Author's Note: Packing break chapter for hitchcock_starlet :-) If you like this chapter, leave a review, please. If you hate this chapter, leave a review, please. If you have anything else you'd like me to know, well . . . send me a psychic message (or leave a review), please.
Chapter 3
They finished eating at a leisurely pace, and Dean flirted with Josie and left her a big tip before they made their way back up to the room. Once there, Sam returned to the laptop and Dean flopped back onto the bed, studying the raw wooden beams a dozen feet above them.
Comfortable silence surrounded them, and Dean began to drift off to the sound of Sam's fingers on the keyboard. Drawn back into his research, it was almost two hours later when Sam glanced at the clock at the bottom of the screen. Taking a moment to stretch, he glanced at his brother and then continued to parse through search results and make notes, a section of his brain thinking again about Dean's unusual behavior.
It was definitely focused around fire, and the obvious connotation was that it had something to do with Dean's time in Hell. On the outside, his older brother seemed to have recovered from the horrific experiences he'd had, but Sam knew from the "chick flick" moments they'd had in the last few months that what was going on inside his brother was complicated and painfully dark. Dean knew how to suck it up and be fine, and that wasn't always a good thing.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the bed where Dean lay with his mouth slightly open, a barely audible snore escaping. Time for a little test. Purposefully preoccupying himself with the website in front of him he spoke in a carefully casual tone.
"Hey Dean. Throw another log on, would you?"
"What?" Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing his face with his hands.
Sam didn't turn his head, "Put some more wood on the fire, it's getting low."
"Yes, sir," Dean grumbled, heaving himself off the bed. "You're closer, and awake, but whatever," he continued not-quite under his breath, "just let big brother do all the heavy lifting."
Grabbing a couple logs off the pile behind the door, Dean balanced them carefully as he crouched in front of the fireplace and moved the screen to the side with one hand. There wasn't much response from the first piece of wood, but as he set the second piece on top of it and the low fire danced up around it there was a loud cracking sound followed by a monstrous hissing.
Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean tumble, and land sitting on the floor at the sound. As Dean gasped audibly and began to scrabble backwards, his eyes wide and mesmerized by the speaking flames, Sam was instantly on his feet.
"Dean!"
There was no acknowledgement of Sam's voice, and Dean moved frantically until he hit the foot of the log-framed bed, his usual litheness lost in the manic movement.
"Dean!" Sam repeated, fear choking him as he knelt in front of his quaking brother.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dean's eyes focused on Sam's and confusion replaced the terror that had filled them an instant earlier.
"Wha . . ." Dean began, moving instinctively into a crouch, the trip through his mental checklist evident on his face.
"You were adding wood to the fire . . . I don't know what happened. All of the sudden you were on the ground."
Dean's expression was one of disbelief and vulnerability and it did nothing to salve Sam's guilty conscience. The experiment had worked and now Sam knew for certain something was wrong—but the pain he'd caused his brother to get that information was evident and it made Sam's stomach churn.
"I . . . . was . . ." the elder Winchester's unfocused response was cut short as he started to cough, hard enough to double him over with his arms protectively across his ribcage.
Sam instinctively reached for his brother's shoulders, placing a palm on each, trying to look Dean in the eye.
"Are you okay?"
When nothing was forthcoming except deeper coughs punctuated by guttural groans, Sam was on his feet and to the bathroom and back with a paper cup of water within seconds.
"Drink, Dean—try and take a breath, just a short one," he said as he tried to keep the panic out of his voice. Dean was now hunched over, his elbows on his knees as he struggled to control the coughing, nearly in a fetal position.
It definitely wasn't helping, and Sam set the cup on the floor and knelt next to Dean, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders, gripping tight. The stress of the situation was evident in the tautness of Dean's upper body, and Sam could see the cords in Dean's neck straining hard.
"Dean, listen to me. You're putting more pressure on your lungs by leaning on them—you've gotta sit up. Come on, Dean, I'm gonna help you, okay?"
Not waiting for an answer which his brother was in no position to give, Sam braced himself and pulled on Dean, trying to haul him into an upright position. At Sam's movement, Dean instinctively began to fight and within a few seconds Sam felt an elbow connect with his jaw, which laid him flat on his back.
It took him only less than a minute to recover from what would have taken most men ten times longer. As the stars cleared from his vision, Sam could still hear Dean's cough—the kind the usually led to retching—and he willed himself upright. Dean was standing now, braced against the footboard, arms locked at the elbows and shoulders. The water had been knocked over in the scuffle and in a smooth movement Sam had picked it up off the floor and was back at the bathroom tap, talking all the while and trying to sound calm and confident.
"I'm getting some more water, keep trying to take short, slow breaths, okay? Try to relax your chest and your shoulders—don't think about holding it in. Think about your lungs opening up." Sam pulled himself up and strode to the bathroom.
Then he was standing next to his brother, with the water in hand. The hacking seemed to be letting up and Dean didn't flinch this time when Sam put a hand between his shoulder blades. Sam stood completely still, willing his own heartbeat to slow. His eyes were focused on Dean's knuckles, bleached by anxiety, the rough pine caught fast as a lifeline.
Dean's coughing slowly became less violent and less frequent. Under his palm, flat against Dean's spine, Sam could feel his brother's muscles start to release. Finally, Dean turned his head to look at Sam for a long moment, his expression closed, his eyes brimming with the tears induced by his inability to breathe.
He nodded at the water in Sam's hand. "That for me?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
Sam swallowed hard and gave the glass to his brother; dropping the hand from Dean's back he took a half step back. Dean straightened slowly and turned to sit on the rail, then drank deeply.
They were now facing the fireplace again, which was burning merrily and in merciful quiet. While Sam stared at the glowing tendrils of flame—the one this time unable to look away, Dean kept his gaze locked on his own hands, the plastic cup gripped tight enough that it bowed under the pressure.
Eventually, Sam spoke. "You okay?"
His question was met with silence, and Sam stayed quiet, his inner conflict heating up as the seconds ticked by.
He should have pressured Dean differently; tried to insist on talking it out. As closed up as he was these days, Dean was also more open than he'd ever been—at least since Sam was about eight. Which was mighty strange considering Sam's own secrets had created more barriers recently than Dean's ideas of macho man (non)conversation.
Sam's angst was interrupted by the sound of his brother clearing his throat. As Dean stood, Sam did too, but Dean's next movement was so unexpected that Sam could only gape.
Dean strode purposefully toward the fireplace, leaving the empty glass on the desk as he walked past it. He paused briefly at the stack of wood and then hefted a log in one hand. Carefully, Dean knelt again in front of the blaze and added the third log.
The rigidity in Dean's shoulders showed his smooth efficiency a mask, and Sam felt tears of frustration and anger well in his chest.
"Dean."
Turning his head so his profile was outlined, Dean responded. "Yeah, Sammy."
"I . . . are you . . ."
"Fine, Sammy. I'm fine."
They both knew it was a lie. Yet neither could breach beyond the familiar exchange; the response the older sucking-it-up brother gave the younger brother he was duty-bound to protect.
So the seconds ticked by, and finally Dean stood up and looked at Sam and grinned—
"Room service? I'm feeling like nachos, and you probably need some carrots or something; brain food so you can figure out how to bag us a yeti."
Sam couldn't help the lopsided smile he gave back as he watched Dean reach for the phone. As worried as he was, Sam couldn't break the rule. In his own way, Dean was calling "uncle" as loud as he could and so for the moment, that had to be that.
