A/N: Two for one tonight. Judging by the number of "alert" adds, I'm going to assume people are interested and reading. Which is good news. I can appreciate that. So I'll put up another two tonight. Hopefully I can get my ass in gear and finish off the last couple of instalments soon.
I've also come to realize this isn't the most uplifting little series I've got going. Kind of a drag, really. Sorry about that.
Enough talk, onto number two. Takes place immediately after "Heart."
2. Sad
Five minutes.
Five minutes pass before Sam emerges from the room. He walks past Dean and out into the hall, arms hanging limply at his sides. Methodical, one foot in front of the other, eyes cast low.
Dean follows at a respectful distance, doesn't even have to tell Sam to take the fire escape—he's already heading in that direction. They've done this before.
They've never done this before.
Sam keeps his head down in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. When he gets out of the car, Dean stays back, gives Sam a five second head start, allows his brother to show as much emotion as he wants to without being seen. It's the least Dean can do, because nothing he can think of saying or doing is going to make this any better—any easier.
Under the motel's parking lot spotlights, Dean thinks he sees glitter on Sam's shoulder and back. And that's just...not right. On so many levels.
Dean lengthens his stride, gets a bit closer, feels like he has been punched in the gut when he realizes Sam's covered in blood, a fine spray of wet droplets all over his shoulder and part of his back. Dean follows the trail down Sam's jeans and onto his shoes. Jerks his head up when Sam stops to open the motel room door.
If Sam doesn't know already, he certainly doesn't need to.
The room is hot, really hot. Dean curses, kicks at the radiator with his toe. His suave mechanical skills failing, he opts for opening the stiff windows instead.
Sam stands in the middle of the room, blank-faced, stone-still. Empty.
"Why don't you go take a shower?" Dean suggests. Upon hearing the words, Sam's watery pupils retract and pull into focus.
Dean lifts his chin towards the bathroom. Sam blinks, reaches up with a shaky hand and pushes his hair back off his forehead while slowly moving towards the bathroom.
Dean waits until he hears the water running, then calls out, "Sam, leave the door unlocked, okay?"
There's a popping sound as the lock is released, which is answer enough. After a minute, Dean quietly opens the door, the pounding of the water drowning out the sound. He scoops the clothes and shoes up off the floor, grabs one of the towels from the rack above the toilet and heads out.
****
The Laundromat is surprisingly busy. There are a couple of hot girls who look like they might be mildly drunk. The blonde smiles at Dean, keeps smiling until her gaze drifts from his face down to his hands, and then goes white and wide-eyed. She blindly grabs at her friend's arm and pulls her away.
Dean glances down, notices he's still holding Sam's shoes. Sam's bloody shoes.
So much for that.
The clothes come out clean; the shoes come out in a hundred pieces, clogging up the drain from the machine much to the large Indian lady's dismay.
"Shoes?!" she yells at Dean, waving her arms in disgust, forcing him backwards. He grabs Sam's clothes, spins and gets out of there before she throws down.
Okay, so Dean has clean clothes...he'll have to find somewhere to get Sam another pair of shoes. Unfortunately, not too many shoe stores are open 24/7. He asks the drunk-ish girls—who have taken to waiting outside and get all stiff and uncomfortable when he approaches. They point dumbly to the Wal Mart across the street.
Dean picks up the only pair of shoes they have in Sam's size—he's not going to win any style awards, but it's better than the alternative...which, given the shoe/washing machine fiasco, is barefoot.
Shoes are joined by M&M's, disinfectant spray, and Sleep Eze on the moving checkout belt. Only the necessities.
Satisfied, he returns to the car and takes care of the final order of business. He sprays the passenger seat with the disinfectant and scrubs at the material with the motel towel until his shoulder aches, tosses the pink-stained rag into the nearest garbage.
During the drive back to the motel, he receives a text from Sam.
Where r u?
Dean manages to respond, only swerving onto the dusty shoulder once.
Back in 5.
He runs a questionable amber/red light and makes it back in four and a half.
***
When Dean enters the room again, it's much cooler and darker.
Sam looks to be asleep. It would be so easy for Dean to buy in, crawl into his own bed and drop off until morning.
The good thing about hunting with your brother is you know everything about him. The bad thing about hunting with your brother is that you know everything about him. Dean knows all of his brother's tells.
And Sam is definitely not asleep.
Dean drops the clean clothes on the edge of his own bed, removes the candy and shoes from the plastic bag, drops them on top of the mound. He pockets the Sleep-Eze.
When Dean looks up, Sam's slotted eyes stare back.
Dean pauses, really looks at his brother, feels it's finally time to ask, "You okay?"
The eyes drown, lids slip shut, wetness seeps out onto lashes.
Dean sits down on the bed near Sam's head. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it might help.
Sam draws a shaky breath, exhales a breathy, "Thanks."
Dean places a hand on Sam's shoulder and gives a quick squeeze.
He can't do or say anything to make it better. But it's sure as hell not going to keep him from trying.
Because that's what they do. It's what they've always done.
Five minutes.
It takes five minutes for Sam's breathing to even out. Dean removes his hand from his brother's shoulder, arranges a pillow against the headboard and leans back, engages in the mighty fight to keep his eyes open.
When Sam jerks awake five minutes later, Dean's still there, Sleep Eze in hand.
***