Title: Tinker Tavern Road (the Good Vibrations remix)
Author: Mad Server
Characters: Sam, Dean
Genre/pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: T
Word-count: 1000
Spoilers: Uh. None.
Warnings: Shmoop, plotlessness
Original story: Tinker Tavern Road by de_nugis
Summary: Sam takes Dean home from the hospital.
A/N: Thanks to i-speak-tongue for helping me make this clearer, and for making good sounds when Sam rubs Dean's head.
Disclaimer: Less with the owning, more with the loving from afar.
:::
When Sam gets back from the hospital cafeteria it's still light out, but the sun has gone down. The sky out the window is a smoky blue, that shade you can look and look at.
The curtains are already drawn around all four beds. Sam drifts to Dean's and nudges the material aside with the back of his wrist. He's got pudding cups in one hand, ham sandwiches in the other.
Dean's out cold. Sam sets the food on the bedside table and relaxes into his chair, the one he stole from the activities room days ago because the first one had no padding left on it and a big rip across the seat.
"Hey," he says. Dean frowns and snorts in his sleep, shifts his greasy head against the pillow. Sam smoothes a hand up over his forehead, thumbs the spot between his eyebrows. He's warm, but he's been warmer. "Rip Van Winkle." Dean nuzzles into his palm, sighs out a hot breath up Sam's sleeve. "I thought you were hungry."
"Hnnm." Dean licks cracked lips and pushes out air through his nose. His brows draw together.
"We've got an hour and..." Sam checks his watch, "twenty-six minutes until Nurse Beatrice kicks my ass to the curb. If you're gonna try and get me naked, you'd better start now."
"Mhh." Bloodshot eyes slit open, fall shut.
"Dude. You are wiped." Sam runs his fingertips over the flushed curve of Dean's ear, smoothes the tape around his IV and gives his forearm a light squeeze. He eases the squeaky guard rail up and lowers it away with painstaking care. Dean snores and mutters something that sounds like part of a pep talk.
Sam folds his arms along his brother's thigh, kisses his hip through the covers. The blanket's warm and soft against his wrists. He lays down his head. There's nowhere they have to be.
:::
Dean's pale and quivery when they settle him in the wheelchair, like an oyster pried out of its shell. The doctor swears up and down he's ready. "Sometimes home is the best medicine. You'll see."
Birds are signing out over the parking lot. Sam looks up at the closest tree and sees a nest. Dean coughs and rubs his chest.
"All right?"
Dean's eyes lock onto the car and glitter. His forehead smoothes out. "Mm."
They feed him gently into the front seat, then the orderly rolls the empty wheelchair back along the pavement. Sam watches him go, Dean's head in his lap, his fingers threading absently through Dean's spiky hair. There's already a damp spot on Sam's jeans from the drool.
He looks down at the white face, freckled like a wild egg. "Where to?"
:::
He pulls into a fast food place just off the highway and kills the engine. Dean snuffles in his lap and sits halfway up with a sharp inhale.
"Shh, shh. Hey." Sam rubs his back as he grunts and curls back down. "Watch the stitches."
"Can..." But he's dozed off.
Sam eases himself out from under his sticky-warm weight and locks both doors, rolls the windows most of the way up despite the August heat. Soon he's back, slipping yogurt shakes and chicken wraps into the cooler in the backseat. The things he does to Dean when he has him at his mercy.
:::
"We're kind of like tinkers," Sam tells Dean's sleeping shoulder as he takes the exit for Tinker Tavern Road. "They moved around a lot. Took care of things." Fields stretch out on either side of them, waxy green in the sun.
"Cowiss," Dean murmurs into Sam's leg.
"Hmm?"
He rolls onto his back with a wheezy sigh, blinks up at Sam through squinted eyes. "Cowboys."
"Ohh. Excuse me, John Wayne. What's wrong with tinkers?"
"Not badass enough."
"You're kidding, right? You know they were known for their potty mouths." He watches Dean's eyes crinkle in pleasure. A murder of crows rise up from the corn and spread out against the sky.
:::
Leaning in through the car's rear door, Sam skates the pads of his fingers over the fresh stitches on Dean's chest. "Looks a bit better," he says, flicking his eyes to his brother's. He palms the purple bruises. "God."
Dean watches him soberly from flat on his back on the bench seat, still breathing hard from his trip to the tree to pee. "Cowboys, right?"
Sam plants his ass in the dust by Dean's head, in the shade of the open door.
Cicadas in the sun, electricity along power lines, tires rumbling over gravel, the engine thrumming.
"The doctor told me to take you home." Sam drops a light kiss to Dean's temple, strokes back his sweaty hair. "This look good to you?"
:::
end