Lions, Tigers, and Bears
gift!fic for kimonkey7, with all the things she loves. (this doesn't include the football.)
Sunday, November 25, 2007
12:37 pm
Ah.
Finally: peace and quiet. A moment to –
"Sam!" Dean calls from his bed-ridden state.
Sam is in the bathroom. He ALWAYS friggin' waits until Sam is in the bathroom. The one goddamn place holding even the slightest promise of a Dean-free moment, and he STILL manages to… Sam ignores him, and it isn't ten seconds before – "Yo, Sammy!" – Dean is calling again.
Sam slams out of the bathroom, leaving a mark on the wall from the doorknob and pulling his belt through its buckle. There is murder in his heart and he hopes it's evident in his eyes. "What," he demands flatly.
"Dude. Did you wash your hands?" Whatever it is that was so ungodly important is forgotten in a bout of snickering and the subsequent pain in Dean's abused ribcage that follows.
And so has been Sam's weekend.
Dean is being ridiculous, annoying, and, actually, ridiculously annoying. It's as if he's suddenly ten years old again, with slightly spikier hair. He's drugged out of his mind, which, in Sam's opinion, isn't that great a feat. It is, however, due to a real prescription given by an actual doctor with a medical degree and everything; but it's a small mercy, if any. His tumble in Greenfield Thursday night has cost them two cards and half of a tank of really expensive-ass gas. Fifteen feet is a far enough drop when it needs to be, and Dean has really made the most of it. A broken rib, bruised tailbone, and hairline fracture of the right tibia has presented Dean with the promise of being laid up for at least a few days. Sam knows he'll be lucky to keep Dean resting for one more day, knows he's been lucky to keep him on his back for this long. He mostly has the drugs to thank for that. It's like peace in a bottle. Or, it should be.
Sam's been keeping Dean pretty well medicated but it's gotten harder each day. Dean had slept most of Friday, slurrily annoyed Sam most of Saturday by asking him the same five questions, over and over and over…and is now busy spending Sunday merrily driving him up the fucking wall. Sam would have slipped another crushed pill into the Coke he's gotten Dean an hour ago if he wasn't already worried about an accidental overdose. Okay, like ninety percentaccidental.
The motel room seems to be shrinking with each passing day, and even after two and a half days feels about the size of a small storage closet. They're practically on top of each other, and not leaving the room since Friday morning has resulted in quite the mess. Regardless, Sam has given up on trying tidying up the room. Dean has declared loudly and repeatedly the room is his prison, and he has to have everything just the way he "likes it." And if it's too clean it makes him uneasy. And if Sam moves around the room too much it makes him sick.
"Seriously, Sam. You're making me queasy with all this housemaid shit. Get you a fuckin' French maid – would you quit moving around? Do you WANT me to puke on you?"
It's the biggest load of bullshit Sam's heard in a good long while. Dean just doesn't want him to clean because he knows it's driving Sam insane having nothing to do and Dean himself really has nothing more than the music on his phone and the six channels on the TV to amuse himself with. And the reason Dean feels sick is because he's so aggravatingly Dean he can't follow doctor's orders and just lie still.
Sam has huffed and puffed and stomped around and even gone so far as to knock a stack of folded t-shirts and jeans onto the floor where they still lay in a messy pile. He can't believe he gave Dean the satisfaction, and has as a result sentenced himself to time-out in the corner with a book while Dean watches something bright and cartoony on the television; just the right speed for the rate at which his brain is currently processing. He'd gladly boot up his computer, but they're down to emergency cash, and this shithole of a motel doesn't offer internet access.
"Wish this would have happened a day earlier," Dean complains from his bed. He's been silent for awhile, but not unconscious; thank God, because Dean had tugged on Sam's last strangling nerve with the housemaid comment, and that glass of water he'd gladly fetched for his brother an hour ago hadn't exactly been untainted. Needless to say, Sam's a little relieved Dean is saying anything, no matter how random it may be. Dean's hand is groping shakily at the bedside table and has been for the past half-hour, his groggy brain unable to comprehend there is NOTHING THERE. "Coulda had me a good 'ol American Thanksgiving," he continues.
If they're wishing for things, Sam kinda wishes it hadn't happened at all, but whatever. He looks up from his book and humors his brother. "Turkey?"
Dean clicks his tongue and his head lolls as though independent from his body. "Football. Lions and Cowboys, man, every year."
"They play each other every year on Thanksgiving?" He doesn't know why he's even bothering, because they there are no words to describe how much he doesn't care about football.
Dean's head slowly rolls in Sam's direction. You're a girl, his eyes say, and I don't have the time to explain the ways of the man to you. But it appears he does in fact have the time, and he heaves a giant-sized Dean sigh. "No, Carolyn, they don't play each other. They play other teams. They just play on Thanksgiving. Every year." The small sentences aren't due to drugged and slowed mental processes, Sam knows, but are for his own benefit. It's Dean's way of simplifying the subject matter in the most condescending way possible.
"Why don't you take a nap," he suggests through clenched teeth. Sunday IS supposed to be a day of rest, right?
He voices this thought, and Dean says, "No, Sam. Sunday is a day of football." It then seems to click in Dean's brain and muddle through his time-is-standing-still-for me-in-this-hellhole-of-a-motel-room mindset, for the first time registering it is Sunday. His eyes widen and both hands begin a blind grope for the remote control, which Sam has tucked safely away onto the chair next to his leg.
Dean tries to raise himself up and falls back with a hiss. The expression on his face can only be described as a pout. After a moment he looks back to Sam. "Gimme the remote."
Oh, so it gets better than the pouting. "Are you whining?"
"Come on, Sammy, I never get to watch football."
Sam is so sick of hearing about all of the football Dean has missed over the past few years he might actually vomit this time. And of course, there's the underlying accusation: you never LET me watch football.
"Fine." Sam rolls his eyes and tosses the remote onto Dean's bed, within easy reach of his scrabbling fingers. Dean looks a five-year-old on Christmas morning.
Of course, he sets the volume at a near-intolerable level. So much so it's difficult to concentrate on his book and Sam sets it aside for a few minutes to stare blankly at the television, thinking the announcers are sounding way too excited to be commenting on the same thing he's currently finding himself so monumentally uninterested in. He squints and speaks loudly over the roar of the crowd. "Who's even playing?"
"Cincinnati and Tennessee."
This makes no sense whatsoever to Sam, since they hail from neither of these places. He voices this to Dean, who looks at him as though he has just sprouted a vagina and a couple of C cups. "It's football," he says. Like that explains everything.
He's mildly confused as to why one team is representing a single city and the other an entire state; but then again, Sam's knowledge of professional football is pretty much limited to helmet, goal posts, and touchdown. Despite the volume of the TV, his attention eventually fails and starts to fade in and out, his eyes going back to his book. His head snaps up whenever Dean shouts something to the effect of, "What the fuck, ref?" or "Hold onto the goddamned ball!" and catches snippets of what's happening, and happens upon a penalty call.
"Encroachment, offense. Five yard penalty…"
He makes the fatal error of saying, "What's that mean?" He doesn't say it loud; doesn't really mean to do more than think it; he just doesn't understand the call. And, as always, his curiosity is his undoing.
Dean launches into a lengthy, groggy, tangent-filled vocabulary lesson of the penalties of the NFL, explaining to Sam things like 'off-sides', 'horse collar', and 'chop block.' "Pass interference," he starts after another call, making a vague gesture at the television.
"Let me guess," Sam says. "They interfered with the pass."
"Fuck you, Samantha."
Apparently, joking is not appreciated where football is concerned.
An intermission – "HALFTIME, you fucking sorority girl!" – comes mercifully after another HOUR of white noise, and Sam is summoned with a sharp whistle to drag his invalid brother the ten feet to the john. "Who's winning?" he asks over a steady stream, trying to play nice more than actually caring.
"Cincinnati," Dean grunts.
"Whoopee."
"Don't talk to me."
Ah, here's something Sam IS familiar with: there are no two-way streets in the Winchester family.
Dean doesn't want to talk. Dean doesn't want to try walking around the parking lot or down to the gas station on the corner for a donut; he wants to watch football. Besides Dad and their extensive knowledge of a variety of evil things, Sam is very much aware he and Dean have basically none of the same interests. And he thinks maybe if he takes, what, an hour, of his day to try to understand this…what can be so bad about that? He sets his book aside.
The two teams run back onto the field, and Sam gets his first good glimpse of their uniforms. Which seem to be a little bright and festive for something Dean has declared to be unarguably manly. He pulls his lips over a chuckle. "They're tigers?"
"BENGALS."
"Which are tigers."
"Will you shut up and watch the fucking game?" Dean doesn't seem to comprehend just what Sam is trying to accomplish here.
And Sam doesn't understand the rules of watching football, because Dean's been talking and yelling since they turned the game on, and it isn't a full thirty seconds later he's whooping at the TV once again. Dean settles back against his pillows, having found he's exerted himself a little too much. "Man, these guys are getting AR-ed."
Sam closes his eyes, not sure he really wants to know. "AR-ed?"
"Ass-raped."
"Nice." My big brother, ladies and gentlemen. Everything I wanted to be when I grew up.
"And by TIGERS," Dean continues, as though Sam isn't there. "These guys are fucking Titans. Aren't they supposed to be all…titan-y?"
Titan-y? "Good drugs, huh?"
Without moving his eyes from the small television screen, Dean gives him a thumbs-up.
Sam is ecstatic when the game is over. He isn't about to have his manhood called into question – although, what's new there – but he hasn't ever been one to see the gratification in sitting around watching TV all day, especially sports. And even more especially than that, watching teams that aren't even your home team.
Attempting to tune out the rant Dean is currently hip-deep in, going on about ball-less titans being raped by tigers, he leans over and reaches for the remote, only to have his hand smacked away. "Isn't the game over?" he asks, fighting the urge to smack back. Okay, fighting the urge to just club Dean over the head and be done with it.
"Second game is coming up."
"Another game?"
"It's helping me heal," Dean says defensively.
"HOW?"
"Because unlike you, Sam, I'm a man." There's nothing behind the dig; no fire, no venom, no grin. It's just words, just an automatic reflex that comes when Sam asks Dean a question, and it gives Sam pause.
He studies his brother, and thinks maybe Dean is a little paler. Maybe a little more on edge. It's not the first time he's feeling this guilt after slipping Dean a painkiller. "You feelin' okay?"
"I feel fine."
"You don't seem fine."
"Well, I am."
Sam shrugs. "Okay."
"Okay."
Sam settles down at the table and flips on the table lamp. "Who's playing now?"
"What?"
"The…game. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Broncos," Dean answers. "And, uh, Bears."
"From Chicago, right?" Sam's surprised he knows that. He actually thinks he deserves a cookie for knowing that.
Dean grunts in response, and Sam shuts up, getting the message. Doesn't matter anyway, Sam decides. It's not like they're ever again going to sit down together and watch a football game. He's not being morose, just honest with himself.
Where his curiosity doesn't land him in the crapper, it's a given that his guilt will. Sam lets Dean watch the "post-game show" without so much as an eye-roll. Dean doesn't thank him for the gesture but orders him to the vending machines for Doritos and a Coke, snapping his fingers when Sam doesn't leap up immediately at the command.
He takes his time, soaking in air not smelling like feet and unwashed clothes. Dean is STILL staring at the television. It looks like just highlights, not another game – thank GOD – but, still, Dean is REALLY invested in it, glaring daggers at the men running around in blue and silver.
Sam lifts a shoulder. "You know, we can stop every now and then. Like on Sundays. So you can catch a game."
"Season's almost over."
"Isn't there, like, a championship or something?"
"Fuck yeah, there is."
Sam smiles. "You wanna watch it?"
Dean snorts and waves a hand at the images on the television. "As long as these yahoos aren't in it." He blinks groggily and frowns, turning his gaze to Sam. "Doritos?"
Sam hands them over. It takes Dean four tries to get the bag open and he immediately starts shoveling handfuls of chips into his mouth. All three handfuls the small bag holds.
"Fuck Tom Brady," he grumbles around a mouthful of chips.
February 3, 2008 (Superbowl Sunday)
11:35 pm
They're tucked in the farthest corner of the small clinic. Sam keeps a hand at his forehead, absently scratching at the square of gauze tightly stuck to his hairline. It's caught a few stray hairs, and there's a sharp tug whenever his eyebrows make the slightest movement, which is pretty frequently.
It's only an hour before Dean twitches but it feels like a million times that. Sam leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, trying not to look like his big brother so completely terrified him, yet again. "Hey."
Dean's eyes make a slow circuit of the small room and come to a stop when he meets Sam's gaze. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Dean nods slowly and lets a long breath out. He shifts uncomfortably, wincing as he pulls at the stitches he just now realizes are holding his side together.
"Yeah, you might wanna just sit tight for a bit," Sam warns, hands instinctively coming out to steady him.
Dean ignores him and continues to squirm. "What happened?"
He knows Dean isn't talking about his injuries. "The, uh, yahoos…lost."
Dean smiles as he starts to drift off again. "Fuck Tom Brady."