AN: This chapter is kinda short, but there are a lot of details they had to clean up…some literally. But I promise they aren't totally out of the woods yet, because what fun would that be? I hope you don't find it dull or abrupt (I'm looking at you, sfaulkenberry!).
waitingforAslan: Thank you!
Stormysea-breaks: I appreciate your words so much. I have to admit that isn't the reason I chose the name Robin, but it is a happy accident and makes it much more poignant. I actually chose it because in some traditions, the Morrigan has a son named Robin who is kind a trickster figure. And I am so grateful for your comments. I love the dynamic of Dean using all the tools in his arsenal to draw Sam back to him, back home.
Lena: I know where to look for PMs, but it always tells me I don't have any. And the ones I send show up in the outbox, but then people don't get them. It stinks!
After a few eternal minutes, Cas' light dimmed, then disappeared. The angel leaned heavily on the back of Sam's chair. "It is done," he said, voice even more gravelly than normal. "The memories are back, but Sam will have to make the connections to…tie them in to what he already knows, or he will lose them. I imagine it will be difficult, but for now, he will likely sleep for a long while."
"So you're done with the bird boy?"
"I am."
That's all Dean needed to hear. He pulled Robin up by his hair and decapitated him in one stroke without hesitation or regret. Well, later, he might regret the mess. But it was hardly less than the guy deserved for trying to take Sam away. Try to claim my brother, will you? And then nearly kill him? That's a great way to lose your head.
Dean dismissed the demigod, or demi-demi-demigod, from his thoughts and felt for the pulse in Sam's neck, checking his breathing at the same time. "You okay, Cas?"
"I am…in need of rest," admitted the angel.
Dean looked up sharply at the admission and the shakiness of the voice in which it was spoken. Cas didn't look much better than he had before Rowena had removed the spell. Dean made a quick decision. Sam was okay for the moment, sleeping and stable. "Let's get you laid down a sec."
Cas wavered, looking at Sam. "I can help. With Sam. With both of your cuts from the crows."
"Nope, I got Sam. You just pulled big-time mojo use while you should still be getting better. C'mon." Dean pulled on Cas' arm, not really surprised when Cas was less than steady on his feet. He pulled his friend's arm across his shoulders and steered him from the room, ignoring the very human aggrieved sigh as easily as he always ignored Sam's complaints about being "babied."
Dean had to push dead crows out of his way with his feet as he went, and he grimaced. Clean up was going to be a lot of fun.
In moments, Cas was settled in the bedroom he'd claimed. He'd only bothered to pull off his coat before throwing himself headlong onto the bed. Dean chuckled and took a second to pull Cas' shoes off. "I'm leaving the door open. Yell if you need anything."
"Take care of Sam," was Cas' only response, muffled by the pillow.
Dean hustled back to his brother. He briefly checked him over again, but heartrate, respiratory rate, and temperature all seemed good. Heavy sleep, then. Dean chatted and grumbled as he maneuvered Sam up over his shoulders, complaining gently about little brothers not knowing when to stop growing and how Sam would have to pay for Dean's knee replacements and he better stop expecting Dean to be his own personal taxi. It was all part of Dean's M.O., a litany of words with the tone more important than the content. A lifetime of hearing it meant that Sam, even unconscious or in pain, relaxed at the sound.
And the truth was, he'd carry his brother a thousand times. Ten thousand. A million. He'd carry him until he couldn't carry him any more, then he'd carry him anyway. The thing was dead and Sam's memories had been shoved back into his head, and Dean would put him back together, because there simply wasn't any other choice.
It was easier than it should have been to maneuver the long body down onto his bed, because Dean had had way too freaking much practice with an injured (or occasionally, dead, but he wasn't going to think about that) brother. He stripped Sam to his boxers, because who knew what had happened to him before Dean got there. But he didn't find any injuries other than the bruise on Sam's temple from Dean's elbow and all of the scratches and gouges from the Hitchcock horror fest of Robin's minions. Relieved, Dean cleaned every single spot, putting a single stitch in a couple of them. Unlike Dean, Sam had tons of them on the palms of his hands, and Dean knew it was because the younger Winchester hadn't had a weapon at first. The image of Sam trying to protect his face from the onslaught made Dean want to go kick Robin's corpse.
Instead, he just finished the job and wrestled sleep clothes on Sam. Through it all, he continued his one-sided conversation, though he was well versed enough in treating Sam to recognize that his brother wouldn't be waking soon. Still…
"I'd really like to know how bird brain got the drop on you, anyway. And what was his deal with playing house? Wonder if he didn't expect me to find you so fast. I suppose you didn't tell him how awesome your big brother is, with not remembering me and all. Which I totally hold you to blame for, by the way. I'm unforgettable. And what was with the whole aerial attack? Do you have any idea how many dead birds there are in the bunker right now? Too bad none of 'em are chickens. I'm starving."
When Dean was finished doing everything he could for Sam, he sighed, checked Sam's pulse unnecessarily. Then he just breathed for a moment, leaving a hand on the side of Sam's neck. Sam was here and safe and he'd be fine. But sometimes Dean's mind needed the tactile reminder before his heart could believe it.
Dean shook himself. No more emo moments. He had things to do. He hurried through cleaning himself up, at least enough to probably ward off in infection. He jogged back to Sam and wasn't surprised that he hadn't moved. "Alright, man, I gotta go clean up the bunker before it starts to stink." He sighed again. It had been a long night, plus he hated to leave Sam's side. But there really were a lot of bodies to get rid of.
Dean efficiently hauled Robin and his head and all the dead birds to the incinerator and burned them, then did a quick sweep of the floor, getting most of the feathers, and dumped kitty litter on the blood stain. They kept it on hand, knowing from experience that it would pull most if not all of the blood out of the wood and prevent it from stinking until they could finish clean up.
Then he washed his hands again and peeked in on Cas, who also hadn't moved. Dean belatedly took the time to bandage his bleeding hands. Then he rubbed his eyes. While 30 hours without sleep was nowhere near a record for Dean, he was still damn tired. He plunked into the chair Sam kept by his desk, then he had an idea. Reassuring the insensate man again that he'd be right back, Dean hurried to the infirmary. The cots were on wheels, and narrow enough to fit through the bedroom door. And while not memory foam, a hell of a lot more comfortable than a wooden chair. Dean pushed it right up against Sam's bed, pulled off his boots, and stretched out with a happy groan. He hadn't been kidding about how hungry he was; it was early afternoon and he'd never gotten supper the night before, much less any meals since. But his priorities were Sam and sleep. Food could wait.
"If you wanna sleep five or ten hours before we make sure all the eggs are still in your basket, that's okay with me." And since nobody was awake to call him on it, Dean went to sleep with his hand on his brother's shoulder. Was it for Sam's sake or for Dean's? Dean didn't answer that question even in the privacy of his own mind.