If the clock in the motel room had not been cloudy with grime and locked in a permanent five-to-twelve, it would have read four in the morning and witnessed Dean crawling out of the shower with goose pimples covering his torso and extremities. The water that came streaming down from the head was absolutely freezing cold; any warmth out of the question until at least six, but it served a purpose to wash away the dust and grime. The teeth-chattering liquid was barely enough to keep him awake and didn't even touch the exhaustion. His legs shook as he pressed his hands against the cool tiles and focused on the pounding, dissolving stream. If the icy grip had been merciful, he was fairly sure it could have been relaxing enough to send him to sleep. The cool liquid sent a resounding chill through his taut muscles that ached with the days exertion and, only when his fingers began to numb, did he switch off the intense spray.
Pushing back into the bedroom with a towel slug low on his hips and hair ruffled to rid the strands of ice-cold liquid, his tired eyes fell immediately to Sam. Propped up against the headboard, he sat pulling that ridiculously babyish puppy-dog face, lower lip pushed out and one hand idly fingering the bed covers.
"Ankle bothering you?" Dean questioned whilst crossing the room, a deep yawn emitting from his chest. "I think we're all out of meds. Will have to pick some up next town over."
"S'not that." Sam replies, head shaking and voice leaking the need to sleep with every syllable. "Just tired." And as he speaks, Dean's contagious yawn grips him too.
"We've got a couple of hours, you know the drill, check out's at ten."
"Yeah." Sam nods, voice melancholy against the silence of the night.
Dean follows through his nightly routine, drops his towel in full view of his brother and works up his tight black boxer shorts up over his hips. A line of material darkens where his hasn't quite dried properly, and Sam let's out a grunt of disapproval.
"Never gets any sexier, Dean."
"Funnily enough, college boy," Dean spins his towel and uses it to weakly whip his brothers arm, "I'm not trying to impress you."
Sam shakes his head again, lets his eyes drift down to his sore ankle. Although he's managed to wrap it with an old ace bandage, the ageing elastic is far too looser to provide any real support and it throbs mercilessly.
"Lights off?" Dean enquires with a finger already lingering over the stiff switch. With no disagreement from his moping baby brother, he plunges them both into darkness. The bed creaks as he scoots under the covers, scratchy blankets feeling course against his bare skin. His muscles appreciate the position and relax almost instantly, save for the tight knot in between his shoulders and the burn of ripped biceps from carrying around a heavy load all day.
Sam's voice tears through the relaxation and jolts Dean back into focus.
"This happened in Stanford." His voice is quiet and Dean is pretty sure the exhaustion in his tone has been replaced by reminiscence and sadness. "It had been a cold night, and our porch steps were slippery. I was looking at her, not my feet."
Dean too was exhausted, but he made an attempt to stay alert enough for his brother's words.
"You've twisted that foot more times that I can remember." He offers, a means to tell Sam that yeah, he's listening.
"We were going to get coffee. She made me get back in bed. It didn't even hurt much, but..." Sam lets out a tight laugh, a tenuous thread between happiness and a sob. "She insisted. We spent the day in bed and watched a movie. I'm pretty sure she made me soup even though I told her it was just my ankle."
Dean quirks up a smile. Although Sam barely ever talks about Jess, he knows she was a good girl and completely worthy of his brother, albeit ahead of his league; Jess was the Impala of women whilst Sam would probably be holed up in the junk yard.
"As I lay in bed that night..." Sam continues, his voice lowering, "I thought about how lucky I was. How lucky I was to be getting great grades and to have a beautiful girlfriend. How lucky I was to have got out."
Dean's stomach clenches, but he doesn't speak.
"I thought about that time in Arizona, when I sprained my ankle so freakin' bad that it looked like somebody had replaced my joint with a balloon."
"I remember." Dean agrees, his own voice roughening with sleep-anticipation.
"I thought about how I had kept it from Dad and how you had swiped some pills from the med kit. How you sneakily helped me with that bandage whilst he was packing the Impala." Sam paused, let out a tiny kitten-like sigh. "Lying there with her, with Jess, I was the luckiest guy in the world. I didn't have to hide the fact I'd been a douche and rolled my ankle."
Dean felt himself slipping from consciousness and dragged a hand across his face in an attempt to stay alert. They were never keen on sharing-and-caring, and although he wanted to hear Sammy's inner-monologue, he just wished it had been at a more sociable hour.
"Now here I am." Sam continues. "She's gone, Dad's gone, it's just me and you."
"Y'can always tell me when you're hurt." Dean mumbles, twisting in the bed and causing the mattress to creak under his weight.
"I was so lucky then." Sam whispers, hearing his brother's words but not responding to them, "And now... now it's all screwed up."
"Sammy..." Dean's voice tests the sorrow in the air. "I'm so tired..."
"Sorry." Sam mumbles, lets out a hiss as he shifts his sore ankle. "I'll stop talking."
"We can talk tomorrow." Dean responds as he too shifts again on the bed, another squeak emitting from the mattress.
Sam nods, closes his eyes.
Perhaps tomorrow Dean will let down his guards. Perhaps he'll talk about Dad.
Or perhaps not.