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do i dare or do i dare? [userpic]

Wired 3/4

May 30th, 2008 (06:19 am)

A/N: There's one more section after this, and the intense actions is winding down as the Winchesters deal with what's happened. So hopefully, not TOO boring. Thanks again to sendintheclowns and Rachelly and to everyone who has read and/or reviewed.  Other notes and disclaimers in part one.


The car had never seemed so silent. He'd driven all night before, with both boys asleep through long stretches of America's heartland. He'd always thought those nights were the quietest he'd known, sated with peace and sleeping children, all the nightmares of life kept at bay.

But that silence had been peaceful, calm, near perfect. This--this was entirely different.

The silence now was oppressive, heavy and unyielding, almost buzzing with the failures and shortcomings of the day.

The boys were in the back--Dean rigid on the seat, Sam splayed over him. His youngest was out--unconscious or sleeping, John wasn't quite sure, and it was hard to gauge the kid's state with his jaw tied shut with one of John's old button up shirts. It was a makeshift bandage, but if he wasn't going to take Sam to the hospital right away, he needed to be sure his son didn't move his jaw more than necessary.

Sam's silence was unsettling. Dean's was completely unnerving. Sam's silence was a sign of John's failure to parent. Dean's silence was a condemnation of the same. It was easy to ignore the barbs and critiques of the outside world, because they didn't understand, they didn't know what he knew, they didn't know why he did what he did.

He would have expected such a silence from Sam. His youngest never failed to find fault with the way John did things, even though Sam should know better. Sam knew what was out there in the dark, he knew the risks, and he questioned blindly anyway.

He didn't expect it from Dean. Not from Dean, who got it, who backed him up, who he could always count on. When Dean questioned him, it really hurt, because he knew it had to be something bad.

And he understood Dean's point. He knew why his oldest was alternating stiff jawed glares at him while keeping tabs on Sam. Because Sam was hurt, he was vulnerable, and now he'd almost died. Dean would give up his own well being in a heartbeat; he wouldn't give up Sam's for anything.

It was his son's greatest asset, the thing John loved most about him.

It was also his son's greatest weakness, the thing that worried John more than anything else. Because when it came to Sam, Dean was blind. He couldn't grasp the bigger picture. Worse, he allowed himself to forget that he sometimes didn't know the bigger picture. It made him as obstinate and difficult and dangerous as Sam himself.

What Dean couldn't see, couldn't seem to fully accept, was that social services was as formidable an opponent as any ghoul was. It could hurt them and take their family apart just as effectively as any homicidal spirit. John needed to keep his boys safe--and that meant driving on. They needed more distance before they could feel safe.

John didn't doubt that it had been a close call--given Sam's limpness and Dean's utter terror, he knew it had to have been. But Sam had been awake, coherent. He was breathing. Wiring his jaw could wait--just a little longer. He didn't like to leave his sons in pain, but a little discomfort beat being taken away any day.

His boys would understand. They would have to. John had to believe that.


Dean didn't know how much time had passed or how many miles they had driven. He didn't care. It didn't matter. In the end, any mile they drove was one too many. Any time that passed was a minute too long. Because Sam should have been in the hospital immediately. Hell, he never should have left. If they'd stayed, let Sam recover, let the hospital deal with it, Dean doubted this would have happened at all.

Some of this was his fault. He's landed the fist that broke Sam's jaw and he'd given Sam the pills and drink that had made Sam throw up. But all of it had been under orders. Orders that Sam wanted to defy.

He didn't begrudge his father his orders; Dean was used to them. On the contrary, Dean still blamed himself for both actions.

But what was unforgivable and entirely his father's fault was this ongoing exodus. This refusal to get help when Sam so clearly needed it.

His only consolation was that Sam was still breathing. As long as that was happening, Dean would stay silent. He wouldn't concede the point--his father's stubbornness would not be so easily forgiven--but until he could provide concrete evidence to the contrary, he would have to sit and take it.

It wasn't until Sam body shuddered, hard and long, that Dean realized that things were not over yet and that he may have all the evidence he needed. Turning his attention fully to his kid brother, Dean assessed him again. He'd been keeping tabs on him this entire time, but as he really looked at his brother, fear began to mount in his stomach.

Sam was still breathing--that much was obviously--painfully obvious from the grating noise of Sam sucking his breath in and out. It hadn't been great after the choking, but Dean had figured that choking and not breathing probably did that to someone--that while it wasn't good by any stretch of the imagination, it had been within reasonable limits. Not that he wanted to haul Sam to a hospital, but he hadn't had a good argument that Sam's condition had deteriorated to the point where there was no other choice.

At least not until now.

A little frantic, Dean shifted, trying to get a look at his brother's face. The light was fading, so it was hard to see, but even in the darkness outside, Sam's pallor was atrocious. It was paler than before, any color he had regained after vomiting had vanished again. Worse, his brow glistened in the moonlight, dampened with a sweat Dean hadn't noticed before.

He swore, fumbling at the shirt tying Sam's jaws together. He couldn't be sure what had happened, but the last time Sam had been in distress, the closed mouth had been a problem. That wasn't a risk Dean would take again.

With renewed concern for Sam, he'd nearly forgotten about his father. But his father's voice came to him, edged with worry that the older man couldn't hide. "Dean? What are you doing? We need to keep his jaw stabilized."

"He's having trouble breathing," Dean said tersely. "I think breathing is more important than his broken jaw."

He didn't look for his father's reaction--he didn't care to. Not with Sam lying across him--limp and hot and wheezing.

He swore again. "He's got a fever."

"You sure?" his father asked.

Dean clenched his jaw. Running a hand over Sam's forehead, there was no doubt. Why hadn't he noticed--how long had he sat there while Sam got worse and worse? How long had he been staring at his father and letting his brother's condition slip? If he hadn't been so guilty, if he hadn't been so angry--it was just the car was so warm and the night was so quiet and Sam had been so the same--

Excuses. All of them. Just like his dad would offer.

He needed to accept his role in this. Accept it, and then step up to the plate. For all of Sam's questions and complaining, that was exactly what Sam would do. Sam could be a monumental pain in both their asses, but when the kid was wrong, he could admit it, even when it hurt like hell to face it. Sam's rebellion was honest at least, and even if Dean wanted to put a muzzle on Sam at times, he had to respect that much.

And practice that much. He'd been blinded by anger--just like Sam often was, just like their dad could be--and now it was time to wake up and do what he needed to do.

"We need the hospital," Dean said shortly.

"I just want to get to the next state," John replied.

"We need it now," Dean insisted. "Sam's breathing is getting worse, and he's got a fever."

"Can you wake him?"

The prompt frustrated Dean--he'd been holding Sam, practically manhandling him during his check and Sam hadn't even twitched. The kid hadn't even moaned when his jaw was untied.


Suppressing his urge to swear again, Dean submitted to the routine. By now, Sam was across his lap, his head lolled back and his throat exposed. With one hand, Dean grasped his brother's upper arm, jostling it decidedly. "Sam? Sammy, can you hear me?"

When nothing happened, Dean moved his hand to his brother's face, being very careful as he tapped his cheekbone.

At that, Sam flinched a little, trying to curl away. Sam's efforts didn't last long and soon the kid slackened again, loose in Dean's arms

"Nothing," Dean reported. "We need to get him taken care of."

"I just want to make sure we're clear of--"

Dean's patience snapped. "Now, Dad," he said, surprised by the sharpness of his own voice. "Sam needs help now and I will not risk waiting."

Maybe it was his tone of voice, maybe it was the harsh sounds of Sam's breathing, or maybe John Winchester just finally realized when enough was enough, but his father's hands tightened around the wheel and he pressed harder on the accelerator.


By the time John saw the exit for a hospital, the sound of Sam's breathing had worsened to a painful grate. It was as if his healthy 15-year-old son had suddenly been replaced by an asthmatic smoker having an attack. Sam's condition appeared bad enough that Dean's guilt trip wasn't even propelling him anymore--the fear for his youngest son's life was instead.

Not that he was going to say that. Not that he was going to say anything. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, hammering away, nearly drowning out the voices in his head--the ones that said this was all his fault, that he owed them both an apology, that he might be too late for his boys after all.

There was no room for doubts. Not in this life. Not for him.

He just needed to get Sam to a hospital, get Sam some help, and everything would be okay. It would all work out. Dean would see.

They would see.

He was so focused on his thoughts that he almost missed the final turn. But there it was, right in front of him, complete with the lights of a flashing ambulance and a lit up ER sign.

Slamming on the brakes, the car lurched forward, squealing, and he heard Dean yell in the backseat.

Breathing hard, he glanced back, seeing his oldest with one arm wrapped tightly around Sam, the other reached out in front of him to brace himself against the seat.

John half expected something snarky, something witty to come out of his son's mouth.

Dean's eyes were wide, though--wide and deadly.

Teeth clenched, John threw open his door, scrambling to the back. With the door open, he kneeled inside, reaching for Sam's long, skinny legs. "Come on," he grunted. "Let's get him in."

Movement was awkward, but Dean moved steadily to assist him, inching forward, still supporting Sam's upper body. It was just like Dean--a constant, always capable, always ready. John wasn't so naive to assume Dean's quick obedience had anything to do with him. Not at this point. This was about Sam.

John didn't like to be cowed into anything--he didn't like to give in, to show his fear--but this time, he had to agree with Dean.


He had to be drowning.

His lungs felt heavy and it was like his throat was full of sand, making each breath a painful venture, a fruitless escapade. Because each intake of air yielded no results--no relief to the burning in his lungs--and his exhalations were an exercise of torture that brought tears to his eyes.

On top of that, his jaw hurt--ached, throbbed, all of it, spreading throughout his head and eclipsing his consciousness.

He had to be dying, or dead already, because living should never be like that.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

He was dying and someone was talking to him? Even Dean at his worst couldn't be that cruel. Even his father at his most stubborn wouldn't be that insensitive.


There was light then, and suddenly Sam's eyes were open, and he regretted it immediately. Whimpering, he tried to shy away, not even caring how much of a wuss he was being or who saw him.


There was a face now, blocking some of the light. It was a woman, one Sam didn't know, and Sam wondered if she was a hallucination.

"Sam, I'm Dr. Werning," she said, but her voice was slower than her mouth, and the disconnect made Sam's head hurt even more. "Don't try to talk right now--your jaw is broken."

That triggered Sam's memory--the sparring session, the wiring, the car came flooding back on him.

Then the gagging--the protein shakes, the pills, not being able to breathe--he needed to breathe--why couldn't he breathe?

"Whoa," she said, and he became aware there were other people around him, hands on him, holding him down. "Sam, we're trying to help you."

Help him? Help him how? By letting him suffocate? And where was Dean?

"You threw up, but with your jaw wired, it couldn't come out. You choked and aspirated it into your lungs, which is why you're still having trouble."

Her words made sense, almost, but he didn't care. He didn't want to believe them. He just wanted to get out of there--now.

"We're going to have to sedate you," she said, but he couldn't see her anymore. He couldn't see anything. The light was dimming, tunneling to nothing, and he wasn't strong enough to fight it.

"We're going to put a tube up your nose to help you breathe," she was saying. "There's a high risk of infection with this type of situation..."

But Sam wasn't listening. Couldn't listen. His ears were ringing now, thrumming in his aching head, and the hands were on his face now, and he felt like he should fight them, like his father would want him too, but what was one more failure, one more failed order among so many others.

The world was dark now and the pain was distant and Sam knew no more.


Hospitals clearly weren't foreign places to him, but finding himself in a second hospital within a few days was not normal, not even in John Winchester's warped book.

Sam's broken jaw had been a nuisance, but simply more problematic with its legal ramifications than the injury itself.

This time--this time it wasn't so simple. This was more than a bothersome stop. It was more than a calculated risk. His baby boy was having trouble breathing and John was running out of ways to believe that it was going to be okay.

To make matters worse, Dean's fear was making him edgy, and his oldest son was practically pacing the entire length of the waiting room. In another situation, John might have offered comfort, might have started a conversation, but he could see it in the sideways glances Dean shot at him. Dean's fear was the only thing keeping his rage in check.

He should have expected that. It was John's fault, after all. Ever since Dean had been four years old, the first order he entrusted to Dean was to take care of Sam. He'd raised his oldest to doggedly watch his youngest. It was a survival technique, the only way he could ensure that Sam was safe. It had started when Sam was so young, so vulnerable, and John never could forget the fire that reflected in Sam's eyes that night. The way Mary had died over his crib. Sam was the one it'd been after--whatever it was--John had no doubt of that. He couldn't tell his boys that, but he needed Dean's eyes to help make sure whatever had come for Sam didn't come back again.

He should have never shouldered Dean with that, though, when Dean was just a child himself. Dean looked like a nervous father, not an older brother. John's choices had done this to his son--to both his sons. Just because Sam was the protected one, didn't mean that he hadn't suffered. Dean was a good big brother, but he could never be a father, not like any child needed. There was no doubt that that had led, in some ways, to Sam's questioning, to Sam's lack of faith. He'd lied to Sam, deceived him, and he was still paying for that in Sam's continual resistance to everything he tried to do.

Now, with Sam hurt while both boys were following his orders, it was more of a mess than he knew how to deal with.

With a glance, he looked at his watch, trying to remember how long they'd been here, how long it'd been since Sam had been taken into the examination room.

Too long. Any time was too long.

Raising his head, he looked at Dean again, but his oldest was still absorbed in his trek back and forth across the room. Briefly, Dean's eyes raised and met John's, and it took everything John had not to look away in shame.

"Uh, Mr. Winchester?"

Startled, John stood. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the doctor entering the room. Nerves sparking anew, he moved forward, all too aware of Dean right by his side. "Yes?"

Her smile was wan and empty. "My name is Dr. Werning," she said. "I've been treating Sam since he was brought in."


"Sir, your son is very ill," the doctor said shortly, her lips set in a terse line. "When he vomited, it appears he aspirated it. We've suctioned out as much as we can, but since it took you awhile to bring him in, some of the particles have already settled into his lungs, which is what has led to his compromised breathing."

John knew that. Knew it well. He could still hear Sam's harsh breathing. Hell, he could still feel the laboring of Sam's chest in and out, in and out, like it was his very own.

And the doctor wasn't telling him anything. These were just words--pointless words, words that doctors always thought were important, thought that mattered. But John didn't care about the hows and whys. He wanted the bottom line. "Will Sam be okay?"

Her brow furrowed, and John noticed the gray at the temples of her ponytail. "Our first order of business was to stabilize Sam's vitals and to secure his airway, which was rapidly deteriorating. Because his blood oxygen levels were so low, we opted to intubate him. It's not uncommon with this type of aspiration, especially when it has been allowed to advance to this level. Unfortunately, because of Sam's broken jaw, we had to forego oral intubation--it would be difficult to secure his jaw with a tube down his throat. So we settled on the next least obtrusive method--nasal. There are more risks of complications with this type of intubation, but such complications are better than the alternative."

"Which is?" John prompted, feeling his own throat tighten.

She raised her eyebrows. "Loss of the airway and total respiratory arrest."

John swallowed hard, feeling sufficiently chagrined. Next to him, Dean shifted.

"So what next?" his oldest finally asked, giving voice to the words John could no longer speak.

At this, Dr. Werning smiled a little, more sympathetic now. "His O2 levels have stabilized, which is the good news. However, we are very concerned about his rising temperature. Since the foreign material has had time to settle, aspiration pneumonia is a real concern for us right now."

John couldn't move, couldn't blink. Couldn't bring himself to make sense of what she'd said.

Still in control, Dean asked, "A real concern?"

With a collected sigh, the doctor pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We've got him on antibiotics to help fight off any infection that may be setting in. We've also rewired his jaw. Right now he's stable, but we've placed him up in the ICU as a precaution. We've sedated him--intubation such as his can be very uncomfortable."

These were the words John had been waiting for, the bottom line he'd been asking for.

He just hadn't counted on one so hard, so ambiguous, so difficult to swallow.

It was Dean who asked, "Can we see him?"

John didn't hear the doctor's response. He watched her walk away, a smile saddening her face, the scuff of her tennis shoes on linoleum.

It was silence that followed, heavy and laden by fear, and the only thing John was aware of was the sound of Dean's barely controlled breathing.


This hospital looked the same as the last--the same out-of-date color scheme with the generic looking doctors and nursing staff roaming the halls. If he'd been in one, he'd been in them all, and even one was simply too many. This time it was even Sam again--with the same broken jaw that had been Dean's fault--and two hospitals within two days was really a record, even for the Winchesters.

It was different this time, though, but not in ways that Dean wanted to think about. This time Sam's condition was much worse. The doctor may have said his kid brother was stable, but she also said that he was intubated, had a fever, and there was a high risk of infection. This was no simple in-and-out procedure. If Dean had been nervous and guilty as hell before, now--

Well, now, the terror was nearly uncontrollable. Fear was digging a pit in his stomach, settling in and turning his insides until he felt physically ill. He might have thrown up, if he could spare the time to do so.

Because this time Dean wasn't ready to accept the blame alone. He couldn't change his fist punching Sam, and he couldn't change feeding Sam the pills and drink that made him throw up. But that didn't mean he had to sit here and pretend like it was all his idea. Damn him for following the orders that led to this.

Damn his father for issuing them in the first place.

Damn his father for driving an entire day without getting Sam the help he needed.

Dean wasn't free from blame, and he'd accept his own gladly, but this time he couldn't turn a blind eye to his father's ways either. He was always defending the man, standing up for him, justifying him. All of his fights with Sam revolved around that very issue--the idea that their father did the best he could, tried his hardest, and only wanted what was best for him.

But the second Dean found himself in Sam's hospital room, he found himself struggling to believe it.

Sam looked awful. He'd looked awful before, Dean supposed, but everything had been so fast then--a total blur of panic and paleness. He'd pinned his hopes on getting Sam to the hospital, as though getting Sam there was the entirety of the battle. Once he accomplished that, once he put Sam in the hands of people who could really help him, everything would be okay.

Dean had been wrong. About a lot of things, he was beginning to realize.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but nothing would have prepared him for the stillness of Sam's body on the bed. His kid brother's long limbs seemed to go on forever on the thin mattress, his legs covered with a blanket, and his skinny arms laying at his sides, each adorned with various medical equipment which Dean didn't care to recognize.

What was really hard to take, however, was the tube on Sam's face. Dean had seen ventilators before--the tubes taped down to mouths--and they'd always unnerved him. But Sam's mouth was shut, his colorless lips touching and almost peaceful looking. With the closed eyelids, Sam could have been sleeping, but the tube intruding up Sam's nose ruined the image. The rest of Sam's boyish features were obscured by it, hard to see through the tape securing the tube.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be possible. It couldn't really have come to this. Sam in the hospital, a tube up his freakin' nose, all because Dean didn't know how to stop a punch and their father didn't know when to swallow his pride.

It was his father who moved first, stepping ahead of Dean toward Sam's side. For a moment, Dean watched dumbly as his father's hand lingered on Sam's head, stroking with a gentleness John seemed to reserve only for life and death situations.

The scene was something from a movie--quiet and simple and maybe almost beautiful. A silent communication from father to son, the passing of hope, of strength. John's hand was steady, loving, and the look of worry on his face was unmistakable.

Dean's mind rebelled. After everything, after driving all day, his father had the nerve to be the good father now.

Angry, Dean stalked forward, moving around the other side of Sam, his eyes boring into his father. "He wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you," he said, and his own voice surprised him with its hardened edge in the quietness of Sam's room.

John looked up at him, his face dismissive. "This is not the time or place for that kind of thing," his father told him.

"Not the time for it?" Dean asked. "Not the time? When is it the time? Two states from here?"

This time his father's eyes were dark when they looked up to him. "Just not in your little brother's hospital room," he said shortly. "Sam doesn't need this."

That comment was enough to make Dean laugh. "He doesn't need it? Just like he needed to spar a little more. Just like he needed to leave the hospital right away. Just like he needed to wait nearly twelve hours to get back here."

His father was livid now, and deeply angry and Dean almost cringed as his father pulled away from Sam's side, moving toward him with the tenacity with which he approached his enemies and supernatural entities. Normally, Dean would have shut his mouth before the altercation even began. Normally, Dean would shirk away now. But not this time. Dean had come too far this time, and he couldn't back down. Not until his father understood.

"Do you have something you want to say to me?" his father asked, looming over him now. "Because if you do, then come out and say it like a man, son, and stop beating around the bush."

Convulsively, Dean swallowed, letting the sounds of Sam's medical equipment give him strength. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," John said with a tilt to his head.

"I just find it really interesting," Dean began, his voice finding strength. "All this good father thing you've got going on right now. Like you weren't the one who was responsible for this to begin with."

John smirked at that. "You really want to go there?" he asked, his voice dangerous. "Because I think there's more than enough blame to go around here."

Dean trembled. He'd seen his father fight many people, many things. His father's wrath was powerful and impenetrable. He'd just never been on this side of it before. "You were the one who kept distracting Sam while we were sparring--telling him everything he was doing wrong, making him feel like he couldn't do it, driving him crazy."

"And it was your fist that broke his jaw."

Flinching, Dean willed himself on. "I know that," he spat back. "And at least I can admit it. Just like I can admit that I should have never helped you break Sam out of the hospital before he was ready. That I never should have gotten him out without knowing how to deal with his condition. Because now Sam's not okay and I can justify it all I want to myself, but it doesn't change that. And it doesn't change your role in it either."

His father was staring, eyes wide, jaw clenched, face turning red. The rage was building behind his stony features, gaining, twisting, and Dean was nearly afraid to see it burst forth.

"Is that what you think, son?" John asked finally, his eyes cold and his voice low.

Swallowing, Dean nodded. "We can't keep doing this."

John cocked his head with a dangerous calm. "We have to keep doing this," he said. "Because what else are we going to do? Tell me that, Dean? What else? You want to stop training? Fine, then the next supernatural entity out there will get the one up on us and then Sam will end up much worse off--maybe dead. You want to stay in a hospital? Sure, then let the CPS come and take Sammy away. They will do that, and you won't ever get to see him again. And then who will protect Sam? Who will be there for him? Love isn't just soft fuzzies, and I thought you understood that. Love is safety, love is staying together at all costs. There's no way around that, and I haven't succeeded at much in life, but we're still together and we're still alive and you better believe your little brother will pull through this because Sam's a lot of things--he's a petulant, disobedient brat sometimes--but he's a Winchester. Just like I thought you were. And neither of you have quit on me before, and I will not tolerate now. Do you understand me?"

It was Dean's turn to stare, heart pounding, dumbfounded, at his father. All his angry words, all his cutting arguments drained from his mind. These were things he'd known, he'd always known, but maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe he'd just never appreciated them before--the delicate balance his father walked between total failure and success, between being a good parent and the worst one ever.

"So you have a problem with that, son, and you know where the door is," he said. "And if you go, you can just keep on walking, because I don't have room for screw ups and fools."

With that, his father turned away from him, moving back to Sam, leaning over his son with the same gentle persistence as before. Only this time, Dean didn't see a hypocrite. He saw a father who didn't know what else to do.

Glancing behind him, Dean saw the door. He thought about life beyond it, about normal and safe and a place where Sam would be happy and free, just like he deserved to be. Just like they all deserved. Walking out would be so easy. And part of him would never even miss his father, never miss the steel-hearted orders or the gruff conversations.

He looked back at his father, at Sam, at his entire life.

Wearily, he sunk down to a chair in the corner, kept his eyes on Sam, and waited.



Posted by: magser (magser)
Posted at: May 30th, 2008 11:52 am (UTC)

God i really really want to punch John right now!!
More soon???

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: May 31st, 2008 12:56 pm (UTC)
little bro

John could totally use the smack to the head. He's kind of difficult at times!

The last part is up :)

Posted by: pizzapixie (pizzapixie)
Posted at: May 30th, 2008 01:49 pm (UTC)

Your stories are always good, but this is so ... visceral. I can feel Dean's anger and frustration. Johns desperation and guilt.Poor Winchesters! Limp Sam forever. Thank you.

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: May 31st, 2008 12:57 pm (UTC)

It is rather fun to put the Winchesters at odds with one another, especially Dean since he seems to obey his father so often.

Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: May 30th, 2008 03:23 pm (UTC)

bloody brilliant!! I love how you portrayed John and Dean in this!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: May 31st, 2008 12:57 pm (UTC)
more multiple Sams

I'm glad they came across realistically! I wasn't sure with their fighting :)

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