Author Note: Hey there, kids. Kinda put the bug in my head when I wrote that short missing scene for OTHOAP, and had always intended on writing a full, legit tag one day. Working on all sorts of mid-progress things, and still plucking away on Be All Our Sins Remember'd.
All the Same
Sam tells himself not to be discouraged, because he's pretty sure he's seen Dean bounce back quicker, from worse. Tells himself it's just the fact that doctors have a way of making things sound worse than they are.
We're releasing your brother into your care.
Like Dean won't be able to dress or feed himself. Which is – in short – ridiculous. Dean's…he's okay. Not GREAT, maybe, but upright, mostly, and walking around. Tired and too pale and hurting, in ways Sam can see reason for, and some he suspects he can't. Eyes glassy and faraway, still feeling the effects of what is one of the worst of many concussions over the years, and when he breathes, it sounds like wind whistling through a gap in a window of one of their crappy motel rooms.
But…he's doing better. And it's only when he breathes.
They sign him out as soon as possible, because doctors ask too many questions and hospitals give both of them the creeps. Sam takes his brother back to the motel room he'd gotten when Castiel proved disappointingly useless in the healing department and Dean's doctor told him – with professional distance and in unnecessarily large words – not to hold his breath for an immediate recovery. That his brother had taken one hell of a beating, and was lucky to be alive.
Doctors have a way of making things sound worse than they are.
Dean takes a few slow, stiff steps into the room and turns back to Sam with hunched shoulders and raised eyebrows.
"You said Uriel's dead," Sam offers, feeling an angry heat of betrayal rise up in his chest. He'd expected better, and more, meeting real, actual angels. Uriel would have begged for death if Sam had gotten his hands on the feathery bastard, throwing his big brother to the wolves like that. Especially when he's…
Dean just stares, and Sam keeps talking to fill the silence that used to be filled by his brother. "Figured we'd be okay sticking close, at least for tonight. Let you rest up a bit more, before…"
Before we hit the road. Before…whatever's next.
Dean looks like shit and he's barely standing; the last thing he needs is to travel for hours in the cramped confines of the loud, rumbling Impala. He shrugs, winces, and shuffles across the room to sit heavily on the end of one of the beds. His hands hang between his knees like a pair of ten pound weights.
Sam drops their bags with twin thumps and shuts the door. He moves to flip on the light but stops, thinking of his brother's concussion and the pained look already residing in his dark eyes. He leaves the lamp off, the room dim and gray in what overcast afternoon light is filtering through the streaky windowpane. "How ya doing?" he asks, crossing his arms and squinting appraisingly.
"Fine," Dean squawks in response, his first word in what seems like days, grimacing and shifting uncomfortably. He brings up his left hand, presses it to his sore side.
Demons don't pull their punches, and his injuries are nothing to make light of. The cuts and gouges littering his face have been sutured or scabbed over, both results looking dark and ugly against his pale skin. The bruises ringing his throat are deceptively faint, the damage done running far deeper than what markings are visible on the surface.
All the same, Sam tells himself not to be discouraged, because he's pretty sure he's seen Dean bounce back quicker, from worse.
They haven't gotten into much detail about what happened. In the hospital, Dean's coherency had been spotty at best, his eyes and attention muddy with intravenous pain meds.
"Alistair?" The first lucid croak he made after the tube came out and the medical staff momentarily scattered, before the freshly adjusted painkillers settled in.
"Dead." The truth, delivered with a racing heart and a tight, tired nod, and as succinctly as possible.
"Good."
And then Dean had closed his eyes, and gone quiet, and Sam can't imagine he'll ever know what all transpired in that room before he busted in, beyond what he'd been able to see for himself. What was done, what was said. All of the different damages and tortures inflicted upon his Hell-weakened brother.
If Dean has more questions – and he has to – he hasn't asked them. But his dark, hooded gaze says plenty.
Sam understands his brother's suspicion, and guilt gnaws in his gut like hunger. Dean barely it made it out of that room alive, and Castiel – a fucking angel of the Lord – was thrashed by Alistair. And Sam…he doesn't have a mark on him.
Sam's cell phone buzzes and he drags it free on his jacket pocket, drops his gaze to the screen. A text from Ruby, an address. A message: just in case.
Just in case he needs it. Her. That guilt gnawing in his gut suddenly feels very much like hunger.
Sam returns the phone to its spot, feeling out the prescription slips in his pocket. His reason to get out of the room.
His excuse to meet up with Ruby.
Prescriptions for painkillers, and a sleep aid, because…well, the nurses told him Dean was having trouble resting. Sam didn't see anything to be gained by telling them it's been an ongoing issue, that his brother hasn't slept through the night since he was rescued from Hell. All the meds will have to be in liquid form – along with anything Dean plans to eat over the next couple of days – because the swelling around his bruised larynx may have receded enough for him to draw his own breaths, but it's certainly not comfortable.
"I'm gonna go pick up your meds. Maybe some food." It feels flimsy, and greasy, the way a lie tends to slide off of your tongue when you don't have any heart behind it.
Dean nods.
Sam frowns, wanting more of a reassurance from his brother, for everything. "You'll be okay? If I run out real quick?"
"Yeah," Dean rasps. He reflexively coughs, as though to clear his throat, and winces, closes his eyes and pushes a tight fist against the bedspread as he absorbs the pain of the motion.
He'd been on the vent for two tense, incredibly long days, heavily sedated, while Sam and the doctors waited for the worst of the swelling to go down. An image already pretty well burned into Sam's memory, and one he could have done without ever having to witness again.
Sam fidgets, unsatisfied in every way imaginable. "Okay. I'll be back in a bit."
Dean opens his eyes and nods, but doesn't chance speaking again.
Sam's hand is on the knob when his brother changes his mind.
"It was me."
Sam drops his hand away, rotates to face his brother. "What?"
"I started…all of this." Hollowly, hoarsely, and staring at the floor.
"Okay," Sam says, his head suddenly buzzing and his voice a whisper, not really knowing what it is his brother is trying to tell him. Not really sure he WANTS to know.
"Ask Cas. He'll tell you." Dean's wrecked voice drops off completely at the end, and he runs a hand across his chin.
Sam swallows, thinks of the pain such a simple, thoughtless motion will cause his brother, who can't possibly take too much more. "I'll be right back, man."
Dean doesn't raise his gaze. He barely bobs his head, rubbing his hands together.
He's not what he used to be.
As he pulls the door shut behind him, Sam tells himself, again, that just because Dean won't understand doesn't mean he isn't doing what needs to be done.
He's not strong enough.
But Sam is. Strong enough for this fight.
Strong enough to kill.
Dean's been…he's been having a hard time since he got back. And this was a bad beat.
All the same, Sam tells himself not to be discouraged, because he's pretty sure he's seen Dean bounce back quicker, from worse.