As always, not mine, don't own.
My thanks to Fanpire101 for beta-reading for me. Any remaining errors are mine.
I appreciate everyone who took the time to favorite or follow this story. It means a lot to me! Thanks for the comments: cmr2014, Kathy, Guest, idreamofivan, BonanzaRocks, kandilyn, MarbleWolf, Shannanigans, Shadowpletlove, Zeldalsis, Imtheonewhofeelinglost, Jenjoremy, stedan, and insecurefangirl1944.
Cross-posted at Archive of Our Own.
They didn't talk about it. Not after Nurse Jackie returned with Sam's discharge papers. Not when Dean picked up Sam's pain medication and ear drops. Not on the long drive back to the bunker. Not during the monotonous days holed up at home while Sam recuperated, hiding out in his room with his injured arm propped on a flotilla of pillows. Not even the night Sam found Dean in the kitchen, praying to Cas in a broken sort of voice, begging him to please return and fix his baby brother.
Three weeks had passed, and Sam could feel his patience with convalescence wearing thin. He was finally able rotate his right shoulder and wrist without pain; he'd regained most of his mobility. But recovery from his burst eardrums had progressed at a much slower pace. Despite clarity in most of his hearing range, the uppermost registers remained a jumbled mess.
Sam's secret addiction to female pop stars - Mariah Carey and Ariana Grande among them - provided no comfort. Their vocal ranges were far less impressive when certain high notes simply dropped out at random. The disconcerting effect left him nauseous and irritable.
Every day, Sam readjusted the volume on his headphones and tweaked the treble and bass to discern if his hearing was improving. Initially, he'd been heartened by slow but steady progress. As the end of the month neared, however, Sam began to plateau. In frustration, he found himself avoiding things - and people - that reminded him that there might still be a problem. He listened to Dean's moldy bass-thumping rock, watched Netflix shoot 'em ups, and refused to talk to Jody or Mom on the rare occasions when they called. Mostly, he tried not to dwell on it.
For his part, Dean supported Sam's recovery by teasing him less and hovering more. He never directly asked for a status update on Sam's health. Rather, his brother acted as if they were on an extended staycation, with some extra TLC thrown in for Sam.
As the days wore on, Dean's solicitous behavior grated on Sam's nerves. He grew increasingly exasperated at the older hunter's mounting twitchiness. Finally, he ordered Dean to "just go hunt something already!"
Dean had entered Sam's room not long after, laptop in hand. "Found somethin'," he'd said. "Ghoul, near Wichita." There had been a slight pause before he'd added, "You comin'?"
Sam had popped out of bed with a smile. "Thought you'd never ask."
The hunt went off without a hitch. Riding home, high on adrenaline, Sam listened to the purr of the Impala as she chewed up the miles. He shared a dimple-popping smile with Dean and even sang along to some of his brother's favorite tunes. The diner that night had fresh cherry pie for Dean and an even fresher salad for himself. Sam had just started to think that things might be looking up for the Winchester brothers when they arrived home, and it all came crashing down.
Sam couldn't sleep. He lay in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, while the day's events replayed on a loop in his mind. His brain snagged on the single panicked moment when Dean had cried out and he couldn't determine in which direction his brother had run. Luck had been on his side today, and the choice he'd made had turned out to be correct.
But what about next time?
Sam gnawed on his upper lip and thought through the sequence of events again. And again.
Finally, he sat up, ran his fingers through his long hair, and sighed. He wasn't going to fall sleep any time soon. Sam shrugged into an oversized hoodie and shuffled along in his toasty woolen socks into the kitchen, laptop warm under his arm.
Chamomile tea? Check. Honey? Sam opened the little jar and peeked. Yes, Castiel had left a drizzle. Sam filled the weathered kettle with water and set it over the burner. He twisted the front burner knob until it clicked, and the gas-powered flames lit, then turned the setting down. While the water heated, Sam grubbed around in the fridge, finally settling on preparing a sandwich.
He sat down heavily at the table in the kitchen, took a bite out of his BLT, and stared glumly at his laptop. Sam skimmed the headlines from several papers and tried to dig into a bizarre account of a serial killer who left smiley faces on the bodies - Is it our kind of crazy? - but nothing could hold his attention for long.
I put Dean at risk today.
Maybe no more than any other day, really, but Sam couldn't quite convince himself of that. Lying by omission wasn't any better than lying outright.
I need to talk to Dean.
As if Sam had conjured him up with a summoning spell, Dean rushed into the kitchen, all wild-eyed with bed head.
"Hey, Dean—" Sam started.
His big brother brushed past him, skidding toward the stove in his dead guy slippers. "What the hell, Sam?" Dean pulled the teakettle off the burner and turned off the flame. Only then did Sam notice the absence of a faint whistle. He'd been so focused on reading that he hadn't heard it.
Dean waved the kettle around, ranting, "It's three o'clock in the morning and you couldn't be bothered to—" His brother trailed off when their eyes met.
Sam swallowed hard and lowered his gaze first. Neither brother said anything. A manic part of Sam's mind screamed that the silence was deafening.
After several long minutes, Sam looked up to gauge Dean's reaction. The older man blew out a breath, grimaced, and nodded. "You didn't hear it." It wasn't a question.
Sam wanted to argue - I did hear it when you made me focus on it! - but Dean's point still stood. He'd been sitting right next to a whistling tea kettle and had never even noticed. Sam bit his lip and nodded reluctantly.
Dean poured boiling water into Sam's mug, then prepared a second cup of tea for himself. Funny how he could hear his brother's soft sigh but miss the shriek of the teakettle.
Sam sat in the quiet, eyes on the table, while his brother plopped a mug of tea in front of him. Dean took the seat opposite and rubbed a hand down his spiky mess of hair.
When he spoke next, his voice was gentle. "We need to talk about this, Sam."
Sam bobbed his head repetitively, as if in a trance. "I know we do." His voice cracked over the words. Staring at his hands, Sam spun the heated mug slowly between his long fingers.
His brother swore and set his own tea aside. He got up and stood behind Sam's seat, placing his palms over his younger brother's shoulders.
"We'll figure it out, Sammy," Dean reassured, kneading his brother's tense muscles. Sam swallowed over the lump in his throat and rested his cheek on Dean's arm. "We just gotta get you to a doctor and we'll go from there, okay?"
Sam nodded, his voice barely a broken whisper. "Okay."
