The Hours Between Us 2/2
The Hours Between Us
Summary: Dean returns to an empty motel room. (Sequel to Better Off Forgotten)
Chapter Two
Dean doesn't mean to fall asleep. He's not sure when it happens, just that suddenly he's awake, spread out fully-clothed on top of Sam's bed, and listening to the muttering of Dad's truck pulling up outside. He jerks upright, a galloping surge of hope shattering the confusing fuzz of sleep. He's on his feet and out the door before his father even turns off the engine.
“Where is he?” Dean demands. The sun is high in the sky again and he has to squint against the bright daylight that bounces off the truck's windscreen. “Did you find him? What happened?”
Dad's shoulders are heavy with exhaustion as he drags himself from behind the driver's seat but he hitches a thumb over his shoulder towards the back seat. “I got him.”
Dean throws open the back door. Something tight and suffocating inside his chest releases and he has to brace himself against relief so strong it almost buckles his knees.
Sam is curled up beneath a thick pile of blankets, asleep, or maybe unconscious. He hasn't stirred at all but he's alive, the mound of blankets rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. Dean leans into the truck, trying to see more than polyester and messy brown hair.
“Sam?” he asks, getting an eyelid flicker in response. He looks back at his father. “Is he okay?”
Dad is scrubbing a weary hand down his face, staggering a little as he moves. “He'll be fine. Can you get him inside? I need to sleep.”
Dean wants to argue that he needs answers. He hasn't forgiven his father for taking off the way he did. He's not sure he ever will, although Sam's return has earned a certain amount of leniency. Dad has been awake for more than 48 hours now and he is looking kind of grey.
“Yes, sir.” Except... “Who took him?” And most importantly, “Will they be back?”
Dad shakes his head. “We're safe here.”
“And who-”
“Witches.” Dad's tone has sharpened into a warning. “I need rest, Dean. We can talk about it later.”
Something in the way Dad won't meet his eye makes Dean suspect that they won't be talking about it later but whatever happened, he believes his father when he says that they're safe now. Sam is here and he's alive and that's what matters. Maybe anything else can wait.
“Keep him hydrated.” Dad changes the subject, softening as he glances past Dean at the bundle of Sam in the back seat. Briefly, he rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, a tacit acknowledgement of the shared terror of the last two days. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something else, but then he closes it and turns away.
XXX
Sam won't wake up enough to walk into the motel room by himself so Dean resorts to scooping him up, blankets and all, and carrying him from back seat to bed, just like he would do when Sam was a toddler.
Sam blinks slowly as Dean rearranges the blankets around him. His pupils are blown, his gaze untethered. Definitely bewitched. There's a fine layer of dust covering his face, smudged beneath his eyes, like - Dean's chest tightens - at some point, tears had washed away some of the grime.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Dean asks. “Sammy, are you with me?”
It takes a moment but Sam's attention drifts towards him, dark eyes finally focusing on Dean's face.
“Hi,” Sam says, which seems so inadequate after everything that Dean can't help but puff out a laugh.
“Hi, kiddo.” He feels giddy. “Damn, it's good to see you.”
Slowly, Sam's eyebrows knit together in confusion. “My hands hurt,” he says.
“Yeah? Let me see?” Dean helps his befuddled brother untangle his arms from the blankets, hissing when he sees the cause of Sam's pain. “What happened?”
Sam holds his hands up in front of his face, frowning at his torn fingertips like they're a surprise. “I dunno.”
Dean gently tugs one of Sam's hands closer, inspecting the broken nails and ripped skin. Sam's fingers are stained a rusty brown with old blood.
“You don't know?” It looks like - shit - like Sam tried to scratch his way out of somewhere. “Tearing up your hands like this seems like something you'd remember.”
Groggily, Sam shakes his head. “I dunno,” he repeats.
“Anything else hurt?”
“Nuh-uh.” Sam shakes his head again but Dean's not sure he can trust his brother's self-assessment skills right now.
“Give me a minute, okay?” Dean releases Sam's hand to collect some supplies; a bowl of warm water and a wash-cloth from the bathroom, a chair from the kitchenette so he doesn't have to perch awkwardly on the edge of Sam's bed, and a glass of cold water when Sam pipes up that he's thirsty.
“Careful,” he says, helping Sam to wrap his swollen fingers around the glass. Sam drinks half of it before his strength gives out and he sags back against the pillows, shaky hand pushing the glass back at Dean to deal with.
Dean sets it aside. “I need to check you over.” He doesn't wait for Sam's permission and deftly dodges Sam's clumsy attempts at fending off his manhandling, ignoring the vague mumbles of protest.
Thankfully, it seems like Sam's hands are the worst of his injuries, though his feet are torn up, too, and he's covered in... are they burns? Dean frowns at the shiny red marks. Could they be caused by magic?
Sam's energy ebbs quickly and he abandons his resistance, begrudgingly allowing Dean to inspect one of the wounds on the side of his neck.
“Aren't you going out?” he asks.
“Going out?” Deciding that the burns are minor, whatever made them, Dean turns his attention back to Sam's fingers. He'll need to clean up the blood so he can see how deep the scratches go. He hopes they won't need any stitches.
Sam watches Dean's movements with hazy fascination. “With that cheerleader,” he clarifies.
Dean pauses, a new sliver of worry raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Sam doesn't remember him leaving? He leans forwards a little, searching Sam's entranced eyes. “Do you know what day it is?”
Sam thinks for a moment. “Thursday?” he, very obviously, guesses.
Dean sits back, perturbed, and shakes his head. “Sam, do you remember anything from the last two days?”
“Two days?” Sam echoes, apparently bewildered. He raises his hands in front of his face, seeming surprised, again, by the state of his fingers. “My hands hurt,” he says, as if this thought is new.
There aren't going to be any clear answers out of Sam right now, that much is becoming increasingly obvious. “Okay. All right, don't worry. I'm gonna take care of that.” Dean refocuses on what's important, nabbing the bowl of water from the night-stand and balancing it on the bed.
“Gimme your hand,” he prompts, taking Sam's right hand and placing it in the bowl to soak. Maybe the kid will be able to tell Dean more once he's had some proper rest. Maybe whatever spell Sam's under just needs some time to wear off. Maybe Dad will be able to fill in some of the blanks when he wakes up.
Gingerly, Dean uses the wash-cloth to wipe away the crusted blood, working in silence for a while as he tries hard to be gentle. Sleepily, Sam watches the water in the bowl turning pink as each torn fingertip is carefully cleaned, obediently giving Dean his left hand when Dean motions for it.
“Are you trying to make me pee myself?” Sam asks eventually, sounding suspicious but too spaced-out to be properly annoyed, which honestly, is kind of adorable.
“Because of the hand in warm water?” Dean deduces, amused. “I think that only works in the movies, Sam.”
“Oh.”
“We could test it out, if you want,” Dean offers graciously, but Sam is already distracted by his freshly washed hand, holding it up to examine the jagged lacerations criss-crossing his fingerprints.
“Were we on a hunt?” he asks.
Sam's right hand is worse than his left but without the blood neither of them are quite as gruesome as Dean had first feared. He sets the bowl of blood-tinged water back on the night-stand and digs through the first aid kit until he finds Steri-Strips and a roll of gauze. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” Sam wants to know, watching as Dean tapes and wraps the fingertips with the deepest wounds.
“It means that the hunt kind of found you,” Dean explains. “I guess some witches thought you were cute or something.”
“Some... what?” Sam wiggles his mummified fingers experimentally, looking completely baffled.
“Witches,” Dean confirms. “They probably wanted a virgin to sacrifice.”
The quip falls a little flat. It's not as funny when there's a good chance it might be true but it's worth it when Sam figures out that he's being teased and rolls his eyes, conveying a level of exasperation that he saves purely for Dean.
“Whatever,” he mutters. Then he lurches upright and throws up the half-glass of water, all over Dean's shirt.
“Typical,” Dean sighs, rubbing Sam's back sympathetically. He can't quite suppress the grin that twitches at the corners of his mouth though.
Damn, he had missed this stoned, puking kid. It's good to have him back.
END