Damage Control
s10 fic loosely inspired by my own tags to this post.
Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS for almost everything officially revealed about s10. According to the potential timeline, this is set after 10.04/10.05. Also: it’s weird and angsty.
Damage Control
“I, uh, I have some money,” Dean says. “You know, from back when I was… that.”
They crashed the Impala five hours ago, three states away from home in the middle of nowhere, when Sam had some semblance of energy and purpose, Dean didn’t talk, and the radio drowned out everything else. Now, though-it’s noon, it’s sweltering, and Sam’s newly healed shoulder is aching fiercely. He ran out of words to say to Dean at the last break they took two hours ago-right now, there isn’t much he wants to hear aside from ‘let’s sit down’.
“Crapload of money, to be more accurate,” Dean continues. “So, I figure-we don’t exactly have Bobby’s to crash at and fix ‘er up, and the Bunker’s garage isn’t well stocked. And she needs a lot of work, man, so maybe we can-”
“Dean,” Sam starts without quite knowing why, then fills the startled silence with, “Can I just-can we have a break? Just-” The please hinges on the edge of Sam’s tongue, but he doesn’t say it. Not yet.
(we haven’t come that far yet)
“What? ‘Course, Sammy!” Dean’s voice is too loud. “Like you had to ask. Where do you want to-or, yeah, we could totally stop right here in the middle of the path, no big,” he adds, as Sam drops his bags and sits cross-legged on the ground.
Sam leans forward, rests his head in his hands. His shoulder’s stiffened up from too many hours in the car and too little physiotherapy-not to mention ditching the sling two weeks ago-and he’s finding it hard to dial back his painkiller regime. It’s not like he can’t tolerate the pain-on a scale of a bruise to evisceration? A dislocated shoulder ranks pretty low. But there’s something about the regimen-two tablets in the morning, a capsule before lunch and one more tablet afterwards, and then at night-that’s vaguely comforting. Programming the timings into his phone, pouring out water in those little plastic cups they have in the front of the car, swallowing the oblong little tablets, and keeping a record of dosage, frequency, and possible interactions with food and other drugs-at least it’s something to do, something to look forward to. Sam’s not sure he wants to give that up, yet.
(right little addict, aren’t you sammy?)
“You’re bleeding,” Dean says, and Sam startles, looks up.
“You’re uh,” Dean reaches towards Sam’s face, stops when Sam flinches. “Right here, man,” he says, tapping his own right temple. “Doesn’t look like a fresh bleed, though.”
Sam reaches up and feels the cool and tacky texture of drying blood. He probes further, and feels a gash running from his temple and into his hair. And then something else-
He pulls out a long sliver of blood-stained glass and stares at it. “Huh.”
Dean’s looking at him with concern and… fear? “You probably shouldn’t be driving,” he says, slowly, carefully, like Sam’s the ticking time bomb here. “When did you last-you gotta rest, man. When we get back to civilisation, you’re getting something to eat. And we’re-I don’t know, hotwire something. But I’m driving.”
Sam thinks of the cool leather steering wheel of the Impala under his hands, the bloodstains in the footwell, the lock of bloody blonde hair stuffed underneath the seat, and feels a strange urge to laugh. Dean drives, Dean murders. All Sam was trying to do was damage control. And apparently he can’t even do that right.
“I don’t need sleep or food, Sam, and I don’t need you watching over my every move,” Dean’s saying, and god, is Dean still talking? “I mean, there’s the Mark, but I’m not a demon anymore. You gotta trust me, Sam.” A pause, and then, “Please.”
Sam’s mouth twists. So they have gotten to the point of pleading already. Please is a strong word in the Winchester vocabulary, so Dean must be feeling pretty desperate.
but nobody’s dying here, dean, a hazy part of Sam’s mind provides, but what he says is, “Okay.”
Dean brightens. “C’mon,” he says, hooking a hand under Sam’s good shoulder, and beginning to heft him up when Sam doesn’t protest. “About time you got some food and shuteye. And meanwhile I’ll get the Impala towed, get her fixed up, back to how she was-and we’ll be back where we’re supposed to be. You and me and Baby, right, Sam?”
Sam sways on his feet, thinks he’s going to be sick.
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing, “yeah, sure.”
Dean smiles like his face is going to crack with the force of it, and easily hefts both his and Sam’s bags. “Let’s get going then,” he says, and starts walking.
“Dean, wait,” Sam calls, and Dean turns. “Did you, uh-do you know when I last took a pill? The book’s in the car, and I just-I can’t-do you remember?”
Dean frowns, and says after a long pause, “I don’t know, Sammy.”
“Oh.” Sam feels an inexplicable urge to cry. “I just-I don’t know why I don’t remember.”
“You must’ve gotten your bell rung pretty hard,” Dean says.
“Yeah, yeah I did,” Sam says, and follows the blurry form of his brother as he turns back and starts walking again. “I just-I need to know, because-”
But Dean isn’t hearing anymore, and Sam stops.