Dean wasn't hiding.
Sure, he was currently in one of the out of the way rooms in the bunker which seemed to double as a small library and storage area, idly flicking through a book on-.
Huh. Now he was looking at the page open in front of him properly, he realised the words weren't written in English. Leaning forward a little to study the faded, hand-drawn image on the opposite side he tilted his head for a better view, then leaned back again with a grimace.
On reflection, he was kinda glad he couldn't understand the description of whatever the hell that was.
Anyway, bringing his wandering thoughts back to the topic at hand, the point was he definitely wasn't hiding. He was taking a moment, that's all. One which happened to be away from wherever Sam was right now.
For strategic purposes.
Giving up on both the book, which he pushed away towards the middle of the small table, and the attempt at deluding himself, Dean sat back in the chair and sighed.
Okay fine. He was hiding from his brother, and he was not proud of it. On the other hand however, he figured it was better than the alternative scenario where he smothered Sam for the metaphorical smothering he was currently engaged in.
It was a week since they'd arrived back at the bunker, over a fortnight since he'd got hurt, and yet Sam was still treating him like he was made of glass. For the first few days it had been fine, understandable even, and in all honesty thanks to the blood loss Dean hadn't been up to doing much beyond falling asleep in various random places, waking up a couple of hours later to find a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him.
In between napping like a toddler he'd moved from room to room like an old age pensioner, physically unable to try anything strenuous even if he'd wanted to. Sam meanwhile had ensured he didn't lift anything heavier than a mug or a fork the whole time, managing to materialise as if from thin air in anticipation of Dean's every need before he'd even managed to try doing something for himself.
Eventually, Dean had pointed out he was in more danger of dying from a heart attack if Sam kept popping up beside him without any warning than he was from his original injury.
The problem was, it hadn't eased up since then. He was still herded out of the kitchen if he attempted anything, even if it was just making a sandwich or pouring a cup of coffee. Both their laptops had mysteriously disappeared, along with their phones, meaning he couldn't so much as consider scrolling through the internet. His one attempt at sneaking out for a drive had led to an alarming threat from Sam to dismantle parts of the Impala's engine, and the look in his eye had confirmed it wasn't an idle one.
Which left Dean with literally nothing to do except sit around, trying – and failing – find anything half decent to read from the bookshelves or vaguely interesting to watch on the one, ancient TV in the bunker.
After days of this torture he was rapidly nearing breaking point, aware he was edging closer to having a meltdown and saying something to Sam he didn't really mean.
Which neatly brought things back to the whole hiding situation.
It wasn't that he didn't understand where his brother was coming from. He knew from experience how it felt to be on Sam's side of the fence, and could admit even if only to himself that he'd done his fair share of hovering whenever Sam had been the one hurt. He was also well aware that this one had been close, too close, and whilst it wasn't quite the most serious injury he'd ever had it was one of the few he was having to heal naturally from, without any magical or heavenly intervention to speed things up or ease the process.
Which sucked, actually. While he had an unusually high pain tolerance, this time he was really feeling it as muscles and flesh knitted themselves back together and his body worked overtime to try and replenish what had been lost.
But, that said, he was getting better. He could actually stay awake for the entire day now, and his range of movement was returning as well. He wasn't about to start lifting weights but he could move his arms and shoulders without any real twinges, the colourful bruising around the wound was fading, and Sam had even removed the stitches for him a few days earlier, declaring it was healing well.
All of which should have signalled a return to normal, or at least as normal as their lives got. But it hadn't, and with his brother still acting as though he was in danger of keeling over any second Dean was starting to think they were going to have to talk about it sooner rather than later.
As if summoned by Dean's train of thought, Sam's voice echoed along the corridor outside the room, calling his name with a definite edge. Dean braced himself for what was about to come, and cleared his throat before responding.
"In here, Sam."
Seconds later the door was flung open and he watched as Sam scanned the room, brow furrowing as he took it in, before his gaze landed on Dean sat at the table.
"I've been looking for you all over. What the hell are you doing in here?"
Dean raised an eyebrow, pushing down the urge to snap back at the irritated tone in Sam's voice. He gestured to the book on the table. "I was just doing some reading. Since, you know, I'm not allowed to do anything else, apparently."
Sam glanced at the pages. "Huh. I didn't know you could speak Farsi."
Dean's gaze narrowed. "I was looking at the pictures."
Taking a look at precisely what the picture on display was, Sam raised his eyebrows. Reaching over and closing the book, since they were getting off topic, Dean sat back again and crossed his arms.
"Okay, how about we talk about what's really going on here, hm?"
Sam's expression took on a stubborn hint, and he was clearly resisting the urge to also cross his arms defensively, instead leaning against the nearby bookshelf with his hands in his pockets.
"What do you mean?"
Drawing on the well of patience that was reserved for Sam alone, Dean waved one arm in an all encompassing gesture. "I mean the fact you're still freaked out. I get it, of course I do, this was a close call. But it's been weeks since it happened and I'm fine, Sam. Not a 100% but well on the way, and you're still treating me like I'm at death's door." He stopped, sighing. "You can't go on like this, you know you can't. Honestly? You look worse than I do right now."
It was true. Sam's pale face and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of disturbed sleep and restless nights, and it hadn't escaped Dean's notice that while his own appetite was back to normal, his brother still picked at his food as though his stomach remained unsettled.
Sam clenched his jaw, avoiding Dean's knowing gaze and letting his own roam round the room they were in. It wasn't one he was familiar with, a reminder there was still a lot of the bunker they'd yet to explore properly. It made him wonder just what else might be hidden away in a drawer or cupboard, what useful information might be contained in the ancient texts dotted around the place on endless bookshelves.
He was forced to return his attention back to the matter at hand when Dean pointedly leaned forward to rest his arms on the table, a clearly expectant look on his face as he stared at Sam.
Steeling himself, Sam did his best to appear nonchalant, aware he was likely missing it by a mile.
"I think you're exaggerating a bit, don't you? You said it yourself, this was a serious injury and it hasn't been weeks, it's been 16 days. I've just been making sure you don't overdo it and put yourself back in the hospital. You know what you're like."
Dean ignored the dig, which in fairness he couldn't completely argue against based on previous experience, and refused to be mollified.
"Nice try, Sam. There's stopping me overdoing things, and then there's what you've been like this past week. You won't even give me back my phone or laptop, for crying out loud."
Sam's eyes flashed, genuine anger seeping into his tone. "Yeah, because you'll want to go looking for a case, Dean! I know you, you're just gonna try and brush this off and get straight back out there, and then what, huh? Then what?"
Taken aback a little by the vehemence Dean held up his hands. "Woah, just hold on there a minute. I never said anything about looking for the next case."
Sam snorted, this time giving in to the urge to cross his arms. "You don't have to. We both know you're already thinking it, why else would you be so keen to get your laptop and phone back."
"Maybe I just want to keep up with what's going on in the world. Or, maybe I want to sit and binge 'Gilmore Girls' on Netflix."
Sam shook his head but didn't reply. He pushed off the bookshelf, taking a few steps across the room, then back again, trying to damp down the anger he could feel building. He didn't want to fight with Dean, he really didn't, but he also couldn't stop overthinking the situation. Whether Dean was willing to admit it or not, he was more than likely champing at the bit to get back out there. Their freedom from Chuck and his manipulation had reignited Dean's passion for regular hunting, for living up to the old family mantra, and whilst the recent disaster had taken the wind out of his sails he was clearly ready to move on and put it behind them, going right back to their version of normal.
But Sam couldn't. It felt different this time, worse somehow given he hadn't had anyone to go to for a quick fix or an actual miracle. Dean's life had been on the line, again, and he'd been able to do nothing more than rush him to a hospital and sit there hoping with everything he had that the mundane treatment would actually save him. Whilst he appreciated that it had, more than anything, it was a reminder how bad things could get in the blink of an eye, and watching Dean's slow – painful – recovery since then had only made it worse.
He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed Dean stand up and move closer, startled when his path was suddenly blocked. He took a step back when Dean raised a hand as if to lay it on his arm, and while his brother looked surprised at the move he didn't say anything, just dropping his hand to his side and allowing Sam the space, like he was a spooked animal.
"Okay, it's clear you have feelings about all this, and I'm not saying I don't understand. But we can't carry on like this, Sam. At the rate you're going, either you're gonna be the one ends up in hospital, or we're likely to wind up wanting to shoot each other."
Sam winced at that but Dean pressed on. "We just need to find a way to get past this, like we always do."
Sam shook his head. "But isn't that the whole point, Dean? We keep doing this, over and over, and it doesn't get any easier! It just gets worse, and now we don't even have a witch or an angel or anyone we can go to if things go sideways. Which I know was how we started out, and in a lot of ways it's better, because we're not at anyone's mercy or putting up with interference anymore. But Dean, it also means we have no safety net. No second chances. If one of us dies, we're gone. For good, and—" He stopped, knowing if he tried to continue his voice would fail him.
Dean did put his hand on Sam's shoulder this time, squeezing it firmly until his brother met his gaze.
"I get it, Sam. I do, you know I do. But we can't live by 'what ifs'. You'll drive yourself crazy, and me along with you."
Sam swallowed, his voice husky when he replied. "Maybe, but what's the alternative, huh?"
Dean sighed, wishing he had an answer, but before he could attempt one Sam had pulled himself out of his grip and disappeared through the door, his footsteps growing fainter as he rapidly vanished down the corridor.
Closing his eyes Dean dragged a hand down his face wearily, and contemplated the now empty space.
"Great. That went well." He muttered to himself. Shaking his head he switched off the light, stepped through the door, and closed it behind him.
It looked like it was his turn to go searching for his brother.
They had a conversation to finish.