Current mood:	worried
Current music:	Cheap Trick - I Want You to Want Me
Entry tags:	crossover, quantum leap, supernatural

Bad Day
Title: Bad Day
Author: windout
Fandom: Quantum Leap/Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for Dean’s mouth
Word Count: 6605
Pairing/Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Beckett, Bobby Singer, Al Calavicci, Sam Winchester
Notes: Happy Wicked Friggen Belated Birthday, albapuella! Lemme tell you, I never would have thought of this on my own, so fingers crossed that it’s sort of what you had in mind. It even has zombies and angst in it! Because if you thought about QL, you’d totally think “zombies and angst,” right? Also, it’s really long because I totally want this to last until next year. *innocent grin*
Summary: Zombies suck out loud. Sam Beckett agrees.


Dean’s not usually the pessimistic sort, but he’s always willing to make an exception. In fact, he thought things were going pretty bad when freaking Andy went and stole the Impala. Maybe Dean hadn’t exactly fought tooth and claw for her (I’m so sorry, baby, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.), but that’s not to say he wouldn’t have if he’d been of sound mind and/or body. Dean couldn’t help it that Andy had to go and friggen take over his brain.

So yeah, not a good fucking day.

Dean really didn’t think it could get worse—didn’t think whatever higher power in charge out there would want to deal with Dean if it did. Boy was he surprised when all of a fucking sudden (What the hell?) he wasn’t in Oklahoma anymore pointing a rifle under his chin.

Grateful, maybe, but his patience? Sorely fucking tested. Especially when he looked in the mirror and found (This cannot be fucking happening.) he looked like some weird ass Bill Nye-wannabe. Yeah. It was kind of a bad day.

***

Usually, the way it worked was that Sam could have a minute to adjust to his surroundings. In this case, he had five seconds to realize that he had a gun under his chin and had to drop it fast. When there was a blast of gunfire, he believed that the rifle had fired anyway, but that felt wrong, because he wasn’t in pain. When he saw a man falling on the other side of the gaping chasm, he didn’t feel a whole lot better.

“Oh boy.”

Sam Beckett jumped up from his hiding place, hiking through the mulchy remains of last year’s fall leaves before skidding out into the road and running over to the body. There was no doubt that the kid was dead, but something wasn’t right. The angle was off; the bullet couldn’t have been from the rifle.

The gun still clutched in the hand of a terrified kid seemed to back up that theory. Sam just really hoped that the kid wasn’t still in the murdering sort of mood.

“Andy, you okay?” Another boy appeared behind the first, laying a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring manner. The first kid, Andy, just shrugged him off, going over to comfort a girl. The second one gave Sam a significant look that he wasn’t sure how to interpret. That was the hardest part about leaping, the adjusting.

“I thought you were gonna stay out of it, Dean,” he said coldly.

Sam’s eyes widened. “I-I wanted to! Really, but I…couldn’t.”

“What if you’d been…Obi-Wanned again?”

Sam shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage while trying to figure out what Star Wars had to do with a murder. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

The kid, who was kind of too tall to be considered a “kid,” had an expression that looked like it could freeze ice, and Sam was only too grateful to watch him turn away to go join Andy and the girl.

“Pretty close call there, Sam, wouldn’t you say?”

“Al!” And sure enough, the hologram was standing casually off to his right, working on another cigar. “Al, what happened? I didn’t do this, did I?”

Al cocked his head, and Sam could easily imagine his next words being, “Are you crazy?” Sam wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t some days. At any rate, Al shook his head no. “Nah, this is just a series of unfortunate events. Thanks to Andy, neither you, nor Sam is going to be found guilty in this.”

“Me who? Al, I’m Sam.”

“So’s your baby brother.” Al waved vaguely towards the trio of people leaving a smoke trail etched into the night air. “Sammy Winchester, aged twenty-three. Psychic. Brilliant. You’d like him; you two would get along well. Only thing is, he and his brother don’t quite as much. You know, squabbles and the like.” At Sam’s blank look, Al rolled his eyes. “You’re Dean Winchester, twenty-seven years old. Womanizer. Super protective of baby brother. You grew up with a gun in one hand and thing of holy water in the other. You and Sammy hunt ghosts and other weird stuff like that.”

Dr. Sam Beckett blinked slowly, trying to figure how much better he’d feel better if he’d misheard. A man who hunted roasts or toast for a living couldn’t be much better off than one who hunted ghosts. “Ghosts, Al?”

“That’s what I said. Demons too, apparently; all that supernatural baloney. The Winchester brothers lost their mom to a demon at a real young age—” Al paused to take a drag off the cigar. “—Daddy had them spending the rest of their childhood moving around and surviving demonology boot camp so they could help kill the demon that got their mother. Dad’s dead too, by the way, but big family grudge. Big grudge.”

“Al, I can’t hunt ghosts. I can’t even hunt deer or anything,”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Sam, but you’re gonna have a hell of a time fitting in if you don’t make a token attempt at it.”

“You can’t give me tips or something?”

“Uh, Dean? Hey, I know getting your head screwed with might be a bit straining on the mental faculties, but who are you talking to?”

Sam Beckett almost tripped over himself trying to turn around. Yeah, hunting was going to be such a great idea. When he finally righted himself and was face-to-chin with Sammy Winchester, he offered a weak, innocent smile. “No one. Just…no one. How’s um, Andy, Sammy?”

And boy did Sammy not look a bit convinced of Sam’s performance. It wouldn’t look a bit out of place for the younger man to make the international sign of the cuckoo. Sam tried a little bit of charm in the form of a quirked eyebrow, which seemed to mollify Sammy for the moment. Maybe he was just humouring his crazy older brother.

“Andy’s fine. His girlfriend though…she’s going to be in rough shape for a while.”

“That’s a shame.”

Sammy gave Sam another concerned look. “Yeah. Yeah, a shame. You…? Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Sammy. I swear. I feel fantastic.”

“Riiight.” And the kid drew the vowel out just like that. Maybe hunting wouldn’t be Sam’s worst problem after all. “I want to wait for the police, just to make sure things are okay, that Andy’s going to be fine.” Something about the way Sammy said that sentence, sort of rushed while he glanced downwards, made Sam pretty curious. Why would a couple of brothers have issues with the police? There wasn’t much time to speculate though, as Sammy rushed on, “We don’t have to stick around after that though. I got some info on a hunt in Minnesota. People getting chomped on by pretty big monsters that smell of, get this, rotting flesh. I think it’s a draugr.”

There didn’t seem to be much for Sam to add to this conversation, the kid having a fine chat all on his own. Whatever a draugr was, Sam was pretty sure that he didn’t need to find out. So Sam nodded weakly.

“Dude, Norse zombie.”

“A z-zombie?” Not even Sam’s veteran leaper status could keep the crack from his voice. Assuming zombies were real—which they weren’t—whose sick, twisted idea was it for him to fight a zombie? Even Sammy looked offended, though Sam had a hunch it wasn’t for the outrage that was this B-movie Sam had leaped into.

“Cristo.”

“Huh?”

“Cristo. What’ve you done to my brother?”

Sam laughed, despite the vomitty feeling in the pit of his stomach. What an awful day this was turning out to be. “Don’t be dumb, Sammy. I’m just…I’m fine. Fine!”

Oh what a bad day.

***

If there was one thing Bobby Singer enjoyed in life, it was his privacy. If there were a whole bunch of things he liked, it was exactly what he had, living quiet in South Dakota with his dogs and a salvage yard. It was a simple, elegant sort of life, if that was the sort of vocabulary Bobby was inclined to use that day.

More often than not though, Bobby called it good and left it at that.

Then there were those few and far between days where something out of the ordinary happened, and Bobby had to think on his feet or get bowled over by life. It used to be John Winchester who caused those damned distractions, but nowadays, it was his boys. Soon as that big, black Impala came grumbling and growling up the dirt drive, Bobby figured that something had to be up. Not like the Winchester boys ever just dropped by for coffee. Not that Bobby would’ve let ‘em if they did.

Surprisingly, it was the youngest, Sammy who popped out of the driver’s seat with Dean clambering sluggishly out of the shotgun spot. Dean never let another living being near the wheel of his car unless he had one foot in the grave.

“Hey, Bobby!” Sam called in one of those falsely cheerful voices that Bobby was all too familiar with from Winchester-folk. That sort of tone usually came before favour-asking and hoop-jumping. “How’ve you been?”

Bobby took his time scrubbing at the grease on his hands; the T-bird in his shop had been leaking something fierce, and he’d finally found the time to get to that old beauty. Wasn’t nearly done though, and it didn’t look like she would be for awhile yet.

“What are you boys up to?” Bobby finally asked with a nod in Dean’s direction. Dean who was currently being assaulted by Humphrey, Bobby’s mildest dog. That was weird shit right there, especially the oldest boy’s pale and drawn face. Between Humphrey’s uncharacteristic aggressiveness and Dean looking like a ghost, Bobby was beginning to get a better picture of what the problem was.

“Uh, Bobby…” Sammy was right up close, head bent down like he was trying to keep a secret between them. “I was hoping you might know if there were any cases of demons who were…immune?...to holy water? Or cristo?”

“You think Dean’s a demon?”

“He isn’t right, Bobby. He hasn’t been okay since we did that job in Oklahoma. He…” Sam’s voice dropped real low. “He wanted me to drive because he didn’t think he could handle ‘a thing like that.’ He’s never been less than reverent with the car, Bobby. And that’s just the most obvious tip off. If it’s a shape shifter, it’s doing a real lousy job of it.”

“And you want me to try and exorcise the demon or kill the shape shifter or whatever.”

Sammy, even when he was a little kid, had this way of looking at a person, as though looking into his soul. Except, it wasn’t half so creepifying as that, more like he was trying to appeal to the person’s better nature just by staring at them. Bobby was pretty familiar with that look, having raised plenty of dogs, but Sam was a lot harder to resist than a pup.

Bobby sighed. Always trust the Winchesters to come and screw up a pretty good day. Not that he wouldn’t bend over backwards for them. Hell, he liked them well enough; he just…never expected them not to come toting a big cloud of trouble behind them.

“I’ll go check the library; you get Dean away from Humphrey before he gets his leg torn off.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” And Bobby knew Sammy meant it. It was the little things like that that made the Winchesters half bearable after all.

***

Al had to give these guys credit for trying. They’d been at it for three hours with at least five different attempts at an exorcism and liberal amounts of holy water that left Sam drenched like a rat and looking pretty bitter about the whole thing. And he didn’t complain much, which wasn’t bad at all, considering the predicament, Al mused.

“I’m getting kind of cold; can we get a move on?” Sam asked darkly.

“Sam, they can’t have that much more Latin in them, don’t give up hope.” Al realized that sort of a statement was pretty much useless if A) Sam couldn’t see him and B) he heard just as much Latin himself from the real Dean Winchester. Dean, despite his swiss-cheesed brain, had already recited two and a half hours worth of the stuff. Al moseyed over beside Robert Singer and Samuel “Sammy” Winchester to give his Sam some visual confirmation.

It was a pleasure seeing those tired, red eyes pop. But Sam, now pretty wise to the whole thing, didn’t say anything, remembering that he was still under close scrutiny.

“They haven’t got much left,” Al confirmed. “Not as if you wouldn’t have given a couple of shakes or thrown up some pea soup by now, right?”

“It ain’t a demon, Sammy. We’ve gotta try silver. If you’re convinced he ain’t Dean, you owe it to the real him to try this.”

“I know, Bobby.”

Al glanced over at the two guys gabbing beside him. They just didn’t seem to want to give up, judging by their frantic muttering and plotting. Al’d had a wife life that once. When he’d finally given her the slip, it’d been the happiest day of his life. His girlfriend at the time had thought so too.

Sam finally spoke up. “What’s the silver for? It’s not like I’m some kind of werewolf.”

“They think you’re a shape shifter,” Al replied.

“You might not be a werewolf, but you of all people should know that werewolves aren’t the only kind of shape shifter,” Sammy also answered, except his words weren’t in the same helpful vein as Al’s. Al had the sudden feeling that he and Sam had missed a pretty important exchange right there.

“You have that silver pin, Bobby?”

The older man handed over a highly lacquered wooden box in a solemn way, like he and Sam were stuck in some kind of doctor drama. Al kept hoping that a hot nurse would turn up with a scalpel, but didn’t hold his breath. He knew what was coming next after all, and it wouldn’t be fair to leave Sam in the dark.

“Sam, Sam listen to me.”

“What are they doing, Al?” Sam hissed under his breath, careful to keep his gaze on the two men.

“They’re gonna see if you’re a shape shifter like I said. They’re gonna stick you with a silver needle. Just try not to scream and pass out, okay? Not only would it be real embarrassing for you, they’d probably try to kill you if you did, capiche? Shape shifters experience serious pain if they’re pierced with silver.”

“Al, Al, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Try telling them that. Probably kill you on principle then.”

Sam gulped audibly as the young man advanced with the needle. Well…bad as Al felt, it wasn’t like he hadn’t warned Sam as best as he could. Besides, Sam had had worse days than this.

Maybe not in recent memory, but things could easily be worse.

***

“I know you’re not my brother,” Sam said finally. 234 miles and still not answers. None that Sam came up with, anyway. When he had no answers, Sam needed a consult, even if he didn’t believe he’d get the answers he wanted. Dean always did call him the stubborn one.

“Hm?” The stranger grunted. He sounded tired.

“You’re not my brother. I don’t know where you put him, but I’m going to find him.”

“Sammy, you’re crazy. Of course I’m your brother.”

That was his brother’s voice, something Dean would say, but that nagging feeling at the back of his head wouldn’t let up. Five different exorcisms and the silver test. All it proved was that this Dean wasn’t possessed or a shape shifter. They didn’t tell Sam what he was and that annoyed him even more.

“If you were my brother, you’d be driving. You’d be calling me a bitch. You’re too…” Sam glanced over and found notDean staring at him with a supremely perplexed look. That right there wasn’t too bad an impression. “…you’re too civil.”

“Maybe I’ve been too hard on you, Sammy? Don’t tell me you actually want me to call you a…bitch.”

Sam shrugged. Sure, it annoyed him, but he never really minded it, even if he did protest. It was just the way things were. But still, Dean would never just up and admit that he was being “too hard.” Dean might as well admit he had feelings and peed sitting down.

“You’re not my brother,” Sam said simply. “I want to know where he is.”

“Sammy…maybe we should just focus on the zombie for a bit, huh? Maybe that’s kind of a higher priority than whether or not I want to call you a bitch?”

There. The hunt. It always came back to the hunt where Dean was concerned.

Maybe it really was nothing. Whatever. After the weirdness that was today, Sam was definitely going to sleep in. Maybe he’d feel better after catching some sleep. Maybe Dean would be normal.

As the road fell away beneath the Impala’s tyres, Dean fell asleep. Sam kept driving and thought about the next day.

***

When Sam woke up, he was aware of a very unsettling feeling, sort of like he was in a boat at sea. Then he realized that he was in a water bed and that explained a lot. A shuffle into the bathroom and for the first time since he last leaped, he got a good look at the man he was supposed to be.

Dean Winchester wasn’t a bad looking guy. Green eyes, short, lightish hair, muscular. Sam could’ve done a lot worse; he just kind of wished he knew what he was supposed to be doing as Dean. That was always the question, wasn’t it? He hoped Ziggy would figure it out soon. Until then, he had to figure out how to kill a Norwegian zombie.

He sat at the desk, absently rubbing at the web of skin between his left thumb and index finger; the angry red welt still stung occasionally, but not half so bad as it did yesterday. At least Sammy had looked mildly guilty after he took the pin out. Sammy was still passed out on his own waterbed with his face buried in a pillow. Sam didn’t recall when they’d arrived at the motel, but he wasn’t really surprised at the man’s weariness. He’d driven all day yesterday after all.

As Sam rifled through the duffle bags he’d helped bring in last night, he heard a snuffling grunt. Sammy sat up, looking just as lost and confused as Sam felt this morning. “Dean?”

“Down here, Sammy,” Sam said clearly before burying his head back in the bag again. Besides a bunch of clothes, a couple of questionable magazines, toiletries, a gigantic knife, and a tube of Ugh…why lubricant? Why?, there were nothing particularly useful. Certainly nothing that would give him a crash course in demon hunting.

“Dean, what happened yesterday?”

A whole lot of things, Sammy. “Not too much. You drove all yesterday, probably got tired is all.”

“Why didn’t you drive?”

If there was one thing about Dean Winchester he learned after yesterday’s blunder session, it was that he loved his car. Might’ve even considered marrying it if it were at all legal. “I was tired, Sammy. Almost dying will do that to a person. I’m real grateful you took good care of her, but that doesn’t mean you get to drive her today, Sammy.”

The young man yawned. “Fine by me. ‘N it’s Sam.”

Sam peeked over the bed to see if he could guess what Sam (Sammy.) was thinking, but he’d already drifted back to sleep. Sam smiled. The kid wasn’t bad, just worried and Sam could understand that. Wasn’t like Sam was looking forward to taking on a zombie.

And he’d almost forgotten about the darn thing too.

***

Dean was floating in and out of consciousness on a cloud. But then he remembered that that was a pretty gay thought and tried to shake himself out of whatever muzzy-headed state he was mired in. It didn’t really work out too well, because Dean didn’t really care about much at the moment.

Out of curiosity, he tried to examine his arms for signs of needle marks, and found none. He didn’t really manage to lift his head up to see really well, but he’d probably feel something sticking out of his arm if there was anything there, right? Right.

That logic made just enough sense in Dean’s warped and fragile mind to earn a smile.

“Hey, kid. Wake up; I gotta talk to you.”

There was a man standing over him with a pretty serious look on his face. He was old. And he stunk of cigars. “Dude, you reek.”

“Not like you’ve exactly been a poster boy for Dove soaps recently either. C’mon, kid, I need to pick your brain. How do you kill a zombie?”

“Zombie? Zombie’s already dead, you don’t have to kill ‘em.”

“How do you make ‘em stay dead then? Stay with me; you help me out, ‘n I’ll make sure they lower your crazy juice.”

I’m doped? That ‘splains what a good day I’m having… “Don’t really need help stayin’ dead as they’re already dead. You should really consider Tic Tacs, dude.”

“Draugrs. How do you stop them from the killing and the eating?”

“Ask Sammy. He’s fulla that useless factoid crap.”

“Listen, you; my friend’s currently out in Minnesota with your baby brother and if you care about Sammy Winchester at all, you’ll tell me how they can defeat a draugr!”

Sammy? They got Sammy? “What’d you do with my brother?”

“Nothing, but if you don’t tell me how to kill a draugr, you can be sure something real bad’s gonna happen to him.”

They have Sammy. They have Sammy. They have— “Cut off the head, burn the body and sprinkle the ashes on open water. Please, you can’t, don’t hurt Sammy. Please!”

“I promise you, nothing’s going to happen to Sammy if we can help it. You did a good thing, Dean.”

The fog in Dean’s brain grew thicker then, trying to overwhelm and suffocate him. If it hadn’t been for that image planted in his head—Sammy, with his guts torn out of his body, with his neck broken, with his face pale and peaceful—Dean would’ve passed out. He managed to roll off the bed to try following after the strange man with the cigar, and got as far as the door.

“Don’t hurt Sammy! Don’t you bastards hurt Sammy! SAMMY!”

***

“This morning…Dean…doesn’t change anything. You’re still not Dean.”

“And yet you still insist on calling me Dean. I’m clearly doing something right,” Sam replied without taking his eyes off the road. Al admired his self restraint, but there was no time for that now. With the real Dean Winchester slowly being driven out of his mind—probably not Al’s best idea ever, he’d admit—they didn’t have much time to defeat the draugr.

“Hey, Sam. Ziggy knows what you have to do. Except…it’s gonna be a bit dangerous. Just a bit.”

“Well, I could call you the stranger that’s currently stolen my brother’s body, but that’s kind of a mouthful.”

There was a long pause. Al assumed Sam was trying to figure out a way to ask an ambiguous question, so he made it easier on the guy.

“Basically, Sammy’s going to die if he goes toe-to-toe with the draugr. You’ve gotta make sure either he doesn’t get hurt—which is preferable—or just keep him alive. That means you should probably think about killing the draugr, got it? To do that, you’ve gotta decapitate the the thing, burn its body and scatter the ashes on open water. Piece a’ cake. You know how to use a knife, right? Or set something on fire, yes?”

“So…after we kill the draugr…will a lake do for the ashes, or are we talking ocean? I’m not sure I really want to be hauling around some creature’s remains until we can find a lot of water…” Sam said tentatively.

“He wasn’t clear on that, but I assume something like Lake Superior will do.”

“Lake Superior’s okay, I guess.”

“Oh,” Sam replied quietly. “There you go, I guess.”

There you go, indeed. “Sam, just watch yourself out there, okay? I’ll be there, but you know what sort of a help I am.”

Al grinned in response to Sam’s smile. “A lousy one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just talking to my baby here. She’s trying to convince me she’s good on gas.”

Nice catch, Al thought appreciatively as he returned to the lab.

***

So Dean didn’t return to normal. NotDean tried to play cool and casual when Sam opened the trunk to reveal the weapons, but Sam had caught the wide-eyed look. (It’s like he’s seeing them for the first time.) Sam had no idea how in the world he was going to be able to watch his back and notDean’s. Even if it wasn’t his brother, Sam didn’t really wish death on other people.

Still, notDean talked like he knew what he was doing some of the time, but just the way he held the machete (He’s going to impale himself on that thing!) tipped Sam off to the troubles they were going to have.

“You should let me handle this. It’ll be easier if I take care of it alone.” I can’t take care of you.

“Not on your life.”

Of course he chooses now to be like Dean. “No, Dean, seriously. I’ll be okay.”

NotDean shook his head solemnly. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.” That was what Sam always counted on in his brother, but now he wasn’t so sure. Sam tried one last time, trying to guilt notDean into staying with the car, but notDean wasn’t looking. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

Sam sighed. “It’s in my duffle.”

“It’s got pure water, thread, needles, all that kind of stuff?”

“Yeah. C’mon. I want to try to stake out the cemetery while there’s still light.”

“C-cemetery?”

The hike into the woods was pretty routine. The township of May, Minnesota didn’t bother the pair; they didn’t stop for more than five minutes rests. The only thing that didn’t seem right about the walk was that Sam kept picking up sounds from behind him, where notDean was trailing along behind. Is he talking to someone back there? But every time he checked behind him, there was nobody there but the stranger wearing his brother’s face.

The cemetery sprawled out over rolling hills, just soaking up the last of the orange sun. Sam would’ve felt better if he had an hour to prepare, but it didn’t look like much of an option. Especially since he had notDean at his back.

“Hey, Dean?”

After the afternoon of silence, Sam wasn’t surprised that the stranger practically jumped. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any idea how to use a machete?”

In the glare of the sun, Sam thought he might be mistaken, but it looked like notDean was blushing. It could’ve been an unflattering beam of light. Sam didn’t care anymore. “I’ve…no. Not really.”

“C’mere.” Sam really preferred the idea that he’d turn tail and run, but if he was even half his brother in spirit, this Dean would be stubborn as hell. Therefore, Sam wanted him as prepared as possible. “Okay, first thing? It’s not a sword…”

***

Sam smelled the thing before he saw it. Despite the fact that Sammy insisted that they couldn’t use flashlights—something about being light blind—Sam could see reasonably well. Crouched behind a headstone, Sam was overwhelmed with the stink of decaying flesh. If he was any judge, the smell was getting even more powerful.

Before long, he could heard it too, shuffling on down from some hill behind him. Shufflestep. Shufflestep. Shufflestep. Sam chanced a peek from around the stone and at first couldn’t decipher what he was seeing. Then he spotted the man-shaped creature making its slow, meandering way down the slope.

He glanced at Sammy who was too busy watching the creature himself. Not exactly reassuring, but then again, they had formulated a plan before the sun set completely. Whoever was farthest away was bait, leaving the one who was closest free to leap on the draugr and cut its head off. Sam was definitely glad that he was the one shaping up to be the bait.

“One thing, draugrs, when they’re up and fighting, they tend to grow, kind of like puffer fish,” Sammy had cautioned. “We need to waste this thing before it can grow and get the advantage, okay?” Sam couldn’t do much but agree wholeheartedly, which meant that if he was bait too early, Sammy wouldn’t be able to get a proper jump on the beast. Which made his job a little bit harder.

You can do this. At least you’re not flying a plane, or playing the piano in front of hundreds of people, or…or…

The monster was less than ten feet away from Sammy. He was signaling and making frantic shooing motions for Sam to get going. Gulp. Sam got to his feet, bouncing on his feet and waving at the draugr, who snarled.

“Hey! Over here, I’m over here! Come get me!” And before the sound stopped echoing through the cemetery, Sam was off dodging gravestones. Checking the creature’s progress, he needn’t have bothered—in true zombie fashion (It’s a real, honest to God ZOMBIE!), it was moving at a glacial speed. Sam could even spot Sammy popping out from behind a headstone to intercept the draugr.

Really damn slowly.

Oh boy…

***

Sam saw the second one about two seconds after he jumped out of his hiding spot. In those two seconds, the draugr expanded like a balloon, and Sam found himself looking up to something for the first time in ages. It didn’t exactly give him a fuzzy, nostalgic feeling either.

All he really felt after trying to hack at the monster’s legs and spine was tired, shakey, and sore. When the zombie fought back, clawing at him and biting, Sam could honestly say there was no love at all. A little embarrassment maybe, but no love.

***

“MAKE HIM SAVE SAMMY!”

There was rage. Shit loads of rage flashing through his head as he watched the draugr fall on Sammy. Dean traded one fog for another, but this haze was a lot more empowering than the last. It helped him beat the soldier guy out of the way so he could attack the bastard wearing his skin. Fuck that Dean couldn’t touch him; just the idea that he was probably scaring the shit out of the little punk was enough.

“You’d better save my brother or I swear to anything holy I’ll find you and hunt you down myself, you bastard,” he snarled at himself. He didn’t care what he looked like in his hospital gown. He didn’t care that someone was yanking at his arm. Dean had to know Sammy was okay.

“SAVE HIM!”

“I’m trying!” the stranger yelled as he swiped at his head to drive Dean away like a mosquito. Dean watched as he charged the draugrs, machete held high and felt a small satisfaction as the man landed a solid blow on one’s spine. A short lived satisfaction when it just shook the blow off like nothing had happened.

“TRY AGAIN! Use the damn knife to climb up its back, for fuck’s sake!”

The stranger was listening, for better or worse. He climbed his way up the zombie’s back, sometimes digging in with his nails, other times ramming the knife into the rotting flash. When the stranger made it up and straddled the thing’s neck, he knew exactly what to do. He began hacking at the spot right near its jugular.

“HARDER!”

Sammy was already losing consciousness; Dean saw those rents in his hide plain as day. He turned on Cigar Dude, except that Cigar Dude was shaking his head like he already knew what Dean was going to ask.

“We can’t. You can’t go back until Sam does what needs to be done.”

“Yeah, well, he can’t very well do that if he’s passed out on the ground, can he?”

“Not your Sam, our Sam. The one who’s wearing your skin.”

Dean turned to the hologram again, feeling like his heart had wormed its way up his throat and to lodge there until he choked to death. Sammy.

***

Hackahackahackahackahackahackathop!

Sam felt himself pitching forward, and barely had the presence of mind to evacuate before he fell on his face. The draugr was already starting to deflate. The only problem was that there was still one out there that Sam had lost track of during the fight. Even so, there was no problem quite so bad as Sammy’s wounds.

The moonlight lessened the effect some, turning the blood into rivers of molten silver. Nevertheless, the wounds alone were serious, but having them tainted by rotten zombie flesh had to make them so much worse. One thing Sam Beckett had never trained for while working as a medical doctor was zombie attacks.

Still, he could sterilize the wounds, stitch them up. The kit was only a few feet away. When he got back with the supplies, Sammy looked to be in immediate danger of passing out.

“Stay with me, Sammy, you’re gonna be fine. You’ve put up with me for two days, there’s no way you can’t handle this.”

Sammy’s eyes were completely unfocussed, even as the lids dropped lower. “Dean?”

“Actually, Sam, you were right, I’m not your brother. But if I get this right, your brother’s going to be coming back real soon. I promise. And you have to make sure you’re awake when he comes back, right, Sam? You have to stay awake if you want to see Dean.” Sam never thought he’d have so much difficulty threading a needle before, but between everything…the pain in his left hand, the slick feel of sweat on his palms, the chill of Minnesota at night, the stinging of his eyes…

Sam jammed the thread through the needle before wetting some gauze with hydrogen peroxide.

“Burn. Gotta burn the…burn the body,” Sammy ground out.

“Later, Sammy, later!”

“Now, Dean! I’ll be okay! Gas is in the duffle.”

Sam glanced behind him and saw something that made the pit of his stomach sink even lower. The headless draugr was stirring. Clutching at the nearest duffle, Sam grabbed at a tin canister with shaking, fumbling hands and unscrewed it and tossed half of it all over the twitching, trembling zombie. Sammy was holding up a lit match, and as soon as Sam was clear tossed it onto the monster.

“Where’s the other one?” he sighed.

Sam was still watching the draugr, burn, and had to force himself to pay attention to what he was doing, lest he injured Sam even worse.

“I don’t know; it got away.”

“Hey, Dean?”

Sam clamped down on his immediate response. Sammy was allowed to think whatever he wanted right then. “Yeah?”

“Where’d you learn good first aid?”

“I uh…took some lessons from Bobby. Just how to stitch better and stuff.” Sam just hoped that the gruff old guy was the sort to teach neat first aid. Then again, it didn’t really matter much right now when the majority of Sam’s gashes were still untreated. He continued dabbing at the freely flowing blood and the cuts wherever he saw them. Stitches would have to wait until he could evaluate the depth and length of all the cuts.

“Dean…”

“What is it, Sammy?”

“Dean, you’ve gotta…” Sammy swallowed thickly, eyes squinting upwards. Sam cocked his head in question when the young man finally managed to spit out what he was trying to say: “Behind you, Dean!”

Sam felt the breeze from the draugr’s hand as he rolled away from Sammy. The draugr wasn’t quite so lucky. Sammy had managed to aim a wild blow with his own blade at the zombie’s shoulder. Yanking it out of the dead flesh with a sick thunk, he got another three blows in before the creature swung with its grimy hand, and another two before the head popped off the shoulders and the body collapsed in a pile.

“Burn it. We’ve gotta scatter the ashes.” The action gave Sammy just enough adrenalin to rouse himself and come back to life. Not exactly healthy, but after watching the last zombie, Sam agreed that dispatching it now would be best. It gave him a couple extra minutes to look at Sammy’s wounds while the creatures cooked.

“Well done, Sam. Bet you didn’t think you’d ever get to face down a couple of zombies,” Al said proudly as Sam dumped the rest of the gas on the draugr. Flicking a match on it, Sam stepped away so he could see Al. He looked every bit as pleased as he sounded.

“That guy who was yelling at me…that was me?”

“Well…you before you had to go testing your crazy experiment. Not really though. That was a bad analogy.”

“It was my face though.”

“True enough. But that was Dean Winchester you scared the bejeesus out of. I don’t think he was exactly pleased with the mutilation of his baby brother back there.”

“I saved him, didn’t I?”

“Probably the only reason he hasn’t tried killing me to get to you,” Al replied wryly. Sam shook his head with a smile as he knelt down beside Sammy to finish his ministrations. If he got Sammy to a hospital quick enough, just to make sure they got to any infections that might’ve developed, Sam was willing to bet the kid would make it.

“Can you walk?”

Sammy blinked owlishly, trying to find Sam. “Uh…yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’ll grab the gear, then I’ll come help you.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder gently before getting to his feet. The only problem with that was that his feet were no longer exactly on the ground anymore…

***

Sam cracked open an eyelid, frowning at his surroundings. They were white and sterile. The last time he remembered a room like this, they’d been in a car wreck and—

“Dean?”

There was a grunt off to his left, and there was Dean looking just as disoriented as Sam felt. He looked fine, though, more than fine, when his eyes locked onto Sam’s. He freaking melted, which was just so unDeanlike that Sam almost scooted backwards. But the gooey warmth disappeared just as quickly as it arrived.

“Sammy. Damn it, Sammy, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds; you just go and get yourself banged up, don’t you? What the hell were you thinking, taking on two fucking draugr by yourself? And you bitch at me because I’m just gonna act as sniper for my baby brother, make sure he doesn’t get his ass shot because he was being a loser?”

Sam took it back. This was definitely his brother.

***

In the end, Dean has no idea what the hell happened between Oklahoma and their next job in Philadelphia. He finds he doesn’t have to know because Sammy, despite looking a little cut up for awhile, was okay.

And really, that’s all Dean needs to have a good day.


FIN