Underneath
K Hanna Korossy
The door opened with barely a rattle of the lock—they only seemed to stick for him, darn it—and even though Dean slid a hand under his pillow just in case, he already knew who would walk in. Only his brother managed to marry six-feet-four of grace with the clumsiness that had him juggling bags and cups. Dean would have gone to help except his body was still way too tender to move unnecessarily, and he was way too amused watching the show to try.
"Need a hand?" he asked blithely, though, just to elicit that exasperated expression from his little brother.
"No, I've got it." A greasy bag plopped onto the table, followed more gingerly by a cardboard tray holding two steaming cups. A pile of newsprint was tossed at Dean, missing his chest by a few inches. Sam was utterly unaffected by his glare, as always.
Sam dug into the bag, and Dean eased himself back against the headboard, pulling the blanket more firmly around his waist. He didn't miss Sam's sideways slide of the eyes.
"How're you doing?"
"I'm fine," he answered automatically, and nodded at the bags. "You gonna share?"
A paper-wrapped missile hurtled his way next, and Dean barely winced as he caught it. Sam's cool glance wasn't without sympathy, though, and the next package was reached over instead of tossed.
Sam could guilt-trip him like no other. Dean made a face and grumbled, "I'm sore, okay? Happy now?"
"Thrilled," Sam said dryly, digging out food of his own. He came over to Dean's bed and settled at the other end, the cardboard carrier between them. "Do you want to stay another day?"
"No way." Dean shook his head for added emphasis. "I'm just gonna stiffen up more—I'm fine, Sammy, okay? No wendigo's gonna take me down."
"Yeah," Sam snorted softly, "you just let yourself get caught so you could save Tommy and Hailey."
"Heck, yeah." The food smelled good and Dean didn't resist diving in. Or talking around a full mouth. "Did you see that kiss she gave me?"
Sam laughed at that, shaking his head, and also started eating.
Dean was a little out of practice reading his brother. The fine details of Sam's face had changed in three years, let alone how they came together to project what he was feeling. Because they did project—Sam wore his heart for all to see. But his eyes were what Dean had always relied on to convey the finer points of Sam's emotions, and his eyes…they'd changed since the fire. Curtained off with anger and a darkness Dean recognized from their dad and had hoped he'd never see in his baby brother, they offered nothing now except that Sam was in pain. Their talk by the campfire a few nights before had helped, but not enough.
But Sam wasn't talking, and Dean couldn't see into him the way he'd once been able to, so for now they lived on the surface, doing what they needed to and not going any deeper. It was a one-way street—Sam had seen his pain just fine the night before, which was why they were in this motel in the middle of nowhere, so Dean could recuperate—and he wouldn't put up with that indefinitely. But he was still just happy to have Sam back and didn't mind letting him call the shots for now.
They finished the last greasy crumbs before Sam nodded at the newspapers. "So what's up with those? I don't remember you ever being interested in national news."
"I'm interested," Dean said huffily, which was a total lie. The last time he'd bothered to check CNN was when Brando had died. "But for your information, genius, that's where we're gonna find our next job." He jabbed a finger at the paper.
Sam's eyebrows rose. "The newspaper? Since when?"
"Since we don't have Dad's contacts calling us with tips and jobs."
"Oh." Yeah, oh. For the smart one, Sam tracked a little slow sometimes. He fingered one of the newspapers, then drew it out of the stack. "Have you found any that way before?"
"Yeah, a couple," Dean said absently, flipping through the pages to the soft news.
"So that gig in New Orleans, that wasn't the first time you'd solo-ed," Sam said quietly, like he was confirming something he'd already suspected.
Dean flinched inside. Okay, so maybe Sam wasn't the only slow one. But he just shook his head, not looking up, unwilling to give away anything else. No way was he going to end up the one who kept spilling his guts in this relationship. That had always been Sam's role to play.
His brother didn't press, opening his own newspaper and starting to read. Full stomach, no major injuries, Sam a few feet away looking for a job with him: for a few minutes, Dean's world was as close to perfection as it had been for a long time.
"House burns down and guy comes out without even a soot on him," Sam eventually spoke up.
Dean glanced up. "Probably weaseled out the back window," he said. "Keep looking."
Another few minutes. Sam sipped at something Dean realized from the smell wasn't coffee, but he didn't ask. "Twins born to mom who says she's still a virgin." Sam's mouth twisted up into as close a smile as he came these days.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, her name's Mary. No Second Comings or stigmata, Sam, remember?"
"Cat dials 9-1-1, saves his owner's life?"
Dean growled and snatched the paper away, shoving the one he held instead into Sam's hands. "Check the obituaries and the crime section, smartass." He rustled through a new paper with amused annoyance. Geez, he'd missed that twisted sense of humor.
"Dean…" The tone of Sam's voice told him this one was serious. "Listen to this: 'Fourth body found in Wisconsin woods in two months—police confirm another organ-removal homicide.'"
Dean frowned. "What organ?"
"Uh…" Sam read on. "Liver."
"Liver? I've heard of hearts and brains, but what kind of creature just eats livers? That ring any bells for you?"
Sam shook his head. "No. But the name of the fourth victim does. Peter Handler."
Dean gaped at him. "Pete? As in, Dad's friend Pete?"
"Maybe." Sam's one shoulder rose and fell. "It's the kind of thing somebody like us would check out." An intense look up at Dean. "Might be the kind of thing Dad would check out, too."
Yeah, it would be. John Winchester was loyal to his friends, sometimes even more, although Dean only admitted this in the deepest part of his heart, than to his sons. He pulled the blanket around himself and grunted as he slid to the edge of the bed. "Wisconsin, huh?"
"Yeah. Near the Great Lakes."
"Feel up to driving?" Dean asked as he tried not to look too stiff walking to the bathroom.
Sam didn't answer, but Dean could feel the smile at his back.
00000
Another day, another motel. Sam checked them in while Dean dug their bags out from the back seat. They were just inside the Wisconsin border, a few hours from the murders. Dean had raised the idea of pushing on, but Sam's glare had threatened a homicide of its own, and Dean had given up the cause. Truth be told, after sitting in the car all day, he was probably even less mobile than he had been that morning, and he stretched carefully as he stood waiting for his brother.
Sam reappeared, pointing to a nearby door, and Dean headed for it. His brother swooped in to claim his bag, and reached for Dean's, too, until Dean made it clear he was still capable of violence. Sam's mouth quirked, and he moved forward to open the door.
Dean got first shower without any discussion, and he stayed under the spray until he felt nearly human. When he emerged, moving almost with his usual ease, Sam was already hunched over his laptop at the one table in the room. He glanced up Dean, then back at the screen. "How's the back?"
"How's the shoulder?" he lobbed back easily, because Sam didn't have the market cornered on fraternal observation. Dean had vaguely heard a crash before Sam had suddenly appeared in the wendigo's lair and cut him down, but he seemed mostly okay and Dean hadn't pushed.
"I'll live," Sam said simply, then shoved his bag aside to make room for Dean to sit at the table. "So, I found another article online about the murders. It seems Pete was new in town, asking around about them. The only way they realized he was missing was when they found his car up at the body dump sites."
"Sounds like a player," Dean said with only a hint of regret. He was sorry for Dad's friend, sorry one of the good guys was down, but it happened, and their job didn't leave much room for grieving. You learned from the mistakes and tried to avoid them yourself. He leaned forward gingerly. "Found his car, huh?"
"Yeah…Doesn't say what happened to it."
"Police impound, probably. We should hit that first."
"Yeah, okay." Sam finally looked up, yawning, and rotated his shoulder with a wince. His gaze soon landed back on Dean. "You gonna be up for this if we end up going hunting tomorrow night?"
"Are you kidding?" Dean reeled back an inch. "Better than you, wuss."
"It's just my shoulder," Sam protested.
"Yeah, and three years of being out of shape."
An ironic jerk of the eyebrows. "So says the mighty hunter I had to save the other day."
Dean shrugged dismissively. "I woulda gotten out of there."
"Right," Sam nodded sagely. "I forgot. You were armed with M&Ms."
"Oh, and what was your plan when you were standing between the wendigo and Hailey and her brothers? Give it heartburn when it ate you?"
Sam blinked at him. "You were worried about me?" His mouth softened into a near smile. Better yet, his eyes did, too.
Dean climbed back to his feet in a carefully choreographed snit. "Oh, for God's sake. I'm going to bed."
He snapped off the light, leaving Sam lit only by the glow of the laptop. His brother was smiling at the computer screen now. "Good-night, Dean," he said quietly.
"'Night, Freak." But he was smiling, too, as he turned away and dozed off.
00000
They made their goal by lunchtime, but police property was best broken into in the dark, so they ended up with an afternoon to kill. Sam spent most of it on the computer, which Dean had already realized was quickly becoming his brother's domain, looking for liver-eaters and their dad's trail. Meanwhile, Dean took advantage of the tiny motel hot tub and soaked a little more of the tenderness out of his muscles. Sam just threw him an amused glance when he finally tottered back to the room on noodle legs and collapsed on the bed with a contented groan.
"You want me to check if they have a masseuse on the premises, too?"
Dean was too content to put any venom into the requisite, "Bite me." He did manage to roll his head to one side. "Find anything?"
The mirth vanished. "No. Nothing that eats only livers, and no Dad. I left a few notices with friends but," he shook his head, "nothing so far."
Dean swallowed a sigh. "Sam, if he doesn't want to be found, you know Dad, he'll disappear."
His brother shook his head again. Always in denial. "Why wouldn't he want to be found, Dean? It doesn't make sense. It would take two minutes to call and let us know he's okay and what's going on—why would he just disappear like that?"
"He didn't. He left me a message, remember? He said not to come looking for him."
"So you came and got me to help you go look for him," Sam said pointedly.
Okay, so it had made more sense in his head. Dean pushed himself upright because he looked up at Sam enough as it was. "I want to find him, Sam. I do. I just don't think it's gonna be easy."
Sam picked at the scarred tabletop. "Yeah."
"Sam." He waited until downcast eyes met his. "We will find him. I promise."
"Now you're psychic?" But it was said with affection.
And it struck Dean how long it had been since he'd felt this happy. He grinned. "Yeah, didn't I tell you?"
00000
It was a small-town police department, with an impound lot that consisted of a padlocked, wire-fenced parking lot guarded by a sign that warned of an attack dog. But as Sam picked the lock and they slipped inside, no four-legged security appeared. Dean finally shrugged and tossed the raw hamburger they'd picked up on the way.
Sam found the impound log and whispered, "Ford pickup, '84." Which Dean doubted his brother would be able to tell a Ford from a VW bug, but that was his job, anyway. Within a minute, he found the black truck and had the doors open. He and Sam leaned in from either side to rifle through its contents.
A crime team had obviously been through the vehicle already, and Dean found a few signs of weapons that had once been there but were gone now. For once, that interested him less than papers and books, and he glanced at each page he dug out of the trash in the back seat. Apparently, Peter had lived out of his vehicle even more than the Winchesters, and hadn't troubled too much with tidying up after himself. Dean grimaced as he moved moldy food wrappers and empty coffee cups, checking out the scraps of paper that might be precious but so far seemed mostly contact information, drawings, and maps.
"Dean," Sam said quietly.
Dean looked up to see his brother, meanwhile, had found the motherlode. The journal was black and looked newer than their dad's, but it was a hunter's journal. Much like his own, in fact, and Dean made a mental note to pick Sam one up somewhere. Sam had already started putting information into his PDA, but you couldn't be a hunter without a journal to show for your work. It was the only kind of badge that mattered in their field.
Dean moved around the truck and leaned in next to Sam as his brother flipped to the back of the book, shining his penlight on the pages.
They read in silence, Dean's face drawing together, seeing the same puzzlement in Sam's. "A baykok?" his brother finally asked as he looked up. "Have you heard of one before?"
"Nope," Dean shook his head. "But it's the right area for it, and it does say it eats livers."
"Yeah, and it also says it sews its victims back up so they can't even tell they were attacked until they get sick and die."
"So?" Dean looked up at him. "Variations on a theme, outdated oral accounts—we come across those all the time. Look, Pete thought he'd figured out what it was, and he was obviously looking in the right place if it got him killed."
Sam took a breath. "Well, we better hope the legends aren't all true then. Did you read the end?"
Dean's eyes skipped down to the bottom and he winced. "No known way to kill it. Terrific." And Pete would have looked.
"That doesn't mean there isn't one," Sam said quietly, "just that we have to take everything with us and try it all until we find what works."
"Yeah, we'll just ask it to hold on a minute while we find a way to kill it."
"You have a better idea?" Sam asked pointedly.
Dean made a face.
"Okay, then. Let's go."
He didn't like it, but, really, what choice did they have? What choice did they ever have?
They locked the truck, then the lot, taking the journal with them. And then they turned and headed for the forest.
00000
Dean could secrete a dozen weapons on himself invisibly and with easy access to all of them. Sam was a little rustier, but Dean made sure he was covered, too. Blades, projectile weapons, a protection amulet for Sam, holy water and wards and a homemade flamethrower. Dean picked out a crossbow to carry, while Sam chose an axe that he held with an ease that made Dean wonder if his little brother hadn't been practicing just a little even during his "normal" life. He made no comment, just shut the trunk and met the dark eyes over it. "Ready?"
Sam nodded, turned to move away.
Dean grabbed his arm. "Listen, if nothing's working on it, back off, okay? I don't wanna be scouting organ donor lists."
Sam huffed a laugh. "You, too. Don't forget, the baykok shoots its prey with an arrow first to incapacitate it."
"Yeah, like I'm gonna forget that," Dean muttered.
"It also only comes after one person at a time, so we'll have to separate."
He knew that, too, just had been avoiding the fact. Sam on his own tended to make Dean very nervous. And he hadn't done so hot the last time he'd been apart from Sam, either. "I know," he said tersely.
"I'll stay in shouting distance," Sam promised, which helped a little. Dean only nodded this time. Sam turned to walk away again, and this time Dean didn't grab him, just shoved a compass at him. Sam gave him an amused glance, and disappeared into the darkness in a few silent steps.
Dean took a deep breath and set off in a different direction.
He liked forest hunts. True, there were a lot of unknowns: terrain, poor visibility, ambient noises—they all worked to the prey's advantage, not the predator's. But there were also no civilians, no roles to play, nothing but hunter and prey. And that was the way Dean liked it. He hunched low, invisibile in his dark clothing, and moved with careful, deliberate steps.
A loose grid search, he and Sam had agreed on. Parallel sweeps up and down, covering the maximum ground with minimum overlap. Dean moved stealthily from tree to tree, sweeping the area around each one, listening hard, even sniffing the air occasionally. But there was nothing but the soft sound of rustling branches, night animals and insects in motion, and the occasional muted snap of brush and leaves under his feet.
And then, something else.
The soft thwop registered the same moment the sharp pain in his side did. Dean jolted from the blow, and glanced down to see what he'd managed to impale himself on.
Or what had impaled him. The dark shaft protruded several inches from just below his ribs. Great.
Dean mouthed a few curses and pressed himself back into the black shadow of a nearby tree. It would take more than an arrow to bring him down, but it still stung like crazy and if he…brushed up…
His legs were wobbling.
That wasn't good.
His feet felt dead, his hands tingling. Worse, the feeling was spreading up his limbs. Dean fell to his knees and barely felt the impact.
An arrow wouldn't take him down, but whatever it was treated with sure might.
"Sam!" he croaked, while his vocal cords still worked, but they seemed as dampened as the rest of him. A second try produced nothing but a silent parting of the lips.
Dean crashed to his side. There was no pain nor unconsciousness, but he couldn't move. Paralytic? He cursed himself in silence as he lay staring helplessly at the small clearing before him, waiting for his attacker.
The small, human-shaped thing appeared from the trees across the way. If Dean had been able to move, he might have recoiled from the sight. The walking skeleton was bad enough. The transparent skin it was sheathed in was a nice touch. But the black holes it had for eyes…Dean wondered if it even needed its poison arrows, because one glance at those eyes worked their own paralysis on his body. He'd been breathing just fine until those dark pits seemed to suck the air out of him.
It came closer with oddly shuffling steps. It held an old fashioned bow in its hand and its body creaked softly with every movement, the sound like that of stirring tree branches. It was a thing of the forest, yet not of this world, and Dean's blood grew colder with every yard it advanced on him.
He'd thought of a lot of ways to go out, but lying helplessly frozen while something gnawed out his insides had never made the list. It was the second time in a week something threatened to eat him alive, and the panic hadn't lessened any. He wished for Sam, but only if he got there soon because Dean didn't want his brother to find him after.
As if in answer to his prayer, something tall and predatory moved unexpectedly out of the trees at that moment, in between him and the baykok.
It stalked fluidly, held itself with a lethal grace Dean didn't recognize. And yet he knew, knew before the dark head swiveled and the moonlight caught the hazel eyes that scrutinized him. Sam. Not Stanford Sam or teenage Sam. This was the warrior John Winchester had tried to raise them both to be, never with much apparent success where Sam was concerned.
It seemed he hadn't missed all the lessons.
And those eyes, in that half-second they rested on Dean: the curtain was gone, vanished as if it had never been. Rage, fear, grief, determination, and, God, the fierce love that crammed them, lodged a knot the size of a fist in Dean's throat far more effectively than the baykok's poison. Sam turned away quickly, unable to afford the distraction, but the way he set himself between Dean and the approaching creature said just as much as those eyes did. He's mine, and you can't have him.
When had Dean stopped being the protector in this relationship?
Neither the baykok nor Sam spoke. Dean wasn't even sure if the thing could hear, or understand. But the challenge was unspoken, and the baykok hung back a moment, assessing this new development. Then raised its bow with astonishing speed.
Sam!
Sam dropped and rolled, the arrow meant for him striking a tree harmlessly a few feet above where Dean lay.
Sam was already up on one knee, taking aim with the revolver. Each bullet was treated with different wards, and Sam emptied all six rounds into the baykok. It reeled but didn't fall, and a moment later it started advancing again.
Sam was back on his feet, still between Dean and the creature. It limited his mobility, that need to protect his brother, and if Dean would have been able to speak, he would have urged Sam to forget about him and just get the damned thing. But it would probably have been wasted breath, anyway. There was a set to Sam's shoulders, a hardness to the lines of his back, that made Dean somehow think Sam wouldn't have listened to anyone just then. He had a mission, and God help anything that got in his way.
The baykok moved toward him.
Sam had scooped up Dean's crossbow on the way back to his feet, and he tried that next. The quarrel hit true…and bounced. Dean uttered a silent groan, but Sam didn't falter, just pulled out the throwing star next, and when that didn't prove any more effective, a dagger. The blessed silver one, and Dean held his breath as it flew.
It fell, a soft clatter to the ground.
Dean was starting to realize why Pete had failed.
He tried again to move: a finger, a foot, his lips. Nothing obeyed. His mind was clear, his eyes open, and all he could do was lie and watch Sam fight for his life. For both their lives. The frustration was a silent pressure inside him that made his chest tight and head swim.
Sam had given up on projectiles and moved in for hand-to-hand. His small curved-blade axe swung with a form Dean would have admired in other circumstances, but again it slid off the baykok's charmed skin. Sam followed the momentum of the swing away from the creature as it lunged at him, then he dropped again to avoid another arrow. Each movement was spare and precise and beautiful, a dangerous dance Dean hadn't known his brother was capable of. The intensity of which almost scared him.
Sam had learned the same lessons from their dad as Dean had, but he'd never applied them with Dean's enthusiasm. No, apparently it had taken losing someone he loved to strip away that lingering innocence and instill in him the Winchester passion. They finally all had the same mission now. And Dean, for all the times he'd wished his brother to embrace the life and share a little more common ground, hurt to see the change.
He was glad to know Sam had it in him, really, relieved he could take care of himself. But if he never saw this side of his brother again, Dean would be happy.
But he worriedly cheered Sam on now as his brother kept fighting. Sam wasn't beating the creature, but the baykok wasn't winning, either, and that was something.
Holy water did no good. The amulet made the creature briefly recoil, but was hardly a weapon. It was impervious to flames, and sanctified oil slid off its skin. The baykok kept advancing slowly on Dean, and while Sam parried and dodged its every lunge, he wasn't able to do much to stop its progress.
Then Sam stopped dead, as if he'd frozen in place.
Dean strained to see why, if the baykok had done something. But the moonlight was weak, the baykok and Sam mere silhouettes in the unlit clearing. It didn't look like Sam was hurt, but he wasn't moving and the baykok was, advancing with a silent menace that had Dean shrinking away inside his unresponsive body. Sam… He knew there wasn't anything left for his brother to try, but it was a plea nonetheless, and, barring that, an apology.
Sam's voice was a whisper on the wind.
Dean's eyes flicked from the baykok, only a dozen feet away now, to his brother standing beyond it, no longer shielding Dean, head bowed in the picture of defeat. But he was murmuring something, words Dean couldn't make out.
The baykok slowed, turning uncertainly back.
Sam's head rose by degrees, and even from that distance Dean could see his lips move. His eyes were hidden under those unruly bangs, but Dean knew their darkness would rival the baykok's. And he knew what Sam was doing.
The baykok seemed to, also. It suddenly rushed Sam, moving with inhuman speed.
Sam was staring straight at it as he shouted the last few words. Dean only heard three: In God's Name, in the Latin that had always slid off Sam's tongue so much more easily than Dean's.
An invisible hand grabbed the baykok and squeezed.
There was screaming inside Dean's head, and a light that made him wince his eyes shut. The roar of an unnatural wind flapped at his clothing and hair and blew grit into his face. The pressure changed, as if everything was being sucked back into some giant whirlpool in the center of the clearing. There was a rush and clatter like a train bearing down on them.
And then everything went silent and still.
Dean warily opened his eyes.
Sam was alone in the clearing, driven to his hands and knees by the wind. Even as Dean watched, his brother opened his eyes and craned around. But it was just the two of them.
Sam surged to his feet, apparently untouched, and crossed the distance to Dean in a few seconds. There, he went back down to his knees.
"Are you okay?" The voice that had flung out the chant a moment before with the hard sharpness of a weapon, had softened to a frightened caress. Dean could still feel, and Sam's hand skimming his face and neck was cold and shaking. The warrior of a minute ago was gone, just Dean's little brother again, worried for him.
Dean knew the feeling. His face remained frozen, however, unresponsive, only his eyes able to speak for him now. He blinked with effort. No.
"Does anything hurt?"
He blinked another answer, already tired from the exertion.
"Liar," came the gentle reproof, as hands found the arrow in his side. "I have to take this out—try to relax."
Right. He didn't want to shut his eyes, afraid he couldn't reopen them, but Sam's eyes were still telling tales and that alone was reason enough for Dean to keep his propped open.
He was hurting for Jess. Dean had seen that look enough in his dad's eyes to recognize it. And the rage still boiled under the surface as it had during the wendigo hunt, although that could have been partly anger at the baykok and what it had done to Dean. But the love…that was his Sam, feral and tender and as strong now as ten years before.
Maybe, despite three years and one tragedy, Sam hadn't changed as much as Dean feared.
Sam braced himself and pulled.
There wasn't a head on the shaft so it didn't hurt as badly as Dean had expected, but it still made his body jerk and strangled some sort of cry in his throat. Sam's voice was a soft murmur of apology as his hands moved quickly to apply pressure, stop bleeding, wrap the wound. "Dean?" He leaned in again. "I need to know, is the paralysis getting worse?"
Dean blinked a heavy no. It wasn't even that bad, besides the whole friggin' useless-as-a-baby part. He could still breathe, still think, still feel, and he suspected the baykok's drug deadened some of the pain, too. If he could just get Sam to stop looking so worried, he'd chalk this one up as an unqualified win.
"I'm taking you back to the room then, all right?"
He blinked a yes, then let his eyes shut. They were only barely under his control as it was, and the effort seemed too great to continue. Besides, it cut down on the vertigo as Sam lifted him, got him over one shoulder. Dean swung like a loose-limbed drunk, unable even to brace himself against his brother's back, and waited for this whole embarrassing part to be over with. Bad enough to let himself get shot without Sam having to drag his sorry behind back to the room after. Dean really wasn't helping his image that night.
Sam reached the Impala and opened the door, settling Dean into the seat with care, leaning his head back against the headrest and curling his arms into his lap. He checked the bandage before withdrawing and shutting the door. Dean listened to him get in on the other side. The engine turned over, and his music started playing a second later.
They'd gotten the thing that had killed Pete and three others. Dean wasn't sure yet how, but they'd beaten the sucker.
"Banishing spell," Sam said quietly beside him. "I still remember a few of them." He seemed to be remembering a lot of things.
And reading minds, too. He pictured Sam covered in chocolate syrup just in case, one of his favorite practical jokes from a few years before, but there was no annoyed huff or swat of his arm. Just checking. Still, he'd settle for an occasional ride on the same wavelength.
Maybe, just maybe, there was some hope this would still work.
00000
Two weeks together and already this was becoming a pattern.
The door rattled, and Dean turned sleepily toward it, relishing the ability to move. He gave Sam a half-awake grin that said as much as his brother came inside, balancing bags of food. Dean dragged himself up. The paralysis hadn't let him eat the night before, and he was starving.
"Is it completely gone?" Sam asked, barely paying attention to how he dumped the bags on the table before coming over to sit on Dean's bed.
"Yeah, pretty much." He flexed his hands, his toes. "Little tingle still, but everything's working."
"Too bad," Sam said deadpan, "I think I liked it better when you couldn't talk."
Dean made an exaggerated ha-ha face at him, then dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm gonna take a shower first."
"Good idea. I thought about sticking you in the tub last night, but I'd had enough trauma for one evening."
"You pick up a sense of humor with the food?" Dean asked, rummaging through the clothes spilling out of his duffel. Sam's search for a shirt for him the previous night had apparently been an impatient one.
"Seriously, man, you feeling okay? How's your side? I wasn't sure what all that arrow hit."
Dean looked up at that. "Barely feel it," he said honestly. The baykok probably hadn't wanted its meal too damaged. "I'm fine, Sam."
"Good." Hesitation, then a little more firm a nod. "Good. 'Cause carrying you to the car is not going to be a regular thing, all right?"
"Yeah, believe me, it was no picnic for me, either. You realize what the view is back there?" Dean gave an exaggerated shiver.
"Yeah, whatever," Sam said, unaffected, and got up to return to the food.
He looked tired; Dean knew he'd stayed up half the night just to make sure the paralysis truly was wearing off instead of getting worse. Unable to talk or even roll over in bed those first few hours, Dean had appreciated it more than he could say. More than he had any intention of saying.
Nor was he bringing up the changes he saw in his brother, either, because there would have been no faster way to slam shut the door that had finally opened the night before. Sam still wasn't exactly spilling his guts, and from the look in those dark eyes and the nightmare he'd obviously had in the early hours of the morning, they did have things to talk about. This new hunter-Sam also worried Dean as much as it impressed him. But the simmering sense of stay away was finally gone. There was a big difference between Sam not knowing how to get things off his chest, and actively pushing his brother away. And Dean wasn't forgetting what he'd glimpsed the night before. He hadn't been sure for a little while, but despite some of the surface changes, this was still his Sam.
"Oh, and, dude?" he said, turning back from the bathroom door.
His brother looked up, weary but not guarded as he would have been the day before.
Which made this so much easier. "Tonight, separate beds. You move around even more now than when you were a kid."
And, yeah, he wasn't really surprised to find his breakfast dumped into his boots when he came out again.
The End