Waiting
Just something I wrote in the car on the way to the see The Winter Soldier (which was awesome).
It's not rational. Deep down, Dean knows that. But he can't help it. The longer Sam's weird sideburns have gotten, the worse his condition has gotten, and Dean has been trained practically since birth to believe there are NO coincidences.
But he's not actually crazy, so he waits. He spends his days by Sam's side, talking to him quietly, reading to him. Sometimes, when he knows the nurses are at the other end of the ward he strokes Sam's hair, running his fingers through it the way he hardly ever did before but always wanted to. Once, tears in his voice, he even threatens to bring in a pair of scissors.
But Sam never stirs. Never sighs. Never laughs, never groans, never opens his goddamn eyes, no matter how much Dean prays and begs and jokes and lays his soul bare and after awhile Dean can't quite get the idea out of his mind. He tells himself he's being ridiculous, and that it will never work and that surely even he isn't that desperate. And he starts to plan.
He starts by laying on the charm, thick--because even tho the hospital staff is sympathetic and caring, Dean thinks they might draw the line at holy water and a solid silver shaving razor engraved with runes and sigils.
He gets the razor from John's storage locker. He lays in a supply of holy water. He orders shaving foam infused with purifying herbs. He uses invisible ink from a shabby magic shop two towns over to ward every nook and cranny of Sam's room. He worries about how to convince the nurses to let him shave Sam, but in the end that's the easiest part, since all the nurses think he and Sam are 'adorable'.
Finally, after two weeks of scrounging and gathering and researching banishing spells he's ready. He waves to the nurses as he walks past the station and breathes a deep sigh of relief when he finally closes the door to Sam's room behind him. Dean unpacks quickly, efficiently--holy water into an iron basin, razor laid out, shaving foam whisked to a fine froth.
He intones a blessing as he carefully spreads a thick later of foam over the lower half of Sam's face and his sideburns. While it sets, he smooths out the carefully typed banishing spell, reviewing the pronunciation--and then it's time. He picks up the blessed and warded razor with a hand that, thankfully, doesn't shake. He lays it carefully against his brother's skin and draws it smoothly up and over the curve of Sam's cheek. At the same time be begins the incantation, voice ringing out quietly but firmly as he does so.
Nothing happens.
Oh, the purified foam disappears. The holy water grows cloudy, and the planes of Sam's face show even more sharply as the blurring fuzz of hair is scraped away. But Sam's breath doesn't hitch and speed up. His eyes don't flutter under the long lashes still casting shadows on his cheeks. His pulse remains slow and steady as Dean scrapes over it carefully, aware that the slightest slip could still it forever.
Dean starts the incantation again, a fine tremble working its way into his voice. His vision blurs just a bit, and when be blinks the mist away he sees a fine thin line of red snaking its way down Sam's throat.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he says, voice breaking on his brother's name. "I'm so sorry."
Dean doesn't start the incantation again. He scrapes away that last bit of foam and wipes away the residue. He carefully evens up Sam's newly shortened sideburns and ignores the faint pinkish tinge in the water basin. He packs up everything he can and sits down next to the bed, picks up the book he was reading to Sam and begins reading, even tho he can barely make out the words. His voice voice thins and starts to crack eventually, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't know how.
Dean wakes up slowly, slumped over the side of Sam's bed. Someone is petting him, carefully smoothing his hair over and over and his grief fogged brain takes a moment to make sense of what's happening. He shifts slightly and the movement stills, a warm hand coming to rest in the back of his neck.
"Dean?"
It's weak, and hoarse, and full of tears, and Dean has never heard anything more beautiful in his life.
It's not rational. Deep down, Dean knows that. But he can't help it. The longer Sam's weird sideburns have gotten, the worse his condition has gotten, and Dean has been trained practically since birth to believe there are NO coincidences.
But he's not actually crazy, so he waits. He spends his days by Sam's side, talking to him quietly, reading to him. Sometimes, when he knows the nurses are at the other end of the ward he strokes Sam's hair, running his fingers through it the way he hardly ever did before but always wanted to. Once, tears in his voice, he even threatens to bring in a pair of scissors.
But Sam never stirs. Never sighs. Never laughs, never groans, never opens his goddamn eyes, no matter how much Dean prays and begs and jokes and lays his soul bare and after awhile Dean can't quite get the idea out of his mind. He tells himself he's being ridiculous, and that it will never work and that surely even he isn't that desperate. And he starts to plan.
He starts by laying on the charm, thick--because even tho the hospital staff is sympathetic and caring, Dean thinks they might draw the line at holy water and a solid silver shaving razor engraved with runes and sigils.
He gets the razor from John's storage locker. He lays in a supply of holy water. He orders shaving foam infused with purifying herbs. He uses invisible ink from a shabby magic shop two towns over to ward every nook and cranny of Sam's room. He worries about how to convince the nurses to let him shave Sam, but in the end that's the easiest part, since all the nurses think he and Sam are 'adorable'.
Finally, after two weeks of scrounging and gathering and researching banishing spells he's ready. He waves to the nurses as he walks past the station and breathes a deep sigh of relief when he finally closes the door to Sam's room behind him. Dean unpacks quickly, efficiently--holy water into an iron basin, razor laid out, shaving foam whisked to a fine froth.
He intones a blessing as he carefully spreads a thick later of foam over the lower half of Sam's face and his sideburns. While it sets, he smooths out the carefully typed banishing spell, reviewing the pronunciation--and then it's time. He picks up the blessed and warded razor with a hand that, thankfully, doesn't shake. He lays it carefully against his brother's skin and draws it smoothly up and over the curve of Sam's cheek. At the same time be begins the incantation, voice ringing out quietly but firmly as he does so.
Nothing happens.
Oh, the purified foam disappears. The holy water grows cloudy, and the planes of Sam's face show even more sharply as the blurring fuzz of hair is scraped away. But Sam's breath doesn't hitch and speed up. His eyes don't flutter under the long lashes still casting shadows on his cheeks. His pulse remains slow and steady as Dean scrapes over it carefully, aware that the slightest slip could still it forever.
Dean starts the incantation again, a fine tremble working its way into his voice. His vision blurs just a bit, and when be blinks the mist away he sees a fine thin line of red snaking its way down Sam's throat.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he says, voice breaking on his brother's name. "I'm so sorry."
Dean doesn't start the incantation again. He scrapes away that last bit of foam and wipes away the residue. He carefully evens up Sam's newly shortened sideburns and ignores the faint pinkish tinge in the water basin. He packs up everything he can and sits down next to the bed, picks up the book he was reading to Sam and begins reading, even tho he can barely make out the words. His voice voice thins and starts to crack eventually, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't know how.
Dean wakes up slowly, slumped over the side of Sam's bed. Someone is petting him, carefully smoothing his hair over and over and his grief fogged brain takes a moment to make sense of what's happening. He shifts slightly and the movement stills, a warm hand coming to rest in the back of his neck.
"Dean?"
It's weak, and hoarse, and full of tears, and Dean has never heard anything more beautiful in his life.