to the driver's side, opening the door for her so she had to slide along the black vinyl seat to the other side. Briefly she thought about flinging open the door and making a run for it, but the man's hard green eyes dissuaded her.

He set the key into the ignition, turning it, and the car roared to life. With one hand he steered them out onto the street, his eyes flickering between her and the road. He gunned the gas and the vehicle leapt forward, pinning her back into her seat. Hurriedly she buckled the lap belt around her hips.

“Don't try anything stupid.”

She glanced over, seeing that he still had the gun pointed at her while driving. Her eyes darted up to the lit speedometer, her gut clenching.

“Oh, I won't. I perhaps know more about the statistics of us surviving a crash at ninety miles an hour, than you do. As a matter of fact, I promise to be a good little doctor if you just put your other hand on the wheel.”

The man's mouth twitched and just for a moment she thought he was going to smile. Beneath the cold veneer of a predator, she saw another face, one that wasn't so desperate.

“Honey, I've done a lot more than point a gun with one hand while doing ninety in this baby.” His tone was slightly dirty, and she was momentarily disconcerted. She didn't know if she was supposed to be amused or be relieved. She was neither.

Before she could digest the fact that she was being kidnapped they were pulling into a dive motel parking lot. He parked them in the back, hustling her out while swinging his bag up on his shoulder.

“Grab the blood.”

She nodded, daring to glare at him. He probably wanted his other hand free so he could grab her by the hair once they got inside. Dirty pervert. She wasn't buying his hurt brother story for a second. While he was unlocking the hotel door, she looked covertly around, wondering if she screamed bloody murder if someone would come running. Somehow she doubted it. Women probably screamed all the time around there. She started to slide away, but he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her inside.

Once in the room, all thoughts of escape, lies, and murdering perverts were swept from her mind. On the bed was a young man, a boy really, a very tall boy, passed out cold. She could see why by the pool of blood beneath him, so much that the mattress couldn't soak up anymore and it sat up on the sheets, shiny and new like red satin.

“Sam!” When the man got no response, he dropped his bag on a nearby bed, which she noticed held two sawed off shotguns, some books, and a heap of clothes, and leaned down to pat his brother on the cheek. “Sammy!” he shouted.

“He's out from blood loss.”

The scared woman inside her receded, and her physician's training came to the forefront. Before she had become a volunteer doctor at the clinic, she had been a top surgeon. Spoiled, rich and talented. But all that had been before…the accident. Now she made amends at the clinic, while ignoring her mother's imperial voice on her machine once a week, ordering her back to her Manhattan loft.

She circled around the bed, pushing the man out of the way, so she could reach his brother. With a great deal of effort, she turned him onto his side so she could see the extent of his wounds. He had a number of superficial scratches across his arms and chest, but it was the bullet wound in his side that was causing the most damage.

She could feel the man moving around behind her, but she ignored him, concentrating on her patient instead. She removed the bandage that had been hastily tapped to his side, silently impressed by the efficiency of the dressing.

“Nice work.”

There was no reply, but more light flooded the room as he took off the lamp shade by the bed. He cleared everything off the nightstand, laying down a clean towel and lining out all of her tools. He did it all silently, as if he knew exactly what she would need and when.

“I'll need hot water,” she ordered while pulling the light closer so she could see into the wound. There was no exit hole in his back so she knew the bullet was still lodge in there, hopefully between his ribs and not in his lung. His breathing didn't seem labored, but she would know if the lung was perforated once she pulled the bullet out. If the wound started to bubble with blood, all would be lost. It would take only seconds for the lung to collapse.

“I'm running it through the coffee pot right now to heat it up.” His efficiency surprised her, but it just reiterated what she already figured. This man knew a lot about wounds.

Once her tools were laid out, he moved to the other side of the bed, bringing a coat rack with him. He began to set up an IV drip with the tubing and needles he brought.

“Do you want the antibiotics or blood first?”

“Blood,” she replied absently, using clamps sterilized in alcohol to open the wound. She glanced up at the unconscious man, hoping to God he would stay that way through the procedure. She didn't bring any anesthesia, and the pain, if he woke up, would be intense.

She waited until the man inserted the IV into the patient's arm, watching as he taped it down before releasing the blood into his brother's vein. Something he also had done before.

With everything in place all that was left was for her to dig the bullet out. Armed with gauze to wipe away the blood and forceps, she plunged into his wound, feeling for the bullet. The man jerked out of unconsciousness, his mouth wrenched wide into a scream.

“Dean!” The man was at his side instantly, holding him down so she could work.

“I'm here, Sammy. I know this fucking sucks, but its gotta be done. Just a little bit longer and then I'll give you a sweet morphine cocktail. Okay, little bro?”

“Aw, fuck, Dean. It hurts.”

Dean hushed him, smoothing his hair back from his face. She ignored them both, feeling a spurt of triumph when she felt the bullet under her hand. Gently she clamped onto it, relieved that it was wedged between his ribs like she hoped. With a painful tug, it came free, and she lifted the bullet out of the wound, examining it in the light. Mercifully it was undamaged, which meant she didn't have to go poking around looking for fragments. Unfortunately his ribs were cracked, but she wouldn't be able to bind them until his wound drained and healing. When he woke again, he would be in a great deal of agony, especially if he tried to move.

Sam was passed out cold from the pain, but that didn't stop Dean from giving him the morphine that he promised. Delilah cleaned his wound and bandaged it, doing the same with his other minor scratches. When she was done she checked his pulse, frowning at how sluggish it was.

“He needs more blood.”

They looked at the IV that was already nearly through the third bag.

“I know,” Dean replied solemnly, and suddenly she could see the weight he was carrying on his shoulders. A part of her wanted to feel sorry for him, but mostly she was angry. If he loved his brother he would have taken him to a hospital, instead of allowing him to be butchered on a filthy, cum-stained bed in a slummy downtown motel room. More than likely they were bank robbers or drug runners. Some sort of awful criminals. The man was obviously more interested in saving his own ass from the cops than saving his brother. It made her sick.

Dean circled around to the other bed, Delilah watching him warily. He cleared it off and pulled back the covers like he was ready to call it a night, leaving his brother to bleed to death. She was outraged.

“You can't just leave him like this. If he doesn't get blood he will die. You need to take him to a hospital. He needs serious medical attention.”

“Don't you think I know that?” he shouted at her from across the bed, and for the first time she saw his cold façade crack. Raw pain ravaged his face, and his green eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“It should have been me out there tonight, not him. He thinks that it's his turn to save me. That if he keeps me alive long enough he can save my soul. He took that bullet for me, and its killing me! It is my job to keep him safe. It is my job to protect, Sammy!”

She didn't understand a lot of what he was saying, but she heard his agony. They had a tight bond that she couldn't even dream of understanding being an only child. She had no comprehension of the strength of their tie, but it only reinforced her certainty that Sam should be in a hospital not dying in some cheap motel.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he was upon her before she could scream. In seconds he had her pinned down and her hands cuffed to the bed. For good measure he slapped some duck tape over her mouth, not wanting her to scream the motel down around their ears.

“I'm not going to let my baby brother die again.”

With that, he turned away from her, sweeping a frustrated hand through his spiky hair. He circled around to the other bed, pulling up a padded chair next to the IV. The last of the blood had drained out of the bag, but Sam still looked sickly white with blood loss.

Wordlessly Dean pulled out the tubing from the bag, attaching a needle to the end. Realizing what he was about to do, Delilah moaned from behind her gag, trying to get his attention. He could very well kill his own brother if his blood wasn't compatible.

“Don't worry, I have O negative blood,” he told her without looking up. “I was created to be his savior,” he muttered so quietly that she thought she must have misheard him. Her struggles stilled and she watched as his blood streamed up the tube and into Sam, giving his brother what he so greatly needed, while draining himself dry.

Her eyes flickered back to Dean worriedly. What he was doing was incredibly dangerous. Especially now that she was tied up and unable to help. If he gave too much blood to his brother and lost consciousness, he could die in that torn-up chair. A deathly vigil that he would never wake up from.