The Short Second Life of Mil Winchester - Book 2

The Life and Lies of Mil Winchester

THE LIFE AND LIES OF MIL WINCHESTER

Alcohol soothed my throat. I shot Dean a glance. My brother wasn't coping well. I guess I could understand that. I didn't think that whiskey glass had left his hand all day. He wasn't used to this. Sam and I could come back from the dead, usually by Dean's own hand - or Cas'. But now - where do we even begin? How do you bring an angel back from the dead? And if we could... Cas can't resurrect Cas.

"12 hours," Dean said suddenly. "Should we wake him?"

"Huh?"

Dean nodded over his shoulder at the prone form of Sam, tucked up under blankets on the couch. How he was even asleep was bemusing. When it'd been me seeing Hell left, right, and straight ahead, I'd attempted to set the record for the longest period of time without sleep, and I hadn't even been hallucinating. But Sammy here had managed 12 peaceful hours straight. It was better than we managed under normal circumstances.

I was all for letting Sam sleep as long as he liked - who knew when he'd next get shut-eye like this, or at all. But Dean was already patting Sam's chest, shaking him awake.

"Sammy. Sammy, hey -"

I sighed.

Sam sat bolt upright, eyes wide as if startled by something other than Dean. He was breathing hard, intense gaze somewhere over Dean's shoulder.

Taken aback by the reaction, Dean staggered away. "Whoa. That's twelve hours straight. I'm calling that rested."

"Here," I said, leaning over to hand Sam the water bottle and muesli bar waiting for him. "Hydrate and, uh, protein-ate. How you feeling?"

Sam ignored the question, simply twisting the cap off the water and taking a long swig. His expression was unreadable, though the ghost of a smirk played at one corner of his mouth. "Breakfast in bed."

"Don't get used to it," Dean grunted. "Let me see that hand." He grabbed Sam's left hand before it was offered and unwound the the dirty bandage. He scrutinised my rough stitch job, which was still oozing blood - the tactic I'd taught Sam probably wasn't doing it any favours. "Eh, you'll live. Here," Dean muttered. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table, and poured it over Sam's hand. Pained, Sam hissed. "All right, take it easy," he advised.

Sam clenched and unclenched his hand several times. "So, ooze invasion. Any leads?"

Bobby entered just in time to answer the keen query. "I got all my feelers out. Whatever they're up to, it ain't - ain't about going Mothra down Main Street. They'll turn up. You seem pretty eager to stretch your legs, you know."

Sam shrugged non-commitaly. "Mmm."

I really didn't blame him for being eager to hunt - I'd been the same. Dean stood up, apparently suddenly itching for another hit of whiskey - as he headed for the kitchen to fetch a fresh glass. I took his vacated seat, and started to wind a new bandage around Sam's injured hand.

"Now onto our other big problem," Dean started from the doorway, empty glass in hand. "How're you doing? And do not say okay."

"I'm not okay," Sam responded, clearly not the response Dean was expecting.

Dean scoffed crossly. "You think?"

"Hey. Go a little easy," Bobby advised.

Dean slapped his glass down on the table, and poured himself a drink. "There's nothing easy about it, Bobby, okay?" he snapped. "We acted like he had everything under control."

"I get it. I'm sorry," Sam murmured, a downcast look in his eyes. I finished wrapping the bandage, then pressed his stitches through the cotton. My brother had to bite back his wince, but flashed me a grateful half smile. "Look, I-I didn't exactly want to crack up, you know?"