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“Come on, Sammy! We should be out there, hunting things, ganking monsters...” Dean said, for what seemed like the ninth time this hour.
Damn, Sam could be pig headed sometimes! Just like their father. Sure, he was pushed down a flight of stairs and broke both his leg--and the wooden banister--on the way down, but he could still go out and do something! Hell, Bobby didn’t quit when he was laid up in that chair!
Sam had gone from responding to Dean to ignoring his constant complaints. Instead, he sat there, making a list.
“Sammy, come on! I’m dying of boredom here.”
“You wanna watch some of my DVDs?” Sam didn’t even look up from his writing, which really made Dean want to toss something at his head.
“No, I don’t want to watch your complete collection of the Gilmore Girls! What I need is to get out of here.”
“No, Dean.” Sam stood up folding the list in his pocket. “What you need to do is rest. You broke your leg, not a nail.”
“Come on, Sammy, we’ve been through worse.”
“Yes, and we rested after that, too. Tell me, Dean, if it were me, would you let me go out hunting?”
“But it’s not the same.”
And both Dean and Sam knew that in Dean’s mind, it wasn’t. He looked after Sam, protecting him like his dad had told him. Dean was the elder brother.
“Look, Dean, I’m going out. To stock up on stuff and do a much needed beer run. You want anything?”
Dean didn’t even sound excited when he replied, “Pie.”
Limping around on crutches was harder than it looked. Trying to shoot from them? Near impossible, as Dean discovered when Sam was out. Even when he he readjusted the pressure on the damn padded stick he had under his arm, the recoil from the gun made his crutch skid.
Frustrated with his progress, Dean pushed harder, shooting faster and a little more sloppy. Which put him into the circle of frustration.
Reloading the gun, Dean lined up the shot and fired off six bullets in a row. With each shot, his crutch slid a little more, until it went too far, slipping from Dean’s grip. Dean tumbled to the ground, jarring his good leg and shoulder in the fall.
Dean tried to crawl to the wall or door, needing something to help lift himself up. However, no amount of wiggling got him closer to something useful.
And that is how Sam found him, when he got back a few hours later.
“Damn it, Dean!” Sam hurried to his brother’s side. “You couldn’t have just watched TV or read, like a normal injured person?”
Dean winced as Sam pulled him to a sitting position. “We don’t do normal Sam.”
“Well, we can at least try. How bad did you mess yourself up? And none of that ultra masculine bullshit where you can have six bulletholes and say you're fine!”
“Think I twisted my knee on the way down. Right shoulder is messed up too. Wasn’t quick enough to catch myself.”
Sam nodded once, looking over the room. Dean’s crutch--the traitorous wooden bastard--innocently lay on the floor. His gun had sailed across the cement, hitting the wall on the other side. Sam went over and picked it up, placing it on the table set in the room for cleaning guns, before he dragged a chair in front of Dean.
“Okay, I’m going to lift you up with the right. Use your stronger arm to steady yourself on the chair,” Sam instructed, squatting and getting the bad arm up over his shoulder and wrapping both hands around Dean’s waist to help him off the ground.
“Thank you, Sammy.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s pills and bed for you.”
“And a beer. Definitely need a beer.”
Waking up as the medicine wore off, Dean could tell that he majorly fucked up. If his dad were still alive, he’d slap Dean on the back of his head for the amateurish way he had acted.
The broken leg throbbed worse than when Sam dragged his butt to the hospital. His other leg didn’t hurt as much, but he could tell that he bruised it and his arm.
Wishing he had a bell on the nightstand to ring to request another pill and upgrade his water to a scotch, Dean debated how he could get out of bed. Hell, if he could ring for Sam, he’d just have his brother help him up.
He couldn’t even call him on his cell, seeing as the phone was on his desk and out of his reach.
“Good, you’re awake. So how are you doing?” Sam asked, bringing in a tray that he set down on Dean’s desk.
“Fine, Sammy. Now, toss me that beer you brought.” Dean tried to pull himself up to sit and hissed from the pain. Sam frowned, moving to help his brother. Who knew that falling on his butt--okay, his side--would put so much strain on his leg?
“Dean, you’re moving around worse than before.”
“You need to get your eyes checked. I’m moving around fine. Now, about that beer?”
Sam didn’t move, giving Dean the you’re not fooling me face. Dean just sighed, breaking the stare-off. “Sammy, please, my leg hurts.” He wasn’t going to mention his arm.
“Then you should take some of those pain killers the doctor gave you.”
“Okay, fine. But I need something to wash them down with. So, beer?”
Sam opened his mouth to argue, before closing it with a shake of his head. Grabbing a bottle, Sam opened it and placed it on the nightstand next to Dean.
“Won’t be the first time we mixed pills and booze. But be careful, ‘kay? Also, I brought you something to eat.”
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup.” Dean looked at the food on the food tray Sam had placed over Dean’s lap.
“Yeah. You used to make when we were younger. Told me no one could make a cheese sandwich like mom.”
Dean remembered. Canned tomato soup and grilled cheese was limited to when Sam was sick and they had a motel with a mini kitchen. Too many times, it was only peanut butter and bread, since neither had to be chilled. Cereal was dry, unless dad had gone to a mart before coming home, or left money for Dean.
Sam sat across from him with a matching sandwich--cut into four triangles--and a bowl of soup. Neither boy talked until the plates were empty and their stomachs were full
Picking up the tray, Sam looked over at Dean before leaving. “Get some sleep, Dean”
“Yes, mom.” Dean took a large swig of beer, finishing the bottle as Sam walked out of the room.
Dean found a whole new level of hatred for ghosts. He was going bunker crazy. It had been two weeks since he broke his leg--one since the fall--and Dean was able to move around again, with the aid of the crutch.
After spending a week in his room, reading the hard hitting articles in Asian Babes (“All About Miss April”) and listening to his records, Dean was ready to move.
Joining Sam in the main room, Dean sat across from his brother, watching Sam do some sort of research. For the last two weeks, Sam stuck close to home. Dean was awed that his little brother wasn’t about to go postal from the quiet.
Dean sure was.
“Find a good hunt for us?”
“We’re not going hunting Dean! You’ve just got back on your feet from your last fall. Enjoy your vacation while it lasts.”
“Come on, Sammy-”
“Sure... You know what, I don’t know what I was thinking! Let’s go chase something down and gank it! You can run with that thing, right?”
“Smartass! No, okay. I can’t run!”
Sam didn’t respond, just continued to read from the large leather bound book.
Dean grumbled, picking up a copy of Asian Babes and thumbing through it. Playboy wasn’t the only skin magazine with interesting articles. There was a great piece on top ten cars that woman found sexy. Dean disagreed wholeheartedly with the article. There wasn’t a single classic muscle car on the list!
But that didn’t surprise him. There weren’t any on the list the last four times he read the damn thing.
Dean tossed the magazine on the table. “Sammy, I’m getting bored. Come on man, we gotta get out of here!”
“You can come with me this next beer run.” Sam turned a page, never looking up from whatever ancient lore he was reading. “If you’re bored, why don’t you help me out?”
The idea of searching through books was only slightly more interesting than watching dust settle. “Okay, I’ll bite. What are you looking for?”
“Garth called, looking for information on furies.”
“Aren’t those weirdos that like to dress in animal suits? Always knew Garth was into kinky shit! Man had too many uniforms...”
“No, Dean! A fury is from Roman mythology. The were deities of vengeance. Some lore said they’re the supernatural embodiment of the anger of the dead.”
“What does that mean? They’re vengeful ghosts?”
“No... it’s more like when a person dies, their anger summons them to seek retribution. They dole out,” Sam looked back to his book, quoting, “‘a wrathful punishment, for men that have sinned against the dead.’”
“So, they go after those that murder?”
“Murder is a big one. There is some writing suggesting they go after others. Like, a wife whose lover killed her husband might be on the furies’ hit list.”
“So, what are you looking for?”
“Garth asked how to summon and kill one.”
Grabbing another book, Dean flipped it open to Sam’s premarked spots. Sam always did research prior to in depth reading, marking spots in books that might be helpful when he got to the book. It wasn’t a trick they picked up from their father. Sam must have picked it up when he went off to college.
Their father was a little more old school in the way he researched. He didn’t look over old dusty tombs. No, his dad was more the newsprint and break-into-public-records kind of guy. He could track down a haunt, finding the ghost through town records and newspaper stories. But he rarely researched information on the type of creature. That was one of the reasons he used Bobby so much. Bobby had patience, and a seemingly endless collection of books.
“Hey, Sammy, you remember the first time dad had us research a case?”
Sammy looked over a Dean, finger marking his spot in the book. “You mean the ghost hunt where dad was trying to teach you how to find the most likely body to salt and burn, but you had me go through all the death notices for the last year?”
Dean cracked a smile. Oh, he forgot about that part.
“And didn’t he have you do the research on the next five cases by yourself?”
Dean had forgot about that too. Dad was hard when teaching, and he didn’t ever seem to understand that each of his boys was different. Sam’s brains didn’t make him any less useful than did Dean’s lack of interest in bookwork. Dean wasn’t dumb, he’d just rather be holding the gun than turning the pages.
Dean remember, once, Bobby telling him that his father didn’t understand it was smarter to share in strengths than divide in weakness. He didn’t understand what that meant until his father was gone.
His father was a single soldier, trained to fight by himself, never wanting to rely on anyone.
Including his own sons.
Sam and he worked together as a team. Much better than by either would have by himself.
“Yeah, sure, Sammy. Rub it in. So where would you like me to start?”
When Dean hit the four week mark, it was the second week in December. Sam had once again left with a long list, this time warning Dean to do safe activities. Nothing like visiting the shooting range again. Maybe just take a nap to rest his leg.
Not wanting to upset his leg again, Dean went back to his room and put on some vinyl, letting Cab Calloway play. Before long, Dean fell asleep.
Dean hated when Sam was right. The three hour nap did him good. He woke to a rumbling stomach, demanding to be filled. But the throbbing in his leg was down, and his headache was gone. Dean sniffed the air. Something was cooking that smelled delicious, beckoning Dean to the kitchen.
“See? Told you you’d feel better after some rest,” Sammy said from his spot at the stove, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich.
“Yeah, yeah. I took my nap like a good boy. Making grilled cheese again?”
“Yep. The store’s deli made homemade tomato soup too. Sounded good.” Sam plated the last sandwich and turned off the stove before bringing the plate to the table with the soup.
“So, I have a surprise for you. Show you after lunch.”
Dean’s sandwich paused halfway to his mouth. “We’re going on a hunt?”
“Is your leg still encased in plaster? Then no.” Sam bit into his sandwich, giving Dean the go ahead and mess with me glare.
Dean didn’t fight Sam. He’d find out soon enough.
“You know, you could bring home a pie every now and then.”
“Sure. You need all those extra calories, now that you can’t run.”
Dean rolled his eyes. He was getting around faster on his crutches, finally getting the balance down. Okay, so he wasn’t running for his life, but he wasn’t a sloth on the couch either.
“Whatever, Sammy. I can still kick your ass. Where is this surprise?”
Sam shook his head, leading Dean into the main room. There, Dean saw cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, next to a still-bound Christmas tree.
“Sam, why is there a tree in our HQ?”
“Well, since you still have a good two weeks in that cast, I thought we could celebrate Christmas this year.”
“Last time, you didn’t seem too happy about it, Sam.”
“No, Dean. Last time you were dying. I think we need to wipe that Christmas from our memories. You talk about how this is home to you. Well, let’s make it home.”
“Christmas will make it home?”
“No. Good memories will make it home. Make it something we want to come back to.”
Sam walked over to the boxes, opening the one on the top and pulling out a secondhand Santa holding a sheet of paper in one hand and a pen in another. Sam set him on the table, pushing a button by his feet. Santa Claus is Coming to Town played as the toy wiggled in a poor attempt to dance. “I got a bunch of stuff at the thrift store. We can go all out.”
Dean remembered Christmases on the road when he was younger. There weren’t many presents, but their Dad did find the littlest Charlie Brown tree he could find and let them decorate it with cut outs from some tossed out magazines. Everything from sports pictures to parts of makeup ads colored their tree.
Grabbing a stack of old magazines he’d already read a few times and a pair of scissors, Dean sat down to cut out pictures. This year, they would sit on the tree among used lights and multicolored tinsel.
“Yeah, Sammy, let’s do Christmas this year.” Dean cut out a picture of a car that looked like his baby. That would look great as the star.