Author Note: Haven't had a bunny bite with a tag idea since episode four of this season. Here are some thoughts I had. Enjoy!
Leaving a Mark
Dean seems to have taken Sam's explanation of the Colt as permission to check out. As a statement that the job's done, Moloch's dead, and there's no need to soldier up and play through the pain anymore. His head drops to his outstretched arm, and he goes scarily still.
Sam frowns and tucks the gun safely away, quickly skirts the edge of the freezing blood pool of the felled god to reach his brother's side. "Hey. Hey, Dean."
There's a dark discoloration on Dean's cheekbone and blood in his hair, streaking down the side of his neck and appearing black under the harsh red glare of the freezer lights.
Sam crouches close and comforts himself with the steady pulse beneath his brother's jaw, though he takes cautious note of the coldness of the skin under his fingertips.
Dean groans at the touch, bats drunkenly at Sam's arm.
He obliges, moves his hand to his brother's shoulder and gives him a gentle, mindful shake. "Dean."
"Mmm."
"Come on, man." Sam gets a grip under Dean's lax arm, starts to carefully drag him up off of the stainless steel floor. "Up and at'em."
Dean gets the tiled support pillar at his back and seems to think that's far enough for the time being, communicates as much with a sharp intake of air and a fist twisted in Sam's jacket sleeve. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, his eyes falling closed.
Sam watches as his own breath clouds in front of his face. With the adrenaline fading, he shivers uncontrollably as the subzero temperature begins to get to him. He's spent mere moments in the meat freezer; he doesn't know for sure how long his brother had been locked inside, but he knows Dean needs to warm up.
He touches Dean's elbow, rouses his brother's sluggish attention. He smiles, tries to still his own shivering. "What do you say we get out of the freezer?"
If Sam's feeling generous, then Dean very nearly walks himself out of the meat freezer. Very nearly. He finds the nearest flat surface on which to park his shaky brother, plants the man on an upturned crate and stoops to meet his bright eyes. "How's the head?"
Dean growls in response, palming his forehead. "You catch the show?"
Sam jerks his head in the negative. "Pete locked us in the basement." He resists the urge to glance at the body to his right. "Heard you land, though. Didn't sound good." He puts a lot of weight in the words, just like he'll put a lot of stock in his brother's response.
"Didn't feel good," Dean admits gruffly. "At least, I don't think it did. It was lights out pretty quick."
"Yeah, I bet. You got a decent, uh, bump back here." Sam hisses as he tilts Dean's head to better inspect the bloody wound. It could probably use a stitch or two, or some angelic healing if Cas was around.
Once again, his brother raises a hand to groggily swat him away but doesn't connect. "M'fine, Sam," he grumbles, but doesn't open his eyes, and pales considerably at the motion. All in all, Dean's been more convincing while unconscious.
He's chalk white but doesn't seem exceptionally pukey, knows what year it is and what state they're in, even if he crashes and burns on the exact day and town.
Sam pats his brother's knee and scouts the area for something to use as a cold compress. He locates a vacuum-sealed frozen steak and drops it into Dean's hand, guides it to the rising swelling on his face, then goes to check on Barry.
Sam rustles up some aspirin and an old t-shirt from the trunk. It's dirty, but will get the job done. He closes the lid, digs into the ever-present cooler in the backseat and shovels a handful of half-melted ice into the folded pocket of fabric. He drops behind the wheel, hands over the makeshift icepack. "Here."
Dean's getting complacent in his old age; he accepts the pills and icepack without complaint or denial and put both to immediate use, wincing as he makes contact with his bruised face. Sam didn't find any evidence of breakage, but the welt on his brother's cheekbone has already blossomed into a large purplish contusion. Half of his face will be blackened by morning.
Sam knows it can't possibly be solely Dean's head and face that are hurting. He didn't see it, obviously, but that was a hell of a fall back at the house. An ominous thump of a body striking hardwood, and a decent pool of blood left for Sam to find and fret over.
Within moments on the road, Dean slumps against the passenger door with the ice-filled t-shirt left to melt in his limp hand.
Sam digs into the reserves and drives straight through the rest of the day, hopes his brother will manage to sleep some of it off while within arm's reach. He wakes Dean regularly – much to his brother's slurred aggravation – to eat or drink something, or simply to check that his brain isn't too soupy to be useful.
Dean remains grumpy, but manages to stay conscious and mostly lucid for the last few hours. They reach bunker before midnight.
In the library, Dean squints and stiffly sets a pair of beers on the table. "What do you think our legacy is gonna be?"
Sam's eyes widen as he sinks into a chair, and he watches his brother carefully. Waits a moment for Dean to work it through, to clarify his muddy, jumbled, hardwood-and-tile-rattled thoughts.
Any time they come across brothers at odds, it ramps up the speed of the hamster wheel in Dean's head until it becomes nearly unmanageable, running off-track and churning those thoughts he'd be more likely to keep to himself if his head hadn't been battered about like it has. A good knock to the head is the great equalizer, and like anyone, Dean gets loose with head injuries. His filter's always the first thing to go, his thoughts seeming to slip and slide and tumble too easily past the usually considerable defense of his lips.
These things Sam didn't even know crossed his brother's mind, let alone gave him any significant pause. Dean, who's never really needed thanks for the job they do. Who hates to be the topic of conversation or the center of attention, even on his birthday.
It's grotesque, the way Sam's come to appreciate the silver lining of a Dean Winchester concussion.
"When we're gone," Dean continues. "After all the stuff we've done…you think folks'll remember us? You know, like a hundred years from now?"
Dean won't remember this conversation a hundred minutes from now, so Sam feels like he's doing little more than playing along with his brother when he replies, simply, "no."
It clearly bugs Dean, his response. His honesty. But then again, honesty usually bugs Dean.
They never really thought about things like leaving a mark, about leaving a legacy, not before finding out about the Men of Letters. Back then, it was just what they did, just family. Duty, and vengeance; the two of them against the world, and who gave a damn what anyone else thought?
Dean sits back in his chair, eyes drifting across the cavernous space of the library. "Wonder what's gonna happen to this place. After we're gone, you think some hunter'll move in, keep fightin' the fight?"
Sam nods. "Yeah, I hope so."
"Yeah. Me, too."
They're quiet a long moment, then Dean sets his beer aside and digs into his back pocket, withdraws his switchblade.
Sam frowns, sits forward in his chair. "What are you doing?"
"I'm leaving our mark." With a surprisingly steady hand, Dean goes about carving "DW" into the dark, polished wood of the tabletop.
Sam can't help but smile tiredly as he watches Dean work. He's spent a disproportionate amount of time over the past couple of years, worrying about what's leaving on a mark on his brother, and not the other way around.
When Dean's finished, he accepts the knife, carefully adds "SW."
The next morning, too damn early by his brother's standards but typical for Sam, he'll pause in the library on his way to the kitchen to make coffee.
He'll stare at the carvings they made the night before, place his palm over the spot, and think a little harder about what kind of mark he wants to leave on the world.