Author Notes: Takes place today, with a couple of callbacks to other fics of mine, "Observance" and "A Sunday". Happy St. Patrick's Day, SPN fans!
Edit: Full disclosure, I may have had to resubmit the story, owing to the omission of one word. May have been celebrating too much myself while writing today.
After a late morning drive into town serving the dual purpose of weekly supply run and to fulfill a desire for a lungful of crisp fresh air promising a hastily approaching spring, Sam deposits a handful of plastic grocery bags into the kitchen and ventures out into the main room of the bunker. There are some personality traits that haven't yet been permanently switched off by the things they've been through or the hunter he's forcibly grown into, and he can't help but survey the large room with the wide, hopeful eyes of a much younger Sam, looking for any sign of his big brother.
No dice, as usual, as has come to be expected. There are books and materials still laying open where Sam left them out last night but the room is otherwise empty and the lights are dark, and the silence is so pronounced and jarringly familiar it steals his breath and sets his heart into a panicked stutter for the briefest of moments.
But while the bunker carries the faint smell of dust and unwashed clothes, there's no creeping sensation of death, and he should be used to the quiet by now. Sam swallows the uneasiness, pushes the fear aside, and goes back to the kitchen, where he hastily whips up something he's sure will coax even Dean out of the prison he's created for himself from the four walls of his room. And if that doesn't work, he remembers Plan B, an opportunity for good, old-fashioned brotherly bonding. And finally, because Sam is always compulsively over-prepared, Plan C, the newspaper clipping. The promise of a hunt he's keeping like the pocket ace that is always the undoing of one of these stubborn, self-flagellant fits of his brother's.
"Well, if you guys will excuse me, I think I am gonna go sleep for about four days."
That was nine days ago, and Sam's been lucky to catch a peripheral glimpse of the Dean-ghost that occasionally haunts these halls when he thinks they're otherwise unoccupied.
Sam resolutely travels a well-worn path to Dean's room, grips the frosty glass with a suddenly sweaty palm and knocks tentatively on the doorframe. "Happy St. Patty's Day."
There are several seating options in Dean's room that should certainly seem more appealing than the cold, hard concrete floor, but that seems to be where Sam always finds him. From his crossed-leg position next to his bed, Dean's head whips up and around, and Sam sucks in a breath.
Sam used to be the pale one. Dean would tease and mock him mercilessly about all of the time he spent holed up indoors with books and homework and now Dean's the one who hasn't seen the sun in over a week, and that might be a modest estimation.
The bruises from his battle with Cain run bone-deep, and more than a week later there's still more than enough visible evidence of a shocking amount of injury done. The ruddy splotches of day one had moved without ceremony to the opposite end of the color spectrum on day two, and half of Dean's face had been appallingly black for days. Now, the stubborn contusions that are taking their sweet time in healing are a greenish yellow, standing out in stark contrast against his otherwise white skin.
There's been a hiccup with one of the generators and the bunker's been hot, stuffy for the past couple of days but while Sam's opted for tees, Dean's kept to long sleeves, concealing whatever lingering damage he can from his brother's searching eyes. But when he's seen Dean moving, he's certainly doing so with the familiar hesitance of someone protecting broken ribs.
There's a gauntness returning to his frame that brings Sam back in time a year and sends a shiver down his spine. They're in a better place now, and the only thing he can do is handle this differently than he did then, make sure Dean knows he isn't alone.
Sam steps fully into the room, holds aloft his offering. "I, uh, made you a green beer."
Dean swallows audibly, tries to smile but one of the bruises halts its ascent before the motion reaches his eyes. "Thanks, but you kinda took the bloom off that rose a long time ago."
Sam winces. "Sorry about that. All the same." He sets the beer on the desktop, in the only patch of stained wood visible in a sea of stacked books and loose pages. The same research about tattoo and scar removal that he's been reading and rereading and going cross-eyed over for weeks.
"Any word from Cas?"
"No." Sam sees no need to expand, no need to tell Dean he'd sent the angel out of the bunker and threatened him not to set foot or wing here again until he has a plan for getting rid of the mark.
"S'kinda weird."
"Uh huh. I mean, yeah, I guess."
Dean quickly averts his eyes to the yellowed pages of the book in his hand as Sam uses this opportunity to take stock of the room. It doesn't take long to confirm his concerns that his brother hasn't been eating the meals Sam's brought him. A bite missing from a sandwich here or there, but for the most part there are full plates stacked in a dangerous formation on top of the bureau. And whether he has an impressive and impressively hidden stash somewhere in the bunker or he's been slipping out while Sam's asleep, people have been called alcoholics for a lot less than the number of empty bottles he counts in the room, but that's not to say it's something Dean's hidden or a label he's shied away from in recent years. He's owned it, but that doesn't mean he's comfortable with his little brother seeing him like this.
"It is what it is, Sam," Dean speaks up in a low voice, like he knows what Sam's thinking.
Yeah. Sam swallows, has a course set and keeps trying to pull his brother out of this hole he's fallen into, throws another one for nothing. "They released the tournament bracket this weekend."
Dean stares blankly, like he's not only unsure of what the hell Sam might be talking about, but also what day of the week it might be. His eyes narrow and his head jerks. "Right. Basketball." He produces a glass full of dark liquid from where it's been so far concealed by his right leg, swallows half the contents in a hurried gulp. Sam guesses he needs the boost to go on feigning interest. "And?"
"Number two seed in the Midwest bracket."
"Go Jayhawks," Dean says flatly, returning his gaze to stare intently at his book.
"No Stanford this year, but…" And that just shoots them both into last year. Dean's eyes drift away and Sam tries to get him back before his mind wanders down one of the darker paths it's known to travel. "Game's Friday. Maybe we can watch it."
Dean clears his throat in a way experience has Sam knowing he's about to look for the shortest route out of the conversation. "Yeah, maybe. I'll have to check my schedule." It's a mouthful of all the right words from such a practiced smartass, but there's no bite, no humor, and it's concerning how much effort Dean's having to put into being this pitiful shadow of his former self.
"Yeah." What's even worse is that he might still think Sam is buying any of it. Sam waits a moment, weighs his words against what's at stake. "You know, you don't have to hide in here and pretend to be strong, Dean."
Dean throws his head back against the bed. "I'm not – "
"No, what I mean is…you don't have to pretend." This isn't going to be the first time Sam says this to his brother, and isn't likely to be the last, since Dean never seems to HEAR it. "You ARE strong. You're one of the strongest – you ARE the strongest person I've ever known. That has to mean something. You have to know you can beat this."
"Yeah. Okay." Too quickly to have put much stock in what Sam has said, just as he's feared.
Sam sighs, knows when he's making a situation worse as opposed to better. He moves unhappily to Plan C. "This isn't the reason I came down here."
Dean glares up at him.
"Okay, it isn't the ONLY reason I came down here." Sam pulls the torn scrap of newspaper from his pocket, unfolds the thin page and holds it out. "Found a job, I think. Just a haunting, and only a couple of towns over."
"Hunting. It's the only normal I know."
But things change swiftly in their world, more often than not without pause or explanation. Dean scans over the article too quickly to really be giving it any thought, extends his arm and the paper back to Sam. "Should be easy for you, then."
"Dean – "
"You can do a salt and burn with one hand tied behind your back, Sam. You're a big boy, and I don't need a pity invite. I'm fine. I'm good."
"Yeah." Sam folds the paper, holds it in his hands, waits there in the uncomfortable space between not quite in the room but not yet shut out completely.
Dean continues staring at the book in his hands, chewing the inside of his cheek, and Sam knows he only has to wait him out. The problem is, Dean is really good at this game.
But there had to come a day when Sam would win one. Dean finally sighs, cocks his head and drops the book and nods at the glass sweating on the desk. "Thanks for the beer. Really. That was a nice callback."
"Don't mention it. I'll let you know how this ghost thing turns out."
"Yeah. Okay."
Sam retreats into the hall feeling no better than he did when he went in.