"Milk Run"
Short Story
CHAPTER 1 ~ The Graveyard
It's supposed to be a milk-run.
A simple salt & burn.
Every-Day-Business. Really.
Until it isn't.
They dig up the grave in the pouring rain, in the middle of the night, in some no-name-town on a no-name-cemetery somewhere around nowhere.
Everything's peachy so far – except for the rain, and well, for the cold.
Then, the ghost shows up, flings them around a bit, until it decides it's done with playing, and goes straight for Dean. Before the older brother knows it, it has him by the throat, pins him to the ground and well …
… well, Sam's there before there's severe damage done and fires a buttload of rock-salt at the thing. Of course, it goes straight through the ghost and the kernels hit Dean smack in the face and torso.
It hurts – as fuck – this has to be mentioned.
Sam offers a hurried sorry into his direction, before the ghost goes for the younger intruder and dumps him into the dug-up grave with ghosty-force.
It's not funny, despite it might look like it. The way Sam flies through the air and the ghost holes in at its first try, like an eight-ball the left upper corner.
Dean doesn't lose time, and buckles up, gets his own sawed-off in a matter of seconds, and shoots the motherfucker in the back.
Sam's fumbling for the pack of matches down in the grave, and when he pulls them from his parka, he has to realize, that they are pretty soaked, and pretty not usable. So, he goes back to fumbling, and eventually finds the Zippo.
It's also soaking-wet, dripping with rain-water as he snaps it open. He shakes it briefly and tries to fire it up. – without avail though.
Sam curses – which is usually Dean's part to do when something doesn't work out – and climbs out of the crave, crushing bony remains under his heavy boots when he slips a couple of times.
Dean keeps the ghost busy, but it starts to become annoying, so he hollers towards his little brother what's taking him so long.
Sam only grunts, when he pulls himself up and out of the hole.
"My zippo's soaked!", Sam hollers towards Dean who fires another load of rock-salt at the bitch, who's daring to pop up only a few feet away from his little brother.
Not to mention, that a few kernels hit Sam's ass – this hurts as fuck too.
Dean grunts, and starts to search his pockets for his zippo.
He throws the sawed off towards his brother, who catches the weapon with immense grace and reloads it.
"Hey, Casper!", Sam hollers – using the very nick-name for ghosts his brother usually uses – as it always seems to do the trick.
Sam takes off, hollering for the ghost again, drawing it away from ground zero to buy Dean time.
Dean takes off towards the dug-up grave and flings himself the last couple of feet towards the hole in the ground. He slitters across the muddy surface on his knees.
And he looks like a fucking rock-star when he does so.
Sam vanishes behind the trees which surround the cemetery, still calling out for Casper.
The ghost materializes again a few feet before Sam, and the younger Winchester stops dead in his tracks and cocks the weapon, aiming straight at the thing's face. He pulls the trigger, but it flickers and is gone before the rock-salt can hit it.
Sam straightens up and listens, not wanting to miss out on the ghost's screech when his brother torches its remains.
Meanwhile, Dean's still fumbling with his own Zippo, as it has slipped from his hands and landed in the mud, wetting the wick. Dean has to go for their spare one, which's in the car, stored away in the glove-compartment.
Sam's still straining his ears, and he wonders what Dean's taking so long. Then – probably – he figures – big bro has issues with his Zippo too.
The ghost materializes again. This time right behind Sam, and before he can turn around and react to the freezing touch of the being, it reaches out to him, and sticks it's translucent hand into Sam's back.
Sam cries out, drops the sawed off and his back archs, as he feels icicles drive into his body from behind.
First it really feels like icicles. Until they don't, and it's starting to kind of burn and ache in ways Sam haven't felt ever before.
It does something – twists its wrist and therefore hand, which's still embedded in Sam's flesh and intestines, and it forces the younger Winchester to hold his breath. It feels like it grasps for his heart and/or lungs – Sam's not quite sure, but it does something that hurts like a bitch.
Back at the grave, Dean's soaking one of Sam's ugly button-downs (it's grey and red and it's one of those Dean hates the most) in gas, pours the rest of it into the grave and over the bones, and then – with the spare Zippo, Baby was providing – he lightens the lump of fabric up and throws it into the grave. Seconds later, the entire hole catches fire, despite the pouring rain and another couple of seconds later, there's a piercing cry heard, which cuts through the night and the eerie atmosphere lingering heavily all over the consecrated ground.
"Sam!", Dean calls out, and turns around on his heels to look towards the trees where he had seen Sam vanish.
He's up and about to follow his little brother into the woods when he doesn't get a response, but stops in his tracks when a tall frame catches his attention, appearing in the dim moon-light.
"'m here!", Sam hollers back and gives him a wave, telling him he doesn't need to come over.
Dean starts to gather their belongings and specially their shovels, and when Sam reaches him, he moves to get the lanterns they've set up.
They get the hell out of there, are stopping by the motel, grab their stuff and pack up and are on the road an hour later – both men soaked to their boxer-briefs and freezing their asses off. As if Baby is pissed that they're ruining her pretty upholstery, and therefore she decides that today she won't let the heating work.
They get a room two towns over, and for a change, Dean doesn't choose one that's utter crap. Nope, to Sam's surprise, it's a clean one. There are no dubious stains on the carpet, or the beddings.
Once they have their duffels inside, Dean claims to be the first one to get a shower.
Sam smirks and huffs out a breath, but doesn't protest.
He lays out salt-lines in the meantime, gets the wet clothes off, and wraps himself up in one of the blankets until it's his turn to warm himself up in the shower.
Sam still feels the icy grip of the ghost tear at him inside his chest. It's a dull ache, much like an ache after too much working out, so he sucks it up as the Winchester he is. And he waits, patiently, until Dean is done in the bathroom.
As soon as Dean emerges, Sam brushes past him, slams the bathroom-door shut and heads straight for the shower, to get his fair share of hot water.
Dean gets dressed, and checks on the salt-lines, his little brother put up. He then goes for the heater and turns the temperature up.
Sam's not taking too long in the bathroom, and when he comes out with the towel around his waist and the blanket around his shoulders, Dean gives him a cocky smirk.
"You're such a girl, Sam.", he tells him jokingly and puckers his lips.
Dean's addressing the blanket with his look, but Sam doesn't care. He always feels rather cold than hot ever since the cage – and Dean doesn't know. His big brother doesn't need to know. Or else he'd be worried. Wouldn't act like his brother towards him anymore if he'd know, since he'd stop teasing Sam about it. And Sam doesn't want him to stop to tease him about these little things, since it's that little bit of normality they've left.
So, Sam throws him bitch-face number 13 for being an annoying big brother, grumbles a "Jerk" under his breath and goes straight for his duffel. Sam pulls a fresh set of clothes from it, and is about to sit down on the bed, when Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
"You've seen the grey-red button down?", Sam asks thoughtfully – because he's pretty sure he didn't leave it back at the other motel.
Dean ducks his head. "No?", he answers, but it's more a question. He recalls soaking a bundle of grey-red-checkered fabric with gas and setting it on fire … He tugs on Sam's shoulder, to get back to business, and maybe – due a distraction – Sam would forget about the damn shirt …
"Huh …" Sam still thinks about the shirt, since it's one of his favorites. – He wouldn't forget to stuff it in his duffel, no matter in what a hurry they are.
So, without a further word or thought, Sam shrugs off the blanket and let his brother pod and probe at the surfacing bruises on his back.
Nothing's broken.
Nothing looks out of the ordinaire.
"You hurtin' somewhere?", Dean asks – because he always does, no matter how sufficient the bruises look. They both know, sometimes injuries stay hidden – like eternal bleedings or other crap that's not visible from the outside. So, they tend to stay cautious to aches, even though they don't feel bad at the beginning. But they tell each other nonetheless, so neither of them misses something that could turn ugly in a matter of hours.
Sam shakes his head. "Nope. – Only sore."
Then it's Sam's turn to check his brother over.
He's bruised too – pretty bad even. Dean winces, when Sam shoves his fingers along Dean's ribs – he's not very gentle with him. – But then again, he needs to make sure – like for real – that there's nothing broken.
"That's two weeks worth of laying low.", Sam states concerned. "Gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow."
Dean shrugs. "That's what Vicodin and Tylenol are for, kiddo."
Sam shakes his head. "Fine. Three weeks."
"Since when are you the boss of me?", Dean asks and throws Sam a glare.
"Since the last time you thought you could go with cracked ribs on a hunt and nearly turned your lung into a pin-cushion. That's since when I'm the boss of you." Yeah, Sam doesn't often get a chance to play protective brother when it comes to Dean. But when he does, he's at least as much of a mother-hen as Dean is.
Dean grunts and groans, when he pushes the shirt back down. He mutters something under his breath.
Sam smiles at his brother – unseen to him – and flops down on his bed. He rubs over his chest and draws in a deep breath to see if the ache increases.
It doesn't.
"Take-out?", Dean asks.
"Nah, not movin'." Sam knows Dean's not asking if he's hungry. He's asking if Sam's heading out to get them food. "There're protein-bars in my duffel.", he offers.
Dean makes a disapproving sound, but a couple of minutes later, his mattress squeaks when he gets up and goes for Sam's duffel.
Sam hears him rummaging around.
The noises stop, and then there's a huff heard. "Dude. – They're expired … since 2005!"
Sam chuckles and throws his arm over his eyes to shield them from the bright light in the room. "They don't expire."
Another huff and a grunt, and Sam's asleep before he can hear his brother get his jacket and the Impala's keys to head out.
~ cherry pie ~
The next morning, when Sam wakes, the room's filled with the scent of cold greasy burgers and fries.
Dean lays sprawled out on his bed, face down, snoring softly into the pillow, when Sam gets up and rolls his shoulders.
The ache still lingers buried in his chest, when he rolls his shoulders once more and flexes his aching muscles. He visits the bathroom and crawls back on the bed. Sam pulls the covers up and let his eyes slide closed, ready to drift off to sleep again.
When he wakes the next time, it's due the rustling of paper-bags and metal hitting a solid surface.
"Rise and shine, Sammy!", Dean hollers and he hears the door slide into the lock.
Sam grunts and pries his heavy eye-lids open to squint towards his brother, who's already all over the paper-bags and unpacks their breakfast.
"How late?", his little brother asks.
Dean rises an eyebrow and looks over at Sam. "Close to noon."
Sam grunts again. He still feels cold. The ache is still there. But it's not as bad as his bruised back. Though it feels kind of disturbing.
He wonders how his brother can be in such a good mood after getting flung around and despite his cracked ribs.
"You should've popped some pain-killers too.", Dean says.
Sam's asking himself for a moment, if he said it out loud. He is sure he didn't. Maybe Dean's right. He probably should have.
But he also knows, one of them has to stay alert, in case some weird shit happens – like someone trying to get the drop on them. – Wouldn't be the first time, as he recalls Earnie and Bert coming for them and shooting them with shotguns.
Eventually, Sam gets up and joins his brother at the table.
They eat their breakfast in silence. – Well, Sam sticks with coffee and leaves his share of pancakes to his brother, as he doesn't feel hungry at all.
Dean gives him a scrutinizing glare, when Sam shoves the paper-plate with pancakes into his direction and frowns. He's instantly concerned, as he knows there's only one reason why Sam won't go for pancakes – specially, since they are still hot.
"You alright?", he asks – naturally.
Sam grunts. "'m fine. – Sore."
Dean lets it slip, shrugs whatever it is that's bothering him off, and reaches for Sam's pancakes.
They stay two more days at the motel, before they head out to find themselves something cheaper as they are running low on money.
~ cherry pie ~
Their next stop is an abandoned house they come across by coincidence.
Dean figures it's going to be a nice place to hole up for another couple of days, until his ribs don't hurt as bad anymore and he can drive more than one hour without having to take a break and stretch out somewhere.
Sam – of course – reminds him, that it's not about a couple of days. – It's more about a couple of weeks. He'll be damned if he's going to let his brother take on another case before he's healed enough. – No matter how bitchy Dean is going to get.
Besides that, Sam's weirded out by the ache in his chest, as it's not improving, nor is it becoming worse. He finds himself probing at his chest. Finds himself standing in front of the mirror and examining his back, where the ghost dared to get its claws into him.
There's nothing left behind from the ghost's touch, so Sam shrugs it off once again, though, he feels kind of cold the entire time now. – Even when Dean bitches that it's way too warm, and when he sighs a breath of relief when they enter the cool building they are going to call their temporary home for the upcoming week or so.
Sam's actually freezing though. Not that he'd mentioned it anyway. It's not like he feels off in any other weird way. So he sucks it up. – Like he's supposed to.
As soon as they have everything settled, Dean crashes on the sleeping-bag he's rolled out on the floor, as he's so full with pain-meds, Sam wonders that his big brother didn't pass out while they've been driving.
Sam on the other hand is wide awake and waits until Dean falls asleep, before he takes Baby's keys and heads out, when it's already dark outside.
They've passed a bar a few miles back, which had a giant neon-sign with a pool-table at its front. So, he decides to hustle them a few bucks and hit the next shop or gas-station to get them food.
~ cherry pie ~
Sam's at least as good at playing pool as Dean is, so he drinks the bikers he's been challenging, under the table. So far under the table, that they won't be able to go after him if they wanted to, as he's been winning about four-hundred dollars.
Sam's utterly satisfied with the outcome, and stops by at the next gas-station. He fills up Baby's tank and strolls through the isles until he has everything he thinks is needed. On his way to the cashier, the ache in his chest changes in a weird way.
Despite that he's cold all over, there's a slight burn now, that seems to flare up in the very rhythm his heart beats.
It's not really hurting though … it's just a weird sensation. So, Sam's dismissing it once again.
~ cherry pie ~
An hour later, he's back at the abandoned house, hands full with bags and a waiting brother.
"Where've you been?", he bitches instantly, because he's been worried as fuck.
When he woke, Sam was gone, and so was the car. – Not that Sam did something wrong – well – except for not leaving a note, or when he's left, or when he thought he'd be back.
"Hustling. Shopping." Sam doesn't actually care about his brother's ranting, after all he's a grown man.
Dean's eyes lighten up. "Pie?", he asks and he beams at Sam, when he straightens up.
His little brother chuckles, and dumps one of the plastic-bags in front of Dean, who's sitting on top of his sleeping-bag. "Maybe.", Sam says with a smirk and moves to place the other bags on a rotten table not far off.
"Cherry.", Dean's practically slobbering all over the place, when he flips the lid of the package open and digs with a plastic-fork into the gooey and crusty bakery. "I may not kick your ass into next week for not leavin' a note."
Sam gives him a side-glance and rubs absently across his chest, before he pulls a pack of chips from one of the bags. "There's apple-pie too.", he mentions.
Dean stills mid-chow and puckers his lips. "Apple?"
"Apple.", Sam copies and rips the bag with chips open, before he sits down on his sleeping-bag and lays back.
"Okay. – I consider to not kick your ass at all now." Dean peaks into the plastic-bag and pulls another package with pie out of it.
Sam chuckles and stuffs a hand full of chips into his mouth. "How 'bout your ribs?"
"They're fine.", Dean answers, his mouth full of pie. "How's your back?"
Sam shifts. "My back's fine too." He answers. Ponders for a moment if he's supposed to mention the weird ache in his chest, but reconsiders it, as it's not seeming to get worse. Then again – they're supposed to tell each other … so he reconsiders again.
"What is it?", Dean asks – not oblivious to the battle Sam's fighting in his head right now.
"Nothin'. – Just … It feels a bit weird where the ghost touched me.", Sam deliberately doesn't tell Dean that the ghost not only touched him, but dug into his very back and dared to turn his heart into an icicle.
"Touched you?" Dean looks up and sticks the fork into the pie. He swallows. "Touched you … how? Where?" He's high alert the very moment. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm tellin' you now." Sam sighs. He knew Dean'd turn all mother-hen if he'd mention something. – As the overprotective brother Dean is. "And it's nothing. – Only feels weird."
Dean frowns at him, hand hoovering over the fork. "You sure?" Dean honestly considers to believe what Sam's telling him. "How weird?"
"Just weird." Sam shrugs again. "I don't know. – It doesn't really hurt."
Dean examines his little brother for any signs of a lie … or that he's eventually hiding that he's hurting.
But there are no signs.
So, Dean grabs the fork, and points it at his brother. "If something changes, you're tellin' me. – And we go straight for the next ER.", he tells him – and he means it. It's not an empty threat.
~ cherry pie ~
CHAPTER 2 ~ Burning Hearts
Dean wakes with a hell of a headache, as he maybe had one beer too much last night after an entire pie. He rolls onto his back and sits up with a grunt, as the movement tears at his ribs.
Lucky him, there are still painkillers in the bottle next to him, so without further thought, he pops two of them into his mouth and swallows them dry.
He rubs over his face and through his hair and squints at his brother, who's facing away from him, and who's obviously still asleep.
Dean makes a disapproving sound.
He figures it's too early to get up – no matter what time it is, so he lies back down and closes his eyes.
For a while he feels like drifting off into a slumber again, but something tugs at the back of his mind and won't let him fall asleep again.
So, he sits back up – gladly the painkillers are working their magic already – and looks around.
His gaze lands on his brother again.
"Sam?", he asks – because he needs someone to tease the hell out of and who if not his little brother is meant to be that someone. "Sammy?"
Sam doesn't stir.
Dean gets on his knees and up on his feet, kicks one of the beer-bottles aside, and shuffles outside on the porch and around the house to release the pressure from his bladder.
When he comes back – at least making as much noise as he made when he left – Sam's still in the same position. Still fast asleep.
Dean stares at him for a long moment – bores holes into his little brother's back with his look, so to will him to wake up.
As it doesn't work, he strides over to him.
"Dude." He nudges his leg with the tip of his boot carefully. He doesn't want to hurt him – he only wants to wake him up. And usually Sam's not the one of the two of them who wouldn't wake due being nudged.
"Good morning sleeping beauty.", Dean grumbles, his eyebrows risen in suspicion, when Sam won't even flinch at another – more forceful – nudge with Dean's boot.
Sam stays unmoved.
Which is definitely weird as fuck, Dean thinks, and so he rounds his sleeping brother and squats down beside him.
"Dude. – It's past noon.", he states and lays his hand on Sam's shoulder.
There's no response. And if that's not something that's supposed to set alarm-bells off in Dean's head he doesn't know what else should.
He turns Sam on his back. The lean body pliant under his touch and easy to move.
There's no protest. Either verbal, nor physical.
"Sam?", he asks again – this time concern edging his words.
Sam's head lolls to the side, revealing flushed cheeks, but other than that pale skin.
Dean's eyes widen.
"Sammy?", he asks again – his words soaked in concern and utter horror, when his little brother doesn't react to him.
Dean rolls his knuckles against Sam's sternum – forcefully.
Sam doesn't even blink at the violation.
Dean's on his knees and shoves the upper half of the sleeping-bag back, already feeling the heat radiating from his baby-brother's body, when his hand comes close to his neck to feel for the kid's pulse.
It's faint against his finger-tips. Somehow unsteady too as it seems.
Ice-cold threat crawls into Dean's limps, guts and claws its way towards his heart.
"Sam." Dean slaps him across the face once. Twice.
Sam doesn't stir.
"Fuck." Big Brother mode is kicking in big-style the very moment he realizes that this is not some run-of-the-mill-sickness. No flu or whatever else shit Sam is usually dealing with after digging up graves in the rain.
Sam didn't seem sick. No sneezing. No coughing. No weird sounds when he's been breathing. Dean's aware of that, because he's Sam's freaking big brother, and he always has a watchful eye on him, when they do shit like those past couple of nights ago.
Dean recalls Sam mentioning a weird feeling. Where the ghost's been touching him. Now, Dean's not quite sure anymore if that's the entire truth.
Dean tells himself to cool it. To not freak out – because that's exactly what he's about to do any moment now.
Instead of continuing to try and wake Sam, he goes straight for his kid-brother's duffel, pulls the laptop out and looks up where there's the next ER.
Fifteen minutes later, he's already working on dragging Sam out of the house.
Man, one thing has to be said: Sam's damn heavy when he's not helping – specially, since he's no eight-year-old anymore.
Once reached their car, Dean maneuvers him into the passenger's seat and tells him to hang on and a lot of other things.
He's not quite sure if he keeps talking to reassure Sam that everything is going to be okay, or if he's trying to convince himself of it.
Anyway.
Dean's behind the steering-wheel and as soon as he's on the paved road, he keeps his right hand on Sam. Wherever resting it on his thigh or shoulder, or chest – it doesn't matter.
He needs Sam to know that he's there, and that he's getting him help with whatever this is.
Dean doesn't pay attention to red lights, and therefore running over them.
Neither does he care about speed-limits.
Dean's flooring the accelerator, despite all the pedestrians around, pumping the horn when one of them dares to cross the road without the Winchester's permission.
It takes Dean all in all twenty minutes, until he pulls up in front of the ER.
Sam's chalky white by the time Dean hauls him out of the car and towards the entrance. Hell, Dean's not even sure if his little brother's breathing anymore, when he drags him through the doors by his arms, as the pain in his ribs won't allow him any other position to move his little brother.
Dean hollers for help, because who the fuck are they, that those people dare to ignore his honking?
Moments later, some scrub-people come running and ask shit about what's happened and what seems to be the problem.
As if it's not obvious, that Sam's sick – or so. That he's running a damn fever and that he's barely breathing anymore.
Eventually those douchebags (Dean's not sure if it was a wise choice to take Sam to this ER) decide to get his little brother on a gurney and FINALLY move him into an examination-room.
Dean's hot on their heels, as he trusts no one with his little brother but himself. It's hard for him to give him into other's hands, as he's the only one who's truly responsible for him.
One of the pretty nurses (she really is pretty, but not pretty enough to keep him away from Sam), tells him stay outside and wait. Dean brushes past her nonetheless, and enters – he even holds the door open for her – because he understands that she's only trying to do her job right.
But he does too. Sam's his job.
He stays at the far wall and watches, as he doesn't want to get in the way, while they're hooking his little brother up on monitors and all kind of other medical equipment Dean has no clue about.
The guy with the stethoscope (obviously the one and only doctor among all those scrubs), hollers commands and demands to be informed about Sam's vitals (despite that he could very well read them off the monitors by himself).
He orders one of the nurses to get him an ultrasound, while he cuts Sam's shirts open and exposes his stomach and chest.
He asks Dean about the bruises. – Dean tells him, that Sam fell down the basement's stairs couple of days ago.
A nurse enters with the ultrasound, and the doc squeezes a rich amount of gel all over Sam's stomach and chest.
Dean watches. – Because there's nothing else to do for him. He's not aware that he's panting, that he's getting pale and that he's close to passing out right the fuck now.
Because that's way too overwhelming at the moment.
"Are you alright sir?", the pretty nurse, which intended to not let him in, approaches him and lays her petite hand on his chest.
Dean pats her hand away and nods. He only has to take deep breaths. In and out.
It kinda works.
Color's creeping back into his face.
At least enough so the nurse backs off again and goes to lend the others a hand.
After an hour and a diagnosis later, Sam's settled in a room, Dean sitting in a chair right beside his bed.
"Pericarditis, Sammy, really?", Dean asks, head in his hands, as he stares at his pale little brother. "Of all the things out there you're sporting a fucking Pericarditis?"
Dean's not really mad. – In fact he is damn glad it's not as bad as he first thought it is.
That Fabric softener Teddy-Bear told him that Sam's going to be okay, as they are starting the treatment right away.
Sam's actually not – at least anymore – in a life-threatening situation.
It doesn't feel for Dean like he's allowed to kick back and rest his legs though. He's worried, even though Sam's in a hospital and gets treated with the proper medication.
Though, before his little brother is not opening his eyes, and is talking to him – with him – he's not going to leave his side. Not for a single moment.
It takes an entire day, until Sam wakes up and his fever goes down.
Another couple of hours, until he's actually using words to communicate and not only single syllables.
Dean thinks for a moment, his little brother might had a stroke on top of everything else – but it's gladly not that way.
Nonetheless. Dean keeps asking him shit and keeps telling stories of their past.
He even dares to ask, what Sam's been thinking to not mention ONCE – except for the night before he started to sport a fever – that Casper had a go on him.
Dean's pissed – rightfully. Because they have a damn arrangement about aches and injuries and even if it's as small as a tiny cut to a fucking finger.
Sam broke their deal.
That's why he's going to pay.
"I'm so gonna kick your ass when you're better.", Dean threatens him. Well, he's not really going to kick his ass. But what he's going to do is, make Sam clean their guns. Thoroughly.
Sam only smiles at him. – Huge puppy-dog-eyes smother their way into Dean Winchester's heart. Not that he'd ever admit that anyway.
"Don't look at me like that, Sam.", Dean leans back and gives his brother a stern look. "It's not gonna save you from cleaning the guns – and Baby's upholstery."
Sam knows, his brother won't let him touch anything – not even the guns, nor let him clean Baby – for the upcoming six weeks. He's going to hoover over and around him, until a doc tells him that Sam's good to do whatever he pleases.
Dean's going to be a mother-hen and a pain in the ass as he's going to have a close watch on Sam. He's going to forbid him to lock bathroom-doors. To go anywhere without Dean.
Man, he can call himself lucky, if Dean won't follow him to the toilet.
And for what it's worth it – Sam thinks – it's not all that bad to have an over-protective brother around who's watching out for him.
~ The End ~