Dean woke up the next morning surrounded by his octopus of a little brother.
Sam's sasquatch limbs were entangled with his, the icicle feet tucked under his legs as the boney knees pressed against his thigh. They shaggy head was still tucked under his chin, one skinny arm thrown over his side, and Dean smiled as he noticed the amulet was still clenched in the long fingers.
Sam's body was warm and Dean felt his breath on his chest as he slept on. He made sure not to move a muscle, having no desire at all to rouse the sleeping boy.
It wasn't long until he felt Sam start to wake. A history of watching his little brother come out of sleep had him completely attune to his routine.
It always began with the legs; they would start to move and kick about. Then came the stretching, his back, arms, and legs all extending as far as they could, save the arm tucked in between the two of bodies. Followed by the head-roll, Sam's long hair tickling Dean's face as he moved his head from side to side. Then the mumbling arrived, not actual words or anything, just an assortment of moans and grumbles. And finally, the eyes peeked open, two hazel orbs clouded with sleep blearily staring out at the world, or at Dean, actually.
Ever since he was young, Sam had always searched for his big brother upon waking. Dean would be lying if he said it didn't make him feel pretty damn important.
True to history, Sam's eyes searched him out the moment they opened.
Dean feigned sleep as he felt the shaggy head moving to look up at him.
He knew Sam.
He knew now that it was morning, now that he was warm and feeling alright, the embarrassment would set in. His little brother wasn't a kid anymore, he was no longer okay with being coddled like a child. His stubbornness and independence disappeared when he was hurting or cold, but when he recovered they often returned with a vengeance.
Therefore - since Sam had gotten older - whenever any form of cuddling was necessary, due to cold or fear, Dean would fake sleep until his little brother woke. Then he would allow him to untangle himself from him and would conveniently come out of sleep after the kid snuck off to the bathroom. He did all that to save him from having to feel embarrassed.
Dean waited for Sam carefully pull away and climb discreetly off the bed, but it wasn't happening. Instead, he felt a gentle pull on his neck as the string of the amulet was lightly tugged. He cracked his eye open just a little and looked down discreetly. Sam's gaze was focused on the amulet being toyed with in his hand, fingers sliding over the ugly little charm. A fond smile crossed Dean's face.
"Sammy?" He croaked, voice rough with sleep.
The younger man didn't flinch, or even remove his eyes from the object in his hand; as though he had already known Dean was awake, which wouldn't surprise the hunter. He got the feeling the little bugger had always known a hell of a lot more than he ever let on to.
"You alright?" He asked.
His brother's only response was a small nod, made without bothering to alter his gaze.
It was out of character.
Usually, Sam would have made his awkward escape by now; humiliated by the fact he had spent the night huddled in his arms. Then again, the last time they had been in this particular situation was years ago, before Sammy headed off to school. So maybe time had changed some things.
"I missed you."
The quiet confession pulled Dean from his analysis of his little brother's behaviour. His eyes went wide as he stared down at the shaggy head. The statement had been so honest, made without reservation and it threw him completely off guard. It was Sam, just so fucking Sam to simply announce that kind of shit. The kind that shit made Dean's throat close-up and his heart ache; and the kid just spewed it out like it was nothing.
Dean wanted to tell him that he missed him to.
That getting up every day was harder when Sam hadn't been there. That every minute they were apart, Dean had this feeling inside him that wouldn't go away, this pain that went all the way down to his soul. He wanted to tell his little brother that it was all he could do to function without him, that Dean's life meant nothing without Sam in it. He wanted to say that he missed the kid like hell, but he couldn't get it out, couldn't get his lips to form the words. Because he had never been like Sam, he had never been able to wear his heart on his sleeve the way his little brother did, had never been able to vocalize what he was feeling the way he did.
He had never had that kind of strength.
"Yeah, same here, Sammy." He muttered past the lump in his throat.
"You going to get off him anytime soon?" He asked gruffly, after a moment.
The young man just sighed, making no effort to move.
"Sam?"
"I'm not on you." He mumbled.
Dean had to take a piss, but he had never been the one to push Sam away, and it was something he couldn't physically do, not ever. He felt as though the kid would read into it, interpret his actions as some form of rejection.
And rejecting Sammy was something Dean could never do.
So, he lay there, watching as his little brother proceeded to examine the gift he had given him so many years ago. Dean didn't understand the sudden fascination the kid had with the amulet, but he found it oddly comforting.
"I uuhh…" Sam paused, Dean could tell he was choosing his words carefully.
"I never forgot. Everything you did for me…I never forgot it, not any of it."
Dean gave his kid a quizzical look.
"What are you talking about, buddy?"
"When I left for school, I don't want you to think that I forgot about all the stuff you did for me, how you always took care of me. "
Two wide hazel eyes looked up at the older boy, staring right directly into his soul.
"I never forgot, Dean. I still haven't forgotten." He finished, his gaze searching the green one.
Oh gawd, it was way too early for this shit.
All Dean could do was nod, because there was no fucking way he was going to do anything else to add to the girlishness of the moment, like crying – which he was pretty fucking close to doing. He had no idea where the hell all these emotions and confessions were coming from, whether the kid had some weird sort of dream, or spending the night cuddling like girls had made him all sentimental.
"We done now? Or do you want to start braiding each other's hair?" He joked.
Sam smirked, shaking his head with a roll of his eyes. His little brother slid his thumb over the face of the charm one last time, before letting it drop with a sigh.
"Shut up, Dean. You know you love to cuddle." Came Sam's delayed response as he pulled away and slid off the other end of the bed.
"Whatever you say, princess." He replied.
"I'm sorry, what was that? You don't want any hot water? Okay good, I'll use it all." Sam quipped, walking into the bathroom with his duffel over his shoulder and a smile on his face.
"Don't you dare!" Dean hollered as the kid closed the door with a laugh.
Not like Sam was going to be able to get any hot water in the first place, he thought belatedly, as he climbed out of bed and went to the light switch.
"Shit." He cursed as he flipped it up and nothing happened. "Well that's just terrific."
"Stop talking to yourself, Dean! It's weird." Sam yelled out from the bathroom.
"Stop listening and just take a damn shower!" He responded.
"So bossy." Sam called out right before the water turned on.
The record quick shower the hunter took was all the proof Dean needed to know that there wasn't any hot water.
Sam came out of the bathroom just moments after he'd entered it, dripping wet and shivering.
"Here." Dean tossed him the keys as he headed to the bathroom. "I want you to go sit in the car, turn her on, and blast the heat."
"Dean, that's really not—
"Hell yeah, it's necessary! My cuddling quota has been filled for at least a month, so you need to keep your ass warm."
Sam looked as though he was going to argue, but nodded instead. Dean was surprised by the compliancy, but was sure not to show it as he closed the door and prepared for his own lightning speed shower.
"What the hell?" He shouted out as he locked up the motel room a mere five minutes later and saw his little brother outside clearing ice off the windshield with the snow-scraper.
"It's just a thin layer, Dean. I don't think it damaged the paint."
"You think I'm talking about the ice?"
The young man looked up from what he was doing, a question on his face.
"What did I tell you?" He bit out, marching over and pulling the snow-scraper from his grip, relieved that the moron had at least put his gloves on.
"What's your problem?"
"I told you to get in the car, Sam." Dean reminded him in frustration.
"I know, I just thought I'd get some of the ice off while I was waiting." He replied casually.
"The point of you waiting in the Impala was so you wouldn't freeze your ass off." The shorter man clarified, giving his brother a gentle push in the direction of the passenger side.
"I was just trying to help." Sam muttered dejectedly.
"And I appreciate that. But what would really help me is you not getting hypothermia, so get in the car."
The younger hunter released an exasperated huff as he climbed into the vehicle.
"Start it up and turn the fucking heat on, Sam!" Dean yelled out, not surprised by the bitch-face that he received in response.
"I'm sorry, baby." He apologized, turning his attention back to the Impala after his brother turned her on. There was a thin layer of ice coding the entire surface of the vehicle. "We are never coming this far north again." He muttered as he finished scraping the windshield.
"So, what's the verdict? Is the car going to make it?" Sam asked with a smirk when his brother dropped into the front seat.
Dean's unimpressed side-long glance had the kid snickering, but at least he shut his mouth.
"The Impala is going to be fine, despite the torture this state is putting her through. If I was you, I'd spend more time worrying about all that girlie hair that's freezing to your face." He said, pointing to the kid's still damp brown locks.
"You worry too much."
"Yeah, and you don't worry enough."
Sam shook his head with a laugh.
"What?" Dean asked, pulling onto the road, driving slow, having no desire to end up spinning on the ice.
"Nothing, it's just you used to always say that it was me who worried too much."
"You do."
"But you just said—
"You worry too much about everything not related to yourself."
"Yeah, okay, that makes a lot of sense." Sam said sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.
"You have always worried too much about school and hunting, about me and dad and every other human being on this godforsaken planet. But when it comes to you, you don't worry nearly enough." Dean tried to explain.
"You're the same way." Sam pointed out quietly.
"No." He denied.
"Yeah Dean, you always—
"I worry about you. That's it."
"And Dad." Sam added.
"No, Dad can take care of himself."
"You're seriously saying you're not worried the least bit about him?" He questioned in disbelief.
"Concerned, a little, maybe." The older boy admitted.
Dean had never really worried about John before. He had always had full confidence in his abilities and didn't waste a lot of time fretting over all the things that could happen to him, not the way Sam did. But John had never been gone this long without contacting Dean, so yeah, maybe he was getting a tad concerned.
"And you don't worry about yourself either." Sam pointed out.
Dean didn't have much of a response, because the kid had a point.
"So why should I worry about myself when you don't do the same?"
Dean thought back to another time when Sammy had made the same kind argument for the same reason.
Dean was confined to the bed with a broken leg and three busted ribs. He spent most of his day watching television, Sam waiting on him hand and foot when he was home to do it, which wasn't too often. The kid was busy with school and as if that wasn't enough, he had had to pick up a job as well.
Their dad had joined Pastor Jim and Caleb on some big hunt, normally Dean would be there helping them out, but his injuries had him benched for the moment. Anyways, the hunt was taking a hell of a long time and the brothers had run clear out of cash. Dean had suggested they just make use of the one emergency credit card they had left, but Sam had reminded him of their father's constant warning to only use fraudulent credit cards when you were passing through or else you were going to get caught in a world of legal trouble. So instead the kid was stuck in school from eight am until three pm and then working at some diner from five pm until twelve am and he was taking care of Dean somewhere in the middle of all that.
"Sammy, I can make my own dinner." He whined as his brother set a sandwich and some soup on the bedside table.
"Really? And how would you do that? I mean, seriously man, you can hardly get vertical for the length of time it takes you to go to the bathroom, you think you could stand long enough to make a meal?" Sam asked in disbelief.
"I could manage." He grumbled miserably, not willing to admit that he made an effort not to drink too much because taking a piss was really hard to do with this many broken bones, not too mention the giant cast encasing most of his leg.
"Sure, whatever." Sam dismissed in that classic teenage way, dumping Dean's meds into his awaiting palm. "Take your pills, eat your food. Don't get out of that bed."
"Yes, nurse." He sulked, glaring down at the pills, they were the reason Sam was stuck working his ass off. These fucking expensive pills were the reason for the bags under the hazel eyes and the constant yawning. Dean needed them for pain and to stave off infection, but he was willing to go without if it would make life easier for Sam. Of course, the kid wouldn't hear of it.
"Don't glare at them, Dean. Swallow them."
He looked up to see Sam staring down at him, as though the boy had read his mind. He tossed the medication into his mouth, shaking his head at the water his brother offered him and dry swallowing them. Even after taking them Sam continued to watch him, one eyebrow raised.
"Seriously?" Dean asked, knowing what the brat wanted.
Sam proceeded to stare.
"You're an idiot." Dean insulted before giving the stubborn little bitch a clear view of the inside of his mouth, lifting his tongue so he could be sure there were no pills hidden anywhere. After a brief examination, Sam nodded his head with a smirk and made his way across the motel room.
"You're like a nazi-nurse." He muttered before biting into his sandwich and humming in pleasure. "But you certainly are a good little cook." He praised as he chewed.
"The soup is from a can. And making a sandwich doesn't require a whole lot of cooking skills." Sam explained as he put on his shoes.
"Well I wasn't suggesting you open a restaurant or anything. I'm just saying you know how to make it exactly the way I like it." Dean tried to get the kid to take the damn compliment, and it seemed that he did, a small dimply smile crossing his face as he tied on his last shoe.
"You need anything else before I head out?" His brother inquired as he came to a stand.
"Foot massage, six-pack, oh and a chainsaw." Dean listed off.
"Dean, we both know you'd never let anyone without breasts massage you."
The older boy nodded at that truth.
"And no alcohol on meds, you know that."
Dean rolled his eyes.
"What about the chainsaw?"
It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.
"Dude, it's only been two weeks, you know that cast isn't ready to come off yet."
Of course he knew it, that didn't make him any happier about it. His little brother had to help him take a freakin shower yesterday and the kid was wearing himself out taking care of him. Dean was beyond ready to get rid of the damn cast.
"Glaring at your leg isn't going to make it heal any faster." Sam informed him with a snicker as he rifled through his backpack. "Here." He pulled out a magazine and held it out.
Dean looked at the cover, Guns and Ammo, spelled out in capital letters across the top.
He smiled. "Awe, Sammy, you shouldn't have."
"I figured you needed something to help pass the time." The teen shrugged.
Dean went to take the magazine, but was distracted by the sight of the stretched out hand. "What the hell?" he barked, bypassing the book and grabbing hold of the kid's wrist.
"Dean." Sam sighed.
"Don't' Dean' me. Why is your hand all dry and cracky?" He questioned, turning it over and seeing how much worse it was on the other side.
"They are just dried out. It's from doing dishes all evening." His brother claimed, all too casually.
"They? Both your hands are like this?"
Sam nodded and brought his other one into view. Dean examined the two appendages. They were hard to the touch, dry, and cracked.
"I've taken jobs as dish-man at a few diners in my time, Sam, and my hands never once looked this fucked up." He cursed, sweeping his fingers over his brother's palm, not missing the slight wince at the applied pressure. "They stiff too?" He asked.
"A little." Sam admitted.
"How are you even using these?" He questioned bluntly, allowing his brother to have his hands back.
"It's not that bad." Sam shrugged.
"Not that bad? They are like rocks. You're telling me they aren't painful to use?"
"Not really, only hurts a little. But I picked up some lotion that's helping a bit with the cracked skin."
"How long they been like that?"
The lack of response didn't help his rising frustration.
"Sam!" He snapped.
"Bout a week."
His answer was like a punch to the gut. A week? His kid brother's hands had been this jacked up for a week and he hadn't noticed?
"They got a lot worse last night, that's why I picked up some cream after work. It wasn't this bad until just recently." Sam stated earnestly; apparently able to sense that Dean had been accusing himself for not paying enough attention.
"Is this because of the frostbite?" He asked, his guilt building by the minute.
"I don't think so. I'm washing dishes in hot water, not cold."
Dean nodded, because he also didn't understand how that had anything to do with the effects of his frostbite.
"Alright, well you better call into work or something."
"Why?"
"Um, because you won't be going in."
"Dude, I can still do my job." Sam argued.
"I don't see how, but even if you can manage it's not a good idea."
"I'll be fine."
"Sam, if the hot water is what did this to your hands do you really think it's a good idea to keep soaking them all day?"
"It's fine. I'm fine. The cream is working, okay? Stop worrying." Sam instructed as he grabbed the keys off the table and made his way to the door.
"I don't want you driving my baby with those hands!" Dean hollered, wishing he could get off this damn bed and tackle that moron to the ground.
"The Impala and I will be fine. Keep your ass in bed."
"Sam!" Dean yelled as he watched stubborn brat leave the room.
"I'll bring you back a burger." Were the teen's last words as he closed the motel door.
"Sam!" He shouted out, giving up his fruitless struggle to climb from the bed when he heard the Impala pulling out of the parking lot. "Damnit!" he swore. Suddenly wishing that Sam was not yet old enough to drive, and that he wasn't confined to this bloody bed.
Dean spent the next six hours either brooding or dozing, with a little bit of reading and shitty television mixed in.
Shortly after 11:00pm he heard the sound of someone entering the motel room, or trying to. The jiggling of the doorknob went on long enough that by the time the door actually swung open he had his gun at the ready. Of course it was just his lanky little brother, who didn't even notice the weapon pointed at him because he was too busy trying not to drop the two bags tucked under his arms.
"Sammy." Dean sighed, placing the handgun back on the side-table.
"Hey." The teen muttered, setting his stuff down on the kitchen table and kicking off his shoes.
"You're home early." He observed aloud.
"Yeah." Came the simple response.
Something was off. Sam was normally quiet after work, too tired to have much of a conversation. And while he usually only stayed upright long enough to check on his big brother and brush his teeth, he wasn't ever this somber. Hell, the kid hadn't even looked at Dean yet. There were a number of signs of abnormal behaviour, but the biggest one was that Sam hadn't asked the first thing that had come out of his mouth as soon as he got in the door every day for the past two weeks, 'how you feeling?'
Not that Dean was complaining, but Sam not behaving like a mother-hen was concerning to say the least.
Yup, something was definitely wrong.
"How was work?" He queried, picking carefully to figure out what the deal was.
"Fine."
"How are your hands?"
The lack of response had him on high alert.
"Sam?"
Again, nothing, the kid wouldn't even turn around, just stood facing the table.
"Alright that's it." Dean muttered as he began to shimmy his way over to the edge of the bed, setting his good leg on the ground. He was about to pull his casted right leg off the bed when Sam stopped him.
"Whoah, Dean. Stop! Hold on." The teen demanded, rushing towards him.
"Then tell me what's going on." He ordered, staring up at his little brother.
Sam bit down on his lower lip, always a bad sign. "Just, don't freak out."
Another bad sign.
"Tell me and I'll react however the hell I want." Dean bit out. He hated that he was stuck sitting in bed, as if his sasquatch of a brother wasn't already getting taller than him, now the kid was practically towering over him.
Sam looked down, Dean following his gaze to the hands, which had been tucked up in his shirt sleeves, that were slowly appearing.
"Sonuvabitch." He cursed, once they were in full view. His little brother's hands were blistered and bleeding.
Dean made to touch them, to turn them over, but he was too afraid of hurting his kid. So instead, his hands hovered uselessly over the damaged ones.
"Turn." He ordered softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Sam listened, doing as he requested.
His palms were even worse. Cracked, blistered, and bleeding in every possible spot. His fingers were the same; it looked as though the kid had contracted some kind of disease.
Dean attempted to climb to his feet again.
"Dean, what are you—
"We have to get you to the hospital." He grunted out, the pain in his ribs screaming as he worked to get off the bed.
"I already went." Sam informed him, pressing his forearms down on the broad shoulders as a pathetic attempt to keep him from standing.
"It sure doesn't look like it." Dean paused momentarily to glare up at the fibber.
"I did, I swear. They said it's fine."
"Bullshit!" He spat, trying to pull his uselessly broken leg off the bed.
"Dean, Stop!"
He did, not because his brother said so…well maybe a little. The truth was Sam could be quite forceful when he wanted to. He also stopped because his ribs were killing him and his leg wasn't cooperating, plus his stupid little brother wasn't giving him the space necessary to climb out of the damned bed.
"I went to the clinic. They said my hands would be fine. They—
"Sam, you look like a fucking burn victim!" The older boy shouted in frustration.
"Dean!" The kid called out over top of him.
"What?" He ground out, his worry coming out as anger, something it often did.
"Just listen, okay? It's bad. I know that."
Dean nodded, because that was the first remotely accurate thing Sam had said so far.
"I went to the clinic less than an hour ago—
"Why didn't you call me?"
"What were you going to do, man? You don't have a car and you can't really operate the crutches with those ribs. You going to crawl across town?" The teen asked with a smirk.
"This isn't a fucking joke, Sam." He swore, sending him a look that immediately erased that smirk from his face.
"Sorry." The younger boy muttered quietly. "Anyways, the doc at the clinic said that I have something called anhidrosis in my hands."
Dean waited for the explanation, because what the hell?
"It means that my hands don't sweat. They can't sweat. So, when they get really hot for long periods of time they over heat and start to blister." Sam explained carefully, looking down at his damaged fingers.
"What do we do? How do we fix it?"
A small smile flashed across the young face, for what reason Dean didn't know.
"It's always 'we' with you." Sam observed softly, sounding as though he was speaking to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing." Sam shook his head. "The doc just gave me some ointment, gauze, and some meds. He said I need to keep my hands wrapped until they are done…oozing. To avoid infection."
Dean grimaced at the word as he returned his gaze to his little brother's injury.
"It'll be a couple weeks maybe, but he said I'll be fine. Just no more intense heat exposure until my hands are healed." Sam finished off, ducking his head in shame and letting that shaggy brown hair hide his expression.
"Don't worry about your stupid dish-washing job, Sam." Dean sighed with a roll of his eyes, his little brother's priorities were severely jacked up. He was about to inform him of that fact, when something hit him.
"Wait, how did you get anhiderliouses?"
"Anhidrosis." Sam corrected with a snicker.
"Gazuntite." Dean quipped.
Sam laughed, and damn Dean would never tire of hearing that sound, but it didn't distract him from the answer he was looking for.
"How'd you get it?" He repeated.
"The sweat glands in my hands don't work." Sam replied simply.
Dean raised an eyebrow, because that was not what he was asking.
"Nerve damage." Sam tried again.
Dean waited. He knew what the answer was. He knew exactly why his little brother's hands were oozing, bleeding, and blistered to hell. But he needed the kid to confirm that knowledge.
"The frostbite."
It was a whisper, made without eye-contact while Sam chewed on his lip. Dean had already known. Deep down he knew the second he saw the teen's hands that afternoon. But it still hurt to hear. Because this was his fucking fault.
"Don't do that, Dean."
The request was soft and pleading. The older boy tore his eyes from his kid's damaged hands and looked up at his face, shifting over a little as the lanky boy sat down on the edge of the bed.
"This isn't your fault. The frostbite wasn't your fault." He declared, two wide hazel orbs staring intently into green ones.
"I should have known." Dean argued, cursing himself.
He knew all the other long-term effects of the frostbite. He thought he had learned everything there was to know. He thought Sam would be safe in South Carolina. He thought as long as they were somewhere warm he didn't have to worry, at least not about the kid's hands.
He thought wrong.
"There's no way you could have known. The doc said that it's rare to get anhidrosis from frostbite." Sam insisted.
The older boy shook his head. Sam was always making excuses for him.
"Dean, we never could have known. And as long as I don't get another dish-washing job it will probably never happen again."
"Your hands will never get hot again?" He questioned in exaggeration.
"No. It's not just hot. It's lengthy exposure to intense heat." Sam recited.
Dean squinted over at him.
"Walking out in the sun, or lighting a match isn't going to do anything. It has to be a lot hotter for a much longer period of time." His little brother specified.
"Like washing dishes in steaming water for seven hours a night two weeks straight?"
Sam nodded shyly.
Dean looked back at the damaged hands and cursed himself. He should have caught on earlier, shouldn't have let Sam go to work that night.
"Where's the stuff for your hands?" He asked, because shit, he should have done that first.
"Table." Sam answered.
"Well are you waiting for me to go get it?"
"What? You think you could?" His brother challenged.
"I think I could kick your ass."
"Sure." Sam mocked as he got up and walked over the table, grabbing a hold of the smaller paper bag. He carried it back held carefully between two fingers.
"Sit." He ordered as he dropped the bag on the bed.
Sam complied, sitting on the edge of the bed next to his brother's legs, angled towards him.
"Hands." Dean demanded, digging through the bag, pulling out the ointment.
He held his hands out palms down, looking up at Dean under his brown bangs.
It was all Dean could do not to cringe at the sight of the injury. The palms may be the worst, but the tops of Sam's hands and his fingers sure weren't anything to brag about. The blisters were everywhere and they were indeed oozing.
"Dammit, Sammy. You're a mess." He sighed, his touch feather-light as he spread the ointment over his little brother's damaged skin.
Sam snorted and shook his head.
"What?" The older boy asked, glancing up for the teen's hands to get a look at his face.
"You're not much better, Dean. You've got broken ribs and your entire right leg is wrapped in plaster." He nodded towards the limb, as if Dean had somehow forgotten.
"Yeah, well I got attacked by a fugly monster. What's your excuse?" He regretted the accusatory tone the moment he heard it.
Sam made no reply, his gaze diverted to the floor.
"I didn't mean- look I…" Apologies had never been his thing. "I just want you to take better care of yourself, kiddo." he summed up.
"You're one to talk." Sam snapped, sending the hunter an angry look.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's volume escalated in defense, but his actions remained gentle. Even when his brother pissed him off, he'd never do anything to intentionally harm him.
"What I mean is that you're bitching about how I should take better care of myself, but you're worse than me!"
"Sam—
"The reason you're stuck in this bed is because you didn't look after yourself."
"Dude, I—
"I know you got hurt hunting. But the reason you got hurt is because you couldn't move fast enough."
"That's—
"And you couldn't run quick enough because you cracked your ribs a few days before and instead of sitting the hunt out like I begged you to, you just went ahead with it!"
"I know—
"Hell, I wouldn't have even had to get the diner job if you had taken care of yourself."
Sam's last line hit him hard, probably because it was so painfully true. Dean kept his eyes on his hands, carefully turning them over to spread the ointment across his palms, where the worst of the damage was located. His brother hissed as he smeared the cream over a particularly nasty cluster of blisters.
"Sorry." He whispered.
"It's fine." Sam dismissed, his voice much softer than it had been just a moment ago. "Look, I just…" The teen sighed, at an apparent loss for words. "I know how much you worry about me. I know how frustrating it is when the person you care about most doesn't seem to care about themselves. I know that because that's how I feel with you."
Sam was right. Dean couldn't deny it. He knew that the kid worried about him. He knew that he had ignored his brother's concerns about his ribs. He had told him he was fine and then they had gone on a hunt and his cracked ribs ended up broken, as well as his leg. He understood where Sam was coming from.
Dean winced at his baby brother's flinch as he reached another oozing blister. "Sorry." He muttered instinctively.
"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault." The teen replied faintly.
"Yeah Sam, I do." He insisted, looking up for a minute to catch the hazel eyes before returning to tend to his hands.
"I get it. I'm always on you to look after yourself, and I- I guess I didn't realize that I'm not setting the greatest example." He stuttered out awkwardly.
"You're not that bad, Dean." Sam stated. "I jus -I don't get why I have to worry about myself and you don't worry about yourself at all."
"It's different, Sam. Because of your hands." Dean replied lamely. Tugging out the gauze and beginning to gingerly wrap it around the damage.
"It's not. It's not different." Sam protested, pulling his hands from his brother's grip.
Dean looked over at Sam, which was apparently what the kid wanted, because he continued to speak as his puppy-dog look made the older boy's heart clench, the way it did every damn time the brat used it.
"All you do is worry about me. So, if you're worrying about me and I'm worrying about me, then who the hell is worrying about you?" His little brother queried, his tone desperate as his eyes implored him to understand.
Dean could see it in his face, the face that looked so much like the one of the child that Sam used to be, he could see the need the teen had for him to get what he was saying. He could see how much his big brother to needed him to comprehend his side of things.
"Alright Sam, I get what you're saying. And I can't promise anything is going to change. I'm just used to worrying about you, you know?"
Sam nodded, disappointment crossing his features.
"But I'll try."
The teen straightened up at that, eyes growing wide in both surprise and cautious optimism.
"I will try to take better care of myself, but only if you promise to do the same."
Sam nodded fervently at the condition.
"I will." He assured.
"Good." Dean confirmed with a nod.
"I'm sorry, about the job. I'm supposed to be the one looking after you and I fucked it up." Sam spat out, the self-loathing almost tangible.
"Hey, whoah. No way, man. Don't you do that. This is on me, okay? It's my fault you were put in this situation in the first place."
"No, Dean. I didn't mean it when I said that." Sam interrupted urgently.
"Maybe not, but you were right. If I had taken better care of myself, if he had listened to you, I wouldn't have gone on that hunt and gotten hurt even worse than I already was."
"You didn't know. You couldn't help it." Sam insisted, always his number one defender this kid. If Sam had it his way Dean would never be guilty of anything ever.
"I could have and I should have. But I didn't. And I'm sorry for that." He declared honestly.
"How about I don't blame you for getting yourself hurt, and you don't blame me for screwing everything up and losing my job."
It was a shitty deal. One that seemed to let Dean off the hook, but Sam seemed so hopeful that the older boy didn't have the heart to tell him how childish he was being.
"Sure." He agreed half-heartedly. Not releasing any of the blame he deserved, but willing to allow his little brother to believe that he was as guilt-free as Sam seemed to always believe he was.
"We're quite the pair." He remarked after a moment, nodding at their various injures as he gently tugged Sam's hands back towards himself and continued to wrap them.
His little brother chuckled. "How about no more injuries for the next few weeks?"
"No argument there." Dean agreed, becoming more serious upon seeing Sam's long fingers twitching in pain as he covered them with gauze. "How much does it hurt?" He asked, just as he finished bandaging the damaged hands.
"Not a lot." Sam replied with a shrug.
"One to ten?" He queried, realizing this was a question that was far too customary.
"Four."
"Liar." He admonished.
"I learned from the best." Sam responded with a cheeky smile.
Dean could never stay mad at this kid.
"You bring me a burger?" He asked, desperate to get that adoring puppy dog gaze off him, knowing he didn't deserve it, not for one bloody second.
"Yeah. It's probably cold now. I'll toss it in the microwave."
"Well good luck with that. You're wrapped up like a mummy." Dean joked.
"I'm sure that I can manage, gimp." Sam laughed, getting to his feet.
Dean watched his little brother as he struggled to take the contents from the take-out bag and transfer them into the crappy motel microwave.
The kid was right.
He was constantly telling Sam to take better care of himself, even though Dean did a shit job of looking after himself. But what Sam didn't get, what he couldn't possibly understand, was that he was the little brother. Dean didn't have time to worry about him, he had to put his kid first.
Did he want to sit out on the hunt a few days after he had his ribs cracked during a salt-and-burn? Hell yeah. He loved the hunt, but he was in enough pain that he would have rather spent the evening chilling out in front of the TV. But that wasn't an option, because he had a little brother to look out for. John could be a very single-minded hunter, out for the kill at any cost, often not taking the time to focus on his well-being or that of other. And if Dean were perfectly honest, he didn't trust the man with his kid. He would never have been able to forgive himself if he had backed out of the hunt and Sammy had gotten hurt. He had to be there to watch the kid's back. So maybe Dean sucked at looking after himself, but that was okay with him, because he was pretty fucking great at looking out for his little brother.
Well, usually.
Dean had slacked off this time. He had let the fact that they were in a warm state ease his mind. He had let his guard down, whether it was due to the injuries or the fact that he was enjoying having his little brother take care of everything, he didn't know.
Whatever the reason, it was unacceptable.
He had to watch out for Sammy at all times. And he had got to make sure he was watching out for himself as well. Dean was thinking the second task was going to be a whole lot more difficult.
His kid was a stubborn little shit.
"Well?" Sam asked, still waiting for an answer.
Dean will say it again, stubborn little shit.
"I don't have to worry about myself, because I'm not a trouble magnet." The excuse may have been lame, but it was all he could come up with on short notice.
"You're full of shit, Dean."
It wasn't said out of anger, but there was a definite bite to his little brother's words.
"What do you want me to say, Sam? You want me to make promises I can't keep? You want me to cover myself in bubble-wrap?"
"No, I want you to give a fuck!"
Dean startled slightly at the shout.
"I want you to care about yourself." Sam added in a much softer tone, much like the one he had used all those years ago when he was pleading for Dean to take better care of himself.
"I do care. Okay? I may not be great at taking it easy, or being cautious, or any of that, but I'm not self-destructive." Dean stated in all honesty.
He glanced to his right, Sam seemed to be taking in what had been said.
"Okay. And I care about myself too, Dean."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you so careless?"
"Oh gawd, are we going to go through this again? Didn't we do this a couple days ago on the way here? I get it, okay? I need to go over my priorities. I need to be more careful. I already promised you that I would." Sam stated, sounding both whiny and reassuring at the same time.
"Good. And part of that is not standing out in the cold scraping ice of the Impala and letting your hair freeze into little icicles."
"Fine, I promise to never again scrape ice off the car."
His brother sounded so sarcastic Dean had to glance over to make sure he wasn't actually the teenager he was used to hearing that tone come out of.
"That's a start." The older man declared with a nod.
Sam huffed, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed.
They drove in silence for a moment. Dean was busy surveying the streets, keeping an eye out for the diner that was supposedly located somewhere in the iced-over town.
Sam was busy pouting.
The quiet was interrupted by the sound of a long sigh, but it seemed to be one that was released without too much attitude.
"You're never going to change, are you?" His brother queried, almost casually.
Dean looked over at him, not sure where he was heading with that question.
"You're always going to waste all of your worry on me." Sam stated.
Dean didn't really agree with the wording that was used, but he couldn't argue with the main point.
Sam took his lack of response as confirmation.
"Alright. You worry about me. And I'll worry about you."
Dean found a strange sort of peace in that simple declaration. He glanced back over at the young man next to him; Sam was staring out the front windshield, his face no longer held that frustrated grimace, but rather a comfortable calm.
Perhaps Dean wasn't the only one who found peace in those words, or that reality.
"Bitch." He muttered.
"Jerk." Sam replied, and driver could hear the smile in his voice.
This stubborn little shit was Dean's focus, he was his number one priority, and no amount of bitching or whining was ever going to change that.
Dean would worry about Sam and Sam would worry about Dean. They would look out for each other. Because that was what they had always done.
That was what brothers did.