It would be worth reading chapters 6 & 7 before you read this one as they are continuations of this little moment. Many thanks to everyone reading and especially to those commenting. Your kind words are much appreciated.

A Moment with My Brother.

Garbage Mashers

It's taken a few days for Dean to really well be well enough to get up and around again but in that time, surprisingly he's accepted our combined bunker-squad ministrations with nary a squeak of protest and even, on occasion asked when he's needed help.

Neither has Dean made a big deal of their fall out, and too his credit, Sam hasn't either and I have to admit to getting a little bit girly, maybe even teary, from time to time when Dean's leaned on Sam as he's helped him to the bathroom or made an effort to 'eat up all his din-dins!' as required.

Now he's a bit better, well enough to be out of bed for more than a few minutes, we've ensconced him on the big leather sofa in the bunker's lounge and are taking turns to ensure that he's never more than a toss of the TV remote from one or other of us.

We're currently on the third re-run of Star Wars..."Shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level, will ya?" - you know the scene! and the boys, Sam, Dean and Cas are all focused on an argument about how they would have done a better job of bracing the walls so I absented myself quietly (Yes, I can too be quiet when I need to!) to complete the secret mission I had set for myself.

It only takes me a couple of minutes.

I slip, Ninja-like, into Dean's room and lift it, my secret weapon, from the innocuous grocery bag I've been carefully hiding it in, do the necessary business and place it back, reverently on the nightstand.

I check it's just so...just as Dean likes it placed...I think so he can see it when he lays in bed just before he goes to sleep. Yeah, I've got it right and I leave, hopeful/ nervous/ anxious that I've done the right thing.

Cause I want it, real bad, to be right for him.

snSNsn

We all head to bed pretty late, Sam hovering behind Dean and Dean allowing him too without growling at all about his personal space.

I wash the coffee mugs and plates we've used and potter a bit before, turning off the lights as I pad across the smooth, cool marble toward my own little bunker sleep-haven.

I pass Dean's door en route so I'm deliberately quiet as I move in case Sam's already got him settled and off to another bout of much-needed sleep but, as it happens, he's still awake.

In fact as I glance solicitously into his room he's sitting on the side of the bed with my 'secret mission' in his hands.

I don't make a noise cause he's lost in looking at the vision of his mom that is the precious picture he was so terrified might be damaged or destroyed when he spilt the water those few nights ago.

I've smoothed it and placed it carefully into the prettiest frame I could find in that little artsy-crafty shop in town and I think it looks nice...real nice and if nothing else it'll be protected from accidental spills and bumps and random knocks from now on.

Cause see, it's valuable...no, more than that, it's invaluable cause for Dean it's one of the few tangible images he has of her. Oh there are many locked in his heart but they are harder to share with Sam cause it's near impossible for him to let Sam see how terribly, awfully, wonderfully much he misses her.

Sam does too, miss her I mean. I know he does, but Sam was only a baby when what happened, happened and so the warm, real, sweet, tender, loving creature that his mom was is perhaps more of a theoretical concept than an actual memory for Sam.

I turn carefully so as not to let Dean know I was here and go to my room. He doesn't need to know that I saw his tears, or saw him draw the rough pad of his thumb across the faded image or watched him raise the little white frame to his lips and kiss her goodnight as I am sure she always kissed him.

snSNsn

Sam was first up this fine bunker morning and so it's granola and yogurt with fresh fruit for breakfast and he and I and Kevin are laughing about Cas's inability to open a yogurt pot without squirting the strawberry (strawberry is the post-angelic flavour of the month) delight all down his shirt front. He must have been shown a dozen times now but he can't get the habit of slowly pulling the little foil lid, he always goes for an over-assertive tug resulting in crime-scene splatter on his duds.

Dean enters some thirty minutes after everyone else and he's tousled and bed-headed but looks less pale than he has since he got banged up.

"Morning, Sunshine."

Cas deadpans, stealing Dean's oft chanted and early morning irritating line and we all laugh, Dean included, at him cause he's no idea how freaking funny such a Dean-ism sounds coming outta his mouth.

Dean walks over to the table, scratching idly at his bandaged arm. The real hurt of it has now given way to 'don't scratch, it must be getting better' itchiness and he fusses at it as he eyes the healthy breakfast repast suspiciously.

"No bacon?"

He mumbles, dropping his hand away from his bandages as Cas swats at him meaningfully.

"Don't scratch at it."

The ex-angel says as he pushes out the chair beside him so Dean can sit and the hunter rolls his big green eyes and makes for the chair.

We go back to eating and so they rest of them don't, I think, notice as in passing me by, Dean bends, only a little stiffly, and swiftly but softly kisses the top of my head.

Even if they do see the others say nothing and the gentle 'thank you, Charlie' he whispers is audible only to me.

It's fleeting, that touch, but it burns into my consciousness with such power and when he takes his seat, next to Cas and across from me and raises his tender gaze to meet mine I know that I am glad I have eased my brother's generous heart.

Ends