Dean woke to the sound of Sam moaning, the effect from the medication having faded.
It was awful.
Dean quickly paged the doctor, and gave Sam one of the oral pain meds the doctor had left for him. "Hey, Sammy. This is gonna kick in real soon. I promise."
Sam opened his eyes. Both of them. The white of his eye was nearly solid red, but the eyelid opened now, and Dean remembered, the doctor had declared the eye itself to be sound.
Sam mouthed "Thank you."
"Real good. You remembered not to talk." Dean smoothed his hand over Sam's head. His hair, Sam's pride and Dean's secret joy, was lank and greasy.
The doctor had already been on his way, and arrived shortly. He gave Sam a bolus of liquid Dilaudid, and examined him, and was satisfied with Sam's progress overnight.
Dean pulled the doctor into the hallway with a serious look on his face. When the doctor learned what Dean was so concerned about, he smiled. "I have just the thing."
He disappeared into another room and came back with an inflatable shampoo basin with attached drain hose, a plastic pitcher and a small bottle of shampoo. He helped Dean move Sam's bed close to the sink, inflated the basin with the air pump, set the drain hose in the sink and turned the rest over to Dean.
Dean ran warm water into the pitcher and positioned Sam's head properly in the inflatable basin. "Gonna get you all cleaned up. Just relax."
Sam let out a soft sigh at the first feel of warm water poured through his hair. Dean was careful not to spill, and shielded Sam's forehead with his hand so that no water ran down into his eyes when he wetted his hairline.
Dean leaned over Sam and worked the lavender-scented shampoo into his hair, rubbing his scalp with his fingertips. Sam closed his eyes. "That feel good?"
Sam raised his right hand and let it rest on Dean's waist, right above his hip.
"Is that a yes?" Dean's mouth softened into a smile.
Sam squeezed.
"Once for yes, twice for no, huh?"
A single squeeze.
Dean worked the shampoo into a rich lather, lingering at the task. It was surprisingly intimate, shampooing Sam's hair. And surprisingly pleasurable for Dean.
He released the clamp on the drain hose, letting the soapy water flow into the sink, and filled the pitcher again, checking the temperature on his wrist to make sure it was just right.
Sam made a happy sound when Dean poured the water over his head. "Bet you could get used to this, huh, Sammy?"
A single squeeze.
"Yeah, princess, well, when you're all fixed up, you better plan on giving me back rubs for weeks."
Sam stroked Dean's side, and mouthed, "Ok."
"How's he doing?" John's voice was a bull in a china shop, a chaperone at a school dance, a cop in a bar full of teenagers.
Dean's hand movements shifted in a subtle fashion from tender to efficient. "He slept pretty good."
"How's his pain?" John moved to stand at Sam's side, and put his hand on Sam's shin.
"He was hurting bad this morning, but me and the doc got him fixed up." Dean looked up. "His hair was really gross. He hates that."
"Mighty nice of you to play spa with your brother, Dean." Bobby stood in the doorway holding a cardboard carrier with four cups of coffee.
"Bobby. You're a lifesaver." Dean took the cup Bobby offered him, pounded back a long drink, then set it aside to finish with Sam. He rinsed Sam's hair with a fresh pitcher of water until it was squeaky clean, then drained the basin and toweled Sam's hair off.
"Give me a hand?" Dean motioned to John to help him wheel Sam's bed away from the sink back to where it had been. They carefully raised the front half of the bed until Sam was sitting up. Dean tried to ignore Sam's winces, even with the hefty dose of pain meds in his system.
Bobby handed Sam a paper cup. "Doubl latte. Low-fat milk, two pumps of pumpkin spice." Sam's grin was positively childlike, surprised and grateful. "Yeah, kid. I remembered.
Sam looked even worse in the light of day. The bruising on his face and arms had deepened to livid red and purple, his hurt eye ghastly red, deep circles under his eyes, lips swollen.
But he smiled at Bobby like it was Christmas day and took a sip of coffee.
Bobby passed John his coffee, and pulled up chairs. A crinkle of paper, and Bobby extracted breakfast for the boys. "Got a cinnamon roll for you, Dean. And Sam, got something special for you." From a small plastic bag, Bobby pulled a jar of baby food.
Sam snorted, then squinched his face in pain.
"Laugh all you want, kid, but I'm serious. Doctor's orders."
Sam stared at Dean. Dean started to laugh. "Face all beat to hell, and you can still pull off a bitch face."
Sam exhaled through his nose, the sound of frustration unmistakable.
Bobby busted out laughing. "Gotcha." He pulled out another item, a plastic bottle containing a protein smoothie. "Here you go. Food you can drink."
John went to confer with the doctor in the hallway. Oddly, he wouldn't discuss Sam until Dean joined them.
"He did very well, so I think it's ok to bring him home. I'll come over every day to check on him and keep you stocked up." The doctor primarily looked at Dean as he spoke. "Remember. He needs to take a really deep breath three to five times an hour when he's awake. You have to make sure to get him to do this, Dean."
Dean nodded, making a list in his head.
The doctor explained the side effects of the oral pain meds, and Sam's dietary restrictions. "Lots of warm tea with honey for his throat. Have him gargle with warm salt water a few times a day. Soft food, no acid. That means no orange juice. Ok? Don't be surprised if he doesn't want to eat much. The pain meds will probably suppress his appetite. But get some soft food in him every day. Mashed potatoes. Macaroni and cheese. Soup. Things he doesn't have to chew, and that won't hurt his throat."
More notations in Dean's mental checklist.
"Get him up once a day and walk him around, so the blood doesn't pool in his legs. Hold him and walk with him when you do this. It's going to be painful with his ribs, but it's very important."
John stood and watched the doctor give his oldest son instructions on how to care for his younger son.
"The pain meds may cause him to have nightmares or trouble sleeping. And, of course, what he's been through."
Now the doctor looked at John. "Don't be surprised if the nightmares are…vivid."
The doctor turned his attention back to Dean. "You two share a room, right?"
Dean nodded.
"If he has nightmares, you need to wake him up—quickly—so he doesn't make his injuries worse. Got it?"
Dean got it.
"He needs rest, and calm, and to breathe deeply." The doctor scribbled on his notepad, tore the page off and handed it to Dean. "That's the schedule I want him on for his pain pills for the first three days. Keep the pain well controlled, so he can keep his lungs working."
The doctor and Dean went back into the room to bring Sam out to the truck, waiting outside.
"I'm right here," John said. "I'm standing right here."
"Dean needs to do this for Sam." Bobby put his hand on John's shoulders. "Let him do this."
This time, Dean wouldn't even let John try to help him get Sam into the nest of foam and blankets in the truck bed. "I got it," he said, barely looking at John. He held Sam in his arms and walked to the back of the truck, setting him down inside and sliding in next to him, supporting his back as Sam scooted himself all the way in using his legs, laying him down gently and arranging the pillows with care.
By the time Dean tucked the comforter around Sam's hips, Sam's eyes were clenched shut with pain, sweat beading on his brow. Dean wiped it off with the bandanna in his back pocket.
"Hey, Bobby." Dean's face was hard. "Drive real careful."
Bobby drove like a Sunday school teacher all the way back, creeping up the drive to his house at five miles an hour so as not to jostle Sam any more than necessary.
"Dean, let me give you a hand with him." John opened the back of the truck and extended his hand.
"S'alright. I got him." Dean extracted Sam in a way that caused the minimum amount of pain to Sam, and strained Dean's back in what must have been a very uncomfortable way. But Dean revealed no sign of discomfort.
John watched Dean carry Sam toward the house.
Bobby appeared at John's side. "You know how the song goes, John."
"Oh god, don't."
"He ain't heavy," Bobby sang in a rasp.
"Please. No more."
Dean and Sam heard none of this. Dean cradled Sam in his arms, Sam's head resting against his shoulder, his breathing coming quick and shallow. "We're home now, Sammy." Dean carried him up the front steps, and over the threshold. "We're home."