Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural."
Author's Note: Hmm, sometimes you just have to indulge the need for shameless HurtDean and Sam schoomp. ;) I hope you enjoy it.
Story Summary: Dean comes to Sam's apartment hurt after a job that wasn't that kind of job.
"Wha's wrong?" Jess murmured, feeling Sam slip away.
"A noise. Be right back," he answered softly as he sat up. "Stay here," he added, before standing. Jess made a low sound in her throat and burrowed further into the pillows.
Sam smirked as he made his way soundlessly towards the living room – obviously she was concerned about the noise.
Sam was actually fairly certain it was Dean breaking in that he'd heard, but being cautious never hurt when you were a Winchester.
When he entered the living room, he frowned. There was figure just sitting on his couch. He went on actual alert then – the last few times Dean had let himself in, he'd pulled out the sofa bed and made himself comfortable.
Maybe it wasn't Dean? But who the hell broke into to an apartment to sit on a couch?
A few more steps and he was sure it was Dean – he could see his profile. "Dean?" he asked softly, still working to keep his steps soundless.
A soft chuckle. "You make enough noise there, Sammy?"
Sam's heart dropped to his stomach. He knew that tone; that slightly slurred, dully amused tone. He hated that tone. "What happened?" he asked, dropping caution and reaching for the light switch.
"No, don't -"
Dean's words were too slow and light flooded the living room. The older man groaned and covered his face with his arms.
"Holy shit, Dean," Sam hissed, going to sit next to him. "What the hell happened?"
There was blood on his brother's face.
Blood.
It was dry and trailed the length of his face in one long, winding road from a jagged cut above his left brow.
Dean didn't respond, didn't move his arm away from his face. Sam reached out a hand towards him.
"Touch me and die," Dean hissed softly.
"You have a concussion, don't you?" Sam accused, dropping his hand. "What. Happened?"
Dean shrugged and winced, lowering his arm a little, his eyes half-closed, "Nothing."
"You're lying to me."
Dean sighed softly. "Don't be dramatic."
"You tell me the jobs are easy and that you'll be fine – and then this happens."
"This didn't happen on a job – not that kind of job," Dean murmured, letting his eyes slide shut.
Sam slid closer to his brother. The fact that he was able to do that and to actually settle one hand against Dean's face before the older man startled and opened his eyes scared him a little. "You drove from Nevada like this?" Sam asked, carefully tilting his brother's face so he could examine the cut.
"Mmm-uh," Dean murmured, closing his eyes again.
"You're a fuckin' moron," Sam growled. "Lean forward – I want to get this jacket off." And see where else you're hurt.
Dean frowned. "Uh-uh," he contradicted, pulling the jacket fractionally closer. "S'cold in 'ere . . ."
It wasn't, Sam thought grimly; that was a bad sign.
"Are you bleeding all over the couch, Dean? Jess won't like that." He spoke as calmly as he could, trying to control his racing heartbeat as he tugged at Dean's jacket.
Dean frowned a little. "Nuh-uh . . . g'way. I'm tired . . ." he murmured.
Sam nodded, "I bet you are. I need you to sit up a little, Dean, come on. You just drove, what? Two hours? Three? You can keep it together for a few more minutes – come on."
Dean frowned at him, opening unfocused hazel eyes. "M'tired," he stated as though Sam hadn't heard him.
"Sam?" Jess's voice was sleepy and curious as she walked out into the living room, rubbing a hand over her face.
Her eyes widened a moment later as she studied the scene. "Oh my God, what happened?" she asked, coming forward quickly and standing across from them. Her wide eyes flew over Dean. "God, he needs a doctor."
"No."
"No!"
Dean's protest was a bit louder than Sam's. He jerked on the sofa, eyes shooting open, a scowl already forming on his face. Sam held him still.
"No doctor," Sam responded calmly. "It's not as bad as it looks," he told Jess confidently.
LIAR, his mind reprimanded. He had no idea how bad it was because Dean was slumped on his sofa with no intention of moving, and Sam couldn't examine him like this.
Jess gave him a skeptical look. "It looks bad," she murmured, carefully sitting on the sofa on Dean's other side.
"He'll be okay," Sam continued.
"G'way," Dean murmured, trying to pull away from where Sam had a hand on his brother's arm, turning into the sofa – away from the light. His head must be throbbing, Sam thought suddenly.
He sighed, "I need to see where you're hurt, Dean."
No response.
"I can't help you unless I know where you're hurt – come on," he tried again, reaching to lift his brother.
Dean tensed. "No . . . jus' wanna sleep . . ."
Sam gritted his teeth. He knew his brother – Dean probably was friggin' bleeding, but he couldn't check; every time he went to touch him, Dean pulled back or tensed or told him to stop in that sleepy, wounded tone which Sam found impossible to ignore.
"Dean, sweetie?" Jess interrupted his thoughts. Her voice soft as she laid a hand on his brother's forehead – the bit of it not covered in blood. "Where does it hurt?" she asked gently.
Dean's eyes opened slowly, his eyes taking a moment to focus on her. "Head . . ." he answered.
Sam's eyes widened; he nearly got whiplash as he looked up to stare at Jess.
Her gaze was on Dean, though. She nodded, "Anywhere else?"
"Ribs . . . side . . ." Dean answered thickly; then his eyes slid shut again.
Jess nodded and then looked at Sam. "I think he needs a . . ." she paused, ". . . a d-o-c," she murmured, smirking a little despite the worry in blue eyes. "He's bleeding . . ."
Sam stared at her a moment, then looked back at Dean, who seemed to have fallen asleep.
Jess shrugged, answering the question in his eyes. "You didn't ask him where it hurt," she explained, then continued, "I really think -"
Sam shook his head before she could finish. "Dean doesn't like doctors or hospitals – it'll make things worse."
"Sam -"
"Trust me. It'll be fine."
Jess frowned at him, but nodded slowly and lifted her hand from Dean's forehead.
Sam's gaze shifted to Dean. "Come on, Dean," he tried again, slipping his arms behind his brother. "Up – let's get the jacket off," he murmured, lifting the older man off the sofa.
"No, cold . . ." Dean followed the word promptly with a shiver.
"Don't worry, I'll get you a blanket," Jess comforted, laying a hand on his arm.
"Oh, 'kay," Dean murmured, looking at her through half-lidded eyes.
"Help me here first," Sam said. "Tug that sleeve for me."
She nodded and slowly they peeled the jacket off Dean. Jess took it and placed it on an armchair – carefully. Dean was oddly attached to that jacket.
Sam lifted his brother's t-shirt to check the man's ribs. He froze when his brother's stomach was exposed.
"Sam -" Jess whispered, a catch in her voice.
"I see it," Sam answered, his mouth suddenly dry. Holy shit. There was a gash running across the middle of Dean's belly. It had stopped bleeding and it obviously wasn't very deep – because if it had been deep his brother's intestines would've been on the ground somewhere in Nevada.
Shit.
The gash was surrounded by dark bruises and welts.
Sam's jaw clenched. "I need to get this t-shirt off."
"He needs a doctor. He needs an ER and stitches and – and – medicine or something." Jess got up. "I'm calling -"
"No," Sam said firmly. "Get some ice and wrap it in a towel, I'll be right back."
He didn't wait to watch her do it, and Jess was still in the kitchen when he came back from his study with the first aid kit. Quickly he took out a small pair of scissors and with a quick prayer that this wasn't a favorite of Dean's, he carefully the cut the t-shirt off.
It really wasn't deep at all, not even butterflies would be needed. Dean had pulled back quickly – pulled back from what, though? A blade . . . or a claw?
"Dean," He called. taking his brother's face in his hands. "Wake up, come on." Sam tapped lightly against his brother's cheek, "Dean . . ."
Dean frowned and tried to pull away from Sam's hold. "Wha -" he muttered, eyes flickering open.
"What did this?" Sam asked quietly.
Dean blinked sluggishly at him. Sam opened his mouth to repeat the question, but Jess's voice cut him off as she entered the living room again.
"Sam, I don't – you're awake," she interrupted herself, sitting back down next to Dean.
Sam took the ice from her. Dean jerked away from his brother, shooting him what Sam supposed was meant to pass as a dark scowl, but came off as a rather comical almost-pout.
"No way – came 'ere to sleep – not to . . . sit on – goddamned ice, all night . . ." the words were the most lucid Dean had said in a while and Sam almost smiled – almost.
"We need to bring swelling down," he responded, but Dean's eyes were already sliding shut. "Dean," Sam called, heart hammering again. This wasn't good – Dean couldn't stay awake, and Jess looked about twenty seconds away from calling an ambulance.
He took the ice and placed it on his brother's head. Dean jerked awake. "Sam!" The older man groaned. "'eave me alone," he hissed.
Sam grabbed his face again and leaned down towards his brother. "Look at me," he ordered. "Now, Dean."
Dean sighed softly and blinked slowly, focusing on his brother.
Unequal pupils, Sam noticed, he moved his hands along Dean's neck and the back of his head – there had to be more here than the cut on the forehead.
Dean hissed in surprised agony. "Shit, Sammy!" he growled, sounding perfectly lucid suddenly. Pain did that, Sam thought grimly, shifting and tilting his brother's head to one side. There was a knot at the back of Dean's head.
"Were you unconscious at all?" Sam asked.
No response.
"Dean!" he snapped, knowing his brother was ignoring him.
"I shoulda gone to a motel -"
"Were you -"
"No."
"Blurred vision? Nausea? What city are you in? What year is it?"
A lengthy pause followed his questions and he was about to ask them again when Dean finally answered, "No. No. Palo Alto. 2006. M'fine, leave me 'lone."
Sam frowned. All the answers were right, but Dean never actually answered the questions when he was fine. "What did this?" Sam repeated, hand traveling down to the gash on Dean's stomach, ghosting over it.
Dean stilled, responding to the seriousness in Sam's tone.
"Do I need to cleanse it?" Sam continued, his voice taking on an edge of panic. He was trying to stay calm, but . . . he'd always hated this part, he'd never been able to stay calm during this part. Seeing Dean hurt had always been the hardest part to bear of that life.
Dean was still for a moment longer. Then he drew in a shuddering breath and lifted hazy eyes to Sam. "No," he murmured, "It wasn't anything.Just . . . people -"
The sense of relief that washed over Sam was followed closely by anger. "People?!" he hissed, "People did this to you?"
A ghost of a smirk touched Dean's lips. "Sore losers -" he explained softly. "Leave me 'lone now, 'kay."
Sam stared at him, then snorted at that. "You wish," he murmured, shoving the anger aside for now.
He shifted back towards the first aid kit and found Jess's wide eyes fastened on him – full of confusion and worry and questions. The heat of her gaze was heavy, but he had to take care of Dean first. Then he'd deal with Jess's questions.
He met her gaze and offered her a small smile in the meantime. "I'll be right back-- keep him awake for me, would ya?"
She nodded, studying him as he got up and headed for the kitchen.
Sam filled a bowl with water and grabbed a wash cloth as fast as humanly possible. He smiled when he entered the living room and found Dean smirking at Jess, " -Wen' fine . . . got the bad guy," he was telling her, eyes at half-mast.
"Looks like the bad guy got you ," Sam corrected as he sat down.
Dean sighed, "You're so 'nnoyin' – jus' leave me 'lone . . . Jessy . . . tell'm . . ."
Jess smiled a little, but she was pale; Sam could see she had a lot to say and it had nothing to do with whether or not Sam was annoying.
"This is gonna hurt a little," he told Dean as he started going through the First Aid kit and pulling out tweezers, hydrogen peroxide, antibacterial ointment, bandages, and tape. He turned back to Dean when he'd set everything out and nodded that he was ready. Dean shifted a little, bracing himself; he closed his eyes and then nodded his head fractionally – wincing a moment later. Sam took a deep breath. He really hated this part.
He was finished in less than ten minutes. He was quick and methodical – just like his Dad had taught him. He pressed the edges of the tape smooth and clenched his jaw when Dean winced as he touched the bruises – bruises and welts – bruises and welts made by fists and boots –
"This is ridiculous!" Jess snapped suddenly, shooting up from the sofa and heading for the kitchen.
To get the phone, Sam realized quickly. "Jess!"
"No Sam! This is crazy! You don't . . . you don't do things like this! You take concussions and freakin' knife wounds to ER's! You get x-rays and stitches and – and – tetanus shots!"
Sam was walking towards her now. "Calm down, okay . . . we're good here."
"Yeah, good," Dean murmured from the sofa. Grimacing as he started to pull himself up higher against the sofa, wanting to ease her worry; looking at Jess with a concerned expression on his face.
She scowled at him, "Don't do that!" she yelled, "Either of you!! Don't look at me like I'M the WIERD one!"
"Jess – it's like 1 in the morning – keep it down," Sam hushed and knew instantly that had been the wrong thing to say.
Her eyes flashed and she shook her head. "I can't BELIEVE this! I mean – the two of you . . . you have your – quirks! But this, THIS takes the cake!"
"Jess, you need to calm down. Dean is okay."
"Dean is NOT okay," she snapped. "Dean has a concussion and a gash on his stomach and cuts and bruises. And BOTH of you seem way to USED to Dean having a concussion and gashes and cuts and bruises!! And we are going to a HOSPITAL. NOW."
She was upset and yelling and worried and Sam wished he could pull her into a hug and make it all better – but he couldn't, because they weren't going to a hospital. Dean would never go for that – the injuries weren't life threatening enough.
"No, Jess," he said softly, "We're not."
"I'm okay," Dean whispered, trying to help make it better.
She glared at Sam for a beat then shifted her gaze to Dean. He received the laser heat of that gaze for a moment before she whirled away from them both. "FINE. WHATEVER," she growled, with the copious amounts of disdain that only a woman could manage as she stalked out of the living room.
The door to their bedroom slammed so hard Sam was surprised the entire apartment didn't shake. He looked at Dean, who offered him a small, tired smirk. A moment later the door opened again and they heard Jess's footsteps in the hallway. She appeared with a load of blankets. She strode over and deposited them next to Dean without a word, then left the room. Again the bedroom door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it shut.
Both brothers stared at the pile of blankets for a moment and then looked at each other. Sam moved closer to Dean, intent on sitting down again when they heard the bedroom door open yet again. Sam looked up in time to see Jess hurl his pillow at his head before she turned around and stomped back to the bedroom.
The pillow bounced off Sam's head and fell to the floor. Dean chuckled and then gasped, wrapping his arms around his stomach, eyes sliding shut again.
"Looks like I'm sharing the couch with you tonight."
"Wha'ever," Dean murmured, smirking as he mimicked Jess's word.
He slid down again, relaxing against the couch, his breathing almost instantly evened out in sleep.
Sam smiled a little. He'd have to wake Dean up in an hour anyway. So staying on the couch wasn't a problem – Jess being mad at him was. At the moment, though, he had a suddenly intense desire to get the blood off his brother's face. He didn't like seeing Dean asleep – vulnerable, defenseless –g with blood on his face.
He got up and went to kitchen for more water.
The cut on Dean's forehead was much quicker to treat and within a couple minutes his brother's face was blood free and decorated with white gauze. He took advantage of his brother's unconscious state and ran a hand through Dean's hair – just because.
Sometimes he missed he the spontaneous hugs of his childhood – and the comfort he'd always found in those hugs.
He smirked a little; Dean would call him a big girland swat the back of his head.
It only took a few minutes to get Dean's boots and jeans off. He thought about moving the other man to the armchair so he could pull the sofa bed out, but then he'd need sheets and chances were he'd wake Dean up before he really had to wake Dean up. So he didn't.
Instead he carefully stretched Dean out on the sofa, then took the blankets Jess had brought and draped them over him. Sam went and turned the lights off. He got the television's remote control and slid in behind Dean, laying his pillow on his lap and settling Dean against the pillow. Then he stretched out his legs and laid both feet on the coffee table.
Not bad, he thought smiling a little as he turned the TV on; he was pretty comfortable. There was an array of crappy movies on TV, so he muted the set so he could watch one.
He waited an entire hour and seven minutes before shaking Dean awake. "Wake up, dude," he murmured.
Dean shifted and Sam smiled because his brother turned into the pillow – towards Sam.
"Come on, Dean. Don't make me hafta dump water on you," Sam threatened gently. "What month is it? Who sang Black Dog?"
Dean sighed, lashes fluttering for a moment before revealing hazel eyes. "August. Zeppelin. Shu'-up," he ordered drowsily, shifting and going back to sleep.
Sam smiled, dropping a hand on Dean's shoulder. His brother had completely missed the fact that he was lying on Sam – that was amusing as hell.
He focused on the movie again. There was new one starting up and Sam wanted to change channel because it looked like a romantic comedy and he did not like romantic comedies, but the remote had slipped into the cushions while he'd been waking Dean up and he didn't feel like digging for it.
A teenage girl had just shoved a teenage boy into a pool when he heard the bedroom door open. A few seconds later Jess was standing in the living room, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and a sad expression.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then she moved towards him and sat on the sofa arm rest. She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees. Her eyes fastened unseeingly on the TV.
Sam stared up at her for a moment. Then he shifted sideways, lifting Dean a little as he went. When he'd lifted his brother and made a small space between himself and the sofa's end, he reached out and pulled Jess into the hole.
She gasped a little, tensing instinctively; a moment later though she relaxed. Sam smiled a little as she curled against him, tucking her feet beneath her and laying her head on his shoulder.
When he settled Dean down again, his brother ended up half on him and half on Jess. Sam pulled the blanket back up, tucking it under Dean's chin.
Jess turned her face into his shoulder. "Sorry I yelled."
He turned his head and pressed the side of his face into her hair. "S'okay," he murmured.
"I am right and you're wrong, though," she added.
He chuckled, "Maybe."
"He should see a doctor."
"He will if he needs to. I'll make sure of it."
Her head lifted off his shoulder. "You've done this before," she said, looking into his eyes. "That . . . bothers me," she finished.
"We both know first aid."
"You have the Godzilla of first aid kits. I didn't even know you had the Godzilla of first aid kits," Jess murmured.
Sam shrugged lightly, careful not to jostle Dean. "It's important to be prepared," he murmured. Remembered how he'd loaded the Godzilla of first aid kits with holy water and herbs – just in case. He wasn't stupid, after all.
"Sam," Jess said, and he felt his stomach drop. In the dim light of the TV he could see her eyes glowing with seriousness. "Have you done this a lot . . . before?" she asked softly.
A burst of hysterical laughter rose up in his throat. He swallowed it down. If only she knew . . . his stitches could rival those of an ER doctor and he knew three ways to treat burns. Sam could diagnose most field injuries proficiently and as adeptly as a professional. If only she knew that one of his first clear memories was of watching Dean slowly stitch together a gash in their father's side.
"I've done it before," he answered, because if he told Jess otherwise he'd know she was lying. She'd seen him handle Dean.
Sam watched her swallow. She still looked pale – paler in the glow of the TV. He forgot sometimes that not everyone could take blood and concussions as easily in stride as he could; that not everyone could deal with the shock of seeing someone they cared about hurt and keep on moving.
"Sam," she said again, in that same serious tone. "Did you . . . when you – before . . . did you . . ."
"My Dad was a Marine, Jess," he cut her off quietly, not wanting her to finish that question. "We were always prepared."
"The way you handled this -" She stopped herself suddenly and Sam dropped his gaze from hers. He didn't know what to say, how to answer this. He'd revealed too much tonight – normal people freaked out when their brothers showed up bleeding and hurt in the middle of the night; they went to emergency rooms and maybe even called the police. Normal people didn't diagnose and treat the injuries themselves and then call it a night.
"Did this happen a lot before you came to Stanford?" she asked.
His eyes shot up and met hers, but he said nothing.
"Did this happen a lot when you were growing up?" she continued, and he heard the beginnings of fury in her voice.
He didn't answer her. There were no words, because suddenly he was bombarded with images of their childhood. Images of blood and tears and clenched jaws and limp forms – they'd been hurt so often; Dean had been hurt so often . . .
Without looking, he pulled his brother a little closer to him; hugging Dean a bit tighter.
Suddenly Jess's lips were on his. He jumped, a little startled. She pulled back a moment later and brought her hand up to his face. "I'm glad you came to Stanford. And I'm glad Dean came here," she said softly. Then Jess shifted towards the television. "What're we watchin'?" she whispered.
Sam swallowed hard. Her words warmed something deep inside him even as his mind told him to be wary of this sudden shift in topic.
He wanted to be grateful for the change in conversation, but he knew – it was only a short reprieve. Jess didn't actually drop subjects. She put them away temporarily and pulled them out at the most inconvenient moments.
Better to deal with this now, while she was curled against him and Dean lay across them.
"We helped our Dad, when we were growing up," he told her softly. "Sometimes we got hurt. We didn't always have the option of going to a hospital," he said firmly, with finality.
It was all he would say on this subject.
She didn't say anything; didn't even shift towards him, just looked at the TV silently.
Sam swallowed hard and was about to add something, anything when she looked up at him through those long lashes. "So you weren't exactly the Bradys," she murmured. "I get it," she added, smirking at him.
He stared at her for a long moment and then he blinked, a small smile starting on his lips. Sam shook his head wryly, lowering his forehead to rest against hers. "God, I love you."
She giggled, "I know. I love you too."
They stayed like that for a long moment. "I want to know everything, every last detail of how you grew up. Everywhere you went and all the things you did – and I'll always be ready to listen when you're ready to start telling, okay?"
"Okay," Sam answered hoarsely.
She rubbed her nose against his for a moment and then pulled away and turned back to the TV, "But seriously – what are we watching?"
Sam smiled, feeling happier suddenly. "'Dunno," he answered, then moved a hand over to Dean's forehead. "Dean," he called, dropping the whispered tone he and Jess had been using. "Wake up, dude."
"Did you wake him already?"
"Yeah, once before. Dean," he called, shaking him again. His brother shifted and swatted at his hand.
"What season is it?" Sam asked. "What's your full name?"
No response, just Dean shifting on the sofa – or rather on them.
"Dean?" he called again, a smile in his voice as he realized that yet again, Dean failed to notice he was lying on his brother's – and now Jess's – lap. "I will get the water."
Hazel eyes opened slowly, and fastened a sleepy version of Dean's Glare of Impending Doom on him. "Fuckin' summer. Dean Matthew Winchester," he muttered, before closing his eyes and going back to sleep.
Sam smiled a little as he smoothed his brother's hair, but his brow was furrowed.
Jess watched him carefully. "He answered correctly," She said.
Sam nodded, sighing, "Yeah – but . . . he . . ." Sam trailed off for a moment, then added, "He'll be okay."
"It's not good that he answered?"
"It . . . he's just . . . tired, I guess."
Jess chuckled, "Me too. It's like almost four . . . . Who is that? I've seen that girl before," she commented, pointing at the TV. Sam shook his and told her he didn't know. He wrapped his free arm around her and held her securely against his side; his other arm still carefully holding Dean.
They watched the movie on mute until it was over, commenting quietly on this and that. At one point Jess asked why they didn't just change the channel and Sam told her about the remote slipping into the cushions. They decided Sam would stay with Dean in the morning and Jess would come home early so Sam could go to a lecture class he couldn't miss. Sam would teach her how to change the bandage and check for infection.
"Get some sleep," he told her when another movie was about to start.
She nodded, then patted Dean softly on the top of his head. "Wake him up."
Sam nodded. "Dean," he shook the older man. "It's that time again – wake up," he called loudly.
Dean shifted towards the pillow – into Sam.
"Come on, Dean . . . what mo -"
"Christ on a fuckin' cracker, Sammy," Dean slurred, his eyes still closed. "I'm gonna beat the shit outta you if you ask me another friggin' question – shut up and leave me alone,"he growled groggily.
Then he shifted and burrowed deeper into the pillow – against Sam and Jess now.
Sam was silent for a moment, until he was sure Dean was asleep again. Then he grinned at Jess, looking at her in the dim light. "I think he's feeling better," he whispered.
She nodded, smiling as she snuggled closer to him. "Yeah, think so – movie looks crappy," she commented
Sam nodded, dropping his chin onto her head.
Not even five minutes later he felt her breathing even out and knew she was asleep too.
And about ten minutes after that he let himself slip into slumber, snuggled between his two favorite people.