Chapter Four:
Sam actually started to wait for the pot to finish. Stood directly in front of the machine, arms wrapped around his middle, watching intently as drip by drip the coffee piles up, begins counting each thunderous ping dropping into the glass below. His hands were shaking. Nervous? That was an understatement. He started to pace, and a hugely huge part of him wasn't quite sure he could walk back into that bathroom again. It was ridiculously really; Dean was the one who nearly died tonight not Sam.
ping
Tension was replaced with anger and he imagined how great it would feel to scream until he goes hoarse or the beautiful sensation of hurling the ugly chair empty beside him across the room. Dean could be sitting there right now but he wasn't and it was all Sam's fault.
ping
He forgot. God, how could he forget that Dean had asthma! It was bad when they were kids. Christ, one of Sam's first horrible hunting memories was of a ten year old Dean, collapsing at their father's feet after he rescued Sammy from a seven foot tall monster (maybe that was an ex considering how small they had both been back then), who had his kid brother by the collar. Dean fought like an warrior, sprinted after the two and it was Dean who lunged at the beast, driving a knife up into the creature's ribs and at six years old, Sam thought he was to blame, thought he was the one who had caused Dean's very first asthma attack and now nearly sixteen years later... he still does.
ping
Sam had got Dean sick. Sam had wanted to come to California when Dean hadn't. Sam forced Dean into this job where they would have to burn bones, creating smoke, in the cold weather, and to top it all off he told Dean to fuck off, which probably stressed him out so bad he passed out on the goddamn bathroom floor.
ping
He knew those were Dean's triggers; hell, Sam read the pamphlet titled, 'Asthma: Taking Control for a Healthier Life' more times then anyone of the three ever did. He had begged Dean to let him monitor his brother's peak flow records daily like it was a matter of life or death and to Sam it completely was. Sam wanted to be educated. He just wanted to take care of Dean the way Dean always took care of him.
ping
Christ, Dean could have fucking died tonight...
Sam's head suddenly jerked when he heard commotion coming from in the small room to his left and he didn't hesitate running in, expecting something ghastly to greet his eyes. Entering, he found Dean still on the floor, head tilted back, eyes closed, looking as though he had fallen asleep right there sitting up, looking awfully comfy against the tub. One leg was extended out in front of him, as if he tried to move and failed.
He looked so tired.
Dean's eyes squeeze tightly before they blossom, aimed at the ceiling like it was something beautiful before dropping down to fall on Sam. His skin tone was still unsettlingly pasty and coated with sweat. His eyes were half-lidded, head slanted slightly, looking more thoughtful then concerned when he pointed out with a voice sounding a little more Dean-like, "You're bleeding."
Sam's eyes cast down and indeed he was. That would explain the warmth running down his shin and the desire to scratch at it. iStupid, Chevy./i He hadn't noticed the ache before but now it felt like someone had took a jackhammer to his knee. Leaning back against the sink to take the weight off his leg, Sam grunted as the heels of his hands land on both sides of the wannabe marble, and he pulled himself up to sit on the counter.
Dean frowned almost smugly, arms crossing so his hands were slowly rubbing up and down his bare shoulders. "Looks bad..."
Sam wanted to laugh. This was so fucking typical. Dean nearly dies and yet here he was fussing over a little cut on Sammy's precious knee. God, Dean just hated the fact that Sam loved him, hated knowing that Sam was the hero tonight and not the other way around. It pissed Sam off. "It's fine," he replied sharply, the hand at his side, swooping over to cover the wound.
Dean rolled his eyes and for the first time, he let himself gently touch his cheek. He vividly remembered the white hot sting he felt when Sam had slapped him and he bet somewhere in the back of his baby brother's mind he enjoyed it. It pissed Dean off.
Suddenly, the two brothers were very uncomfortable with the other's presence. Sam at the sink swore he can still hear the ping from around the corner while Dean on the floor swore Sam was loving how weak he was right now.
Fire was building up in his chest, and he lowered his intense gaze to his boxers, roughly rubbing at the royal blue plaid pattern for just a moment, before his gaze shot back to Dean with a look of malice in his eyes. "That hasn't fucking happened in a while." He said with an annoyed matter-of-fact tone.
And it was true... a little spiteful and a little unnecessary for the moment, seeing how Dean was barely holding it together as it is but nevertheless – it was very much the truth. It had been quite some time since he had a severe attack such as tonights. The last time Dean had been twenty and even then it was a shock when it occurred; before that one he held a six year record.
Dean cringed, arms unfolding to wrap around his propped knee, matching Sam's glare, looking and sounding so much healthier and stronger then he had all night when he spat back, "How the hell would you know?"
And it was fair... a little undeserved and a little badly timed, seeing how Sam just saved his fucking life but regardless – it was fair and yeah, it was the truth too. Sam wouldn't have known. He had missed four years of Dean's life. Anything could have happened between Stanford and now.
But it still hurt him, stabbed at his heart in such a way, he felt like someone was sitting on top of him. It was surprising that the comment even affected him at all. Swallowing hard, Sam's eyes hardened and softened at the same time but never leave Dean. "Coffee's probably done," said Sam, impassively low. He leans off the counter, stalking out of the room like a robot and wants so badly to slam that bathroom door behind him.
He doesn't.
Dean too felt like some force was wringing his lungs, tugging at his heart and no matter how much he wished it was just the ache of asthma, deep down he knew it wasn't.
Low fucking blow, Dean. You're an asshole. You owe him; he saved your life.
Meanwhile, Sam was pacing the bedroom angrily, hands entwined at the back of his head, pulling at his hair to keep from screaming, on the damn verge of tears.
Cheap shot, Sam. What's the matter with you? You owe him; he raised you.
Frowning, he stopped at the machine, grabbed one of the two presented mugs and filled it up half-way. Inattentively, he blew at it as he turned standing at the foot of Dean's twin bed. Signing, Sam reached over to pull the comforter off and drape it over his forearm.
The stubborn fucker might be cold in there.
Practically stomping back into the bathroom, he hovered over Dean who was grimacing as his hands covered his eyes, squeezing them shut.
Sam didn't say anything, just simply set the cup down on the uneven edge of the tub and then flopped the blanket at his brother's feet not even waiting for a response. He just turned, walked out of the bathroom, to the exit of the motel in nothing but his snug white t-shirt and boxers. Shutting the door this time, Sam limped vaguely across the parking lot.
Though Dean's eyes were closed he still heard the clank of porcelain coming together and then felt the whoosh of air, breeze over his body when the blanket was thrown down beside him. He looked up just in time to see Sam leave, then listened as his brother stomped through the room and out the door. And god, he wanted to get up, go after Sam. Make him understand that he didn't mean any of it. Make the hurt leave his eyes – hurt Dean created.
Sam leaned against the Impala's trunk for a quick break before he opened it, immediately spotting the little white box – the first aid kit. Placing it under his arm, He slammed the the trunk shut qith his free hand. A gust of wind ruffled his hair and he shivered, dragging himself back to their room.
Dean was just about done with his cup when he saw Sam stand at the bathroom's threshold.
When their eyes met, Sam was the one to pull away first. With his head cocked down, he made his way over to the sink, back facing Dean. Setting the kit down, he popped it open. The travelers size packet of aspirin finally caught his eye and he plucked it out, not pausing to rip it open because Dean's hands were still very rickety and even though Sam was still very much fuming he couldn't bare the sight of watching his brother struggle with the task.
Turning but not all the way, Sam threw his arm out as far as he could from where he was standing, the two blue pills visible and ready to drop into Dean's hand. He was looking at he same dent at the bottom of the wall when he felt the warmth of his brother's palm beneath his fingers. Dropping the pills, he quickly returned back to the kit to took out a Band-Aid, the small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a few cotton balls before seating himself down on the closed toilet.
Dean downed the pills with the last of his coffee before he found himself watching Sam patch himself up contemplatively. A frown formed on the elders face when he thought inwardly that he should be the one attending to his brother's abrasion because after all, that's what big brothers do.