The drive to Saskatoon was blessedly uneventful. Sam slept in back the entire time. With the help of five Advil and three cups of coffee, Sophie was entirely awake and mostly cogent.
They arrived midday and Dean found a half-decent hotel. And by that night, with Sam up again and Sophie feeling just well enough to carry on a conversation, things almost started to feel normal. Dean went to a drug store and stocked up on gauze, antibiotic cream, and ibuprofen. He also bought a bottle of every single sleep aid they had. As they ate takeout around the rickety table, he reassured himself that - while this whole situation was a mess - things would be okay.
"Alright," Dean said, stuffing the empty takeout containers in the trash, "I want to get those cuts clean."
"You promised," Sophie protested, stiffening immediately. Sam looked back and forth between her and his brother.
"What's going on guys?" He asked. Tension between Dean and Sophie was new. And he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.
"I promised we weren't cleaning them with alcohol again," Dean clarified, "Not that we didn't have to keep them clean. Don't try to convince me you don't want a shower?"
Sophie relaxed visibly.
"I've got blood in my hair," she said sheepishly, "And I'm really cold."
"Then come on," Dean said gently, "We can fix both those problems."
Sophie was still unsteady on her feet. Blood loss would do that to you. Dean knew the amount of ibuprofen he was giving her probably increased that blood loss risk. But she'd turned down every single narcotic he'd offered. And he wasn't going to just let her be in pain. He took off her clothes and got the water warming up.
"These will hurt a lot less to remove if we get them wet first," he said, gesturing at the bandages around her chest.
"I trust you," she replied.
"But do you trust me enough to wash your hair?" Dean cracked a smile.
"No," Sophie said, "But I also can't lift my arm and I am dead set against your brother seeing me naked so I don't really have any other options at this point. Don't get shampoo in my eyes. Don't forget conditioner. Got it?"
"Got it," Dean agreed, discarding everything but his t shirt and boxers and helping Sophie into the tub. She relaxed under the hot water, resting her forehead against his chest and making a cute, contented little humming noise.
"This is nice," Sophie murmured.
"I'm glad," Dean replied, "I know with everything that's happened it probably doesn't seem like it, but I want you safe and happy. You know that right?"
"Of course," Sophie whispered into his chest.
Dean paused. He had an idea. An idea so glaringly obvious that it just might work.
"We should take a vacation," he said.
"What do you mean?" Sophie asked.
"Rent a real apartment for a month or so. Have Christmas, like actual Christmas. Just recover a bit," Dean said, "You and Sam have both taken a beating. We could use the rest."
"Regina, Saskatchewan is nice," Sophie said, "And it's close."
"Perfect," Dean agreed, kissing her gently.
"Have you ever had actual Christmas?" Sophie asked.
"Not since Sam was born," Dean replied.
"Your dad didn't believe in it?" Sophie asked.
"He doesn't believe in much," Dean agreed.
That night he laid out all the sleep aids in a row on their duvet.
"Pick your poison," he said.
Sophie just shook her head.
"Not up for discussion," Dean disagreed, "You have to sleep, Sophie. You won't get better if you don't sleep."
"Fine," Sophie agreed, "Benadryl."
She slept through the night.
But she was quiet the next day. Worryingly quiet. By the end of breakfast Dean was pretty sure he'd gotten a total of five words out of her. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
It didn't seem she was angry with him. She'd let him help her shower. Let him change the bandages on her injuries. She'd been downright clingy most of the day. More than usual.
She'd also been avoiding eye contact. With him. With Sam. With the waitress at the diner. And Dean was worried.
He decided, against his better judgement, that maybe she just needed some time. He found a used book store and got a stack of Eastern European fantasy novels and she sat quietly in bed all day and read them. She didn't speak except to ask for water or more medication a few times. But there also wasn't anything else objectively wrong with the situation. After another dinner of takeout at the hotel, Sam excused himself.
"I'm gonna let you two figure out whatever it is you need to figure out," he said when Dean followed him to the door, "I'll be at that brewery down the block if you need me."
And Dean figured that was his cue to stop giving Sophie time and try to figure out what the hell was wrong.
"You want to clean up and go to bed," he asked. She nodded. So they did. And things were weird. But they were fine. She showered. She somehow managed to get her hair into a bun with only one functional arm. She let him fix a few stitches that hadn't held up the way he wanted them to. They lay in bed together and watched something called This Hour Has 22 Minutes until Dean felt her head getting heavy against his chest.
He glanced at the clock and disentangled himself to go get her medicine.
Anticonvulsant, prophylactic migraine medication, a bunch of Advil and a Benadryl. Shouldn't have been a problem. But it was.
He handed her the pills and for the first time that day Sophie said a full sentence. She took the Benadryl out of her palm. Put it on the nightstand and told him, "I'm not taking that."
"Why the hell not?" Dean asked. He hadn't meant it to come out like that. But this day had been too much. This whole week had been too much. What the heck was wrong now?
"I'm not taking it Dean," Sophie insisted.
"You slept straight through last night," he argued.
"I'm not doing it," Sophie repeated.
"Fine," Dean agreed, "I've got five other sedatives here. Pick one." He dumped the pill bottles into her lap.
"Dean," Sophie insisted, "No."
"Then tell me why not?" Dean asked again, "You slept fine last night. I don't understand. You didn't have a nightmare once…"
"I didn't wake up screaming once," Sophie corrected. And suddenly it dawned on him.
"I had just as many nightmares as last night," Sophie continued, "But I couldn't wake up. Dean it was hell. I'm not doing that again."
"Sophie I'm sorry," Dean said, crouching down by the side of their bed, "I'm so sorry."
She just shook her head and repeated, "I'm not doing that again."
"No, no," he assured her, tracing circles with his thumb on the back of her good hand, "You don't have to."
He got up and went to Sam's duffle.
"Here," he tossed her a bottle of melatonin, "He takes it for…is it jet lag if you drive…anyways he takes it when we've changed too many time zones and he can't sleep. I don't think it should…"
Dean trailed off with a shudder.
"I'm sorry," he said again as Sophie took her medication and the melatonin without complaint.
"You meant well," Sophie replied.
She woke up screaming four times that night. At two in the morning Sam gave up, went to reception and booked a second room. Dean didn't blame him. But he wasn't leaving. He soothed her back to sleep each time, feeling this awful, wracking guilt in his chest. He'd gotten her into this mess, hadn't he?