My Name on Your Lips - Teacher's Pet Timestamp
Title: My Name On Your Lips - Teacher's Pet Timestamp
Author: jcrgirl and imogen_lily
Banner: imogen_lily
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Overall: Wincest, AU, past abuse
Word Count: ~ 2900
Beta: glimmerella
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: Timestamp for Teacher's Pet,set a year and a half after the Epilogue. Dean deals with a difficul twenty-four hours.
MasterPost
Author Notes: As always much love to my beta glimmerella and my partner in crime imogen_lily who I couldn't do this without.
Dean lay in bed, eyes dry and itchy with exhaustion, and listened to the nocturnal sounds of the house settling. The pops and creaks that once made him jumpy and fidgety, pulling him from his hunter-light sleep to full armed alertness, now soothed his raw nerves and calmed his edgy mind. Beside him, his brother slept peacefully, spread out on his stomach, arm curled around his pillows and sheet carelessly draped over his lower half. Dean’s gaze followed the lines and curves of Sam’s back, the secondhand weight bench in the garage living up to its usefulness, and admired the dips and swells of newly acquired muscle. He traced the tip of his finger feather-light down the trench created by his spine and smiled when Sam’s body rolled, back unconsciously bowing into the touch. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the tattoo on Sam’s shoulder, resting his forehead there as he tried to stifle a yawn.
Dean’s eyelids felt swollen and heavy, the lashes tacky, and each blink was lazier than the one before. He refused to sleep, fought his body’s demands, and knew that he’d be sorry tomorrow. They had an early start on a stressful day and sleep deprivation was only going to complicate matters, but at this moment he couldn’t care less. Except for the occasional groan from the old farmhouse, the night was eerily quiet - even the cicadas taking time off from their nightly song. Of course, with Sam, the house was always quiet. Their lives were etched in touch and motion, the world playing out in the curves of fingers and movements of hands, sound taking a backseat. Some nights, Dean went to bed unable to remember if he’d uttered a word all day, asking the darkness if Sam would ever utter one again.
He rubbed his eyes and tried to push away the melancholy thoughts. They served no purpose except to send his mind to places it didn’t need to go. Sam shuffled, shifting onto his back, and the sheet slipped down revealing the sharp jut of his hip bones and the soft, dark hair that acted like a Jacob’s ladder to Dean’s own personal Heaven. Reaching down, he pulled the sheet up Sam’s body, lifting it first to get a glimpse of what lay hidden beneath, to maintain the younger man’s modesty. Their father was downstairs after all and even though he’d learned the hard way to knock, he sometimes forgot that his sons didn’t sleep in twin beds anymore.
Dean sidled up to Sam’s side, his brother’s body heat warming his front and dispelling the chill that the cool air had left on his skin. Sam’s right hand rested on his stomach, light glinting off the silver ring with each rise of his chest. Dean slowly ran his finger over the metal band and then threaded their fingers together. Sam sighed happily, lips smacking, and nestled closer to Dean. Sliding their hands up Sam’s chest, Dean pressed them over his heart. He counted the passing minutes with the beat of Sam’s heart and somewhere along the way fell into a dreamless slumber.
Dean woke up what felt like minutes later by soft lips against his and a tantalizing mixture of smells - a heady combination of Sam’s body wash and strong, freshly brewed coffee. Touch and smell coaxed sight into working, Dean blinking his eyes open to greet the dimly lit dark of their room. The bathroom door was partially open, the light over the sink providing just enough light for him to see that Sam was already dressed. Sam rubbed his shoulder, turned the digital clock to show Dean the time and rapped his nail against the ceramic mug of steaming coffee.
“I’m up, I’m up,” Dean groaned, arm flopping over his eyes.
Another kiss to his lips as his arm was peeled away from his eyes, Sam’s fond smile filling his field of vision. Sam pointed at a folded pile of clothes on the dresser and nudged Dean’s shoulder gently.
Dean rose up on his elbow, reaching over to pick up the cup from the nightstand. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down.”
A flash of dimples, a quick kiss to his forehead and Sam was gone. Dean shook his head and levered up from the bed, taking a large gulp of the dark, caffeinated coffee. Nine minutes later he stumbled down the stairs in a zombie-like trance, but he was upright, dressed and mobile. He wasn’t sure what else could be asked of him this early in the morning. In the kitchen he found his father warming his hands around his own mug of coffee and Sam fidgeting with the dishtowels hanging from the bar on the oven door.
John looked up at his oldest, lines and dark circles prominent on his face attested that Dean wasn’t the only one who had a restless night. “You boys ready to do this?”
Sam took a deep breath, his shoulders visibly rising and falling, and turned with a look of determination. His eyes met Dean’s and he nodded, Dean’s head bobbing in response.
*****
Dean sat in the hard plastic chair next to his father, feet bouncing nervously on the shiny chrome rung. Two hours. It’d been two hours since the capped and masked nurse wheeled Sam away for surgery and there’d been no word on the progress. Dean leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, and clasped his hands together. He hated hospitals, swore never to step foot in one again when Sam was released after Reece’s attack. For the last two years, he’d been content to keep that oath. That was until Dr. Asher approached Sam with an experimental surgery that might be able to repair the damaged nerves leading to Sam’s voicebox. Voice therapy had been unsuccessful and conventional surgical options were denied by their insurance since Sam’s condition didn’t impede his ability to breath. According to the good people at MetWell Insurance, mute was not considered detrimental to Sam’s quality of life.
When Dr. Asher first broached the idea with Sam and Dean during one of Sam’s appointments, the brothers had been hesitant. Words like ‘test subject’ and ‘experimental’ and ‘no guarantees’ did little to quell their fears, but others like ‘promising’ and ‘minimally invasive’ and ‘full vocal recovery’ went far in convincing them. Dr. Asher’s medschool roommate was the surgeon conducting the trial and Sam’s physician wanted to recommend him for the experiment, all he needed was Sam’s consent. Dean and Sam left his office that day with a three day deliberation time limit.
Dean remained silent on the subject during those seventy-two hours, unwilling to sway his brother. The decision was Sam’s. It was his body they were going to use like a lab rat, the risks were his and he needed to weigh them carefully. The morning of the deadline Sam composed a carefully worded e-mail to Dr. Asher, pulling Dean over to sit in front of the computer to review it before sending.
Dean read the words twice to make sure he understood then turned to Sam. “Well, all right then.”
It turned out that Sam was the perfect candidate for the trial. In a whirlwind two week process, Sam met Dr. Cole for the first time and was scheduled for his surgery. It never occurred to Dean that things would move so quickly, but Dr. Cole had been searching for the ideal subject for months and now that he’d found him, he didn’t want to waste any more time.
Dean looked over at the clock again - two and a half hours. Since there was no precedent for this procedure, Dr. Cole hadn’t been able to give Dean and John an estimated time it would take. There was no way to know how much longer it would be. Dean crossed his leg, his right ankle propped up on his left knee, and fiddled with his bowed shoelaces - tying the ends in knots and twisting the loops together. God, he just wanted to wrap Sam up in his arms. He’d looked so small and scared when they’d wheeled him away that Dean’d had the urge to call the entire thing off. He’d rushed down the hallway to catch up to Sam’s gurney, bent over the side and gave Sam a deep, loving kiss. Pulling away, he’d whispered against Sam’s lips, “I’ll be here when you wake up. I love you.”
He’d felt “I love you” brushed against his own lips in return then stepped back, letting Sam go in the hopes of hearing those words again instead of just feeling them.
“Dean?” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. He glanced up at his father; the older Winchester’s face looked like Dean felt. “I’m gonna go get some coffee from the cafeteria. You want anything?”
He shook his head, gaze dropping to the patch of linoleum between his booted feet.
The hand on his shoulder shook him gently. “He’s gonna be fine, Dean. If it doesn’t work then Sam’ll be no worse off than he was last night.”
Dean nodded and was relieved when the pressure lifted from his shoulder. Yeah, no different than last night. That was if there were no complications from the surgery itself. The informational papers and disclaimers that Sam had to sign detailed too many things that could go wrong, too many possibilities. Dean knew that it was the hospital and surgeon’s way of covering themselves in the event something happened, neither the institution nor the physician expecting problems, but it made his head swim with ‘what ifs’.
He twisted the double bands on his right ring finger, Sam’s slotted over his. He watched the fluorescent lights catch on the engraved pattern, the welds you’d have to know were there to see. Sam had insisted Dean keep his safe during the surgery, maybe understanding that Dean would need some kind of connection to Sam when he couldn’t have the man himself.
There was a TV in the corner of the waiting room, volume low enough to provide a background noise, but not be obtrusive. A jingle sounded and a reporter interrupted The Maury Povich Show.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you late breaking news out of Kansas.”
Hearing it had nothing to do with Billings, Montana and in no way could affect the outcome of the happenings in OR 2, Dean tuned the perfectly coifed woman out. The words floated around the room never penetrating Dean’s preoccupied mind.
“We have received reports that a serial rapist and murderer has escaped from Leavenworth maximum security prison.”
The swinging doors at the end of the hallway opened and Dr. Cole, accompanied by Dr. Asher, made their way down the hall toward Dean. Dean stood on shaky legs and watched them approach. Their faces were unreadable and Dean’s heart beat hard against his sternum as he waited to hear Sam’s fate.
“The prisoner is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Here is a picture of the escaped criminal, Mr…”
“Mr. Winchester,” Dr. Cole greeted Dean, hand extended and a weary smile on his face.
“Dr. Cole,” Dean shook it expectantly. His eyes flashed between the two doctors, hands trembling in suspense.
“He is six foot one with dark hair and grey eyes.”
“Everything went according to plan, Mr. Winchester. Mr. Singer, came through it perfectly and is in recovery right now.” Dr. Cole reached up and untied the string holding his surgical cap snug to his head.
Dean nearly dropped to his knees in relief. “When will we know if it worked?”
“…is considered armed and dangerous.”
“That will depend on Sam,” Dr. Asher answered, his familiarity with his patient making him comfortable to use Sam’s first name.
“If you feel you have seen him, please do not attempt approach him.”
“What does that mean?” Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Call local law enforcement immediately.”
“We reconnected what we could and rerouted what we couldn’t,” Dr. Cole supplied, “It will be up to Sam’s brain how fast it recognizes the repaired neural pathways. If it recognizes them at all.” At Dean’s unimpressed glace, he added, “It was one of the possibilities that Sam was aware of.”
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “When can I see him?”
“He’ll be in recovery for about an hour. Once he’s moved to a room, I’ll have a nurse come and get you.” Dr. Asher clapped him on the shoulder, smiling as he followed his associate back down the hall.
Dean dropped back into his seat, head tilted back and eyes staring unseeingly at the television. Maury revealed the father of some unfortunate child from a group of four men, the three non-baby daddies jumped for joy while the fourth yelled at what Dean assumed was the mother. He rolled his eyes and shook his head at the insanity of it all. The process was repeated twice more before John returned from the cafeteria. Dean relayed what the doctors said and they sat in silence waiting for the nurse to retrieve them.
*****
Dean walked through the door to Sam’s room, memories flooding back at the sight of Sam pale against the hospital sheet with a white bandage across the front of his throat. The doctors had gone back in at the site of the previous cut to minimize additional scarring, which Dean was grateful for. Sam didn’t need any more of those. He moved quickly to Sam’s right side and lowered the rail. Hooking his ankle around the bedside chair leg, he pulled it closer and sank down. He slid Sam’s ring off his finger and gently maneuvered it onto Sam’s where it belonged. Kissing the replaced band of metal, he smiled at his father who’d taken a seat on Sam’s opposite side, knowing his relief was palpable in the air.
They quietly waited for Sam to wake, jumping each time a finger twitched or limb moved as the anesthetic wore off. Dean traced his finger over Sam’s ring, eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Sam’s bed. The fingers under his touch jerked twice and he looked up to see glazed hazel eyes gazing back at him.
“Sammy?” Dean shot up from his seat, John standing from his as well.
Sam nodded and pointed at a pitcher of water on the table, wincing as he swallowed.
“Oh, yeah. Hold on,” Dean let go of Sam’s hand and poured a glass of water, sticking the straw into the cool depths.
“Hey, Sammy,” John cooed, fingers carding through Sam’s long hair. “You did great, son.”
Dean turned back to them, slotting the straw through Sam’s chapped lips. “Just a few swallows, Sam. Nice and easy.”
Sam’s flinches lessened with each gulp and after four Dean pulled the cup away. Thank you.
“You’re welcome. The doc said that everything went perfectly, right according to plan.” Dean set the cup back on the table and sat on the edge of Sam’s bed.
Talk?
“Doc said it was up to that big brain of yours,” John tapped Sam’s forehead lightly with his index finger. “The faster it figures out its fixed, the faster you can talk.”
Sam stared at his father, then at Dean. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, his face contorted in a look of utmost concentration. He swallowed and the muscles of his neck worked, cheeks flushing with effort.
“Don’t try to force it, Sammy,” Dean smiled, squeezing Sam’s hand, “Give yourself a little time to suss it out.”
John yawned, jaw cracking. “Now that you’re awake and I know you’re okay. I think I’m going to head back to the house. I didn’t sleep much last night,” he leaned over and kissed Sam on the head in an unusual display of affection. Turning to Dean, he raised an eyebrow, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to come with me?”
“Nah,” Dean responded, digging the Impala keys from his pocket. Seeing Sam’s eyes droop again, he whispered, “Just come back and get me after your nap.”
Nodding, John patted Sam’s foot, careful not to rouse the dozing boy, and left, swinging the Impala keys around his finger.
Dean cupped the side of Sam’s neck, thumb ghosting ever so lightly around the edge of the gauze bandage. His eyes took in Sam’s face, relaxed in sleep, and he smiled. He leaned over and placed a soft kiss to Sam’s slightly parted lips, careful to not dislodge the nasal cannula.
Sam sighed. “Dean.”
Dean was getting off the bed when the word caught his attention. It wasn’t the punched out dental sound that Sam had been using for the last few years, the hard “D”, the only sound he could make. It was Dean’s name, his whole name, clear and defined. It was something he never thought he’d hear again, not in Sam’s voice. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it, had convinced himself that he could spend the rest of the life never hearing it. Now, he wanted to hear it every minute of every day.
His eyes prickled with tears, emotions clogging his senses. “That’s my boy,” he whispered, pressing another feather light kiss to Sam’s lips. “That’s my boy.”