13
There are these moments that happen sometimes, when Sam’s waking up but hasn’t really gotten his mind above the fog yet, when the entire world is made up of Dean’s broad back and strong shoulders and deep, slow breaths. He’s aware in these moments how close to the edge, to breaking, he is, but he lets himself forget. Before he moves and stretches into his long, heavy body, before he opens his eyes and sees the lines and scars on his brother’s skin, he pretends (and so, so almost believes) that they’re young again and that gruff snore is his father in the next bed and his life is going to be just fine.
Opening his eyes is always heartbreaking, but it’s goddamn worth it for these moments.
***
“Favorite angel,” Dean says, spooning out some Nutella for each of them.
They’re sitting in bed, waiting to see if Sam’s cough kicks in, sort of pretending that the fact that he hasn’t coughed yet today is a good sign.
Sam licks his spoon. “Cas.”
“No, come on, too obvious. Someone else.”
“You said favorite angel, not favorite not-Cas angel.”
Dean knocks their ankles together. “Don’t be a dick. It’s a serious question.”
“How is this a serious question? Are you conducting a poll?”
“Maybe. Yes. I’m polling all area Sams. Answer the question.”
He does this, invents these games, because sitting around playing who’s your favorite angel is still a hunter activity, sort of. He needs it. Sam gets it. “Joshua, I guess.”
“Who?”
“In heaven, you know, the guy with the garden.”
“What about Gabriel? Helped us stop the apocalypse, that was cool.”
Sam stares. “He killed you. Hundreds of times. Made me watch.
Dean eats his Nutella and doesn’t say anything for a while.
***
Later, he’s throwing up his Nutella (with the shower on - it’s not a secret, exactly, but watching Dean try to hide the fact that he’s terrified with a bunch of half-assed research is just about the saddest thing ever) and it’s red and thick, and then it’s not Nutella anymore, it’s only blood and he can’t stop bringing it up.
And fuck, why did he have to do this with the shower on, why did he lock the door, why did he keep his brother out, he’s going to die here on this gross motel bathroom floor (he’s shaking so damn hard, stomach convulsing, soaked with sweat and tears) and Dean’s not going to be here, Dean’s going to find him an hour later when he starts to worry and kicks the door in. Oh god. Oh god.
And then he breathes in hard and it slows, settles, stops.
Sam falls onto his back and listens to the shower.
***
“Everything okay?” Dean asks.
“Yeah.” And he’s really almost got himself convinced.
He goes to the bed and crawls in, huddles down under the covers, and does his best to ignore the sharp pain in his gut and the taste of blood at the back of his throat.
“Most hated demon?”
He chooses Alistair, and Dean picks Azazel, and they debate like scholars and no one mentions Crowley.
Opening his eyes is always heartbreaking, but it’s goddamn worth it for these moments.
***
“Favorite angel,” Dean says, spooning out some Nutella for each of them.
They’re sitting in bed, waiting to see if Sam’s cough kicks in, sort of pretending that the fact that he hasn’t coughed yet today is a good sign.
Sam licks his spoon. “Cas.”
“No, come on, too obvious. Someone else.”
“You said favorite angel, not favorite not-Cas angel.”
Dean knocks their ankles together. “Don’t be a dick. It’s a serious question.”
“How is this a serious question? Are you conducting a poll?”
“Maybe. Yes. I’m polling all area Sams. Answer the question.”
He does this, invents these games, because sitting around playing who’s your favorite angel is still a hunter activity, sort of. He needs it. Sam gets it. “Joshua, I guess.”
“Who?”
“In heaven, you know, the guy with the garden.”
“What about Gabriel? Helped us stop the apocalypse, that was cool.”
Sam stares. “He killed you. Hundreds of times. Made me watch.
Dean eats his Nutella and doesn’t say anything for a while.
***
Later, he’s throwing up his Nutella (with the shower on - it’s not a secret, exactly, but watching Dean try to hide the fact that he’s terrified with a bunch of half-assed research is just about the saddest thing ever) and it’s red and thick, and then it’s not Nutella anymore, it’s only blood and he can’t stop bringing it up.
And fuck, why did he have to do this with the shower on, why did he lock the door, why did he keep his brother out, he’s going to die here on this gross motel bathroom floor (he’s shaking so damn hard, stomach convulsing, soaked with sweat and tears) and Dean’s not going to be here, Dean’s going to find him an hour later when he starts to worry and kicks the door in. Oh god. Oh god.
And then he breathes in hard and it slows, settles, stops.
Sam falls onto his back and listens to the shower.
***
“Everything okay?” Dean asks.
“Yeah.” And he’s really almost got himself convinced.
He goes to the bed and crawls in, huddles down under the covers, and does his best to ignore the sharp pain in his gut and the taste of blood at the back of his throat.
“Most hated demon?”
He chooses Alistair, and Dean picks Azazel, and they debate like scholars and no one mentions Crowley.