The Road Rhythm Outro, Part 7
VII. Now
"I'm s...sorry," Sam whispers, and his heart crawls up into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He blinks back tears and places a hand on Dean's knee. "God, I'm so sorry, Dean. You shouldn't have had to g-go through that." He can't imagine it. He tries to imagine being in Dean's shoes, seeing his brother all broken and crumpled like that, and he just can't. He's fucking seen Dean die already, torn to shreds, but he still can't imagine it. Maybe it's because his brain isn't the same. Maybe it's because it hurts too much. Jesus. No wonder Dean’s a mess.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Dean snaps, his face a bright shade of red. He slaps Sam's hand off of his knee, his jaw ticking, a vein standing out on his forehead. "Don't you fucking get it? As horrible as that was, as fucking shitty, it was all my fucking fault. I stayed behind when I had a fucking billion perfect shots just so you could save the day yourself. You didn't ask for that. I pushed for you to take the lead in some crazy attempt to force you to like our lives, Sam, so you wouldn't fucking leave me. I was weak and stupid and pathetic and I got your head smashed. I did. It was all me, okay? I--" Dean gasps, closing his eyes and swallowing, getting his breath back. "I turned a simple hunt into the worst day of our lives because I was selfish."
Sam's lips thin, his eyes doing the same as he tries to get a rein on the wash of emotions flooding through him. "Dean, you couldn't have known," he whispers, trying to convey how serious he was with his eyes, but Dean keeps glancing away, looking down at his lap. "You said you slipped on a can, right? That was a complete accident. I would've got-t-t-ten the shots without that. It would've been fine. It wasn't your fault, D-Dean. It was just an accident. A shitty, unpredictable thing. You couldn't have known."
Dean scoffs. "Yeah, sure."
"No, shut up," Sam growls, his body buzzing with passion, his brain rushing at a mile a minute, and he hasn't felt this alive since before his accident, not once. "Stop feeling bad for yourself and stop taking it out on me."
Dean's head shoots up and his eyes widen, and Sam almost regrets what he said because Dean looks so stricken.
"Stop killing yourself with guilt." Sam breathes slowly in and out of his nose, one, two, one, two. He concentrates on his tongue, on his words getting from his head to his mouth with as few mistakes as possible. He wants the full effect, wants Dean to really understand. He wishes his words were a physical thing. He'd pound them into Dean's skull until Dean was full with them and believed them. "I'm right here. I'm okay. I need you. I need you to be my friend. I need you to be my brother. If you really want to make things better with me, then fucking try. Help me with my physical therapy. Help me get better."
In a spur of the moment thing, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and shakes him, his bangs brushing against Dean's forehead with the proximity. "I forgive you, okay? Just please come back. Please."
The next thing he knows is Dean's arms being thrown around him, Dean's fingers curling up in the material of Sam's shirt at his back. Dean smashes Sam against his body, hugs him so tightly that it's stifling. Dean jams his chin into the crook of Sam's neck and Sam's sure that it'll leave a bruise. He hugs Dean back, burying his nose in Dean's shoulder and closing his eyes, the scent so familiar, and shit, he hadn't even realized how badly he missed it.
Dean lets out a ragged noise and Sam only realizes it is a sob when he feels his shoulder getting warm and wet from tears. Dean does it again, and again, his body trembling with his cries. Sam can hardly remember the last time Dean really cried. He's shed a tear a time or two, but like this... god, he must've been a kid. That hunt when Sam was fifteen and he'd been paralyzed by spell, unable to even blink. Dean had thought he was dead, and Sam had to lay there, listening to Dean begging him to just fucking move.
Sam blinks out of his thoughts and pets Dean's back, unsure of what else to do. "It's okay," he says, frowning. He combs a hand through Dean's hair. That's what Dean does when he's upset. "Um. You're okay."
Dean gets his breathing under control and quiets, but he doesn't let go of Sam for another few minutes. They sit there in silence, rocking back and forth slightly. Sam doesn't ever want to move.
When Dean finally pulls back, his eyes are red and bloodshot. He smiles, and the whole thing wobbles and collapses. "Sorry," he croaks, laughing once and rubbing his eyes.
Sam waves a hand, the muscles in his arm straining. "D-don't worry about it," he says. "I think you needed that."
Dean dips his head in acknowledgement. "Yeah."
They lapse into silence. Sam can hear Dean thinking, knows Dean’s reading him in the same way. Sam puts his hands in his lap. One measly hug had taken a lot out of him. He's been neglecting his arm exercises lately, and he’s definitely paying the price. He folds his hands together. "I've s-sorta fallen behind on my physical therapy and I haven't even seen my vocal coach in two weeks..."
Dean glances over at him. He swallows. "You need some help with that?"
Sam smiles softly. "Yeah. If I get back on schedule, I should b-be able to start driving again in a few weeks."
Dean narrows his eyes. "With those noodle arms of yours? In Baby?"
Sam laughs. "Hey, man, if you wanna be my ch-chau... chau..." He licks his lips. Damn, how does that fucking word go? He knows what it means, knows it's having a driver, but the rest of it just doesn't come. Like there's a data cap in his head and he just hit the monthly limit.
"Chauffeur," Dean supplies, looking a little like someone kicked his puppy.
"Thank you," Sam says, "if you wanna be my chauffeur my whole life, I won't complain."
Dean seems to read the urgency in Sam's eyes. Move on, Sam begs wordlessly. That's gonna happen a lot. You can't look at me like I'm a ghost of someone you knew every time my brain fucks up. Dean's eyes clear and he scoffs, shoving Sam lightly. "You won't complain? Are you sure, Sam? Mr. Backseat Driver Sam Winchester?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Shut up. And t-t-technically it's passenger seat driver."
Something shifts in Dean's gaze then, and Sam can see something click into place behind his brother's eyes, but he can't quite place what. Dean sort of looks like he's coming home after years of deployment, sent off to fight some unimaginable war. He looks at Sam like Sam is his home, and after months of Sam searching for that look and getting cold emptiness instead, it's a little overwhelming.
"Bitch," Dean murmurs, relaxing back into the couch.
Sam snuggles into Dean's side and Dean throws an arm over the back of the couch. Sam can feel the warmth of Dean’s skin on the back of his neck. "Jerk," he replies in kind.
Dean leans forward to grab the remote, the moment effectively ended, but Sam doesn't mind. He's kind of emotionally exhausted, actually, and having a lazy little moment with Dean is exactly what he wants. It's what he's been missing these past few months. The comfortable domesticity of the road doesn't have to be gone, he knows it. They can share that same intimacy here.
He sighs as Dean flips through channels. They've talked enough for now, but someday Sam's gonna have to talk to Dean about the permanency of their tiny apartment. Sam thinks Dean might see it as a temporary stop, like someday Sam will be like he was before and they can just hop in the car and leave all of this behind.
If one good thing came of Sam's loneliness since he woke up, it's that he's had a lot of time to come to terms with reality and himself. He's had hours of introspection, locked away in his room because he was afraid of facing the look on Dean's face.
He knows he will never be exactly as he was before he fell. The dent and scar on the back of his head attest to that. He’s heard all the medical jargon, did all the research himself, had to stop because of migraines. It took him a long time to finally accept that he's not "worse"--he’d built a lot of his identity on being the "geek boy," on his 4.0 GPA at Stanford and his ability to spin out Latin or recall thousands of obscure facts and pieces of lore at a moment's notice.
Now, his brain can't remember those things so well. He's fairly certain he's now missing a chunk of his childhood, but he obviously can't place what. He doesn't want to ask Dean. Dean would get this horrible look of agony on his face at the idea of Sam not remembering. So he doesn't ask. His brain can't recall facts or words or parts of sentences, and if he pauses to remember, his mouth gets stuck on the same syllable, the same sound, until everything just shuts down.
It's annoying as hell. He can't stop it. It makes him feel so fucking stupid, even though he knows he isn't, he's just disabled, he's just different. He knows John would look down at him with disappointment, knows his friends back at school would have less and less patience for his fumbling, both mental and physical.
It was really tough to think about at all, at first. But now, he's okay with it. Kinda. Dr. Walton is a fucking lifesaver. She's not just a great therapist, she's a good friend, and she gets it. She pulls him out of endless, circling dark thoughts, helps him see the positives.
And now, with Dean slowly opening back up, there are a hell of a lot more positives. Sam appreciates that. With Dean's help, he'll build muscle again, improve his reflexes and recall memory, and a whole bunch of things. He has motivation now, reason. Before, it was just to take up time in his day, to busy himself.
Now he has a life to get back to.
His eyes flutter shut when Dean's hand reaches up and his fingers brush through Sam's hair, combing through the unruly strands. Dean trips up for a second when the pads of his fingers brush over the thick, jagged bump of Sam's scar, but he lets out a breath and slowly runs over it, feeling it for the first time, feeling the small hollow there. Dean goes back to the crown of Sam's head, petting him slowly. Sam rests his head on Dean's shoulder. He wishes he could purr. The repetitive, familiar motion of Dean's calloused fingers at the back of his head loosens up all his muscles, makes him boneless.
Dean keeps at it for a few minutes, and Sam listens idly to the cop show that's on the T.V. Dean pauses and rests his hand against the back of Sam's neck and makes a little noise.
"Hmm?" Sam asks, articulately.
"When's your hair gonna grow back out?" Dean asks, picking at short hairs at the base of Sam's skull. "You're stealing my look."
Sam shrugs, and it's hardly movement at all. He's too tired to give any real effort. "It'll happen," he says, slurring across the syllables. He yawns, tilting his cheek into Dean's shoulder, seeking the warmth.
Dean chuckles, and Sam feels it against his face. "You gonna sleep?" Dean whispers, and brings his fingers back up to Sam's head, resuming his ministrations. God, yes.
"Mmm-hmm," Sam mumbles, nodding. "Night, Dean."
Dean's hand slips down to his waist to pull him closer. Sam curls his arm around Dean's tummy. Satisfied, Dean returns his fingers to Sam’s scalp, combing slowly, brushing short bangs away from Sam’s forehead.
"Night, Sammy."
Part Eight
"I'm s...sorry," Sam whispers, and his heart crawls up into his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He blinks back tears and places a hand on Dean's knee. "God, I'm so sorry, Dean. You shouldn't have had to g-go through that." He can't imagine it. He tries to imagine being in Dean's shoes, seeing his brother all broken and crumpled like that, and he just can't. He's fucking seen Dean die already, torn to shreds, but he still can't imagine it. Maybe it's because his brain isn't the same. Maybe it's because it hurts too much. Jesus. No wonder Dean’s a mess.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Dean snaps, his face a bright shade of red. He slaps Sam's hand off of his knee, his jaw ticking, a vein standing out on his forehead. "Don't you fucking get it? As horrible as that was, as fucking shitty, it was all my fucking fault. I stayed behind when I had a fucking billion perfect shots just so you could save the day yourself. You didn't ask for that. I pushed for you to take the lead in some crazy attempt to force you to like our lives, Sam, so you wouldn't fucking leave me. I was weak and stupid and pathetic and I got your head smashed. I did. It was all me, okay? I--" Dean gasps, closing his eyes and swallowing, getting his breath back. "I turned a simple hunt into the worst day of our lives because I was selfish."
Sam's lips thin, his eyes doing the same as he tries to get a rein on the wash of emotions flooding through him. "Dean, you couldn't have known," he whispers, trying to convey how serious he was with his eyes, but Dean keeps glancing away, looking down at his lap. "You said you slipped on a can, right? That was a complete accident. I would've got-t-t-ten the shots without that. It would've been fine. It wasn't your fault, D-Dean. It was just an accident. A shitty, unpredictable thing. You couldn't have known."
Dean scoffs. "Yeah, sure."
"No, shut up," Sam growls, his body buzzing with passion, his brain rushing at a mile a minute, and he hasn't felt this alive since before his accident, not once. "Stop feeling bad for yourself and stop taking it out on me."
Dean's head shoots up and his eyes widen, and Sam almost regrets what he said because Dean looks so stricken.
"Stop killing yourself with guilt." Sam breathes slowly in and out of his nose, one, two, one, two. He concentrates on his tongue, on his words getting from his head to his mouth with as few mistakes as possible. He wants the full effect, wants Dean to really understand. He wishes his words were a physical thing. He'd pound them into Dean's skull until Dean was full with them and believed them. "I'm right here. I'm okay. I need you. I need you to be my friend. I need you to be my brother. If you really want to make things better with me, then fucking try. Help me with my physical therapy. Help me get better."
In a spur of the moment thing, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and shakes him, his bangs brushing against Dean's forehead with the proximity. "I forgive you, okay? Just please come back. Please."
The next thing he knows is Dean's arms being thrown around him, Dean's fingers curling up in the material of Sam's shirt at his back. Dean smashes Sam against his body, hugs him so tightly that it's stifling. Dean jams his chin into the crook of Sam's neck and Sam's sure that it'll leave a bruise. He hugs Dean back, burying his nose in Dean's shoulder and closing his eyes, the scent so familiar, and shit, he hadn't even realized how badly he missed it.
Dean lets out a ragged noise and Sam only realizes it is a sob when he feels his shoulder getting warm and wet from tears. Dean does it again, and again, his body trembling with his cries. Sam can hardly remember the last time Dean really cried. He's shed a tear a time or two, but like this... god, he must've been a kid. That hunt when Sam was fifteen and he'd been paralyzed by spell, unable to even blink. Dean had thought he was dead, and Sam had to lay there, listening to Dean begging him to just fucking move.
Sam blinks out of his thoughts and pets Dean's back, unsure of what else to do. "It's okay," he says, frowning. He combs a hand through Dean's hair. That's what Dean does when he's upset. "Um. You're okay."
Dean gets his breathing under control and quiets, but he doesn't let go of Sam for another few minutes. They sit there in silence, rocking back and forth slightly. Sam doesn't ever want to move.
When Dean finally pulls back, his eyes are red and bloodshot. He smiles, and the whole thing wobbles and collapses. "Sorry," he croaks, laughing once and rubbing his eyes.
Sam waves a hand, the muscles in his arm straining. "D-don't worry about it," he says. "I think you needed that."
Dean dips his head in acknowledgement. "Yeah."
They lapse into silence. Sam can hear Dean thinking, knows Dean’s reading him in the same way. Sam puts his hands in his lap. One measly hug had taken a lot out of him. He's been neglecting his arm exercises lately, and he’s definitely paying the price. He folds his hands together. "I've s-sorta fallen behind on my physical therapy and I haven't even seen my vocal coach in two weeks..."
Dean glances over at him. He swallows. "You need some help with that?"
Sam smiles softly. "Yeah. If I get back on schedule, I should b-be able to start driving again in a few weeks."
Dean narrows his eyes. "With those noodle arms of yours? In Baby?"
Sam laughs. "Hey, man, if you wanna be my ch-chau... chau..." He licks his lips. Damn, how does that fucking word go? He knows what it means, knows it's having a driver, but the rest of it just doesn't come. Like there's a data cap in his head and he just hit the monthly limit.
"Chauffeur," Dean supplies, looking a little like someone kicked his puppy.
"Thank you," Sam says, "if you wanna be my chauffeur my whole life, I won't complain."
Dean seems to read the urgency in Sam's eyes. Move on, Sam begs wordlessly. That's gonna happen a lot. You can't look at me like I'm a ghost of someone you knew every time my brain fucks up. Dean's eyes clear and he scoffs, shoving Sam lightly. "You won't complain? Are you sure, Sam? Mr. Backseat Driver Sam Winchester?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Shut up. And t-t-technically it's passenger seat driver."
Something shifts in Dean's gaze then, and Sam can see something click into place behind his brother's eyes, but he can't quite place what. Dean sort of looks like he's coming home after years of deployment, sent off to fight some unimaginable war. He looks at Sam like Sam is his home, and after months of Sam searching for that look and getting cold emptiness instead, it's a little overwhelming.
"Bitch," Dean murmurs, relaxing back into the couch.
Sam snuggles into Dean's side and Dean throws an arm over the back of the couch. Sam can feel the warmth of Dean’s skin on the back of his neck. "Jerk," he replies in kind.
Dean leans forward to grab the remote, the moment effectively ended, but Sam doesn't mind. He's kind of emotionally exhausted, actually, and having a lazy little moment with Dean is exactly what he wants. It's what he's been missing these past few months. The comfortable domesticity of the road doesn't have to be gone, he knows it. They can share that same intimacy here.
He sighs as Dean flips through channels. They've talked enough for now, but someday Sam's gonna have to talk to Dean about the permanency of their tiny apartment. Sam thinks Dean might see it as a temporary stop, like someday Sam will be like he was before and they can just hop in the car and leave all of this behind.
If one good thing came of Sam's loneliness since he woke up, it's that he's had a lot of time to come to terms with reality and himself. He's had hours of introspection, locked away in his room because he was afraid of facing the look on Dean's face.
He knows he will never be exactly as he was before he fell. The dent and scar on the back of his head attest to that. He’s heard all the medical jargon, did all the research himself, had to stop because of migraines. It took him a long time to finally accept that he's not "worse"--he’d built a lot of his identity on being the "geek boy," on his 4.0 GPA at Stanford and his ability to spin out Latin or recall thousands of obscure facts and pieces of lore at a moment's notice.
Now, his brain can't remember those things so well. He's fairly certain he's now missing a chunk of his childhood, but he obviously can't place what. He doesn't want to ask Dean. Dean would get this horrible look of agony on his face at the idea of Sam not remembering. So he doesn't ask. His brain can't recall facts or words or parts of sentences, and if he pauses to remember, his mouth gets stuck on the same syllable, the same sound, until everything just shuts down.
It's annoying as hell. He can't stop it. It makes him feel so fucking stupid, even though he knows he isn't, he's just disabled, he's just different. He knows John would look down at him with disappointment, knows his friends back at school would have less and less patience for his fumbling, both mental and physical.
It was really tough to think about at all, at first. But now, he's okay with it. Kinda. Dr. Walton is a fucking lifesaver. She's not just a great therapist, she's a good friend, and she gets it. She pulls him out of endless, circling dark thoughts, helps him see the positives.
And now, with Dean slowly opening back up, there are a hell of a lot more positives. Sam appreciates that. With Dean's help, he'll build muscle again, improve his reflexes and recall memory, and a whole bunch of things. He has motivation now, reason. Before, it was just to take up time in his day, to busy himself.
Now he has a life to get back to.
His eyes flutter shut when Dean's hand reaches up and his fingers brush through Sam's hair, combing through the unruly strands. Dean trips up for a second when the pads of his fingers brush over the thick, jagged bump of Sam's scar, but he lets out a breath and slowly runs over it, feeling it for the first time, feeling the small hollow there. Dean goes back to the crown of Sam's head, petting him slowly. Sam rests his head on Dean's shoulder. He wishes he could purr. The repetitive, familiar motion of Dean's calloused fingers at the back of his head loosens up all his muscles, makes him boneless.
Dean keeps at it for a few minutes, and Sam listens idly to the cop show that's on the T.V. Dean pauses and rests his hand against the back of Sam's neck and makes a little noise.
"Hmm?" Sam asks, articulately.
"When's your hair gonna grow back out?" Dean asks, picking at short hairs at the base of Sam's skull. "You're stealing my look."
Sam shrugs, and it's hardly movement at all. He's too tired to give any real effort. "It'll happen," he says, slurring across the syllables. He yawns, tilting his cheek into Dean's shoulder, seeking the warmth.
Dean chuckles, and Sam feels it against his face. "You gonna sleep?" Dean whispers, and brings his fingers back up to Sam's head, resuming his ministrations. God, yes.
"Mmm-hmm," Sam mumbles, nodding. "Night, Dean."
Dean's hand slips down to his waist to pull him closer. Sam curls his arm around Dean's tummy. Satisfied, Dean returns his fingers to Sam’s scalp, combing slowly, brushing short bangs away from Sam’s forehead.
"Night, Sammy."
Part Eight