Detached (Part Three)
Title - Detached
Summary - Season One. There's no such thing as a simple hunt. Unfortunately for Dean, he learns that the hard way. Plenty of hurt boys!
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish)
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 9400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to the fabulous scullspeare and harrigan who waved their magic beta wands over this. Your time, input and support is priceless and I'm a very lucky girl to have you both in my corner. I've tinkered and tweaked, so any mistakes are mine.
Detached Part Three
She was good at her job and Dean barely felt the needle as it slipped beneath his skin.
"Just a local anaesthetic," she said, sweeping her eyes across his face but he didn't look at her. Afraid she'd see more than he was willing to share. "You feeling okay?"
"Yeah." It rolled easily off his tongue. Lies usually did.
She talked a lot. On any other day it would have pissed him off but the background noise was a welcome distraction. She'd assured him that Sam was in good hands, that he'd done all that he could. But all Dean could think of was his finger squeezing the trigger and how maybe his hand should just stay broken.
"You're lucky," she said, swabbing the welling blood from the small cuts that covered his right hand with gentle slow stokes. "These could have been much worse."
Funny, he didn't feel all that lucky.
"How's Sam?" He asked again, knowing the answer but needing to ask.
She looked at him, her crow's feet deepening as her lips formed a sad smile. "The reception desk knows where you are. As soon as there's any news, someone will come to find us."
Same answer as before.
"The police want to talk to you and I can only hold them off for so long," she said, removing a tiny shard of glass with a pair of tweezers. "Eventually they're going to want some more details about the mugging."
It took him a while to figure out exactly what he'd told them when he'd pushed open the swinging doors, dragging an unconscious Sam with him. "I don't know much. I…I wasn't there."
She tugged out another piece of glass before setting the tweezers down and catching Dean's eyes with her own. "You shouldn't blame yourself."
Dean didn't answer. The room suddenly feeling smaller than it was.
"Sometimes no matter what you do, bad stuff happens. You just have to pick up the pieces and move on." She nodded, seemingly satisfied that he'd heard her.
Placing a finger over the swollen skin surrounding the break on his hand she pushed down gently. "You all numbed up?" She asked, watching his face closely for a reaction.
It felt like he'd been numb for days.
Spinning around on her chair, she removed a needle from the stainless steel tray and uncapped it. "Just a mild sedative. You're looking a bit peaked."
He opened his mouth to protest - this wasn't exactly the first time he'd broken a bone - but before the words were out of his mouth she'd depressed the plunger. "Just relax. The doctor will be here soon to set the break."
She raised the head of his bed and guided him back against the foam mattress. He was tired before the damn sedative but now the room was swaying, his eyelids drooping as they grew heavier.
"Sam?" He croaked, struggling to remember if he'd asked her how his brother was.
"If he's half as stubborn as you, he'll be just fine."
He watched her clean up the tray, trashing swabs and needles as she puttered around the room. Then she was by his bed, a cool hand on his forehead. He didn't even have time to flinch at the contact. "I'll be back soon."
He had no idea how much time had passed, or even if he'd closed his eyes but the next moment the door was swinging open and a man appeared, a stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.
"How's my brother?" Dean asked, his tongue feeling overly heavy as he peeled it off the roof of his mouth.
"No news yet. But it's time to set that hand of yours."
Dean blinked, his eyelashes sticking together as he forced his eyes to open again, slightly shocked to see the doctor next to his bed and his x-ray on the light box.
Damn, the nurse must have given him the good stuff.
"There's a couple of hairline fractures to the proximal phalanges, here and here," the doctor said pointing at the x-ray. The room was blurry and smudged around the edges and Dean doubted he could see his own hand in front of his face but he nodded anyway.
"As you can see the break to the forth metacarpal is clean," the doctor continued, a pair of gloved hands carefully examining the break. "This won't take a minute."
Dean felt some pressure as the doctor manipulated the bone before he heard a quiet crunch and a pop. "All done," the doctor said, snapping off his latex gloves. "We're going to let the swelling reduce a little and then get you in a cast."
The world fuzzed around him, shapes sliding together like a modern art painting. The next time Dean opened his eyes he was alone in the room. "Huh," he muttered, catching a glimpse of his hand lying on a cushion, covered half way up his forearm in plaster so white it made his head hurt.
It took a moment for recent events to clear, before the hazy images of his brother made more sense. Pushing himself up with his left arm, Dean sat up and watched as the room tilted and did a slow waltz around his bed.
Once the room stilled, the pain rolled across his body like a tsunami. There wasn't a single muscle that didn't feel stretched or pulled to breaking point, his knee was stiff and slightly swollen and the only part of him that didn't hurt was covered his plaster. Apparently spirit possession took a lot out of a person.
Needing to know how Sam was doing, Dean swallowed a grunt as he crossed the room and pushed the door open. Taking a quick look down the corridor for possible threats and snitches he followed the blue line on the floor that would hopefully lead him to the surgical waiting room.
The walk was long and it took more out of Dean than it should have, a sure sign that he was pushing himself too hard. He nearly blew it at the reception desk, remembering only at the last minute to give Sam's fake insurance name. He was told to wait. Again.
Feeling his knees weaken, Dean dropped down onto the nearest chair, scrubbing a shaking hand over his day-old stubble and then through his hair. He stared hard at the black stains on his shirt and jeans. Blood or ectoplasm? He couldn't tell.
A pair of battered running shoes broke his trance and Dean swallowed the huge ball of fear that sat in his throat. The man in front of him dipped his head, his grey eyes peeking over his nose-perched glasses. "The surgery went well," he said, glancing at the chart in his hands. "The blood loss was significant and the risk of infection is high. But we were able to repair the damage and his stats are improving."
Dean played with his cast, his fingers picking at the rough edges. "He's gonna be okay, right?"
"Barring any complications, your brother should make a full recovery. But with these types of internal injuries and extensive muscle damage, the recovery time can be quite lengthy."
He could deal with that, they both could. Dean sunk into the hard-backed chair, the relief flooding through his veins more powerful than any drug he'd been given.
"Are you ok?" the doctor asked, concern filling his features as he eyed the bloody mess of Dean's shirt.
"I am now."
The doctor looked down at him and sighed wearily, a glimmer of disbelief shadowing his eyes. "Someone will come and find you when your brother's ready for visitors," he said before turning on his heels and disappearing down the overly bright corridor.
Tapping his boot against the shiny floor, Dean sighed. He couldn't sit and wait; being powerless and stuck on the sidelines wasn't his style. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his head fall into his hands, feeling the rough plaster brush against his face.
"Sir," a gentle voice said, a petite hand on his shoulder. "I can take you to your brother's room now."
She was staring at him, her eyebrows drawn and Dean could only guess at how bad he looked, all tired eyes and bloody clothes. But he moved on autopilot, following a pair of shoes that squeaked their way down endless corridors and closed doors.
It took a moment to realize that they'd stopped, that the nurse was talking to him but as soon as the door was pushed open the words he did remember were forgotten as he caught sight of his brother.
Sam, who had just had surgery and countless blood transfusions was now struggling against wires and tubes, his hand ready to rip them collectively out of his arm.
"Sam!" Dean barked, "What the hell?"
Dean sprinted across the room, the nurse hot on his heels as he grabbed Sam's wrists and stared into his brother's bruised and swollen face.
Sam's weary eyes met his own before his body wilted back against the pillows, his breaths shallow and pained. "Couldn't find you."
Sam's voice was all off. Too quiet, hushed almost and the words were all slurred together, probably due to the cocktail of happy juice he was luckily still wired to.
And really, Dean should have seen that coming. Especially after everything that had gone down.
"Yeah, well I'm here now so you can quit the Houdini impersonation," Dean said his anger dissipating as he watched the nurse apply more surgical tape, firmly sticking the wires back to Sam's pale skin before scurrying out the door, no doubt to rat on Sam.
God, Dean hated hospitals.
As Dean's eyes took it all in, Sam's bruised and broken skin, the machines, the nasal canula that snaked under his nose, at how haggard and deflated his brother looked, anger burned in his belly along with sickness.
"Not your fault," Sam said as he blinked slowly, reading Dean's mind like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.
"I know." Because Dean knew that; knew that it wasn't his fury that had pulled the trigger or fed his fists, that he wasn't the one who put Sam in the hospital. But somehow it didn't make him feel any better.
Dragging an uncomfortable-looking chair across the floor, Dean sat down, biting back a groan as his joints creaked. Sam's head was tilted towards him, his split lip puffy around the stitches, his blackened eyes slipping closed. Only then did Dean reach out and take hold of his brother's hand, his fingers curling around Sam's as he added a little pressure.
Neither of them mentioned it. Or how Sam squeezed back.
XoXoX
"Are you sure about this?" Dean said staring down at the crumpled pages of physiotherapy routines and the mound of prescriptions that needed to be filled, struggling to quell the feeling that this was all happening too soon.
"I'm sure," Sam said, his tone serious as he pinched his lips.
Dean folded the papers in half and stuffed them into his pocket. "Because we can stay an extra day or so. I mean they have cable here, they deliver food and it sure beats staying in that craphole of a motel."
"I need to get out of here."
Dean looked down at his cast, a little worst for wear, his fingers pulling at the frayed edges. "Yeah, I get that. I just…"
"Don't want me to push it?" Sam grunted softly under his breath as he reached over for the button down shirt that Dean had laid on the bed.
"Something like that, yeah. We've got all the time in the world. There's no need to rush it, y'know."
"I'm ready," Sam said, fingers snapping at buttons. "I really am."
Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother. He looked tired, exhausted actually. Bruises had long since faded, stitches had been removed and Sam still didn't look any better for it. The reality was that Sam's recovery was taking time, far more than either of them liked to admit. But Dean knew his brother well enough to know that when he had his mind set on something, he went for it. Regardless of what obstacles got in the way.
"Well if you're sure," Dean said, opening the drawer and pulling out a handful of Sam's toiletries.
"I am." Sam shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed, clearing his throat. "Thanks, Dean. For everything. I don't know what I'd have done if you didn't have my back through all of this."
"Oh God," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. "I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"The chick flick moment. This is it, right? You pour your heart out, I listen and then we hug it out and cry softly on each other's shoulder."
"I'm trying to be serious."
"You don't think that I'm being serious?" Dean said cramming the last fist-full of Sam's clothes and toiletries into the duffle bag before turning to face his brother. "Dean Winchester doesn't do chick flick anything, Sammy. It's just not cool."
A crooked half-smile deepened Sam's dimples. "And referring to yourself in third person is?"
"Only if you're as smooth and devilishly handsome as me."
Sam snorted as he pushed himself off the bed, his breath hitching in his throat as he swallowed deeply. "Seriously, Dean, thanks, for everything."
Dean caught Sam's gaze, nodding slightly. "Any time, little brother."
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do we need to talk?"
Dean frowned. "About what?"
"McMillan, the possession. Everything."
"What's there to talk about?" Dean shrugged. "It happened, we dealt with it, it's over."
"Yeah," Sam said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "But I could have touched that ledger, McMillan could have just as easily got to me. You know that right?"
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, Sam." Dean glanced around the room, their home for the past few weeks. Where he'd had all the time in the world to hash it out, to point out blame and come up with a million what ifs, only to realise that it didn't matter. They'd made it, they were leaving and Sam would be okay. All the rest was history. "I really do."
Swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, Dean stepped towards Sam and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "So, you ready to blow this joint?"
"Hell yes," Sam grinned, wincing slightly as he took a step towards the door. Despite weeks of physiotherapy, Sam was still a little hunched over but his steps were sturdy if a little slow as they crossed the room side by side.
"The offer's still open."
"No, Dean."
"Aw c'mon, Sam. Live it up a little," Dean said as he held the door open for his brother. "You gotta learn to take advantage of the perks of a hospital stay."
"I said no."
"Where's the harm?" Dean let the door to the room swing closed behind them. "It's just a little wheelchair race, Top Gun-style."
"Dean."
"What? Scared I'll beat your ass?"
"I've had weeks of practise. If anything, you'd be eating my dust." Sam flashed Dean a grin as they walked down the corridor.
Dean stared at his brother incredulously. "I don't know how you got so cocky."
Sam snorted, his shoulder bouncing off Dean's. "Me neither, Dean. Me neither."
The End
Summary - Season One. There's no such thing as a simple hunt. Unfortunately for Dean, he learns that the hard way. Plenty of hurt boys!
Rating - PG13 (language and a little blood if you're squeamish)
Genre - Gen
Word Count - 9400+
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural, that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - Thank you to the fabulous scullspeare and harrigan who waved their magic beta wands over this. Your time, input and support is priceless and I'm a very lucky girl to have you both in my corner. I've tinkered and tweaked, so any mistakes are mine.
Detached Part Three
She was good at her job and Dean barely felt the needle as it slipped beneath his skin.
"Just a local anaesthetic," she said, sweeping her eyes across his face but he didn't look at her. Afraid she'd see more than he was willing to share. "You feeling okay?"
"Yeah." It rolled easily off his tongue. Lies usually did.
She talked a lot. On any other day it would have pissed him off but the background noise was a welcome distraction. She'd assured him that Sam was in good hands, that he'd done all that he could. But all Dean could think of was his finger squeezing the trigger and how maybe his hand should just stay broken.
"You're lucky," she said, swabbing the welling blood from the small cuts that covered his right hand with gentle slow stokes. "These could have been much worse."
Funny, he didn't feel all that lucky.
"How's Sam?" He asked again, knowing the answer but needing to ask.
She looked at him, her crow's feet deepening as her lips formed a sad smile. "The reception desk knows where you are. As soon as there's any news, someone will come to find us."
Same answer as before.
"The police want to talk to you and I can only hold them off for so long," she said, removing a tiny shard of glass with a pair of tweezers. "Eventually they're going to want some more details about the mugging."
It took him a while to figure out exactly what he'd told them when he'd pushed open the swinging doors, dragging an unconscious Sam with him. "I don't know much. I…I wasn't there."
She tugged out another piece of glass before setting the tweezers down and catching Dean's eyes with her own. "You shouldn't blame yourself."
Dean didn't answer. The room suddenly feeling smaller than it was.
"Sometimes no matter what you do, bad stuff happens. You just have to pick up the pieces and move on." She nodded, seemingly satisfied that he'd heard her.
Placing a finger over the swollen skin surrounding the break on his hand she pushed down gently. "You all numbed up?" She asked, watching his face closely for a reaction.
It felt like he'd been numb for days.
Spinning around on her chair, she removed a needle from the stainless steel tray and uncapped it. "Just a mild sedative. You're looking a bit peaked."
He opened his mouth to protest - this wasn't exactly the first time he'd broken a bone - but before the words were out of his mouth she'd depressed the plunger. "Just relax. The doctor will be here soon to set the break."
She raised the head of his bed and guided him back against the foam mattress. He was tired before the damn sedative but now the room was swaying, his eyelids drooping as they grew heavier.
"Sam?" He croaked, struggling to remember if he'd asked her how his brother was.
"If he's half as stubborn as you, he'll be just fine."
He watched her clean up the tray, trashing swabs and needles as she puttered around the room. Then she was by his bed, a cool hand on his forehead. He didn't even have time to flinch at the contact. "I'll be back soon."
He had no idea how much time had passed, or even if he'd closed his eyes but the next moment the door was swinging open and a man appeared, a stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.
"How's my brother?" Dean asked, his tongue feeling overly heavy as he peeled it off the roof of his mouth.
"No news yet. But it's time to set that hand of yours."
Dean blinked, his eyelashes sticking together as he forced his eyes to open again, slightly shocked to see the doctor next to his bed and his x-ray on the light box.
Damn, the nurse must have given him the good stuff.
"There's a couple of hairline fractures to the proximal phalanges, here and here," the doctor said pointing at the x-ray. The room was blurry and smudged around the edges and Dean doubted he could see his own hand in front of his face but he nodded anyway.
"As you can see the break to the forth metacarpal is clean," the doctor continued, a pair of gloved hands carefully examining the break. "This won't take a minute."
Dean felt some pressure as the doctor manipulated the bone before he heard a quiet crunch and a pop. "All done," the doctor said, snapping off his latex gloves. "We're going to let the swelling reduce a little and then get you in a cast."
The world fuzzed around him, shapes sliding together like a modern art painting. The next time Dean opened his eyes he was alone in the room. "Huh," he muttered, catching a glimpse of his hand lying on a cushion, covered half way up his forearm in plaster so white it made his head hurt.
It took a moment for recent events to clear, before the hazy images of his brother made more sense. Pushing himself up with his left arm, Dean sat up and watched as the room tilted and did a slow waltz around his bed.
Once the room stilled, the pain rolled across his body like a tsunami. There wasn't a single muscle that didn't feel stretched or pulled to breaking point, his knee was stiff and slightly swollen and the only part of him that didn't hurt was covered his plaster. Apparently spirit possession took a lot out of a person.
Needing to know how Sam was doing, Dean swallowed a grunt as he crossed the room and pushed the door open. Taking a quick look down the corridor for possible threats and snitches he followed the blue line on the floor that would hopefully lead him to the surgical waiting room.
The walk was long and it took more out of Dean than it should have, a sure sign that he was pushing himself too hard. He nearly blew it at the reception desk, remembering only at the last minute to give Sam's fake insurance name. He was told to wait. Again.
Feeling his knees weaken, Dean dropped down onto the nearest chair, scrubbing a shaking hand over his day-old stubble and then through his hair. He stared hard at the black stains on his shirt and jeans. Blood or ectoplasm? He couldn't tell.
A pair of battered running shoes broke his trance and Dean swallowed the huge ball of fear that sat in his throat. The man in front of him dipped his head, his grey eyes peeking over his nose-perched glasses. "The surgery went well," he said, glancing at the chart in his hands. "The blood loss was significant and the risk of infection is high. But we were able to repair the damage and his stats are improving."
Dean played with his cast, his fingers picking at the rough edges. "He's gonna be okay, right?"
"Barring any complications, your brother should make a full recovery. But with these types of internal injuries and extensive muscle damage, the recovery time can be quite lengthy."
He could deal with that, they both could. Dean sunk into the hard-backed chair, the relief flooding through his veins more powerful than any drug he'd been given.
"Are you ok?" the doctor asked, concern filling his features as he eyed the bloody mess of Dean's shirt.
"I am now."
The doctor looked down at him and sighed wearily, a glimmer of disbelief shadowing his eyes. "Someone will come and find you when your brother's ready for visitors," he said before turning on his heels and disappearing down the overly bright corridor.
Tapping his boot against the shiny floor, Dean sighed. He couldn't sit and wait; being powerless and stuck on the sidelines wasn't his style. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his head fall into his hands, feeling the rough plaster brush against his face.
"Sir," a gentle voice said, a petite hand on his shoulder. "I can take you to your brother's room now."
She was staring at him, her eyebrows drawn and Dean could only guess at how bad he looked, all tired eyes and bloody clothes. But he moved on autopilot, following a pair of shoes that squeaked their way down endless corridors and closed doors.
It took a moment to realize that they'd stopped, that the nurse was talking to him but as soon as the door was pushed open the words he did remember were forgotten as he caught sight of his brother.
Sam, who had just had surgery and countless blood transfusions was now struggling against wires and tubes, his hand ready to rip them collectively out of his arm.
"Sam!" Dean barked, "What the hell?"
Dean sprinted across the room, the nurse hot on his heels as he grabbed Sam's wrists and stared into his brother's bruised and swollen face.
Sam's weary eyes met his own before his body wilted back against the pillows, his breaths shallow and pained. "Couldn't find you."
Sam's voice was all off. Too quiet, hushed almost and the words were all slurred together, probably due to the cocktail of happy juice he was luckily still wired to.
And really, Dean should have seen that coming. Especially after everything that had gone down.
"Yeah, well I'm here now so you can quit the Houdini impersonation," Dean said his anger dissipating as he watched the nurse apply more surgical tape, firmly sticking the wires back to Sam's pale skin before scurrying out the door, no doubt to rat on Sam.
God, Dean hated hospitals.
As Dean's eyes took it all in, Sam's bruised and broken skin, the machines, the nasal canula that snaked under his nose, at how haggard and deflated his brother looked, anger burned in his belly along with sickness.
"Not your fault," Sam said as he blinked slowly, reading Dean's mind like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.
"I know." Because Dean knew that; knew that it wasn't his fury that had pulled the trigger or fed his fists, that he wasn't the one who put Sam in the hospital. But somehow it didn't make him feel any better.
Dragging an uncomfortable-looking chair across the floor, Dean sat down, biting back a groan as his joints creaked. Sam's head was tilted towards him, his split lip puffy around the stitches, his blackened eyes slipping closed. Only then did Dean reach out and take hold of his brother's hand, his fingers curling around Sam's as he added a little pressure.
Neither of them mentioned it. Or how Sam squeezed back.
XoXoX
"Are you sure about this?" Dean said staring down at the crumpled pages of physiotherapy routines and the mound of prescriptions that needed to be filled, struggling to quell the feeling that this was all happening too soon.
"I'm sure," Sam said, his tone serious as he pinched his lips.
Dean folded the papers in half and stuffed them into his pocket. "Because we can stay an extra day or so. I mean they have cable here, they deliver food and it sure beats staying in that craphole of a motel."
"I need to get out of here."
Dean looked down at his cast, a little worst for wear, his fingers pulling at the frayed edges. "Yeah, I get that. I just…"
"Don't want me to push it?" Sam grunted softly under his breath as he reached over for the button down shirt that Dean had laid on the bed.
"Something like that, yeah. We've got all the time in the world. There's no need to rush it, y'know."
"I'm ready," Sam said, fingers snapping at buttons. "I really am."
Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother. He looked tired, exhausted actually. Bruises had long since faded, stitches had been removed and Sam still didn't look any better for it. The reality was that Sam's recovery was taking time, far more than either of them liked to admit. But Dean knew his brother well enough to know that when he had his mind set on something, he went for it. Regardless of what obstacles got in the way.
"Well if you're sure," Dean said, opening the drawer and pulling out a handful of Sam's toiletries.
"I am." Sam shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed, clearing his throat. "Thanks, Dean. For everything. I don't know what I'd have done if you didn't have my back through all of this."
"Oh God," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. "I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"The chick flick moment. This is it, right? You pour your heart out, I listen and then we hug it out and cry softly on each other's shoulder."
"I'm trying to be serious."
"You don't think that I'm being serious?" Dean said cramming the last fist-full of Sam's clothes and toiletries into the duffle bag before turning to face his brother. "Dean Winchester doesn't do chick flick anything, Sammy. It's just not cool."
A crooked half-smile deepened Sam's dimples. "And referring to yourself in third person is?"
"Only if you're as smooth and devilishly handsome as me."
Sam snorted as he pushed himself off the bed, his breath hitching in his throat as he swallowed deeply. "Seriously, Dean, thanks, for everything."
Dean caught Sam's gaze, nodding slightly. "Any time, little brother."
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do we need to talk?"
Dean frowned. "About what?"
"McMillan, the possession. Everything."
"What's there to talk about?" Dean shrugged. "It happened, we dealt with it, it's over."
"Yeah," Sam said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "But I could have touched that ledger, McMillan could have just as easily got to me. You know that right?"
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, Sam." Dean glanced around the room, their home for the past few weeks. Where he'd had all the time in the world to hash it out, to point out blame and come up with a million what ifs, only to realise that it didn't matter. They'd made it, they were leaving and Sam would be okay. All the rest was history. "I really do."
Swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, Dean stepped towards Sam and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "So, you ready to blow this joint?"
"Hell yes," Sam grinned, wincing slightly as he took a step towards the door. Despite weeks of physiotherapy, Sam was still a little hunched over but his steps were sturdy if a little slow as they crossed the room side by side.
"The offer's still open."
"No, Dean."
"Aw c'mon, Sam. Live it up a little," Dean said as he held the door open for his brother. "You gotta learn to take advantage of the perks of a hospital stay."
"I said no."
"Where's the harm?" Dean let the door to the room swing closed behind them. "It's just a little wheelchair race, Top Gun-style."
"Dean."
"What? Scared I'll beat your ass?"
"I've had weeks of practise. If anything, you'd be eating my dust." Sam flashed Dean a grin as they walked down the corridor.
Dean stared at his brother incredulously. "I don't know how you got so cocky."
Sam snorted, his shoulder bouncing off Dean's. "Me neither, Dean. Me neither."
The End