AN: Well, that last chapter wouldn't post for anything. Then it posted three times. And seriously, why can't I get the extras deleted? Yeah, I don't know. So…sorry. LOL Tomorrow's chapter will just be posted over one of the extras of chapter 29, like this one is. *humblest apologies*
The prompt options for today were: Wound Reveal / Ignoring an Injury / Internal Organ Injury. This one is short, but I covered what I wanted, so I hope it's sufficient. Set immediately after season 10, episode 3, Soul Survivor. Much sad! Very angst!
Lena: I never saw the Trolls movie, but I was thinking about those little kewpie doll things. (Yup, I'm old.) I'm so glad you liked some of the details, though you may be right about the road signs! Also, I figured you'd enjoy Teenchesters. They had to grow up fast, but then they do stuff that reminds you that they're still kids, you know?
Jenjoremy: Aw, I'm so glad you liked it! Bobby and John having a glare-off may be my favorite moment, TBH. Thank you so much for your kind words.
Dean had intended to sleep for a week. Or maybe a month. Or however long it took to wash the taste of I-was-a-demon out of his mouth. Too bad the I-tried-to-kill-my-brother-with-a-hammer would never go away.
And even sleep wouldn't stay, unwilling to give him surcease.
His side throbbed, but it was good. As a demon, he'd barely felt pain. In fact, he'd welcomed it, welcomed all sensation, because nothing felt the way he remembered. So this pain, real, human pain, was good. It was a reminder that he was back, he was alive, he was human. At least for now. If they couldn't figure out a way to cure him, he hoped they would figure out a way to kill him. He couldn't count on Sam for that, but he truly hoped Cas would come through.
Dean got up to walk the bunker, to re-remember his home. He dragged a hand along the wall as he walked, as if to say, it's really me this time. I'm really here. I'm really home. As if to reassure the place and the man that he was again Dean Winchester.
The cold of the wall was a revelation. Cold had been lost to him. Like the heat of his side, it was a reminder. He needed that reminder. He came to the place where the hammer was stuck in the wall, and then it was his heart that was too hot and too cold, all at once. There were things that could not be undone.
Dean started walking again. His thoughts were shaky, or maybe that was his steps. He hadn't experienced weakness in a long time, either. Is that what this was? He stumbled and almost went to his knees, and was surprised. Was he just tired? Overwhelmed by the emotions that he hadn't felt for a while? Or…?
His hand hovered over his side, where it felt wet. If he was hurt, so be it. He deserved it and so much more.
Dean stumbled a few more steps, then heard a strange sound. Whistling? A memory assaulted him.
As they walked back from school, Sammy would never shut up. He'd chat about everything. And it wasn't the everything that Dean would have noticed. It was all about planets and photosynthesis and what book he had gotten from the library. It was like he had verbal diarrhea and it was vital that Dean hear about all of it. Dean thought he'd hated it, but when it stopped, he'd missed it.
But not today. Just two weeks into second grade, Sammy should have been gushing about anything and everything from the brand-new eraser Tommy Somebody gave him to what kind of artwork his teacher had hanging in her classroom. But instead, he was dragging his feet, staring at the sidewalk and walking half a step behind Dean instead of skipping every third step to keep up with Dean's longer legs.
Frowning, Dean stopped, and Sam ran right into his back. "What's up, squirt?" Sam said something toward his feet, still not looking up. "What? Did something happen?"
Sam lifted his head slowly, a tragic expression on his face. "I got in trouble," he whispered. "I got a note to bring home to Dad."
"It's okay. I've brought notes home before," said Dean easily, wanting to wash that look off Sammy's face. "Dad might yell a little, but he'll get over it."
"It's not that, Dean. I was bad."
Dean wanted to laugh at that, but that would only make Sammy more upset. But seriously, Sammy, bad? How ridiculous! "Lemme see."
Sam considered for a long minute, but he never refused Dean anything and handed the note over, a tear trembling on the edge of his lashes.
Mr. Winchester, the note read, I have a policy that when I child has ignored three warnings, a note must go home. Today, Sam kept whistling during class, which distracted the other students. Since it is such a small thing, and I don't believe he realized he was doing it, I did not punish him except to write the note, and he was so upset I don't believe any further discipline is necessary. I leave that up to your discretion, of course. Take care, Mrs. Marley.
Dean did smile this time. "Did you read this?" Sam shook his head. "Well, your teacher isn't even mad. She said it's a rule she has to send a note home when a kid gets three warnings, but that your whistling wasn't a big deal." He smiled even wider. Leave it to Sam to be so happy in school that he whistled. It was a new skill for Sammy, and one that he was very proud of.
Dad laughed when he read the note, then made Sam prove he could whistle, and that was that.
Yup, Sam was whistling now. And for an adult Sam to whistle, that meant one thing: he was drunk off his ass. Especially when he was whistling, Don't Worry, Be Happy.
Dean discovered he could still smile.
He felt like he should stay away, should give Sam some space after…well, everything. But he found he was still a selfish bastard, and he was determined to see Sam's face. He looked into the kitchen, and there was his big little brother, drinking Johnnie straight from the bottle and whistling that absurd song. He didn't think he made any noise, but even drunk Sammy was still a hunter. He looked up at Dean, and damn if the guy didn't smile at him. Smile. Like Dean was still his brother. Like Dean hadn't tried to smash his head in. Like…like he always smiled at Dean. Just a little wobblier than normal.
The smile faded as Dean just stared. At him. "Dean? Are you okay?"
The question made Dean want to cry. Always Sam's question. He could be carrying his own guts in his hands, and he'd ask if Dean was alright. The first time he'd been knocked out on a hunt, he'd woken up, grabbed Dad by the lapels and demanded, "Is Dean okay?"
Dean wanted to answer, especially when Sam stood up and asked again, eyes a lot sharper than they'd been just a moment before. But something was broken between his brain and his mouth. He blinked and Sam was right in front of him. How? He tried again to say something, but Sam was somehow holding him up one-handed, saying things in a soothing voice. Dean didn't deserve that voice, but to his surprise, not only could he not talk, he couldn't stand up on his own either.
Sammy, you should let me go. But Sam wouldn't, would he. Not now. Not ever. Dean had taught him a lot of things, but he'd never taught him how to let go.
They were somehow back in Dean's room and Sam was helping him lie down with a tenderness that made Dean's chest ache. He wanted to say something, to explain that Sam shouldn't care for Dean, but all he could do was lift a hand and hook it in Sam's sleeve. His lip was trembling, his eyes were full of tears, and he felt naked, helpless and laid bare. He waited for Sam to push him away, but Sam turned back from wrestling Dean's boots off one-handed. He sat on the edge of the bed and let Dean just hold on for a moment. Then he leaned forward and looked Dean straight in the eyes without fear or recrimination. "I know you're the big brother," he said kindly, but with irony. "But this time, I got you."
Sam tugged his sleeve free, pulled up the edge of Dean's shirt, right where it felt really hot, and frowned. "Hold on," he said, then fire erupted from Dean's side. The next thing he knew, Sam was doing something to his side, which felt wet and painful but no longer screaming. "How'd you get the world's biggest splinter stabbed into your side?" asked Sam conversationally, knowing without looking up that Dean was awake and aware again.
"Breaking through the door," answered Dean, his vocal cords deciding they knew how to work at the worst possible time. "Didn't hurt then."
Then Sam, that great idiot who didn't know when to be angry, looked up with sadness in his eyes and said, "I'm sorry. I should have checked you over instead of just letting you go to bed."
"You can't – you can't be sorry," Dean said, and Sam kept looking at him with those lethal eyes. Those eyes that were far less drunk than he'd thought. Little Sammy had built up quite an alcohol tolerance. Dean thought of him drinking alone, not eating enough, not sleeping enough, searching for his brother. Crowley had thought it a joke, had expected Sam to eventually give up, and Dean had laughed with him. God. He choked, blinked, searched for his armor and couldn't find it. It was lost under his pain and exhaustion and the horror of what he'd become and would become again. Lost under the impact of a hammer in the wall.
Sam didn't flinch from what must have been in Dean's eyes. He just smiled and said, "Shut up and go to sleep, jerk."
He went back to what he was doing, and he looked content. Too thin, tired, wearing that stupid ass sling, but content. "I got the wood out and cleaned it, and we'll have Cas fix it up when he comes back. I don't know when that will be, so I'm going to put a few stitches in it." He held out two pills and an opened bottle of water. "Take these first."
Dean didn't deserve pain pills or stitches or care or Sam, but he couldn't have refused his brother anything at that moment. So he took the pills and let himself drift as Sam did what Sam wanted to do. Shoulda asked for a pony, Sammy.
Dean would accept the chance. And he'd fatten Sam back up until his cheeks didn't look hollow and his shirts didn't hang. And he'd send him to bed when he was tired and pester him and make him smile. And he'd stop thinking about deserve and just accept what was.
Sam was picking up his supplies when Dean just barely managed to open his eyes again. He wanted to say something profound, but all that came out was, "Night, bitch." Thank you.
Sam graced him with another smile, a full smile that lit his whole face. "Night, Dean." You're welcome.
And Dean took it for what it was, and let himself go well and truly under. Because there was something else he'd never taught Sam, because he'd never learned it himself. How to give up.