Avoidance
Another hunt. Another injury.
Sam glanced over at his brother in the passenger side. His head lolled for a moment before he snapped himself awake. His eyelids fighting gravity. How many times had Sam seen Dean like this? Exhausted. In pain. Bleeding. Not enough fingers and toes, he thought to himself.
The bloodied rag on Deans knee fell to the floor, and for a beat, Sam considered reaching over for it. But, then, they were nearly home. Home. What a joke. Another bare, lifeless motel. No soul. No heart to it. But it was all they had. All they'd ever had, and Sam pressed his foot down on the gas to get there faster. They'd been out too long, and Dean had a head wound.
The familiar smell of the motel assailed his nose as he opened the door and let Dean walk past him into the room. The bloodied hunter shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the chair by the bedside. The rag pressed to his forehead, he sat on the edge of the bed, and jammed one boot against the other to take them off. Sam glanced towards him. And there it was again. The silence. Like an obstacle they couldn't quite see over. A bad habit they'd slipped into after...well, really after Alister, now that Sam thought about it.
He reached for the light switch to the bathroom, went into wash his hands. A glance up at the mirror revealed a blood smear across his nose and cheek. He rubbed at it with a wet hand. He remembered how it had happened. He'd noticed Dean's head wound and the blood, and had reached out towards it, a natural gesture from days gone by. A need to fix it. A need to help. He'd barely brushed his bloodied hair when Dean had suddenly moved to avoid his touch. A reaction to Sam's reach, accompanied by a frown and a gruff, 'Come on, let's just go'. A blunt rejection. Fine. If that's how he wanted it.
When he got back to the bedroom, Dean had angled himself back against the headboard. His hand still pressed upon the wound. Sam switched on the TV, only for the back ground noise. Something to dull the silence. He threw the remote onto his bed and raked inside the hold all for something, before trying again.
"Want me to fix that?" he murmered.
"No thanks, I'm fine," Dean answered too quickly. Too quietly.
Sam nodded. Dropped the bag quietly on the floor. Picked up the first aid kit and dropped it gently onto his brother's bed making Dean look at it momentarily.
"Last chance. Or I'm going to bed." He tried to keep his voice light. Unconcerned. But what the hell. Dean knew. He always knew.
Dean closed his eyes for a beat. Took the cloth away, only to have the blood follow familiar lines down his cheek again. He reapplied it with an exasperated sigh. And at last, he nodded, almost in defeat, Sam thought.
Without a word, he had allowed Sam to clean the blood away from the wound with a clean damp cloth. He'd allowed him to examine the cut. Allowed the close proximity. The personal space to be invaded. Such normal practice in the past – now an event, almost. The dried blood cleared, Sam could see it was the usual suspect. Just above the eyebrow. An old scar now reopened. The swelling was already beginning to distort it. He carefully picked the paper stitches from the sterile card while Dean waited patiently. Green eyes watching. And for an instant their eyes met. Not the usual spark of affection and respect. No. More a weary sadness, Sam thought.
"That's the first one on," Sam had ventured. The start of light conversation perhaps. "Between the two of you, he came off the worst, I'd say."
But Dean's eyes had flicked past his brother already. He wasn't biting. Fine.
Another one. And another. The job done. No more bleeding. Sam leaned back slightly, to admire his handy work.
"That should hold it," he said. Waiting for approval. A nod or a smile. A grunt even. Instead, Dean had lowered his eyes. Licked his lips and waited for Sam to move back. As soon as he did, Dean got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
Sam stared at the wall behind the headboard, and rubbed his face. He glanced at his watch. 1.50am. Who wanted conversation at such a Godless hour anyway? He shook his head and wandered over to his bed, dumping the first aid kit into the hold all on the way.
He let his muscles relax amongst the worn coolness of the sheets. Things would be different in the morning, he told himself. Energy renewed, weary bones rested, problems a different shade under a morning light. The bathroom door opened quietly and Sam heard Dean switch out the light and get into his own bed. He closed his eyes and tried to settle. Soon the gentle rhythm of Dean's breathing would lull him to sleep, as it had done for the past four years.
"Thanks," Dean suddenly said. His voice piercing the darkness that surrounded them both.
"No problem," Sam answered too quickly. Quietly.