FILL: Untitled (1/3)rbmi_fanJuly 28 2012, 19:52:47 UTC
#5 of my fic Five Times Sam Played With Dean's Hair, posted here.
It was a little amazing how well Dean had adapted to domestic life. They'd kept the apartment Sam had rented when he'd first gotten Dean out. After eight months, when they'd realized that Dean had recovered as much as he was going to and that hunting was just not in the equation anymore, it just hadn't made sense to move. It was a duplex, but nobody lived in the other half and rent was ridiculously cheap (because this was Bobby's old town and they had long memories). Sheriff Mills (“Call me Jody”) came by every other day to check up on them and lately to trade gossip. Sam hadn't been 'in the loop' since Stanford, and it felt good. Familiar, almost. Dean had taken to lounging on a lawn chair out front, where he could hear the odd child playing and middle aged women could come up and coo over him (he was one of the ones that stopped the apocalypse, after all, a bona fide war hero). And Dean loved it. Always had, really, when he was too sick or out of it to remember that cuddling wasn't manly. Now he beamed that new smile he had whenever anyone came over, and let them rearrange pillows and fetch him water and generally wait on him the way Sam had stopped doing weeks ago. And if Sam hovered near the doorway and watched them a little too intently while they were near his brother, well. Dean seemed to like that now, too.
He slept a lot now. Ever since Sam first ripped a whole in the world to drag his brother out, dirty and feverish and the clinging to Sam like his life depended on it, Dean had spent most of his time sleeping. Sam was almost disappointed. He'd had seven months to prepare for a post-Purgatory Dean and he hadn't wasted it. For the first time in years there was no demon, no apocalypse, no imminent destruction hovering over their heads. They had time to just rest. And no way Dean was going to convince Sam he was fine; not this time. A month before he'd perfected the ritual, he'd Dean-proofed the entire apartment and prepared arguments for why they shouldn't just take off. He had beef and fries and milkshakes ready if Dean came back hungry and in need of normal. Soup and crackers if he couldn't keep those down. He'd spent two weeks hunting down just the type of mattress and sheet material that Dean liked best, and cleared an area of the bedroom in case Dean wasn't up to sleeping on a bed right at first - he remembered survival training one summer just out of middle school when their dad had dropped them both off in a forest and told them he'd be back in three months. For weeks Sam had daydreamed about collapsing into a soft, clean bed, yet when Dad finally picked them up in mid-August the motel beds had seemed wrong.
He and Dean had both come back from Hell totally unmarked physically, but Sam didn't know if the rules were different for Purgatory. At the very least Dean's body was in their with him, and Sam's ritual didn't come with a healing factor. So he raided a couple of hospitals across the northern states. Set up an IV line, heart monitor, proper suture kit, and about 50 different kinds of drugs. Jodi knew at last one doctor who did good work and didn't ask questions. Just in case. He bought a bookshelf just to hold all of the psych 101 books he'd bought, on trauma and repression and anything else that looked remotely relevant. Some of them were almost falling apart from frequent use. Some were hardly touched, or had been thrown at a wall a few times, or had sent him to Jodi in hysterics about how completely screwed they both were. He'd soundproofed every room in the house because he knew nightmares better than anyone else and Dean wouldn't want the neighbours privy to his.
It was a little amazing how well Dean had adapted to domestic life. They'd kept the apartment Sam had rented when he'd first gotten Dean out. After eight months, when they'd realized that Dean had recovered as much as he was going to and that hunting was just not in the equation anymore, it just hadn't made sense to move. It was a duplex, but nobody lived in the other half and rent was ridiculously cheap (because this was Bobby's old town and they had long memories). Sheriff Mills (“Call me Jody”) came by every other day to check up on them and lately to trade gossip. Sam hadn't been 'in the loop' since Stanford, and it felt good. Familiar, almost. Dean had taken to lounging on a lawn chair out front, where he could hear the odd child playing and middle aged women could come up and coo over him (he was one of the ones that stopped the apocalypse, after all, a bona fide war hero). And Dean loved it. Always had, really, when he was too sick or out of it to remember that cuddling wasn't manly. Now he beamed that new smile he had whenever anyone came over, and let them rearrange pillows and fetch him water and generally wait on him the way Sam had stopped doing weeks ago. And if Sam hovered near the doorway and watched them a little too intently while they were near his brother, well. Dean seemed to like that now, too.
He slept a lot now. Ever since Sam first ripped a whole in the world to drag his brother out, dirty and feverish and the clinging to Sam like his life depended on it, Dean had spent most of his time sleeping. Sam was almost disappointed. He'd had seven months to prepare for a post-Purgatory Dean and he hadn't wasted it. For the first time in years there was no demon, no apocalypse, no imminent destruction hovering over their heads. They had time to just rest. And no way Dean was going to convince Sam he was fine; not this time. A month before he'd perfected the ritual, he'd Dean-proofed the entire apartment and prepared arguments for why they shouldn't just take off. He had beef and fries and milkshakes ready if Dean came back hungry and in need of normal. Soup and crackers if he couldn't keep those down. He'd spent two weeks hunting down just the type of mattress and sheet material that Dean liked best, and cleared an area of the bedroom in case Dean wasn't up to sleeping on a bed right at first - he remembered survival training one summer just out of middle school when their dad had dropped them both off in a forest and told them he'd be back in three months. For weeks Sam had daydreamed about collapsing into a soft, clean bed, yet when Dad finally picked them up in mid-August the motel beds had seemed wrong.
He and Dean had both come back from Hell totally unmarked physically, but Sam didn't know if the rules were different for Purgatory. At the very least Dean's body was in their with him, and Sam's ritual didn't come with a healing factor. So he raided a couple of hospitals across the northern states. Set up an IV line, heart monitor, proper suture kit, and about 50 different kinds of drugs. Jodi knew at last one doctor who did good work and didn't ask questions. Just in case. He bought a bookshelf just to hold all of the psych 101 books he'd bought, on trauma and repression and anything else that looked remotely relevant. Some of them were almost falling apart from frequent use. Some were hardly touched, or had been thrown at a wall a few times, or had sent him to Jodi in hysterics about how completely screwed they both were. He'd soundproofed every room in the house because he knew nightmares better than anyone else and Dean wouldn't want the neighbours privy to his.
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