Dean flings a sporkful of mashed potatoes across the table at Ash. Everybody around them cracks up laughing, except for Jo. She shakes her head and calls them juveniles. Ash wipes the mess off his forehead and vows vengeance with a spork pointed at Dean's face.
Dean's phone buzzes and he holds up a finger to pause the battle.
SW: Hey sorry about that. Broke my phone
"Yeah, right." Dean grumbles out loud.
Ash loads up with turkey hash. "Who is that, Smith? Your girlfriend?"
Jo squirms in her seat. Dean treats Ash to a spinning display of his middle finger. "It's your mother. She wanted to remind me to bring a fresh pack of rubbers tonight."
The kids around the table get a kick out of that one. Dean types a response. There's no point calling Sam on his bullshit.
DS: What'd you do? Drop it in the can?
SW: Something like that.
SW: Look. I can't really talk right now. Work.
SW: Just wanted to let you know I got a new one
SW: Maybe we can talk tonight.
DS: Got a game, so…
SW: After?
DS: Maybe
SW: Play well
Dean takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. 'Fuck. This. Guy.'
Ash laughs. "You gonna cry? What'd she do, dump you?"
"Fuck you, Ash. I'm the best bang your mom's had in her life." Dean flicks his spork.
For a welcome change, there is peace in the place. Castiel drank himself to sleep and is slobbering on the pillow. Sam stands over him for a moment. He swipes an errant lock of pitch black hair from his ashen forehead. The tip of his finger traces over the blue wing on Cas' pale shoulder. It's the most ironic tattoo Sam has ever seen. He closes the door quietly behind himself and steps into the hall.
With a glass of red wine and Chopin playing sweetly, he eases onto the sofa. Chalupa prances over and curls up, warming one of Sam's feet. He grins down at the dog. One more glance over his shoulder before he taps on the screen of his phone.
-No new messages.
Sam always feels strange about initiating the conversation, like he's being lame or bothersome, or creepy, but Dean always writes back, so...
SW: How'd it go? SW: Bet you won this one, didn't you?
Sam closes his eyes and lets the music and the wine sink sweetly into his skin. A little over an hour later, he checks the phone.
- No new messages.
If Dean is still annoyed with him about the phone thing, Sam doesn't know what else he can do. He had gone out on his lunch break to replace it and texted him the second the thing was functional.
SW: Hey.
SW: After game party?
At 1:13 AM, he awakes again, yawns and sees that Dean still hasn't written back. Sam massages the back of his neck and decides some fresh air would be good.
It's crisp out on the balcony and it does help to clear his head a little.
His mind is clear enough to realize that it is insane to have any expectations of this kid, whatsoever. They've been exchanging a handful of texts every day for nearly two weeks. Just because it's become so important to Sam doesn't mean that is mutual. What it means is that Sam is a freak who needs to get his life together. That's not exactly a newsflash.
He should have known that eventually the boy would lose interest. After all, Dean was up front about what he wanted and Sam isn't turning out to be much of a Fuckbuddy. How could he be surprised or upset if Dean is bored with him? Sam massages the ache in the center of his chest hurts and wipes his hand over his dry mouth.
This is a clear sign. This is Dean telling Sam to stop bothering him. Sam should be adult enough to take a hint and leave the kid alone. Instead, he writes.
SW: Cool if I call?
On the third ring, a woman answers, "Dean Smith's personal answering service. What can I do for you, Sam?"
It must be Dean's mother. It's the middle of the night. Sam drops his forehead in his hand. He could ditch the call, like a freaking teenager. She already knows who it is. That would just be worse. "Um, Mrs. Smith?"
The woman snickers. "Oh no, honey." Her syrupy, southern accent drips through the phone. "This is Ellen Harvelle. I'm a nurse over at General. I'm talking to Sam, right? Dean's friend?"
Sam grips the steel railing. "Is he okay?"
"Oh, he'll be fine."
"He took a hit." Sam says rather than asks.
"Pretty good one, apparently. I tell you, that boy was dizzy as a bat. He hasn't stopped talking about you since they brought him in here."
Dean was talking about him? It's not really the time to dwell on that, but the thought sends a warm rush through Sam. "What did he say?"
"He wanted me to send you a message, but I don't mess around with that texting nonsense. My grandkids do it constantly, but my eyes are too bad. I told Dean it could either wait or that if it was important, you would call. He said you would never call and here you are - calling."
Sam huffs. "Is he nearby?"
"Well, right now, he's down having his cat scanned. Technically, I'm not supposed to answer patients' phones, but I knew he'd want you to know. Why don't you call back and leave a message?"
"Can you give me any idea what his doctor said?"
"Not really allowed to do that, but I tell you what, Sam. That kid is Ford tough. Came in here joking around. Said he felt like a piñata." She laughs. "Usually when they're talking as much as he was, I assume they'll live. Just call him back, honey. Give it about an hour or two. But don't let him talk too long."
Sam paces the balcony. The wind whips cold, battering his skin. He can't go there. It isn't like Sam could get into the car and drive to General in the middle of the night. He can't just go see some kid who probably doesn't even want him there anyway. Even if Dean did, only immediate family is permitted to visit at this hour. "Thank you."
"Sure thing, honey. He'll be fine, Sam."
He thanks her again and huffs a small laugh.
SW: Text me as soon as you get this.
Sam sits up on the sofa staring at the phone in his hands, as if that will make Dean's CT end faster. Eventually, he leans back, but can't bring himself to sleep. He scans over the titles on his shelf. Tries to read a book, but can't focus on the words. Over an hour later, his phone buzzes against his chest. Sam snatches it up and opens the message. It's blank. Sam's lips tremble. Then, he smiles. SW: Still alive huh?
DS: Y
SW: Dangerous game, football
DS: 1
SW: They must have assessed you as a threat. That's when they hit harder. Start playing reckless. You must have been kicking ass
SW: How you feeling?
DS: ShT
Sam laughs out loud at that, then covers his mouth.
SW: Staring at the screen probably doesn't help
DS: U
SW: Me? What?
DS: U gwko
SW: Yeah. You should probably get some rest
Sam snaps a photo of himself smiling. Then, he takes one of himself blowing a kiss. After spending way too long puzzling over them, he sends the second one.
SW: For your forehead.
He deletes it all from his phone, powers down and goes to bed.
Sam doesn't sleep, though. He can't sleep. He wants to go to Dean so badly it makes him twitch. Every cell in his body yearns to be in that hospital holding that kid's hand, making sure the doctors are doing everything they can, kissing him for real.
Instead, Sam lays next to Castiel. He squeezes his stinging eyes shut and folds his lips into his mouth.
Dean rolls over, opens and quickly shuts his eyes again. The sunlight is brutal. His skull is full of soup. Blindly, he gropes for the remote. One button makes the bed lurch, groan and lay back flat. A different one sits him upright. He finds the button for the TV and listens to the Family Feud.
When the show is over, he tries to peer through his lashes. Still too bright. His head screams at him for trying. His eyes buzz. He forces them open long enough to find his phone. Much longer, he's going to hurl.
Looking at the picture of Sam is a cruel torment, in every sense of the word.
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to open them wider. It hurts like fuck. Hurts his face, hurts his foggy brain. There's a sharp twinge in his chest that's worse than the other pain. The headache and the nausea remind him that he's a wounded warrior. That other thing just makes him feel weak.
He stares at the photo until his lips began to curl up and quake. A tear threatens to break from the corner of his vibrating eye. His nostrils flare. "You're fucking with me, aren't you?"
She's pretty. Of course, she is. Sam blinks at the photo of a dark haired girl with huge bosoms popping out of a tight, low cut top. She leans against a locker and waves coyly at the camera. Sam looks at her for what feels like a long time. She is really pretty.
In the next cubicle, his coworker takes no notice of him whatsoever. She continues working with her head down. Sam searches all around the office. He knows most of their names and nothing about them. He goes to work. He comes home. He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't go out, in order to keep Castiel happy, which doesn't work anyway. All it does is add to his own endless isolation.
If Sam were on a raft in the middle of the ocean, Castiel would be the water and the sharks and that's fine. Sam has let Dean become his raft, which is only slightly better than drowning. That was a mistake. He can see that now. Sitting at his desk, looking at this picture of this pretty girl, Sam is beginning to see how stupid he's been.
SW: I think maybe you sent this to the wrong person
DS: No way, man. Wanted you to see what I'm doing tonight
SW: Why are you telling me this?
DS: Just shooting the shit, bro.
SW: OK
DS: We're friends, right?
SW: Of course
DS: I'm guessing you're more into blondes, with your mom and Jo
SW: I got to go.
SW: Have fun
DS: Yeah. I will
