Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Warnings: Plot? What plot? Boring. Really. Nothing happens. This was to keep me occupied after I had gotten my wisdom teeth out last year. I started writing to it again earlier this year after I had broken my foot. I found it and figured I'd share it for the hell of it.
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The waiting room chairs were plastic, not cushioned, and terribly small. Sam Winchester shifted uncomfortably, flat out disregarding his father's low, icily toned commands to "sit still." He was eight seconds away from sliding off the cheap chair and sitting cross-legged on the uncarpeted floor.
The room was rather confined; closed blinds covered the only window, and there were only two doors, both of which were closed. There wasn't much space, only about a dozen chairs, and they took up most of the room, along with a water cooler in the corner, next to a wobbly wooden magazine rack.
There was a blown up picture of a smile hanging directly across from Sam. It hung crookedly, and was really starting to creep him out. He unintentionally studied it, noting the monstrous bleached white teeth, the darkened mole above the person's bright red upper lip. He continued to squirm in his seat, averting his eyes elsewhere.
Dean, Sam's older brother, sat two seats away, relaxed; his head tilted back and eyes closed. He hummed until John told him to "knock it off." After that, about sixteen seconds of silence passed until he started to click his tongue, and swish spit back and forth in his mouth, but their father put an end to that with a mere glare.
"How much longer?" Sam asked pitifully, his hands impatiently fidgeting with the broken zipper of his jacket. John wordlessly gestured over to the magazine rack, and the fourteen-year-old old rolled his eyes. "Great. My options are endless; Highlights or Sport Fishing?"
John, and this was rather unexpected, smirked, and elbowed his oldest son's arm. Obediently, Dean lolled his head over in his direction, cracking open an eye. "Is this what I get for trying to be a decent father who only wants for his boys to have the perfect smile?" Dean smacked his lips together, yawning.
"Don't know about that." He admitted, and sat up straighter, stretching out his arms. He rolled either shoulder until it popped, and then worked on cracking his neck. Sam shuddered at the sound, absently cracking his own knuckles. "I'm waiting for the twist on this puppy."
"Dean's convinced that we're in for a hunt, not a routine dental exam." Sam explained, leaning forward. He rested his elbows on his knees. "You should probably unarm him." The blonde shot him a dirty look before kissing one tightened fist at a time, proudly stating, "you can't unarm these babies."
"He's got a point; the only thing thicker and meaner than his right hook is that skull of his." Sam only bothered to half-smile. Six months ago, Dean stupidly tangoed with a vengeful spirit, and ended up making out with the trunk of a tree. The x-ray had been clear of any fractures—but the CAT scan hadn't lacked bruising and swelling.
"Yeah, whatever." Dean threaded a hand through his short hair, and narrowed his hazel-green eyes. "You know, that thing? Talking about me like I'm not sitting right here? It's not nearly as cute or witty as you might think it is, dude." He nonchalantly swept the calloused pad of his thumb over his jaw line.
Sam chuckled, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He parted his lips to continue the conversation, but the cream colored door—which led to the inside the office area—swung open. A curvy, middle-aged redhead walked out, hugging a brown purse to her side. She mouthed, "hello," with a polite smile as she brushed past them.
Dean leaned forward in his seat, and nodded as the green door closed after her. "She's got some nice, strong calves." He acknowledged appreciatively, the corner of his lips curved back. The smirk dropped when he received the same blank look from both his father and brother. "What?" His shoulders rose with the question.
"This is taking longer than I planned." John announced, ignoring Dean's quizzical facial expression. He wiped his palms against his jean-clad thighs, and stood up, practically taking the seat with him. "We just don't have the time or money to waste sitting around here."
"Unless something supernatural is going on behind that closed door." Dean pointed out, even a little hopefully, as he nodded toward the said door. John sighed, bringing his hand to his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose, explaining that dentistry wasn't "the root of all evil, son."
"Well, maybe…" Sam spoke up, wetting his lips hesitantly. "Maybe they found something wrong with the insurance." His paranoid gaze flicked over to the other door, where he now expected the feds, who probably have been tracking John's trail of fraud for the past fourteen years, to pour in. "Maybe?" John shook his head.
"Don't get worked up over nothing, Sammy." John stated sternly, and turned around, walking into the receptionist area, the door banging shut behind him. Almost immediately, Dean was standing on his feet, now stretching his arms out over his head. Sam, surprisingly enough, remained seated.
"How're the teeth doing?" Dean's arms fell limply to his sides. He worked his jaw soundlessly, looking away. "Your wisdom teeth, right?" Sam continued, brushing hair out from his eyes. He smiled knowingly. "They're the ones that are bothering you, aren't they?"
Unrelenting, Dean blatantly ignored Sam, and took an exaggerated interest in the humongous picture of that smile. The picture was about four and a half to five feet wide, and three feet in length. What was so disturbing about giant white teeth? Maybe it was the bright red—"blood red?" Dean guessed a loud—lips.
"Think he noticed?" Sam went on, without really even blinking. It was almost as if he were part robot. Dean suggested that to their father once upon a time ago, and he really hadn't appreciated it. "I think so, too. Why else would he make us a dentist appointment out of nowhere?"
With a deflated sigh, Dean sat back down in the chair next to Sam. He just let his body drop, and the chair cracked under his weight. "He's our father, Sam. Making dentist, eye doctor, and physical exam appointments are all part of his job."
"Yeah? When was the last time we had a physical?" Dean wrinkled up his nose; during one of their last annual physicals, he kind of threatened the hoary doctor with his pocketknife after he told Dean to "drop your shorts." Since then, John made sure to take his boys to, "friends of the family," for any check-ups.
"You see, Sam, people—they ask too many questions. Give enough to feed their ignorant, inquisitive nature, and don't make them curious, or suspicious." Now it was Sam's turn to wrinkle up his nose. He asked, "what the hell are you talking about?" The moment passed, thus Dean waved his hand, shaking his head. "You'll see."
Finally, the door, which was either an off-white or cream color, opened, and John stuck his head out. Both brothers jumped to their feet before he even said or did anything. The door opened all the way, and a blonde looked at both of them before glancing back down at the chart in her hands.
"Dean? You're with me, and Samuel? A few more minutes; Joan's just finishing up with someone." Dean nudged Sam's shoulder with his as he walked forward, slipping past John, who briefly touched the top of his head, and tersely admonished, "behave." Dean looked behind his shoulder, winked, and reassured him, "always."
John grunted, crossing his arms over his chest as he stepped back into the waiting room. He glanced down at Sam, and instantly sighed, uncrossing his arms. Sam had that look on his face, the one where he was about to bombard someone with a load of questions. "Insurance's fine. They're short-staffed today, that's all."
That would do, for now. "What about Dean?" John moved toward the water cooler, probably wishing the cool liquid in it was some strong alcohol, or black coffee. "Dad?" Alas, John was done with questions, and put his hand up.
"Enough." His tone suggested that Sam would want to rethink about doing any backtalk right now. Already sulking, Sam sat back down in the uncomfortable chair, throwing his weight down just as his older brother had done minutes earlier.
Fortunately, the door opened again, and a smiling brunette poked her head out. "Sam? Sam Winchester?" She was shorter than his 5' 9" lanky frame, and her nametag read, "Joan." She wore a white smock decorated with colorful automobiles. Sam stood up hesitantly, suddenly feeling rather young. "Come with me, honey."
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Joan had really pretty eyes, Sam noticed. They were shaped like almonds, and were a deep, almost warm, chocolate brown. Her eyelashes were dark, long, and thick. After a while, he found himself concentrating on a nick in the wall because it seemed odd to stare into her eyes while she cleaned his teeth.
"You take good care of your teeth; just got to remember to floss a bit more." After a few long minutes, Sam no longer found her eyes all that pretty, because she was digging into his gums like she was looking for buried treasure, and it hurt. "Rinse." He did, but ended up spitting more on himself than in the stupid bowl.
Damn, maybe Dean was right—maybe dentistry was the root of all evil. He tried not to smile as he pictured Dean trying to cry out, "Christo!" as the blonde ripped into his gums. It was a funny mental image, and not all that hard to imagine.
"So, do you go to school around here?" Sam responded in a choking noise because it was hard to talk when someone was jabbing sharp utensils into your jaw. "You look familiar, maybe you go to school with my niece?" Sam dug his fingernails into the padded armrest in frustration, but nodded for the hell of it.
An eternity and a half later, Joan was finished. An x-ray of his jaw that was taken before she cleaned his teeth showed that his wisdom teeth had barely started to grow in. Other good news was that he lacked any cavities, and his teeth were in great shape. Sam brought a hand up to his abused jaw. His gums on the other hand…
"What about Dean?" Sam asked his father the second they stepped out of the room while Joan cleaned up. In Sam's right hand was a plastic wrapped toothbrush. It was purple, and had written directions for use on it. He carried mint-flavored floss in the other hand. It was almost like Christmas.
"Oh, let's just say that he's not very happy right now." That, of course, wasn't enough, and Sam just had to know more. He was like an eager puppy as he asked; "it's his third molars, right?" John half-smiled, patting his youngest son on the shoulder, and nodded. "All four—impacted. Means they're not growing in straight."
Sam opted not to say, "duh, I know what impacted means," and, instead, asked when Dean would have to get them out. He'd totally have to research this more when they got back to the motel. There was no way in hell he was letting some doctor cut into his brother's jaw without knowing exactly what he was doing.
"We have a consultation scheduled for Monday." It was Wednesday. "It'll be decided then." John glanced down at his wristwatch, sighing. "It'll be a miracle if we can make it back in time."
"'Make it back in time?'" Sam, with one brow arched, echoed with uncertainty.
"You expect us to sit around in a motel for five days with our thumbs up our ass? Look alive, Sammy, we've got a job to do."
For a split second, the room seemed to slant, and Sam took a deep breath, shutting his eyes tightly for a few seconds. "Yeah, whatever." John's face darkened, but the shorter brunette cut him off from saying anything when he asked, "where's Dean?"
"He, uh." John smiled (and Sam also considered googling 'bipolar' when he got back), tilting his head back. He scratched his neck, chuckling. "He asked the assistant to show him how to floss his teeth—again." In unison, the two Winchesters rolled their eyes.
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By late Sunday, the Winchesters were settled at Pastor Jim's house. The hunt had gone well, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. "Just for the night." John promised his dear friend, who insisted they prolonged their stay. "Got a special appointment tomorrow." He nodded behind his shoulder at Dean, and Jim nodded solemnly.
"It'll knock him out for a few days." Jim later told John, as they sat on the priest's porch, drinking warm coffee. The brothers were in the yard, having a snowball fight thanks to the freshly fallen powder. It was only a few inches, maybe half a foot, but it was enough. "He'll be fine."
"Not a doubt in my heart that he won't handle it, Jim; just a few teeth. I won't be surprised if he's trying to snack on solids after the second day." John chortled, taking a swallow from his mug. "I really can't see the boy slurping on jell-o or pudding for too long."
"Hey, old geezers, I can hear every word, you know." Dean pointed out, packing a snowball in his ungloved hands. He continued talking, but after a snowball crashed right above his ear, the conversation was over and Dean tackled his brother to the ground. Sam easily got out of the hold, and pinned Dean down, gloating.
"Old geezers." Jim snorted through his nose, and took a long sip from the mug of coffee he drank from. "Maybe we should turn up our hearing aids, huh?" He then nodded forward, squinting. "Look at 'em." He observed with a ghost of a smile. "Dean'll be graduating in a few months. How does that make you feel, grandpa?"
But John hadn't responded. He, too, stared down at his boys, the sad glimmer in his eyes unenviable, cold, and distant. A fiery passion burned brightly in his eyes as the feeling once known as love tugged at his emotionally and mentally damaged heart. Mary is going to miss her firstborn's high school graduation.
Mary Winchester would also miss her firstborn's first surgery. It wasn't major, but deep down, John still worried; besides, it was his job to worry. After Sam went to sleep, he'd looked over the websites in the history, and that hadn't done anything to help him, except make him realize what could go wrong. Watch over him, Mary.
"Damn you, Sammy. You need to guzzle down more coffee—stunt your growth a little." Dean sat down on the first stair of the porch, rubbing his flushed cheek. Sam took a seat next to him, tugging on the excess fabric at the fingertips of his gloves.
"Coffee doesn't stunt your growth."
"Right now, you're stunting my growth, geek-boy."
"You're pretty much done growing anyway, Dean."
"Yeah, well, I might stop growing, but you can't catch up with me age-wise, smartass." Now, Dean rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "You also can't catch up with me in the looks department, 'cause really dude, you're just getting dorkier looking every damn day."
"Hopefully I'll be just as suave as you someday, Mr. Show-Me-How-To-Floss-Again." The blonde, unashamed, ducked his head, running a hand through his hair.
"If only you knew, Sam." Before Sam could question him, Jim announced that it was about time for dinner, and then John reminded them to get an extra wink of sleep because they had to leave early in the A.M. if they wanted to make the consult appointment on time. "Right. Don't want to miss that."
Sam laughed at his brother's lack of enthusiasm and slapped a hand to his shoulder. "Who knows, Dean, maybe your wisdom teeth will be found out to be the cure for cancer."
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Dean didn't want Sam to step, or be in the proximity, of the room during the consultation. "He's going to absorb every word and ask a billion questions." Dean pointed out to their father, but the waiting room was full (of people, who gave John those vibes), so in came Sam, ordered to keep his mouth shut.
"Have you even been put to sleep before?" The kind surgeon with warm hands and a brilliantly bright smile asked Dean after making him, and his father and brother, watch a ten minute video on wisdom teeth, and about the surgery; what to expect, etc. He also had papers for them to read and sign.
"Uh, like, medically? No." He smiled up wickedly at the doctor, shrugging a careless shoulder. Dean had been put to sleep by a spell before, and usually hard blows to the head put him down for a while. Wait, he had also been given strong medication before that, like, totally knocked him out. Did that count?
"It's very simple. I'll just insert an IV before surgery. The whole ordeal—" There was this odd twinkle in his eyes. Dean wanted to punch him. "—will only feel like two minutes for you—about forty-five minutes to an hour to your father." Sam glanced up from his hands, which were folded in his lap, and cleared his throat. "And brother."
"Great." He tapped his fingers. "Yeah, great." The sudden way the blonde narrowed his brow, and leaned forward, almost made John groan. He knew exactly what Dean was going to ask next. "Now, um, post-surgery, with the pain killers, what are we talking here?" John rolled his eyes, smiling. Yeah, he knew his boy all right.
The raven-haired doctor answered that he, "usually prescribes Vicodin." Dean's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You're going to be in pain for a few days." The younger male waved his hand casually. Pain? Yeah, whatever man. He invited Pain over for tea every weekend. "Somehow I think you'll manage through this."
Sam shifted restlessly in his stool-type chair, which—by the way—was padded and kind of… almost comfortable, and leaned against the wall, purposely knocking his forehead to it with a soft thumph. He chewed on his thumbnail a few times; anxious, especially when the doctor asked if they (well, Dean) had any more questions.
"I'm good." Dean decided, glancing back at Sam like he knew his younger brother was bubbling with questions. He smirked at him, turning back. He really didn't want to get this done, but he had pretty damn good teeth, and the impacted sons of bitches could ruin that.
"No more questions, Mr. Winchester?" The doctor shook hands with John, who shook his head, explaining that the tape and the pamphlets they were given, "answered enough." Sam rose from his seat in the corner, mumbling, "yeah, and the weeping animated teeth were so insightful." Dean snorted.
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Sam was thoroughly reading through the papers and booklets they were given before even sliding into the backseat of the family's beloved '67 Chevrolet Impala. "It's a good idea the surgery's scheduled for next week; the bottom teeth are growing awfully close to the nerve line." He thumbed through a particular pamphlet.
"Here we go." Dean leaned against the passenger's side door with a long, weary sigh. "Told you we should've left him in the waiting room. A circle of salt would've protected him." He paused momentarily, a slow smile stretching back on his lips. "Except maybe from that crazy eyed dude who smelled like cat pee."
"Oh! Look, it says here you can't wear heavy make-up, tight-fitting clothes, or clogs the day of your surgery. You're just shit out of luck these days, aren't you?" For emphasis, or just to further annoy Dean, he harshly kicked the back of the bench seat, earning a dirty glare. "What? I thought you loved your man clogs."
"Man clogs?" John finally cut in, making a face. "What are man clogs?"
"Why, every demon's much needed accessory, of course." The oldest Winchester son tried to imagine the scariest demon ever (which had a strange likeness to Celine Dion and Cher)… and then envisioned it wearing sexy man clogs. There was a shriek of, "fabulous!" in his mind, and he grinned.
Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, but then cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Shoes are a, um, accessory, Dean?" He peered over at his father, who met his gaze and shrugged, and then over at Dean, who closed his eyes, and mumbled, "shut up."
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"Dad's late." A large, round clock with a dark wood frame hung high on the motel wall, and while Sam's eyes tried not to glance up at it impatiently every few seconds, he heard every damned click. "You have to be there at 9:30, and it's ten of." Finally, his eyes shot up, and he huffed out, "make that nine of."
Dean was laying sprawled out on one of the beds, flat on his back. He was positioned in the opposite direction and had his head hanging slightly over the edge. "Dude, calm your shit down. He'll—we'll make it in time. Always do." He squinted, scratching his chest through his t-shirt. "Kind of."
"Yeah, okay." Sam managed without rolling his eyes, his tone bitter. He brushed his growing hair out from his eyes, and the middle of the bed, which Dean occupied, dipped as he sat down on the edge. Dean lifted his head up with a questioning grunt. He half-smiled. "Nervous?"
Dean lifted a shoulder, which could've been a shrug. "Should I be?"
"I would."
"Yeah, well, you also get nervous when we pass a carnival, what's your point?" The blonde asked shortly, now propped up on his elbows. "It's not a big deal, Sam; more is risked on a routine hunt." Coincidentally, there have been a few, "routine hunts," where Dean ended up medicated, usually painkillers or antibiotics, for a few days.
There was suddenly a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door. Dean shot up to answer while Sam grabbed their jackets. It, of course, was John, and all he had to do was nod behind his shoulder and they, after checking the salt lines and locking the door, left, the Impala purring, warm and ready.
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The waiting room of the "Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery" practitioners was somewhat fancier than the last waiting room; this one had more literature (Highlights, Sport Fishing, and National Geographic), slightly roomier seats, and a television set mounted to the wall, where the corners met. Alas, sans water cooler. Damn.
Although the appointment was at 9:30, Dean's name wasn't called until at least 10:30. A petite blonde, holding a chart to her chest, bounced out, smiling, though it faded at the sight of the doom and gloom Winchesters. John elbowed Dean. "That's you, buddy."
"So soon?" The nurse laughed, hitting him playfully in the shoulder with the chart as he passed her. With her other hand, she grabbed his shoulder, stopping him, and turning back to John, explaining that he was to come in "just for a moment." As soon as he processed the words, Sam was on his feet.
The room they were stuffed into wasn't all that big. The special chair took up most of the space, along with two cabinets, a sink, two chairs, and a machine or two in the dark corner. Reluctantly, Dean sat down in the chair, but kept his neck, head, and shoulders leaned forward. He nudged Sam's knee with his foot.
"I hope they don't make me scrub off all my make-up." He cracked half-heartedly, only wanting to at least get a smile from his younger brother, but Sam's somber expression remained. John was faced away, rubbing at his growing beard stubble. "Jesus, you two are going to be the life of the party out there."
The blonde hopped back into the room, this time with a friend; another nurse, only older, and with curly, dirty blonde hair. Dean flashed them both a grin, 'cause this was Heaven, baby. Further instructions were given to John (and Sam, who listened intently, nodding at pauses), by the surgeon when he came in.
After they were told to leave, John walked out, while Sam hesitantly hanged back for a moment, and then reached forward, quickly ruffling his brother's short hair. "See you on the other side, Dean." Dean, making a face, questioned, "other side?" Sam gave him that goofy grin. "The recovery room's on the opposite side of the wall."
Oh, yeah. His brother, Sam: the comedian. What a laugh that boy was. He soon disappeared, and the doctor, Dr. Weller, began his IV while a nurse placed something over his nose, and told him to take deep breaths. Soon, but not before he heard a distant, "oops," everything became a blur.
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John Winchester considered himself a patient man. Hell, unsettlingly patient at times, like when he once crouched in the attic of an assumed haunted house from early evening until dawn. Alas, now was not one of those times, as he sat with his youngest son in the waiting room, restlessly tapping his fingers against the armrest.
After fifteen minutes, John suggested they go get some breakfast, maybe at the Denny's down the street, but Sam didn't want to leave, and, since John was Dean's ride, and parent, he wasn't permitted to leave the building. Yeah, he thought that was bullshit, but still had to send Sam to feed the meter.
Sam ended up reading a National Geographic magazine he'd found stuffed behind a torn and scribbled on Highlights. John watched him with a long sideway glance, noticing how he lingered on each page, reading each word, studying each picture.
The television was on, but the volume was thankfully low; some talk show was showing previews of what was coming up after the commercial break. Minutes passed, slowly as possibly, and it wasn't long until John had enough. He reached a hand over, taking away Sam's magazine, hearing an annoyed, "hey!" in protest.
"I need you to go back to the car for me."
Sam let out an irritated huff of air. "The meter's good for another hour." He always made sure to keep an eye on stuff like that; the last thing they needed were more tickets. The older male just gave him that look, and he went, "oh," and asked, "what do you need?" He straightened up, mentioning, "no packing, remember?"
"Just get me the hard covered textbook out of the trunk." He tossed him the keys, and Sam caught them one-handed. "Hey. Make damn sure you lock it this time, get me?"
"Loud and clear, sir." The brunette stated, rolling those eyes of his as he turned around. Forget to lock the trunk once—once in your life—and you really will never forget. There were several textbooks—"hard covered," Sam enunciated slowly, stressed with sarcasm—thus, he grabbed the one on top.
So, while Dean was in a medically induced sleep, having four teeth removed, John was reading ("Preparing." Sam realized, John was preparing) the book, which was completely written in—go figure—Latin. Sam picked up the magazine he'd been reading, now with wrinkled marks where his father had grabbed it, but kept it closed.
At the forty-minute mark, Sam stared over at the door, waiting for that blonde woman to stick her head out, still smiling, and announce that Dean's in recovery. At the fifty-minute mark, he sat closer to the door, ignoring a look his father shot him. "Come on, come on, come on…"
Finally, after fifty-three minutes, the nurse came out. She wore that smile, and told John exactly what Sam had been waiting to hear. He followed his father to the recovery room, where all he saw was three or four empty cots. He wrinkled up his nose, "where's…"
The sight of two nurses, one on either side, helping his brother into the room made Sam's heart skip a beat—or three. Dean's cheeks were puffed out, and there was gauze sticking out of the corners of his mouth. The blonde's eyes were half-closed, glazed over; he looked out of it, like the lights were on, but no one was home.
Dean was set down on the green cot, a pillow placed under his head, and a makeshift icepack pressed to a cheek. A brunette woman, unfamiliar to Sam, sternly stated Dean's name, but Dean barely even blinked. That was, until John said his son's name, and Dean fluttered his eyelids, making an odd sound.
The first (okay, maybe not the first, but it was one of the first) thing Sam noticed was the band-aid on the inside of Dean's left and right arm. He wanted to ask about that, but when the doctor came out to check on his patient, all he really did was repeat the instructions and left.
After John was handed a pile of gauze and an antibiotic and painkiller prescription and once Dean was coherent enough to bat his eyelashes at a nurse, they left. On the way to the car, Dean kept trying to speak through his mouthful of gauze, but John, not unkindly, with a grin, told him to put a cork in it.
"Mmmph!"
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Once they got back to the motel, John waited until Dean was seated on a wooden chair to leave to pick up the prescriptions. Sam heard his father's cell phone as he made his way out, and also heard him wait to pick up until the door swung shut behind him. "We'll wait until he comes back with your medication to change your gauze."
Dean knuckled his eyes, mumbling something, which sounded like, "w'afeh'r." Sam wasn't positive, but was almost sure his brother's cheeks were starting to swell. He picked up the icepack Dean had been given, and offered him it, wondering out loud if he should make one, too, for the other side. Dean simply muttered another, "w'afeh'r."
"Don't speak." There wasn't any room for a cork.
"Shuf'p." The blonde wore this scowl, which de-aged him by nearly a decade. He held his arms crossed loosely over his chest; he had rejected the icepack.
"Does it hurt?"
"Hurph? Shuf'p Hammy." Despite himself, Sam smiled; the tight ball of anxiety that had riled up in the pit of his stomach when he had first seen his brother was starting to lessen. However, the sight was still tugging desperately on his heartstrings.
"You're already starting to bruise a little." With Dean's already puffed out cheeks he wasn't able to tell if there was any swelling. "Don't forget to bite down, too." In response, Dean stared right past him, eyes blank, but tightened his jaw. "You look tired." The older male looked as if he could nod off in the chair at any moment.
"Fine." Well, that came out clear. "'M fine." The corners of his lips were already feeling cracked and sore, although his cheeks, jaw, and tongue were still half numb. Dean hated that feeling, especially when it would start to wear off. He just wanted his Vicodin and to sleep for forty-eight hours. Sam knew this.
"Just wait until dad gets back." The younger brother also had a feeling that Dean wouldn't feel up to a cheeseburger and fries later, so he made a mental note to run down to the convenient store later for something soft, like pudding or jell-o. He's going to love that. Sam nearly snorted. Yeah, like a migraine.
The pharmacy wasn't far away; the city they've been residing in for the past few weeks wasn't all that big, though it was loaded with banks, funeral homes, and pharmacies. "This must be where old people flee to die." Dean had earlier commented, adding, "same thing," when Sam told him, "that's Florida." This was Pennsylvania.
The second John stepped foot into the motel room, Sam knew he was going to be leaving in a matter of minutes. His father had a way of looking guilty without actually looking guilty, if that made any sense. He set the medication and a few new papers down on the small table. Dean disappeared into the bathroom.
"Hunt?" Sam asked automatically, still sitting at the table. All he and his brother had done during the fifteen-minute wait was sit there, silent for the most part. Sam would state something every few minutes, and Dean would absently drool, still hunched over.
John looked down for a second, and then placed his cell phone down on the table. It was a bulky phone; Sam hoped that someday they would be smaller. Who knew, maybe someday he'd be able to surf the web or check his e-mail on one! Oh, he could dream. Next, John took out his wallet, and threw down a few bills on the table.
"It's just a day or two." Sam glanced down at the money.
"You've got to be kidding me." Why wasn't this much of a surprise to him? John sighed, irritated, stressing out Sam's first and middle name; he wasn't in the mood for an argument. "No, no, it's fine. Dean and I, we'll be fine." His eyes flicked over in the direction of the bathroom. The door was opened. "Dean probably won't even notice."
John nodded, also looking over at the bathroom. "Right. Just, ah, make sure he rinses, and that he doesn't mix rock salt with holy water when he does." The shorter male nodded, stating surely, "yeah, I'm capable of that." The father nodded with him, telling him, "I know that, and if, for any reason—"
"If, by chance, anything happens, I'll call Caleb, or Pastor Jim." Sam finished, but John shook his head.
"Call me first. If you can't reach me, then try them, but I won't be gone long." Something seemed to distract John. He now looked around the room, reminding him to re-salt the windows and door after he leaves. After a few more orders, all of which were daily routines for Sam, he told him, "and watch him, Sammy."
Dean walked out of the bathroom, wearing a weird expression. Two rolled up pieces of saliva-soaked gauze, tinted pink, were in the palm of his opened hand. The slight swelling of each cheek was now visible. "Let me guess, you're leaving to buy me that pony I've always wanted." The way he talked sounded off, almost as if he had cotton shoved in there, too.
John instantly grinned. "You caught me, son." He had no need to explain that he was about to leave; Dean had to have heard him from inside the bathroom. He winked at him, picking his cell back off the table. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Try not to give your brother too hard of a time."
The blonde blinked his bleary eyes. "He won't." Sam tried not to smile; Dean hadn't understood that John was talking to him, youngest son, but that was all right. John half-smiled. There was this unfamiliar glimmer in his eyes… uncertainty, maybe? Sam wasn't sure. He looked up at his father.
"Always, sir." John looked confused for a second, and smiled when he realized Sam was answering him from before Dean entered the room. He gave both brothers a pat on the shoulder, though he gave Sam's an especially tight squeeze, and it was only a matter of seconds before he was on his way—away from his boys.
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Sam filled a complimentary mug with cool water, and took out a pill from each orange pill bottle. The pain medication, which wasn't Vicodin but a name he was barely able to pronounce, was a light green color, and the antibiotic was a light blue color, and, like the other pill, was oblong shaped.
"This is stupid."
"I know."
Dean looked down at the pills in his hand after Sam handed them to him. He wetted his cracked, dry lips, and then just plopped them right in, swallowing them with a mouthful of the faucet water, which had a weird taste to it. His gums were still bleeding, so he packed more gauze, carefully rolled up thanks to Sam, into both cheeks.
"Thith ith thill thupid."
"I still know."
Soon, Dean crawled into bed, one cheek resting against the icepack, which was ice, in a plastic bag, wrapped in a paper towel, along with a new makeshift (Sam Winchester Makeshift™), and that was rested on top of his other cheek. "Only thirty minutes." He warned, proudly earning his third muffled, "shut up."
He thought about turning on the television, but daytime TV wasn't all that grand. Sam sometimes liked to watch all the court shows, but, all of a sudden, he wasn't in the mood for that blatant, overdramatic "he said, she said," bullshit. So, instead, he pulled out a book, one he'd gotten from the library, and decided to read that.
There was a massive furnace on the other side of the room, and while it was on, it wasn't bringing them much heat. The weather outside was cold and windy; there was a draft coming in under the door, disturbing the thin line of salt. That always made Sam paranoid. Never Dean, he'd always fix it, but not now.
Dean, who was lying on his side, had the covers pulled up high. Sam was able to see the tips of his spiked hair. There was sunlight peeking through the window behind him, highlighting his hair, bringing out the blonde. He rolled either shoulder a few times, tugging the covers down to his eyebrows.
Minutes finally seemed to pass effortlessly. Sam sat against the wooden headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The book remained in his lap, and he turned each page gingerly, as if it were wafer paper and would tear easily. The flow of words wrapped around his mind, steadily embracing him, capturing his every interest.
Even more minutes fervently ticked away, and Sam, as if he'd been pricked, suddenly glanced up, a troubled glimmer present in his dark eyes. He dog-eared the page he was on, which was a habit he has been wanting to break, and scratched the back of his ear as he turned his head, looking over at his brother.
Dean was now on his back, the covers far past his tense shoulders. His eyes were still closed, and he would still look as if he were sleeping if it weren't for his furrowed brow. A cramped hand rested upon his stomach, maybe hinting at what was the matter. Sam closed his book, setting it aside for now.
"Dean?" He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, getting to his sock clad feet. The shorter male waved a hand at him, shooing him away before he even could stumble over a few steps. "Everything okay?" A bag of ice had rolled down the pillow, and must've opened, because there was a growing wet spot underneath it.
"Mmhmm." The creases in his forehead were deep with obvious discomfort. Sam frowned, because wasn't the pain medication supposed to be taking care of that? He wondered; had the Novocain finished wearing off? Dean cracked open an eye, and through a sliver of green was a flicker of irritation, though not aimed at Sam.
"Then why don't I believe you?"
"Because you're a neurotic dickhead?" Dean tried to state, but, instead, it had come out in a wordless hum. He shifted around a bit, until the quilt was pushed down below his navel. "Fuck." He cursed, bringing a hand to his mouth, where his fingertips ghosted over the dressing peeking out from the corners of his puckered lips.
"Puck?" Sam mouthed, confused at what he thought he'd heard for a moment. "Oh. Are you—do you need anything?" He smirked at the look his brother shot at him; only Dean could manage to say so much with only one eye opened. "Other than the need to kick my, uh, skinny ass?"
Dean laughed, although it was muffled because of the thick gauze. Shaking his head, he closed that eye, and rolled onto his side, so his back, once again, was facing Sam. He still kept an arm tightly draped around his midsection. He shifted a few more times; getting his cheek back on that icepack, and then went still.
The brunette remained standing for a moment longer, and then sat back down, the springs in the old bed groaning under his weight. He didn't pick up his book, or turn on the television. He just sat there, hands in his lap, shoulders somewhat stooped, watching, maybe waiting. For what? Something, he guessed. Just something.
Watch him, Sammy.
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Sam opened his eyes, and it was nearly two hours later. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to figure out when and how he had fallen asleep. He'd woken up, his gangly form curled into a ball, on top of the covers. He palmed a hand to his chin, tilting his head until his neck cracked, and then he scratched the back of his head. "The hell?"
It was now early in the evening, and Dean, currently positioned on his back, was dead to the world. The top cover, at some time, had been kicked down to the foot of the bed, and the sheets were intertwined with his legs. His mouth was wide opened, and there was a trace of slick dribble, which trailed down his chin.
"Kodak moment?" Sam whispered, a twinkle in his eye. He had been careful not to step on a loose floorboard, or shuffle around too nosily, when he stood up, and took a couple of random steps. He now smiled widely at the sight of his brother. For once, his hair remained flat in the front, and stuck up haphazardly in the back.
This stomach then rumbled, reminding him that the last thing he had to eat was a Twinkie from a vending machine, and the cream-filled sponge cake hadn't exactly tasted fresh. "Able to withstand the effects of a nuclear explosion my ass." He'd muttered, recalling the urban myth while gulping down room temperature water.
Dinner sounded pretty good right about now, but Sam stood there, undecidedly, staring down at his big brother. "No warm to hot food, or liquids." He whispered, lightly sucking in and gliding his tongue over his bottom lip. "Ice cream, frozen yogurt, applesauce, scrambled eggs…" Was there even a place that delivered scrambled eggs?
"Maybe I'm better off going to the store." He thought to himself, now biting on his thumbnail. The nearest was a Walgreens. He could almost see into the parking lot from the sidewalk outside of the motel. "Don't want to leave Dean, though." Something told him that he didn't want to drag his incapacitated brother to the store.
"Quit talkin' to yourself." Dean asked groggily, and though his voice was terribly muffled, Sam had heard him clear as day. The older brother sat up, hands eagerly pulling out the soiled dressings out from his mouth. "I'd rather be locked in a cage with thirty vampires and one stake than put this shit back in my mouth." He rubbed a cheek.
Sam clicked his tongue, almost smiling. "There are no such things as vampires." Dean plopped the set of gauze into the plastic trashcan beside his bed, and then glanced up, one brow slightly arched, his eyes somewhat narrowed, and his lips nearly pouted. Now, Sam truly smiled, recognizing his brother's "cranky face."
"Wha'?" A cranky Dean was one of the most frustrating things ever, but a medicated cranky Dean? Perhaps the most… no, no, we'll wait this one out. Sam shook his head, unable to pry his eyes off of Dean's dried up drool-covered chin, asking his brother how he felt. One look at the puffy cheeks, and he made a note to get more ice.
"Those, uh, pain pills, they working?" Dean drowsily blinked one eye, and then the other in response. "I'll take that as a "yes," and, um, your gums? Are they still bleeding?" Dean's beloved cranky face™ amplified, and he shifted away from Sam, old springs protesting, and his knees bent and pointed toward the opposite wall.
"Until you're Dr. Winchester, back off."
Sam nodded, not at all taken back by Dean's harsh tone, but a sly smile that stretched across his face revealed that he had expected it. He slipped a hand into his pant's pocket, pulling out two orange bottles long enough for Dean to see. "Give it four hours; it'll wear off, and I'll suddenly be Sam Winchester, M.D."
"Or Sam Winchester, D.E.A.D." He leaned back, and elbowed the plastic bag of melted ice off the side of the bed. It landed on Sam's feet, spilling open, soaking his gray socks and the surrounding carpet, making the light blue color turn a roguish navy blue. Dean glanced down; lips puckered, his expression reading off a sarcastic, "oops."
"Jerk." The brunette stressed out, biting back a groan. He bent over, peeling off his socks, which clung to his feet like wet Velcro. Clutching those drenched socks, he stormed into the bathroom, whipping them into the bathtub before grabbing a towel, all while Dean, with a sly smile of his own, mumbled, "damn dizzy spells."
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