Author Note: Sup kids! I did another one of those story things! Nova42 asked for this one, and while it might not be EXACTLY what she wanted (it so rarely is, once the muse does her thing) I think I hit all the notes she was hoping to see. I have been in such a writing rut the past few months, and returning to fanfic has really been helping. A little birdie told me that this is my 148th SPN fanfic, and I believe that same birdie is putting together some prompty ideas for a special 150th story. Just saying.
Another Brick in the Wall
He wakes on the floor of the cabin, jackknifes as he surfaces from somewhere cold and gray. He gags as sharp, hot pain tears through his chest, choking on the blood filling his throat.
"Son, you need to calm down."
Dad?
He tries to pry his eyes open, but everything is too bright, swirling like an amusement park ride. He slams his eyes closed, struggles to breathe. Something nearby is beeping, a too-fast chirp that's only picking up speed.
The voice—not Dad—speaks to someone else, a low, unintelligible mumble. Then a cool hand lands on his arm, a puff of warm breath against his cheek.
"Dean, hey. It's me. You're OK. You just need to calm down."
Calm down. Right. Except Yellow Eyes is here, shredded his insides, and he's choking. He doesn't realize he's gotten a hand up until strong fingers grip his and guide them back down. There's more talking over his head. He struggles to understand but can't.
"They're gonna remove the tube, Dean, but not until you calm down a bit."
Sammy?
It's Sam at his side, the hand on his arm. Relief floods through him. Sammy's OK. Then…tube? But he nods, presses his head back against the…not hardwood. Pillow. Tube. Hospital. A familiar enough experience, but the tube down his throat is new.
He gets his eyes open again, blinks in the sudden flush of light. The room isn't spinning this time, but everything is fuzzy, indistinct. He finds Sam's face close to his own. His little brother looks like hell. Pale and bruised. Scared.
Sam smiles, small and pained. "Hey."
Dean gags in response, flaps a hand and rolls his head to communicate his displeasure with this whole tube situation. Sam looks like he gets it.
"Just relax, man. Lay still."
He leans back and fights his body's instinct to breathe, allows the invasive thing to do its job. He catches glimpses of strangers all around him, which isn't doing much to help him relax, but Sam stays close, which does. When the beep in the room has steadied, Sam shifts out of the way and one of the strangers swoops in to take his place.
The man holds up a pen, asks Dean to follow it with his eyes.
"Good," he says, like Dean is a dog doing tricks. "Can you raise your right hand? Wiggle your fingers?"
He tries to flip the guy the bird, but the doc's moved on by the time he manages it. More hushed discussion takes place, and Dean is really starting to get annoyed. He tries to get Sam's attention. There are a dozen questions his wants to ask his brother. What happened? is high on the list. Also, Where's Dad? Because none of the blurry faces in the room seem to be his father. He slides his eyes to the side and gags a nonsensical sound around the intrusion of the tube.
Sam dips into his eye line and flashes a quick smile. "One more minute, man. They've gotta check a couple of things, get you cleaned up a little bit."
Only about sixty percent of what his brother is saying is making it all the way to his brain, but he nods anyway, because Sam looks happy when he does. He maybe drifts a bit, comes back with a jolt when another fucking tube is crammed into his mouth. He barely has time to acknowledge and get pissed about the suctioning device poking around before it's withdrawn.
"Dean? We're going to remove the breathing tube now. You're likely to cough when it's coming out, and you should know to expect some discomfort from that, due to your rib fractures. Do you understand?"
Again, he gets about sixty percent, but he hears what he needs to: 'tube' and 'out.' He nods vigorously.
He should have been paying more attention to the 'discomfort' part of the doctor's spiel. Because of course he gags and coughs while the tube is coming out, and the jarring of it wakes up the pain that has been laying dormant until now. Fire streaks through his ribcage, and that damn beeping once more picks up speed.
Someone in scrubs fiddles with a dial, and he knows they're dosing him with the good stuff. He rolls his head toward Sam and croaks, "'ad?"
"He's here, Dean. He's OK. We're all OK."
Kid is ten kinds of scared. Dean locks eyes with his brother and tries to seem strong when he nods. But his attention drifts, drawn to a shadow in his periphery. He tracks the blur with a sluggish gaze, can't pull the shape into focus. He raises a hand to point it out to Sam, but it fades into nothing.
Sam grabs his hand, squeezes. "I'll see you soon, man."
Before he can ask where Sam is going, it becomes obvious that he's the one going somewhere. They wheel Dean out of the room for a barrage of tests, and he drifts off during the process, loses some time.
By the time they finally leave him alone with his brother, Dean is exhausted. Sore all over, but not really hurting. The pain is there, though, waiting in the wings. But not nearly enough.
Don't you let it kill me.
Dad, please.
A hand dragged over his chest reveals some bandaging beneath his shirt, and there's a tight, familiar pull of stitching when he breathes. But the demon had carved him up inside and out, left a Dean-sized bloodstain on the floor of the cabin. Then, the collision with the truck that he has no recollection of. From what he's gathered so far, it was bad. Dean knows he shouldn't be sitting here, confused and achy but more or less OK. He's starting to understand this look on Sam's face.
He tries to sit himself up three times before Sam utters a quiet, "Jesus, Dean" and raises the head of the bed for him. This is sure to be a very brief window of privacy, and he does a swift, drugged mental prioritization.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice a hoarse scrape, because Sam looks, in a word, brutalized.
"They told me you weren't gonna wake up, Dean."
Okay. So it was really bad. "Doctors are always drama queens," he says shakily.
"No, Dean. They said…" Sam blows out a breath. "It was bad, man. Like, brain hemorrhage bad. Like, I watched them shock you back to life bad. You were completely unresponsive. Except…"
"Except what?"
Sam scrubs a hand up through his hair. "You don't remember?"
"The truck hitting us?"
"No. You…you don't remember the reaper?"
Cold sluices down Dean's spine and he thinks about the shadow he saw, but he forces a disbelieving grin. "The what?"
Sam looks toward the window, bites down on his lip. "I swear to God, if you're messing with me right now—"
"Whoa, Sam. I'm just trying to catch up here. Last thing I remember, we were in that cabin with—" His throat catches on the memory. "Dad." Again, Dean's eyes dart toward to the door. Where the hell is he? He frowns, runs a hand over his tender belly. Between the recent bodily trauma and whatever is in this IV in his hand, his internal gauges might be blown to hell, but Dean trusts his gut. Something is wrong.
"Dean, you were here. Somehow. Almost like a…like a spirit. You were communicating with me, through a damned Ouija board." At Dean's blank stare, Sam adds, "You said a reaper was after you."
The doctor chooses that moment to reenter the room, spouting medical jargon interspersed with awed talk of a miracle recovery. Dean believes in a lot of things, but miracles aren't one of them.
Sam is fidgety, bouncing his weight from foot to foot and chewing his lip, messing with his hair, probing the bruise around his eye. He wants the doctor out of the room, wants to continue their conversation.
Reaper.
Okay. Yeah, that's not great. That should have meant game over. Whatever happened, Sammy didn't have anything to do with it. He knows better, and he looks too scared.
Dean tries to focus, tries to listen to what the doctor is telling him, but he just keeps thinking, Something's wrong.
He wakes with a start, a swift, merciless return to consciousness. If he's been harboring any illusions that this has all been a horrible nightmare, they're immediately put to rest by the very real pain that's rebounding throughout his body, the campfire scent lingering in the air.
Dean's stomach lurches and he moves to sit up, only to sink back with a groan. Maybe he should have taken one of those pain pills the hospital sent him home with, instead of just telling Sam that he did.
He got the story from Sam in bits and pieces, knows he was in damn bad shape when they were airlifted from the crash site, one thing Dean is happy to not remember. That last run of tests showed a "miraculous" improvement, but he still has three fractured ribs, a smattering of stitches across his chest, and more bruises and scrapes than he can count, including the jagged tear down his forehead that's sure to scar. It's probably also the reason his head is pounding and Bobby's ceiling is currently executing an impressive spin when he cracks his eyes open.
Suck it up. Dean reminds himself that he's felt much worse, recently. Just sixty hours ago, he was down for the count, his life leaking out of him to stain the floorboards of that cabin.
By the time he's managed a mostly upright position, Sam is there, perched on the arm of the couch, upending a pill bottle into his palm.
"Here."
Dean waves him off with the hand not cradling his busted side. "I'm fine."
It's what he's been telling Sam since the hospital, when he was on enough happy juice to make it difficult to know otherwise. Now, it's because Sam looks so damned beat.
Sam sighs and dumps the pill back into the bottle, then looks up, making the kind of eye contact that's verging on creepy. Like he's worried Dean will fade from existence if he dares to blink.
He tries to twist away from that look and grunts, presses his elbow in against his side. "Mm. Son of a bitch."
"Take a few deep breaths. The last thing we need is you giving yourself pneumonia." Sam pulls the pillow from behind Dean's back. "Use this for your—"
"I know the drill, Sam."
"Yeah, and you suck at it. Humor me."
Dean glares up at his brother, then rips the pillow from Sam's hand and jams it against his ribs. The pressure alleviates the pain as he sucks back a few of those necessary deep breaths.
Sam worries his lip as he straightens. "Better?"
No, Sam, he wants to shout. It's not better. Dad is still gone. Instead, Dean drops his gaze to the dusty floorboards. "Yeah."
Sam starts fussing around the room, bundling up the blanket Dean had kicked free of his legs during the night. "I already talked to Bobby. We're gonna get something more comfortable set up for you today."
"What? Why?" Dean looks down at the lumpy sofa. "Sam, this is fine."
"You were sleeping pretty rough last night, Dean. And you were…it was hurting you to move around."
The concern in Sam's voice is almost as suffocating as the smoke smell clinging to the air. "Sam—"
"If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me. We're probably going to be here for a while, and I don't feel like bunking on the floor for that long."
Dean rolls his eyes. His brother nods, satisfied with the response, knowing it's the best he's going to get. Then Sam narrows his eyes appraisingly.
"How're you doing?"
"I'm fine, Sam." Like pressing a damn button.
Sam bobs his head. "Okay. But, like, how are you doing? For real?"
He means Dad, but Dean is nowhere near ready to dig into the sort of feelings Sam is poking at. There's still a hole in his memory that extends from lying on hardwood choking on his own blood to waking in a hospital choking on the tube down his throat. But still, Dean knows things that Sam doesn't, can't, won't.
He shakes his head. "Don't, Sam."
"Dean, I just—"
"I said don't." There's more snap to it than he intended, and Sam backs up a step, looking stung.
"All right. Well, take it easy today, OK?"
Dean frowns as Sam pulls an unfamiliar set of keys from the pocket of his jeans. His heart starts to pick up the pace. "Where are you going?"
"I told Bobby I'd run out and get some things. Like I said, we're going to be here a while."
Dean's not ready to let Sam out of his sight just yet. "I'll go with you." He levers up, gets his ass maybe two inches off the cushion before his vision grays out.
Sam pushes him back down with a hand to the sternum. A very gentle hand that still lights up Dean's chest and reminds him that he's technically not supposed to be doing anything more strenuous than sitting.
"I won't be long, man. Seriously, just get some rest."
He must look pathetic, because Sam is giving him the biggest, puppy-doggest eyes he ever has. Dean sits, hands hanging between his knees, until the door closes behind Sam. He hears a muted exchange beyond the old windows, the sound of a car door shutting, a stubborn engine stuttering to life. He waits for Bobby to come inside, maybe tell him that he's being an ass shutting his brother out. But Bobby doesn't know what he does. Can't. Won't.
He gingerly lowers himself back against the armrest and exhales. He lays still, listening to the old house settle and creak around him. Sam's not wrong; he's supposed to be resting. He's broken ribs before, but possibly not in this configuration, the one that has his breath hitching with almost every movement. His head is pounding, and any abrupt change of light, volume, or elevation leaves him pressing his lips together against the need to vomit.
It'll all sleep off, Dean tells himself, closing his eyes. But sleep won't come, and he's left staring at the cracks in the ceiling, hearing his father's last words over and over.
He hasn't spent so much time at Bobby's since they were kids, Dad dropping them with the older hunter to chase a lead. It occurs to him that this is the first time he's been in this house without worrying when his father will be back. Whether he's OK.
Now, he knows.
Dean pushes upright, fingers digging into the back of the couch to assist in the transition. The room doesn't spin quite as much as it did during his last attempt, so he tucks his elbow into his side and shoves all the way to his feet. Once there he wavers, slams his eyes closed and drags in a few shallow breaths. The room smells of dust, books, and gunpowder. The combination—or the nostalgia—turns his stomach.
He's gotta get out of this house.
He stumbles down the porch steps and ventures into the lot, looking to get lost in the sea of rusted clunkers, maybe find something to keep his hands, and mind, busy. It's later in the day than Dean expected, the high late morning sun ratcheting up the ache in his head. Light rebounds off a crumpled heap of black metal across the lot, a glare that stabs his eyes, and then his heart.
It's no easier seeing her the second time.
He doesn't hear Bobby approach, just spies the ball cap wearing shadow on the gravel next to his.
"Tell you the truth, I wasn't sure there was any point towing her here."
Dean bobs his head. Sure. He gets that. Even so, hearing it out loud…he can't look at Bobby right now. The Impala is his baby, his home.
"Sam wouldn't have it. Said you'd want to fix 'er up when you were better."
He sniffs, drops his left arm from where it's been pressed to his side. Tries to give off an aura of better before the older man gets any ideas otherwise.
Bobby sighs, like he knows what Dean is thinking. "It'd be a helluva lot of work, Dean."
"Yeah."
"You up for it?"
Not asked with any doubt regarding Dean's abilities. He's been tinkering with Bobby's cars since he was eleven. And not asked because of the amount of work rebuilding the Impala would—will—entail. Bobby is giving Dean an opening to not be OK, if even for a moment. And for a moment, he considers it. Considers, letting the wall drop and telling Bobby that he can handle the car, but he can't handle what his father has asked of him.
The Impala was handed down with the expectation he would take care of it. Like Sam. And he will. Dean will save them both. He drags a hand down his face. One of the last conversations he had with his father ended with Dad snapping about the state of the car. And he was right. Dean should have down more detailing, appreciated her better. It'll be different this time, after he gets her fixed up.
When Bobby drops a hand to his shoulder, Dean jumps. He rotates stiffly, raises his eyebrows.
Bobby cocks his head, looking at him like…well, like he was more or less dead two days ago. "Don't suppose I can convince you to wait until tomorrow."
Dean straightens, fighting not to wince at the pull across his chest, the ragging of his broken ribs, the gong ringing in his head. "I'm OK, Bobby."
"You'd better be. Or your brother will have my ass when he gets back." Bobby pats him on the back. "Holler if you need me."
The next few hours pass in a blur. Dean loses track of the time, and the beers he's fetching from the house as he sweats beneath the afternoon sun. Dirt sticks to his arms and neck as he inspects every inch of the battered Impala, making notes on the damage, what can be salvaged, a list of parts that will need replaced. He lets his eyes skip over the myriad bloodstains marring the bench seats, scratching absently at the gash in his forehead.
He moves to lift the hood and yelps, doubles over with a hand pressed to his side. Son of a bitch. He glances around, but there's no sign of Bobby or Sam. Dean blows out a breath, thankful they missed the show, and thinking maybe he'll stick to the exterior of the car for today.
After another hour or so, he's straightening from a crouch near the right rear wheel when the ground tilts. He pitches forward, barely gets a hand up in time to keep from taking a header into the dented, dusty metal.
"Okay. I'm callin' it. Come inside, Dean."
Well, shit. His head jerks in the direction of Bobby's voice. He licks his lips but doesn't respond, preoccupied with breathing, with keeping the world steady around him. A strong arm loops around his chest and hauls him to his feet, drags him away from the car.
Despite his swimming head and the discomfort of his ribs, Dean digs his boots into the gravel, working to take back his weight. "I'm fine, Bobby." As soon as he shrugs the man's hand from his arm, he lists to the side.
"Fine, my ass." Bobby squints. "You even eat anything today? Don't answer that. I need to remind you that you were in a damn hospital bed two days ago?"
"Well, I'm not now." He steps away from Bobby but stumbles, twists the wrong way and lights up his broken ribs. When he straightens, drawing deliberate, shallow breaths, Bobby is staring at him with raised eyebrows.
"You 'bout done?"
He remembers the notepad, lying in the dirt near the flat tire, and lurches forward. "I've got a list—"
Bobby stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "I got it. I'll take care of it, kid."
Dean smirks. "I know you got a soft spot for busted cars, Bobby. You got one for busted hunters too?"
"Just one or two of 'em."
The man stays close behind Dean on the walk back to the house, then jerks his chin toward the hall. "Go get cleaned up. I'll make you some grub." He holds up a hand. "Don't give me that look. It's not like it'll be fine dining, but it won't kill ya."
By the time Dean closes the bathroom behind him, exhaustion has dug its heels in. He's sore as shit, a full-body ache that has him feeling about eighty years old. He overdid it today, no two ways about it. He rushes through a shower, exerting only enough energy to get the job done, holding his breath every time he has to move.
When he emerges in a probably clean t-shirt and jeans, his brother is back, quietly talking with Bobby while he unpacks a pile of plastic grocery bags. Sam perks up when he sees Dean, but his expression immediately falls.
"You didn't take it easy, did you?"
Shit, Sammy, the eighteen-wheeler was more subtle. "Well, hello to you, too," Dean returns, limping his way into the kitchen.
Sam is in a mood, and not to be deterred. "Did you at least do the deep breathing exercises you need to?"
He figures it's safer to not answer at all rather than offer a smartass response, and he's hurting just enough that sarcasm is really all he has in the chamber. Dean opens the refrigerator and drags a fresh beer from the top shelf, raises his eyebrows at Bobby before shuffling towards a chair.
Sam sighs but doesn't press the issue, just finishes putting away the groceries while Bobby fries up some bacon and eggs. Breakfast for dinner—or at any time of day—has always been his specialty. The crack and pop of grease in the skillet combined with the smoky scent of cooking bacon have Dean feeling suddenly ravenous. Bobby was right; he hasn't much since…he can't even remember.
It takes longer than it should for Dean to fold into one of the creaky wooden chairs, the flat seat and back unforgiving against his sore, battered body. He sets the beer on the tabletop and sags, scrubs at his damp hair. There's an itch beneath his skin, discomfort without a source, that has nothing to do with the stitches, bruises, or breaks. He can't shake the feeling there's something he should be doing, somewhere he's supposed to be.
As Sam sticks the last of the cans and boxes into the cabinets, his movements become stiffer, more deliberate. He turns to Dean, fixes him with a stare so open and vulnerable, all of Dean's instincts scream at him to get up from the table and run until his legs give out. At the same time, he's beat, and isn't sure he could move right now if the house was on fire. Sam doesn't understand that it's hard for Dean to even look at him right now, and he can't ever know why.
He drops his gaze, busies himself with twisting the cap from his beer bottle. He flicks it to the tabletop and takes a long pull. Waits to see if Bobby ratted him out.
Sam throws him a softball. "How are you feeling?"
Like roadkill. Like ten miles of shredded asphalt. Like this is all my fault and I don't know why.
Dean swallows a mouthful of beer. "Better."
"I'm assuming if you weren't resting like you should have been, you checked out the car."
Jesus, Sam. Pick a lane. Was I almost dead or are you pissed at me?
Bobby slides a plate in front of him, drops a second to the seat across from Dean. The yolks are jiggling, the edges of the eggs browned and crispy. Cooked in the bacon grease, the way they should be. Dean recognizes the unspoken cues. Bobby's handling him with the kid gloves.
He snaps off a bite of crisp bacon, then another, washes it down with a long drink. Sam sits but doesn't touch his own plate.
"Yeah," Dean says finally, then digs into his eggs.
"And? How's it looking?"
Dean stares across the table at his brother, chewing. What does Sam expect him to say here? It's looking like I should be dead, Sam. Maybe you, too.
Bobby putters around wordlessly in the background, scraping congealing grease into the trash, leaning back against the counter to wipe his hands on a dish towel. He's poised to intervene, Dean knows, on behalf of either of them. Whoever needs it.
Sam pushes a strip of bacon through the yoke of an egg. "Can you fix it?"
Enough with the questions, Sam. Still, Dean knows this is just the warmup. He shovels the rest of his bacon into his mouth, drains his beer. "Yeah. I think so."
"I've already got some calls out for parts," Bobby says.
Sam nods, looking relieved. They finish eating in silence, but the questions are there, hanging unspoken as Sam clears the plates, as Bobby deposits another beer in front of Dean and drops into a chair at the table.
It's coming, hard and fast, and Dean sure as hell isn't ready for it.
Sam settles back at the table and hunches forward, holding his beer with both hands. He looks so young yet at the same time, weathered. He's been through too much, had a lot of shit thrown his way he shouldn't have had to deal with. Made some calls he shouldn't have had to make. The setting sun flares through the window and Dean shifts out of its path, rests against the chairback and begs Sammy not to pull the trigger, knowing full-well there's no stopping the kid.
"So, do we think it was the demon?"
Might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over Dean, the chill that runs through him.
Sam's looking at Bobby, for answers, for guidance, but Dean knows that he's expected to participate. In this part of the conversation, and what will surely come after. He'll be expected to look back, to share memories of Dad, both good and bad. Only one memory matters right now, the moment on repeat in Dean's mind. Dad telling him how proud he was, with a watery, knowing gaze.
It was the demon. Of course, it was the demon. They all know it. Dad knew it. He knew it when he told Dean what he did. Knew it when he walked into the room.
"What else could it have been?" Bobby asks earnestly.
Sam runs his hands down his face. "I don't know."
Dean stares at the label on his beer, where condensation from the sweating bottle is loosening the paper. One tug, and the entire wrap will slip from off, leave the glass exposed.
You have to save Sam. And if you can't…
He kneads at his temples, desperate to silence the echo of Dad's hushed revelation. His last order. "Bobby," he says, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears. "You got anything stronger?" He doesn't miss the look that passes between Bobby and his brother.
"Sure thing, kid." Bobby stands and fetches a short glass and bottle of whiskey. He pours two fingers, sets the glass in front of Dean, and caps the bottle.
"Leave it," Dean says. He downs the contents of the glass in one swallow.
Bobby stands by the table, one hand on the bottle. Sam worries his lip, gaze shifting between them. He looks at Dean like he's trying to assemble a puzzle.
"Bobby? Can you give us a few?"
The older man taps a finger against the cap of the whiskey. "Of course. I'll be out in the garage."
Dean lets out a low whistle as he refills his glass. "Man gives us a place to stay, and you kick him out of his own kitchen."
Sam's brows worm together. "Do you think…" His eyes dart away, back.
Don't say it, Sammy, Dean silently pleads. He's too tired, hurting too much. He's got a pleasant buzz building now, the sharp ragging of his ribs dulled, but there are aches inside that Bobby's cheap whiskey can't begin to touch. Pain he can't allow to be teased by the hypotheticals he knows his brother is currently mulling over.
"Do you think it's connected? I mean, do you think the demon had something to do with you—"
Dean stands abruptly, sending his chair skidding back loudly across the linoleum. He can't do this.
"Dean—"
He makes for the door, nowhere near normal speed, his steps weighted by exhaustion and whiskey. Sam too easily intercepts him, hooks a hand around Dean's upper arm and hauls him back.
Maybe Sam yanks him too hard, or he just twists wrong. Either way, the motion wakes up that pain in his broken ribs. He yelps, and Sam lets go like Dean's a hot stovetop, which his chest very much feels like. His brother's hands are back almost immediately, pawing at his shoulders and bowed back.
"Shit. Sorry. You OK?"
His vision sparking, Dean gropes blindly for something to brace against, gets a shaky hand planted on the tabletop. He isn't sure he's taken a breath yet, and Sam is all over it.
"Hey. Breathe. I know it hurts, man, but you've gotta breathe."
He wants to tell Sam to fuck off, but figures that would require more oxygen than he's currently willing to suck back. Dean presses his lips together, hums a low tone of displeasure.
Sam pushes on his shoulder. "Sit down. Breathe."
Dean sinks into a chair, and after hearing the thumps of his brother's giant feet stalking out of the room, risks one of those deep breaths. And fuck, it smarts. He presses a palm to his side, groans.
"Here."
Dean startles, having completely missed Sam's return. He cracks open an eye and sees a pair of pills in his brother's outstretched hand, starts to shake his head when Sam literally stomps his foot.
"You haven't been taking them, Dean. Not one."
Sammy took inventory? How the fuck long have I been sitting here?
"Don't need 'em," Dean grits. Don't want 'em, is more truthful. The pain is grounding, keeping him focused, reminding him what's happened.
Sam huffs and jostles his hand. "This? This is textbook needing pain medication, Dean. This is why I said to take it easy. You were just in the hospital. You were just—" He sucks in a breath. "Don't do this, Dean. Don't make me lose you too. Please."
It's the please that does it.
"OK."
"What?"
"I said OK, Sam." The hand that reaches to accept the offered Vicodin is trembling.
Sam turns toward the sink to fill a glass of water, but Dean's downed the pills with a swallow of whiskey by the time his brother has opened the cabinet. Sam's gaze flits between the glass in his hand and the pills bottle on the table.
"Are you sure you should be—"
Dean silences his brother with a glare.
Sam holds up his hands. "OK." He sits, watching with narrowed eyes Dean as he coasts through the pain. The whiskey certainly speeds up the process; it isn't long before his side is only distantly throbbing and his head feels cottony, and he's gripping the edge of the table just to stay upright.
Sam sees it, bobs his head. "You good?"
"Mm hmm." Night has crept in, but it's more than the disappearing sun that's dimming the edges of Dean's vision. He blames the pills for the loosening of his thoughts, his tongue. It's why he didn't want to take them in the first place.
"Bobby said you wouldn't let him give up on the car. That you wouldn't give up."
Sam tilts his head. "Of course not, Dean. I would never do that. I couldn't…not even when…"
He doesn't have to say it. That to give up on the Impala would have been to give up on Dean.
"Well, thanks. Really."
Sam smiles, small and tired. "Let's get you to bed."
Dean still doesn't know the full story, doesn't want to. What he does know is that Sammy wouldn't give up on him. And that's something Dean can repay. He won't give up on his brother. He will save Sam.
No matter what.