ULTIMATE DISCLAIMER: Every content, character, plot etc. that anyone is able to recognize as other's property is NOT mine. I have no intention to get into any trouble involving law and money.
Hey, guys!
Let's get this show on the road, then!
Prompt: "Sam goes on a solo hunt and gets hurt. The rest is up to you." by TotallyChic. This was a fun one to write, so thank you! I hope you'll like it.
Set: In an alternative season 9. I had to get rid of Ezekiel to get Sammy hurt, and I like the concept of PostTrial!Sammy still recuperating, so... The changes are mentioned in the story.
Warnings: Hurt!Sam, Mothering!Dean, brotherly moment. :D I hope I managed to write them in character...
Enjoy the story, guys! :D
Easy Hunt, Winchester Style
The rasp of the zipper echoed loudly in the empty map room. Sam took a deep breath as he glanced around the bunker. He felt slightly restless with Dean out on a job, leaving Sam to rest alone. It's been weeks since the aborted Trials and Sam slowly regained most of his strength and health. The sudden appearance of God – or Chuck, as He preferred – and His interruption of Metatron's plans lifted a huge burden off the Winchesters' shoulders. Chuck had healed Sam's battered body, but the younger hunter was suspicious that He hadn't fully finished the job. Sam had been shaky and weak, still suffering from some dizziness and bad coughing fits when Dean had got him in his mothering grip.
Although, seeing his big brother thrive proudly in his old, dusty role of caretaker… Sam couldn't complain about Chuck's sloppy work much.
Now, though, Dean was gone on a hunt with one of the few allies the Winchesters still had, departing only after ordering Sam to bedrest and relaxation. "Read a book or whatever…" Dean had hurriedly muttered as he had stepped out of the bunker. And to Sam's credit, he did as he was told. He finished some of the books Dean had gotten for him from the library – even the one romantic novel his brother loaned as a joke.
Until the ding of his laptop just this morning.
Sam had received Dean's usual phone call to check in and knew his brother will arrive no sooner than tomorrow morning. Just after that, he had received an e-mail about a house being disturbed by a spirit. It was just on the outskirts of Lebanon, their current home base. It had been nothing too violent – until the mother was pushed down the stairs.
Sam had felt the itch of hunting in the back of his brain, but he knew he had been out of the game for far too long. He had just been allowed to help on a hunt – by doing nothing but research. The memory of adrenaline coursing through him during action had plagued him since then, and even interviewing the residents of the house hadn't soothed it.
Sam sighed as he picked up the shovel, laying it on top of his duffel bag. He felt loads better than after the third, interrupted Trial. He had managed to lose the vertigo and coughing, and only got a fine rush of tremor all over his body every 4-5 hours – Dean kept track of it – and it's a simple salt and burn, he could take it easy during the shoveling, spirits usually don't attack until their coffins were ripped open and their remains were disturbed, and he's been doing salt and burns since he found out about the supernatural, and why is he justifying himself, he's a freakin' adult-
Sam quickly shook his head, dismissing his troubled paranoia. He grabbed the strap of the duffel bag, shouldered it, keeping the shovel on top of the bag, and made his way to the bunker's garage. He was glad Dean left one of the stolen cars in there from a previous hunt, repairing it to have a getaway car if the Impala isn't available. Sam put the bag into its trunk and swiftly slid behind the wheel. Before he could second-guess himself, he cranked the engine – maybe a bit harder than he should – and put the gear in drive.
How does that saying go?
"It's easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission."
Sam could only hope that it applies to rabid, protective big brothers, as well.
The crickets chirping in the night lured a smile onto Sam's face as he got his jacket back on and opened a water bottle. He felt satisfaction fill him as he glanced down at the neatly dug hole, the coffin ready to be opened. Sam let a shiver wash over him, partly from the tiring work and partly from the cool breeze brushing past him. He still had some trouble with his inner temperature and was hoping he hadn't acquired a fever from the sudden exercise. However, as he took a big gulp of water, he couldn't be more content being out on the field again and not feel so sickly that he had trouble standing up straight, let alone dig a hole.
Putting the bottle into his bag, he lifted the salt can and the lighter fluid and jumped back into the hole. With a grunt, he managed to lift the lid of the coffin, barely grimacing at the skeleton and rotten textile greeting him. Shoving the lid against the side of the pit, he quickly sprinkled the body with salt and lighter fluid. He suppressed the urge to whistle as if he was just cooking a meal at home.
As he finished up, he climbed out and fished the matchbox out of his pocket. He lit one and pressing it against the box, he let it catch fire. He held his hand out to drop the whole thing in, already impatient to boast about a successful hunt to his brother…
When Winchester luck struck him down.
The pressure of a supernatural force, accompanied by an enraged shriek, gripped his torso tight and yanked him backwards. His first hunter instinct was to let go of the burning matchbox, hoping it would land on the remains. Judging by the sudden disappearance of the supernatural pressure, and the agonized shriek of the spirit – a woman from the 19th century – the remains were burning.
But that wasn't the Winchester luck.
It was the sudden impact with something wooden.
And partially something stone.
His last memory was the deafening thud in his brain and the shock of impact on a hard, cold floor.
A loud groan broke the darkness of the mausoleum. Rubble of the wooden door scraped against the stone floor as the body shifted around sluggishly. Sam blinked his dazed eyes open, finding it hard to focus on anything, the darkness not helping at all. He knew he was lying on his back, his body trembling from its cold grip, and his head was pounding, mostly on the top of his skull on the right side. Sam turned his head trying to make out his surroundings as he blinked, then he lifted it up to check himself over.
Rippling pain erupted in his right shoulder, leaving him yelping and gasping for air.
Sam groaned as his left hand snapped up to his right arm and he hazarded a guess at what had happened. He pulled the throbbing limb onto his torso before pushing himself upright with a gasp of pain. Some light from the still burning remains showed him the way out of the small stone building.
And outlined a dent in the stone doorframe where Sam was now feeling the impact.
He's gonna have bruises on his back.
Not to mention the most likely dislocated shoulder.
…
'Dean's gonna kill me…'
Sam staggered upright, but the sudden tilt of his vision sent him into the doorframe again, this time much gentler, and he had to close his eyes as his slowly adjusting vision began spinning.
'Damn' he thought sluggishly. 'Concussion…'
He might as well fall into a grave right here, he was so dead.
After waiting a couple minutes, he opened his eyes and was glad that things righted themselves, so he pushed himself upright slowly. When the world stayed still around him, he began walking out of the mausoleum.
He quickly gulped down a cry of pain.
His right knee buckled shaking violently under his weight. Sam glanced down as he fell once again against the doorframe. His jeans were ripped on the side, stained with – but not coated in – blood. He could only pray that his knee wasn't dislocated, as well.
He took several deep breaths then tried to put his weight again onto his injured knee. It still shook pretty badly, but the pain eased off a little. With a groan of absolute misery – because of the inevitable chewing out from Dean, not the injury – he carefully limped out onto the grass. He hugged his injured arm to his stomach, grimacing at the tight feeling of straining muscles and the throbs his shoulder sent into the lava pool in his head. Just as he reached the grave and his bag, the flames were dying out. Sam sent a mournful look towards the mound of dirt, but he knew he couldn't cover his tracks in the state he was in.
'Yep, Dean's gonna kill me…'
He leaned down awkwardly, unable to keep a yelp in this time as gravity pulled at his hurt shoulder. He grabbed the strap of the duffel as fast as he could and picked it up, looping it around his forearm. He didn't dare lift it onto his back right now. Turning his back on the darkening hole, he limped his way out of the cemetery.
It took him three times as long to reach the car and even more to sit behind the wheel. It was taxing enough to leave him dizzy, shivering and breathless again. He could feel something trickling down the side of his head, indicating a possible cut buried under his hair. His shoulder was jackhammering at his nerves now, churning his stomach with the waves of agony flooding his senses.
But hey, at least his leg wasn't hurting that much.
An explosion of harsh trills made him groan miserably for two reasons: its volume sent a knife through his ears into his brain, and his reflex to lift a hand to the source of the pain jarred the dislocated joint, even though he barely nudged it. Shifting around awkwardly, he fished his phone out of his jeans' pocket – the right one, of course.
"Fuck…" he whispered as his eyes managed to make out the word on the too bright screen:
Dean
Unable to avoid the impending Apocalypse – and this time, not really wanting to – Sam accepted the call.
"'Lo?' he grunted out, closing his eyes tiredly.
"Care to tell me where the fuck you disappeared to?"
Dean Winchester was pissed as Hell. Sam shivered at the calm, almost emotionless tone drifting into his ear. There's no way this was just because he wasn't in the bunker.
"Dean-"
"And you might as well explain what this e-mail is about" Dean didn't let him whine his way out of trouble. Again, for some strange reason, he didn't mind it. At least this explained Dean's furiouser fury… 'Wow, I definitely have a concussion…'
"Jus' a salt-n-burn" he slurred out, blinking hard against the exhaustion creeping up on him. "'M fine."
"Sure." Sam could almost feel the sarcasm dripping out of the speaker and down his neck. Wait, he actually felt that… Oh…
"Sorry, reflex…" Sam snorted at himself before shaking his head with a groan. He has to rouse himself because there was a short drive back to the bunker waiting for him – not to mention a pissed momma bear of a brother.
Speaking of, Dean seemed to pause on the other end.
"You okay?" the man's voice was more worried now and Sam sighed in relief.
"I'll be home in five minutes" Sam replied, trying to evade as long as possible. He was quite proud of himself for such a coherent sentence.
"I'll come get you" Dean instantly jumped in. That was a sign of Sam's poor condition.
"I'm fine" Sam protested quickly. He needed these few minutes alone to prepare for the mother-hen-attack. "I'll see you in the bunker."
Another pause.
"Fine" Dean grumbled in annoyance. "Drive safely – and slowly!"
The way his brother enunciated the last two words was enough of a warning. Sam muttered a "'Kay" before hanging up and starting the engine.
It turned out that the path to the bunker took about five minutes even in the speed of a 90-year-old, spectacled grandma.
Dean probably got some whiplash from the speed his head snapped to the screeching entrance door. Cautious steps banged on the iron walkway before the door slammed shut. Dean marched to the foot of the stairs, ready to kick his stubborn little brother's ass.
He swore he felt planet Earth turn on its axis violently under his feet as his eyes took in the younger man's condition.
Sam was white, probably whiter than right before Chuck got to him and saved him. He was hugging his torso and his eyes looked dazed, squinting against the lamplight. The young hunter took slow, careful steps forward then as he reached the first step down, his left hand gripped at the railing almost tight enough to break it. Dean flinched at every little whimper and groan as Sam began his obviously painful way down the pretty steep staircase. Dean could also see red on the kid's neck and right leg and he was pretty suspicious of the hunched posture.
"The hell, Sammy?" Dean blurted out in shock. He began climbing the stairs to meet his brother halfway. "This is what you call 'fine'?"
Sam startled at his voice and averted his attention from his unsteady feet. That seemed to be a mistake: the sole of his boot got caught on the edge of the step and tipped Sam out of balance.
Luckily, Dean was ready to catch him, when the kid collapsed into his chest with a pained groan.
"Whoawhoahwhoah, Sammy" Dean winced as Sam's weight practically crashed into him, but the kid was still too thin for his liking. "I gotcha, kiddo, I gotcha…"
They slowly clambered down the steps, Dean pulling Sam's arm around his shoulders – the left one, because the right seemed too sensitive – and made their unsteady way into the library.
"Didn't you say it was 'just a salt and burn'?" Dean grumbled – not bitched – to his brother as he lowered his battered body onto a chair.
"When's it ever jus' a salt-n-burn?" the slur of Sam's words was worrying. Dean lowered Sam's arm gently, keeping his eyes peeled open and stuck on his brother. Sam instantly wrapped his left arm protectively around his right.
"Let's get this off of you" Dean grabbed the front of Sam's jacket and began gently peeling it off of the younger man's torso. Sam groaned in pain as the fabric was slipped down his right shoulder. Dean took extra care to not jar the hurting limb.
Once the jacket was out of the way and thrown onto the table, Dean stepped behind Sam and tenderly brushed at his shoulder. He already knew Sam dislocated it but touch and gentle probes confirmed it.
"So?" Dean prodded, feeling the separated joints. It was a complete dislocation. He just hoped nothing was torn to shreds under his brother's skin. "Black dog? Hellhound?"
Sam snorted a little. Dean frowned as he recognized Sam's loopy mirth. Now he was certain his brother had a concussion.
"Spirit" Sam finally replied. "Little late for the party… Threw me across the… the cemetery…"
"Then I'll take care of it after I patched you up" Dean added, nodding to himself. He couldn't feel anything other than the joints out of place.
"No!" Sam snapped out indignantly. Dean would swear on his life his brother was pouting. "I took care of it…" Dean waited for more, but Sam seemed to forget to continue.
"But?"
Sam huffed but yelped because of his shoulder.
"Couldn't clean up after…"
Dean sighed with the air of 'Why am I such a generous brother to such a gentle moron?'
"Then I'll clean up later" he answered slowly. He moved one of his hands to the front while keeping the other flat on Sam's back. He took a small step to the side. Sam didn't seem to notice anything.
"It w's so simple…" Sam whined a little, lost in his sulk. "Then she had to-AAH!"
The low words were abruptly cut off as Dean reset Sam's shoulder. The older man sniggered as he felt around once again, checking his handiwork.
"There" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Good as new."
"I hate you…" Sam moaned out, groaning miserably.
"Yeah, yeah" Dean said dismissively as he grabbed his own duffel bag and got one of his shirts out. He wrapped it gently around Sam's arm then tied the sleeves around Sam's neck in a makeshift sling. "I'll get you the real one when I come back."
"Thanks" Sam mumbled, visibly unwinding as his muscles eased into the sling. Dean crouched down to check Sam's leg next.
"Then she did what?" he asked, getting ready in case he had to reset any other dislocated limbs as he rolled the leg of Sam's jeans up.
"She threw me into the mausoleum door."
"The hell? What was it made out of, titanium?"
Silence. Dean glanced up at his brother's face from the cut down Sam's knee. His brother had two faint flushed spots high on his cheeks. Was Sam… blushing?
Dean raised an eyebrow before fishing out his medical kit for disinfectant and gauze. Sam hissed as the wound was cleaned and wrapped up.
"No, wood" Sam reluctantly answered. "But the frame was stone." This time it was Dean's turn to hiss.
"No wonder…" he mumbled as he stood up. He cupped Sam's chin, tilting it towards the light without hurting Sam's head more. The hazel-green irises were much thinner than normal, the pupils dilated as a definite sign of concussion. He then remembered the red on his brother's neck. "Head first?" Sam hummed out a yes, eyes closing as Dean's fingers waded through his hair.
Dean's brow began aching from frowning so much as he looked for a wound. Closing in on the top of Sam's skull, he caught the tiny crease on his brother's forehead.
Then one fingertip pressed against a sticky bump under the mop of hair.
Sam immediately jumped, eyes opening wide, and panicked little moans emitted through his suddenly tightly shut lips.
"Crap" Dean exclaimed as he reached to the side, snatching the closest trashcan they had left near the table. He wedged it between Sam's thighs, holding it under his mouth. Sam began taking deep, trembling breaths through his nose and Dean knew he was afraid to open his mouth even to a slit. He could feel a pull on his own jacket and one glance revealed Sam's tight, shaky grip on the fabric. Dean carded his fingers gently through Sam's hair, helping to calm his brother down through the nausea.
Several minutes passed in silence, only Sam's heavy, deep breathing echoing around the room. Then a heavy sigh broke through trembling lips as Sam slumped with relief.
"Better?" Dean asked concerned. Sam just nodded a fraction. "Hold this." He waited for Sam's grip to let his jacket go and grasp the trashcan, and only then did he round his brother's shivering form to peek under the mop of hair. He grimaced at the congealing blood sticking the hairs together, but just brushed them aside. He could already see the source as a small cut on a big lump. Snatching the disinfectant back up, he doused a cotton ball with it and gently pressed it against the wound. Sam moaned and began gasping for air as the nausea reemerged.
"Deep breaths, kiddo" Dean ordered firmly, not letting up the light pressure. Sam just whimpered as his gasps grew more frantic. "Sam!" Dean snapped out, grasping his brother's good shoulder sternly. "Deep breaths, now!"
One whimper and a couple gasps later, Sam took in a deep, shaky breath through his nose and blew it out of his mouth in a long sigh. Dean pressed the cotton ball to the wound a little more then at Sam's moan tightened his grip on the kid's shoulder.
"Keep breathing, Sammy." Sam got a little whine in his exhales as he struggled to keep his wrecked body together. "That's it…" Dean turned his tight hold into soothing strokes down Sam's back as his brother's body relaxed. He lifted the cotton ball, which was now stained pink, and happily acknowledged no new blood seeping out of the wound. At least the cut wasn't as bad as it looked.
"Alright, I think you took the brunt of the hit to your shoulder, so you'll live" Dean stepped back, taking the trashcan and dropping the cotton ball into it. He placed it onto the ground and looked his brother over. Sam still looked like a mess, his face even whiter and his hair all disheveled, his frame slouched and shivery, the makeshift sling giving him the look of a homeless person. "Let's get you into bed for a little while, huh?"
Sam lifted dazed, slightly unfocused eyes onto his big brother, looking miserable and visibly hurting.
"Can I sleep?"
The mournful plea almost broke Dean's heart.
"Of course, kiddo" he couldn't stop the adoring smile spreading across his face at Sam's five-year-old behavior and the puppy eyes. He leaned down to help the younger man to his feet. Sam swayed a little but Dean kept him upright easily, pulling Sam's good arm around his shoulders. After a pause of breath, they slowly made their stumbling way towards Sam's bedroom.
It was a good thing Dean stripped Sam's bed, readying it for his little brother to rest and heal, because the younger man might as well have been unconscious by now. At least, now Dean just had to sit him down, get his boots off and stretch him out on his left side on the mattress. Sam sighed as Dean grabbed a towel from the wardrobe and placed it under his brother's head, saving the pillow from bloodstains.
"Now, just relax and I'll get you some ice for that baseball on your head" Dean said, snickering again at his little brother's sleepy hum. He still dashed to the kitchen, preparing an ice pack with haste, too worried to leave Sam alone as of yet. He knew he had to get to the cemetery to cover the tracks of the hunt, but once Sam falls asleep, he wouldn't feel as guilty.
When he entered the room again, he found Sam in the same position as he left him, but his eyes were half-open. Dean's insides warmed as he realized: the kid was waiting for him. He grabbed the trashcan next to Sam's desk and placed it beside the bed before sitting down on the edge of the mattress.
"Here" he pressed the ice pack gently next to the lump on Sam's head. The younger man flinched with a whimper. "Easy…"
"Hurts…"
Dean's frown eased up at the nostalgia of that one simple word. Sam always had to complain the obvious when he was injured. It usually meant he was feeling better – especially when the kid was pouting, like now.
"That's what happens when a ghost plays tag" he shrugged, smirking at his brother and celebrating inwardly when he received the obligatory glare.
"This sucks" Sam mumbled. Dean could've sworn he could see the younger man's bottom lip poking out. "Things were goin' so well…"
"Well, what can you do?" Dean sighed, that phrase all too familiar from countless simple hunts gone wrong. Sam grimaced before mumbling into his pillow:
"'N you w're gon' be proud o'me…"
Dean leaned closer, unsure if he heard the words correctly.
"What do you mean? … Sammy?"
Soft snores floated up from Sam's lips as a reply. Dean shook his head indulgently… and maybe with a little sadness. It's a testament of how awful things have gotten between them that Sam was still looking for his big brother's approval, even when it's right under his nose. The young Winchester, who wanted nothing to do with this life, left for college on his own with full-ride – to Stanford, no less – then returned to the family business with his unprecedented loyalty, still had trust issues with himself and self-confidence problems towards others… Namely Dean...
Of course, things hadn't been sunshine and rainbows – or lollipops and candy canes – but Dean was hoping that during these last few weeks of recuperation their relationship had improved. It was hard to face Sam's doubts now. Was it his fault? Maybe he hadn't shown enough care towards Sam… He tried but after everything he had his own struggles to fight, Purgatory being the latest one. No, the latest one was the Trials and those probably took an even bigger toll on Dean than Purgatory. He didn't even want to know how much worse Sam had had to endure…
Before he knew it, he had been sitting on Sam's bed, holding the ice pack to Sam's head, for over twenty minutes. He carefully lifted it off and caught a glimpse of pink on the towel covering the pillow. He leaned over Sam and checked the head wound but still there was no new blood oozing out of it. However, Sam's hair looked cleaner and damp, so the drying blood probably dripped onto the towel. Dean put the ice pack onto the nightstand and almost instinctively carded his fingers gently through Sam's tresses. Standing up, he tucked Sam in and once he made sure the younger man was sleeping soundly, he left the room.
He had to hurry if he wanted to get back from the cemetery.
"Sammy…"
Sam groaned as a soft voice forced its way through the pleasant darkness.
"Come on, kiddo" the voice insisted, bringing nice warmth onto his aching head. "You'll feel much better after a shower."
Sam turned towards the voice painstakingly slowly then forced one of his eyes open.
He met with his brother's hazy outline, dim and wavy, while the room behind him swayed ever so slightly.
"D'?" he rasped out, his tongue disobeying his muddled brain's commands.
"Welcome back, Sammy" Dean whispered and warmth covered Sam's forehead then cheek. Sam blinked slowly a couple times, trying to wake up, knowing his brother would be worried if he can't get himself together. "So, how about that shower?"
Sam frowned at Dean, but as he thought about it – warm water and soft sheets – he forced his head up and down in a sloppy nod.
"Okay" Dean muttered then something hard and long wormed its way under Sam's neck. As the room began tilting, he whimpered. He was scared the floor would be pulled out from underneath him. "Keep holding onto me, kiddo." That order made him realize his grip on Dean's shirt. He felt his body shift forward then his legs slid forward and off the bed. "You with me?"
Sam gazed at Dean's dancing outline then rolled his eyes around the room, blinking hard against the swaying room. Was that a… shirt on the lamp? His door was wide open, but he likes it ajar, it helps to determine if there's an intruder in his room… His bag was thrown in the corner on the floor, the shovel above it, he needed to pack it away-
A warm, calloused palm cupped his cheek and his attention snapped back to his brother. Dean had a frown again, as his green eyes trailed over Sam's features. Sam swallowed guiltily, he had to stay strong.
"'M fine…"
"I know, Sammy, just makin' sure" Dean replied, his voice a little louder, but the frown never disappeared. Before Sam could muster up a reassuring sentence, Dean stood up from his crouch and wrapped Sam's arm around his shoulders. Sam got a weird déjà vu from that gesture.
"Head hur's…" Sam slurred with a wince. The change of elevation sent his right side pounding.
"I bet" Dean answered soothingly. "After a nice shower and a pain pill you can sleep all you want, alright?"
"M-hm…"
They made their way to the bathroom, Sam trying to keep his weight off of his right side. With every step and every other blink he became more and more awake. Memories of the night slowly clicked back into place in his brain. By the time Dean stopped him in front of the shower, he managed to stay upright of his own accord. A little shakily but upright.
Dean was, as always, efficient in undressing an injured little brother. One moment Sam was worrying about his throbbing shoulder and head, the next he was shivering against the cold of the bunker. Dean also unwrapped the gauze on his leg then started the shower, its hum soft and low. Sam was led under the flow, not too hard but still massaging his aching muscles. Dean stepped back but Sam just stayed still, suddenly unsure what to do.
Dean huffed with a smirk then grabbed the soap and lathered it up. Sam just watched tiredly as his brother began gently scrubbing him down. How much practice did Dean have in this? Sam wasn't sure if he would be as capable in taking care of his big brother, not that he didn't want to when necessary.
An involuntary hum escaped him as he let himself enjoy the professional care he was receiving. His face warmed up a little in embarrassment, but Dean seemed too focused to notice. Without a word, Dean guided his head under the showerhead and washed his hair. Sam hissed as the shampoo stung the wound on the top of his skull, but it was a relieving feeling.
Soon – maybe, too soon – the shower was turned off and instantly Sam began shivering, his wet skin filling up with goosebumps.
"You cold?" Dean asked as he began drying him with a fluffy, warm towel.
"A l-l-little" Sam inwardly cursed his traitorous teeth as they chattered, making him stutter. Dean just nodded, not even stopping his ministrations.
Sam sighed in relief when Dean picked a well-worn shirt up and not a T-shirt. As soon as he slid into it with the grace of a sloth on a treadmill, Dean got an actual sling onto his right arm. The way its straps hugged Sam's torso kept his arm steady and shoulder relaxed. With a plastic snap, the buckle was fastened and Dean adjusted the length of the straps to fit perfectly. Sam was so glad to ease the tension in his throbbing shoulder that he completely missed Dean pulling a pair of boxers onto him. Thankfully, his instincts still remembered the motions from childhood, so at least he didn't face plant the cold tiles, adding a nice black-eye or broken nose to the list of his injuries.
"There we go" Dean exclaimed, smiling as he straightened up. "Almost done, kiddo." Once again, Sam's arm wrapped around Dean and the brothers stumbled their way back to Sam's room. There Sam was sat down onto the bed then Dean knelt down in front of him, getting the fresh gauze from the nightstand to wrap his leg up.
"And here's your trip to Heaven" Dean spoke as he popped the bottle of Tylenol open and shook one out onto his palm. Sam took it, hating how his fingers were shaking and as he swallowed it down, Dean handed him a glass of water. Sam let a big gulp slosh around in his mouth, chasing the draught away. Without waiting for Dean's help, he scooted to the nightstand and put the glass onto it before lying down onto the bed. He thought he saw Dean roll his eyes and shake his head, but the man didn't move to help, only leaning down to tuck him in once Sam settled.
"Sammy?"
Dean's timid voice immediately sprang Sam's eyes back open. He didn't even notice them close. His brother looked troubled, watching him half-warily, half-concerned. Sam shifted a little more before relaxing back against the mattress and pillow.
"Wha'?" it was getting harder to talk by the minute. Dean seemed hesitant then just settled onto the edge of the bed with a sigh.
"You did great tonight" the older man spoke softly, giving a genuine smile. "Cleanest work I've ever seen so far."
Sam watched his brother, looking for a sign of teasing or lie, but Dean's features showed nothing but honesty.
"R-Really?" he couldn't help but ask, hope blooming in his heart, a feeling he never fully knew how much he missed.
"Yeah" Dean replied as if it was the most obvious thing ever. "You wrapped it up in one day, dug out an entire grave, burned the remains – and only got a dislocated shoulder and a concussion…" Dean shook his head disbelievingly. Was he just realizing Sam's idiocy with his words? "That's like a nice night out compared to the crap we've been through lately. You even managed to drive back home without endangering yourself and others." Sam smiled at his brother, taking the praise, even if he still had some disbelief that he got one, but when Dean carded his fingers through his little brother's hair affectionately, Sam had to hold back the sudden surge of emotions.
"I'm proud of you, Sammy."
Sam was startled by that admission and his mouth might have hung open a bit. Was Dean saying-?
"And I'm pretty sure Dad would be, too" Dean continued, eyes holding Sam's gaze tightly. Sam gulped against the tight knot in his throat.
"Thanks" he breathed, happiness like no other filling his aching, exhausted body. Dean nodded then snickered.
"Now I know you have a concussion."
Sam shoved his brother weakly.
"Shuddup, jerk" he mumbled out. Dean pulled a chair closer and settled into it, propping his feet up on the mattress by Sam's side.
"Go to sleep, bitch" he grunted as he reclined, crossing his arms on his chest. He didn't plan on leaving Sam's side anytime soon. He ignored the arm sliding over his ankles, Sam keeping him in place like this.
And as they fell into a deep sleep and a nap, respectively, everything seemed to turn back to normal between them… finally.
The End
So, how was it?
Thank you, TotallyChic, for the prompt. :)
If I don't post the next story tomorrow, I'll make sure to do it the next day. I'm still working on it... *lowers eyes guiltily* It's giving me a little tough time, but hey! That's what challenges are for. :D
See you soon!
