caboose thoughts [spn][one-shot]
Title: Caboose Thoughts
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 2700
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Sam totally doesn't love taking care of Dean. Even a little.
Notes: For animotus's prompt (Sam gives Dean a massage) at the Holiday Hurt/Comfort meme hosted by spn_hurtcomfort.
There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
- Caboose Thoughts
Carl Sandburg
“Maybe I should stay,” says John.
Sam gives him a look. “Dad. This isn’t anything I haven’t done before.” Well, technically, it is. Dean’s not one to get sick on a regular basis. The last time, Sam was six and John had done all the work while Sam pouted about Dean not being able to play. But still.
“I know, just-”
“It’s not mono or anything. Just a little flu. Nothing I can’t handle,” says Sam, going for placating.
John’s look of concern doesn’t go anywhere, and Sam has to bite his lip to keep from saying something bratty. Like, maybe, You’ve left us alone for three weeks with food for only one, Dad, and this is what’s bothering you? Really?
But John sighs then, and nods. Picks up his coat and pulls it on. “Tylenol if he’s still hurting,” he says. “Ibuprofen if we don’t have Tylenol.”
Sam nods. Pretends like that isn’t something he’s known for a decade.
John picks up his keys from the coffee table. “I’ve got my cell. Call if something happens, okay?”
“Sure, Dad,” says Sam. He steps back, twice. Turns the knob on the front door and pulls it open. Cold air gusts in, bringing snowflakes with it.
One last look around the tiny apartment, before John sets his gaze on Sam again, walking up to him. “I’ll be back in two days,” he says. He ruffles Sam’s hair, thumps him once on the shoulder. “Take care of your brother, Sammy.”
“Aye, aye captain.” Sam gives him a half-smile and closes the door behind him before leaning against it. Blows out a puff of air to shift the bangs that have fallen into his eyes and then pushes away from the door.
-
He heads down the narrow hall, right to the end, and quietly opens the door. Peeks into the room he and Dean share. The curtains are drawn, but they’re gauzy and thin and sunlight filters through. The room’s filled with pale, hazy orange light and cold shadows. Dean’s a lump on his bed.
Sam toes his shoes off before creeping into the room, socks silent on the matted carpet. The air is thick with warmth, the heating up high. Sam stops at the edge of Dean’s bed, peels the sheets carefully off of his head.
Dean’s fast asleep. He shifts a little as fresh air hits his face, takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side.
Sam settles the sheets around him, carefully, and then tiptoes back out of the room.
-
He digs around in the kitchen cabinets and their duffle bags for a can of soup. He knows they have a couple, but they seem to have gotten up and walked away.
He finds one eventually, cream of chicken, jammed under the couch. He vaguely remembers a half-drunken wrestling match he and Dean had a week ago, while Dad had been - as usual - out, which he figures is the culprit. He also finds his SAT prep book, dusty and pages bent, under there. His stomach twists a little, but he tosses it onto his mostly-empty duffle sitting under the coffee table, and pushes it all out of his mind.
He sets the soup on the stove to warm (they don’t have a microwave here), and almost burns it twice because he keeps running off to check on Dean.
Moron, taunts a part of his mind - the really snooty, superior part. But Sam would rather be safe than sorry. He doesn’t want Dean to die choking on his own mucus or something because Sam wasn’t close enough to hear, is all. It’s common courtesy.
-
He positions a bowl of steaming soup, a cup of water and a couple of Tylenol on scratched up old tray someone left in one of the cabinets and then heads to Dean’s room again.
Dean’s still out, so he sets the stuff down on the nightstand and eyes his brother, wondering how to wake him. He looks from the soup, to Dean, and feels his cheeks flushing. However he wakes Dean, he’s never going to hear the end of this… mother hen-ing, or whatever. Like it’s even that. All he did was make some soup, Jesus.
And he really needs to stop defending himself to… himself. Because, you know. That really speaks well for his sanity and everything.
“Dean?” he says, quietly. He bends over his brother, goes to poke him, and then remembers the gun that’s probably hiding under Dean’s pillow. Looming over him and poking him - two things that are almost positively going to earn him a shot in the face. Sam sort of likes his face, so he drops to his knees and presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder instead.
Dean’s eyes crack open, and he blinks confusedly at Sam. “What?” he mumbles, voice crumpled with exhaustion. It’s probably Sam’s imagination, but he thinks he can see Dean’s eyes bagging right in front of him. Heavy, dark. Weighed down by too much.
Sam sets his chin on the top of his hand, where it’s splayed on the bed near Dean’s pillow. “I brought some soup,” he says quietly. “Want?”
Dean sits up then, slowly. Rubs sleep out of his eyes and sighs tiredly. He yanks the pillow out from under him and rests it against the headboard, before leaning back. His eyes fall on the tray. “You made soup.” He sounds surprised.
“Yeah,” says Sam, straightening. “I just… told you that.”
Dean nods a little, makes a tired face that says, yeah, sorry, don’t know what I was thinking.
Sam stands up and moves the tray to balance on Dean’s lap. Dean sits a little straighter, goes for the water. He chugs the whole cup down in one go, then picks up the spoon, stirs the soup slowly.
Sam stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Unsure of what to do with himself.
He points to the white pills. “Tylenol. In case your back is still hurting. Or your legs. Or anything, you know.” He pauses, and Dean nods a little. “Is your back still hurting?”
Dean thinks about it, watching steam rise from the soup bowl, says, “Not as much as before, but yeah. I’ll take the pills.”
“Right,” says Sam. Nods a little. Puts his arms behind his back. Lets them fall to his sides again.
Dean takes a small sip of the soup, licks his lips. Catches Sam staring and gives him a look that makes Sam feel like a giant, walking, talking pink cootie. There’s a moment of silence, and then Dean says, “Not bad.” He shoots Sam a quick smile and the briefest flash of a look that reads, creeping me out here, dude.
Sam grabs the empty water cup then, says, ‘I’m just gonna go refill this,” and rushes out of the room, before he can completely humiliate himself by doing something stupid. Like brushing Dean’s bed-mussed hair straight with his fingers. Or hugging him, or something. Christ.
Who gets… warm fuzzies and the overwhelming urge to wrap people up in blankets or whatever when they’re looking after their sick brother?
… mother hens, that’s who.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the camel, he’s seventeen years old and a mother hen.
Sam bangs his head against the wall next to the bedroom door a few times and then goes to get Dean some more water.
-
“Yeah, Dad, he’s fine. Yeah, I made him take some Tylenol. Yes. Yes. Yep. I’m pretty sure he’s perfectly warm. Well, he’s not shivering. Okay, I’ll ask him if he’s cold, Jesus! No, no, sorry sir. Warm bath, right, sure. I’ll ask. Um, what? Massage? Dad, this is Dean we’re talking about. Dean Winchester. Your son? My point is, he’s not going to let me get within a ten foot radius of him if I even look like I’m about to use his name and the word massage in the same sentence. What? Yes, I know he did it for me, I was there, remember? Well, it’s not me that’s the problem here, Dad - okay! Fine! I’ll give him a damn massage even if I have to tie him down first! Happy?! Yeah, Dad. You too. Bye.”
-
Dean went back to sleep after two bowls of soup and a shower, and that’s how Sam finds him when he peeks in to check for the… twentieth time in two hours. Though he’s not admitting that to anyone, not even at gun point. Dean’s got enough fodder for when he’s better as it is.
Sam goes to sit on his own bed, near the window.
Okay. So, maybe he likes taking care of his brother a little more than a normal person probably should. What’s wrong with that? It’s not like he’s slipping Dean poison to purposefully make him sick or anything. That would be psychotic. This is just… It’s not even like he likes taking care of Dean that much. Dean’s sick. Sam’s his brother. Only a real asshole would go off and… have a beer or something while their brother’s got the flu. Sam’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. He’s just making some food. And checking up on Dean a few times. Feeling his forehead. Watching him sleep. Getting a little warm all over - okay, right. Enough of that.
Dean wakes up about fifteen minutes later, notices Sam’s presence immediately. He rolls to face him, mumbles a, “Hey, kiddo,” in greeting.
“Pain killers working?” asks Sam.
Dean makes a face. Stretches. “Not really,” he says. He rolls onto his stomach.
Sam picks at his bedspread. “Dad called.” Good start. Sam’s rarely known Dean to go against anything Dad says.
“Yeah?” says Dean.
“Yeah. He said if, you know, your back was still hurting and stuff, I should, like… ask you something.”
“Ask me something?” Dean’s sounding really wary now.
“Yeah. Like. Uh, do you want a warm bath?”
Dean narrows his eyes. “I took a hot shower two hours ago.”
Sam nods. “Oh, yeah. Right. Well… um. There was something else, too.”
“You gonna spit it out any time today, Sammy?” Dean asks, flatly.
“Well… hesaidIshouldgiveyouamassage,” Sam blurts out, as quickly as he can.
But Dean, being Dean, has absolutely no trouble speaking Sam, even when he’s going at a thousand words per minute. “A massage,” he says.
“Yes.”
“A massage.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm,” Dean pretends to look thoughtful for a moment, before rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, somehow… I don’t see that happening.”
Huh. Well, that was expected. Sam should just give up now. Go start dinner. Have a shower. Watch some TV. Apparently, though, his mouth has other ideas. “Why?” he asks.
“What?”
“Why don’t you want a massage?” Okay, now. Sam's no stranger to that feeling bubbling in his stomach. Dean’s flat out rejection’s done something to him. Flicked a switch. He’s gone from feeling slightly embarrassed to completely pig-headed in under a second. It’s reasonable - Dean’s hurting and Sam’s got hands, right? Big hands even. They’ve gotta be good for massaging. Plus, he’s Dean's brother. Getting a massage from him would be less awkward than getting one from a complete stranger. So what’s the problem?
“Because I said so,” Dean says. He’s got his Dad voice on.
“Are you afraid it’ll damage your masculinity or some shit like that?” asks Sam. When Dean glares at him, he adds, “Because honestly dude, I don’t think it’s possible to do any more damage.”
“Oh, you soulless fucker,” says Dean, pushing himself to his elbows. He shakes his head in mock-disappointment. “Where’s your heart? Sick man here, Sammy.”
“Exactly,” says Sam, smugly. “You’re sick and your back’s killing you. A massage couldn’t hurt, right?’ He gets up off his bed.
Dean looks a little panicky. “What’re you - there’s a gun under my pillow,” he warns.
Sam scoffs. “C’mon. Empty threats, man, really?”
“Sam, I’m telling you now-” Sam pounces. Truth be told, he does feel a tiny bit guilty about taking advantage of Dean’s weakened state afterwards. But a little guilt never killed anybody, so whatever. He flips Dean onto his stomach and straddles him before Dean can even squeak.
Dean’s face is stuffed into his pillow and he’s snarling something that’s sounds vaguely like, “You fucking fucker, Sam, I’m gonna fuck you up, just wait.”
“It’s just a massage, for Christ’s sake!” Sam says, grabbing onto Dean’s shoulders as Dean valiantly tries to buck him off. “Not a ritual sacrifice!”
Dean rears up once more and then stills. Lifts his head from the pillow. “Well, will you at least let me move, huh? I’m about to fall off the bed.”
“Oh,” mutters Sam. He eases up off of Dean, lets him slide to the center of the bed, shuffling his knees to follow. Dean lets out a loud, annoyed huff, says, “For the record, you suck,” and then face-plants into the pillow again. Sam doesn’t move.
“Holy - would you sit back down already?” comes Dean’s muffled voice. He does a good job of making it sound like he’s really suffering, even though it’s painfully clear the only reason he’d ask Sam to sit back down is if it felt good. Sam smirks a little and pats Dean’s head, just for fun.
“Okay, Dean-y, sitting down now.” He lowers himself gently onto the small of Dean’s back.
“Asshole,” Dean mutters, but Sam feels him relaxing gradually. He turns his head sideways on the pillow, lets out a little sigh.
Now that he’s here, Sam’s willfulness has fizzled out and he’s back to being a little embarrassed and uncomfortable and unsure. He tries to remember what Dean usually does when Sam’s got a killer migraine. Gently presses his fingers to the base of Dean’s neck. Dean shudders and closes his eyes and Sam takes that as encouragement, presses harder. Moves towards Dean’s shoulders.
“Um. Tell me if I hurt you,” he says quietly, and Dean grunts in response.
Sam keeps going. Shoulders to spine. Down and then back up. Five minutes and Dean’s completely limp, the lines on his face softening. Fifteen and he’s breathing slow and soft and steady, out like a light. Sam keeps going, his fingers getting used to the feel of muscle, recognizing knots of tension. He massages for as long as he can, until his hands start to ache, and then he carefully swings his leg over Dean’s back. Tries not to make the mattress springs creak too loudly as he reaches for the sheets. They’re tangled in Dean’s legs after their tussle and it takes Sam a minute to free them. He covers Dean carefully, then settles down next to him.
He’ll just stay for a minute. Too much moving around will wake Dean, anyway.
His hand moves of its own accord, going to Dean’s hair, fingers brushing through the spiky strands. Sam catches himself quickly, snatches his hand back and stuffs it between his legs. Rolls his eyes a little and laughs at himself. No control, absolutely no control, it’s despica - oh, fuck it. Who the hell’s gonna know? Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair again, gently, slowly and feels… feels like more than he is. More than just a little brother and a youngest son and a researcher. More than just a tagalong on hunts that aren’t too dangerous and a geek-boy, more than the look John sometimes gives him, sad and quiet, that says, Your brother was never this difficult. He feels worth something. He feels fulfilled and rewarded. Dean’s warm next to him, but not hot, looking serene in his sleep. Sam brushes a thumb over Dean’s cheek. Exams and studying and the next move and the next hunt and the next hurt - they all fade away. Sam’s never felt so at peace with everything.
And if Dean nuzzles closer in his sleep and pretty much ends up with his head on Sam’s lap within ten minutes, well… after everything he’s added to Dean’s repertoire in the last hour alone, Sam totally deserves some blackmail material, too.
-
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 2700
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Sam totally doesn't love taking care of Dean. Even a little.
Notes: For animotus's prompt (Sam gives Dean a massage) at the Holiday Hurt/Comfort meme hosted by spn_hurtcomfort.
There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
- Caboose Thoughts
Carl Sandburg
“Maybe I should stay,” says John.
Sam gives him a look. “Dad. This isn’t anything I haven’t done before.” Well, technically, it is. Dean’s not one to get sick on a regular basis. The last time, Sam was six and John had done all the work while Sam pouted about Dean not being able to play. But still.
“I know, just-”
“It’s not mono or anything. Just a little flu. Nothing I can’t handle,” says Sam, going for placating.
John’s look of concern doesn’t go anywhere, and Sam has to bite his lip to keep from saying something bratty. Like, maybe, You’ve left us alone for three weeks with food for only one, Dad, and this is what’s bothering you? Really?
But John sighs then, and nods. Picks up his coat and pulls it on. “Tylenol if he’s still hurting,” he says. “Ibuprofen if we don’t have Tylenol.”
Sam nods. Pretends like that isn’t something he’s known for a decade.
John picks up his keys from the coffee table. “I’ve got my cell. Call if something happens, okay?”
“Sure, Dad,” says Sam. He steps back, twice. Turns the knob on the front door and pulls it open. Cold air gusts in, bringing snowflakes with it.
One last look around the tiny apartment, before John sets his gaze on Sam again, walking up to him. “I’ll be back in two days,” he says. He ruffles Sam’s hair, thumps him once on the shoulder. “Take care of your brother, Sammy.”
“Aye, aye captain.” Sam gives him a half-smile and closes the door behind him before leaning against it. Blows out a puff of air to shift the bangs that have fallen into his eyes and then pushes away from the door.
-
He heads down the narrow hall, right to the end, and quietly opens the door. Peeks into the room he and Dean share. The curtains are drawn, but they’re gauzy and thin and sunlight filters through. The room’s filled with pale, hazy orange light and cold shadows. Dean’s a lump on his bed.
Sam toes his shoes off before creeping into the room, socks silent on the matted carpet. The air is thick with warmth, the heating up high. Sam stops at the edge of Dean’s bed, peels the sheets carefully off of his head.
Dean’s fast asleep. He shifts a little as fresh air hits his face, takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side.
Sam settles the sheets around him, carefully, and then tiptoes back out of the room.
-
He digs around in the kitchen cabinets and their duffle bags for a can of soup. He knows they have a couple, but they seem to have gotten up and walked away.
He finds one eventually, cream of chicken, jammed under the couch. He vaguely remembers a half-drunken wrestling match he and Dean had a week ago, while Dad had been - as usual - out, which he figures is the culprit. He also finds his SAT prep book, dusty and pages bent, under there. His stomach twists a little, but he tosses it onto his mostly-empty duffle sitting under the coffee table, and pushes it all out of his mind.
He sets the soup on the stove to warm (they don’t have a microwave here), and almost burns it twice because he keeps running off to check on Dean.
Moron, taunts a part of his mind - the really snooty, superior part. But Sam would rather be safe than sorry. He doesn’t want Dean to die choking on his own mucus or something because Sam wasn’t close enough to hear, is all. It’s common courtesy.
-
He positions a bowl of steaming soup, a cup of water and a couple of Tylenol on scratched up old tray someone left in one of the cabinets and then heads to Dean’s room again.
Dean’s still out, so he sets the stuff down on the nightstand and eyes his brother, wondering how to wake him. He looks from the soup, to Dean, and feels his cheeks flushing. However he wakes Dean, he’s never going to hear the end of this… mother hen-ing, or whatever. Like it’s even that. All he did was make some soup, Jesus.
And he really needs to stop defending himself to… himself. Because, you know. That really speaks well for his sanity and everything.
“Dean?” he says, quietly. He bends over his brother, goes to poke him, and then remembers the gun that’s probably hiding under Dean’s pillow. Looming over him and poking him - two things that are almost positively going to earn him a shot in the face. Sam sort of likes his face, so he drops to his knees and presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder instead.
Dean’s eyes crack open, and he blinks confusedly at Sam. “What?” he mumbles, voice crumpled with exhaustion. It’s probably Sam’s imagination, but he thinks he can see Dean’s eyes bagging right in front of him. Heavy, dark. Weighed down by too much.
Sam sets his chin on the top of his hand, where it’s splayed on the bed near Dean’s pillow. “I brought some soup,” he says quietly. “Want?”
Dean sits up then, slowly. Rubs sleep out of his eyes and sighs tiredly. He yanks the pillow out from under him and rests it against the headboard, before leaning back. His eyes fall on the tray. “You made soup.” He sounds surprised.
“Yeah,” says Sam, straightening. “I just… told you that.”
Dean nods a little, makes a tired face that says, yeah, sorry, don’t know what I was thinking.
Sam stands up and moves the tray to balance on Dean’s lap. Dean sits a little straighter, goes for the water. He chugs the whole cup down in one go, then picks up the spoon, stirs the soup slowly.
Sam stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Unsure of what to do with himself.
He points to the white pills. “Tylenol. In case your back is still hurting. Or your legs. Or anything, you know.” He pauses, and Dean nods a little. “Is your back still hurting?”
Dean thinks about it, watching steam rise from the soup bowl, says, “Not as much as before, but yeah. I’ll take the pills.”
“Right,” says Sam. Nods a little. Puts his arms behind his back. Lets them fall to his sides again.
Dean takes a small sip of the soup, licks his lips. Catches Sam staring and gives him a look that makes Sam feel like a giant, walking, talking pink cootie. There’s a moment of silence, and then Dean says, “Not bad.” He shoots Sam a quick smile and the briefest flash of a look that reads, creeping me out here, dude.
Sam grabs the empty water cup then, says, ‘I’m just gonna go refill this,” and rushes out of the room, before he can completely humiliate himself by doing something stupid. Like brushing Dean’s bed-mussed hair straight with his fingers. Or hugging him, or something. Christ.
Who gets… warm fuzzies and the overwhelming urge to wrap people up in blankets or whatever when they’re looking after their sick brother?
… mother hens, that’s who.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the camel, he’s seventeen years old and a mother hen.
Sam bangs his head against the wall next to the bedroom door a few times and then goes to get Dean some more water.
-
“Yeah, Dad, he’s fine. Yeah, I made him take some Tylenol. Yes. Yes. Yep. I’m pretty sure he’s perfectly warm. Well, he’s not shivering. Okay, I’ll ask him if he’s cold, Jesus! No, no, sorry sir. Warm bath, right, sure. I’ll ask. Um, what? Massage? Dad, this is Dean we’re talking about. Dean Winchester. Your son? My point is, he’s not going to let me get within a ten foot radius of him if I even look like I’m about to use his name and the word massage in the same sentence. What? Yes, I know he did it for me, I was there, remember? Well, it’s not me that’s the problem here, Dad - okay! Fine! I’ll give him a damn massage even if I have to tie him down first! Happy?! Yeah, Dad. You too. Bye.”
-
Dean went back to sleep after two bowls of soup and a shower, and that’s how Sam finds him when he peeks in to check for the… twentieth time in two hours. Though he’s not admitting that to anyone, not even at gun point. Dean’s got enough fodder for when he’s better as it is.
Sam goes to sit on his own bed, near the window.
Okay. So, maybe he likes taking care of his brother a little more than a normal person probably should. What’s wrong with that? It’s not like he’s slipping Dean poison to purposefully make him sick or anything. That would be psychotic. This is just… It’s not even like he likes taking care of Dean that much. Dean’s sick. Sam’s his brother. Only a real asshole would go off and… have a beer or something while their brother’s got the flu. Sam’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. He’s just making some food. And checking up on Dean a few times. Feeling his forehead. Watching him sleep. Getting a little warm all over - okay, right. Enough of that.
Dean wakes up about fifteen minutes later, notices Sam’s presence immediately. He rolls to face him, mumbles a, “Hey, kiddo,” in greeting.
“Pain killers working?” asks Sam.
Dean makes a face. Stretches. “Not really,” he says. He rolls onto his stomach.
Sam picks at his bedspread. “Dad called.” Good start. Sam’s rarely known Dean to go against anything Dad says.
“Yeah?” says Dean.
“Yeah. He said if, you know, your back was still hurting and stuff, I should, like… ask you something.”
“Ask me something?” Dean’s sounding really wary now.
“Yeah. Like. Uh, do you want a warm bath?”
Dean narrows his eyes. “I took a hot shower two hours ago.”
Sam nods. “Oh, yeah. Right. Well… um. There was something else, too.”
“You gonna spit it out any time today, Sammy?” Dean asks, flatly.
“Well… hesaidIshouldgiveyouamassage,” Sam blurts out, as quickly as he can.
But Dean, being Dean, has absolutely no trouble speaking Sam, even when he’s going at a thousand words per minute. “A massage,” he says.
“Yes.”
“A massage.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm,” Dean pretends to look thoughtful for a moment, before rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, somehow… I don’t see that happening.”
Huh. Well, that was expected. Sam should just give up now. Go start dinner. Have a shower. Watch some TV. Apparently, though, his mouth has other ideas. “Why?” he asks.
“What?”
“Why don’t you want a massage?” Okay, now. Sam's no stranger to that feeling bubbling in his stomach. Dean’s flat out rejection’s done something to him. Flicked a switch. He’s gone from feeling slightly embarrassed to completely pig-headed in under a second. It’s reasonable - Dean’s hurting and Sam’s got hands, right? Big hands even. They’ve gotta be good for massaging. Plus, he’s Dean's brother. Getting a massage from him would be less awkward than getting one from a complete stranger. So what’s the problem?
“Because I said so,” Dean says. He’s got his Dad voice on.
“Are you afraid it’ll damage your masculinity or some shit like that?” asks Sam. When Dean glares at him, he adds, “Because honestly dude, I don’t think it’s possible to do any more damage.”
“Oh, you soulless fucker,” says Dean, pushing himself to his elbows. He shakes his head in mock-disappointment. “Where’s your heart? Sick man here, Sammy.”
“Exactly,” says Sam, smugly. “You’re sick and your back’s killing you. A massage couldn’t hurt, right?’ He gets up off his bed.
Dean looks a little panicky. “What’re you - there’s a gun under my pillow,” he warns.
Sam scoffs. “C’mon. Empty threats, man, really?”
“Sam, I’m telling you now-” Sam pounces. Truth be told, he does feel a tiny bit guilty about taking advantage of Dean’s weakened state afterwards. But a little guilt never killed anybody, so whatever. He flips Dean onto his stomach and straddles him before Dean can even squeak.
Dean’s face is stuffed into his pillow and he’s snarling something that’s sounds vaguely like, “You fucking fucker, Sam, I’m gonna fuck you up, just wait.”
“It’s just a massage, for Christ’s sake!” Sam says, grabbing onto Dean’s shoulders as Dean valiantly tries to buck him off. “Not a ritual sacrifice!”
Dean rears up once more and then stills. Lifts his head from the pillow. “Well, will you at least let me move, huh? I’m about to fall off the bed.”
“Oh,” mutters Sam. He eases up off of Dean, lets him slide to the center of the bed, shuffling his knees to follow. Dean lets out a loud, annoyed huff, says, “For the record, you suck,” and then face-plants into the pillow again. Sam doesn’t move.
“Holy - would you sit back down already?” comes Dean’s muffled voice. He does a good job of making it sound like he’s really suffering, even though it’s painfully clear the only reason he’d ask Sam to sit back down is if it felt good. Sam smirks a little and pats Dean’s head, just for fun.
“Okay, Dean-y, sitting down now.” He lowers himself gently onto the small of Dean’s back.
“Asshole,” Dean mutters, but Sam feels him relaxing gradually. He turns his head sideways on the pillow, lets out a little sigh.
Now that he’s here, Sam’s willfulness has fizzled out and he’s back to being a little embarrassed and uncomfortable and unsure. He tries to remember what Dean usually does when Sam’s got a killer migraine. Gently presses his fingers to the base of Dean’s neck. Dean shudders and closes his eyes and Sam takes that as encouragement, presses harder. Moves towards Dean’s shoulders.
“Um. Tell me if I hurt you,” he says quietly, and Dean grunts in response.
Sam keeps going. Shoulders to spine. Down and then back up. Five minutes and Dean’s completely limp, the lines on his face softening. Fifteen and he’s breathing slow and soft and steady, out like a light. Sam keeps going, his fingers getting used to the feel of muscle, recognizing knots of tension. He massages for as long as he can, until his hands start to ache, and then he carefully swings his leg over Dean’s back. Tries not to make the mattress springs creak too loudly as he reaches for the sheets. They’re tangled in Dean’s legs after their tussle and it takes Sam a minute to free them. He covers Dean carefully, then settles down next to him.
He’ll just stay for a minute. Too much moving around will wake Dean, anyway.
His hand moves of its own accord, going to Dean’s hair, fingers brushing through the spiky strands. Sam catches himself quickly, snatches his hand back and stuffs it between his legs. Rolls his eyes a little and laughs at himself. No control, absolutely no control, it’s despica - oh, fuck it. Who the hell’s gonna know? Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair again, gently, slowly and feels… feels like more than he is. More than just a little brother and a youngest son and a researcher. More than just a tagalong on hunts that aren’t too dangerous and a geek-boy, more than the look John sometimes gives him, sad and quiet, that says, Your brother was never this difficult. He feels worth something. He feels fulfilled and rewarded. Dean’s warm next to him, but not hot, looking serene in his sleep. Sam brushes a thumb over Dean’s cheek. Exams and studying and the next move and the next hunt and the next hurt - they all fade away. Sam’s never felt so at peace with everything.
And if Dean nuzzles closer in his sleep and pretty much ends up with his head on Sam’s lap within ten minutes, well… after everything he’s added to Dean’s repertoire in the last hour alone, Sam totally deserves some blackmail material, too.
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