Title: Long Past Time
Summary: Written for spnnostalgia prompt for episode 1x10 Asylum: Sam's conversation with a bruised Dean after being shot with rock salt. Also spn25 table, first prompt: Dark.
"Do we need to talk about this?"
"I'm not really in the sharing and caring kind of mood. I just want to get some sleep."
Sam always thought there was something intimate about riding in a car with a person, sharing the same seat, breathing the same air. He had logged a lot of hours with Dean in this particular enclosed space and he didn't even have to glance his way to know that Dean was hurting.
Sam knew Dean had perfected his poker face when it came to pain, but he also knew his tells. In this case, thumb and forefinger on the wheel at five o'clock instead of wrist at twelve, subtle jaw clench every time they turned a corner, no music, and no tapping thumb against his thigh. And it wasn't like this was even a bad injury—hell, it barely jogged the needle on the Winchester scale of harm. Just another day at the office.
But it wasn't every day the harm came from a shotgun blast to the chest. Dean was in pain and Sam had been the instrument of it. So yeah—he was aware. He thought of offering to drive, but saying it out loud would drag something raw and ugly out into the open that he wasn't sure either of them was ready to deal with right now.
So he just sat quietly and tried to wrap his brain around the fact that he'd fired a gun at his brother at point blank range a few hours before. And not just with rock salt. He'd aimed a 9-mm at him and pulled the trigger. Not once, but four times. If Dean hadn't been…well, Dean…he'd have a hole in his chest, not just a sore sternum. He'd be dead, plain and simple.
Sam's stomach clenched. Dean's not dead, he reminded himself. But he was hurting, and maybe from more than the bruise. Sam had said some things, things he couldn't take back or excuse…all the old feelings, the festering bile of his past, had come surging out like vomit and he couldn't stop it. Sam knew they really did need to talk about this, no matter what Dean said, but he didn't have the words just now. His thoughts were still seething and crackling from the madness Ellicott had sent charging through him and he didn't trust himself to let any of them out.
And he remembered. He didn't just remember what he'd done; he remembered how it felt. He'd been angry with Dean plenty of times before, thought if anyone could drive him into a rage it was Dean. Dean could push his buttons like nobody else—hell, he'd installed a lot of them himself. But then Sam had always thought the term "blinding rage" was just a metaphor. Until last night.
Until last night he'd had no idea that kind of anger existed. That it had a color, even. It was deep red, like blood. Thick and heavy, wet enough to drown in. He just hadn't known.
Even before Ellicott, something had been building in him. It was a little frightening how quickly anger was starting to feel warm and comforting, like an old blanket he could wrap around himself. In the days right after Jess when all he wanted to do was give up, curl up around his pain and hide, anger was the engine that kept him moving, shoved him down the road past the teeth and claws that tried to drag him down. Made him bite and slash back.
God. Of course his anger had been there before last night, before Ellicott's spirit had jolted it into overdrive.
Sam shivered, remembering the dark, acid feel of it curling hot through his gut like a shot of whiskey, and the truth was, it was just as intoxicating. It was thrilling. It was terrifying.
They pulled up to the door of their room. Dean was out of the car and at the trunk before Sam could unfold and get back there, as usual, but Sam was there in time to see Dean's jaw clench as he reached to pick up his bag, bracing himself on the trunk lid against the pain. Sam snatched Dean's duffle and grabbed his own bag, shutting the trunk before Dean could get to it. He meant it as a kindness, an apology, but realized after the fact that Dean might see it as something else. He glanced at Dean long enough to note the way his eyebrows ratcheted up. Sam ignored them in favor of concentrating on getting his key out of his pocket, turning it in the lock.
Dean followed him without speaking. Sam shouldered inside and dumped the bags on the floor, rummaging in his for something before walking back outside.
Dean staggered inside and flopped down onto the bed nearest the door, grunting at the jar to his chest when he hit bottom. Sam was probably cleaning out the car or some shit. Up all night, sliding down the back end of an adrenaline high—plus whatever Ellicott's mindfuck had done to him—Dean was too wrung out at this point to care much what Sam was up to. He stunk like fire and sweat, rotting flesh and old musty building, and he sure-God needed a shower. He thought he might have to take a nap first, though. He closed his eyes.
Something landed on his middle and he jumped, biting back the noise the sudden movement elicited. He opened his eyes to a bag of ice resting on his stomach and Sam standing over him.
Sam jerked his eyes away when Dean looked at him, then wheeled to the bathroom and shut the door. Dean took a deep breath intending to sigh, but it turned into a gasp. He allowed himself a loud groan and picked up the ice.
Sam had been right; it had hurt like hell, getting shot in the chest. Still did. And the things Sam had said? They stung a little, too. But it wasn't like Dean hadn't known what Sam thought of him. Dad and his orders, his will, his control over their lives—that had always been the bone they worried between them. Of course Sam was going to worry over it a lot longer than Dean did. Nothing new about that.
It was just that lately Dean felt like he was playing some fucked-up game of pinball, watching Sam bounce off the bumpers. He kept trying to flip Sam back toward center without pushing him too hard, keep him from going down the tubes or flying off wild. It seemed like he was always searching for some handhold with Sam, something he could latch onto, keep him close, but he knew holding on too tight would be a mistake. He'd already pushed the limit by coming to get him in the first place.
Dean laid down the ice and got up, tensing against the pain. He rummaged through his bag for a bottle of ibuprofen and dry-swallowed four.
Sam came out of the bathroom in a towel and a cloud of steam. Dean took one look at his pinched face and tossed him the bottle of pills. Fact of life: take a fist to the face hard enough to knock you out? You're gonna have a hell of a headache. He figured that was payback enough; as far as he was concerned they could call it even, but he knew better than to think Sam would see it that way. Sam would want to talk about it. Hell, he'd want to dissect it, slice it apart and study it with a fucking magnifying glass. Dean could never see the point of dredging up the scum from the bottom of the pond when you knew it was gonna stink.
Dean watched Sam dig through his duffle for a second, then shook his head. He decided he might as well shower since he was up anyway. He hissed as he peeled his shirt off. It was stuck to him in places and the muscles in his chest felt like hamburger. He sighed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
The hot water felt good and he took his time, washing away the grime and soaking his sore muscles. When he was too tired to stand any more, he got out and dried off.
He checked his chest in the mirror. It was peppered with red marks from the salt pellets, but most hadn't broken skin. He was lucky none had gotten him in the face, or the eye. Good little soldier. He traced the sore spots with his hand, wincing occasionally when he hit the tender edge of a rib. Desperate. No color yet, but there would be. It just took a while to rise to the skin, he knew from experience. Pathetic. He'd look like a box of crayons in a couple of days.
By the time he came out of the bathroom Sam was asleep, or faking it. Dean didn't really care which it was right now—he was grateful for either. He eased himself into bed on his back with a stifled groan, glad for the exhaustion that would make sleep possible no matter what position his sore chest forced on him.
Tomorrow they'd be back in the car, on their way somewhere. Sam could talk all day if he wanted, and Dean figured he probably would. He just needed a few hours of sleep. Then they'd have all the time in the world.