Disclaimer: I don't own, duh. A. N. Happy Supernatural Day! So, this kinda got away from me... Fav' Supernatural episode(s) and I had to go for Red Meat. Badass Sam and Dean Romeo and Julieting...again...or trying to. Seriously, once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, thrice is a pattern. XDD And depending how you count, this might be the fourth time (or more? I admit I lost count at some point...)
Known
Sammy's quiet on the way back. And maybe he's just tired, because he did almost die today. Don't I know that, I've just earned myself some new and interesting nightmares for the rest of my life by being careless and stupid and – but it's not about me.
It's about Sammy, who near-died and then kicked ass. Yep, my baby boy turned into the single most awesome hunter I know while I was busy ...worrying about him, most of the time. Probably the most awesome anyone else knows too, because maybe you can find someone to match him on this or that, but Sammy got everything. The brawn and the brains, the bravery and the kindness, the ...yeah I better stop or I'll be here till the end of the world. All I'm saying is, I must have done something right with that kid, because look at him.
Or, you know, don't. I'm looking at him – not like I don't know how to drive with a lot of my attention firmly where it needs to be: on my brother – because, well, he did almost die, and I'm still half-unconvinced that he could be so easily fixed. Not that I wanted him to be even worse for wear, but a top-up of blood, a few stitches and a course of antibiotics sound...underwhelming. Like I should have known. Hell, I should have been able to provide them myself (maybe not entirely legally). How does anyone get suffocated near enough to death that I thought – I'd been so sure – and basically shrug it off? Another way Sam's awesome, I guess, but I'm lowkey thinking of asking a second opinion at a different hospital. Near home. Because what if his throat is damaged, if it collapses, if he stops breathing again – how am I supposed to live then?
Keeping an eye on Sammy is the only reason I realize the situation is reciprocal. Sure, the boy - 33, still my boy – can pretend he's about to have a nap all he wants. But every time my eyes find him Sam's already staring at me, like he's afraid I'll puff out in a cloud of smoke if he takes his eyes off me. But he doesn't know what I have risked today – I've redirected any embarrassing inquiries with a joke, as ever, because how do you admit you tried to Romeo and Juliet – again...So he shouldn't be worried.
Every time I catch him, Sam looks out of the window. At this point, I'm pegging him as 'brooding' rather than 'tired' and if the jokes earlier didn't work, I'll have to find another way to cheer him up. It's the least I can do, isn't it? After all the ways I failed him today.
I'm thinking of plying him with food, maybe, or something, but we're almost at the bunker when Sam says, "Let's just go home," as if he can read my mind. Which I'm pretty sure he can't, or he would have put me down instead of the werewolf. Look, I know I'm obsessed at best and sick at worst (or both; probably both), but I have a lid on it. Nobody's going to know (well, a few fangirls apparently do, but nobody's listening to them), so Sam isn't going to have a reason to fuck off and move to a different continent to avoid me. So long as I can keep taking care of him (even if I'm not as good as I should be, and maybe don't even deserve to) that's okay. It's all I ask. All I want. (Well, not all, but all I can want, and that's the same, isn't it?)
When we do get there, Sam lets himself drop into the nearest chair (at the war room table) with a little exhausted sigh, and I'm wondering how to tell him that, since we didn't get a second opinion, I'd kinda like to share a room for tonight. Just in case. Preferably mine (the bed is big enough that he wouldn't even have to know and frankly, I still don't know why Sam punishes himself the way he does with his bedroom), but I'm not picky.
Or maybe I should just shut up and stalk him. I know, I know, if Cas did it I'd let him know exactly what a creep he is. But I have a justification, right? And fine, I'm a creep. But I wouldn't sleep anyway. Don't let Sam know how bad my already pretty pathetic sleep patterns got when he fucked off to Stanford, took me like a month to be close to normal, and again when we moved here. I adjusted quicker, though, since I could slip in and check on him anytime. With the dozens of rooms to pick from, I couldn't really justify sharing one anymore, could I? Sam would have wondered. Taking the initiative was safer.
Before I can decide, he says, "Dean" - as if he needs to, you got my attention baby boy, not like anything else could – but what worries me it's that it's...urgent, in a way. "I'll ask again, and no jokes this time, okay?"
I nod, even if I already know I won't like it. As if I can deny him anything.
"What did you do when you thought I was dead?"
"No joke, I knew you weren't." Maybe not then, but...soon enough, right? I'm alive, isn't that what matters?
Sam glares at me like I've insulted him. "I woke up, and I was alone." And hurt, he doesn't have to say it, his eyes do, more than enough.
God, yes, he would have, and I'm sorry, okay? I am. I just - "You told me to leave," I say, rather than admitting the truth. Which he had, as if it made a lick of sense. I hadn't wanted to even when I thought he was gone, but – weird how the one time I'll unfailingly listen to him is when he isn't around to argue his point. Or maybe not. Last wishes and all.
Sammy's bitchface, if possible, intensifies. "Dean, that werewolf was with you barely ten minutes, and even he knew you wouldn't go anywhere unless I was dead." Yeah, okay, maybe trying to fool Sam of all people is a little much. He knows me. Not all, sure, but he knows he can count on me.
"So it's my fault." That slips out. Good that Sammy got a chance to take down the sonofabitch, because if I'd realized, I would have, and I'd go slow.
Sam's head shakes. "Not the point. Just answer me, De. I'm exhausted."
"Then go to bed. Come on, I'll help you. Why do you care anyway?"
"Because I can't stand being afraid for so long." He's looking at the table now, a soft admission.
"Afraid? We're home." All the werewolves are dead, it's done. We've won. Hell, Sam won this one, hands down.
"And how long will you stay? I can – start dealing with it tomorrow, if, if you'll be here tomorrow."
"Where the hell would I go?" And what the fuck is it, anyway?
"Dad went quick. What did you do, Dean?"
Oh. "Sammy, you didn't die this time. Ok, I admit, I thought you did. That's why I went. But come on. If I had made another deal, you wouldn't have needed antibiotics or anything. Remember?" He'd been fine, good as new, and I knew it then and I stand by it – that was worth hell. It was worth anything.
"Maybe you added a little clause to throw me off the scent." That Sam trusts my assessment of whether he was alive more than a medical professional's diagnosis...I'll admit I'm a little proud of it.
"Dude, breathe. I didn't make a deal. It didn't even cross my mind. I'm pretty sure you can't sell your soul twice for the same damn thing anyway. Certified pre-owned doesn't interest them."
Oh, here's the smile I was hoping for. "So?"
Damn. "You're really not going to let this go and relax till I fess up, are you?"
Sam doesn't answer that one. He just throws me a look. Stubborn bitch. He's lucky I love him.
"Ok, fine, I did try to make a deal. Not at a crossroads. I didn't expect any takers there. With Billie."
"How?" A little hoarse.
No reason to lie. "Barbiturates. Anyway, she wouldn't, but she said you weren't dead, and that nice doctor fixed me right up. I might want to skip having a drink tonight, but I'm definitely not going anywhere. Just relax and let me take care of you, huh?"
Sam's leaning against me, which is sweet, but then he mumbles, "De, you gotta stop."
Stop taking care of Sammy? "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Stop dealing." Still spoken against my arm, and if I wanted to be honest, my reply would have to be the same. I already got more than I could ever stand of being alive when Sam isn't. "Knew I was too slow, knew that – if I lost you -" Sam's shaking now, so I start petting his hair without thinking.
"I'm here, Sammy. You're here. All good. Come on, now. Dinner or bed?"
Even mumbly as he is, I hear, "I wish" clearly.
"Wish what, baby boy? That's not exactly an answer."
He dashes back, almost tipping over the chair, saying, "I didn't – say, didn't mean, didn't – don't." And then, "Don't hate me." As if I could. (Also, as if he'd done anything wrong at all in the last...well, a while. Maybe I should have been the one pushing? )
Perhaps I should just say don't worry, but I can't help it. I ask, "Why?"
He shakes his head. "If I say, you will."
"Did you, huh, get a boost?" There wasn't a demon for miles, far as I knew, but. I was surprised by how strong he was today in the first place. Maybe.
The look he sends me is so hurt I get the immediate urge to apologize, but then he says, "No. Worse." Christ, that's...not reassuring. "Drop it, Dean."
As if. Stubbornness is genetic. Still, Sam isn't like me. If he doesn't want to talk, I'm afraid I don't have the means to make him cave. Fine, I'll figure him out. He's my Sammy. I can. He lost it after – and he'd said, and I'd said... if it was anyone else in the world, I know how it'd sound. But it can't be, can it? It's Sam. I'm sick. He's normal. (Always wanted to be normal. Maybe there's a difference.)
I shouldn't. I can't. Hurt or not, if I'm wrong Sam's going to run and never look back. Unless...well, he did sound weird. Can I pass it off as joke? Maybe the meds not being as well flushed as they should have been, making my sense of humor even worse than usual? That might earn an eyeroll. If I'm really, really lucky (when am I ever), maybe he'll finally let slip what he actually meant. What I should be worried about.
It's still a stupid, reckless idea, but when has that ever stopped me? One moment later, I'm kissing Sam. On the mouth. His lips open under mine, and he's not punching, not pushing – exhausted or not, he'd get the message across if he wanted to protest. Never had a problem with saying no, my baby brother, thank God for that. He's kissing back, incredible as that is. I end up swallowing a moan, his hands grabbing, tugging.
When we break apart – gotta breathe sometimes, damn – he asks, "What?", breathless and flushed and delicious. More than ever.
"Took a guess. You may know what I'll do at any given time, but you were a little obvious too this time, baby boy. You should have figured it out, though. That I could never ever hate you. Love you." Maybe the meds are really still running through him. He wouldn't be this chick-flicky otherwise.
"Love you too," Sam says, like it's that easy. Or maybe he's a little addled too.
"Now shut up and let me take care of you, okay?" A few more ways than he'd ever expected to, but hey. He's only too happy.
From the radiant, dimpled smile he gets, Sammy's entirely on the same page.
