A/N: Here it is, the final chapter of Oubliette. Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews, and stay tuned - I've already got another SN story in the works. :)
"Watch your head," Dean cautioned, helping his brother through the front door of his apartment.
Sam had just been released from the hospital, a week after having the shunt removed. He'd healed fine, with no complications, and Doctor Mitchell had determined that he was fit to be discharged.
Dean could tell, however, that Sam was still very weak. He could feel his brother shaking a little under his hand as he guided him to the old couch. The trip across town had been very tiring for Sam, his body unused to so much activity.
"Why don't you lie down for a while, and I'll fix us some dinner."
"Okay, okay, I'll lie down – you don't have to threaten me with your cooking."
Sam's voice was sarcastic, but Dean could see the relief in his eyes as he lay back against the cushions.
"Just for that, no dessert." He said in mock hurt, moving away to begin cooking. There wasn't much in the cupboards, but he did find some pasta and an unopened bottle of sauce – something he was fairly certain even he couldn't screw up. He set the water to boil and the sauce to heat, then grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge for himself and a water for Sam.
When he turned back to the couch, however, Sam was asleep, slumped awkwardly to the side, long legs splayed out in front of him.
Dean took a moment to smirk at his brother's ridiculous position before setting aside the drinks. He untied Sam's shoes, sliding them off gently, then stood and eased his brother's torso down until he was lying flat. Grabbing the army blanket off the back of the couch, he tucked Sam's legs up on the cushions and covered him.
Back in the kitchen the water was boiling, so he tossed in the pasta and cooked it until it was al dente. Fixing himself a bowl of spaghetti and sauce, he returned to the living area and sat against the wall to eat.
Forking the pasta into his mouth, he watched Sam sleep. It was good to see his brother without bandages on his head; even better to see him outside a hospital. It had been a close call – closer than he wanted to admit. Dean never wanted to feel that kind of all-encompassing helplessness again.
As it was, he still felt a lingering echo of fear that Sam would wake up and not remember. Or that he would suddenly be unable to speak, have a seizure, a stroke, slip into a coma. His brother had never seemed as fragile as he did now – not even as a child – and it sent Dean's big brother instincts into a frenzy.
Sam sighed contentedly in his sleep and shifted, throwing one long arm over his head. Dean smiled and let himself relax somewhat.
Sam was here. He was going to be okay.
Dean could wait. He'd been doing a lot of that, lately.
Sam woke feeling more rested than he had in a long time, stretching languidly before sitting up. The room was dimly lit, and he could see darkness outside the window. Looking around for the first time, he took in his surroundings.
The apartment was small and poorly designed, but remarkably clean. There were virtually no personal touches, but Sam could see signs of his brother everywhere – the gun cleaning kit on the table, his boots by the door, a shirt tossed over the back of a kitchen chair.
Dean himself was standing at the stove, heating up what smelled like pasta.
"'Bout time you woke up," Dean said without turning around. "I'm re-heating your dinner, so if it's shitty, don't blame me. You're the one who fell asleep when it was hot and fresh."
Sam's stomach rumbled.
"At this point, I'd eat it cold." He said, standing unsteadily and making his way to the table. Dean scoffed.
"Wait a few minutes and you won't have to."
Dean continued to stir the pan of noodles, and Sam settled back in his chair, yawning. There was a stack of magazines on the table, and he absently picked one up. He was expecting Maxim or Penthouse, and was surprised to see it was the American Journal of Neurosurgery. He blinked at it in mild shock, glancing between the obtuse publication and his brother.
Again, the magnitude of what his brother had done for him resonated. Sam knew that despite all the shit they'd been put through in their lives, he was incredibly blessed to have a brother as loyal and determined as Dean.
"Ready or not, here it comes!" the brother in question called, bringing a huge plate of spaghetti to the table with a flourish. Dean's gaze caught the journal in Sam's hand, and his expression faltered a little. Sam recognized his brother's "embarrassed and uncomfortable" expression and decided to let him off the hook.
"What, no Penthouse or muscle car mags?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Penthouse, maybe." Dean said, his face relaxing into a familiar smirk. "But car magazines? No way. Why would I waste time looking at inferior automobiles when I have perfection just outside? Plus, that would be like cheating on her."
"You're sick, you know that, right? I mean, not only do you eat pudding with spit in it, but you equate your car to a girlfriend. It's not right, man."
"No," Dean insisted, hands on his hips, "What's not right is this whole emactiated beanpole look you've got going on. We've got to put some meat back on those freaky bones, Calista."
Sam shot him a look, but was prevented from making a snide comment by the wad of food in his mouth. He didn't speak for another ten minutes, eating as though he were starving. Finally, the bowl was empty and he felt ready to burst.
"When are we leaving?" he asked abruptly, and Dean looked at him in confusion.
"Whadda ya mean?"
"Well, you've been stuck here for more than three months already, and I know how you hate to stay in one place. I just assumed you'd want to move on as quickly as possible."
Dean looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, tilting back in his chair.
"Neither one of us is in any shape to hunt right now, Sam. You still have a lot of healing to do. We're gonna have to brush up on our training, too, or we'll get our asses kicked first time out. Here's as good a place as any to do it. We already have a place to stay, and it's paid up through the next two months."
Sam smiled, relaxed and content. Two months of realtive downtime was unheard of in the Winchester lifestyle, and he recognized it for the gift it was.
"Don't get me wrong," Dean insisted, "This place blows, hardcore, and I don't want to stay here too long. But… we have time."
He looked across the table at Sam, his expression saying all the things he couldn't.
"Yeah," Sam agreed happily, "We do."
A/N: Well, folks, that's a wrap on Oubliette. Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to everyone who reviewed. I wish I had time to respond individually, but between work and my next fic, I'm all out of time!
