Happy birthday, Penfold!

The Things He Can Do With a Pen
K Hanna Korossy

There was no formal announcement; they just slid into it like always.

Mrs. Ballantine was still looking at him funny as they went down the walkway to the car. Sam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, then finally glanced back. She gave him a deeply sympathetic smile, and Sam's face twitched, mouth not quite succeeding in bending up. He turned back and jabbed Dean hard in the ribs.

"Why'd you have to tell her that, huh?"

Dean shrugged, supremely unconcerned. "Got us what we needed to know, right?"

"Yeah. Right. Because there's no way we could have found out more about her gay son than if you hadn't told her…that."

"Aw, Sammy, there's nothing to be ashamed of. People change genders all the time these days."

Sam glared at him with every ounce of brotherly poison.

"Besides." Dean stopped next to the car and gave him a smirk. "I had to show my appreciation somehow for that show you put on this morning."

Okay, a smile did threaten this time. "Technically, that was you putting on the show, man—I just left the mike in your jacket. What was her name, Skipper?"

"Barbie," Dean muttered, followed quickly by, "Shut up." He'd actually blushed that morning as the encore presentation of his evening spent with the herbalist they'd met earlier in the case started playing through the Impala's speakers, much to Sam's undying amusement. Sometimes it was good to be the little brother.

Sam's amusement quickly fled, though, at the memory of Mrs. Ballantine as he opened his door.

Dean nodded at the café across the street. "'M gonna get some coffee. You want anything?"

Sam glowered.

"Tea? Donut? Midol?"

Daggers. He was staring daggers.

Dean shrugged, unfazed, and set off across the street.

Sam frowned at him until he was out of sight, then settled back into the seat. Oh, it was on now. If Dean thought that was funny, just wait. Sam would think of something to get him back, in spades.

With no one there to look annoyed for, Sam leaned over the seat to grab his journal. Mrs. Ballantine had actually given them a good lead, for all the embarrassment it had taken to get it, and he needed to work some things out while they were still fresh in his mind. Sam pulled out his pen and clicked it on, poised to write.

Stared at it a moment, inspiration dawning.

It was later that evening, Dean as far away from Sam in the bar as he could get and still keep an eye on his little brother. Probably didn't want the girl he was with to think he was there with somebody else…or someone transgendered. Sam waited, poised for the moment when the girl coyly pulled a napkin close, and Dean absently started to pat himself down.

Sam got there just in time to slip a pen into his hand. "Here."

Dean threw him a grateful look, then dismissed him just as fast, turning back to his objective.

Jolting back and starting to sputter when the pen fell apart into an inky mess in his hands, on the table, and even, score!, Miss Oh-Yes-They're-Real's considerable assets.

Dean swung around to kill him dead with a look.

Sam grinned back, and lifted his beer in a toast.

Oh, yeah, it was so on.

00000

This, Sam bowed his head with a tired sigh, had gotten old the first time.

Dean stirred in bed, his groan almost sub-vocal as pain registered in his unconscious but didn't wake him. Between what the hospital had given him and the degree of his injuries, it would be hours before he was remotely aware again, let alone up for talking. For interrogating about what exactly had happened to his just going out to get the car filled up, or where he'd been the last day, or why, for God's sake, it had taken him until that afternoon to wake up enough to tell the hospital staff whom to call.

Old? How about, even one time was too much?

They had In Case of Emergency cards in their wallets just for such, well, emergencies, with a first name and a phone number. The cards had been Dean's idea after one well-meaning nurse had told a woozy Sam that his brother, AKA Dean Winchester: murderer, was dead, and he scrupulously updated them whenever they changed phone numbers. Problem was, the cards didn't do a whole lot of good if the whole wallet was gone. From what Sam had heard, the only belongings found on his brother were his necklace and his ring, and the latter probably only because it didn't fit easily over Dean's knuckle anymore.

He sighed, rubbed his jaw, his gritty eyes.

Dean shifted again, probably trying to find a comfortable position for his bruised body. His voice was still startling even in its soft murmur. "S'm?"

God help them, but Sam's distress had penetrated both sleep and a drugged daze. He shook his head, willing himself to relax as he leaned forward and patted his brother's arm. "I'm here. It's okay."

Dean grunted and went still, instantly fading back into sleep.

Then again, maybe he was just checking, after being hurt and alone for almost a day while nobody knew how to reach his frantically searching brother, his only family and backup.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes bouncing around the room, lighting briefly on the marker on the nightstand by the bed. The nurse had been marking the IVs with it, and Sam's eyes slid away, returned to it.

He huffed what might have, possibly, qualified as a laugh if he hadn't been so weary and dismayed. He picked the pen up, turned it over a few times, feeling the smooth plastic slide between his fingers.

Then carefully, gently slid the blanket away from Dean's leg, one of the few areas not painted with pale bruises. Dean didn't even twitch.

The nurse who came in an hour later to check the patient over merely raised an eyebrow at the new addition. Sam shrugged, a little sheepish but unapologetic. Dean would give him Hell for it later, anyway. Or, maybe not. Magic marker wouldn't last long, and Dean had done the same himself with Sam's beloved bear when he was little, not to mention all his clothes.

The square letters followed the curve of one thigh, solid and emphatic: My name is Dean. If found, please return to Sam - 555-392-7183.

00000

Winchesters were always armed. The Rules of Hunting were a little fluid in their numbering, but Sam was sure that was in the top ten somewhere.

So was the fact that anything could be used as a weapon. Which was good, because he was down to what he had on him, and the harpy was not looking happy.

In all fairness, major weather fluctuations usually pointed to demonic activity or, occasionally, an elemental. Even Dean with all his hunting experience hadn't immediately jumped to harpy. And of course, salt, holy water, iron: none of them did the least bit of good against the foul-smelling creatures. Even the salt-loaded shotgun had barely slowed it down.

And with Dean still gone for reinforcements, a trip he swore would just be a minute, Sam was left all alone with one ticked-off, hellacious harpy standing between him and his fallen knife.

Terrific.

The harpy screeched, which made Sam shiver and curl against the noise, and flapped its wings, getting ready to charge.

Sam cursed and checked his pockets. Wallet, keys, broken penknife he'd meant to replace, flask, some herbs, a notebook, a pen—

The cheap motel pen he'd picked up that morning.

The harpy screeched, rushing Sam even as he lunged at her. He didn't hesitate because if he did, he'd realize just how much of a long shot this plan was, or how awful she smelled up close, or how insane he was. Instead, with a war cry, he jabbed the pen hard into one of the beady eyes.

Her scream made his ears ring and his head feel like it was going to burst as he shoved the instrument deep into her brain.

She staggered, screeching, clawing at her face, which only succeeded in impaling her even further on the plastic pen. Sam shrank from her cries, even as he heard Dean bellow something from behind him.

Then the harpy stiffened and seemed to shrink in front of Sam's eyes. Right before pieces—whole disgusting chunks—of her started to break off, like some crumbling edifice. Within moments, there was only a moldering pile of harpy remains where the creature had stood.

Sam's eyebrows came down, and he shook his head to clear it as Dean reached and spun him around, eyes raking over him. "You all right?"

Sam breathed out. "Yeah, I'm…'m good. Sorry we couldn't wait for you, man."

Dean's frown deepened. "Fine, Long Legs—next time you go get the weapons."

Sam glanced back over one shoulder, wrinkling his nose at the hint of silver and blue buried in fetid goo. That was one pen he wouldn't be using again. "Yeah, sounds good." He turned back, smiled honest and wide at Dean. "I guess the pen was mightier than the sword."

Close call or not, Dean had no compunctions about smacking him in the head.

00000

"Okay, I think I have everything," Sam said breathlessly, sliding to a stop in the small bathroom like a runner stealing home. He peered into his brother's eyes, which was a lot harder than usual considering Dean was slumped nearly to the ground against the toilet. "You still with me?"

"Still 'ere," Dean grunted, hand fluttering up in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring gesture but that just seemed alarmingly pathetic.

"All right," Sam said warmly, piling the two pillows he'd retrieved behind his brother, then easing Dean back against the wall. "You sure you don't wanna lie down for this?"

"S'gonna…mess up the bed—"

"Screw the—"

"—an' I'm prob'ly gonna…hurl an'way." He gave Sam a lopsided grin, teeth stained an alarming red. "Might's'well cut…middle man."

Sam was already easing his brother's arm as gently as he could out of its sleeve, knowing full well Dean preferred additional pain to cutting his beloved jacket. "Well, speaking as the middle man, as much as I don't enjoy cleaning up the vomit bucket, it might be better than trying to do this sitting up."

"S'what…your girlfriends say?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Sometimes he didn't know if Dean's vastly inappropriate humor was meant to reassure him or his brother. "You're seriously angling to do this without painkillers, aren't you."

That shut Dean up.

Sam, perversely, immediately missed the banter as he injected bared muscle, then took a pair of scissors to the bloody shirts. The jacket was sacred, but anything else was fair game. "Take it easy," he soothed as Dean's breathing shifted into deep pants. "Feeling the morphine yet?"

"Uhhh." It might've been a yes or a no, but there was nothing to be done either way. Sam had given him the max dose already and, he reminded himself, things would be a lot worse without it.

He needed the reminder as he gently moved the soaked fabric aside, to expose the chunk of wood sticking out of his brother's side.

Sam grimaced, gaze bouncing around the small room as if he could find relief there: from Dean's pain, from the task in front of him. His eyes darted back as lean muscle spasmed under his fingers and Dean keened involuntarily under his breath.

They shouldn't have to do meatball surgery in motel bathrooms, Sam thought desperately. They shouldn't have to dodge the law for saving people's lives, and fight nameless monstrosities in the dark, and have more training than an army medic. And he shouldn't have to worry that his brother's cries of pain were going to wake their neighbors and get them kicked out.

Sam winced. He'd forgotten about that part, and he dug back into their kit.

"Not gonna…get any…prettier, Sammy," his brother gasped.

"Just a minute," he said absentmindedly, registering nonetheless that Sammy meant Dean was going on automatic pilot. Heaving a frustrated breath at not finding anything more suitable, Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out his pen. "Open," he ordered gently.

Dean raised a hazy eyebrow at him but obeyed, teeth immediately clenching around the cylinder Sam wedged into his teeth. Good thing it was the nice marbled one Dean had swiped for him someplace, because a cheap Bic would have instantly cracked under the pressure.

Sam settled one of his brother's hands on the edge of the toilet seat, the other over Sam's thigh, and tipped the sweaty head back once more to meet his eyes. "Hang on, all right? I'll make it fast."

A short nod, and Dean closed his eyes.

Sam tried really hard to ignore the sounds that made it past the pen as he worked, feeling Dean's fingers cramp on his leg, the stretched-tight muscle of his belly under Sam's fingertips. He worked as fast as he dared, easing out the wood, checking for splinters, washing out the wound. Before he had time to close it, Dean made a different sound, choked and desperate, and Sam quickly took the pen out and held him across the back as Dean leaned to one side and threw up into the toilet bowl.

It was another fifteen minutes before Sam finally had the wound closed and bandaged, and Dean out of the remainder of his clothes and tucked into bed, more unconscious than asleep. He'd have to be monitored for shock, infection, internal bleeding, and external seepage. His face was pale and his mouth was drawn. In a just world, he should've been on a half-dozen different monitors and IVs. Instead, he just had one scared, amateur brother.

Sam rubbed his eyes free of exhaustion and despair. Something jabbed him in his breast pocket as he fought his tears, and he glanced down.

The hard surface of the pen was imprinted with teeth marks.

Sam chucked it ruthlessly into the nearest wastebasket along with the bloody gauze and shirt remains. Then he pulled up a chair and set his feet up on Dean's bed, settling in to watch and worry.

00000

"Is this seat free?"

He glanced up through a fringe of hair, into a pretty if not beautiful face. Grey eyes looked at him tentatively, and Sam found himself a little nonplussed. Somehow, he had yet to master the art of switching from their world of hunting—or at least gruesome death scene photos—to the real world as effortlessly as Dean did. Let alone the real world with women in it. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure," he quickly added, when the girl hesitated. God only knew when Dean would be along, anyway.

"Thank you," she said with a relieved sigh, dropping into the chair and immediately pulling out a book. "I didn't think this place would be packed this late."

Sam glanced around the coffee shop, seeing that it had, indeed, picked up since the early hour he'd arrived. Mid-morning seemed to see the arrival of knots of chatting mothers, students buried in their laptops, and a few people in suits apparently holding informal business meetings over cups of coffee and croissants. "Um, yeah," he added intelligently and, he was pretty sure, repetitively.

The girl gave him a nervous smile and dove into her book, turning her chair a little away from Sam.

He'd scared her off. Right, because there was nothing like being totally inept at the most basic social interactions to set off a girl's internal alarms. God only knew what she thought of him now: raised without a woman's touch, never dated much, grew up without friends… oh. Yeah, okay, so maybe she wasn't too far off the mark.

Jess had always said she liked that fumbling, unpolished side of him, that it didn't feel like he had said those words and made those gestures a thousand times. Unpracticed, she'd called it, and sexy. Sam's ears pinked a little at the reminder, more wistful now than painful.

It had been a while, however, as Dean never failed to remind him, and his current table companion seemed like a nice girl, and Sam was just sitting there waiting, anyway. His eyes flicked down to the cover of her book, then back up as he cleared his throat. "Grimm's Fairy Tales? Are you studying folklore?" Half the coffee shop crowd was students; in a college town like that one, it was a safe bet.

She studied him a little closer this time, expression clearly torn, before softening. "Nope, just reading for fun. Well, sort of. I'm a teacher."

He blinked. "My mom was a teacher once. I mean, before she got married and…" was killed by a demon. Sam twitched. "It's good stuff. I mean, kinda dark if you're gonna read it to little kids…"

Her eyes crinkled. "Not directly, no. I'm just always looking for a good story to tell."

The answer appealed to him in its…unpolishedness.

She dimpled, disappearing back behind her book. Then, without looking, she pulled out a wire-bound notepad from her bag, dipping back in for something else. A few seconds later, she turned her full attention to the tote, brow creasing as she rooted around fruitlessly. "Darn."

"What?" Sam sat up straighter.

"Nothing, I just…I can't find my pen. I know I put one in here…"

"Oh. Here. I don't need—I mean, I can always get another one."

She looked up at his offering, giving him a look far more grateful than one used ballpoint deserved. "Are you sure? Looks like you're working on something, too."

He had the story on the tip of his tongue, set up for this case: forensic specialists, looking into the series of… Whatever. Dean was the one who spun tales for women. Sam didn't want to lie to her. "It's not urgent." He slid the printouts into his satchel.

Her smile was like a flower blooming. "Well, thank you…"

"Sam," he quickly provided.

"Sam," she said, nodding, delicate fingers rolling the pen between them.

Sammy! Sam's eyes strayed over her shoulder as if drawn by an invisible tug, to see his brother standing in the doorway, grinning wildly, two thumbs held up. Way to go!

Sam made a face at him and looked back at her, heart beating a little faster at the way she drew the pen into elegant loops of writing. It wasn't love, of course, and never would be, but it was a little bit of positive human interaction, and in the middle of a case, a busy coffee shop, a life he'd never planned on, it was…nice.

He gave her his best unpracticed look of interest, and smiled back. "And you are…?"

00000

The first time he'd left Dean—well, Dad, too, but most importantly Dean—had been out of fear. Yes, he'd longed for normal, had dreams, was suffocating. But most of all, he'd been afraid, for himself and for his family. And he'd gotten so very tired of being afraid. Stanford was safe, and Sam had been drawn to that oasis like a dying man in the desert. It was three years and three months before he discovered it was only a mirage.

The second time he'd left Dean had been out of anger. Not at Dean, although it came out like that at the time. But at what had killed Jess, what now kept their father apart from them. Sam's fury wouldn't let him give up on a lead, even if it had led him the opposite way his brother was going, in the middle of nowhere, middle of the night. He hadn't even made it to his mirage that time.

The third time he'd left Dean had been out of need. For answers, for peace of mind: learning your own father was afraid of what you'd become and was ready to kill you first was not something you could just sit on and wait out, no matter how Dean begged him. Sam had left most of his things behind, the separation temporary, but he'd nevertheless snuck out like some kind of runaway while Dean had slept, unwilling to face that argument again. For all that came after, however, he still saw the scar that had left on his brother.

So when Dean finally took off on him, Sam couldn't help thinking it shouldn't have surprised him the way it did, like a sucker punch to the gut.

It wasn't hard to find him, Dean in no shape to be covering his tracks and Sam stonily determined. Took him about half the time it had probably taken Dean to go hole up in the condemned house, two counties away. Dean didn't hear him coming, of course, but Sam made sure to bang the rotting door open hard enough to shake the whole place.

There was no bed; Dean was curled on top of his jacket on the floor, his one salvaged shirt draped over the hospital scrubs he still wore. His eyes snapped open at Sam's entrance, panicked gaze quickly shuttering at the sight of him.

Sam came prepared, shoving under his brother's nose the note he'd hastily scrawled out at red lights on the way.

Dean had to squint to read, his head still probably pounding, then he looked up at Sam, angry and defensive. "You know why I left. I can't hunt with you like this, Sam."

Sam's pen dug through about three sheets of paper as he wrote, emphatic and furious. Dr. said it's prob. temporary.

Dean's lip curled. "You weren't listening, dude—the doc said maybe, if I'm lucky. Meanwhile, sounds like someone's shaking a friggin' bell right in my ear. Can't even hear my music—I'm gonna get us both killed out there."

Doesn't matter, Sam scribbled decisively. We'll stop hunting.

Dean's eyes shied away. "Changed your tune, Sammy?" Oh-so-carefully light.

Sam stared at him. Wha—? Oh. That's what this was about? All this time he'd been cursing his brother's pride, his need for control, and really it had been all about Sam, again?

Then again, he'd been the one to say he was going to hunt no matter what, who'd practically challenged Dean to keep up with him. In different times and different circumstances, but Dean never had thought himself the exception to any rule. And Sam knew too well you couldn't get left behind if you left first.

He swallowed. His mouth opened, then snapped shut, and he took the pad back, more gently now. Wrote a long time while Dean watched him inscrutably, the words pouring out: the time he'd been briefly blinded and all Dean's unshakable loyalty then, the promises Sam had made after Dad died that it was the two of them now, Dean's own promises that he would be there to protect Sam from whatever his legacy was. And four words that weren't said, or written, outright between them often but maybe should be: I'm not leaving you.

Dean read in tense silence, then stared at the pad a long moment. He finally set it down and turned his back on Sam, effectively silencing him, as he lay down again.

Sam's shoulders dropped.

But he didn't move, and therefore was close enough to hear his brother's whisper when it came.

"You gonna sit there all night, bitch?"

His mouth tugged. Sam scrawled a single word on a piece of paper, balled it up, and threw it at Dean's shoulder. He could hear it crinkle, then his brother snort.

The doctor really had been more optimistic than Dean could accept, and Sam had faith the tinnitus would pass and things would get back to normal—well, their normal—soon. But in the meantime, there were other ways he could back his brother. Sam lay down on the floor behind Dean, satchel under his head like a pillow, exhausted from hours of anxious searching. He studied his brother's relaxed shoulders, and felt the air ease out of his own lungs. They'd be okay now; they were together.

He set the pad on the floor between them, a bridge of communication he doubted was needed anymore, watching drowsily as the pen rolled to a slow stop near the top.

Then Sam closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

The End