blue
Close my eyes just to look at you, taken by the seamless vision, and I close my eyes, ignore the smoke, ignore the smoke, ignore the smoke
Dean’s leg is killing him. Not literally—though god, sometimes it feels like it. He blinks into the pre-dawn light and it’s a deep-down misery, low and insistent. Been long enough since he really broke a bone that he kind of forgot what it’s like. At least he’s got a real cast, this time, not just whatever splint they can manage to throw together from the scraps of field first-aid they’ve both got. He shifts on the couch, uncomfortable, and a fresh sharp wave of agony sinks into his flesh, a low relentless thrum like a gong-strike, and he makes a noise, can’t help it.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam says, from somewhere. Dean breathes through the pain, doesn’t answer. “Dean, hey, hey.”
A grounding hand on his shoulder. Sammy, staying close. Dean takes another deep breath, and another, and when his leg stops being the center of his universe he says, voice scratchy, “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Sam huffs. “Yeah.” There’s a little pause, and then Sam’s hand leaves his shoulder, and there’s footsteps over the creaky floorboards. “How am I supposed to do that with you whimpering in pain all the time, huh.”
Dean opens his eyes at that, craning around as much as he can without moving his lower half. “Okay, screw you, wonderboy, I do not whimper.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Sam’s rummaging through the cabinets in the dusty kitchen, but when Dean blows a raspberry he slants a half-grin over one shoulder. The fire’s going, and there’s a little misty grey light coming in the windows, so Dean can see him okay but he can’t see details, so he won’t have to face the smeared purple under Sam’s eyes, or the livid bruise at his temple where the Leviathan-freak caught him one. Sam’s back to going through the cabinets, opening drawers and moving confident and easy. Dean would never guess, to look at him.
“What are you lookin’ for, anyway,” he says, sinking his head back into the musty couch again. “Don’t think Rufus left any Lucky Charms.” He lets his eyes sink closed, trying not to think about all of the places he aches. “Or—uh, are Lucky Charms kosher?”
Sam’s rattling around pauses, and Dean’s sure the top of his head is getting a look. “You’re an idiot,” Sam says, dry, and Dean smiles where Sam can’t see it. The sink runs for a few seconds and then the footsteps come closer, and when Dean opens his eyes again Sam’s sitting on the sturdy coffee table, holding a mug of water.
“Room service?” Dean says. He’s not sure he wants to move to take the mug. His leg really, really hurts.
Sam rolls his eyes. “I was looking for, uh, Lucky Charms for you, actually,” he says, leaning his elbows on his knees, “but it doesn’t look like Rufus left any painkillers around. At least, not that I can see. But we’ve got a few Tylenol left, so.”
Dean closes his eyes briefly. They won’t help. “Okay, nurse, hand ‘em over,” he says, and dutifully levers himself up onto one elbow, ignores the wrench that just shifting his weight causes, and takes the three pills Sam hands over, gulps them down with the full mug of water. A mistake, maybe, since he’ll just have to pee even sooner, but the water’s cool on his throat, moistens his too-dry lips. He wants a beer, but they’re out. More’s the pity.
Sam takes the mug back from him and puts it out of the way on the other side of the coffee table. He’s giving Dean a steady look, not without sympathy. “Bobby should be back tomorrow,” he says, echoing Dean’s thoughts.
“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting again and trying not to wince. “Real drugs, I can’t wait. He better bring a few twelve-packs, too.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, mixing booze and painkillers, always a winner.”
His voice is soft, though, and Dean swallows. He’s been too hurt and it’s been way too crazy—and, okay, maybe a bad choice of words. He misses Sam, though. His Sam. That’s not fair, he knows. Still.
He gets a surprised look when he reaches out and takes Sam’s good hand, but he’s not looking up and so he ignores it, like a champ. He runs his thumb into the smooth familiar palm, over the mound where Sam’s own thumb starts, wraps two fingers around one of Sam’s longer ones and drags their skin together, slow. Sam’s fingers curl around his, just a little, just for a moment, and Dean’s eyes flick inevitably over to where Sam’s other hand sits on his knee, the white bandage neat and glaring wrapped ‘round it. They’ve only been here a few days, but Sam has had to re-wrap it four times. Dean’s re-stitched his palm twice—and Sam just sat there, mouth tight with pain but unflinching, his eyes steady on Dean’s shaky exhausted work. He doesn’t want to have to do it again. He knows he will.
Sam’s fingers slide in his, wrap around his wrist. He startles and pulls against the grip but it’s steady, and when he looks up Sam’s watching him. Watching him, present and focused, and Dean can’t tell if Sam’s seeing something deeper in the shadows of the room but he doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know.
“Bobby’s not going to be back until tomorrow, right?” he says, throwing on a half-leering smile. Sam’s brow furrows, though he nods. “Hm. Okay. Come over here, big boy.”
He yanks, careful, and Sam jerks forward, saying what—and they don’t really do this, but Dean’s tired and in pain and it has been a rough month—year—whatever, and so after a minute of very careful maneuvering and Dean swallowing down a yelp when his leg bumps against the other arm of the couch, he’s laid out on his back again, his head in Sam’s lap and pillowed on one long lean thigh. He closes his eyes. Sam’s warm.
“You know I’m going to give you no end of crap for this when you’re better, right?” Sam says, bone-dry this time, but he’s got his good hand settled on Dean’s chest, fingers of the other playing slowly through Dean’s hair.
Dean turns his head in toward Sam’s stomach, cheek brushing worn denim. “Shouldn’t mock an invalid, Sammy,” he says, and when Sam snorts he bites the inside of his cheek against a smile. Maybe it helps, to keep Sam’s focus on him. Maybe it doesn’t. Worth a shot, anyway. Lucifer has ruined enough of their lives—he can’t take this, too. Dean licks his lips. “You know,” he says, conversationally, and rubs his cheek against Sam’s leg. “Could totally blow you like this.”
Sam flicks the top of his head. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Not unless you want to choke yourself to death.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short there, Sasquatch,” Dean says, but he heard the smile in Sam’s voice. He shifts, carefully, and Sam’s good hand rubs over his chest, soothing and slow. A log breaks in the fireplace and there’s a crackle, but the cabin’s otherwise quiet around them. Dean could fall asleep, right here. He hopes it’s as quiet, for Sam.
“Hey, when I wake up,” he says. Sam makes a little hmm sound. “Nurse, you think I could get a sponge-bath?”
Sam sighs, long and exaggerated. Dean grins. Maybe Sam’s faking being okay, maybe it’s all going to fall apart—but that sound, that’s one hundred percent Dean’s little brother, and right now he doesn’t care if it’s an act. He’ll take it.
(read on AO3)