“Did that guy look kind of shady to you? He looked kind of shady to me...” Dean said, hand going around his back to trade his sawed-off for the EMF reader.
“Dean, he's a terrified old man whose wife burned to death a month ago, only to show up in his cellar... what exactly in there sounds shady to you?”
“I think it was the mustache... did ya see the size of that thing? I swear to you... I saw the remains of a dead rat in there... at least I think it was dead-”
“You’re impossible,” Sam said with a chuckle. There was something about this job that wasn’t sitting quite right with him either, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that Dean’s time was running out and Hell was getting closer with each passing day, or maybe it was just the fact that this case had literally fallen in their laps. Conveniently so.
Granted, in their line of work, that wasn’t that much of a stretch, given that trouble seemed able to find them in the most unlikely of places. But still, there weren’t that many times in which they opened the newspaper and saw an add asking for ‘supernatural specialists to deal with personal matter of the utmost importance’. The fact that the person was willing to pay well for the ‘dealing’ part was all too clearly implied.
Dean had jumped at the opportunity of an actual paying job. And the reasons why he’d jumped still made Sam’s stomach churn every single time he thought about them.
Dean was stockpiling. For harsher days. Namely, for when he was burning in Hell.
If Sam knew his brother well -and he did- he knew that somewhere, somehow, Dean had started some sort of funding. Maybe a bank account, maybe a post-office locker, heck, maybe a sock in his duffel,... but somehow, Sam knew that Dean was saving up money so that Sam wouldn’t have to hustle pool, or cheat at poker, or apply for credit cards named after dead rock stars or fictional characters after Dean himself was gone.
There was no point in even saying a word against it or even asking him to stop. It was just one of those things that Dean figured he had to do to keep his little brother safe and Sam –being said little brother- had no vote in the matter.
On the other hand, with all the extra time that Dean had been spending in bars lately, it did give Sam more opportunities to search for a way out of the that damn deal.
It also meant that paying jobs were candy these days: sweet and tasty no matter what color and shape they presented themselves.
So, yes, the old man looked sort of shady, with his over-indulgent mustache and beard and his loaded house, but he was paying and until they had proof of anything, it was nothing but a hunch. The fact that it was a hunch shared by both him and Dean did set his nerves a bit on edge, though. “What’s the EMF saying?”
Dean showed him the silent gadget. “Nada, not even the spirit of a past cockroach,” he said, managing to sound disappointed. “You’d think that a house this big and old would have at least a couple of skeletons in the closet.”
“Well, Mr. Garrison did say that it was well past midnight when he saw the spirit... maybe she only shows up around then?”
“Yeah, maybe. But I have a better idea – we know where the old lady is buried... why don’t we save ourselves some trouble and just burn the ol’gal’s bones and collect our five hundred?” Dean suggested, for the tenth time in a row.
“And if this turns out to be something else other than Mrs. Garrison’s spirit... what then?”
“Well, at least we’d made sure that she would never turn in to one,” Dean muttered. “Call it an insurance policy... I bet you we can even squeeze the old man for some extra cash for that,” he added with a pair of dancing eyebrows.
Sam, who was too busy opening old cabinets and looking at titles on the sides of some even older books, ignored both the dance and the suggestion. Dean stored the useless EMF and paused in the middle of the cellar, his eyes searching the room for anything that might help them.
There wasn’t much there. Some gardening tools, a couple of broken chairs, a worn mattress propped against one wall with springs leaking through the worn fabric, shelves loaded with dusty books, jars of all sizes and shapes filled with unidentifiable gunk, some rusty construction tools and a couple of old cabinets. The naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling was low voltage and so covered in dust and grease that it might as well have been turned off instead of on.
Their only other source of light, coming from the upstairs entrance, dimmed signifying when someone stepped through the threshold of the door.
“Mr. Garrison, we told you -- it’s not really safe for you to come down here,” Sam warned the man on top of the stairs.
“You have that one right, Sam,” a deep voice, deeper than the old man's, answered. Both Winchesters turned in unison to see the satisfied smile on the face of the speaker at the top of the stairs. The smile didn't quite reach his hard eyes as he took one step down. “Hello boys.”
There was no need to ask or confirm his identity; Dean and Sam remembered all too well the separate ‘interviews’ that the FBI agent had subjected them to while they were waiting to be transferred to Folsom Prison. Henricksen.
There was no need to figure out a course of action; the same strategic way of thinking had been drilled in to both Winchesters by their father as they grew up and even thought they were trapped in what looked like a dead end, each brother scattered away from the light and chose a place to defend.
The next move in their little game of cat-and-mouse was Henricksen’s.
“Come on guys... there’s really no point in playing hide and seek,” the FBI man said. “I’ve got the place surrounded... just surrender yourselves and no one gets hurt.”
The man had a point, Sam could admit that much. But there was the fact that Dean was wanted for murder and was facing a possible death sentence, so that would hurt a bit; and then, there was also the minor case of a debt to a crossroads demon, who would be showing up to collect in less than ten months time – that would hurt a lot. If all else failed and Sam couldn’t break Dean’s deal, he wasn’t going to sit by and watch his brother rot behind bars for whatever time he had left, only to die and be thrown in to an even worse sort of imprisonment.
So, no, they were not going to cooperate with Henricksen, no even by a long shot, and not while there was still hope of them getting out of there alive.
“How'd you even find us?” Dean asked, his voice echoing around the small place and seemingly coming from everywhere.
Even in the dark, Sam managed to find Dean’s figure, hunched behind the old mattress. Dean wasn’t even looking at the FBI man. His fingers were busy with something that Sam couldn't see from his spot.
“Come on Dean... magician doesn’t tell his secrets,” Henricksen replied, the smile invisible but shinning through his tone. The man was clearly pleased with himself for having them trapped.
“The old man sold us out, hum?” Sam heard his brother ask from across the cellar. “Told you he looked shady, Sammy.”
Sam didn’t needed super powers to understand what was Dean’s plan and see the mindless chitchat for what it really was. Whatever Dean was working on, it was noisy and he needed Henricksen distracted.
“Yeah, well... next time try to give me more than mutant, rat-eating beards,” Sam shouted back.
Now that they’d both given their positions away, Sam could see Henricksen venturing a couple more steps down, gun raised and pointed straight ahead, body quickly hidden from view as soon as he stopped. The beam of the flashlight in the man’s hand passed eerily close to the place where Sam was hiding. “Oh, the old man is legit... he truly believes that Mrs. Wacko is haunting the ground beneath his feet... that was why he was so perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Sam asked, hoping to launch Henricksen in to one of those bad-guy monologues that Dean despised so much. He had no idea what Dean was up to, but Sam was willing to buy him as much time as he could.
Because right now? It was a toss between whatever derange plan Dean was cooking and a suicide charge against the armed federal.
“Come on guys... you really think I’m that stupid?”
“You really want me to answer that?” Dean’s voice echoed across the cellar.
Victor’s gun immediately zeroed in on him. From the agent's angle, Sam was sure he couldn’t see more than springs and a dirty mattress. Still, of he decided to shot, those wouldn’t offer that much of a protection.
“I figure what you boys do, or rather,” the FBI man said with a dry chuckle, “what you boys think you do... It’s funny, but I hadn’t pegged you for being that kind of wacko. I guess crazy really runs in the family.”
The pause in Dean’s working hands could either be a reaction to the sting of the man’s words or a sign that he’d finished whatever the hell he’d been doing. Sam hoped it was the latter.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean’s veiled and carefully controlled voice answered.
“Oh... I know enough... I know about the way you two were raised, I know about the red flags your daddy stirred up in the Child Protection Services, I know about the things in the trunk of your car and how you use them. The rest I can guess. Strict, violent and lonely father on the road with two small boys, no one around to stop him from knocking you around a couple of times, no one to... comfort him. I saw a picture of your mother, Dean. Lovely lady – daddy ever told you you look just like her?”
“You’re a dick—you’re daddy ever told you that?” Dean hissed.
Henricksen’s only reaction was a mirthless laugh. “I told you before, Dean: I know your type and your type is predictable.”
Moving under the protection that the conversation between the two men offered, Sam managed to get closer to his brother to get a better handle of what he was up to.
Behind the cabinet, wedged between the wooden piece and the mattress, Dean was messing around with bottles and large bags. Chemicals bottles.
It was too dark for him to read, but from the shape and size, Sam could guess at least a bag of fertilizer and one of bleach.
“That’s a shame Victor, ‘cause I aim to surprise.”
Sam paused and took a deep breath. There was a keen tang of bleach fumes already in the air, which meant that his brother had wasted no time in soaking the mattress through. Dean wasn’t nuts enough to...
“Come on... you really think you can escape this situation? There’s no gullible female lawyer in here for you to fool in to helping you, Dean... no tricks this time...”
Sam lost track of the conversation going on between the fed and his brother. Instead, his mind tracked furiously, calculating the odds of them surviving if Dean did what Sam was sure he was preparing to do.
The house was old, and its termite-infested foundation didn’t look all that sturdy. Granted, Dean had picked the one wall that was far enough from the main road and the front of the house that might provide them with cover enough to make their escape. Also, the fact that it just happened to be the only wall that wasn’t completely underground... but all of that was working on the assumption that the whole house wouldn't just fall on their heads in the mean time.
Home made explosives had always been a hobby of Dean’s, but they weren’t the most accurate of explosions to control. A couple of destroyed motel kitchens and a few escapes in the middle of the night attested that quite well.
Sam’s only hint that Dean wanted him to get ready was a look sent in the general direction his brother guessed him to be. And then Dean stepped from behind the mattress.
“You’re right Victor... no tricks this time,” he said, taking a step towards the armed man.
“Stop right there!" The FBI man blared, his stance rock still as he aimed light and gun muzzle in Dean’s direction. "Hands where I can see them!”
Dean calmly raised his hands, lighter concealed in the fingers behind his head. He smiled.
Sam panicked. Dean was too close. Henricksen hadn’t allowed him to move much further away from the explosives –-Dean was too close and he was smiling. Sam knew that signal well. It was his count down. 3... 2...
Sam ducked. The resounding BOOM! in the small cellar shook the whole place; up, down and sideways. Hands around his ears, Sam closed his eyes, knowing full well his actions offered little protection from the explosive or its aftermath. Still, he'd been quick and that alone resulted in him avoiding the majority of the flying debris.
Before the dust cleared, Sam was in motion, angling for the new hole that had opened in the far wall, light streaming shyly from outside.
“Moff –cough- move and I’ll shoot!” Victor’s voice was disembodied but solid, a menacing sound quickly followed be the ominous cocking of a gun.
Sam froze in his escape route, searching for the FBI man’s location. With the air still unsettled, he saw only swirling sawdust and shredded paper. Two silhouettes began to take shape some ten feet from where Sam stood. Above them, the feet of at least fifteen armed guards could already be heard, scurrying around, some barking orders to evacuate and others yelling Henricksen’s name.
Sam took two steps forward. This was their last chance to get out, to escape the FBI before the debris covering the cellar’s entrance cleared and the place was flooded with men carrying badges and even more guns. He was sure that Henricksen was aiming on a hunch only, so, if he could just pull Dean...
Four things happened next, too close to be seen as anything more than inevitable or fate, too fast to be stopped or counted as separate events.
Over the shouting of men and the sound of debris still landing, the house groaned. It was a deep, moaning sound, sad, like the whole structure had given up on existence.
At the same time, either because he'd heard it too, or due to some deep engraved hunter’s instinct, Dean started to move, yelling a "GET OUT SAMMY!"
Henricksen, either having heard the faint noise that announced the coming doom, or because he saw the Dean-shaped shadow moving, fired his gun.
The crack of the firearm was completely engulfed by the deafening noise of the whole floor disappearing beneath their feet.
“Sammy! –cough— Sammy!”
Henricksen groaned and rolled his head away from the noise. There was a marching band doing drum practice, banging the same song over and over again in his head and the constant shouting was not helping matters.
The name didn’t mean much to him, but he recognized that voice. The sentiment behind the strained words, he could well guess: Despair. Possession.
One of the first files he’d read on the Winchesters had been their psychological profiles. Sam’s read like the typical bright kid whose personality is completely subjugated by the older brother and the batshit crazy father.
John Winchester, ex-marine, had raised his kids to be some sort of commandos of some private guerrilla war that had been going on inside the man's head for God knew how long.
And Dean... Dean was just the run of the mill kid who got twisted and turned by his deranged father and helped him corrupt the younger kid. It was all there, it was all very predictable and cliché to the point of tears.
And of all things to come to his mind after the whole frigging house coming down on his head, that was what Victor managed to remember first...
The whole setting of the trap for the Winchesters, their conversation in the cellar while he'd waited for the reinforcements to arrive, the subsequent explosion and cave-in... those came after. As did the anger at having become the latest in the long list of Dean Winchester’s victims.
The rough voice –Dean-, was still yelling for the younger brother, which told the fed one thing for certain: Victor was trapped with at least one of the criminals that he was bent on bringing to justice.
Doing a quick inventory of his battered body, the FBI man deemed himself quite lucky. Other than the ostrich size egg-bump on his hand, his sore left arm and bloodied ankle, he’d come out of this relatively unscathed.
The flashlight that he’d been carrying was buried under a couple of pieces of broken wood, its light dimmed but still on. Pushing himself to his elbows, Victor shoved the rubble away and closed his fingers around the metal base.
He turned the beam up and felt a cold fist of fear wrap itself around his stomach. They were in some sort of natural cave, filled with small, shimmering pieces of mineral reflecting back the light in his hands from the walls. The FBI man followed them up until the light beam hit the ceiling of the cave. What he saw there squashed whatever was left of Henricksen’s hopes of an easy and swift rescue.
The hole through which they had fallen was at least twenty feet away and sealed shut by something brown and large. Probably the whole house. Which meant that there was a lot of debris to be cleared up above ground before any rescue team even found the cave they were in. And that was if they ever found the hole in the ground.
Which meant that they were kinda screwed.
“Sammy... that you?”
Remembering that he wasn’t alone in there, the FBI man looked for his gun amongst the scraps of wood, glass and cement that had fallen all over them. It was in vain. Half the junk that had been stored in the cellar and half the debris that the explosion had caused, had fallen in with them.
“Sammy... please, answer me.”
The older Winchester sounded pathetically needy and slightly out of breath. Looking for him was easier than locating the gun.
Many things had been written about Dean Winchester in his FBI file; astute, charming, dangerous. The true makings of any psychopath and Victor had seen all of those in action. If he was to be honest with himself, Henricksen would say that, more than being trapped underground with a slim prospect of rescue, he was more creeped out by the fact that he was weaponless and trapped underground with a murdering psychopath.
When he did find Dean amongst the rest of the debris, Henricksen realized that he had no reason to really fear anything. Dean Winchester was going no where.
He’d managed to land on one of the shelves that had been littered with old books and broken knickknacks. The wooden piece, shattered from the fall, had impaled the Winchester’s right side and was sticking up in the air above his hipbone like a red, shiny pole.
Victor pointed his flashlight at the man’s face, taking in the pallor intersected with the strings of red coming from a bloody gash near his hairline.
“Well, they do say that what goes around, comes around,” the FBI man said, a barely concealed note of satisfaction in his voice.
The look of disappointment on Dean’s face at realizing that it wasn’t his brother doing the waving around of the flashlight was quickly replaced by a cold stone mask. The mask, however, wasn’t effective enough to hide the concern in his voice. Or the pain.
“Not here,” Victor said matter of factually, as he turned the light away to search their little pocket of air. “But I’m sure he didn’t go far. My men were all over the place.”
“Don’t see any here,” Dean said in between coughs.
The air was slowly settling in, dust landing gently all around them. Still, no way out made itself apparent to Victor’s searching light. With no ventilation hole that he could see, Henricksen wasn’t putting much faith in their having breathable air for much longer. Twenty minutes, half an hour, tops.
Bare rock in the dark, however, could be very tricky to the human eye and there was no telling what twists and turns the wall up ahead of them possessed until they were on top of it. But a cave that size? It couldn’t be isolated from the rest of the cave systems that the area was filled with.
“We need to move,” Henricksen announced.
Dean chuckled. And then gasped, a half-bitten moan barely escaping his lips. “Sure... you go right ahead... and do just that – I’ll stick around... grown quite attached to the place.”
Henricksen’s light fell on the bloody piece of wood again. “I can see that.”
Working in the Bureau had always been about prioritizing and getting your actions right. One decision in the wrong direction at the wrong time and you’re done. And what’s worse, the people you’re trying to protect are done.
His superiors had charged Victor Henricksen with one task: capture Dean Winchester and bring him to justice. Dead or alive. And given the charges that he faced? ‘Dead’ was too merciful for a piece of scum like Dean.
The capturing part had been tricky enough. The Milwaukee bank assault had literally fallen in his lap shortly after he’d been given his mission. He’d barely had time to read through the whole file the Bureau had on the man before he was being shipped off to Milwaukee.
A quick read through had, even so, revealed quite a few interesting facts about the man who had been able to forge his own death to escape authorities.
The father was his biggest clue in to the inner workings of Dean Winchester. Ex-marine who lost his wife in suspicious circumstances and was left to raise his kids alone, on the road, giving them no sense of security or normalcy. All in all, the worst kind of paramilitary-survivalist life-style, guaranteed to screw with any kid’s head.
Victor told himself that, that first time Dean Winchester escaped right out from under his nose, it was because he hadn’t had the time to really study the man and conduct a real investigation. He wasn’t familiar with what made Dean tick; he didn’t know how he would react to being trapped. He wasn’t counting on Dean being that smart.
The second time, Victor blamed it on Dean’s accomplices. He had never been able to prove it, but the FBI agent was sure that the lawyer and the prison guard had been in on it with the Winchesters. Just their luck, to land themselves in the one prison where one of the guards happened to be an ex-Marine, just like John Winchester.
This time, though, this time Henricksen had not allowed for any external liabilities. He and his team had controlled all the information that leaked out, all the variables, all the players so that the outcome could be only one –well, all the variables except for the crazy old man, who had only agreed to help them if they assured him that his wife’s ghost would be taken care of. A ghost for fucks sake!
... so much crazy people in this world...
Still, cave-in or no cave-in, Victor had caught his man, just like he had always intended. Now it was just a matter of keeping him alive and getting him out of there so that he could be brought to justice.
And he couldn’t really do anything about the second part before he took care of the first. “Where else are you hurt?”
Dean startled awake, or jumped back in to conscious. It was hard to tell in the dark and Victor hadn’t really been paying attention to when the other man had closed his eyes.
“Where’s Sam? Is he ok?” Dean asked again.
Henricksen’s patience was too hard pressed to be answering the same question over and over again. His silence, however, was answered by the sounds of pain filled grunts and gravel rolling away and sliding. Dean was actually trying to get his hand flat against the floor, clearly trying to get up and look for Sam himself.
Henricksen rolled his eyes and moved to secure the other man. Even if he did managed to get himself off the floor, from the angle that piece of wood was, he would only succeed in further impaling himself. “Will you stop being stupid? Sit still! I already told you Sam isn’t here!”
“Get the fuck away from me!” Dean shouted, his voice bouncing off the cave walls, quickly followed by his panting breaths. “Who... who the hell are you?”
Henricksen blinked, paused, trying to judge if this was some sort of trick being played on him. But then again, what could Dean possibly gain from playing the amnesia/confusion card on him? Get him with his guard down and run away?
The wound on Dean’s side pretty much meant that, if anyone was vulnerable in there, it was Dean himself.
The FBI man's gaze also took in the nasty wound on Winchester’s forehead. There was no trick in the painful way that gash kept oozing blood down Dean’s face, or the way his eyes wouldn’t open both at the same time or fully, for that matter.
Maybe the confusion was genuine. Maybe this was the break (no pun intended) this case needed in order to dismantle once and for all the doubts and dubious circumstances surrounding it.
“We were in a cave-in,” Victor started to explain, gently nearing the trapped man. Careful to clear only the debris that was already loose and wouldn’t cause for more sharp things to fall on his prisoner, Henricksen spoke in the smooth, soothing tones that he usually saved for traumatized victims and mentally challenged witnesses, or colleagues. “I fell in with you.”
Henricksen hoped that the younger brother had been caught by the men he’d spread through out the perimeter of the house. While Sam was not the priority here, after all the trouble that he’d gone through to set this trap for both Winchesters, they could not afford to allow either one of them to escape. “He’s not here... I’m sure he's ok.”
“Ok... do – do I know you?”
Victor paused to think what he was going to say. To tell the injured man who he really was, was to insure that Dean would be fighting him and being a general pain in the ass... a dangerous pain in the ass. On the other hand, if he lied, none of the information he gathered here could be used in court. “I’m a hunter,” Victor said, settling for a half-truth.
“We were hunting together?”
Victor scrunched his eyes. It had taken him a while to piece together the Winchesters M.O. The weird killings before they even showed their faces; the desperate victims so shocked out of their minds that they'd believe in just about anything; the elaborate lies about occult crap and satanic rituals mumbo-jumbo... all for the sake of getting their kicks. Father and his two sons, a family of murderers and batshit crazies.
“Your father sent me here to help you with...” What exactly did these wackos call this? A case? A hunt? A wild goose-chase for their imaginary friends? “... with the ghost.”
The answer, however insane it had sounded in the FBI man’s head, seemed to appease Dean’s curiosity. The injured man sagged back to the ground and closed his eyes, his brow twitching whenever he breathed too deep.
After a quick, cursory inventory of any other injuries Dean had sustained, Victor leaned back, satisfied to realize that other than the piece of wood protruding from his hip and the head injury, he’d suffered only small cuts and bruises like the ones he himself was parading around. But, if they wanted to get out of there, that piece of wood would have to come out.
Despite what the criminals that he hunted might think or say, Victor Henricksen was not a cruel man. He didn’t enjoy causing pain on a fellow human being.
Fortunately for him, Dean’s file had been filled with colorful and very graphic pictures of the various victims that this psychopath had left behind, plenty of proof that this was no fellow human... this was a monster that he was dealing with. And he had no trouble causing pain to monsters.
“My father sent you, hmm?” Dean asked, cutting through Henricksen’s inspection of his injuries. “You're either a very good... psychic... or a very bad... liar.”
The FBI agent raised one eyebrow and wondered just what the hell that was supposed to mean. Storing the information for later, Victor focused instead on the bloody, slippery piece of wood as his fingers closed around it. Adjusting his grip carefully, he used the other hand to secure Dean to the ground.
“This is gonna hurt,” Victor warned at the same time that he yanked the protruding piece of wood up and out.
The scream that followed was deafening, eerie in the way it echoed, ricocheting off the walls long before Dean Winchester lost conscious.
It was like everything was moving in slow motion, but still Sam wasn’t fast enough to do anything.
His mind shut down, his body took over. And the body has only one purpose and objective. Survival.
And for a couple of seconds, Sam firmly believed that he had failed even at that. He was underground. All around him, he could only see dirty, breath dirty, taste dirty.
This was twelve years old Sam’s nightmare. That first time he’d seen his father and older brother dig up a coffin in the cemetery of some small town he’d already forgotten the name of, this was what kept Sam awake at night. It wasn’t the eerie vision of a cemetery lightened by nothing but moonlight and flashlights; it wasn’t the sound of rotten wood breaking under their shovels; it wasn’t even the smell of decay and fuel and fire that made him gag and loose his dinner at the time. It was the image of his family, the only people he had in this world, shoveling their way deeper and deeper in to the ground until they disappeared and he was left all alone.
It was the knowledge that only corpses were meant to be fed to the earth. The fear that the earth would get hungry enough to eat him anyway.
Not really sure which way was down and which way was up, Sam started to frantically dig his way out, nails breaking and stuffing themselves with dirt, breath coming in short pants that did nothing more than raise small clouds of dust and remind Sam that his lungs were burning up with hunger.
Sam wasn’t sure how, but he found himself outside, looking at the ruins of what had been a two story house just minutes ago. The sky had darkened since they’d gone inside and now, red lights, blue lights and grey dust hid the stars above.
Looking around in hope of finding Dean there with him, Sam’s hope sunk lower and lower as he saw the destruction that surrounded him. Dean hadn’t made it out. Sam knew that.
Dean had been standing too far from the hole in the wall and Henricksen had fired his gun... Dean hadn’t make it outside—
There was some shouting coming from the other side of the debris, officers calling for all their men, counting heads and rearranging themselves to form rescue parties.
Sam managed to stop himself from screaming for his brother too. The tears running down his face, however, he could not stop.
There was no way anyone could’ve survived that wreckage, not where Dean and Henricksen were standing, not with the whole house to fall on them.
A sob escaped Sam’s mouth before he covered it with both hands, fingers stinging from the pressure. Dean couldn’t be dead.
It was too soon. He still had ten months with his brother. Dean could not be buried under all that rubble.
Somewhere deep inside, in that same place where Sam cherished the memories of Dean walking him to school and fixing his scrapped knees, Sam knew that his brother couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be dead because Sam had yet to say his goodbyes, had yet to say ‘I love you’.
Ignoring the progressively closer lights and shouting voices, Sam fell on his knees, starting the long process of clearing the debris from the house. Somewhere under all that, Dean was alive and waiting for him to dig him up. He had to hurry.
His fingertips were turning in to pulpy masses of blood when a hand closed around Sam’s shoulder and forcefully pulled him away.
Written for the Hurt/Comfort meme at the spngenlove community. The promp, by liliaeth , was to have "Henricksen and Dean are caught in a cave in, when Victor is trying to capture the Winchesters. Dean's hurt and Victor has to try and keep him alive. Bonus points if Dean's more worried about Sam, than he is about his own injuries or situation."
The first thing that this lovely promp originated, was Dean's FBI Psy-Proflie. If you're interested in that one, please leave a note in the comments. It's not a 'file' that really fits in to the HurtDean concept, so I'll provide an external link if you wish so :o)
Warnings for language.