Disclaimer, Summary & Rating: Please see Chapter 1.
MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP
Chapter 7
Sam entered his hospital room where Dean reclined in state; immobile and drugged he still flirted outrageously with Nurse Castle – Ruth - who responded with the benevolent amusement of someone who isn't buying it for a second…this girl's got brothers, Sam suddenly knew.
Sam was aware of the way Dean relaxed somehow when he came back into the room; the gashes had gone but the psychological scars of Chicago would take a long time to fade. Not that Sam had any concerns about Ruth Castle as she was clearly an intelligent and dedicated nurse; besides which he had checked her out.
After Meg Masters, no matter how beautiful the babe, Sam wasn't going to let her anywhere near his brother until he checked her out to the molecular level. He'd managed to brush Ruth's hand with fingers still damp from Holy Water, muttered 'Christo' twice to make sure, and had managed to delicately filch an ebony strand of hair from her uniform that he had tested to destruction. Ruth Castle was 100 human. Okay, after the Bender family, that wasn't necessarily all you could go on, but Sam was satisfied she was no danger to Dean, and that was all that mattered.
Dean sniffed the air exaggeratedly, "Mmm, minty fresh. Good on yah, bro'. Now, I need coffee –"
Ruth Castle clucked her tongue at him, "I don't think so. Dr Field will be here any minute."
Dean sighed heavily despite the nasal canula, "Okay…then I can see a menu? How do you expect me to recuperate with malnutrition?"
Ruth shot Sam a 'Is he always like this?' look for Dean to see as she made sure that the IV drip into Dean's hand was secure. "If Dr Field is happy with your progress, you can start having soup and Jello."
"Jello? Dean W- Barnes does not do Jello." He vetoed firmly, shooting Sam a silent command with his eyes.
Abruptly Ruth Castle straightened up and put her hands on her hips, glaring fiercely at Sam in a manner that was strongly reminiscent of Missouri Moseley, "And don't you even think about it, boy, or I'll take a birch switch to your butt."
"What?" Sam demanded startled.
She snorted, "Boys, I've got four brothers; I know that look, Dean Thomas Barnes, that 'sneak me a burger and fries into the hospital' look." She pointed a finger at Sam, "If you dare…"
"Are you kidding?" Sam grinned. "No way am I going to be your enabler, Dean. It'll do you good to eat nutritiously for once."
"Jello and nutrition is a contradiction in terms," Dean shot back, "and my diet is fine, Sammy."
"Yeah right, this from the guy who thinks the four food groups are fat, sugar, grease and caffeine."
Whatever retort Dean would have made was lost as Dr Field arrived. He was a cheerful, ruddy-faced blond with an efficient but kindly manner, though he looked to be only a few years older than Dean. He probably was, Sam acknowledged; like Indiana Jones had said, 'It's not the years – it's the mileage.' When he'd started Stanford he'd been eighteen years old but in every way bar linear biology Sam had been decades older than his fellow Freshmen, and even most of the professors. There had been only a very few who had looked back at him with that ancient wisdom in their eyes and who had possessed the invisible but instantly identifiable aura of those with heartbroken souls. In any way that really mattered, Dean was the oldest patient in this hospital.
Sam tuned back in as Dr Field examined Dean's injuries thoroughly but without jarring him in any way. Dean looked down at himself with drugged incuriosity. He had half-expected the left side of his body to be bandaged up like that Imhotep dude in that flick, The Mummy, which he had watched 'cause Rachael Weisz was totally hot. While certain areas were bandaged, the majority of his left arm, left side of his torso and left leg were exposed.
Dean had braced himself for gore but instead the slices were mostly bright pink or vibrant purple streaks down his body. Most of the cuts were healing white lines on his flesh, though the worst were held together not with traditional silk sutures but those fancy silver 'staples' that gradually dissolved. Dean examined them with interest; he'd caught a documentary in the small hours recently about how scientists had only just rediscovered why the Romans – surgeons without peer – refused to use anything other than silver instruments and 'staple' stitches.
Apparently the stainless steel used since the 19th Century by Western physicians hindered the body's healing processes and reduced blood clotting abilities, whereas silver actively boosted these. A lot of medical facilities were making the changeover, but while silver staples were by far more medically beneficial and less likely to produce infection, they were proportionally more expensive. Yet again though, Sammy was watching Dr Field's examination with no apparent concern over the finances of paying for this, so for now, Dean would let it go.
The skin around the cuts was understandably swollen but it was the bright red of healthy, blood nourished skin, not the dull burgundy-black of inflammation and infection. The left side of his body was also spectacularly battered and scraped and in fact looked a great deal worse that the cuts. For a moment Dean thought that the Chomp Thing had sliced off his left nipple but the dark aureole was merely invisible against the purple-black bruising. From his ankle to his shoulder, his flesh was a mottled kaleidoscope of black, blue, purple, orange, yellow and green bruises that made him look as if he had been at ground zero of an explosion in a paint factory.
Dean tuned back in as Dr Field gave a pleased verdict.
"…excellent progress, healing really nicely. Our main concern was infection from the bear's claws, but the antibiotics seem to have taken care of that superbly."
Yeah, with a little Holy Water help, Dean added mentally.
Dr Field assured him, "but you're doing really well. You're young and in tip-top physical shape…that packet of cigarettes notwithstanding," he gave Dean a stern look, "which unfortunately were so ruined we had to dump them in the trash…"
Dean glowered at Sam who merely grinned at him from where he was quietly monitoring the situation, leaning against the wall. Sam knew that cigarettes weren't really a problem. Dean carried cigarette lighters because they were useful back-ups when your torch batteries ran down – or inexplicably failed – or when creating naked flame would be a real advantage, like with the bug spray at Larry Pike's house back in Oasis Plains. However, when really stressed to the max, Dean would occasionally go somewhere quiet and have a furtive smoke. Considering Dean drank strictly in moderation, did not voluntarily touch illegal narcotics of any type including 'just' weed spliffs, and was the poster-boy for safe sex, that occasional vice was something Sam had chosen to ignore, especially as it only happened after some stress-fest situation along the lines of Really, really, really the End of the World as We Know It.
"…see you tomorrow morning," Dr Field was saying, "until then I'll leave you to your bed-bath."
"Thanks, Doctor," Dean responded automatically before his brain caught up…bed-bath? He looked at luscious Ruthie…Okay, this is definitely doable…
Looking as if she were trying to hold back a laugh, Ruth Castle smiled sweetly and said, "I'll leave you to it, Sam…if you're sure you don't mind?"
Dean looked at the paraphernalia that had somehow appeared in the room on a cart and with which his brother was messing with a worrying familiarity…
"No way!" he warned.
Sam, the scumbag, had a huge grin on his face, "Come on Dean, you wouldn't want people to know the other reason you're my little brother, would you?"
Castle made an odd gargling noise in the back of her throat that sounded like someone desperately stifling guffaws of laughter as Dean fumed at the sly double-entendre. "Payback's a bitch, Sammy," he growled.
"Yeah, and you're it, now shut up." Still grinning, Sam reached for the cloth, as Dean furiously turned to glare at Nurse Traitor only to catch the door clicking shut on the view of her back as she walked away – her body shaking with what sounded like giggles.
Chapter 8
Dean pressed back into his pillows as it dawned that this was not some in-joke between Sam and Castle to wind him up. Sam was really intending to…
"Do. Not. Even. Think. About. It." He warned in his most authoritative tone.
Sammy appeared unaffected by a tone that should have had him backing across the room with his hands in the air. "Relax, Dean."
"Re-? You are not going to bathe me!" hissed Dean irately.
"Yes I am," shot back Sam, his expression becoming irritated. "Who do you think has been keeping you 'minty fresh' while you were unconscious? And do you seriously think Castle would have stood there and watched me add Holy Water and medicinal herbs to her wash water without asking me the odd curious question? Or that she wouldn't have grilled me about your interesting collection of bodily scars?"
"Sam…" Dean refused to contemplate who had been wiping his ass while he had been out for the count, it was just too gross, but he was unable to refute his brother's other points.
"Dean…" Sam mimicked his tone. "When we first got here, the sheriff was within a whisker of arresting me for attempted murder until I got him to buy that bear story. Right now nobody's paying attention but if Castle had started asking me pointed questions about how you got those scars, the sheriff might have decided to do a more in-depth investigation into that bear."
"That would never have happened," Dean protested, "besides, I'm stronger than you, Samm-o, I can kick your ass into next week and I swear I will if you come near me with that cloth."
"It still might happen," Sam contradicted him, "yeah, I know you're stronger than me, but they don't. Height is power, bro' and all they can see is that I'm taller than you – and spiffily healthy in contrast to my train wreck brother – and the last thing we need is someone realising that there is only my word that there ever was any 'bear'."
Dean momentarily had no riposte for that, and Sam took advantage to flirt back the bedcovers; he did so expertly so that Dean remained covered from the waist down – he'd deal with that when he came to it. "Now lean forward."
With gritted teeth, Dean complied, glaring down at the bedclothes with mortification. He didn't know what outraged him more – that anyone thought Sam could do something like this to him, or that he would. Telekinetic or not he could still take Sam-u-el in a fight and he always would…as for anything deliberate…
Sure, they had flashpoints, but what family didn't? Even back in crazy Ellicott's asylum, Dean had known it wasn't Sam. Dean had absolute faith that Sam would never have pulled the trigger on that shotgun had it contained anything more than rock salt, and that when Sam had pulled the trigger of that pistol, the part of Sam that was still Sam had trusted in Dean not just giving him a loaded gun to meekly help Ellicott's attempt at coerced fratricide. Deep inside, where Ellicott couldn't go, Sam had known that gun wasn't loaded.
However, Sam washed Dean's back and neck with speed but deft care, before washing Dean's torso and even giving Dean's necklace charm a quick wipe. Despite the water being only lukewarm, it tingled against Dean's injuries, reinforcing to him the debt he owed to Sam for thinking of the Holy Water; it was clearly still working against mystical nastiness.
"Can you raise your right arm?"
Dean promptly did so, but sweat immediately broke out on his brow, and it felt as if an elephant were pushing back against the limb. Quickly Sam washed the underside of his arm and his pit and then moved back to his left arm. He picked up Dean's left wrist as if it were bone china, careful of the bandages and IV tube.
"Sure there was no nerve damage?" the words slipped out before Dean could censor them; the limb fell weighted and somehow not his own. The commands he was sending to his fingers to flex were ignored and he could only faintly feel the pressure of Sam's fingers around his wrist.
"Positive. Most of the numbness is the drugs," Sam assured him. Impersonally Sam pushed back the covers and washed the outside of Dean's legs and feet. Casually he asked, "Can you manage for a minute?"
Dean took the washcloth from him in his right hand in a virtual death-grip of determination as Sam went into the bathroom. Bending every iota of his will to the task, Dean carefully washed himself as quickly as possible whilst ensuring that he did not knock his convene, before tossing the washcloth back on the tray and tugging the bedclothes back to his waist. Sam came out of the bathroom with another tray of shaving accoutrements.
Dean hadn't thought about shaving – his head didn't have that dry, itchy feeling that he got when his hair was in need of washing, so presumably Sam the Stylist had given him a shampoo and set the last time he'd…okay, not thinking about that…"Don't bother with that," he tried to discourage.
Sam looked at him. "Do you remember when we were kids and sometimes we'd catch a rerun of that old show, Grizzly Adams?"
"Um…yeah?"
"Brace yourself." Sam advised, picking up the handheld face mirror from the cart and holding it up so Dean could see.
"Whoa…" Dean's eyes widened; since the time he'd started puberty he had always been relatively clean-shaven, apart from maybe four or five days growth on a hunt in the middle of nowhere where mirrors weren't an issue.
Sam sat back down on the bed, lathering the shaving brush. "Make sure you keep still," he admonished.
"Still? Dude, with you waving a razor around my favourite jugular, I'm officially deep frozen as of now." Dean assured him nervously.
Shaving was easy. Shaving another man was not and it was a skill Sam had never felt the need to acquire because, due respect, that was not his bag. He started at the sideburns of Dean's right ear; if he didn't use the razor firmly enough, all he'd do was massage Dean's whiskers, but if he pressed too hard, he could cut his brother's face and Dean really didn't need to lose any more haemoglobin than he already had. Fortunately Dean was true to his word and remained still as Sam very carefully gave him a shave.
It was a weird feeling, Dean had to admit, but not entirely uncomfortable. It was kind of like those ancient Pharaohs and stuff used to be…what did they call them?…Po-something…Potentates. Yeah, like one of those ancient Emperors of the world who had hordes of slaves to bathe and shave and dress them and hell, probably even turn them over in bed when they felt like changing position. Once you got past the embarrassment of it, there was kind of a sneaky luxurious indulgence to it.
Dean came back as something cool touched his left foot. Sam had finished with the razor and had moved to the bottom of the bed again, turning back the bedclothes to expose Dean's left leg and squeezing something from a bottle onto the top of Dean's foot. It was a thick white cream substance from a bottle marked Palmer's Cocoa Butter with Vitamin E and Silk.
Sam raised both eyebrows as Dean opened his mouth and so he subsided as Sam gently started massaging the lotion into Dean's foot. It wasn't macho but truth to tell, Dean went through the USA's entire stock of moisturisers on average every six weeks. It was necessary for any lifestyle that had a high risk of scarring injuries…and hunting things with fangs and claws and the occasional overcompensation of tentacles doesn't come much higher risk…it was essential to keep skin healthy and supple, otherwise the scar tissue would heal 'tight', rigid and thick, losing flexibility. Considering how well his scars were healing despite the short time span – and Holy Water and healing herbs could only do so much - Dean somehow suspected that the reason Sam had looked like hell was because he'd spent most of the past few days almost continuously massaging and moisturising Dean's injuries to promote blood flow and toxin breakdown in the muscle tissues instead of getting any rest.
Besides, it felt sooooo good, "I didn't know you knew how to do massage…"
"They did run of classes at Stanford during the summer last year," Sam said, "so I took them – Indian Head Massage, Swedish Massage, Reflexology, Aromatherapy, all that kind of thing."
"Good boy…"
A shadow passed over Sam's face, even though he smiled at the way Dean was practically purring like a big ole' tiger sunning itself, "Yeah…though I gotta admit the appeal was being able to practice on Jess…"
Having seen up close the gorgeousness of the tragically murdered girl, Dean could well imagine how those 'practice' sessions had ended. If Sam had been half as good at massaging Jessica as he was at creating that zone of absolute bliss around Dean's left foot, it was no wonder he'd had no trouble keeping hold of a girl as hot as Jessica had been.
"Well practice makes perfect, Sammy, so keep going…" Settling himself back in the pillows, Dean sighed and wiggled his toes to make the sad moment pass, pleased when the ghost of his murdered lover finally faded from Sam's eyes.
Not entirely…never entirely, just as Dean knew that Mary Winchester looked out from his own gaze, and that of his father, often. But enough…
Continued in Chapter 9…
© 2006, Catherine D Stewart
