Work Text:
“So get this,” begins Sam. “There’s like this coven in Seattle, and they—” He stops short. “What are you doing?”
“Shush,” says Dean, not looking up from his laptop. “I gotta concentrate, Sammy.”
“What are you doing?” Sam repeats, moving closer.
“Online poker game,” Dean replies. “Thought some extra cash might help.”
“We don’t need it though,” Sam points out. He sets down the plate and mug he was holding on the table next to Dean’s laptop. “Got you a sandwich and coffee.”
“Yeah but I’m saving up so we can get a PlayStation,” Dean explains. Then he notices the food. “Ah, Sammy, I love you,” he says reverently, finally looking away from the screen.
Sam grins. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Why do we need a PlayStation?”
“For the Batcave,” Dean tells him, and then takes a bite of the grilled cheese. “Mm, Sammy, you’re the best,” he says, mouth full, and wraps an arm around Sam.
“Dude, you’re getting crumbs all over me,” Sam laughs, half-heartedly struggling out of the hug.
“Don’t be prissy,” Dean tells him, releasing him so he can go back to his poker game.
Sam takes the seat next to him. “How’s the poker game going?”
“Shush,” Dean says again in lieu of an answer. He leans forward in his seat, eyes narrowed at the screen, like he can make something happen by sheer force of will. Sam watches, amused, as he taps at the trackpad and then a few keys, and then sits back muttering what sounds suspiciously like “oh God, please,” under his breath.
“We could just use the card to get the PlayStation,” Sam suggests after a few moments.
“Yeah but then it won’t be satisfying,” Dean points out, eyes still glued to the screen.
“You didn’t care about that when we bought that giant TV,” Sam reminds him.
“That’s different.”
“How?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Because—” Then Dean stops, going still.
“Because?” prompts Sam. “Dean?”
“Sam,” Dean says, voice strange. “Sammy.”
“What?” Sam frowns, leaning towards Dean. “Dean, what is it?”
“Sammy.”
“Dude, you’re worrying me—”
“I just won ten grand,” Dean cuts in, tone hushed.
Sam stops short. “You – what?”
“Ten grand,” Dean repeats, still in that low voice, like he’ll lose the money if he speaks any louder.
“How?” Sam asks, shuffling closer to Dean so that he can stare the laptop screen. Sure enough, there it is, a cheery proclamation splashed across the webpage with pixelated graffiti falling over it.
“I don’t know,” Dean says, still sounding stunned. “But I’m not gonna complain, man.”
“You sure this isn’t some kinda scam?” Sam asks, equally disbelieving.
Before Dean can answer, his phone bings with a notification. Dean swipes to open it, blinking down at the screen, and then hands it to Sam. “Guess not,” he says, sounding dazed.
Sam takes Dean’s phone and reads the text. It’s from the bank they’re currently scamming, declaring that ten grand have been deposited into their account. He rereads it at least thrice, just to make sure he’s not dreaming, and then hands it back to his brother. “Wow,” he says. “I – wow.”
Dean grins, taking his phone back. “Fuck yeah, Sammy. Fuck. Yeah.” He seems to have crossed over from disbelief straight to delight; he’s grinning widely as he gets to his feet, and holds out a hand to Sam. “C’mon, Sammy.”
Sam takes it, standing. “Where are we going?”
Dean reaches for the car keys lying on the table. “To get that PlayStation,” he tells Sam, grinning molar to molar.
“What, now?” Sam asks, following Dean to the door.
“Yep!”
“But your sandwich—”
“Oh, right,” says Dean, doubling back. He grabs the sandwich off the plate where he’d left it, and throws Sam the car keys before picking up the coffee mug. “Let’s go, Sammy!”
Dean ends up buying ten games along with the PlayStation. Then he bounces over to the kitchen appliances aisle and gets a bigger coffeemaker; a toaster oven; a nicer food processor than the one they currently have; a full set of knives with a bonus meat cleaver; another set of knives but this time made of black ceramic; and also a portable blender, “so that you can make your stupid smoothies on the road too, Sammy.”
“Are we done yet?” Sam asks, pushing the trolley and watching in bemusement as Dean indiscriminately throws things in.
“I need a new suit,” is Dean’s answer. “So do you, actually. I’m thinking we could get them tailored—”
“No,” says Sam firmly. “I don’t mind splurging a little, but that’s overkill, Dean.”
“Fine, fine,” grouches Dean. “Readymade it is.”
An hour and around three grand later, they’re back in the Impala, the trunk and backseat loaded with Dean’s purchases. It’s only now that Dean seems to remember that Sam had been telling him something earlier. “Dude, what was that about the coven in Seattle?” he asks as they’re backing out of the parking space.
“Oh, right,” Sam says. “Well, they’re drinking people.”
“That’s what vampires do,” Dean says, getting the car on the road. “Hey, you want a milkshake?”
“Sure,” says Sam. “And yeah, I know, Dean, but this one’s weirder. They’re pretending they’re practitioners of, um, traditional medicine, and what they’re doing is leeching people. And then, um.” He pauses, grimacing. “Eating the leeches.”
“Ew,” says Dean, with feeling. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees.
“So do we hunt them?” Dean asks, rolling into the drive-thru of the only Starbucks in town.
“I don’t know,” Sam says. “They’re not directly drinking anyone, I guess. And leeching’s been proven to work, in some cases.”
There’s a lull in the conversation as Dean rolls up to the drive-thru window and orders their milkshakes. Then he says, “Yeah, but how do we know they aren’t sticking the leeches on perfectly healthy people?”
“Good point,” Sam says after a moment.
“I say it’s worth checking out,” Dean says. He pauses again, accepting the milkshakes. “Dude, that was fast.”
“Our counter’s having some trouble,” the barista in the window tells Dean. “It’s not printing receipts right now, so your drinks are on us. Have a nice day!”
“Dude,” Dean says happily, handing Sam his drink. “This is great.”
Sam snorts. “Guess today’s your lucky day.”
“Guess so,” Dean says with a grin as he drives back out in the road, steering with one hand so he can hold his frap in the other. “How about we set out tomorrow morning, check out this thing in Seattle?”
“Sounds good,” says Sam.
“This way, we have time to pack, and also I can go home and set the PlayStation up,” Dean says, as if that’s not the real reason.
“Yeah, okay,” says Sam, smiling a little too. It’s nice seeing Dean this happy. “What are you gonna do with the rest of the money?”
“Eh, I’ll figure something out,” Dean says. “Do you think there are Brie Larson body pillows on the internet?”
“Probably,” Sam says, “but you’re not getting one.”
“C’mon, Sammy—”
“No. That’s weird.”
“Ugh.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
They set out for Seattle bright and early the next morning. Sam’s still yawning when he gets into the Impala, holding his travel mug in one hand. “You mind if I nap?” he asks Dean.
“How ‘bout you drink your coffee, and then see how you feel after that,” suggests Dean.
“How are you this cheerful?” Sam asks, glaring blearily at his brother. Dean looks unnaturally fresh and cheerful, humming as he taps his fingers against the wheel. “I don’t get it, man, you were up half the night playing video games.”
Dean shrugs, still grinning like the world is his oyster, and then turns the radio on. “Dunno, man, I just feel good,” he tells Sam. “It’s a new day, Sammy!”
“Ugh,” is Sam’s disgusted response. He takes a sip of his coffee, and then rests his head against the cool glass of the window. “Wake me up when we’re there.”
“Didn’t sleep well?” Dean asks, reaching over to grab Sam’s travel mug. He takes a sip from it, ignoring Sam’s half-hearted glare, and then raises an eyebrow as if to prod Sam on. “Well?”
“I slept fine,” Sam answers, and yawns again.
“So why are you still sleepy?” asks Dean.
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, man. It happens.”
“If you say so,” says Dean, conceding. “Go on then, get some rest, Sam. I’ll wake you up when we stop.”
True to his word, Dean wakes Sam with a shove to the shoulder a few hours later. Sam glares at him, but the effect’s somewhat ruined by him yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?” he asks, stretching as much as he can in the cramped space.
“Stopped for lunch,” Dean tells him, turning the car off. “We’re in Wyoming. You remember that diner with the waffle fries?”
“Yeah?” Sam says. “Vaguely.”
“Well, we’re there,” Dean says happily, and then opens his door. “Come on, man, I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving,” Sam mutters, following.
The diner’s half-full, and Dean finds them a booth in the corner where they have a good view of all possible exit routes. Sam orders a chicken salad, and Dean orders the afternoon special with a side of waffle fries, and a large Coke.
“Everything’s in order except the fries,” the waitress tells Dean. “We’ve run out, and the new shipment hasn’t come in. Sorry,” she adds at Dean’s crestfallen expression.
“I came from Kansas just for those fries,” Dean tells her, looking like someone’s just kicked his puppy.
“Dean, it’s fine,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.
“We’ve got curly fries,” the waitress says. “That fine?”
“Yeah, okay,” sighs Dean, as if this is a huge compromise on his part. He probably thinks it is.
“So,” Sam says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Having fun with the PlayStation?”
It works; Dean brightens again immediately. “Dude, it’s great,” he tells Sam enthusiastically. “Did you know I can sign in to the Netflix on it? And Starz. And Amazon Prime. It’s got everything, man.”
“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself,” Sam says with a faint smile. “Played any games?”
“I started this one called Until Dawn,” Dean tells Sam. “You’ll like it, man, it’s pretty cool.”
“I don’t really wanna play,” Sam says. “I don’t think video games are really my thing.”
“Well, fine, you can watch me play, then,” Dean replies with a shrug. “It’s got an interesting storyline, man, just think of it as a movie. That I’m controlling,” he adds with a grin.
“All right, okay,” Sam says, giving in, still smiling a little.
“Cool,” says Dean happily. A second later, his phone bings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Fucking spam,” he mutters, swiping, and is just about to put it back in when it makes the low battery sound, a dejected sort of beep. “Dammit,” Dean curses. “I forgot to charge it last night.”
“I packed the power bank,” Sam tells him. “It’s in my bag, in the car.”
“Sam,” Dean tells him in a reverent tone as he stands. “Sam, you’re a lifesaver. What would I do without you, man?”
“Suffer,” Sam says with a grin.
“Damn right,” Dean says, and leans down to give him a half-hug on his way out. Sam laughs, pleasantly surprised, watching as Dean makes his way back to the Impala to get the power bank. He’s back a couple minutes later, phone plugged in and charging, and a smile on his face.
“What was that for?” Sam asks when Dean’s seated again.
Dean shrugs. “Nothin’,” he says. “Just glad I got you, man.”
“You are being extremely cheesy today,” Sam notes with interest. “What’s up?”
“Dude, nothing,” Dean repeats, raising an eyebrow. “I’m just happy, man. It’s a good day, okay?”
“But you didn’t even get your waffle fries,” Sam reminds him.
“Despite that,” Dean says a second later. “What, I’m not allowed to be cheerful?”
“No, it’s not that,” Sam says, giving up. “Carry on, I guess.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the permission, Sammy.”
Sam rolls his eyes right back. “Whatever, Dean.”
The waitress arrives with their food just then. She sets down Sam’s salad in front of him, and then Dean’s burger and shake, and says, “Good news for you, hon. We found an extra bag of waffle fries in the freezer. Guess your trip wasn’t wasted after all.”
“Really?” Dean beams like a child on Christmas. “Martha, you are a godsend.”
“Yeah, I am,” Martha agrees. “Fries’ll be up in a bit,” she tells him as she heads back towards the kitchen.
“See?” Dean says, turning to Sam. “Told you it’s a good day.”
“Good for you,” Sam says, taking the first bite of his salad. If Dean’s happy he’s happy.
They stop for the night at a motel somewhere in Oregon. Sam’s not too sure about the city; at this point, they all look pretty much the same to him. He waits in the car while Dean gets them a room, a big brown bag of takeout in his lap. They’ve gotten dinner from the local diner, and Sam’s looking forward to having it. All he’s had since lunch is a coffee and a handful of roasted sunflower seeds.
They end up having their dinner on the couch in their room, facing the TV. Dean flips through channels while Sam unpacks the takeout bag, and manages to catch The Wrath of Khan just a few minutes in. They settle into the musty old couch, and Sam tries not to think about how he’s so used to the smell that it doesn’t even bother him anymore. In fact, gun to his head, it actually makes him a little nostalgic for his childhood.
He finds himself yawning about halfway into the movie. Dean, of course, is riveted, as if it’s the first time he’s watching it instead of the billionth. Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye for a while, grinning a little at Dean mouthing along to the dialogue. It’s nice to see Dean happy and enjoying himself, the way he has been for the past couple days. They deserve a few good days every now and then.
Sam ends up falling asleep eventually, listing sideways until his head lands on Dean’s shoulder. Dean shifts to accommodate him without taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. They’ve done this so many times now that it’s habit, both of them moving without having to think about it – Dean lifts his arm so Sam can be more comfortable, and Sam adjusts his head on Dean’s shoulder so that his hair’s out of the way. The last thing Sam registers before dropping off is the weight of Dean’s arm landing around his shoulders.
Dean wakes Sam up with a gentle shove when the movie ends. “C’mon,” he tells him, moving his shoulder out from under Sam’s head. “Off to bed, sleepyhead. Got work to do in the morning.”
“Five more minutes,” Sam mutters, resting his head against the back of the couch.
“Sam, get up, man,” Dean says. “You can sleep all you want once you’re in bed.”
“Mm,” mumbles Sam, and makes no move to get up.
He hears Dean sigh somewhere above him, and then a moment later Dean’s arms are around him, bodily lifting him off the couch. Sam stumbles a little as he’s forced to get on his feet, and the two of them sway dangerously for a moment, almost coming crashing down on the couch before Dean manages to right them. “Dork,” he grumbles, releasing Sam. “Worse’n when you’re drunk, I swear.”
“Whatever,” Sam mumbles, staggering the few steps to the bed and sitting down heavily on it. He toes off his socks and shoes and strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, tossing his clothes in the general direction of the couch when he’s done. He folds them, usually, but tonight he’s too sleepy, and besides, he can always put them away once he’s up in the morning.
“’Night,” Dean says as he gets into bed, already undressed.
“’Night, Dean,” Sam mutters, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the small table between their beds. Yawning, he stretches out under the covers, and is asleep within seconds.
Dean’s good mood continues the next morning as they roll into Seattle, helped along by the fact that he’s brought the new suits along. Sam has to admit they do look smarter than usual, with the two of them wearing fancy suits instead of their usual cheap ones. They’re more comfortable, too – far less danger of their pants ripping down the seams at the first hint of a sudden move, thinks Sam wryly.
They have breakfast on the go, coffee and croissants from a small local bakery that they eat on their way to the police station. Dean’s humming along to Ghost of the Navigator as he parks, and doesn’t stop until they’re at the front desk. “Agents Dickinson and Smith,” he tells the receptionist as they flash their fake Bureau IDs. “The Sheriff in?”
The receptionist checks her watch, and then says, “Lucky for you, yes he is. You’ve got about ten minutes before he leaves for his patrols.” She stands. “Just follow me, Agents.”
“Thanks,” Sam tells her, following her through a door to the bullpen, Dean right after him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean looking at him contemplatively, eyes slightly narrowed. He turns his head slightly, and is just on the verge of asking Dean what’s up when they all arrive at the Sheriff’s office. Resolving to deal with it later, Sam schools his face into a neutral expression and then enters.
The interview doesn’t last long. The Sheriff is mostly clueless about the coven, and informs them that as far as he knows, there haven’t been any suspicious deaths recently. “Nothing out of the usual has been going on,” he says, sipping from a mug of coffee. “We’ve had a few people die all around the same time, but doctors said those were natural causes.”
“Yeah?” Sam asks, interested. “What natural causes?”
“Oh, you know,” the Sheriff says, tapping nicotine-yellowed fingers absently against his desk. “Like, uh, like my buddy Rip’s wife. She went in ‘cause her arthritis has been getting real bad recently, but something went wrong during treatment, and she didn’t make it.”
“What treatment was it?” Dean asks.
The Sheriff shrugs. “Not sure. Didn’t really ask, honestly. If you want, you can ask the doctors down at the hospital she went to.” He rummages in his drawer for a pen, and then scrawls down an address on a notepad. “Here,” he says, ripping it off and handing it to Dean.
“Thank you,” Sam says. “You’ve been a great help.”
“Call me any time if you boys have got more questions,” the Sheriff says with a nod.
“So what do you think?” Dean asks once they’re back in the car.
“Definitely suspicious,” Sam says. “Who dies from treatment for arthritis?”
“Rip’s wife, apparently,” Dean answers, and Sam lets out a huff of laughter before remembering it’s probably not that funny, and then rolls his eyes.
“Inappropriate, Dean.”
“Shut up, you know I’m hilarious,” Dean says, unfazed.
“Nope.”
“You laughed,” Dean points out.
“Almost,” Sam corrects.
“Still proves my point,” Dean says, smirking, and Sam sighs.
“Whatever.”
Dean keeps that smug grin on his face all the way to the hospital, while Sam pretends he can’t see it. They manage to bag the parking spot closest to the door, which has Dean’s smugness increasing to an almost unbearable level. Sam suffers through it patiently, rolling his eyes every now and then whenever Dean catches him looking and waggles his eyebrows at him.
It takes them about two seconds to charm the pathologist into letting them into the morgue. Rip’s wife is not there, apparently having been buried a week ago, but three people have died the day before, the pathologist tells them. “I can show you those bodies, if you want,” she says.
“Yes, please,” Sam says, grabbing a pair of gloves as he goes after her.
“What did they die of?” Dean asks, following.
“Ah, various causes,” the pathologist answers vaguely as she pulls out a drawer.
“Like?” prompts Sam, putting his gloves on.
“This one,” the pathologist answers, indicating the drawer she’s just opened, “died of cardiac arrest. That one—” She pulls open another drawer. “Osteoarthritis. And this guy—” She opens the third drawer, “—had an infection.”
All three of them look like they’ve had all the blood drained out of them. Sam shares a look with Dean before starting his examination of the first body, the guy that died of cardiac arrest. Dean pulls his gloves on and begins looking at the osteoarthritis lady. The pathologist goes back to her office, but Sam notices she’s got her eye on the two of them.
“Anything?” Dean asks in a low voice once she’s out of earshot.
“Yeah,” Sam says, holding up his patient’s arm. “Dude, come look at this.” He waits until Dean’s closer before gently pulling apart the patient’s fingers. “See?” he says, pointing to the webbing between the middle and ring fingers. There is a small Y-shaped wound there, invisible when Sam lets the guy’s fingers fall back closed.
“What is that?” Dean asks.
“Wounds from leeches,” Sam tells him. “He’s got more, look—” He raises the guy’s arm again. “There, in the underarm.”
“Couple behind the ear, too,” Dean reports, gently moving the patient’s head to one side and moving his hair out of the way.
“Something tells me we’ll see the same things on the other two,” Sam says, as they finish examining cardiac arrest guy and slide his drawer closed again.
“Let’s go see,” Dean says. They change gloves and move on to the osteoarthritis lady, and sure enough she bears similar wounds in similar places. The same goes for the guy with an infection.
“It’s just a shaving cut,” Sam murmurs, prodding at it gently. “It wouldn’t have needed anything more than antibiotics.”
Dean grimaces. “And yet they leeched him,” he says, lifting the guy’s hand to check between his fingers.
“How do we find out who they are?” Sam murmurs, checking behind the patient’s ear. He’s been watching the pathologist out of the corner of his eyes ever since she retreated to her office, and it’s clear that she’s still watching them.
“We could ask around,” Dean suggests. “Maybe fake an illness and see for ourselves.”
“Or,” Sam says quietly, “we could follow Dr. Markham home.” He nods to her.
Fortunately Dean has the good sense not to turn around and look immediately. “Yeah, she’s shady, right?” he whispers back to Sam.
“Yeah,” Sam answers. “She’s been watching us this entire time. I think she knows we’re hunters. We’re gonna have to be quick.”
“Yep,” says Dean. “Tonight?”
Sam nods. “Yeah.”
“Let me know if you boys need any more help,” Dr. Markham says to them on their way out with a close-lipped smile.
Sam gives her a neutral smile back. “Thank you, Dr. Markham,” he says.
They go back to their motel room to change into more comfortable clothes. Sam makes sure their machetes are sharp while Dean packs dead man’s blood, both in syringe and bullet forms. They take a break for lunch, during which Sam looks up Dr. Markham’s home address from his phone, and Dean borrows his laptop to browse for any more deaths that may have happened.
They park a few blocks from Dr. Markham’s apartment building. Sam gets out of the car first, going round to the trunk and unpacking the machetes and dead man’s blood. Dean joins him a moment later, grabbing their guns, and then says, “C’mon, let’s get this over with. I need to go home and finish the game, man.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “What wonderful motivation,” he says. “Not like people are dying or anything.”
“Yeah, that too,” Dean adds belatedly with a grin. He shuts the trunk, locks it, and pockets the car keys before saying, “One last thing, Sammy.”
“What?” Sam asks.
Instead of answering, though, Dean moves forward and wraps his arms around Sam. For a moment Sam is too surprised to respond, but then he raises his arms and uncertainly hugs Dean back. Dean tightens the embrace for a second, and then steps back with a clap to Sam’s shoulder. “Right, let’s go, then, Sammy.”
And with that, he sets off jogging in the direction of the apartment.
Sam follows, walking quickly until he catches up to Dean. “What was that for?” he asks, confused.
“Oh, you know,” Dean says vaguely. “Just trying something out.”
“Trying what out?” Sam asks, frowning.
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” Dean answers, irritatingly mysterious.
“You’re being very weird right now,” Sam tells him.
“Shush, we’re there,” Dean says, coming to a halt.
Resolving to continue this later, Sam follows Dean behind a parked car, the two of them crouching so that they remain hidden. The light in Dr. Markham’s apartment goes out, and then a few minutes later she emerges from the building, wearing a long overcoat and carrying an unfashionably large bag. She looks around furtively for a few seconds, as if ensuring she’s alone, and then sets off down the road, her steps quick.
Sam and Dean set off after her, taking care to keep their steps light and to remain out of sight. They follow her for about fifteen minutes, flitting through alleyways and ducking behind cars to remain hidden. Once or twice she turns and looks up and down the road, but doesn’t make any move that indicates she knows she’s being tailed.
Their journey ends at an abandoned-looking warehouse at what seems to be the edge of the neighborhood. They wait for her to enter first and then draw their machetes, tiptoeing closer to the warehouse. A second later, the lights go on inside, and Sam hears Dr. Markham say, “All right, I got some more.”
“How many?” comes another voice, lower and gruffer.
“Four people,” Dr. Markham answers. “Here.”
There’s a pause, and then a third voice says, “Good.” This one sounds female.
“I think we’ve been made, though,” Dr. Markham says nervously a moment later.
“How come?” Fourth voice, another male.
“Two FBI agents came to the hospital today,” she replies. “Wanted to see the first three bodies. I can’t be sure, but I think they might’ve been hunters.”
“Fuck,” curses the first male voice. “Seriously?”
“Four of them, I think,” Dean mouths to Sam, who nods back.
“Let’s go?” he asks.
Dean nods.
They burst in, machetes up. Dr. Markham is standing in the middle of the warehouse, holding out her giant bag, while two male vampires and a female stand around her. But they’re not the only ones – there are three more, spread out in the warehouse, looking freshly turned going by the barely-controlled hunger on their faces.
“Shit,” curses Dean, and takes a swing at the first one.
That gets the fight going – the three vampires surrounding Dr. Markham throw themselves towards the brothers, and Sam takes off one of the male’s heads with a clean stroke. Dean gets rid of the other two new ones, while the other male and the female gang up on Sam. He fights back, keeping them away, one hand swinging the machete around while with his other he manages to get his gun out.
“Dean!” he yells, realizing he’s been backed into a corner only when he feels his back hit the wall.
The female vampire grins, displaying razor-sharp fangs. “I think Dean’s busy right now,” she says mockingly.
Sam looks over her shoulder to find that her partner is battling Dean, who it appears has his hands full trying to take a swing at him. Meanwhile, Dr. Markham is still holding her bag, but she’s moved to a corner from which she’s watching the fight with frightened eyes.
“Give me a moment!” Dean yells at Sam.
“Might take longer than that,” the female vampire says, stepping closer.
Sam holds his machete out. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Ugh, just fucking die,” Dean snarls, and Sam looks across the room to see Dean shoot his opponent in the chest.
The moment of distraction costs him; he feels a sharp pain in his hand as the only remaining vampire kicks his machete out of him. Panicking, he brings his gun up immediately, flicking the safety off, but she’s already within his personal space now, and after a few moments of struggling she manages to wrest it from him and kick it away.
“Dean!” Sam calls out again, trying to find space to escape, but she’s got him well and truly cornered. She grins at him, wide and feral, grabbing him as he tries to duck around her.
“You smell absolutely delicious, you know that?” she says, turning him so that he’s facing the room, held still by her arm around his throat. She’s freakishly strong, must be at least a century old – even when he struggles with all his might, Sam makes no progress. She holds him as easily as she would a child.
“Sammy!” Dean yells, but only manages to take two steps before he stops.
A second later, Sam feels her warm breath on his neck. He twists, trying to get out of her hold, panic rising at the old-blood stink of her breath. It doesn’t help that he clearly remembers what had happened the last time he’d been beaten by a vampire – he’d had his throat ripped out, in that cave in the Apocalypse world. Just because he’s alive now doesn’t mean he can forget the way it had felt to have his own blood gush out of him.
From Dean’s expression, it looks like he’s remembering that too – his face twists in hatred and determination, and he raises his gun, aiming. At the same time Sam feels the vampire’s teeth break skin, just shy of his carotid, and he goes completely still. One wrong movement, and he’ll be reenacting that particular death once more in gory detail, something he has no wish of doing.
And then Dean shoots.
The vampire drops, and a second later Sam falls too, one hand flying to the side of his throat. And then Dean is next to him, holding him up, dropping his gun, his hands going to cover Sam’s on his neck. “Sammy,” he breathes out, eyes wide in fear. “Sammy, are you—”
“I’m fine,” Sam assures him, taking his hand off. “It’s not that deep, Dean, it’s just a small bite—”
She’s missed his carotid. The bite is bleeding, but only sluggishly, not the arterial spray that would indicate death in seconds. He’s going to be fine; he’s going to live.
Dean takes a look for himself, and then breathes out in relief. “Jesus, Sammy,” he says, voice cracking a little, and then pulls Sam in with both arms.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam repeats, raising an arm to hug Dean back. “I’m okay—”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, squeezing once and then letting him go. “Fuck, Sam—”
He doesn’t get to complete his sentence.
The male vampire he’d shot, it turns out, is not in fact dead. Sam and Dean watch as he gets to his feet, staggering towards them. The bullet wound in his chest does not seem to be slowing him down at all.
Sam jerks out of Dean’s embrace, reaching for his own gun. Dean moves too, kicking one foot out as he tries to stand. It hits the gun he’d dropped, and it goes off, freezing Sam and Dean in place. They watch, stunned, as the vampire goes down, a neat bullet wound in the center of his forehead.
“How—?” begins Sam.
“Lucky shot, I guess,” Dean answers hoarsely, before helping Sam get up on his feet.
“That lucky?” Sam asks, stunned.
Dean gives him the best version of a cocky grin that he can manage under the circumstances. “I’m Batman,” he tells Sam with a wink, before picking his gun up.
Movement in the far corner reminds them that Dr. Markham’s still here. She looks petrified, clutching her bag as they go closer to her. “Please don’t hurt me,” she squeaks out, eyes wide behind her glasses. “I’m not – I’m not one of them—”
“No, you just kill people for them,” Dean says with disgust.
“What’s in the bag?” Sam asks, keeping his gun aimed towards her.
Instead of answering she drops the bag. Sam and Dean both take a step back as it spills leeches, the small, dark creatures writhing out in a roiling, tangled mass. “Fuck,” groans Dean, averting his eyes. “That’s—fuck, that’s disgusting.”
“They made me,” Dr. Markham says in a small voice, appearing transfixed by the leeches. “They said that they’d turn me if I didn’t help them.”
“Open your mouth,” Sam tells her, stepping over the bag of leeches.
“What?” she says, her eyes snapping up to his face.
“Open your mouth,” Sam repeats. “And keep your hands up.”
She obeys, looking at Sam in confusion as he reaches out with his free hand. He retracts her upper lip with his middle finger and presses the index down into her gums, while Dean keeps his gun aimed at her.
Nothing happens.
“No fangs,” Sam reports, stepping away.
“I told you I’m not one of them,” Dr. Markham says, her tone hurt as if she’s upset they didn’t believe her.
“You get a pass this time,” Dean tells her.
“But we’ll be keeping an eye out,” Sam adds.
“One more suspicious death, and we’ll be back,” Dean continues. “Might not be so forgiving then.” He spares the leeches by his feet one last grimace, and then steps back to give her space. “Go home,” he tells her.
She doesn’t need to be told twice; kicking the bag aside, she runs for the door, not looking back even once.
“This,” Dean says, hopping away from the leeches, “is quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
“Same,” Sam says with a wince. “Let’s get out of here, man, if I have to keep looking at them I think I might lose my lunch.”
They spread salt liberally all over each and every body in the warehouse, and then empty a few bottles of gasoline all over the place. Dean waits until the two of them are safe outside before throwing a match, and the two of them watch as the place goes up in flames. Dr. Markham is nowhere to be seen; it seems she took their advice and got the hell out of there as fast as she could.
“So,” Sam says as they begin walking back towards where they’d parked. “That went well.”
“You almost died,” Dean points out, incredulous.
“Dean, I’m fine,” Sam says, for what feels like the fiftieth time.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean replies after a pause. “Just scared me.”
“Dude.” Sam knocks his shoulder against Dean’s. “It’s the job. These things happen.” Dean still looks pensive and a little upset, though, so Sam changes the subject. “That shot though, right?”
“That was awesome, wasn’t it?” Dean says, perking up at once.
Sam smiles. “Yeah, it was.”
“Man, I’m glad this is over,” says Dean. “I can’t wait to go home and finish my game.”
“Maybe I’ll join you,” Sam says. “See what’s so great about it.”
“Cool,” says Dean happily.
He takes a look at Sam when they reach the car, getting the first aid kit out of the trunk so he can gently wipe down the blood on Sam’s neck. Sam winces at the sting of the alcohol wipe on the bite, but then a second later Dean’s applying antibiotic cream, cool and soothing against his skin.
“Dunno where the fuck their mouths have been,” Dean mutters as he covers the bite with gauze and tapes it down. “Filthy little fuckers.”
“Did you know there are over seven hundred species of bacteria in the human mouth?” Sam tells Dean.
“Gross,” comments Dean. “There’s probably like a billion more in vamp mouths.”
“Think how many there must be in werewolf mouths,” Sam says, and grins at the look on Dean’s face.
“I do not want to think about it,” Dean says flatly, smoothing Sam’s collar before letting go of him. “Come on, man. Let’s get outta here.”
They get dinner at a truckstop diner on the highway, long after showering, changing, and checking out. It’s halfway through his meal that Sam remembers Dean’s behavior from earlier. “Hey,” he says, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. “What did you mean earlier, when you said you were trying something?”
Dean swallows his bite of cheeseburger, and then says, “Oh, right. That.”
“Yeah, that,” Sam says, putting his fork down. “What was it all about? You said you’d tell me when you figured it out. Have you?”
Dean nods. “Yep,” he tells Sam.
“So what is it?” Sam prods. Dean seems oddly reluctant to tell him.
“Man, it’s kinda weird,” Dean says, after a second. “I mean, it makes sense, but it’s kinda weird.”
“Dude, what?” Sam asks, impatient now.
“You’re my good luck charm,” Dean says, so quickly that the words all run together.
Sam blinks, not sure he heard that right. “I’m – what?”
“My good luck charm,” Dean repeats.
“How?” Sam asks, frowning.
“Dude, you remember I hugged you when you got me that sandwich a couple days ago? And then I won ten grand right after,” Dean tells him, food forgotten. “And then I hugged you ‘cause you had the power bank, and that diner ended up having waffle fries after all? And then you fell asleep on my shoulder last night, and then it was so easy getting all that info we needed for the case? So I figured that there must be some connection, and I thought I’d try it out before we went to that warehouse tonight.”
“And does it work?” Sam asks, interested now. This definitely explains why he’s been getting hugged so much lately.
Dean nods. “Yeah! Think about it, man,” he adds. “She was so close to your carotid, dude. And you’re fine! And we finished the hunt in like, a day. When does that ever happen, man?”
“I guess it makes sense,” Sam says after a few seconds of contemplative silence. “But like… I don’t understand how it works.”
“Me neither,” Dean says. “But I’m not complaining, man.”
“Neither am I,” says Sam with a faint smile.
“It’s ‘cause you’re a cuddler,” Dean informs him. “Anyway, I know you, I know you’re gonna think your head off about this, so I already dropped a text to Rowena. She said she’ll get back to us soon.”
“Right, okay,” Sam says, realizing Dean’s right. Then a thought occurs to him, and he frowns. “Man, you don’t think it’s a curse or anything, do you?”
“That was the first thing I asked Rowena, and she said no,” Dean tells him. “Said curses would bring bad luck, not good.”
“Then what else could it be?” Sam asks.
Dean shrugs, picking up his burger again. “Dunno, but I don’t really care. I just hope it sticks.”
“That’d be nice,” Sam says after a moment, taking up his fork again. “Some good luck for a change.”
“Like my own personal four-leaf clover,” Dean agrees. “Or a rabbit’s foot.”
“Minus the curse,” Sam adds.
“Yeah, dude, definitely,” Dean says.
Dean refuels the Impala after they’re done eating, while Sam gets snacks for the road. It’s close to midnight now; as he’s putting the bags of food in the backseat, Sam asks, “Are we gonna stop for the night?”
“Nah, I’m good to drive,” Dean tells him.
“It’s a day long drive,” Sam points out. “And you never let me drive. What’re you gonna do if you get tired?”
“Find a motel, obviously,” Dean replies, like Sam’s an idiot for asking. “But—” He pauses, removing the fuel nozzle from the gas tank and putting it back. Sam watches as he screws the tank cover back on before closing the lid. “I think I’ll be fine,” he completes.
“You sure?” Sam asks, still a little uncertain.
Dean stops in his tracks and gives Sam a quick hug, patting him twice on the back before letting go. “Now I am,” he says, and grins at the half-stunned look on Sam’s face. “Better get used to this, Sammy,” he calls out as he continues on to pay for the gas.
Sam blinks, trying to clear his head, and smiles to himself as he gets in the car. Yeah, he thinks as he watches Dean pay and then begin walking back towards the Impala. He can definitely get used to this.