Thanks so much for the reviews! Work was killer this week, so sorry I skipped on review responses! I'll try to get to everyone this week. Enjoy the chapter!
It's more than an hour later when the doctor finally reappears, apologizing halfheartedly about being called away for a consult that ran long.
From the smear of hot sauce on the front of her scrubs, Dean would bet his favorite gun that consult took place at the Tex-Mex joint across the street, but as long as it ended up with Sammy getting some much-needed shut-eye, he's willing to let it slide.
A handful of prescriptions and a motion test later (Don't think Dean doesn't see how much effort it takes Sam to wiggle his fingers like that. When they get back to the car they're having a serious talk about dumb-ass stunts with pocketknives and how you DON'T FUCKING PULL THEM), and they're back on the road.
"I-10 is the other way," Sam notes absently, picking at the bandage on his hand while trying to look like he's not picking at the bandage on his hand.
"Not looking' for the I-10," Dean replies, lightly smacking Sam's wrist to get him to stop his fiddling while weighing the merits of Taco Casa versus Luby's Cafeteria. On the one hand: tacos. Sam could get a taco salad. On the other hand: convenient substitute for diner food. Sam could get a salad not made of grease and ground beef.
Dean pulls into Luby's.
"Guess we missed the two for one taco special, huh?" Sam remarks mildly, levering open the passenger door with a wince, because apparently, treating fresh stitches with caution isn't something they teach you at Stanford.
"We can hit it on the way out of town tomorrow," Dean shrugs, striding towards the entrance to the restaurant before Sam can unfold his Sasquatch limbs from the passenger seat.
"Dean!" Sam protests, slamming the door to the Impala harder than he needs to. Dean's baby's in fantastic shape, but no car should have to suffer through Sam's temper tantrums like that. "We're not spending the night here! We've barely spent four hours on the road today!"
"Yeah, we spent four hours on the road, then three and a half in the ER making up for it," Dean counters. "We keep going like that, you'll be in an iron lung before we hit New Mexico."
"That doesn't even make sense, Dean," Sam persists as they cross the parking lot. "And neither does sitting around East Bumfuck, Texas because I got a little dizzy!"
"You ripped open half your fucking arm just driving, Sammy," Dean interrupts. "You're sleep deprived, infected, and you can't keep a fucking slice of pizza down without hurling it back up again and then some. You wanna sell your whole 'I'm fine' kick, pitch it to someone who didn't see you lose a fight to a slice of meat lover's."
"That was a day and a half ago, Dean" Sam grits out as they stride to the hostess station.
Dean doesn't bother flirting with the pretty redhead at the podium, just holds up two fingers and asks for a booth before digging back into Sam.
"Yeah, well I don't see you gunnin' for a rematch Mr. Sprite-and-soup's-fine-for-me-thanks. And don't think I didn't hear how well your little date with the protein bar went last night. Last time I heard hurling that intense, there was an Exorcist movie marathon running."
"I'm fine, Dean," Sam insists, his eyes narrowing. Clearly baby brother thought he'd kept his little display of digestive pyrotechnics under the radar.
"I don't think you are," Dean presses. "You're not eating, you're not sleeping, you carved a damn hole in your arm on a whim! Now tell me Sam: Is that just how they roll at Stanford or have you legitimately lost your damn mind?
Before Sam can answer with anything more than a furious stare, their waiter is at the table, forced cheer in his voice that says he heard at least the tail end of their conversation.
"Welcome to Luby's guys, can I interest you in-"
"Bacon cheeseburger for me, extra onions," Dean bites off, never breaking from he and Sam's glaring match, "and the soup and salad for Sasquatch here, dressing on the side, thanks."
"Anything to drink?" the waiter squeaks, pen shaking a little as he takes down their order.
"Two of whatever you've got on draft," Sam barks, narrowing his eyes at Dean, head tilting to ask if he really wants to get into this here. In public. With witnesses.
"Just one draft," Dean corrects, raising his chin in a silent 'hell yeah I do'. "Antibiotics, Sammy. He'll have a Coke."
"Real mature, Dean," Sam sneers after the terrified waiter scurries away.
"Oh, did you want something else?" Dean drawls with a smirk. "They have chicken and stars on the kids menu. Chocolate milk, too."
"I'm not a child, Dean," Sam bites out, the mother of all bitchfaces running rampant on his face. "And I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done in the same situation."
"Really?" Dean asks, incredulous. "Really? I would have starved myself? Run in that house with no idea what the hell was in there? Carved my arm up all the hell for no good reason? Covered it up so it got even more fucked up?"
"Everyone said you were dead, Dean," Sam hisses, leaning across the table, his eyes dark and furious. "Not kidnapped, not missing, dead. Dad was gone, every other hunter we know either wouldn't return my calls or said it was a lost cause. I had no witnesses, zero leads, and it was days and days of nothing, like you just, just vanished and it was only a matter of time before I found you dead in a ditch somewhere, and the last thing I ever said to you was gonna be- when I saw his car I just, just- What was I supposed to do, Dean? What was I supposed to do?"
He plants his elbows on the scarred tabletop and shoves his hands through his hair.
"Sammy…" Dean breathes.
"No, fuck this," Sam explodes, shoving away from the table. "I'm waiting in the car."
He nearly bowls over their waiter as he stalks to the door, legs eating up the hideous restaurant carpet in long, angry strides.
"Draft and a coke?" the waiter asks, nearly spilling beer all over Dean's jacket as he tries to juggle their food, set down the drink, and watch Sam's exit at the same time. "Um, is he okay?"
"Low blood sugar," Dean answers distractedly, watching through the window as Sam furiously jimmies the door to the Impala, then flings himself into the front seat so hard she rocks with the force.
Dean knows Sam had it tough these past couple of days. For all intents and purposes, it was the kid's first solo hunt. Not only that, but it was his first time back in the saddle after four years out of the game and looking for family to boot. He understood from Sam's bare bones descriptions that it hadn't exactly been an easy one, but this…
Well, let's just say that it's entirely possible that Dean was not in the right here. But before he can explore all the ways his being an insensitive jackass have scarred his baby brother, possibly for life, Dean has a cheeseburger with extra onions kissing his elbow and the waiter is asking him if there's anything else he needs.
"Can we, ah, get all this to go?" he asks awkwardly.
This guy is gonna get one hell of a tip.
Sam's still in the front seat, fuming silently, when Dean reaches the car, plastic takeout bags in tow. He doesn't say anything as Dean cranks her up and pulls back onto the highway, instead studiously refusing to do anything but glare out the windows.
The only sound as they pull into traffic is the steady rumble of the Impala's engine and the insolent crinkle of takeout containers in the back seat. They probably would have been more secure in the front, where Dean could also sneak a few fries on the way in, but he can't shake the feeling that if he put that salad next to Sam right now, he'd be picking bits of lettuce of the dash for weeks.
Luckily for everyone, Beaumont is rife with cheap, tacky hotels located just off the Interstate. Dean picks the first one that looks like no one in the joint would bat an eye at two guys (one of whom was very obviously choked recently, the other of whom is perhaps a bit too good looking) and a takeout container of salad getting a room together.
The Silver Spur fits the bill pretty well. There's no Magic Fingers, but probably only because the coin feed would clash with the Western decor. If Sammy weren't giving him the silent treatment and glaring daggers at nothing, Dean would count this day as a win.
As it is, he just drops his duffle on the bed and strides past Sam, his panties still firmly in a twist, to open the mini fridge. The only sound in the room is the laconic hum of the air conditioner and the obstinate crinkle of the take out containers as Dean tries fruitlessly to wedge them in the too-mini mini fridge.
Behind him, Sam whumps angrily down on the bed, snatching up the remote on the night stand and hissing a little as his stitches strain. Dean wants to tell him to stow the Wolverine crap, take it a little easier and save them a second trip to the hospital, but he knows that would just explode into another fight, so he bites his tongue and goes back to the takeout boxes, which have begin to crack from his efforts to pen them into the fridge.
Sam said he wouldn't have done any differently, if he was the one missing and Dean had to find him.
Would Dean have dropped everything to come look for Sammy? Absolutely. That's not even a question. Dean would have left a hunt cold if Sam was on the line, civilians be damned. He would have burned rubber and hauled ass to the last place Sammy was seen and put foot to ass and gun to face until everything that stood between him and his baby brother was either dead or cleared the fuck out of the way.
That's not even a question.
But if the answers weren't coming, if the witnesses knew nothing and the leads dried up and Sammy was still missing, would Dean unravel like Sam did? If none of the hunters they knew would help and if Dad abandoned them for a lead on a case and Sam was still gone, would Dean go to shit like Sam had? Stop eating, stop sleeping, give himself completely over to the hunt until something turned up?
Again, not even a question.
And finding a lead on Sam, knowing where he might be, would Dean wait to scope out the house or break down the fucking door and burn a clip into whatever the fuck had his little brother, intel be damned? If he found Sam broken, bleeding, maybe dying, would Dean do what was safe or would he do what was sure to save his brother, his own wellbeing be damned?
He would do whatever he had to do to bring his brother back alive.
Whatever it took to save Sammy.
Dean has onion grease and tomato dripping over his fingers and may be the biggest jerk known to mankind.
He ends up just dumping the food onto the uncracked lids of the takeout containers and nuking Sam's soup in a coffee mug, slapping the lot onto the wobbly barn wood table and calling it a day.
"Hey, Gigantor! Grub's on," he calls over to Sam, who is watching the Discovery Channel like the dolphins have personally injured him.
"Not hungry," Sam grunts, his eyes never leaving the TV.
"Bullshit," Dean dismisses, "All you've had today is dry toast and Sprite. Get over here and eat your damn rabbit food before it gets cold."
"No," Sam refuses, upping the volume to try and drown Dean out with ocean sounds and dolphin clicks.
"Get your ass over here, eat, and hear my girly apology, or I'm coming over there and shoving a fucking tomato down your throat," Dean demands. "One way or another, you're not taking these meds on an empty stomach."
Sam quirks an eyebrow at the promise of a girly apology and makes his way to the table, flopping into the rickety motel chair and crossing his arms expectantly as Dean takes a bite of his cheeseburger.
"Well?" Sam prompts. "Let's hear it."
"I don't even get to eat first?" Dean asks incredulously. "This is, like, halfway to cold already, Sammy."
Sam just bitchfaces at him, arms still crossed.
"Fine," Dean huffs, tossing down his burger. "You were right. If it were you in that cage, I'da done the exact same thing. Now shut up and eat your damn food."
"That's it?" Sam laughs incredulously. "That's your girly apology?"
"What, I do it wrong or somethin'?" Dean asks through a mouthful of french fries and ketchup. Just 'cause Sam is gonna hunger strike his way through this feel-fest doesn't mean he has to. "Sorry we can't all be in touch with our lady parts, Samantha. I need to watch a few more Lifetime movies to get on your level, or can I just have some yogurt and a pedicure?"
"You're an idiot," Sam says with a grin, adding dressing to his salad and then, as an afterthought, throwing the banana pepper at Dean's head.
Dean tries not to be proud that Sam nails him, despite taking the shot with his left hand.
The rest of the day is quiet. They watch the Colts beat the Texans on the fuzzy motel TV. Sam insists on redressing Dean's bites individually as opposed to letting Dean wrap his arms and neck in gauze like a mummy. Dean insists on dosing Sam with antibiotics and painkillers and checking his arm for swelling and redness at precise four hour intervals.
Gauze and medical tape are wasted. Insults are thrown. Chinese is ordered for dinner. Sam bets he can keep down two egg rolls and half of the kung pao chicken and loses. Dean lets him pick the movie they order from pay-per-view anyway, citing Sam's youth, frailty, and possible possession of a vagina as his reasons.
All in all, they've had worse days.