Chapter Eight:

After a solid minute of uneasy awkwardness, Dean lowered himself back onto the bed, curling into his side, facing Sam this time and Sam took the gesture as a good sign, only not because Dean normally wouldn't feel the need to rest unless he was that spent or weak.

Sam took their father's journal into his hands, traced his thin fingers at the spine. The damn thing was falling apart, the leathery smell faded long ago. His gaze moved to Dean and he discovered that his brother was watching him intently. Sam couldn't pinpoint the look Dean was giving him, not at all and that annoyed him.

"What?" The question was asked low and was voided of emotion.

Dean did a shimmy on the mattress, didn't really make any effort to shift into any particular direction and Sam could almost call the movement 'fidgety' but he rethought that idea and concluded that his big brother doesn't do fidgety.

"You're not tired," It wasn't a question. "and you look awfully thoughtful, Sammy." Dean has matched Sam's volume, the corner of his mouth pulling it's self into a weary smirk. "Sharing is caring, bud, so spill."

The tension and danger was gone, and yet they were still whispering for no reason at all, and though they both noticec it, they continuec their hushed conversation.

Meeting Dean's gaze, Sam attempted a smile or something akin of one but failed. He took in a shallow breath and finally felt himself ready to discuss what had been mulling in his mind for the past thirty minutes.

"As crazy as it sounds I don't think little Robby wanted to hurt us." When Dean simply snorted, he continued, his voice a little louder and a little more peeved. "No, I mean, I don't think he wanted me to—" Sam couldn't even say it. "I think he just wanted us to know what really happened and that was the only way he knew how to show us."

Dean nodded slowly, those lips of his pucker smugly. "Easy for you to say you weren't the one drowning, dude." The worry the crossed his kid brother's face had his eyes rolling; he quickly amended. "But I think I kind of know what you're talking about," His brows knit briefly. "When it was happening I felt... I don't know, scared but at the same time I wasn't because I never felt near-death only..." He tilted his head, "...I was but… not?"

Sam leaned forward, moving closer to Dean, taking a gentle hold of his chin, lifting to get a better look at his brother's pupils, "You might have a concussion..." He was serious.

And to Sam's utter surprise, Dean laughed, warm and low and genuine, "I knew that wouldn't come out right no matter how logical it seemed in my head." He smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes, which were red-rimmed and hellbent on pretending not to be tired; they didn't fool Sam.

Sam would have too chuckled at the comment if it hadn't been for the raspy breaths his brother was taking in. Moving his hand from Dean's chin to cup the ball of his brother's shoulder, Sam frowned at how hot Dean's skin felt under his touch. "How's your chest feeling?"

Dean weakly shrugged his occupied shoulder, which was bruised from Sam pinning him down before but he doesn't have the heart to mention that. And just the light pressure of Sam's comforting hand actually kind of hurt.

"It's alright." When he received a squeeze of - what is it? disbelief? encouragement of the truth? - he made a scoffing noise and admitted with a reassuring smile, "It's a little tight but it'll be okay." I'll be okay.

Sam still looked skeptical but released his hold. It wasn't like he could really do anything about that anyway. Dean would have to wait to take another dosage of medicine and there was no way in hell he'd willingly and or consciously be up for a trip to the hospital. Sam hated that if he were in the same situation, Dean wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. He'd throw his baby brother, in all his 6 foot 3" glory, over his shoulder and walk him to the nearest infirmary if he had to.

Letting his hand fall into his lap next to the other, Sam sat there for a moment, staring blankly at his brother, musing. He half wished Robby was still around because lord knew Sam has questions that were nagging at his brain, the kind that really served no purpose like when you couldn't remember that actors name on that one 80s sitcom and when you finally discover his name was Baio, Scott fucking Baio, you're ridiculously beyond relieved.

Why had Robby cast him as the role of Frankie? Why hadn't the little fucker just told them on a gust of wind or some other ghostly shit like that? Was all that anger he was feeling since 4am his or was he just under the influence of Frankie's emotions the whole time? Who was Robby anyway? We're they brothers, is that why they were picked for this horrid reenactment? What had Robert Hoel done to be murdered at the tender age of seven?

"Dude, take a picture. It'll last longer."

Sam blinked and found Dean smiling at him worriedly; it wavered at the look his kid brother was marring, the same one his features had been making for the past minute and it only grew further.
"Jesus, Sam. Get over it." Wow, that totally wasn't the comment Dean was going for. It came out a lot more harsher then he intended but he doesn't mention that; he doesn't revise.

"Get over it?" It seemed Sam wasn't lost in thought anymore and had found his voice again; loud and reproachful. He was just about furious. "I nearly kill you and you tell me to get over it?" He let out a bark of a bitter laugh, "Fuck you, Dean. Just—" He moved to gets up, and backs away. Okay, he was past furious now. "Fuck you."

But it was more then that and to simply chalk it up to this night in particular was a damn insult. It was everything -- before this night even. Tension that has been budding and spilling over unnecessary situations such as this one, since late September when Dean reeled Sammy right back into this life he hated.

Bewildered, downright livid, then just annoyed, "You said it yourself! He didn't want you to kill me! So, what the fuck are you having a conniption fit over?" Dean was trying to be helpful, honest to god, he really was.

He watched Sam pace the left side of the room, subtly shaky hands making their way to clasp on either side of his head. "That's just it though… I—"

"What, Sam, what!"

Sam stayed silent but he really didn't have to say anything. Guilt was painted as clear as day across his face where a seemingly permanent dent had formed on Sam's forehead.

Dean had seen just about enough. He groaned, "Oh, god," with such dramatic annoyance, coming off almost effeminately, "Please, don't tell me we're doing this again."

"This?" Sam repeated, a cross between pissed and taken aback.

"Yeah, Sam. This— you guilt-tripping yourself when a spirit fucks with your head. I get that you couldn't stop yourself, man. Hell, I was temporarily seven and I couldn't do a damn thing about it." Dean huffed out a breath. God, he was too tired for this bullshit. Patch Sammy up and go to bed, was all he had planned.

Sam turned away, fists balled up at the hips, his shoulder blades tensed and Dean wanted to punch him. Just outright and deck the kid so they'd both get a decent night's sleep. He didn't, of course because well then he'd have to get up in order to do that. Instead, he breathed out evenly and propped himself up onto his elbows.

"Not to flatter you or anything but when you were holding me down, it wasn't as strong as you could have done and lord knows I could kick your ass… It was almost like we were both—"

"Kids," Sam finished.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, exactly. Therefore, it wasn't you. It wasn't me," Light, make it light, "I mean, god, did you hear me? I was a few stutters and tears away from blubbering," He smirked, "Now shut up, I'm tired of hearing myself talk."

There was a long stretch of silence and Dean's proud of himself when he noticed Sam relax, "That's new," his baby brother finally said as Dean was already moving down onto the bed again,

"Prick." He threw back.

And just like that the crisis was averted and Dean's eyes were closed. "Hit the light, would ya?" He all but slurred to Sam as he turned slightly, a hand tugging at the thin sheets to wrap around himself.

"Not yet, dumbass. I have to dress that wound properly."

Dean made an exaggerated groan of protect, sounding like a five-year-old who had been denied a piece of cake or a shiny new toy at the store.

Sam shook his head and disappeared, heading off into the bathroom. When he returned Dean was actually sitting up at the edge of the mattress, shoulders sagging, eyes half-mast, a childish frown marring his face and Sam couldn't help but laugh. The noise made Dean look up, annoyed with his baby brother's amusement.

A few dabs of peroxide, rubbing alcohol, and a secured sterile bandage later and Dean was hardly awake anymore, currently teetering dangerously at the edge of the bed and if it weren't for Sam's steady hand, the elder would have probably fell over.

Sam smiled almost sadly at his brother's defenselessness and gave Dean's shoulder a gentle pat when his work was finished. Half-turning, Sam tidied the items of the first aid kit before closing it and when he glanced to his brother he found that he was already in bed, sprawled out and lookin' comfy.

"Light," Dean called groggily.

Though Dean's eyes were closed, Sam complied and then shuffled across the room to his own twin bed. Groaning when he plopped down, Sam crawled beneath the covers.

"Fucking sleep already." Dean complained when Sam tossed and turned on his mattress, trying to get into a comfortable position.

Sam snorted, rolling onto his side, facing Dean. "I don't know why you're bitching about sleep. I'm just gonna wake you up every two hours anyway." He sighed heavily, shifting again then finally settled.

Dean pouted in the darkness. "Concussions blow."