Making it Work
Title: Making it Work
Summary: Fusion 'verse. Just before his surgery, Dean figures out that he's maybe not coping as well as he thought he was with all of this.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, others
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 5,408
Disclaimer: Still not mine, alas.
Warnings: Swearing, angst, the usual.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: It's kind of weird how this turned out sort of like a Season 7 fic, what with Dean drinking and not really coping with stuff, but at least we know it turns out okay, right? Right.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is set right after The Here And Now. Same day, actually.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Unbeta'd, as usual. I am filling in the gaps in the storyline and messing around with the 'verse and having fun. :)
It's not like Dean meant for things to get out of hand. In fact, he was pretty sure that he had things more or less under control, all things considered. It's not every day that your brother crawls his way out of Hell looking for you, not every day that you realize that your whole life has changed beyond recognition. It's not like he's not glad Sam is here. He's grateful every goddamned second of every goddamned day that Sammy's here with him and not locked up with Lucifer so far away that Dean just about lost hope that he'd ever be able to reach him again. He's grateful beyond his capacity to say, but that doesn't mean it's not hard anyway.
They've been at Bobby's just long enough for all of them to figure out just how hard this is going to be. Bobby's been awesome, just like always, but Dean can tell it's harder this time. Dean has always brought Sam to Bobby's when something was wrong. He hot-wired an old car when Sam got sick as a kid while Dad was on a hunt that one time and hovered anxiously while Bobby put Sam to bed and poured children's Tylenol down his throat (to this day Bobby has never explained why he had children's medication on hand all the time) and showed Dean how to apply compresses to keep Sam cool. When Sam was a teenager and broke his leg, Dad and Dean brought him to Bobby's too. Dean crawled back to Bobby's when Dad died, because he knew Bobby would look out for Sam while he couldn't, he brought Sam here to regroup from bad hunts, to detox from demon blood, to hide from angels. Bobby's place is where Sam will be safe, where they'll both be safe.
This time, though, it's different. Sam never went to Hell before, Bobby was younger, and Dean wasn't crippled. He still hasn't wrapped his mind around the fact that he's never going to walk right again, but that doesn't prevent the pain from keeping him sidelined. Bobby's got him set up on the downstairs sofa with as many cold compresses and painkillers as he can manage, but even then it's often not enough. His knee burns and throbs no matter what position it's in, he can't straighten his leg the whole way, and his days are spent watching helplessly as Sam drifts in and out of reality. It's more out than in, if he's honest with himself. Sam sticks close by for the most part, but he's rarely aware of what's going on around him, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped around his shins, staring at something no one else can see. He's quiet for the most part, unresponsive when anyone other than Dean tries to talk to him, but sometimes he freaks out, thinks he's back in Hell, and then nothing can keep him in place.
Sam's gone now. Sheriff Mills found him in the local trailer park while Dean was in the middle of a consult at the hospital, and if Dean could kick himself it's what he'd be doing right now, repeatedly. He's damned well stuck here staring at his useless leg while Bobby's out there looking for Sam when it should be Dean doing the looking. He's wearing the sweatpants he's taken to living in these days, because of the pain and swelling, his feet bare where he kicked off his shoes when he came in. He should be out there, looking for Sam, because that's always been his job, and instead Bobby's doing it for him and he's stuck here with nothing but thoughts of how he's never going to walk normally again. He wriggles his toes, wonders if he's going to be able to do that after surgery. He didn't think to ask at the time. Maybe he'll ask when he goes back. He wants to bend his knee, just because he's never going to be able to do it again in a couple of weeks, but it hurts even to sit still, which, really, is just unfair.
Bobby keeps his whisky close to hand, and that's a small consolation. Dean's on his second tumbler by the time the front door opens with a bang and unleashes a blast of cold air into the living room. He can't get up to check on Sam -his crutches fell over just out of reach, and right now it feels like his whole leg is on fire. Bobby knows him, though, and he doesn't even pause in the doorway before he ushers Sam right into the living room.
"Sheriff told me where to find him," he says, cupping the back of Sam's neck affectionately and very deliberately avoiding touching his arms. Sam freaks out if anyone other than Dean tries to touch him there. Dean has seen the scars, knows exactly why Sam doesn't want to be touched. "Spent the evening with Tinker down in his trailer, watching movies."
"He had 'Die Hard,'" Sam volunteers, lifting his head just enough to look at Dean from under hair that's desperately in need of a trim. "I'm sorry."
Dean drains the contents of his tumbler, scrubs at his face with both hands. 'Die Hard.' Jesus. "Don't apologize. What were you doing out there, Sammy?"
Sam shrugs. "Dunno. I fell, and when I stopped falling I wanted to look for you. I forgot," he adds miserably. "I forgot where you were. I'm sorry, I should have stayed, I know I should, but I forgot and then I couldn't -I couldn't tell. It all looks the same. I'm sorry."
"Quit apologizing, already!" Dean snaps, and immediately regrets it when Sam flinches away. "Christ, I'm sorry. We were just worried, okay?"
Sam nods, pulls away from Bobby and hesitates, looking from Dean to the wall behind him and back again. After a moment he shuffles back, lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor again, wrapping his arms around his shins and drops his head, hair obscuring his face. Bobby clears his throat.
"Well, I'm going to turn in soon. You good?" The question is directed at Dean.
He sighs, trying not to worry about how tired Bobby looks, after spending the afternoon with him at the hospital and the evening chasing after Sam. "Yeah. Good as we're gonna get for now, I guess. Thanks, Bobby."
"Don't mention it. How's the leg?"
"Hurts. Nothing it hasn't done before. Seriously, I'm good, you can go to bed. I'll watch out for Sam for now."
Bobby hesitates on his way out. "I ain't one to throw stones, living in a glass house and all, but are you sure you should be drinking with them pills?"
"Last one," Dean waggles the empty tumbler. "It's just been a long day, you know? After the surgery it's going to be a while before I can drink again, anyway."
"All right, then. Sleep well, kid."
Dean doesn't bother answering, just settles back against the sofa and watches Sam, who hasn't moved from where he sat down. "You still in there, Sammy?" he asks, and isn't surprised when he doesn't get an answer. Sam isn't big on talking these days, and often when he does talk, all that comes out of his mouth is horrifying gibberish about the Cage that Dean doesn't really want to hear about anyway, or else a litany of apologies that barely make sense. "So in case you were wondering, we're going ahead with the surgery. Another few weeks, and this leg's never going to bend again. Not that I can really do all that much with it now, anyway, so I guess it's not that big of a deal. Better than amputating, though, right?"
Sam looks up at that, eyes hollow, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe there's nothing left to say. Fuck it. Dean pours himself another glassful of whisky, downs it in two swallows, and when he looks up Sam's head is down again. Maybe, if they're lucky, Sam will fall asleep like that. The bottle's almost empty, it seems stupid to leave it the way it is. The pills don't exactly help Dean sleep, anyway, they never have. The stupid painkillers he was prescribed just make him feel queasy, although they do go a long way to making the pain bearable. He checks his watch, but he doesn't really remember the last time he took his meds. It's probably close enough, he thinks, fishing the little plastic bottle out of the pocket of his jacket and spilling the contents into his palm. Bobby probably has a point, but it's not like this is the first time Dean has washed down painkillers with a little hunter's helper, and it's always been fine. Worse comes to worst, he'll probably be sick to his stomach like that one time just before last Christmas when he was with Lisa and Ben and Sam was gone. It hadn't been so bad. In fact, it seemed kind of fitting, in light of everything that happened, that his attempt to make himself feel better (or feel nothing) had ended up making him feel worse than ever.
"Sleep well, Sammy," he says, and drops the empty bottle onto Bobby's tattered carpet.
His dreams go weird after that. He dreams of Hell, because that's what he always dreams of, of bone gleaming under red light, of blood that might or might not be his own dripping down his arms. Everything spins crazily around him, and he can hear laughter and screaming all twisted up together, and Sam is calling his name. Sam is calling his name, and that's what's wrong about this, what's wrong about all of it, because if he's here then Sam shouldn't be, because Sam was never supposed to be here and it means he screwed up, he screwed up colossally and Sam is paying for his mistakes, again. He struggles to open his eyes, it's got to be a nightmare, except that it doesn't work. All he sees is flashes of light and the incoherent murmur of voices, ebbing and flowing, crashing like the ocean waves against the sand. He blinks and the voices get louder, the lights get brighter and more steady, and the demons shove something stiff into his mouth that tastes of plastic. He struggles, tries to kick at them, but it doesn't work (it never works, he never gets away, even when he thinks he has) and they hold him down and things go dark again.
When he does wake up it's still dark, and for a moment he's convinced he imagined it all, that any second now Alastair is going to laugh at him for dreaming up an escape for himself (there is no escaping, ever) and his heart leaps into his mouth. There's a shrill beeping near his ear that speeds up right along with his pulse, and after a moment he realizes the darkness lacks the pitch-black quality of Hell, the throbbing walls of bone and flesh and blood are gone. The beeping slows down when he swallows, forces himself to take a deep breath. There's a figure standing next to him, but before he can panic the figure moves into the light, revealing a middle-aged woman in nurse's scrubs. She smiles down at him.
"Hi, there. Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
His mouth tastes like something died in there. He licks his lips, tries to sit up, but his whole body seems to have gone on strike. "Any chance of water?"
She raises the bed a little, hands him a plastic cup with a straw. "Sip slowly," she instructs, and he nods. "Do you know where you are?"
He swallows, rinsing away some of the nasty taste in his mouth. "Hospital, I guess. Seen enough of 'em before. What happened?"
She purses her lips. "The doctor will be in later to talk to you. What do you remember?"
"I dunno," Dean shakes his head. "I was home, we were going to bed... that's it. Where's Sam?"
"Your brother? He's the one who brought you in. You don't remember anything about what you did?"
Dean quashes an urge to shake her until she tells him what happened to Sam. "No, I don't. Like I said, the last thing I remember is Bobby bringing Sam home right before we went to bed. What happened?"
She fusses with an IV that he hadn't even noticed up until now. "You overdosed on your pain medication, along with a very large quantity of alcohol. You've been unconscious for over a day. You were very lucky that your brother was right there and had the presence of mind to call 911."
That gets his attention. "What?"
"The doctor will be in to talk with you soon about that."
"About Sam?" He can't remember a damned thing, can't remember if something happened to Sam that would require the doctor to come talk to him.
"About why you overdosed," she corrects him gently, and he feels like a class-A idiot.
"Where's Sam? Is he here? Is Bobby here?"
"Your uncle has been checking in regularly. He'll be able to tell you about your brother."
"I should go find him," Dean says, but he's too tired to keep his eyes open. The last thing he hears is the nurse telling him to get some rest, that someone will be by to talk to him later, and then he sinks back into a sleep filled with dreams in which he's turning in circles in a maze made up of old bones, looking for Sam without ever finding him.
When he wakes up again, the nightmare still isn't over. No one answers his questions about Sam, and instead he finds himself on the receiving end of a barrage of questions that all seem to boil down to whether he really tried to kill himself and whether he needs to be strapped to his bed for his own good.
"For the last time," he tells the doctor sitting in the chair by his bed, yellow legal pad on her knees. "I never meant for any of it. I just... why can't I talk to Bobby? What about Sam?"
"We'll get to that. Your uncle will be by to see you just as soon as we're finished. You're a patient here already, aren't you Dean? I see from your file that you're scheduled for orthoplasty in a couple of weeks. You want to tell me about that?"
Dean shrugs. "What's to tell? I messed up my leg and I'm getting surgery."
"You're getting your knee fused, aren't you? That's a major change. Have you talked to anyone about that yet?"
He shrugs again. "Talked to the surgeon. Seems straightforward enough."
"I meant about adapting to your new life. Having your mobility permanently affected is a huge source of stress. It won't be easy, especially if your brother is also having issues."
That raises a whole new set of alarms in Dean's head. "Okay, come on! Has something happened to Sam? Why won't you tell me? I want to see my brother, now!"
"I'm afraid that's not going to happen until we're satisfied that you're not a danger to yourself or to him. No," she raises a hand to forestall him, "I understand that you're frustrated and anxious, but ask yourself this: are you any good to Sam in your present condition?"
"You don't know what's good for Sam," Dean snaps, but as much as he hates her right at this moment, he can't help but think that she's right. The pain in his leg is spiking in time with his pulse, his mouth still tastes like something died in there, and his whole body feels like he's gone ten rounds with a Hellhound. He's pretty sure that if he tried to get out of bed right now, he'd just fall over like a puppet with its strings cut. "Come on," he tries, hating the whine that creeps into his tone. "I just want out of here. I shouldn't have drank with the pills, it was stupid and I know better and I promise not to do it again, okay?"
"How many drinks a week do you think you have, on average?" she asks instead. "And try not to round down too far, lying won't help you or me or your brother."
Dean blows out his cheeks. "It's not like I count. I don't know, I wasn't drinking nearly as much before S- while I was living with my ex. It's... things got a little stressful lately, that's all. But I can cut back again, I've done it before."
"You didn't answer my question. How many drinks a week?"
"I don't know. Maybe two or three a day? Bobby has some of the good stuff on hand most of the time... But I don't usually. I mean, not that much. I mean, I'm not an alcoholic or anything like that."
Shit, this looks bad. He can totally see it, too. If he were a doctor, he'd probably be considering leather restraints by now, but she's wrong. It's not like he's been drinking all that much, just the past couple of weeks.
"So when would you say you started drinking more than usual?" It's like she can read his mind, and he doesn't see a reason not to answer. "Okay, so right about the time you were reunited with your brother, split with your girlfriend and got your diagnosis of," she pauses to read from his file, "post-traumatic osteoarthritis. That's a lot of big changes all at once."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, fine. You don't need to draw me a graph or anything, I get it. I just... I wasn't sleeping all that well and the painkillers make me nauseous which doesn't help."
The doctor leans forward, her notepad temporarily forgotten. "Okay, Dean, I'm going to level with you. This looks bad. You're scheduled for surgery, but if I were your surgeon I would be seriously considering delaying the operating date until I was satisfied that you were going to be able to follow your rehab program. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He understands far too well. She's telling him that he's basically screwed himself because he lacked the common sense not to mix his booze with his pills. "So what do I have to do to convince everyone that they shouldn't pull the plug on me?"
"The short version?" the doctor fixes him with an earnest gaze. "Stay sober, stick to your treatment plan. Show us that you've got a support system in place for when you get out."
"Sounds simple enough." It actually sounds more like she's asking him to scale Mount Everest in his bare feet. "I really need to see Sam. He, uh…" he trails off, not knowing exactly how to describe just what Sam's been going through. "I need to see how he's doing. I probably really scared him."
"That's putting it mildly. Look, your brother's still under observation. If all goes well, you can see him tomorrow morning."
Dean opens his mouth to protest, shuts it again with an audible click of teeth at the look on her face. There is no way he's winning this argument, that much is certain. He picks at the blanket on his bed and shifts his weight as his leg begins to throb again. He's pretty sure he knows what they mean by 'under observation': they've probably drugged his Sammy to the gills because they don't know how else to deal with him, and now he's all alone and probably terrified out of his mind without any familiar faces around to reassure him that he's not back in the Pit with Lucifer as his personal concierge.
"Try to get some sleep," the doctor orders, though her tone is gentle. "There's nothing you can do right now anyway."
"Right," he agrees, but he doesn't sleep for a very long time, and he doesn't think she really expects him to.
Bobby comes to see him early the next morning, long before official visiting hours start. He looks worn out, pale and drawn, the lines in his face more pronounced than Dean has ever seen them before. He drops into a chair next to Dean's bed, takes off his cap and rubs a calloused hand over his scalp.
"Scared the crap out of me, boy," he says.
In spite of himself Dean feels his head drop. "Sorry, Bobby."
That gets him a snort. "Now don't go lookin' like I just ran over your dog. I'm the one who feels bad, here, I don't deserve that. You hanging in there?"
He shrugs. "They won't let me see Sam. Is he okay?"
"Physically, yeah. You gave us both a hell of a scare. I'm asleep and the next thing I know he's screaming blue murder downstairs. I thought it was a flashback or something, but when I got there he'd already called for an ambulance and was doing CPR on you. You don't know how close we came to losing you…" Bobby stops when his voice threatens to give out, and Dean swallows the lump that's rising in his throat.
"So why are they keeping him?"
Bobby sighs. "He freaked out after we knew you'd be okay. Had one of those spells where he started talking to himself and… they're talking about keeping him."
"Keeping him?" Dean manages faintly.
"It might be for the best," Bobby says awkwardly. "The boy can't hardly function, Dean. He won't eat most of the time, he spends all his waking hours starin' off into space, and you've seen what those nightmares do to him when he sleeps. Lord knows you ain't in any fit state to watch him all the time, and I ain't as young as I used to be…"
"No," Dean cuts him off sharply. "Look, Bobby, I get it. Even before this," he gestures vaguely at himself, the bed, the whole room. "I just… we can't go on like we have been, but I am not leaving my brother in some institution where they'll just tie him down and drug him for the next forty years. Have you seen him?"
Bobby nods, looking unhappy. "They got him isolated, strapped down. He won't talk to me, won't talk to nobody, for that matter."
"We gotta get him out of there." Dean swings his legs carefully over the side of his bed, catches sight of his crutches leaning against the wall next to a hospital-issue wheelchair, and makes a face. "They'll let us go through if I stay in the wheelchair, right?"
"Worth a shot."
It's a good thing Bobby knows where they're going, because within a few short minutes Dean is hopelessly turned around. The floors are smooth, though, and the hospital-issue painkillers are keeping the pain in his knee at bay the way his own pills haven't been able to, and he's grateful enough for the reprieve. By the time Bobby pulls up by the nurse's station in the psych ward, he's almost sure he knows how to get back to his room and, more importantly, how to get out.
It takes a few minutes for Bobby to sweet-talk the nurse into letting them in, along with a few encouraging words and looks from Dean, and eventually she caves in with a smile and a roll of the eyes. Bobby takes a step back away from the door, although Dean can't tell if it's because he's trying to give them some privacy or because he can't bear to be that close to Sam anymore.
He pushes himself forward in the chair, wheels over to the bed where Sam is sitting up, knees drawn up to his chest, barely covered by one of those ill-fitting hospital gowns, head resting on his arms. The bars are up on the bed, but it doesn't look like they've tried to tie him down or anything, which is a relief.
"Sammy?" Sam starts a little, but doesn't move otherwise, so he tries again. "Sam, Sammy, it's me. You okay?" Sam shakes his head, murmurs something so quietly that Dean can't make any of it out. "Sam, talk to me, buddy. They treating you okay here? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
Sam shakes his head again. "Not real," he says, more distinctly this time. "Not dead, not real, none of it. You can stop, you can stop, I know it's not real. You can stop," he repeats. "You said you wouldn't, not with his face, you promised!"
Fuck, Dean thinks. "Sam!" He reaches out to grasp Sam's wrist, only to have his brother wrench his arm back with a muted sound of distress and wedge himself against the bars on the other side of the bed. "Sam, it's me. Come on, please, you know I'm real, right? You're in a hospital, you're safe, I promise. I promise, Sammy."
Sam stares at him for a moment, his expression wary. He looks terrible, pale and hollow-eyed and painfully thin. There are streaks on his cheeks from dried tears. Dean hadn't realized just how much weight he'd dropped, but looking at him now, there's very little left of the muscled giant who wrestled Lucifer into the Pit. Fuck, but he's been doing a piss-poor job of watching out for his little brother.
"Dean?"
Dean blows out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Yeah, Sammy. I can't reach you way over there. Come on over here, would you?" he holds out his hand over the railing, and to his relief Sam edges back toward him and laces their fingers together, and for a few minutes they just stay there, neither of them saying anything.
A voice from the doorway startles them both. "Well I'll be damned," a nurse in pink and green scrubs comes into the room. "Are you talking now, honey?" she asks Sam, who flushes, ducks his head and looks helplessly at Dean.
Dean bristles a bit. "He's not an idiot."
She rolls her eyes. "You must be the brother. Before he went all quiet on us he was asking for you. Weren't you?" she directs the question at Sam again.
Sam nods once. "I was looking for Dean," he tells her earnestly, and fuck if that's not enough to break Dean's heart all fucking over again. "I fell and I was lost, but I walked back out and I found him."
She beams at him. "Look at you, talking in complete sentences! And here we thought it was a lot more serious than that. Sam, honey, will you let me take some blood now? We need to run some tests."
Sam's hand jerks in Dean's, and he shakes his head. She purses her lips.
"How about if Dean here hangs onto your other hand, and I explain everything while I'm doing it? How's that?" She looks at Dean. "We really do need to perform some blood tests. It'll go much easier on everyone if he does this willingly."
"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean reaches for the release on the railing, looks at the nurse and gets a nod, so he pushes it down, winces as he gets to his feet and tries to sit on the bed next to his brother. "You stick with me, okay? You don't have to look at what she's doing, just focus on me."
It's ridiculously easy after that. Sam buries his face in Dean's collarbone and squeezes his hand until it hurts, but the nurse takes his blood without his so much as flinching, puts the vials away, and gives Dean a thumbs-up. "I'll ask the doctor to come talk to you. "
Sam clings harder when she's gone. "How long? Can you tell me how long? Please?"
"How long until what, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head. "You -it was different. Different this time. You don't usually let me save him... How long do I get?" He sounds grateful, pathetically hopeful, like a beaten dog who's been given a biscuit but expects to get kicked again at any second.
Fuck. Fuck. "Sam, you're okay. You're not in Hell, you know that, right? I'm not dead, I'm fine -well, except for this stupid knee. Come on, Sammy. I'm sorry I scared you, okay? I'm really, really fucking sorry, I promise it'll never happen again. I promise, you hear me?"
Sam doesn't answer, just digs his fingers into Dean's arm hard enough to hurt, like he's trying to keep him here just by sheer physical force. Dean glances at the door, but Bobby's nowhere to be seen. It's just him and Sam in here, the two of them against the world, like it's always been. Bobby can't help him fix this. The realization is like a bucket of ice water poured down his back, but once it hits, he feels stupid for not realizing it before, but it's obvious. Bobby was having trouble keeping up with them when they were both relatively whole and healthy, but like this? He's being run ragged, and it's not like Dean isn't acutely aware of the phones in the kitchen that have rung so often without getting answered over the past few days.
"I'm going to get us out of here," he promises Sam. "We're going to make this work. I don't know how, but what the hell, we've both saved the world. How hard can this be, right? Sam," he rubs Sam's shoulder. "I don't want them to lock you up, you know?"
Sam shifts closer, belying his next words. "Safer for you."
He snorts. "Don't be stupid. We're going to come up with a plan. Retire. Get a house."
"House?"
"Yeah," Dean warms to his subject. "A real house, with a yard. They're going to fuse my leg, Sammy. I'm never going to walk right again. You think I can hunt like that? Whoa, hey," he rubs Sam's arm again when his brother stiffens against him. "No hunting, I promise. That's the whole point, right? No hunting, just a regular, apple-pie life. Safe," he nudges Sam in the ribs, echoing Sam's words from all those years ago.
"Safe," Sam repeats.
"I'll make it work," Dean repeats. He has no idea how he's going to do it without help, but this is one promise to Sam he doesn't intend to break. "I have some money from when I was living with Lisa. I had a good job, you know? It paid well, and Lisa was awesome and she wouldn't let me help with anything except groceries and part of the bills. I'm still covered for all my medical stuff right into December, 'cause they took the insurance money right off my paycheque. We're not broke, or anything," he says, even as his mind is racing to figure out just how they'll even afford a downpayment, or how he'll hold down a job when he won't be able to even stand up for a while.
They're going to need help. He shifts on the bed as his knee starts to ache dully from the pressure even of sitting in the same position for too long. Even if he gets a job, even if he uses up all his meagre savings from the past year, they can't suddenly become normal and apple pie overnight unless someone helps them. Bobby will help, he knows that, but even Bobby isn't omnipotent. Dean blows out a breath, rubs his palm against his thigh while keeping a firm grip on Sam, as though the doctors might run in here and rip him away from Dean again, no matter how ludicrous the idea really is, and glances up at the ceiling.
"We could use a hand, here," he says, though softly enough he doesn't think even Sam hears him.
He doesn't know what he was expecting. Certainly it wasn't the almost-silent gust of air that's as familiar a sound to him as the crack of a rifle, the rumble of the Impala's engine. He turns his head to look at the door, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or maybe just pass out when he catches sight of Castiel standing just inside the doorway, head tilted to one side. The corner's of Cas' mouth twitch up into the beginnings of a smile.
"Hello, Dean."
This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/209731.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Summary: Fusion 'verse. Just before his surgery, Dean figures out that he's maybe not coping as well as he thought he was with all of this.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, others
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 5,408
Disclaimer: Still not mine, alas.
Warnings: Swearing, angst, the usual.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: It's kind of weird how this turned out sort of like a Season 7 fic, what with Dean drinking and not really coping with stuff, but at least we know it turns out okay, right? Right.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: This is set right after The Here And Now. Same day, actually.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Unbeta'd, as usual. I am filling in the gaps in the storyline and messing around with the 'verse and having fun. :)
It's not like Dean meant for things to get out of hand. In fact, he was pretty sure that he had things more or less under control, all things considered. It's not every day that your brother crawls his way out of Hell looking for you, not every day that you realize that your whole life has changed beyond recognition. It's not like he's not glad Sam is here. He's grateful every goddamned second of every goddamned day that Sammy's here with him and not locked up with Lucifer so far away that Dean just about lost hope that he'd ever be able to reach him again. He's grateful beyond his capacity to say, but that doesn't mean it's not hard anyway.
They've been at Bobby's just long enough for all of them to figure out just how hard this is going to be. Bobby's been awesome, just like always, but Dean can tell it's harder this time. Dean has always brought Sam to Bobby's when something was wrong. He hot-wired an old car when Sam got sick as a kid while Dad was on a hunt that one time and hovered anxiously while Bobby put Sam to bed and poured children's Tylenol down his throat (to this day Bobby has never explained why he had children's medication on hand all the time) and showed Dean how to apply compresses to keep Sam cool. When Sam was a teenager and broke his leg, Dad and Dean brought him to Bobby's too. Dean crawled back to Bobby's when Dad died, because he knew Bobby would look out for Sam while he couldn't, he brought Sam here to regroup from bad hunts, to detox from demon blood, to hide from angels. Bobby's place is where Sam will be safe, where they'll both be safe.
This time, though, it's different. Sam never went to Hell before, Bobby was younger, and Dean wasn't crippled. He still hasn't wrapped his mind around the fact that he's never going to walk right again, but that doesn't prevent the pain from keeping him sidelined. Bobby's got him set up on the downstairs sofa with as many cold compresses and painkillers as he can manage, but even then it's often not enough. His knee burns and throbs no matter what position it's in, he can't straighten his leg the whole way, and his days are spent watching helplessly as Sam drifts in and out of reality. It's more out than in, if he's honest with himself. Sam sticks close by for the most part, but he's rarely aware of what's going on around him, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, arms wrapped around his shins, staring at something no one else can see. He's quiet for the most part, unresponsive when anyone other than Dean tries to talk to him, but sometimes he freaks out, thinks he's back in Hell, and then nothing can keep him in place.
Sam's gone now. Sheriff Mills found him in the local trailer park while Dean was in the middle of a consult at the hospital, and if Dean could kick himself it's what he'd be doing right now, repeatedly. He's damned well stuck here staring at his useless leg while Bobby's out there looking for Sam when it should be Dean doing the looking. He's wearing the sweatpants he's taken to living in these days, because of the pain and swelling, his feet bare where he kicked off his shoes when he came in. He should be out there, looking for Sam, because that's always been his job, and instead Bobby's doing it for him and he's stuck here with nothing but thoughts of how he's never going to walk normally again. He wriggles his toes, wonders if he's going to be able to do that after surgery. He didn't think to ask at the time. Maybe he'll ask when he goes back. He wants to bend his knee, just because he's never going to be able to do it again in a couple of weeks, but it hurts even to sit still, which, really, is just unfair.
Bobby keeps his whisky close to hand, and that's a small consolation. Dean's on his second tumbler by the time the front door opens with a bang and unleashes a blast of cold air into the living room. He can't get up to check on Sam -his crutches fell over just out of reach, and right now it feels like his whole leg is on fire. Bobby knows him, though, and he doesn't even pause in the doorway before he ushers Sam right into the living room.
"Sheriff told me where to find him," he says, cupping the back of Sam's neck affectionately and very deliberately avoiding touching his arms. Sam freaks out if anyone other than Dean tries to touch him there. Dean has seen the scars, knows exactly why Sam doesn't want to be touched. "Spent the evening with Tinker down in his trailer, watching movies."
"He had 'Die Hard,'" Sam volunteers, lifting his head just enough to look at Dean from under hair that's desperately in need of a trim. "I'm sorry."
Dean drains the contents of his tumbler, scrubs at his face with both hands. 'Die Hard.' Jesus. "Don't apologize. What were you doing out there, Sammy?"
Sam shrugs. "Dunno. I fell, and when I stopped falling I wanted to look for you. I forgot," he adds miserably. "I forgot where you were. I'm sorry, I should have stayed, I know I should, but I forgot and then I couldn't -I couldn't tell. It all looks the same. I'm sorry."
"Quit apologizing, already!" Dean snaps, and immediately regrets it when Sam flinches away. "Christ, I'm sorry. We were just worried, okay?"
Sam nods, pulls away from Bobby and hesitates, looking from Dean to the wall behind him and back again. After a moment he shuffles back, lets himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor again, wrapping his arms around his shins and drops his head, hair obscuring his face. Bobby clears his throat.
"Well, I'm going to turn in soon. You good?" The question is directed at Dean.
He sighs, trying not to worry about how tired Bobby looks, after spending the afternoon with him at the hospital and the evening chasing after Sam. "Yeah. Good as we're gonna get for now, I guess. Thanks, Bobby."
"Don't mention it. How's the leg?"
"Hurts. Nothing it hasn't done before. Seriously, I'm good, you can go to bed. I'll watch out for Sam for now."
Bobby hesitates on his way out. "I ain't one to throw stones, living in a glass house and all, but are you sure you should be drinking with them pills?"
"Last one," Dean waggles the empty tumbler. "It's just been a long day, you know? After the surgery it's going to be a while before I can drink again, anyway."
"All right, then. Sleep well, kid."
Dean doesn't bother answering, just settles back against the sofa and watches Sam, who hasn't moved from where he sat down. "You still in there, Sammy?" he asks, and isn't surprised when he doesn't get an answer. Sam isn't big on talking these days, and often when he does talk, all that comes out of his mouth is horrifying gibberish about the Cage that Dean doesn't really want to hear about anyway, or else a litany of apologies that barely make sense. "So in case you were wondering, we're going ahead with the surgery. Another few weeks, and this leg's never going to bend again. Not that I can really do all that much with it now, anyway, so I guess it's not that big of a deal. Better than amputating, though, right?"
Sam looks up at that, eyes hollow, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe there's nothing left to say. Fuck it. Dean pours himself another glassful of whisky, downs it in two swallows, and when he looks up Sam's head is down again. Maybe, if they're lucky, Sam will fall asleep like that. The bottle's almost empty, it seems stupid to leave it the way it is. The pills don't exactly help Dean sleep, anyway, they never have. The stupid painkillers he was prescribed just make him feel queasy, although they do go a long way to making the pain bearable. He checks his watch, but he doesn't really remember the last time he took his meds. It's probably close enough, he thinks, fishing the little plastic bottle out of the pocket of his jacket and spilling the contents into his palm. Bobby probably has a point, but it's not like this is the first time Dean has washed down painkillers with a little hunter's helper, and it's always been fine. Worse comes to worst, he'll probably be sick to his stomach like that one time just before last Christmas when he was with Lisa and Ben and Sam was gone. It hadn't been so bad. In fact, it seemed kind of fitting, in light of everything that happened, that his attempt to make himself feel better (or feel nothing) had ended up making him feel worse than ever.
"Sleep well, Sammy," he says, and drops the empty bottle onto Bobby's tattered carpet.
His dreams go weird after that. He dreams of Hell, because that's what he always dreams of, of bone gleaming under red light, of blood that might or might not be his own dripping down his arms. Everything spins crazily around him, and he can hear laughter and screaming all twisted up together, and Sam is calling his name. Sam is calling his name, and that's what's wrong about this, what's wrong about all of it, because if he's here then Sam shouldn't be, because Sam was never supposed to be here and it means he screwed up, he screwed up colossally and Sam is paying for his mistakes, again. He struggles to open his eyes, it's got to be a nightmare, except that it doesn't work. All he sees is flashes of light and the incoherent murmur of voices, ebbing and flowing, crashing like the ocean waves against the sand. He blinks and the voices get louder, the lights get brighter and more steady, and the demons shove something stiff into his mouth that tastes of plastic. He struggles, tries to kick at them, but it doesn't work (it never works, he never gets away, even when he thinks he has) and they hold him down and things go dark again.
When he does wake up it's still dark, and for a moment he's convinced he imagined it all, that any second now Alastair is going to laugh at him for dreaming up an escape for himself (there is no escaping, ever) and his heart leaps into his mouth. There's a shrill beeping near his ear that speeds up right along with his pulse, and after a moment he realizes the darkness lacks the pitch-black quality of Hell, the throbbing walls of bone and flesh and blood are gone. The beeping slows down when he swallows, forces himself to take a deep breath. There's a figure standing next to him, but before he can panic the figure moves into the light, revealing a middle-aged woman in nurse's scrubs. She smiles down at him.
"Hi, there. Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
His mouth tastes like something died in there. He licks his lips, tries to sit up, but his whole body seems to have gone on strike. "Any chance of water?"
She raises the bed a little, hands him a plastic cup with a straw. "Sip slowly," she instructs, and he nods. "Do you know where you are?"
He swallows, rinsing away some of the nasty taste in his mouth. "Hospital, I guess. Seen enough of 'em before. What happened?"
She purses her lips. "The doctor will be in later to talk to you. What do you remember?"
"I dunno," Dean shakes his head. "I was home, we were going to bed... that's it. Where's Sam?"
"Your brother? He's the one who brought you in. You don't remember anything about what you did?"
Dean quashes an urge to shake her until she tells him what happened to Sam. "No, I don't. Like I said, the last thing I remember is Bobby bringing Sam home right before we went to bed. What happened?"
She fusses with an IV that he hadn't even noticed up until now. "You overdosed on your pain medication, along with a very large quantity of alcohol. You've been unconscious for over a day. You were very lucky that your brother was right there and had the presence of mind to call 911."
That gets his attention. "What?"
"The doctor will be in to talk with you soon about that."
"About Sam?" He can't remember a damned thing, can't remember if something happened to Sam that would require the doctor to come talk to him.
"About why you overdosed," she corrects him gently, and he feels like a class-A idiot.
"Where's Sam? Is he here? Is Bobby here?"
"Your uncle has been checking in regularly. He'll be able to tell you about your brother."
"I should go find him," Dean says, but he's too tired to keep his eyes open. The last thing he hears is the nurse telling him to get some rest, that someone will be by to talk to him later, and then he sinks back into a sleep filled with dreams in which he's turning in circles in a maze made up of old bones, looking for Sam without ever finding him.
When he wakes up again, the nightmare still isn't over. No one answers his questions about Sam, and instead he finds himself on the receiving end of a barrage of questions that all seem to boil down to whether he really tried to kill himself and whether he needs to be strapped to his bed for his own good.
"For the last time," he tells the doctor sitting in the chair by his bed, yellow legal pad on her knees. "I never meant for any of it. I just... why can't I talk to Bobby? What about Sam?"
"We'll get to that. Your uncle will be by to see you just as soon as we're finished. You're a patient here already, aren't you Dean? I see from your file that you're scheduled for orthoplasty in a couple of weeks. You want to tell me about that?"
Dean shrugs. "What's to tell? I messed up my leg and I'm getting surgery."
"You're getting your knee fused, aren't you? That's a major change. Have you talked to anyone about that yet?"
He shrugs again. "Talked to the surgeon. Seems straightforward enough."
"I meant about adapting to your new life. Having your mobility permanently affected is a huge source of stress. It won't be easy, especially if your brother is also having issues."
That raises a whole new set of alarms in Dean's head. "Okay, come on! Has something happened to Sam? Why won't you tell me? I want to see my brother, now!"
"I'm afraid that's not going to happen until we're satisfied that you're not a danger to yourself or to him. No," she raises a hand to forestall him, "I understand that you're frustrated and anxious, but ask yourself this: are you any good to Sam in your present condition?"
"You don't know what's good for Sam," Dean snaps, but as much as he hates her right at this moment, he can't help but think that she's right. The pain in his leg is spiking in time with his pulse, his mouth still tastes like something died in there, and his whole body feels like he's gone ten rounds with a Hellhound. He's pretty sure that if he tried to get out of bed right now, he'd just fall over like a puppet with its strings cut. "Come on," he tries, hating the whine that creeps into his tone. "I just want out of here. I shouldn't have drank with the pills, it was stupid and I know better and I promise not to do it again, okay?"
"How many drinks a week do you think you have, on average?" she asks instead. "And try not to round down too far, lying won't help you or me or your brother."
Dean blows out his cheeks. "It's not like I count. I don't know, I wasn't drinking nearly as much before S- while I was living with my ex. It's... things got a little stressful lately, that's all. But I can cut back again, I've done it before."
"You didn't answer my question. How many drinks a week?"
"I don't know. Maybe two or three a day? Bobby has some of the good stuff on hand most of the time... But I don't usually. I mean, not that much. I mean, I'm not an alcoholic or anything like that."
Shit, this looks bad. He can totally see it, too. If he were a doctor, he'd probably be considering leather restraints by now, but she's wrong. It's not like he's been drinking all that much, just the past couple of weeks.
"So when would you say you started drinking more than usual?" It's like she can read his mind, and he doesn't see a reason not to answer. "Okay, so right about the time you were reunited with your brother, split with your girlfriend and got your diagnosis of," she pauses to read from his file, "post-traumatic osteoarthritis. That's a lot of big changes all at once."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, fine. You don't need to draw me a graph or anything, I get it. I just... I wasn't sleeping all that well and the painkillers make me nauseous which doesn't help."
The doctor leans forward, her notepad temporarily forgotten. "Okay, Dean, I'm going to level with you. This looks bad. You're scheduled for surgery, but if I were your surgeon I would be seriously considering delaying the operating date until I was satisfied that you were going to be able to follow your rehab program. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He understands far too well. She's telling him that he's basically screwed himself because he lacked the common sense not to mix his booze with his pills. "So what do I have to do to convince everyone that they shouldn't pull the plug on me?"
"The short version?" the doctor fixes him with an earnest gaze. "Stay sober, stick to your treatment plan. Show us that you've got a support system in place for when you get out."
"Sounds simple enough." It actually sounds more like she's asking him to scale Mount Everest in his bare feet. "I really need to see Sam. He, uh…" he trails off, not knowing exactly how to describe just what Sam's been going through. "I need to see how he's doing. I probably really scared him."
"That's putting it mildly. Look, your brother's still under observation. If all goes well, you can see him tomorrow morning."
Dean opens his mouth to protest, shuts it again with an audible click of teeth at the look on her face. There is no way he's winning this argument, that much is certain. He picks at the blanket on his bed and shifts his weight as his leg begins to throb again. He's pretty sure he knows what they mean by 'under observation': they've probably drugged his Sammy to the gills because they don't know how else to deal with him, and now he's all alone and probably terrified out of his mind without any familiar faces around to reassure him that he's not back in the Pit with Lucifer as his personal concierge.
"Try to get some sleep," the doctor orders, though her tone is gentle. "There's nothing you can do right now anyway."
"Right," he agrees, but he doesn't sleep for a very long time, and he doesn't think she really expects him to.
Bobby comes to see him early the next morning, long before official visiting hours start. He looks worn out, pale and drawn, the lines in his face more pronounced than Dean has ever seen them before. He drops into a chair next to Dean's bed, takes off his cap and rubs a calloused hand over his scalp.
"Scared the crap out of me, boy," he says.
In spite of himself Dean feels his head drop. "Sorry, Bobby."
That gets him a snort. "Now don't go lookin' like I just ran over your dog. I'm the one who feels bad, here, I don't deserve that. You hanging in there?"
He shrugs. "They won't let me see Sam. Is he okay?"
"Physically, yeah. You gave us both a hell of a scare. I'm asleep and the next thing I know he's screaming blue murder downstairs. I thought it was a flashback or something, but when I got there he'd already called for an ambulance and was doing CPR on you. You don't know how close we came to losing you…" Bobby stops when his voice threatens to give out, and Dean swallows the lump that's rising in his throat.
"So why are they keeping him?"
Bobby sighs. "He freaked out after we knew you'd be okay. Had one of those spells where he started talking to himself and… they're talking about keeping him."
"Keeping him?" Dean manages faintly.
"It might be for the best," Bobby says awkwardly. "The boy can't hardly function, Dean. He won't eat most of the time, he spends all his waking hours starin' off into space, and you've seen what those nightmares do to him when he sleeps. Lord knows you ain't in any fit state to watch him all the time, and I ain't as young as I used to be…"
"No," Dean cuts him off sharply. "Look, Bobby, I get it. Even before this," he gestures vaguely at himself, the bed, the whole room. "I just… we can't go on like we have been, but I am not leaving my brother in some institution where they'll just tie him down and drug him for the next forty years. Have you seen him?"
Bobby nods, looking unhappy. "They got him isolated, strapped down. He won't talk to me, won't talk to nobody, for that matter."
"We gotta get him out of there." Dean swings his legs carefully over the side of his bed, catches sight of his crutches leaning against the wall next to a hospital-issue wheelchair, and makes a face. "They'll let us go through if I stay in the wheelchair, right?"
"Worth a shot."
It's a good thing Bobby knows where they're going, because within a few short minutes Dean is hopelessly turned around. The floors are smooth, though, and the hospital-issue painkillers are keeping the pain in his knee at bay the way his own pills haven't been able to, and he's grateful enough for the reprieve. By the time Bobby pulls up by the nurse's station in the psych ward, he's almost sure he knows how to get back to his room and, more importantly, how to get out.
It takes a few minutes for Bobby to sweet-talk the nurse into letting them in, along with a few encouraging words and looks from Dean, and eventually she caves in with a smile and a roll of the eyes. Bobby takes a step back away from the door, although Dean can't tell if it's because he's trying to give them some privacy or because he can't bear to be that close to Sam anymore.
He pushes himself forward in the chair, wheels over to the bed where Sam is sitting up, knees drawn up to his chest, barely covered by one of those ill-fitting hospital gowns, head resting on his arms. The bars are up on the bed, but it doesn't look like they've tried to tie him down or anything, which is a relief.
"Sammy?" Sam starts a little, but doesn't move otherwise, so he tries again. "Sam, Sammy, it's me. You okay?" Sam shakes his head, murmurs something so quietly that Dean can't make any of it out. "Sam, talk to me, buddy. They treating you okay here? They didn't hurt you, did they?"
Sam shakes his head again. "Not real," he says, more distinctly this time. "Not dead, not real, none of it. You can stop, you can stop, I know it's not real. You can stop," he repeats. "You said you wouldn't, not with his face, you promised!"
Fuck, Dean thinks. "Sam!" He reaches out to grasp Sam's wrist, only to have his brother wrench his arm back with a muted sound of distress and wedge himself against the bars on the other side of the bed. "Sam, it's me. Come on, please, you know I'm real, right? You're in a hospital, you're safe, I promise. I promise, Sammy."
Sam stares at him for a moment, his expression wary. He looks terrible, pale and hollow-eyed and painfully thin. There are streaks on his cheeks from dried tears. Dean hadn't realized just how much weight he'd dropped, but looking at him now, there's very little left of the muscled giant who wrestled Lucifer into the Pit. Fuck, but he's been doing a piss-poor job of watching out for his little brother.
"Dean?"
Dean blows out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Yeah, Sammy. I can't reach you way over there. Come on over here, would you?" he holds out his hand over the railing, and to his relief Sam edges back toward him and laces their fingers together, and for a few minutes they just stay there, neither of them saying anything.
A voice from the doorway startles them both. "Well I'll be damned," a nurse in pink and green scrubs comes into the room. "Are you talking now, honey?" she asks Sam, who flushes, ducks his head and looks helplessly at Dean.
Dean bristles a bit. "He's not an idiot."
She rolls her eyes. "You must be the brother. Before he went all quiet on us he was asking for you. Weren't you?" she directs the question at Sam again.
Sam nods once. "I was looking for Dean," he tells her earnestly, and fuck if that's not enough to break Dean's heart all fucking over again. "I fell and I was lost, but I walked back out and I found him."
She beams at him. "Look at you, talking in complete sentences! And here we thought it was a lot more serious than that. Sam, honey, will you let me take some blood now? We need to run some tests."
Sam's hand jerks in Dean's, and he shakes his head. She purses her lips.
"How about if Dean here hangs onto your other hand, and I explain everything while I'm doing it? How's that?" She looks at Dean. "We really do need to perform some blood tests. It'll go much easier on everyone if he does this willingly."
"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean reaches for the release on the railing, looks at the nurse and gets a nod, so he pushes it down, winces as he gets to his feet and tries to sit on the bed next to his brother. "You stick with me, okay? You don't have to look at what she's doing, just focus on me."
It's ridiculously easy after that. Sam buries his face in Dean's collarbone and squeezes his hand until it hurts, but the nurse takes his blood without his so much as flinching, puts the vials away, and gives Dean a thumbs-up. "I'll ask the doctor to come talk to you. "
Sam clings harder when she's gone. "How long? Can you tell me how long? Please?"
"How long until what, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head. "You -it was different. Different this time. You don't usually let me save him... How long do I get?" He sounds grateful, pathetically hopeful, like a beaten dog who's been given a biscuit but expects to get kicked again at any second.
Fuck. Fuck. "Sam, you're okay. You're not in Hell, you know that, right? I'm not dead, I'm fine -well, except for this stupid knee. Come on, Sammy. I'm sorry I scared you, okay? I'm really, really fucking sorry, I promise it'll never happen again. I promise, you hear me?"
Sam doesn't answer, just digs his fingers into Dean's arm hard enough to hurt, like he's trying to keep him here just by sheer physical force. Dean glances at the door, but Bobby's nowhere to be seen. It's just him and Sam in here, the two of them against the world, like it's always been. Bobby can't help him fix this. The realization is like a bucket of ice water poured down his back, but once it hits, he feels stupid for not realizing it before, but it's obvious. Bobby was having trouble keeping up with them when they were both relatively whole and healthy, but like this? He's being run ragged, and it's not like Dean isn't acutely aware of the phones in the kitchen that have rung so often without getting answered over the past few days.
"I'm going to get us out of here," he promises Sam. "We're going to make this work. I don't know how, but what the hell, we've both saved the world. How hard can this be, right? Sam," he rubs Sam's shoulder. "I don't want them to lock you up, you know?"
Sam shifts closer, belying his next words. "Safer for you."
He snorts. "Don't be stupid. We're going to come up with a plan. Retire. Get a house."
"House?"
"Yeah," Dean warms to his subject. "A real house, with a yard. They're going to fuse my leg, Sammy. I'm never going to walk right again. You think I can hunt like that? Whoa, hey," he rubs Sam's arm again when his brother stiffens against him. "No hunting, I promise. That's the whole point, right? No hunting, just a regular, apple-pie life. Safe," he nudges Sam in the ribs, echoing Sam's words from all those years ago.
"Safe," Sam repeats.
"I'll make it work," Dean repeats. He has no idea how he's going to do it without help, but this is one promise to Sam he doesn't intend to break. "I have some money from when I was living with Lisa. I had a good job, you know? It paid well, and Lisa was awesome and she wouldn't let me help with anything except groceries and part of the bills. I'm still covered for all my medical stuff right into December, 'cause they took the insurance money right off my paycheque. We're not broke, or anything," he says, even as his mind is racing to figure out just how they'll even afford a downpayment, or how he'll hold down a job when he won't be able to even stand up for a while.
They're going to need help. He shifts on the bed as his knee starts to ache dully from the pressure even of sitting in the same position for too long. Even if he gets a job, even if he uses up all his meagre savings from the past year, they can't suddenly become normal and apple pie overnight unless someone helps them. Bobby will help, he knows that, but even Bobby isn't omnipotent. Dean blows out a breath, rubs his palm against his thigh while keeping a firm grip on Sam, as though the doctors might run in here and rip him away from Dean again, no matter how ludicrous the idea really is, and glances up at the ceiling.
"We could use a hand, here," he says, though softly enough he doesn't think even Sam hears him.
He doesn't know what he was expecting. Certainly it wasn't the almost-silent gust of air that's as familiar a sound to him as the crack of a rifle, the rumble of the Impala's engine. He turns his head to look at the door, and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or maybe just pass out when he catches sight of Castiel standing just inside the doorway, head tilted to one side. The corner's of Cas' mouth twitch up into the beginnings of a smile.
"Hello, Dean."
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