Daddy's Little Soldier Boy

"-Why can't you just take care of yourself? You're always putting me first, the job first, what-Dad-wants first!" Sam was falling back onto old arguments but he was pissed and past caring. He'd patched his stubborn ass of a brother back together not three hours ago and then Dean had had the balls to turn around and tell him that a panic attack was nothing and he could handle it himself. The bastard hadn't been able to get pain meds for himself, what the hell made him think he could a panic disorder.

Something of a tag scene to S01E02 - Wendigo. Sam has to patch Dean back together and he's not happy about it.

Dean surrendered the keys with only the barest hesitation and settled himself into the passenger seat; a mask of well rehearsed stoicism settling over his features as the Impala pulled out onto the highway. Sam countered with his own well rehearsed nonchalance; knowing better than to comment not matter how badly he wanted to. Dean was at heart a soldier complete with a penchant for silent suffering and Sam trusted that his older brother wasn't a complete idiot. Dean would have some bumps and bruises after his little foray with the wendigo, but if he had been seriously hurt he would have told the EMTs. Both of the brothers knew that properly treated injuries were well worth the price of a little pride and that the price of a mistreated injury could well be a life.

He pulled into a motel though, much sooner than he otherwise would have, when Dean's eyes began to slide closed and his head began to droop at an awkward angle against the door.

"I'm getting tired," he said as he cut the engine and Dean opened one eye hazy green eye in question. His older brother shrugged and slowly -almost gingerly- began to rouse himself. Sam took note of the sluggish movements, but remained silent.

Checking in was a familiar process after a life on the road and Sam could run through the motions with the minimal concentration; fake names and credit card details rolling easily off his tongue. There was some part of him that was still in the mindset of normal people and was appropriately disgusted by how comfortable he was with fraud. (Although that particular part of him was also getting progressively quieter and quieter the more time he spent back in The Life).

"Big night, huh?"

"I'm sorry?" Sam looked up at the young woman serving him. He hadn't really noticed before, but she was pretty; curly brown hair that tumbled down around her shoulders and framed a freckled face with hazel eyes. She watched him taking her in and quirked a smile; like what you see? Sam shook his head a little, suitably bashful; maybe another time.

"Your friend outside looks a little under the weather," she didn't miss a beat and flicked her eyes to the window where Dean leaned against the Impala. "And you're certainly not with it either."

"Long day, that's all," Sam shrugged. She raised at eyebrow at him as she handed over the keys. Thanking her, Sam took them and went back out to Dean.

"Took your time," Dean groused, pushing off the Impala as Sam approached. Sam didn't miss the wince.

"Well it's not like I forced you to wait out here," Sam said pointedly. Dean waved him off and made to grab the duffel bag. Then thought better of it and let Sam take it.

"You okay?" Sam asked, although he already knew both the real answer and what Dean's would be.

"I'm peachy."

"Sure."

They made their way to the room in silence.

Overall, the room wasn't bad. Which is to say it was musty, with outdated décor and the lock on the bathroom door was broken so it didn't close properly, but the sheets were clean and devoid of questionable stains. The tv was at least 20 years old, but it worked and Sam was switching through channels when Dean finally caved in.

"Sam?" his voice drifted out of the bathroom amidst steam and the smell of (masculine) soap.

"Yeah?" Sam turned his attention from the tv towards the bathroom.

"You mind giving me a hand?"

"Sure," sitting up Sam swung his legs over the edge of his bed, curious (and oh so slightly anxious) about the full extent of his brother's injuries.

Dean emerged from the bathroom; towel wrapped around his waist, damp hair sticking out at angles everywhere. His bare torso displayed an impressive array of bruises; some old and fading but those were far outranked by new dark purple ones. Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean threw a damp towel across the room at him. It was an awkward throw and Sam had to lurch to the left to catch it. Dean grimaced and made his way over, sitting on his own bed. His movements were still slow and stiff, but overall the shower seemed to have woken him up a little.

"So what?" Sam asked. "You want me to dry your hair for you? Maybe braid it after?"

"No, that's you princess," Dean replied, his voice not as light and easy as he wanted it to be. "My mobility is comprised by what I'm fairly confident is a couple of broken ribs and I can't reach my back properly, which is stinging like a little bitch by the way."

Sam raised an eyebrow, "'Your mobility is compromised'?"

"I know big words too, Sammy," Dean sounded slightly pissy now and that in turn irritated Sam.

He sighed loudly, "Let's see it then." Dean obliging turned, showing Sam that the bruising wasn't limited to his chest. The blood was new though. The worst of it had been rinsed away in the shower, but the more stubborn stuff had stuck and made it hard for Sam to see the full extent of the injury.

"Why didn't you just tell the EMTs, Dean?" Sam asked a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.

"It's just a scratch Sammy, not worth going to a hospital over," Dean shrugged and then winced.

"Hmm," Sam just sighed again and began to dab at the dried blood smeared over Dean's back. As the towel removed the blood Sam began to see that Dean was right; it wasn't even a scratch really, more of a graze. A big one. From being dragged about a forest and over cave floors probably.

He had to admit, Dean was stubborn and reckless, but he also knew exactly how badly he injured he could get before going to a hospital. Bruises, a couple of broken ribs and what was essentially an upgraded version of gravel rash ranked low on the Winchester Family Injury Seriousness Scale.

Sam finished up and assessed the wound with a critical eye. "I'm gonna put some gauze over it man, just to be safe."

"Yes doctor," Dean sounded smug and for just a second Sam entertained the idea of wiping the smirk off his face. With his fist. Then let it go and went for the first aid kit tucked in the duffel at the foot of his bed instead.

He bought the kit back and with ease of practice smeared Dean's back with antiseptic cream and applied some gauze and tape. When he finished, he patted Dean on the shoulder and went for his own shower. By the time he finished, Dean had crawled beneath the sheets and was curled on his side watching tv.

"You take any meds?"

"No," Dean's reply bordered on sulky. "Too far away," he gestured with one hand to the duffel bag that lay at the end of Sam's bed.

Shaking his head, Sam filled a glass with water and took the bottle from duffel. He pressed both into Dean's waiting hands. His brother sat up slightly and gulped down the pills. Then he settled down and closed his eyes.

"G'night Sammy."

"G'night Dean."

Switching off the tv and lights Sam clambered into his own slightly-too-small bed, but despite the fact he was completely, down-to-the-bones exhausted he couldn't sleep right away. He'd put on an act for Dean, playing along with the tough guy routine but the whole time frustration and anger had been building up in his gut. And somehow, it was all directed at their Dad. He'd sent them here after all and Dean had been hurt, not badly, but the point still stood; Dad put them in danger. Everything shitty thing that had happened in their lives after Mum had died was Dad's fault, yet he still expected them to fall in line and play good little soldier.

Dean was good at that. Sam? Yeah, not so much.

And that was probably the heart of the problem.

He didn't know what had woken him at first. Sam lay still, ears straining for something -anything- as his body began to tense beneath the bedsheets. His instincts were tingling, not danger per se, but wrongness. Then he heard it, a strangled gasp, barely audible but there.

"Dean!" Sam bolted up, eyes searching the dimness while his hands scrabbled at the lamp on the bedside table. Light flooded the room and Sam felt tension rising rapidly in his chest. "Dean?"

Dean was awake, on his knees on his bed; sheets splayed haphazardly around him, one arm clutched protectively across his chest, the other out bracing him against the mattress. Sam could see the bruises that decorated his older brother's body stark against suddenly pale and clammy skin, and he could see the tremors that racked his body as Dean struggled for breath.

"Dean, what's wrong man? You gotta talk to me," Sam moved to sit on the edge of Dean's bed; one hand gentle but firm on his shoulder, the other trying to turn Dean's face to his. Dean tried and failed to shake them away.

"Can't...breath..." Dean's voice was shaky and Sam had to lean closer.

"What?"

"Can't breath," Dean ground out, louder this time. He turned his face and his eyes locked on Sam. Dean's pupils were blown wide, shiny with pure unfiltered fear, his lips turning a dangerous tint of blue.

"Holy shit, Dean," Sam burst out before he could stop himself; the pieces finally, finally, clicking together. Mentally kicking himself, Sam flowed into action.

"Dean, man, calm down okay? You need to breathe, slowly," Sam tried to grip his brother's face, tried to get him to look at him again. Dean shook his hand away.

"No...shit," he hissed between gasps.

"Dean!" it was a mixture of hurt and frustration; Sam's forced calmed beginning to waver. Dean shot him a glare, but relented, chest heaving as he drew long ragged breaths trying to match Sam's.

"That's it," Sam encouraged, wondering if Dean could hear the panicky edge that lingered in his voice or if he was just imagining it. "In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."

It was another seven agonising minutes before Dean's breathing returned to a steady pace that resembled normalcy. Sam eased his grip on Dean's shoulder and his older brother shifted, painfully aware of his bruised and battered chest, as he manouvered himself so he was lying on his side again.

Silence reigned for a moment before Sam spoke. "You gonna tell me what the hell that was now?" he asked barely, just barely, keeping his already high emotions in check.

"Go back to bed Sammy,'" Dean said dismissively, but his voice was still rough and lacked the force to make Sam even consider doing as he was told.

"I will when you tell me what just happened," he said.

Dean shot him another glare, but all Sam did was cross his arms over his chest in pure obstinacy. "You're the genius, you tell me," Dean muttered.

"Panic attack," Sam responded without missing a beat.

"Bingo. Now will you go back to your own bed? I like company and all, but you're really not my type," Dean would have rolled away, but his body damn hurt and he was exhausted.

"No, Dean. You can't just brush something like that off!" Sam's voice began to rise in anger and Dean rolled his eyes at the wall behind Sam.

"I've got by just fine up until now Sam; I don't need you to suddenly decide you need to play doctor," Dean snapped back.

"'Up until now'?" Sam repeated and despite himself Dean cringed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means. Now shut up," ignoring the protest from his ribs Dean rolled onto his other side, putting his back to Sam.

"Dean..." Sam's voice changed becoming softer and imploring. "Dean, please."

Dean huffed. It hurt too much lying on that side and he rolled painfully back to his previous position facing Sam. "It's fine Sammy. I know how to deal with it by now. It's just 'cause my ribs are busted that made it worse," he desperately hoped Sam would take the bone he'd thrown him and leave be. But no.

"How long?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean took a while before he answered nonchalant. "Can't remember. Since we were kids I guess," he paused, then rushed on before Sam could interrupt. "It's really not a big deal, Sam. I'm... used to it. I can handle it. It's fine."

This time Sam was the one who took a while to respond, slowly -carefully- processing this new information. Dean had been having panic attacks since they were kids and he'd never noticed. Guilt formed a knot in the pit of his stomach. I think I might vomit.

"Dean, I'm sorry... I mean... I never- never even noticed," Sam couldn't get his words straight. Dean's hand found his arm and squeezed firmly; maybe a hug would have been more comforting but he couldn't remember the last time they'd hugged and to be honest it would hurt too much.

"Neither of you noticed, not really," Dean's tone was even, unaccusing, but that didn't stop the knot in Sam's stomach from tightening some more.

"Dad never-?" the thought threatened to revive Sam's anger.

Dean sensed it and quickly tried to correct himself, "Dad knew. He just sort of...ignored it..." seeing Sam begin to frown Dean pushed on, "He taught me how to deal with it. The breathing stuff like you did, but mostly he just left me to myself whenever... you know."

Swallowing his anger at their complete disappointment of a father, Sam tried a different approach, "Dean, man, you can't keep doing this. We gotta get you some help or something."

"I don't need help, Sam," Dean was tired and his patience was starting to wear thin.

"Yes, you do. Dean, a panic disorder is not healthy," Sam was beginning to loose his patience too.

"I have it under control."

"Clearly you don't. Dean, I don't care that Dad seems to think this is okay, it's not."

"Sam-"

"-Why can't you just take care of yourself? You're always putting me first, the job first, what-Dad-wants first!" Sam was falling back onto old arguments but he was pissed and past caring. He'd patched his stubborn ass of a brother back together not three hours ago and then Dean had had the balls to turn around and tell him that a panic attack was nothing and he could handle it himself. The bastard hadn't been able to get pain meds for himself, what the hell made him think he could a panic disorder.

"This isn't about Dad!"

"Yes, it's is! You're too busy playing good little soldier boy; you're too stupid and stubborn to admit you need help!"

"Sam, shut up." Dean's voice was low and dangerous. Sam did a double take, no matter how much they fought Dean had never used a tone like that before with him. It was the same tone of voice their Dad used when Sam had fought with him. Right before he'd told Sam to pack his bags and leave. Oh and don't bother coming back.

Dean took advantage of Sam's momentary shock and push on more gently, "Sammy, you know I'm not stupid. I know when I have to go to hospital and when I don't, when to call for help and when not to," Dean sighed running out of steam. "Dad has nothing to do with this okay? I'm not playing tough guy or soldier or whatever. I'm dealing with this and I'm doing okay. No great, but okay; I'll survive, live to fight another day. I don't know what else you want from me."

The anger was leeching out of Sam as quickly as it had come. Mostly because Dean was right. (And right now, he also seemed a little sad and pathetic). But really, no matter how badly Sam wanted to he couldn't make this better for Dean; he couldn't fix it.

Sam slowly let out a pent out breath, "Fine, okay," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked searchingly at Dean, "Is there really, like, nothing I can do to help?"

"What you did just now, Sammy, that was...you can do that. It helped," Dean patted Sam awkwardly on the arm; he really was not good with touchy feely and tonight had used up his quota for a year.

Sam looked reassured and to Dean's relief returned to his bed, switching the lamp off as he got in. With the dark came silence, until;

"Sammy?"

"Yeah Dean?"

"Thanks, really."

"Any time man."

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review. Drop by and hi on tumblr! I have also posted this work on Ao3.