Things gained in the fire || Dean & Drake
The hospitality bestowed upon him was much more than Drake ever could have asked for. Heâd met a few of the others that were living at the farm but no one that he could call a friend or anyone that heâd feel comfortable enough to ask a favor of. Drake knew he would have to repay Indiana for taking him in but the good majority of his energy for the time being was going toward getting better. He wasnât going to be any good if he couldnât at least get to the point where he could get around on crutches. Although, he had been working on using his arm more like the physical therapist had showed him to and could almost tie a shoe, one of the therapy tasks he was given. Every so often he would feel a sharp jolt of pain in his arm and down his hand and after calling the hospital worried, he was told that it was just the nerves reconnecting and it was a good thing.
The farm was nice, much nicer than he would have expected for a farm but, still, it wasnât home. Drake was sharing a room with Dean, something they hadnât done since they were both little kids. The room was pretty cramped with two grown men sharing it, though but they each managed to get along just fine.
While in the hospital, Drake had finally listened to Deanâs voice mail that he had been avoiding for too long. Dean had tried to warn his brother about the monster in the woods but Drake just couldnât put aside his pride long enough to listen to the message. His stomach rolled, knowing that his situation could have been avoided. It was always the luck of the draw, wasnât it? He had yet to mention it to Dean and quite honestly he didnât know how to bring it up just yet.
Drake sat propped up in a chair in the corner of the room and stared out the window; he had actually been able to get out of bed all by himself and hobble the short distance. He had been quite please with himself too but there was no one around to share in that little victory with. The view wasnât bad and there would be lots to see and do once he wasnât restricted to a wheelchair. His eyes roamed over the landscape as he waited for his brother to come back to the farm after he said he had to run off to help Larry with something.
Arms burning pleasantly from exertion, cargo safe in the back of the truck, Dean started the engine again. He leaned his head against the back of his seat with a heavy sigh. Just a few moments longer and he would go.
He and Drake still hadn't talked about their fight, about Dean punching him, the huge nasty bruise he'd left on Drake's face which he guessed now was like a drop in the ocean. But whatever had attacked Drake--and Dean would have gladly died taking that fucker down with him--hadn't been Drake's brother, his own flesh and blood. The one person who'd never betrayed Dean, however much the idiot really should have.
On that thought, he slammed down on the gas and reared out of the yard, back to the road with a sudden din, and Dean would have winced at his own terrible driving but it broke him from his thoughts and that was worth any amount of roadkill. Dulled by the rhythm of the road peeling behind him as he gutted it, Dean found himself back at the farm in no time, blinking owlishly as if he'd waken from hibernation.
After a calming peek at the truckbed to make sure the metal was still all there, Dean tromped through the front door of the farmhouse, kicked off his boots, and headed to his--and now, Drake's--room. Once he satisfied himself that Drake was all right and needed nothing, maybe he'd find Indi and ask what the hell her text'd been about. Maybe.
"Drake, man, you hungry?" He loathed the prospect of helping his brother eat again, trying not to curse as they slopped food all over themselves, trying to  be this thing that humans called "patient", but whatever Drake needed from him Dean had silently promised to give. He owed his big brother that, a million fucking times over.
