Fic: The After
Title: The After
Summary: Written for the Summergen Fic Exchange. From Prompt by
si_star_x: “A hunt spirals out of control and Dean ends up injured. Instinctively he tries to keep it from Sam, and although he does manage to grit his teeth for a day or two, he is eventually forced to cave because it does hurt like a son of a bitch.” Occurs several months after 6.22.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3600
Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from Supernatural.
Warnings: Season 6 spoilers (including the finale), somewhat dark and depressing
Author's Note: Huge thanks to my beta,
belanna29. You are amazing! Also, thank you to the SPN SummerGen admin for hosting this awesome exchange. You guys rock! To my recipient,
si_star_x, I hope you like this. It wasn't exactly what you asked for, but the prompt got away from me and demanded a life of it's own! Enjoy!
Dean goes flying through the air and is stopped very quickly by a large hard grave stone. His left arm smacks harshly and a sharp pain shoots up to his shoulder and chest so quickly, it leaves him breathless. He slumps to the grass, tries to get his bearings, only to notice the grave stone has now cracked and gravity's pulling it down on him.
He pulls himself together, no time to grumble over hurt limbs. He rolls without thinking, and feels the stone graze his back as it slams to the ground.
Close call. Way to close.
The shooting agony in his arm has dulled a bit and is beginning to numb with adrenaline, which is good, because he still has some bones to burn.
As he pulls himself staggering to his feet, Dean checks to see if the spirit has returned to push him around, but the night is quiet at the moment. This spirit is new, and it hasn't yet learned the fine art of preserving it's energy, just lets it all out in one big burst, like an overexcited thirteen year old boy. From experience, Dean knows he shouldn't be harassed for the remainder of the evening, but he's cautious regardless.
He quickly moves back to the open grave, despite his aching body. He arm thrums with each beat of his heart, he can already feel it swelling, but it's immaterial in comparison to getting the job done.
The grave has already been dug, fresh earth from a recent burial easy to lift. All Dean has to do is pry the coffin lid open and set the body a light. The hurt arm isn't much use, fingers too numb to really grip, muscles to fatigued to work, so he has to pull the lid up with one arm, which is very hard. By the end, he's panting, sweat sliding down his head into his eyes, but he gets it open, douses the very smelly body in kerosine, and lights it up.
Dean watches, standing by the open grave. The cathartic burning of bodies always soothes him. He watches the flames burn, patiently waiting for them to die down, and lets his mind wander.
This hunt had been tough, getting back on the horse and all that, but it had been good. Getting back to their- his- roots. He'd followed the evidence easily enough, and bruised arm aside, it had gone smoothly.
Would have been smoother if Sam was here, but Dean's come to terms with that over the last several months.
Sam can't be around fire. Or knives and other weaponry. Or any sharp objects. Or civilians.
Well, that's not true. He can be around all these things, and has been and done fine. But then there are the times when he doesn't react well at all. He can be... erratic in his behaviour, and what sets him off seems to change by the day. Dean and Bobby have both concluded that they can't take that risk.
Yes, Sam's hunting days are over. He's retired. Out to pasture.
Dean snorts and rolls his eyes at himself. Enough dawdling.
He uses his shovel to smack the lid of the coffin closed over the remaining flames, and starts shoveling dirt back into the hole. It's slow going. His arm pulses with firery fury every time he wraps his hands around the handle, but he just ignores it and slowly fills the hole.
Dean distracts himself with thoughts, floating around in his head. Imagines what life would be like without the wall breakdown, imagines Castiel still being there to be his angelic confidant and friend. Wonders if Crowley is still alive somewhere, hiding. Wonders if Castiel's up in heaven, 'severely punishing' his brothers for their poor choice in war sides.
His chest aches with the thought of Cas, so different now. The memory of him forcing Sam, Dean and Bobby to kneel humiliatingly at his feet, his smug smirk as he vanished, leaving a broken Sam unfixed. Dean knows he shouldn't be surprised that Cas didn't fix Sam, what with his new sense of godship and all, but goddamnit, he wishes it had gone a different way.
They searched for leads, lord did they research. But they couldn't find a way to return the souls to purgatory, nor kill Castiel. But on the plus, he hadn't destroyed the earth, nor appeared to have it in his plans to do so, so that's always a good thing. Score!
Dean physically shakes himself out of the thoughts; they're no good to him now. Instead, he concentrates on filling up the hole, arm shrieking the entire way through.
When he finishes, he's drenched in sweat and dirt, and his whole body aches, but it's nothing in comparison to his arm. Dean studies the limb. The primary contact with the grave stone was made just above the wrist, and the skin has turned a nasty shade of blue and swelled up considerably. It hurts like hell, but it's nothing he hasn't done to himself a hundred times before. He'll put an ice pack on it when he gets back to Bobby's.
Dean stiffly walks back to the Impala and throws the muddy shovel into the trunk, and sinks with a sigh into the driver's seat. He peels out and takes the long country roads back to the highway. It's late and deserted enough at night that Dean doesn't worry about traffic. He merges on to the highway, eager to get back to Sioux Falls.
Three hours later, the sun is just starting to colour the land a murky grey, and Dean's eyes feel scratchy and hot. He pulls into the driveway, turns off the ignitions and lets the engine tick.
He closes his eyes. Opens them. Takes in a deep breath and lets it out as a sigh. His arm throbs relentlessly, but he doesn't want to go inside.
Going inside means he has to face the new reality. Has to let go of the old life he's been trying to relive through the hunt. No more life on the road, no more hunts. Just civilian life.
Taking care of Sam.
Dean's been doing that his whole life, so this isn't that different. Well, it does include an entire lifestyle change, but whatever. He's worth it and Dean doesn't blame him for it.
But he feels bad for Bobby, who now has two permanent house guests up heaving his life. He's good natured about it, sure. But Dean can tell it's hard on him too, not ideal in the slightest. Finding a home for Sam and himself close to Bobby's is on Dean's to do list, honest. But the idea of actually getting a house signifies the finality of the situation, the never ending scope of their new situation. It's hard for Dean to contemplate some days.
Dean pulls himself stiffly out of the car, joints popping noisily while early morning birds twitter frantically in the gloom.
He gets to the front door and unlocks the door with his own recently cut key to the door. The door creaks open and Dean cringes at the amount of noise it's making, but one glance into the living room lets him know that Bobby's awake anyways.
He's wearing his usual plaid shirt, hat missing though. The desk light is one and it fills the cluttered space with stark shadows, but he can still see Bobby on the couch, right cheek swollen and red, ice pack held to his crotch.
“What happened to you?” Dean asks, but he suspects he already has a good idea.
“Sam happened,” Bobby growls out, frustration evident in his posture and voice. “Had a bit of a fit after you left and hasn't really come out of it yet.”
“Shit,” murmurs Dean. He left three days ago for the salt n' burn, so eager for a chance to relive the glory days. He's been feeling so cramped, so desperate to stretch his legs, that he jumped at the chance to get out of the house. Away from Sam.
“I'm going to bed,” Bobby says, exhaustion suddenly evident in the lines around his eyes. “He's blockaded himself inside his bedroom for the last two days. I haven't been able to get him out or feed him. Every time I try to get him out, he's gotten nasty.”
Bobby opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Pretty sick of it. Not very good at this caretaker thing.” He immediately looks guilty by what he just let slip, but Dean's absorbed it all and it hits him like a sledgehammer of guilt.
He's been off reliving the greatest hits while Bobby's been saddled with the psychotic son he never asked for. Emotions flip through Dean as quick as a heartbeat, guilt at putting this on Bobby, anger at Bobby for being angry, resentment to Sam, grief that pulls at his heart and steals his breath.
“Bobby, look-” Dean begins, but Bobby waves his hand, trying to take it back.
“That came out wrong. I'm tired,” Bobby apologizes.
“I'll start looking for a house tomorrow,” Dean promises.
Bobby looks crestfallen, but also a little bit relieved, and Dean honestly cannot blame him.
“Ignore what I said, I'm tired,” Bobby repeats more firmly. He pulls himself up from the couch, and shambles into his bedroom, shutting the door with a finality that says he's not going to be participating in any more drama for the next ten hours.
Dean stands in the room by himself, stares at the wall for a minute, wrapped up in his thoughts. He shakes himself out of it and walks to the bathroom. The mirror reveals a very dirty, haggard reflection, mud smeared on his forehead and sweat marks on his skin. He takes a shower as quickly as he can, which is a bit hard because his arm has swollen to about twice the size it should be, and the fingers tingle with numbness. The contact area has further turned to a deeper shade of purple and blue, and feels hot to the touch.
When he towels off and changes into a clean tshirt and boxers, he heads to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich, which he eats over the sink. He then makes one for Sam and places it on a plate. He heads up the stairs to the room that has been 'Sam and Dean's room' for the last few months, and knocks on the closed door.
Silence answers him, so he calls out, “Sam” patiently. He hears a body shift, the floor creak. “Sam, I'm coming in,” Dean calls out, as he palms the door nob and opens it slightly.
The rooms is dark, but the light of the hallway spills in, and he can see that the room's been trashed and smells awful. The desk and lamp are knocked over, books on the floor, some with pages torn out. The carpet is filthy with mashed up food and wood splinters, a couple of feathers from ripped pillows. A few plates of food have been overturned on the floor, contents slowly rotting, a glass of milk has gone sour by the wall closest to him. The bed's upended and leaning against two of the walls furthest to the door, creating an alcove just big enough to hide a person in. Dean's going to assume that's where Sam is since he's nowhere in sight.
“Sam?” Dean asks. There's no noise in the room. “Sam, I'm going to turn on the light.” He flicks on the switch and hears Sam scramble against the back of the bed frame and grunt at the sudden light. The bed vibrates with his movements.
The room looks worse in the light than it did in the dark, but Dean takes that in stride. He opens the door wider and steps in, careful to step around a broken bowl, and shuts the door behind him. He walks around an overturned chair and crouches down beside the bed frame where it meets the wall. In the triangle of space, he can see Sam curled into a crouch, arms wrapped over his face, but through his arms, Sam's eyes glitter in the dark as they track Dean's movement.
Sam's pretty skinny these days, doesn't get out or eat much. He's wearing the same clothes he was when Dean left for the hunt, and smells of urine. Where Sam's arms don't cover, Dean can see three day's growth of a beard on his face.
“Hey Sam,” Dean says, keep his voice light, as he crouches down and peers through the hole. “I'm back, as you can see, and I brought nourishment.” He holds up the sandwich for Sam to see.
Sam's eyes narrow and a low growl resounds from his chest, the kind of noise that humans shouldn't be able to make. He tracks the movements Dean makes, and watches as he slowly lowers the plate to the carpet and slides it towards Sam into his self made cave.
Sam tenses, and his growl becomes more pronounced the closer the plate comes to him. His eyes scamper from Dean's face, to his arm, to the plate, and he pulls his arms away from his face and snarls at Dean with no recognition. Dean lets his arm fall back slowly, waits for Sam to take the food.
For a moment, there's a stalemate. Then, with a snarl, Sam lashes his arm out quickly and smacks the plate away. The sandwich goes flying and topples onto the dirty carpet, comes apart and bits of tomato, lettuce, and turkey land on the floor.
Dean tries not to react, tries not to let unwanted feelings of anger, helplessness, rage, and sorrow to show themselves on his face, but it's hard. He can see why Bobby's so fed up and tired.
“Not in the mood for a sandwich?” Dean asks. He moves from a crouch to a relaxed sitting position with his back to the wall. His arm pulses with the movement, and he really wants to go get an icepack, maybe some painkillers, or even some Jack to just forget the pain for a little bit. But all those things are somewhere else than where he is right now, and he's not leaving his brother alone in this room again.
Sam watches Dean's relaxed body posture, and after a moment, he stops looking like he's going claw Dean's eyes out and relaxes his body. He allows himself to slip from a crouch to a sit and watches Dean warily.
“You in there, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice soft. Sam doesn't say anything, but blinks his eyes at Dean.
Dean lets his head rest against the wall and stares at the decimated room around him. This is going to suck to clean up. He can barely conceive the idea of putting it back together right now, he's so tired. His body aches, heavy with sore muscles, and an arm that just won't stop hurting. The fingers are completely numb, and he knows that's not good. He may have seriously fucked up his arm. He may need to go to the hospital. But he's just too tired right now.
Dean only realizes his eyes are closed when he feels something brush against his cheek. He cracks his eyes open to see Sam's fingers, sliding along his jaw line. Sam's crouching over him, eyes curious and a bit frightened.
“Dean?” Sam asks in a whisper.
“Hey,” Dean whispers back in greeting. His whole body is incredibly stiff, and he knows he must have fallen asleep sitting against this wall.
“Dean,” Sam begins. He glances around the destroyed room, hazel eyes stormy with anxiety. “What happened?”
Dean's not entirely sure what to say to that that won't upset his brother, so he just goes with honesty. “You've had a few bad days.”
Sam looks away alarmed. He sucks in a breath and lets it out quickly, then another and another. “I did this?”
Dean can see Sam's already working himself up into a fit as he sometimes does these days, so he does his best to pull Sam back. He brings his good hand to Sam's face, forces Sam to meet his eyes.
“Sam, it's okay. You had a bad trip, but it's no big deal. We'll fix up the room, good as new. Nothing bad happened.”
“Did I... Did I hurt anybody?” Sam asks, eyes painful to look at.
Dean decides to omit the beating Bobby took for the time being.
“Everyone's fine, Sam. You were taken care of. Everyone's safe. You're safe.”
Sam nods, but he doesn't look that comforted.
“You want something to eat?” Dean asks. “Get a shower?”
Sam looks embarrassed, probably intimately aware that he's been using his pants as a restroom for the last few days, but he nods, and climbs to his feet. Dean follows, limbs stiff, joints cracking and muscles screaming at the sudden exertion.
In the process, Dean shifts his arm, the the pain that flares through the limb is so bright and hot that his breath is stolen and he can't help let out a short moan. Sam immediately zeros in on the injured limb. The whole arm is swollen and a good deal of it is purple and blue. Dean can't move the fingers at all and the entire limb feels foreign and unnatural.
“I thought you said I didn't hurt anyone,” Sam says in a horrified whisper.
“What, this?” Dean tries for nonchalance. “This wasn't you. Banged it up good on a hunt last night. It's fine, I just need some TLC and I'll be good as new.”
“This doesn't look right, Dean!” Sam says with a hint of anger. Moments like this, he almost sounds like his old indignant self. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“Dude, it's fine,” Dean tries again with a smile. “I'll go tonight-”
“Now,” Sam barks out. His eyes narrow and his lips press together, and Dean knows there's no arguing with a Sam in this state.
“Fine,” Dean submits. “But you gotta eat something first. You've got to be starving.”
Sam huffs, but doesn't say anything. They march themselves out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.
Bobby's up, leaning over the stove cooking soup out of a can. He grunts a greeting to Dean, eyes never leaving Sam.
Dean feels Sam tense behind him and he knows Sam's seen the mark on Bobby's cheek that stands out vividly against his pale complexion.
“Hey Bobby,” Dean says cheerfully. “You mind whipping something up for Sam for breakfast-” He glances at the clock, “lunch? I'm going to head over to the clinic and get my arm checked out. Should be back in a few hours.”
Bobby's eyes travel from Dean to Sam to Dean's arm, and he mirrors Sam's earlier expression and says, “Why didn't you say something about that nine hours ago? Jesus, Dean.”
“It's not a big deal,” argues Dean.
“Are you kidding?” Sam says incredulous. “It looks like a piano was dropped on it. Go now, Dean”
Dean opens his mouth to protest. But he catches Bobby's eye. He gives him a tight nod and says, “Go on, Dean. We'll be fine here until you get back.”
A flush of emotion runs through Dean and it makes his eyes hot, but he ignores it. He smiles and goes to change into jeans and a coat. It's a bit hard one handed, but Sam helps him out, eager to be useful.
Dean drives himself to the hospital, which is hazardous with one hand, but he manages because he's stellar like that. He waits one hour to be seen with a cold compress on his arm.
When the doctor takes him to get x-rays, they discover his ulna has cracked and bits of bone are swimming around in his arm. One of the shards has stuck itself into one of the nerves to his hand, causing the numbness. Had he left it much longer, permanent damage would have occurred.
Dean gets prepped for surgery, he manages to call Bobby, lets him know it's going to be a few more hours than he thought.
Bobby is not surprised and he sounds almost amused. Dean can hear Sam's voice, tinny over the phone, asking what's going on. Bobby says something, and Dean can hear Sam snort and Bobby chuckles.
It strikes Dean then how calm Bobby sounds now, no longer wary of Sam. Perhaps the sleep had done Bobby good, and perhaps over the last few hours, they had 'made up.' They sounded like they were in the before, and it hits Dean with a sudden pang of joy and despair.
After he hangs up the phone, the anesthesiologist begins his intervenus drip, and his muscles relax and eyes droop.
He lets his mind wander as the world fades around him.
Imagines Sam at his bedside, reading a case file.
Imagines Bobby joking with Sam.
Imagines Castiel standing by his bed, watching over him while he sleeps.
Wishes it was real.
The End.
Summary: Written for the Summergen Fic Exchange. From Prompt by
si_star_x: “A hunt spirals out of control and Dean ends up injured. Instinctively he tries to keep it from Sam, and although he does manage to grit his teeth for a day or two, he is eventually forced to cave because it does hurt like a son of a bitch.” Occurs several months after 6.22.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3600
Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from Supernatural.
Warnings: Season 6 spoilers (including the finale), somewhat dark and depressing
Author's Note: Huge thanks to my beta,
belanna29. You are amazing! Also, thank you to the SPN SummerGen admin for hosting this awesome exchange. You guys rock! To my recipient,
si_star_x, I hope you like this. It wasn't exactly what you asked for, but the prompt got away from me and demanded a life of it's own! Enjoy!
Dean goes flying through the air and is stopped very quickly by a large hard grave stone. His left arm smacks harshly and a sharp pain shoots up to his shoulder and chest so quickly, it leaves him breathless. He slumps to the grass, tries to get his bearings, only to notice the grave stone has now cracked and gravity's pulling it down on him.
He pulls himself together, no time to grumble over hurt limbs. He rolls without thinking, and feels the stone graze his back as it slams to the ground.
Close call. Way to close.
The shooting agony in his arm has dulled a bit and is beginning to numb with adrenaline, which is good, because he still has some bones to burn.
As he pulls himself staggering to his feet, Dean checks to see if the spirit has returned to push him around, but the night is quiet at the moment. This spirit is new, and it hasn't yet learned the fine art of preserving it's energy, just lets it all out in one big burst, like an overexcited thirteen year old boy. From experience, Dean knows he shouldn't be harassed for the remainder of the evening, but he's cautious regardless.
He quickly moves back to the open grave, despite his aching body. He arm thrums with each beat of his heart, he can already feel it swelling, but it's immaterial in comparison to getting the job done.
The grave has already been dug, fresh earth from a recent burial easy to lift. All Dean has to do is pry the coffin lid open and set the body a light. The hurt arm isn't much use, fingers too numb to really grip, muscles to fatigued to work, so he has to pull the lid up with one arm, which is very hard. By the end, he's panting, sweat sliding down his head into his eyes, but he gets it open, douses the very smelly body in kerosine, and lights it up.
Dean watches, standing by the open grave. The cathartic burning of bodies always soothes him. He watches the flames burn, patiently waiting for them to die down, and lets his mind wander.
This hunt had been tough, getting back on the horse and all that, but it had been good. Getting back to their- his- roots. He'd followed the evidence easily enough, and bruised arm aside, it had gone smoothly.
Would have been smoother if Sam was here, but Dean's come to terms with that over the last several months.
Sam can't be around fire. Or knives and other weaponry. Or any sharp objects. Or civilians.
Well, that's not true. He can be around all these things, and has been and done fine. But then there are the times when he doesn't react well at all. He can be... erratic in his behaviour, and what sets him off seems to change by the day. Dean and Bobby have both concluded that they can't take that risk.
Yes, Sam's hunting days are over. He's retired. Out to pasture.
Dean snorts and rolls his eyes at himself. Enough dawdling.
He uses his shovel to smack the lid of the coffin closed over the remaining flames, and starts shoveling dirt back into the hole. It's slow going. His arm pulses with firery fury every time he wraps his hands around the handle, but he just ignores it and slowly fills the hole.
Dean distracts himself with thoughts, floating around in his head. Imagines what life would be like without the wall breakdown, imagines Castiel still being there to be his angelic confidant and friend. Wonders if Crowley is still alive somewhere, hiding. Wonders if Castiel's up in heaven, 'severely punishing' his brothers for their poor choice in war sides.
His chest aches with the thought of Cas, so different now. The memory of him forcing Sam, Dean and Bobby to kneel humiliatingly at his feet, his smug smirk as he vanished, leaving a broken Sam unfixed. Dean knows he shouldn't be surprised that Cas didn't fix Sam, what with his new sense of godship and all, but goddamnit, he wishes it had gone a different way.
They searched for leads, lord did they research. But they couldn't find a way to return the souls to purgatory, nor kill Castiel. But on the plus, he hadn't destroyed the earth, nor appeared to have it in his plans to do so, so that's always a good thing. Score!
Dean physically shakes himself out of the thoughts; they're no good to him now. Instead, he concentrates on filling up the hole, arm shrieking the entire way through.
When he finishes, he's drenched in sweat and dirt, and his whole body aches, but it's nothing in comparison to his arm. Dean studies the limb. The primary contact with the grave stone was made just above the wrist, and the skin has turned a nasty shade of blue and swelled up considerably. It hurts like hell, but it's nothing he hasn't done to himself a hundred times before. He'll put an ice pack on it when he gets back to Bobby's.
Dean stiffly walks back to the Impala and throws the muddy shovel into the trunk, and sinks with a sigh into the driver's seat. He peels out and takes the long country roads back to the highway. It's late and deserted enough at night that Dean doesn't worry about traffic. He merges on to the highway, eager to get back to Sioux Falls.
Three hours later, the sun is just starting to colour the land a murky grey, and Dean's eyes feel scratchy and hot. He pulls into the driveway, turns off the ignitions and lets the engine tick.
He closes his eyes. Opens them. Takes in a deep breath and lets it out as a sigh. His arm throbs relentlessly, but he doesn't want to go inside.
Going inside means he has to face the new reality. Has to let go of the old life he's been trying to relive through the hunt. No more life on the road, no more hunts. Just civilian life.
Taking care of Sam.
Dean's been doing that his whole life, so this isn't that different. Well, it does include an entire lifestyle change, but whatever. He's worth it and Dean doesn't blame him for it.
But he feels bad for Bobby, who now has two permanent house guests up heaving his life. He's good natured about it, sure. But Dean can tell it's hard on him too, not ideal in the slightest. Finding a home for Sam and himself close to Bobby's is on Dean's to do list, honest. But the idea of actually getting a house signifies the finality of the situation, the never ending scope of their new situation. It's hard for Dean to contemplate some days.
Dean pulls himself stiffly out of the car, joints popping noisily while early morning birds twitter frantically in the gloom.
He gets to the front door and unlocks the door with his own recently cut key to the door. The door creaks open and Dean cringes at the amount of noise it's making, but one glance into the living room lets him know that Bobby's awake anyways.
He's wearing his usual plaid shirt, hat missing though. The desk light is one and it fills the cluttered space with stark shadows, but he can still see Bobby on the couch, right cheek swollen and red, ice pack held to his crotch.
“What happened to you?” Dean asks, but he suspects he already has a good idea.
“Sam happened,” Bobby growls out, frustration evident in his posture and voice. “Had a bit of a fit after you left and hasn't really come out of it yet.”
“Shit,” murmurs Dean. He left three days ago for the salt n' burn, so eager for a chance to relive the glory days. He's been feeling so cramped, so desperate to stretch his legs, that he jumped at the chance to get out of the house. Away from Sam.
“I'm going to bed,” Bobby says, exhaustion suddenly evident in the lines around his eyes. “He's blockaded himself inside his bedroom for the last two days. I haven't been able to get him out or feed him. Every time I try to get him out, he's gotten nasty.”
Bobby opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “Pretty sick of it. Not very good at this caretaker thing.” He immediately looks guilty by what he just let slip, but Dean's absorbed it all and it hits him like a sledgehammer of guilt.
He's been off reliving the greatest hits while Bobby's been saddled with the psychotic son he never asked for. Emotions flip through Dean as quick as a heartbeat, guilt at putting this on Bobby, anger at Bobby for being angry, resentment to Sam, grief that pulls at his heart and steals his breath.
“Bobby, look-” Dean begins, but Bobby waves his hand, trying to take it back.
“That came out wrong. I'm tired,” Bobby apologizes.
“I'll start looking for a house tomorrow,” Dean promises.
Bobby looks crestfallen, but also a little bit relieved, and Dean honestly cannot blame him.
“Ignore what I said, I'm tired,” Bobby repeats more firmly. He pulls himself up from the couch, and shambles into his bedroom, shutting the door with a finality that says he's not going to be participating in any more drama for the next ten hours.
Dean stands in the room by himself, stares at the wall for a minute, wrapped up in his thoughts. He shakes himself out of it and walks to the bathroom. The mirror reveals a very dirty, haggard reflection, mud smeared on his forehead and sweat marks on his skin. He takes a shower as quickly as he can, which is a bit hard because his arm has swollen to about twice the size it should be, and the fingers tingle with numbness. The contact area has further turned to a deeper shade of purple and blue, and feels hot to the touch.
When he towels off and changes into a clean tshirt and boxers, he heads to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich, which he eats over the sink. He then makes one for Sam and places it on a plate. He heads up the stairs to the room that has been 'Sam and Dean's room' for the last few months, and knocks on the closed door.
Silence answers him, so he calls out, “Sam” patiently. He hears a body shift, the floor creak. “Sam, I'm coming in,” Dean calls out, as he palms the door nob and opens it slightly.
The rooms is dark, but the light of the hallway spills in, and he can see that the room's been trashed and smells awful. The desk and lamp are knocked over, books on the floor, some with pages torn out. The carpet is filthy with mashed up food and wood splinters, a couple of feathers from ripped pillows. A few plates of food have been overturned on the floor, contents slowly rotting, a glass of milk has gone sour by the wall closest to him. The bed's upended and leaning against two of the walls furthest to the door, creating an alcove just big enough to hide a person in. Dean's going to assume that's where Sam is since he's nowhere in sight.
“Sam?” Dean asks. There's no noise in the room. “Sam, I'm going to turn on the light.” He flicks on the switch and hears Sam scramble against the back of the bed frame and grunt at the sudden light. The bed vibrates with his movements.
The room looks worse in the light than it did in the dark, but Dean takes that in stride. He opens the door wider and steps in, careful to step around a broken bowl, and shuts the door behind him. He walks around an overturned chair and crouches down beside the bed frame where it meets the wall. In the triangle of space, he can see Sam curled into a crouch, arms wrapped over his face, but through his arms, Sam's eyes glitter in the dark as they track Dean's movement.
Sam's pretty skinny these days, doesn't get out or eat much. He's wearing the same clothes he was when Dean left for the hunt, and smells of urine. Where Sam's arms don't cover, Dean can see three day's growth of a beard on his face.
“Hey Sam,” Dean says, keep his voice light, as he crouches down and peers through the hole. “I'm back, as you can see, and I brought nourishment.” He holds up the sandwich for Sam to see.
Sam's eyes narrow and a low growl resounds from his chest, the kind of noise that humans shouldn't be able to make. He tracks the movements Dean makes, and watches as he slowly lowers the plate to the carpet and slides it towards Sam into his self made cave.
Sam tenses, and his growl becomes more pronounced the closer the plate comes to him. His eyes scamper from Dean's face, to his arm, to the plate, and he pulls his arms away from his face and snarls at Dean with no recognition. Dean lets his arm fall back slowly, waits for Sam to take the food.
For a moment, there's a stalemate. Then, with a snarl, Sam lashes his arm out quickly and smacks the plate away. The sandwich goes flying and topples onto the dirty carpet, comes apart and bits of tomato, lettuce, and turkey land on the floor.
Dean tries not to react, tries not to let unwanted feelings of anger, helplessness, rage, and sorrow to show themselves on his face, but it's hard. He can see why Bobby's so fed up and tired.
“Not in the mood for a sandwich?” Dean asks. He moves from a crouch to a relaxed sitting position with his back to the wall. His arm pulses with the movement, and he really wants to go get an icepack, maybe some painkillers, or even some Jack to just forget the pain for a little bit. But all those things are somewhere else than where he is right now, and he's not leaving his brother alone in this room again.
Sam watches Dean's relaxed body posture, and after a moment, he stops looking like he's going claw Dean's eyes out and relaxes his body. He allows himself to slip from a crouch to a sit and watches Dean warily.
“You in there, Sammy?” Dean asks, voice soft. Sam doesn't say anything, but blinks his eyes at Dean.
Dean lets his head rest against the wall and stares at the decimated room around him. This is going to suck to clean up. He can barely conceive the idea of putting it back together right now, he's so tired. His body aches, heavy with sore muscles, and an arm that just won't stop hurting. The fingers are completely numb, and he knows that's not good. He may have seriously fucked up his arm. He may need to go to the hospital. But he's just too tired right now.
Dean only realizes his eyes are closed when he feels something brush against his cheek. He cracks his eyes open to see Sam's fingers, sliding along his jaw line. Sam's crouching over him, eyes curious and a bit frightened.
“Dean?” Sam asks in a whisper.
“Hey,” Dean whispers back in greeting. His whole body is incredibly stiff, and he knows he must have fallen asleep sitting against this wall.
“Dean,” Sam begins. He glances around the destroyed room, hazel eyes stormy with anxiety. “What happened?”
Dean's not entirely sure what to say to that that won't upset his brother, so he just goes with honesty. “You've had a few bad days.”
Sam looks away alarmed. He sucks in a breath and lets it out quickly, then another and another. “I did this?”
Dean can see Sam's already working himself up into a fit as he sometimes does these days, so he does his best to pull Sam back. He brings his good hand to Sam's face, forces Sam to meet his eyes.
“Sam, it's okay. You had a bad trip, but it's no big deal. We'll fix up the room, good as new. Nothing bad happened.”
“Did I... Did I hurt anybody?” Sam asks, eyes painful to look at.
Dean decides to omit the beating Bobby took for the time being.
“Everyone's fine, Sam. You were taken care of. Everyone's safe. You're safe.”
Sam nods, but he doesn't look that comforted.
“You want something to eat?” Dean asks. “Get a shower?”
Sam looks embarrassed, probably intimately aware that he's been using his pants as a restroom for the last few days, but he nods, and climbs to his feet. Dean follows, limbs stiff, joints cracking and muscles screaming at the sudden exertion.
In the process, Dean shifts his arm, the the pain that flares through the limb is so bright and hot that his breath is stolen and he can't help let out a short moan. Sam immediately zeros in on the injured limb. The whole arm is swollen and a good deal of it is purple and blue. Dean can't move the fingers at all and the entire limb feels foreign and unnatural.
“I thought you said I didn't hurt anyone,” Sam says in a horrified whisper.
“What, this?” Dean tries for nonchalance. “This wasn't you. Banged it up good on a hunt last night. It's fine, I just need some TLC and I'll be good as new.”
“This doesn't look right, Dean!” Sam says with a hint of anger. Moments like this, he almost sounds like his old indignant self. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“Dude, it's fine,” Dean tries again with a smile. “I'll go tonight-”
“Now,” Sam barks out. His eyes narrow and his lips press together, and Dean knows there's no arguing with a Sam in this state.
“Fine,” Dean submits. “But you gotta eat something first. You've got to be starving.”
Sam huffs, but doesn't say anything. They march themselves out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.
Bobby's up, leaning over the stove cooking soup out of a can. He grunts a greeting to Dean, eyes never leaving Sam.
Dean feels Sam tense behind him and he knows Sam's seen the mark on Bobby's cheek that stands out vividly against his pale complexion.
“Hey Bobby,” Dean says cheerfully. “You mind whipping something up for Sam for breakfast-” He glances at the clock, “lunch? I'm going to head over to the clinic and get my arm checked out. Should be back in a few hours.”
Bobby's eyes travel from Dean to Sam to Dean's arm, and he mirrors Sam's earlier expression and says, “Why didn't you say something about that nine hours ago? Jesus, Dean.”
“It's not a big deal,” argues Dean.
“Are you kidding?” Sam says incredulous. “It looks like a piano was dropped on it. Go now, Dean”
Dean opens his mouth to protest. But he catches Bobby's eye. He gives him a tight nod and says, “Go on, Dean. We'll be fine here until you get back.”
A flush of emotion runs through Dean and it makes his eyes hot, but he ignores it. He smiles and goes to change into jeans and a coat. It's a bit hard one handed, but Sam helps him out, eager to be useful.
Dean drives himself to the hospital, which is hazardous with one hand, but he manages because he's stellar like that. He waits one hour to be seen with a cold compress on his arm.
When the doctor takes him to get x-rays, they discover his ulna has cracked and bits of bone are swimming around in his arm. One of the shards has stuck itself into one of the nerves to his hand, causing the numbness. Had he left it much longer, permanent damage would have occurred.
Dean gets prepped for surgery, he manages to call Bobby, lets him know it's going to be a few more hours than he thought.
Bobby is not surprised and he sounds almost amused. Dean can hear Sam's voice, tinny over the phone, asking what's going on. Bobby says something, and Dean can hear Sam snort and Bobby chuckles.
It strikes Dean then how calm Bobby sounds now, no longer wary of Sam. Perhaps the sleep had done Bobby good, and perhaps over the last few hours, they had 'made up.' They sounded like they were in the before, and it hits Dean with a sudden pang of joy and despair.
After he hangs up the phone, the anesthesiologist begins his intervenus drip, and his muscles relax and eyes droop.
He lets his mind wander as the world fades around him.
Imagines Sam at his bedside, reading a case file.
Imagines Bobby joking with Sam.
Imagines Castiel standing by his bed, watching over him while he sleeps.
Wishes it was real.
The End.