Chapter 11
That evening, Dean was waiting outside when Dr. Sinclair pulled into the carpark. He told Sam he was just getting a little fresh air, so his little brother wouldn't ask him why he was loitering at their front door in the growing dark, but that Dean's outdoor sojourn coincided with the doctor's arrival was no coincidence.
"Not smoking today?" Brad asked, climbing out of the car. He pulled a black bag from the back seat, then the Beamer chirped once and the indicators flashed as he locked it remotely.
"Nah. Sam's awake, and if he knew I was smoking he might actually get out of bed and punch me." Dean smiled, and Brad chuckled. He walked up to the front door and moved to step past Dean and open it, but the older Winchester caught his arm and stopped him.
"Look, before you see Sam, there's something we gotta talk about," Dean said, keeping his voice low and looking Dr. Sinclair directly in the eye. His expression made it clear he wasn't kidding around. "Sam's going to ask you some stuff. About his injuries, but also what you know about what happened to him."
"I figured he would," Dr Sinclair replied, slowly. He'd been expecting that, and he couldn't quite see what the problem was.
"Yeah…" Dean sighed, releasing his arm. Now, how do I put this delicately?
"Well, thing is, I don't want you to tell him."
Brad couldn't hide his surprise. "You're saying you don't want me to be completely honest with Sam?" he repeated, not quite sure he understood.
"That's what I'm saying, yeah."
Brad tensed, not quite sure how to respond to that. His ethics told him he had to be completely open with the younger Winchester; Sam was his patient, and it wasn't his doctor's job to decide what he should and shouldn't know about his own condition. And it wasn't his brother's job either, for that matter.
Dean could immediately see the doctor was uncomfortable with the idea and he hurried to clarify. "Look, I'm not saying you can't tell him about his injuries - give him all the detail you want about which bones are broken and how long the burns will take to heal and all that. He wants to know, but I don't know enough to tell him."
Dean didn't want Brad to lie outright to Sam about how bad his injuries were, and he was pretty sure he couldn't ever have made the doctor agree not to tell him about the near-death experience that had resulted in the chest tube. Dean didn't enjoy thinking about it, but he could deal. It was just the… other stuff.
"I just don't want you to tell him anything that happened before we left Odessa," he said, pointedly, and after a second understanding dawned on Brad's face.
"You don't want Sam to know what you had to do to get him out," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
Dean nodded. "I'll tell him eventually." Probably. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I just don't wanna do it now. Not while he's dealing with all this other crap."
Dr. Sinclair studied Dean for a long moment, thinking that over. "All right. I'll keep your secret, Dean, but you have to tell him sometime. You can't keep it bottled up forever," he replied, eventually, and Dean let out a sigh of relief.
"Thanks, doc." He turned and opened the door, leading Dr. Sinclair inside. Brad stopped before he went two steps, staring at Sam in amazement.
Sam was sitting up in his bed, resting against a few pillows and reading a newspaper. He looked inordinately well-rested - probably because, after the exertion of his extended conversation with Dean that morning, he had slept away most of the day. He'd wanted to spend some time among the living, and catch up with Dean - it had been months and he missed his big brother - but the amount of morphine he needed to stay even relatively comfortable meant he spent most of his time asleep or drowsy. So while Dean was outside he decided to make hay while the sun was shining, metaphorically speaking, and was catching up on what had been happening in the real world.
Sam saw the surprised look on Brad's face, and smiled. "Don't worry, I'll lay back down and rest in a minute." He handed the newspaper to Dean, who folded it and set it on his nightstand.
"Not at all, Sam - it's nice to see you back amongst the living. How are you feeling?" Dr. Sinclair asked, putting his bag down on Dean's bed and pulling out his stethoscope. He was pleased to see Sam was feeling better, but he hadn't expected him to do anything but lay flat in bed for a few days at least.
"I wouldn't call this a high point, but I think it's getting better," Sam replied, getting a little smile from Brad. He'd always liked Sam's dry sense of humour.
"I must say, you're looking much better than the last time I saw you." The doctor stifled a yawn and rubbed at his eyes. They were bleary and bloodshot, and he looked exhausted.
"Want a caffeine hit while you're here, doc?" Dean offered, and Brad nodded gratefully.
"I'd kill for a decent cup of coffee. The coffeemaker in the ER is on the fritz, and there is literally no other decent coffee to be had in the entire building." He yawned again. "I noticed a little diner down the street," he suggested hopefully, but Dean wrinkled his nose.
"Don't do that to yourself. I'd sooner feed you battery acid." Dean went over to their kitchenette and poured a cup of strong black coffee from the coffeemaker. He'd tried the stuff from Mac's Diner, and the motel coffeemaker - old and decrepit as it was - made a far superior cup of joe. Susie the waitress might be cute, but she knew zero about making coffee. If Dean thought he might get something more out of her, then fine, he could put up with a cup of stale dishwater - but that wasn't going to happen with his baby brother laid up in bed, and life's just too short to drink coffee that bad. And he certainly wasn't about to give it to the guy responsible for yanking Sam back from the jaws of death.
"The beans come from 7-Eleven, but it does the job." Dean handed the doctor his coffee, in one of those thick-walled, hard-wearing white ceramic cups that are ubiquitous in motels and diners.
"Thanks." Brad took it, and smiled as he savoured the aroma.
"Any chance I could get a cup of that?" Sam asked hopefully, watching as Dr. Sinclair took a mouthful of caffeinated heaven and set the cup down on his nightstand. His mouth watered every time Dean turned the damn coffeemaker on, but his big brother had steadfastly refused to give him any until the doctor explicitly said he could have it.
Brad thought for a second before he replied, considering his answer. "One a day," he conceded. "You don't want to keep yourself awake, and you need to keep your blood pressure down. Okay?" he said, and Sam nodded. He could cope with that.
"You know what else would be awesome? Some real food," Sam went on, and Brad smiled.
"Not a fan of the NG tube?" he asked, and Sam grimaced.
"If I could use my hands, doc, it'd be gone already," he said, without a trace of a joke.
"Well, I guess we'll start with that then." Brad retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his bag, and Dean took that as his cue to leave.
"I don't particularly want to see this I don't think, so I'm just going to leave you in the doctor's capable hands, Sammy." Dean grabbed his car keys off the bench, then went over to his bedside drawer and pulled out the sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun that they usually employed to fire rock salt. He released the lock and broke the gun, checking the chambers - now loaded with very real double-aught steel buckshot - then snapped it shut again and placed it next to Dr. Sinclair's coffee cup.
The doctor looked at the gun, eyes wide, but Sam just gave Dean a single nod of understanding. Sometimes, he could almost forget there was probably a posse of homicidal hunters actively hounding them.
"You ever use one of those before, doc?" Dean asked matter-of-factly, and Brad just blinked at him.
"Um - a couple of times, when I was teenager on my uncle's farm," he replied, somewhat bewildered.
"I'll talk him through it." Sam assured Dean, who nodded.
"So I guess you want a bowl of rabbit food, then?" he asked teasingly, and Sam smiled.
"A salad would be good, yeah," he replied, and Dean chuckled as he headed for the front door.
The doctor just looked from one Winchester to the other, amazed at how relaxed they were in the face of the kind of danger one needed a shotgun to deal with. He had been distracted with the imminent death of the younger Winchester when Dean had dragged his arsenal inside the clinic that Tuesday night. But now, as Brad sat in their motel room with the door and windows locked, curtains drawn and a shotgun in front of him, it suddenly hit home why Dean had been reluctant to involve him at all. He tried not to flinch when Dean pulled the door shut behind him.
After he made thoroughly sure the door was locked, Dean made a beeline for the Impala and sank gratefully into her front seat. "I know, baby, it's been too long," he said, patting the dash a couple of times before he turned the key in the ignition. "I'm sorry I neglected you, but we're gonna go and stretch your legs a little." A satisfied smile spread across his face when the V8 engine roared to life. He missed that throaty growl.
He took the Impala for a spin down the road to Mac's Diner, under cover of darkness, to get some 'real food'. Well, Dean was going to have real food - a cheeseburger - but he'd get Sam his salad, too. For once, Dean didn't mind catering to his little brother's salad fetish: he took it as proof that Owen and Ray hadn't done any real psychological damage. And, fortunately for all concerned, Susie's food was much better than her coffee.
When Dean got back to the motel 20 minutes later, white paper bags in hand, Sam was still sitting up against his mountain of pillows and Dr. Sinclair was just packing up his bag. As much as he would have loved to take a drive around the block - he was dying for a change of scenery - Dean didn't take the scenic route back from the diner. He hadn't seen any trace of Owen and Ray's buddies as yet, but that didn't mean they weren't around and he wasn't about to tempt fate.
"So how's the patient?" Dean asked, putting dinner on the kitchen table.
"Sam's doing well." Dr. Sinclair reported, checking his watch and pulling his keys out of his pocket. "His fever's gone, his wounds are healing nicely, and as you can see his nasogastric tube and chest tube have been removed. I disconnected the saline IV, but the port has to stay in the back of his hand for medication. Just make sure he drinks plenty of fluids," he said, brow creased in concentration and checking things off on his fingers as he spoke.
"Somewhere you need to be, doc?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised, and Brad sighed wearily.
"There's something of an emergency at the hospital, so I can't hang around," he replied apologetically, "and Sam is doing well enough that I think I can start visiting once a day, so I won't be back until tomorrow evening." He pulled his sleeve back and checked his watch again. "If you have any questions or problems, call me." he added, before saying a quick goodbye and heading off back to the hospital. Dean locked the door behind him, neatening the salt line with the toe of his boot as he did.
"Do you think I scared him with the shotgun?" Dean looked questioningly over at his little brother.
"Honestly? Yeah." Sam's tone was light, and Dean was pleased to see he looked much more comfortable without so many tubes attached. "But his pager really did go off," he added, and Dean grinned.
"Civilians." He tsked, shaking his head, and started unpacking dinner.
"Okay, Sammy - 'real food', as requested." Dean picked up a wooden breakfast tray off the kitchen bench - the kind with the little legs - and put it over Sam's lap, then took the lid off the salad and set it down on the tray. Sam wordlessly held out his semi-healed right hand, and Dean quirked an eyebrow at him.
"How did you think I was going to eat it, then?" Sam looked back pointedly, and Dean gave him the flimsy three-tined plastic fork. If he was honest, Dean hadn't actually thought that far ahead.
Sam gripped the fork as tightly as he could and, frowning in concentration, started to spear his own Caesar salad one or two leaves at a time. It was going to take him forever at this rate.
"Sure you don't want a hand?" Dean asked, but Sam shook his head.
"I can do it."
Dean could understand why he wanted to do it on his own - there wasn't much else he could do for himself right now, so he decided Sam could have this one. Dean left him to his salad and went over to his cheeseburger and fries at the kitchen table.
They were silent for a few minutes, each concentrating on dinner. Dean waited until he'd finished his burger before he spoke.
"So what did you and the doc talk about?" he asked conversationally, trying to wheedle some info out of Sam without it looking like that's what he was doing.
"You know." Sam said simply, spearing a couple more lettuce leaves before he looked up. He still had half the salad to go. "You're supposed to tell someone if they nearly died, Dean." His voice was even, but full of tension. All his good humour had apparently evaporated.
Dean sighed, picking at his fries. Suddenly, he didn't feel like eating. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I didn't think that was the first thing you needed to hear when you woke up. I was going to tell you, but you needed a few days R&R. You needed to get some strength back."
"I had four days R&R. How about you fill me in?" Sam suggested, and his tone of voice made it plain that it was anything but a suggestion. His eyes were hard when Dean looked up at him.
This wasn't how I wanted to have this conversation.
Honestly, Dean didn't want to have it at all, but he definitely didn't want it to start this way. It wasn't ideal to start a conversation as tense as this one promised to be when things were already about to boil over, and Sam didn't even really know what he was asking. He didn't understand how thoroughly the situation had gone to hell, and the things his big brother had to do to get them out of it in one piece, more or less.
Which is why he needs to ask, I guess.
Dean left the remains of his meal on the table, and went over to sit in the chair by his little brother's bed. "What do you wanna know?" he asked quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his quads, hands clasped in the empty air between his knees.
"Maybe we could start with this near-death experience of mine?" Sam looked at Dean expectantly.
Dean took a breath and exhaled slowly. God, even the memory made his chest tighten up.
Dammit, Dean, why didn't you get some whisky while you were out?
"Okay." Dean stopped for a second to consider his words. "Well, first of all, it took me a while to find you: I mean, I didn't get to the warehouse until late Tuesday night. When I got inside and-" He paused again, trying to come up with a better phrase than 'found you hanging from the rafters'.
Sam waited silently, his forehead creasing into a frown. He'd intended to force every scrap of information he could out of Dean, but his anger was starting to ebb in the face of the haunted look in his big brother's eyes.
"When I found you in Odessa… you weren't in good shape, man." Dean went on, eventually. "You weren't breathing all that well to begin with, and by the time we got into Columbia half an hour later, you were really struggling. I thought you were going to stop breathing within sight of the freaking clinic, man!" Dean shivered, remembering his terrified baby brother fighting for every breath. He looked at Sam for a response, but although his expression had softened, he stayed quiet and waited for Dean to continue.
"Brad was waiting for us at the clinic, and after we got you inside and into a bed I went out to the car to get some firepower in case there was someone tracking us. When I came back, you'd stopped breathing and your lips were turning blue." Dean didn't have to add and it scared the hell out of me. He sat back in the chair and rubbed at his forehead with one hand.
"I know they broke some of my ribs, but Christ..." Sam chewed a little on his chapped lower lip, taking that in. He had no idea it was so touch-and-go, and that was... well, that was terrifying.
While he had initially been angry at Dean for not telling him the whole story, Sam was starting to understand his brother's reluctance. One look at the anguished expression on his face made it clear he didn't even like thinking about it.
"You really don't remember any of this?" Dean asked, studying him.
Sam shook his head. "It's a total blank. Everything after they dumped me onto the floor of the warehouse. I didn't think I hit my head that hard, but obviously something got broken." He looked back at Dean, eyes a little wide.
The eldest Winchester didn't know whether to be pleased Sam didn't remember, or worried that he couldn't. "You were pretty out of it when I found you," Dean offered eventually, by way of explanation.
It didn't explain anything, really, but of the two of them Sam was the only one that could have filled in the blank. But there were a few other things Sam wanted to know besides, and those questions Dean could answer.
Sam sighed, and thought seriously about whether he really wanted to know. Dean's aversion to discussing this whole situation wasn't lost on him, and if the worst part was indeed his baby brother's near-death experience, then Dean should be looking better now that was over.
He wasn't looking better, though. He was trying to seem nonchalant, but he was sitting very still, drumming his fingers absently on the arm of the chair, and he looked tense and drawn. Sam didn't want to make him relive whatever was bothering him so much, but he couldn't not know. And if it was as big a deal as Dean was making it seem, then he should probably get it off his chest anyway.
"Yeah. Which brings me to my next point," he said, and Dean's stomach dropped.
Please don't ask me how I got you out. Please don't ask me how I got you out.
"I asked Dr. Sinclair how you found me and got me out of the warehouse, but he said he didn't know the whole story and it wasn't up to him to tell me. So you're going to."
Shit. Dean winced and gave his little brother a pleading look, but Sam just stared right back at him. He was a little pale, but Dean recognised that stubborn look. He wasn't going to let this go.
So, Dean told him about getting into Blue Springs, finding out he was missing and putting the pieces together - with Kate's help - and going to Mel. He left out the part about his roadside panic attack, though. Sam sat quietly, taking it all in, until Dean got to the part where he arrived on Mel's front doorstep.
"So - a psychic witch." He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"A psychic witch." Dean confirmed.
"Huh. I never knew Pam had a cousin."
Dean smiled a little at that. He was telling a story about psychic witches and locator spells, and Sam took exception to the fact he didn't know Pamela had a cousin.
"Neither did I. Bobby sent me to her because when the Witnesses rose, apparently they broke the special tripod thing he used to find Lilith." Dean explained. "He was very irritated about it, too," he added, getting a very small smile from his brother.
"Anyway, I had to go and see her in Kansas City - she needed something that belonged to you so she could get a lock, so I had to courier a book of yours up there. That's what took so Goddamn long." His expression darkened as he remembered waiting in Mel's parlour for seven long hours while she broke through Owen and Ray's masking spell.
"Which one?" Sam asked, wondering why he hadn't noticed he was missing a book; it wasn't like he had a huge collection. Dean just shrugged.
"I dunno, man. Found it under the front seat a few weeks back - the cover was orange and black, and it might have had a tree on it." He really didn't care which book he'd taken to Mel, just that it was Sam's. He knew it was Sam's because Dean didn't actually own a novel; no reading material without pictures of some kind, actually.
"Anyway, Mel tried Ruby's burning-the-map trick, but those mongrels had set up a masking spell and the whole map just went up in flames. It took her until dark to get around it, but she told me I should look for a blue warehouse with a picture of a hawk on it, somewhere around Orchard Road. I took off for Odessa just after 7:30 on Tuesday night."
Sam raised his eyebrows. "And that worked?"
"I know, I was surprised too. Turned out the place used to belong to a company called Hawkins Glass - their sign had a hawk on it," Dean told him, and Sam let out a low whistle.
"Wow. Mel's got some juice." He was actually kind of impressed.
"You don't have to tell me." Dean smiled, remembering the way Mel had read his thoughts just as easily as if he'd spoken them out loud.
"Right. So, you're at the warehouse..." Sam said pointedly, trying to get Dean back on track.
Dean hesitated before he continued, and Sam's heart fluttered a little. He figured whatever had Dean tied up in knots had happened in the warehouse, and the way he got suddenly pale and stopped making eye contact confirmed it.
"Well, I broke in and found the file room where they were keeping you." Dean omitted the fact it was Sam's screams that had led him there, and a bitter little smile touched the corners of his mouth as he told Sam about 'questioning' Ray - a little bit of payback for turning his baby brother's life into a living hell. As far as Dean was concerned, it served the bastard right. Sam, however, didn't share his enthusiasm.
"He's gonna be pissed, Dean," Sam said softly, eyes widening. He was more than a little surprised to hear that Dean had actually shot the guy, and Sam's impression of Ray told him he wouldn't just let something like that slide. He was going to want revenge.
In his mind's eye, Sam could see Ray's enormous revolver, looming only inches from his face. He could make out the rifling that snaked around the inside of the barrel, and smell the distinctive scent of gun oil… he didn't realise it, but his hands had started shaking.
Dean didn't see it either. He'd dropped his head and started playing with a loose thread in the bedspread, lips pursed as he thought about how to respond.
It wasn't that he felt overly guilty for shooting the guy in cold blood. Dean knew he should probably feel more remorse than this, but he just didn't - Ray sure as hell had it coming. And besides, Dean had plenty of other stuff to lose sleep over before he got down to Ray Beauchamp. The bastard would just have to get in line.
What Dean was really afraid of was the look of sadness and disappointment in Sam's eyes when he found out his big brother had committed a triple homicide. Then, when he realised Dean had done it all for him and started blaming himself for putting Dean in that situation.
"He won't be coming after us, Sam."
"How can you be sure?" Sam's voice was tight, and Dean glanced up at his confused baby brother.
"Because as soon as he told me what I wanted to know I shot him between the eyes."
Dean couldn't bring himself to look Sam in the face, so he looked straight back down at the bedspread instead, concentrating intently on that loose thread. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and just stared at Dean, bewildered.
Sam was under no illusions about his big brother's temper; he figured Dean must've been furious when he found out what Owen and Ray had done, and he knew from experience how far he would go for family. But he'd never really expected Dean to kill them... had he?
Sam looked at Dean, still focused on that thread as he continued the story. He saw Dean's lips moving, but didn't hear what he was saying. His mind was still processing the revelation that he shot Ray in cold blood.
What did you expect him to do, Sam? Those guys almost tortured you to death - you had to know how Dean was going to react to that. There's a reason they tried to hide behind that masking spell. They knew what would happen if Dean found them, and so did you. Don't be naïve.
It took Sam a few seconds to recover and tune back into Dean's voice, but he had a sick little feeling in the pit of his stomach that he already knew how it would end.
"- and I was about to unlock the handcuffs when Owen jumped me from behind. It was a pretty even fight, and I knew if he won he'd go straight for you..." Dean trailed off, closing his eyes. "I knew I couldn't let him get away, and I had him pinned at the time, so... I broke his neck."
He heard Sam draw a sharp, shocked breath, but didn't look up. He remembered the muffled crack of Owen's neck and how his body had gone so instantly and completely limp, and felt vaguely nauseated.
He'd had time to think about it, and as near as he could figure, killing Owen got such a visceral reaction because he did it with his bare hands. He also had a feeling that he was going to have nightmares about it for a good long while, even though Owen had thoroughly deserved it. Dean wasn't a sociopath; he couldn't take someone's life up-close and personal like that without feeling something. No matter how much he might like to be numb.
Sam saw the pain on Dean's face, and opened his mouth to say he was sorry - the one thing his brother didn't want to hear. Now that he'd had a minute to think it over, Sam wasn't really surprised that Dean had killed Owen and Ray. That's how he was thinking of it - 'killed', not 'murdered'; Sam couldn't quite cope with the thought that he was the reason Dean had murdered two people.
Dean noticed Sam start to speak, but cut him off. His voice was rough as he continued the story. "I went and got the car and got you into the back seat." He paused for a second to clear his throat, remembering the way Sam had visibly relaxed when he realised he was safe. "I piled the bodies on a stack of wooden crates, ready to burn them, and I was in the file room getting Owen when I heard someone walking around in the warehouse."
"There were three of them?" Sam asked incredulously, apology forgotten. This was starting to sound like the plot of a horror movie.
"Yeah." Dean said softly. He'd give anything not to have to tell Sam he'd been betrayed by someone he thought was a friend. Actually, he'd seriously considered omitting this detail entirely.
"I'm sorry, Sammy. The third person was Kate."
Sam was quiet for a long moment, but when he spoke the hurt showed in his voice. "Is she... I mean, did you…?" He couldn't quite bring himself to ask the question: 'did you shoot her?'
"She tried to pull a gun on me," Dean replied apologetically, and Sam sucked in a long, shaky breath. It was obvious he cared about Kate, and that made Dean feel about a thousand times worse. And he wasn't even done breaking his baby brother's heart yet.
"Turns out she was Ray's niece. She was in Blue Springs on a hunt when you fell right into her lap, and she called in the dogs. She did the masking ritual for them, too."
Sam stared at Dean, blinking back tears. "We went out for dinner last week. She seemed so nice - and normal."
Before he met Ruby and everything went to Hell in a handbasket, Dean used to tease Sam about his love life. In fact, he'd good-naturedly described his baby brother's relationship history as the "Sleep With Sam Winchester and Die Curse".
Seems you don't even have to sleep with them anymore, Sam thought bitterly.
"Why do you think she gave you a lead?" he asked, wincing as he wiped at his eyes with his right hand, trying to get his head around the fact she'd been playing him the whole time. God, she must've had ice water in her veins, the way she innocently sent him running headlong into her uncle's trap…
"I've been wondering the same thing. Probably should have asked her about that before…" Dean stopped himself, and let the sentence trail off. Before I shot her in the chest. He could see Sam was hurting, and he didn't want to add to it. Not any more than he already had, anyway.
"She is -" Sam paused, grimacing, "was, a smart girl. There were heaps of people around us when she told me there were guys looking for me; even if they'd never actually come into the bar and asked around, maybe she figured someone would eventually tell you the real story and blow her cover."
That sounded plausible enough to Dean, so he stoped piling salt onto that particular wound and finished the story. "Anyway, when I was sure no-one else was going to jump out of the shadows and try and kill us, I burned all the bodies and that red pickup and took off. Called Dr. Sinclair from the road."
Dean didn't look at Sam after he finished talking, and there was a long moment of silence before his little brother spoke.
"Look, Dean, I want to say thankyou."
Dean shrugged. "It was nothing. You'd've done the same for me."
"You killed three people to save me. That's not nothing." Sam could see Dean didn't want to make a big deal out of that, or probably even mention it ever again, but he had to say the words.
"Sam, they weren't going to let either of us leave that warehouse alive. They were about to kill you, and as soon as they knew I was there I went straight to the top of their hit list too."
"Looks like you didn't get away scot-free. That really must've rung your bell." Sam observed, looking at the bruise on Dean's temple. It was deep purple and blue in the middle, with green and yellow edges, and it looked like it had hurt like hell.
"It's had a while to heal. No permanent damage done," Dean replied dismissively. He had clearly had quite enough of this little heart-to-heart, and was ready for the whole thing to be over.
"I don't know about 'no permanent damage' - dude, you gave me a spongebath," Sam said, smiling, in an effort to lighten the mood. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed - on top of everything else, now Sam was teasing him.
"That doctor really did tell you everything, didn't he?" Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "You were basically dying at the time, man, so I think I should get a pass on the teasing, all right?"
Sam chuckled, but he could see Dean was uncomfortable talking about it and decided to let him off the hook. He went back to his forgotten salad and started working away at it again, one lettuce leaf at a time. Dean, having had his fill of chick-flick moments for the day, got up to throw out the remains of his dinner - now stone cold - and get a well-deserved beer.
"That doctor's got a big mouth," he opined, as he opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle. He wanted something stronger after that, but beer would have to do for now.
"Seriously, Dean - thanks. I mean, you really pulled out all the stops for me over the last few days," Sam told him, and Dean smiled as he flicked the cap off the bottle with the green plastic Zippo on the kitchen bench. He'd misplaced his stainless steel lighter somewhere, and was reduced to using that plastic piece of crap for the time being.
"You're my brother, Sammy. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." Dean's tone was casual, but they both knew he meant every word. Quite literally.
"Well in that case, while you're getting beers…" Sam suggested, hopefully, but Dean just laughed.
"No can do, Sammy - doctor's orders. Is the morphine not enough of a buzz?" he teased, and ignored the tongue Sam poked out at him. He sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, and Sam deliberately waited till he was settled before he spoke.
"So are you gonna quit now, or what?" he asked, out of the blue, and watched on in amusement as Dean almost choked on his beer.
"Quit what?" he asked, innocently, even though he knew exactly what Sam was talking about. His mind flashed back to the bright green fucking lighter he'd used to open the beer as Sam frigging watched.
"I saw the lighter, Dean." Sam confirmed, with a smile. "And the pack of cigarettes beside the fridge."
Dean twisted around to look at the bench by the fridge, and mentally kicked himself when he saw the bright white-and-gold pack of Marlboro Lights sitting there in plain sight.
Sam's healthy-eating-and-exercise attitude extended to a very strong opinion about smoking, and Dean had fully intended to keep the whole thing a secret. Dr. Sinclair had been right when he said Sam would lecture enough for the both of them, and Dean had absolutely no desire to hear another one of his brother's extended anti-smoking rants. It was hard work, arguing with a former pre-law student, and Dean's assertions that "we probably won't live long enough to get cancer anyway" never seemed to placate him, for some reason.
Dean looked over at Sam, his brain spinning its wheels in an effort to think up a way out of this. Sam was looking back expectantly, eyes sparkling, waiting to see what he came up with.
Eventually, Dean just decided to go with the truth. "It's stress relief, okay?" he said, defensively, and Sam raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"I couldn't sit here and drink while I was supposed to be watching you, could I? Had to find another solution." Dean continued, and Sam's expression softened a little.
He had to admit, that was actually a pretty good explanation. He could hardly blame Dean for looking for an outlet - it must've been hell, sitting around in this little motel room all day and night, just waiting for something to change… That said, he wasn't about to sit by and let his brother pick up another bad habit.
"But now that you're not hovering on death's doorstep anymore, I guess I can go back to my usual vices," Dean went on, then dragged himself up off the couch and went back over to the fridge.
Sam watched, amused, as Dean swiped the pack of cigarettes off the bench and dropped them into the sink, where he proceeded to run a stream of cold water over them until the pack was dripping wet. Then he tossed them into the bin and looked pointedly back over at Sam.
"Happy?" he asked, throwing himself back down on the couch. Sam just smiled, secure in the knowledge he did in fact have Dean wrapped around his little finger.
I'm not even going to mention how long it's been since my last update... *whistles innocently* Have no fear - I WILL finish this fic. I'm not going to leave you all hanging. I'm just writing three OTHER fics at the moment, too, and it's time consuming! Plus, I have to work to support my convention habit. ;)
So now you've read chapter 11. There are two or three more to come after this, and I want to know what you're thinking now we're in the home stretch. Please, review! The more enthusiastic I am about this fic, the faster I'll finish it... ;)