Title: Dead Ends
Author: Enkidu07
Beta: Thanks to InSecret for pointing out the places where the story was told rather than shown. I get it. I do. But there is such a chasm between getting it and doing it. Thanks for your help!
A/N: This story started out last year when Mad Server and I pulled out the futon and kicked off a tradition of sharing good beer… raspberry wheat ale, I think. We literally passed the laptop back and forth writing one line at a time. I think the downtime was taken up by a scrabble game… but then the file sat there for a year, so we've resurrected it (over apricot wheat on a different futon) and have now each taken the collective beginning and created individual stories. Her version is going up today too so totally check it out if you want some more sick Dean.
Season 1. In the winter.
Dean hasn't seen snow like this since he was twelve. He scrapes his forearm across the window and squints out into the squall.
"Map says we should hit the cabin anytime now," says Sam.
Dean ducks his head, trying to get a better view of the blanketed road, and grunts in response. His breakfast burrito isn't sitting right, and his skull's full of pressure. It's starting to hurt.
"There," Sam shouts suddenly, pointing to a narrow track off to the right.
Dean brakes, and the car fishtails gently. "What, that?" The throbbing behind his right eye starts clamoring for more attention and he struggles to make out the road, or lack thereof, in front of him. "Sam, that's a friggin' moose trail."
Sam rustles the map and then looks around. "It's only about a mile to the cabin; pull in over there and we can hike the rest of the way."
"You've got to be kidding." Dean carefully maneuvers the Impala off the road, pulling far enough onto the dirt track to avoid damage from the occasional plow truck. He turns off the engine and drags a thumb over his eye. He blinks out at the swirling flurries. The storm clouds cast deep shadows over the forest, making the early day dark as dusk.
He turns and finds Sam's already got a gray wool hat jammed down over his ears, one puffy black glove on, and is looking at him funny.
"What?"
Sam gives his head a half-shake. "Nothing."
Dean pushes out of the car and then pulls his jacket tighter as the frigid air sweeps in around the nape of his neck.
"Forgetting something?" Sam's calling across the car, the wind dragging most of his voice away; he's holding up Dean's own hat and gloves.
Dean motions for them impatiently, his eyes already watering from the bitter gusts. "This guy better have a lead for us," he grumbles around an involuntary shudder. So far this case is a bust and things just keep getting better and better. He shoulders a pack and slides a revolver snug against the small of his back, jolting as the cold metal leeches more of his body heat away.
The narrow track is already covered in about a foot of snow. It quickly soaks through Dean's boots. Ahead of him, Sam slips, grabs haphazardly at a branch. The movement causes puffy white clumps to shower down over Sam's head. Dean grins despite the horrendous conditions.
Fifteen minutes later Dean's teeth are chattering involuntarily, the cold permeating his layers. His feet burn with cold, causing his steps to drag even further. He ducks and tucks, trying to expose himself as little as possible.
Sam slowly pulls ahead of him, seeming impermeable to the arctic conditions. Dean pulls his hat lower, jaw twitching, tendrils of irritation worming through his chest.
The track is slippery and the going slow, and even though Sam is breaking the trail, his giant stride makes his tracks almost useless for Dean.
"Sam!" The words are sucked away by the wind. Dean stops, breath harsh, lungs on fire, and stomach still pitching. "Fuck." Eyes closed, he catches his breath, wills the world to settle. Then he jams his gloved hands into the armpits of his coat and trudges forward again on shaky legs.
About ten minutes later the cabin finally comes into view. Falling slow and blustery wind make it impossible to tell if anyone is moving around in the surrounding woods. The place is dark. Looks deserted. Dean goes on alert and pulls out the revolver. Sam's silent in the driving snow and motions for them to split up and circle the building.
The search is fruitless. Dean's having a hard time keeping the gun steady and keeps whipping his head around to catch movement in his periphery. Each time he discovers it's the churning drifts and not an adversary. It's starting to make him dizzy.
Sam leans in close when they meet out back but still has to shout to be heard over the howling wind.
"Looks deserted."
"Ya think, Sherlock?"
Sam's eyes are on Dean's shaking hands. Dean tucks his gun away hastily and shouts, "It's fucking freezing out here."
"You want to head back to the car?"
Dean really doesn't. His head is pounding, vision graying around the edges, and he's pretty sure his burrito is about to make a return appearance. He shakes his head and nods toward the cabin. "Inside."
They mount the rickety stairs and he lets Sam take care of the lock. He hovers over the railing, not sure if he wants to spew or not.
He lifts his head seconds later and Sam's inside, looking at him expectantly. Dean holds up a finger for Sam to wait and then heaves his lunch over the railing into the snow bank. Red and orange salsa makes Rorschach patterns in the fresh drift. Snow instantaneously starts to cover the splatter, obscuring the soiled patch.
When he looks up, Sam's gone and he takes a minute to let his stomach settle. Before he pushes off the railing, Sam's back, brushing by him. "No wood. Stay here." Sam's eyes graze his face. "And… sit down or something."
Shudders intermittently run through Dean's body. The fire is helping but Dean has yet to relinquish his coat or hat. Sam's down to his t-shirt and is searching the room for anything worthwhile.
They've been in town for four days and Dean's really not convinced that this is their type of gig. He had agreed to check it out, but the fact that the case was in Maine, over 3000 miles away from Palo Alto, hadn't escaped Dean's attention. Sam was running and this was about as far as they could get. After spending half an hour in the swirling wind, the snow flying in Dean's peripheral vision seemed to more than explain the unclear ghostly descriptions of their witnesses.
Dean shakes off his lethargy and looks up as Sam fidgets awkwardly in front of him. "Nothing's here," Sam admits.
"Where's Grayson?"
"I don't know."
"He's our last possible witness."
"I know."
"You said he'd be here."
"Well, he's not." Sam snaps. Then looks down, averting his eyes.
"What?"
"There's dust on the desk. Doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while. I think you were right. This case is a bust," Sam mumbles.
Dean sighs and swallows roughly, head pounding. "Can't win 'em all, Sammy. We'll start looking for something else tomorrow." Dean lumbers to his feet, sways a little and reflexively grips the back of the couch for support. Sam looks at him with raised brows.
"Going somewhere?"
"Need some water. Then we can head back to the hotel."
"Dean, look outside. We should stay here. Hike out in the morning."
"Sam, we can't leave the car on the road."
"It's not on the road. And by now it will be plowed in. We can dig it out after the storm."
Sam moves past him and hands him the water bottle. As he drinks, Sam tugs off his hat, exposing Dean's head to the warmed room. The exposure sends a shiver down Dean's spine. He runs his hand through his disheveled hair and stares out into the blizzard. "Whatever."
Dean face plants onto the musty couch, swallowing roughly as the chilled water rolls uncomfortably in his stomach. He grips the edge of the couch and forces a steady breath. He jerks as a rough blanket is dropped over him, feels relief when a bucket is placed in his line of sight. He grunts out his appreciation and wraps a hand around the cool plastic edge.
He drifts on the edge of sleep. The wind outside rocks the dilapidated cabin and Dean tucks deeper into the wooly blanket. Sam hovers for a while. Dean suffers through Sam's paw on his temple, tsking over the heat he finds, and then lets the sound of Sam building up the fire and rifling through desk papers lull him.
In the darkest part of the night, Dean awakes. He fumbles for the bucket and empties his unhappy stomach once again. The blanket falls to the side with his hasty movements and he slumps back when he is spent, shivering at the exposure. He palms his aching gut protectively.
The fire is now a mess of burning coals and Dean lists sideways toward its heat. His eyes adjust and he can make out Sam's shape on the loan bed tucked against the wall. As he watches, Sam's giant form shifts restlessly, blankets askew and body tense even in sleep.
Dean sighs and rubs at his pounding temple, hand coming away damp. After a pause, he leans forward and grips the bucket tightly again as his stomach cramps ineffectively for a few more minutes.
A hand on his bicep pulls him back to sit against the cushions. Sam waves something in front of him and Dean slowly focuses on the offered toilet paper. He takes it with unsteady fingers and blows his nose, wincing as residual stomach acid burns his nasal passages.
"What's wrong?" Sam asks quietly, sitting close and barely recoiling from Dean's vomit breath.
"Bad burrito?"
"Sucks, man." Sam knuckles Dean's brow and frowns at the moisture.
Dean trails his own hand over his face and hair. He's sweaty and his shirt is sticking to him in the stuffy room. He pushes against Sam's bulk and eyes the door. He wants some air but isn't sure his body will cooperate.
While his legs are deciding whether or not to move, Sam manhandles him forward, stripping him of his damp shirt. Night air prickles at his fever-flushed skin and his abs tighten uncomfortably.
Sam pulls a shirt from his duffle and tosses it his way.
"I'm gonna get more wood. You need to use the outhouse?"
Fuck. His stomach rolls. He looks out into the gaping storm. Being sick has never sucked so much.
Dean's a shivering mess. The trip outside revealed a sharp biting wind and he can't feel his fingers or toes anymore. His stomach feels a little better and as Sam pulls him out of his parka, he surrenders back into the couch.
The blanket settles over him and a water bottle is wrapped in his hand. "Drink."
Light pricks at Dean's sensitive eyes; dawn glinting off untouched snow. He pushes up slowly, his stomach is finally calm. Sam looks to be more or less sleeping peacefully for once so Dean rolls into the blankets and falls back asleep.
The hike to the Impala was wet and cold but the hotel room with heat and indoor plumbing was well worth the trek. Dean had folded himself into a warm shower and then crawled into fresh sheets. He wakes hours later, to a stomach growling for something more solid than the Gatorade that Sam keeps pushing on him.
"You get food?" He grunts out.
Sam looks at him from under dangling bangs and then grimaces as he taps a questionable looking take out container on the table.
Dean pushes slowly back to the headboard. Muscles pull and he swallows thickly. He feels a flush sweep up his body, a cold sweat breaking out along his back and brow. Maybe just sitting up is good for right now.
He cools off slowly and when he looks up, he's met with Sam's sheepish grin, eyes not meeting his.
"What?"
"I think I jumped the gun on this one. Turns out hunters have already investigated these sightings. They didn't find anything either."
"So, no case?" Dean sighs.
"Yeah."
"Find something new?"
Sam's eyes quirk up at that. "You want me to pick?" His self-deprecation is palpable.
"Sammy. We've always found more dead ends than cases, you know that."
"Huh." Sam looks back at the screen. "I forgot about that part. I just remember the cases, not the… dead leads."
"Yeah? Well, welcome home."
Sam sniffs and huffs out a laugh. His response is quiet when it comes, "Thanks, Dean." He shakes his head gently and then really looks at Dean, "You gonna stay in bed all day?"
Dean scrubs a hand down his worn t-shirt; "You just let me know when you find something good." His voice is rough and he slides back down into the bed. "And get me something edible."
Dean takes Sam's soft snort as assent. Burrowing deeper, he wraps a cautious arm around his abdomen. The melodious patter of Sam's fingers searching for their next hunt follows him back into sleep.
end.