[backdated]: closed to dean

[precognitioning]

The whole night is a blur. A messy, painful, bloody blur. Or not even the whole night; Sam remembers clearly enough going running, the first wolf coming at him and gutting it with the knife. It's a good knife, he still has it

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*cue scene change music* ~ Some Time Later ~

[surfaceshine]

Dean, ultimately, does decide to give rooting through the kitchen a whirl; he doesn't much like the idea or his chances of trying to get to sleep now on his own, not with old sore spots not only brushed but squarely punched in the gut, so he figures the extra time and effort is worth it, because he does locate some pretty strong liquor

BACK AT THE RANCH

[precognitioning]

Sam almost doesn't. Go back, that is. At least not today, not now. However, he's probably seen Guinevere and had some of his bandages fixed and maybe a little bit of talking, and even if it doesn't fix everything (or even most things) it means he knows he can't just...avoid things.

That'd be the easy thing to do, the thing Dean always berates him for doing, running away - though Sam thinks privately it's not just him. But that's not the important part. Dean's not the one with the addiction, Dean's not the one who kickstarted the apocalypse because he was a prideful idiot. So yeah, this isn't on Dean.

He's just going to have to work it out. Somehow. Though he hasn't the least idea how.

So he goes back to the room and steps inside, takes in the whiskey and Dean, and only sighs a little. As stated, it's not like it's a surprise.

[surfaceshine]

Believe us when we say Dean knows he's fucked up; he just doesn't know what to do about it, doesn't think he can fix it on his own, so some of it gets transferred in his frustration. After all, he's always been certain he could fix Sam if Sam needed fixing; he has never thought he could do the same for himself

[precognitioning]

Sam doesn't know where to start with either of them.

He considers going over to take the bottle and pour it out or something, because yeah, but that would probably not be a wise mood, and he decides not to. Just rubs his eyes instead before glancing at the clock. "Early," he says, after a moment. "Or late. Go back to sleep." His voice has gone back to that safe and neutral place where it isn't really saying anything at all, except for what it's saying with what it isn't.

Sam grits his teeth a little. If Dean was sleeping, or unconscious, whatever counts for sleeping right now, he should have stayed out, let him rest a little longer. Whoever knows he does it seldom enough.

[surfaceshine]

He could probably get away with it just now, actually; taking the whiskey that is. Dean was using it as an anesthetic, and it's done its job for the time being. And, let's be honest - he would be more angry about it if he couldn't just walk down to the kitchen and get more.

Not that he's walking anywhere just now. Whatever he was doing before, he's waking up now, and he pulls himself up onto his good elbow while still rubbing at his eyes. He's able to see well enough now to see the gritted teeth, and old instinct kicks in; make a joke, make it easier on them both. It worked for years and his brain still reaches for it, sometimes.

"You ain't my boss, princess," he teases, no heat to it. He's almost back to himself, though, and the slightly smirking corners of his mouth have started to tug down as he remembers where they left it.

[precognitioning]

Well, maybe; but at the moment he doesn't want to risk it. Doesn't want to risk much of anything, really. It's not even eggshells that he feels he's walking on at this point, but something worse. More fragile. Maybe water.

At the tease, even if there's no heat, Sam's shoulders tense up slightly and he just says, "Yeah, I know that," because, well, it's not like he's in any place to give someone advice and so on and so forth. "It's just..."

No, never mind.

We are sorry. He's in a bit of a bad way and unlikely to be terribly helpful, Sam is.

[surfaceshine]

That's okay. Dean is stubborn enough for both of them, sometimes. Especially when no one is expecting him to be. He hisses softly when he forgets to not use his bad arm to try to lever himself up, but it's a quick fix to switch his weight over to his good arm and then he's sitting up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Sam more seriously.

"Just what?" As far as Dean prompts go, it's damn near gentle, even though he hasn't had coffee or much sleep or painkillers. Other people might not think so, but well. Other people aren't Winchesters.

[precognitioning]

There is only a very slight note of frustration when Sam says, "Nothing, never mind," probably inaudible to anyone but Dean. Just you need your sleep. Just I'm sorry this happened. Just I wish you wouldn't...wouldn't what? He twitches a little at the hiss, but doesn't quite move except to his own bed to sit down carefully, like he's just planning to go to sleep himself.

He can hear the gentleness and refuses to let it ease anything. Not right now. (It's not real, something.)

[surfaceshine]

It's very slight, but Dean still knows how to listen to the things you don't say, Sam. He never lost that ability even when he lost the ability to act on it. Now he frowns, tracks Sam's movement with his eyes and kind of wishes he had a pair of balled up, dirty socks to chuck at his brother's head.

"Ain't you the one that always wants to talk things to death?" It's still gentle, per Dean standards, especially per Dean-a-la-Whiskey, but sterner than before. He doesn't like the avoidance, and he's fully aware that makes him a hypocrite thank you very much, and he's not going to just leave it alone that easily.

[precognitioning]

"Not now," Sam says, when what he really means is not this. But he does, in a way, just doesn't know how to, doesn't think he can, not in a way that will do anything other than deepen the divides already there, so maybe it's better to just do things the Dean way and leave it alone until it fades enough that they can ignore it. "I'm tired, okay? Even if you're not."

Which you are, you always are, don't think I haven't noticed - but of course saying that is completely off limits.

[surfaceshine]

He is; he really, really is, but he is also probably the most contrary bastard still standing, his own family notwithstanding. But he has never known how to tackle any subject with Sam head on and win - they could be at loggerheads all night, at this rate, if he keeps pressing his favored tactic with his stubborn kid brother.

It's alright. He knows how to handle Sam, sometimes.

Shrugging, Dean says simply, "Okay," and eases himself back down to his back on his own bed, eyes half closing. He knows what to do, but here his thoughts cast around for how to do it; they've been going, going, going for so long, no time to breathe or think, that he's out of practice. But they have time, here, nothing but, and maybe it's time to start using it. He carefully blots the fatigue from his voice, makes it lighter than he has felt in a long time, and after a long enough pause that he might well have just gone to sleep, he says randomly and innocently -

"Who's your favorite person you met here?" He doesn't look over. Not yet.

[precognitioning]

Sam just let his eyes close and his thoughts were taking off in the familiar poisonous whirling pattern that never leads anywhere good. And then Dean speaks up, and it at least gets his attention, if in a somewhat confused and slightly strained manner.

"--what?" Is what he manages, eloquently, turning his head and frowning at Dean as though he can divine something by looking at the side of his brother's head, which he really doubts considering he has divined nothing by looking at his face, not of late.

[surfaceshine]

He can always claim bloodloss later if this ends up shooting them both in the foot, but he doesn't think it will. He ignores the frown and the confusion and the strain and replies every bit as casually.

"You know. Whole cast of loonies here - who'd you like?" The pause is not really long enough for an interjection, only enough for Dean to get a breath in before deciding to go first. "Mine's Phedre. Just the right kind of hot, with the sexiest accent you've ever heard. Real sweetheart of a gal."

The wording is old-Dean bluster, the kind of machismo he put together to protect himself and convince his family the world that he's always alright, no matter what; but the tone that would normally be out and out lecherous is something newer, something genuinely - if mildly - affectionate. He knows Sam is looking at him; he doesn't look back, but he does raise the eyebrow on that side expectantly.

[precognitioning]

"...oh," Sam says, trying to follow what exactly Dean is doing here, if this is going somewhere, if this is some kind of something or not bait he wants to take for danger of disappointment that would hurt worse than most anything else.

At any rate, though. The question. "Um. I don't know." Guinevere pops into his head right away, particular now, particularly after her help earlier, but he doesn't even know what that is, or where bringing it up would go. After all, he really should be avoiding her. Sam turns his eyes back toward the ceiling, almost guiltily.

But he should be making an effort, right? That tone is...significant in some way, and whatever the reason it seems to be honest. So he says, "Phedre, huh?" In case Dean wants to say more.

[surfaceshine]

If Dean knew about Guinevere, he'd be happy for Sam; he'd want to meet her and he would, probably, tease Sam mercilessly for crushing on the Queen of Camelot and tell him to watch out for jealous Kings and whatnot because Dean left his suit of armor back in the Impala's trunk. But she's on Sam's side of the yawning abyss between them, and Dean still doesn't know how to get across

[precognitioning]

Dean's tone and words actually do tug a small and slight smile out of Sam. A sad one, and only at the ceiling, but it's still there. "That's good, Dean," he says, and actually means it, "She sounds...really nice." And someone you can talk to, that's good. (Even if it can't be me.)

There's a big, big part of Sam that wants to respond and engage and pretend nothing happened, but the rest is just feeling deeply battered and bruised and he knows that isn't fair, it's not like Dean did anything wrong because he didn't. It's just - and he can't even rationalize it to himself, not really. He simultaneously wants to curl up in the bed and just sink back for a while and also reach out desperately and grab onto anything he can, whatever that is.

After a silence of a few seconds, he makes an effort, really. "First day," he says, "Some lady actually made me a sandwich. I don't even - I haven't seen her since."

Guinevere is apparently too important or too fragile a thing or something for Sam to bring up, at least right now.