Title: All The Tears I've Never Cried
Author: Laedie Duske
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: 1396
Rating: 13+
Warnings: Illness, swearing, blood, my first slash (please don't hate me...)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I own neither the boys, nor Supernatural. I own this story, though, so no copying, distributing, etc.
A/N: Hoodie_Time prompt: Dean's tired and sick, and clumsy from being tired and sick. He hurts himself. He's frustrated and possibly near tears. Sam kisses the booboo/kisses him better.
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Sam is silent the entire ride back. Dean is pretty sure he's pissed, but it wasn't really Dean's fault.
Or maybe it was all Dean's fault. Because isn't it always?
Okay, sure, Dean knew he had a fever. But Sam knew Dean had a fever, too, and he still insisted he wanted to get the salt and burn done that night. He couldn't possibly think Dean would let him go alone. Could he?
There's just no way in hell that would ever happen.
So they made their way to the cemetery and Sam practically wrestled Dean bodily to the ground laying the shotgun in his lap, hissing, "Just keep watch, Dean. I got this one. All you gotta do is cover me."
When the spirit showed up thirty minutes later, perhaps it was not in his best interest to leap to his feet to try to position himself between it and Sam. In fact, it was probably exactly the wrong thing to do since all his blood rushed to his feet and he passed out cold.
Falling into the freshly re-dug grave.
Gashing his head on the shovel.
Slamming his head into the hard-packed earth, giving himself a concussion.
And dislocating his left shoulder.
Again.
By the time he came around, Sam had the bones salted, burned, grabbed the gear and had Dean halfway back to the Impala. Dean tried to shove off and stand on his own, but his knees buckled. Sam had to drop the bags in order to catch him before he hit the ground.
Again.
Dean is not trying to be belligerent even, he's just humiliated and he feels so horribly guilty for leaving Sam unguarded while he was unconscious. He wants nothing more than to check Sam over and make sure he's okay, but Sam has left the bags on the ground and is wobbling him towards the Impala with one arm around his shoulders and the other pressed firmly against his chest in case he should decide to bobble to and forget the fro.
He doesn't realize he's talking, has no idea he is talking, until suddenly the ringing in his ears clears some and he can hear himself, "...sorry Sammy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean ta...didn't want you out here alone...thought I could watch your back...probably would have been better off without me...probably always better off without me...never shoulda come and dragged you away..." Sam isn't answering, and Dean can hear his voice rising in desperation until he is suddenly aware of the tears on his cheeks and that's really the last straw.
It's just too mortifying and if the ground could please just open up and swallow him down that'd be great, thanks.
Sam gives him a once-over and carefully origami's him into the passenger seat before running back for the bags.
Dean huddles against the door and tries not to shiver because JesusfuckingtapdancingChrist does that hurt his friggin' shoulder. He can't understand why he's so hyperemotional, though it hasn't been that long since his last concussion exactly and he can feel the all-too-familiar fever haze blanketing him and maybe that has something to do with it?
And really if he wants to be honest with himself, it kind of hurts his feelings that all he wants to do is protect Sam and keep him loved and safe, but Sam never seems to appreciate it. He doesn't want Sam mad at him, but he wants Sam safe and uninjured if he can help it.
He blinks in confusion as the car stops - they can't be back at the motel already can they? He didn't remember falling asleep, but he doesn't really remember the ride either. Before he can blink again, Sam is there opening his door and gently tugging him out of the passenger seat but he's still not talking and it's more than Dean can take right then.
He sniffles and hates himself for being weak, but he can't stop the tears that are slipping down his face.
"Dean," he startles when Sam speaks finally as he's lowering Dean to the edge of the bed and kneels between his legs as he helps ease the jacket and flannel off, "are you hurt anywhere besides your shoulder and head?" His voice is gentle, his hands already carefully exploring the wrecked shoulder joint.
"No." Dean's voice is thick, wet with tears, and he desperately wants to find someplace to hide until everyone who's ever known him has forgotten he ever existed because Dean Winchester does not cry. He can feel the shivers pulsing through him now that he's not so focused on keeping them on lockdown and his skin feels like it's on fire.
"Then why - " instead of finishing the sentence, he reaches out and softly swipes his knuckles across his brother's cheek, smearing the tear tracks before carefully palming the furnace-hot forehead. Dean's eyes slide to half mast and he leans slightly forward into the cool hand. Sam's face conveys more than words ever could as he reaches into a duffel for something to press against the gash on the older man's head.
"M'sorry Sammy, just di'n't wan' you goin' alone." He sniffles and winces as the sudden movement jostles his shoulder. Clenching his teeth he takes a steadying breath before giving up and closing his eyes completely. He just doesn't know what else to say.
He feels Sam's fingers lightly dragging across his scalp on the side away from the wound, swallows thickly when he feels a soft kiss pressed to his forehead.
"Dean, you don't have to be sorry. This is all my fault." Dean's eyes snap open, confused. He sways precariously as he's overcome by a wave of dizziness. "Easy, Dean, easy, I gotcha," Sam is suddenly beside him on the bed holding him close while his vision clears. "I'm sorry you thought I was mad, I just feel so awful about what happened I didn't even know what to say to you. It scared the hell out of me to see you lying there bleeding and so still. I knew you were sick, I don't know what I was thinking when I insisted on going tonight. I know better than to think you would ever let me go out without backup and I should have just dropped it when you insisted on coming. I was being stupid and stubborn and you got hurt because of it. If anything, you'd probably be better off without me tagging along." His voice drops almost to a whisper as he nuzzles the soft skin behind Dean's ear, he can hear the guilt and pain hidden in Sam's tone, "Can you forgive me?"
"Sammy, no," he blinks, dizzy again as he moves too quickly in his haste to comfort his Sammy. But that isn't what he had meant to say. "I mean, no, it's not your fault and there's nothing to forgive. I shouldn't have let my guard down, left you with nobody watching your back, I'm the one who should be asking for forgiveness."
"Dean," he presses a careful kiss to the injured shoulder, "you didn't let your guard down. You are sick enough that you passed out, man, you should never have been out there in the first place." Sam traces a line of kisses along the back of the throbbing joint, up the side of Dean's neck and cheek. Cupping his face, Sam gently kisses across his forehead to where the gash has almost stopped bleeding over his left temple. "Let me set your shoulder and stitch those freckles back together and then I will grab you some ice and flu meds, okay?"
Dean sniffles again, starts to nod, thinks better of it and mumbles, "Mmkay Sammy."
Sam hates the thought of causing his brother more pain when he is clearly feeling so terrible, but it can't be avoided. He sets the shoulder, kissing the feverish flesh front to back around the joint afterward, then sets about stitching the painful gash on Dean's head. Once he is finished with that, he dropps a few careful kisses along the fresh stitches and helps tuck the sick hunter under the covers. As he gathers the ice, medicine, thermometer and other supplies he will need for the steadily climbing fever he can't help but think to himself he is in for a very long night.