Mileage

He'd come back tired from the hunt, more tired than usual. And he ached with a ferocity that caused him to seriously contemplate hunting up some painkillers stronger than analgesics. He and Sam generally avoided the good stuff except when major treatment was required; opiates slowed the brain and body and hunters could afford neither.

Because of incipient rain and the deepening chill of a late January twilight—Kansas could be unkind—Dean had pulled the Impala into the MoL garage. Sam had gone into the bunker while Dean remained in the car after saying he'd picked up on a suspicious sound in the engine and wanted to get under the hood. Sam had no interest in Baby's engine other than to appreciate her power when they needed it, and he was accustomed to Dean's OCD habits with regard to the Impala's care. So he just nodded, climbed out of the car somewhat stiffly, disappeared indoors. He limped a little, Dean noted. Sammy'd taken some dings, too.

Nothing was wrong with Baby's engine.

Something was wrong with him.

And, as always, he wanted his brother out of the way while he worked his way through and, Borg-like, assimilated. Assimilated the first fifteen layers of pain. Sam always knew when Dean was hurting, but never how much, because Dean took care to hide the worst. It wasn't because of pride. It wasn't because of ego. Rather of necessity, of the desire, the drive, to retain a younger brother's respect.

As a kid, he'd hidden hurts whenever possible with an intensity bordering on obsession because he had to be the big brother, and a big brother couldn't be weak, especially when that big brother was basically raising the little brother. Plus Dad was in the mix, of course; it was a learned skill from John to not bring up the topic of injuries except to tend them, and then to do so as efficiently as possible with no discussion of it beyond a murmured 'You good?' and the immediate affirmative when the stitches were stitched, the bleeding stopped, the shoulder popped back into place. Because John was a strong man physically as well as mentally, and Dean had resolved 'way back in the day to be just like him.

In the right now days, it wasn't about his needing Sam's respect . . . well, so much as wanting it.

'You good?'

And always he answered 'Yes.'

Dean sat behind the wheel and reflected that Indiana Jones had been right when he claimed it wasn't the years, but the mileage. He knew his own. He didn't know the Impala's because the odometer had stopped turning a century ago; and anyway, it didn't matter. She'd been through multiple wars but he'd always patched her up, resuscitated her, and she kept coming back every Wednesday just as he had that time in Broward County.

Well, until he didn't come back that time in Broward County.

He still had no memory of where he'd been or what he'd done suspended in that nebulous empty hammock between being shot to death in the parking lot and undertaking his normal morning routine that final Wednesday before they blew town, and Sam always avoided answering any questions other than to say, with tight-lipped repression, 'You weren't here,' as if Dean's absence was more than enough to tell the tale.

And maybe it was. For all Sam liked to talk about feelings, particularly when they involved Dean's, there were some things he just didn't share. A portion of Sam was and always would be terra incognita.

Dean did recall his own question in the face of his brother's almost frantic agitation, the kind of state he hadn't seen in Sam since childhood before he grew into a pissy teen: 'How many Tuesdays did you have?'

That memory sent a shiver throughout his torso that ignited a shockwave of pain from neck to pelvis and wrapped taut pressure around the ribs. He caught his breath on tight-throated grunt, held it a long moment as he willed the pain to fade—or, at the very least, to be stuffed into a mental lock-box—then released it with the utmost care until finally he could inhale and exhale, albeit tentatively, without wanting to throw up.

And that was to be avoided at all costs. Backs were a bitch when seriously wrenched. He knew if he didn't get out of the car soon, he'd seize up with cramps. So he set his sights on exiting the Impala with an exquisitely incremental dance of minute physical adjustments, hoping his body would not take an offense so profound that he was punished for it.

Dean pulled the handle, felt the latch disengage. He gripped the bottom of the steering wheel with his right hand, then pressed the left against the door's interior and pushed just firmly enough to swing it partially open.

Hinges creaked, but it was a slow, turgid bass groan rather than the usual metallic tenor scrape and squeak. He wondered if his joints would mimic the complaint as he finally managed to crawl out of the car.

'WD-40,' Sam had once said with no little weight of assertiveness; somewhere along the line his tone had shifted from question to suggestion. 'Works wonders.'

Dean merely said: 'You crack your knuckles.'

Sam stared as if his big brother had suddenly sprouted a second head.

'You crack your knuckles,' Dean repeated. 'It's a part of you, Sammy. I remember Dad telling you a few times to knock it off because it got on his nerves, but since you got on all of my nerves already anyway I just didn't bother trying to cure you of that bad habit. I had others to work on.'

And of course upon that statement came the Sam-In-Lecture-Mode tone: 'Shrieking hinges are not a bad habit, Dean. They're a sign of lack of proper maintenance.'

Dean had leveled such a hide-blistering look at him that Sam beat a hasty retreat and never addressed it again. He winced a little now and then when the doors were opened, lapsed occasionally into a mild form of bitchface, but never again had he coupled 'lack of' with 'proper maintenance' in any sentence involving the Impala.

But Sammy thought loudly sometimes, and it always amused Dean. It gave him ammunition.

So. Door stood partially open, but not enough for him to actually climb out of the car without making contact. He wasn't Sam-sized, but there was enough meat and muscle on his frame to prevent a comfortable exit through the space of a door not fully open.

Dean shifted his right-handed grip from the bottom to the top of the wheel and undertook the first slow slide of booted left foot to, and over, the door sill. He eased the right foot even more carefully doorward, sliding it across the rubber mat laid down over the floor. Dean heard the scrape of pebbles, the grit of loose dirt beneath his boot soles. Time he vacuumed her out, washed, waxed, and polished her sleek black skin and shining chrome.

But certainly not tonight, and probably not the next day, either. Possibly not the next month, the way he felt.

Without much pressure—certainly no stiff-armed shove of the door, or even a thrusted elbow—Dean swung the door open more widely. Heard hinges again, a prolonged and discordant complaint that he merely viewed as conversation, whatever his brother might think.

One boot reached the ground, the other the door sill. Now he closed both hands on the steering wheel and pulled himself forward slowly rather than engaging in any motion requiring his torso to initiate movement on its own.

Dean sat there quietly a moment just breathing shallowly, clinging to finger ridges, contemplating his next move. Small tremors shifted beneath the skin of his back. He felt the slow rise of pressure in his muscles, the subtle tightening that might at any moment, at any split and splintered second, flare into cramps that would double him over because his body could do nothing else as the contracted muscles knotted themselves one upon the other.

Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

His matter—his corporeal, human body—did not always cooperate with his mind's intentions.

After a moment the incipient cramping dissipated. Dean shifted his weight leftward, crept his ass across vinyl inch by inch and finally felt prepared to make the vast journey from sitting to standing. Standing was good.

And he flashed abruptly on that night in Duluth when Meg, wearing Sam's meatsuit, had shot him. The memory of Jo digging—literally digging—the bullet out of water-chilled flesh remained vivid, though only rarely did he recall it. She'd pressed a bottle of Vicodin on him. He had briefly debated turning her down, but he needed to find Sam before Meg could force his body to kill other hunters in addition to Steve Wandell, so he'd tucked the bottle into a pocket. After the fight at Bobby's, and Sam's—Meg's—stiff-thumbed assault upon the bullet hole, he'd popped the bottle's cap and downed two Vikes.

So, yeah. He thought drugs sounded like a brilliant idea. He just needed to make sure Sam didn't see him take any, because then Sam, being Sam, would go all emo on him, would brother-hen him.

Dean stretched his left hand out to grip the top of the door, to initiate the upward pull. Next came two feet planted on the ground, and the thrust from his thighs as he tried to keep his back loose and uninvolved. He closed his right hand over the door frame as well.

'Mind over matter,' he muttered internally. 'You can do this. You're Dean Freaking Winchester.'

And then he was upright, standing between open door and the interior. He sent up a mental cheer, then took a brief inward inventory.

Mileage. It was mileage, not years.

The garage, being a garage, was not heated—well, he supposed massive mansions undoubtedly had heated 16-car garages, but the bunker, despite its vast supernatural glories and imposing structure, was not a mansion, and the Men of Letters had vastly different priorities than using generated power to keep warm a slew of inanimate vehicles—and he knew if he remained much longer in the cold surroundings of a winter evening all the abused muscles would begin to tighten up. He ached dully, but that was okay. Dull aches were distinctly preferable to shooting pain or uncontrollable muscle contractions.

So. Walking. Walking might be good. Walking would deliver him to a hot shower, ice packs, and the drugs that would provide a blissful release from pain.

And memory foam.

Dean eased the car door closed, heard Baby's hinges again. 'WD-40, my ass. Doesn't that kid recognize a love song when he hears it?'

He attempted to flex his back muscles carefully, fiber by fiber, testing response. For the moment discomfort beyond the generalized dull aches throughout his body was mostly insignificant. Movement would reawaken and sharpen those aches, but movement also would loosen him up. Otherwise he'd stiffen into immobility and mimic Oz's Tin Man in need of oil.

Dean steadied himself with a hand on the roof of the Impala, then began the laborious process of walking through the garage to the bunker door. It was a journey full of winces and grimaces and muttered self-exhortations, but he reached the door at last.

There he paused. Time to don the mask.

Don it he did, schooling features into an expression of a merely mild discomfort. It would be foolish to attempt to fool Sam altogether; he knew better than to try, because then his brother would pick at him as if he were some kind of scab. Sam wouldn't even necessarily have to say anything; those eyes got to Dean every time.

He sucked in a slow, decisive breath, gave himself a mental shake—that at least didn't hurt—then opened the door, made his way down the service corridor into the more welcoming labyrinthine hallways—keeping a wary eye out for his brother—and entered his room. He wanted out of clothes that reeked of monster ick, to wrap himself in the warm and comfortable Dead Guy Robe and thrust his bootless, sockless feet into loose, comfortable slippers before retreating to the communal shower/bathroom down yet another hallway to stand beneath hot water for probably two days.

Divesting himself of jacket and shirts turned into both marathon and a symphony of pain and grunts and groans, and expletives. But he got that done and was now bare from the waist up. That left boots, and jeans.

Boots.

It was one thing to works one's arms out of jacket and button-down sleeves and carefully ease them off, even if he did then stretch the neck hole of his t-shirt so wide so as to avoid contortions that it probably would just flop down around both shoulders, but . . .

Boots.

With laces double-tied, as always, because no hunter is his right mind risked laces coming undone in such a way that he or she might well die because of tripping over them.

Sam wore pull-ons boots, but Dean had always favored thick-soled, steel-toed, lace-up work boots. And now he needed to get out of them so he could stand beneath a shower head pouring liquid muscle relaxant all over his back and shoulders.

Dean uttered another heartfelt F-bomb. Boots would also would prevent him from removing jeans. He supposed he could shower in both, but that really was not the optimal choice. He stood without moving, staring down at the offending footwear, contemplating the prospects of sitting and bending over to undo laces while his back threatened to seize up any minute.

His interior voice said: 'You kill monsters . . . and you're wimping out over taking your boots off?'

Well. Yes.

Dean lowered himself to the edge of his bed with delicate care, absently noting that his legs were shooting pointed reminders to his brain that slamming knees into a cement floor resulted in certain marked physical repercussions, and contemplated his options a little longer. He very slowly eased his torso forward over those knees, reached down with infinite care to see if he could reach and untie his laces quickly enough that his back wouldn't notice what he was doing.

He felt the twinge exactly as intended, muscle groups to brain: 'Yeah. Sure. Go for it. Take your time, why don'tcha?'

He stayed put a moment half-bent, trying to see if the back would, well, back off. But Dean Winchester was a rip-a-bandaid-right-the-hell-off kind of guy. Finally he emitted yet another expletive, pulled knife from a back pocket, lifted one leg at a time—which unhappily required bending painful knees toward his chest—and cut the damn laces. Snick-snick, just like that. While he was suspended half-way, but with boot tongues loosened, he was able to toe off the footwear. He slid the knife blade between skin and sock and attempted to stretch the knitted fabric away from his ankles far enough that he was able to basically shove them off his feet without bending forward to do so.

Okay, so he inadvertently cut one sock. He had another. Hell, he had at least two other pairs in his drawer. He was replete with sockage.

Boots off, socks off. That left jeans and boxers. He thought that might not be so bad. Just a belt unbuckled, fly unbuttoned, the careful slide of clothing below his hips, and then he could anchor a jeans leg one at a time with a foot pinning each to the floor to work his legs free, ridding himself of denim like a snake shedding its skin.

Sam said, "Hey."

Dean, startled, straightened, stifled a growl and hitched wince, looked at his brother with no little annoyance and discovered Sam was standing in the doorway holding a tray.

A tray?

On it was set a plate bearing a slice of pie, a bottle of beer, and a fork. "We're out of candles," Sam said.

Dean gazed blankly at the tray and its contents, then shifted his attention to his brother. "Candles?"

Candles?

His brother's brows twitched a little, and then he quirked a fast-fading smile. His expression struck Dean as a little sad. "It's January 24th," Sam said. "Happy Birthday, bro. You've hit the Big 4-0."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Oh holy shit.

Forty. Forty.

He felt like eighty.

Maybe it was the years, not just the mileage.

Sam stepped into the room, placed the tray on the nightstand. He twisted off the beer cap, offered the bottle. Dean took it without comment. Sam continued to gaze down upon him. Fleeting sadness had been replaced by warm affection.

Then he tossed something to Dean, something small that rattled. Dean caught it, sucked in a breath as movement jarred his back, and then shut down the reaction instantly. That response was coded into his soul.

Medicine bottle. The label read Vicodin.

Sam said, "WD-40. We only need one set of shrieking hinges in this family." He shot Dean one last smile, then headed toward the door. But once there he paused, turned, met his brother's eyes. "You good?"

Dean said: "Yes."

Because he always said yes.

He was, after all, a big brother.

~ end ~

Anyone who has suffered a wrenched back knows the misery better than I have portrayed it here. Even a twitch may fire off contractions, which is not only painful but really does bend you over. Getting out of bed is particularly excruciating. Sometimes expletives are emitted.

The show certainly presents the boys as beat all to hell sometimes, but even Jared and Jensen have commented that they bounce back much too quickly. I decided to explore this more thoroughly with poor Dean in the aftermath of a hunt, and to touch on some family feels and memories. I did actually get into my car to mimic the movements Dean would have to make to exit with an injured back so as to describe them accurately. Unfortunately I only have a 2004 Honda Element to work with (his name is Fuji) rather than a '67 Impala.

Meanwhile, hope you enjoyed—let me know?—and Happy 40th Birthday, Jensen!