making do (Sam, Dean - Gen)
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Genre: Gen, no pairings
Summary: The Winchesters have issues. Written for Greta's prompt of "codependenty hurt!Dean or hurt!Sam, hiding their injury from the other"
“Dean,” escapes from his lips more a gasp than a name the moment it’s over, reflex more than anything - when in pain, in fear, in doubt, call for Dean. There’s a brief flare of panic when there’re no gentle hands skimming over his sore, bruised body for injuries, no familiar green eyes in his face wide with concern, no bossy big brother hovering over him with his customary unique brand of worry and reassurance. It subsides when a heavy hand lands on his chest right where the spirit of the girl had aimed her stiletto at (and hit the mark squarely), morphing into nonplussed annoyance. “What the hell - watch what you’re doing, Dean!”
The hand lifts immediately, and there’s a noise like Dean’s scrabbling for something on the ground in the dark - and then two hands return, lighter - checking for injuries. “Yeah well, tell me when you can see in the dark, Sammy,” comes the standard retort, heatless and customary. A beat. “Wait, you can’t actually do that now, can you - y’know, with the…” He trails off, and Sam bites back a scathing rejoinder, impatient annoyance firing up beneath his skin from the pain. He just wants to get the hell out of here and Dean can’t stop talking and he’s so incredibly slow like he’s taking his own sweet time… And then Dean’s pulling his good arm around his shoulders and heaving him up.
The trek back to the Impala takes longer than he cares for, and he knows he’s being impatient, acting like that whiny kid Dad always accused him of being, but his back hurts and his chest hurts and his head hurts, and he’s just really not in the mood for any of Dean’s shit.
The twenty miles back to the motel isn’t any much better - the roads are uneven, filled with bumps and dips, and Dean certainly isn’t making any extra effort in deference to Sam’s injuries, driving like a drunkard. He bites his tongue, refraining from snapping at Dean - it’s not Dean’s fault that the spirit was throwing him around, not Dean’s fault that the roads are badly laid - but the knowledge doesn’t do any favours for his foul mood either.
Dean puts him in bed, stripping multiple layers off his aching body, checking for cracked ribs and internal injury thoroughly, making sure he’s not concussed, throwing a blanket over him, then moving off to the bathroom. Dean is quieter than usual, none of the banter to ease the entire process, and Sam briefly wonders if Dean noticed his irritation. It’s more likely than not - Dean can be obnoxious, but it’s too often simply just big brother crap, trying to piss Sam off rather than being truly oblivious to Sam’s moods. He catches on more than most people give him credit for, even Sam. He sort of wants to ask Dean about it, but he’s out before Dean reappears from the bathroom.
--
They usually take it easy for a day or two when one of them gets banged up on a hunt, but there’s a restlessness bubbling inside Sam, something that makes his tongue loose and nags at him to drive himself to exhaustion. He snaps at Dean in the morning when he realises Dean’s let him sleep past noon over some bruises and a twisted arm, even more viciously when Dean hasn’t found them a hunt - “useless” and “gonna leave” and “pull your own freaking weight” slipping past his lips, meaningless and stupid. It’s difficult not to throw something across the room when he sees how Dean is looking at him, something he recognises as fear in his brother’s eyes - something he’s been seeing more and more lately. But throwing a tantrum isn’t going to make his brother trust him or look at him less like a freak - and if he’s honest, probably nothing will.
Dean does find them something though, even if it’s just another vengeful spirit down in Texas. It gnaws at Sam that it’s just a tiny insignificant ghost, but it’s killed three people so far, and saving lives is what they do after all.
As it turns out, the ghost is neither tiny nor insignificant - at least not when it’s looming over him with a machete in his hand, snarling at him. A load of salt disperses him right as the blade is sweeping down to decapitate Sam, but it returns almost immediately, this time right behind Dean. Sam rolls over to grab at the shotgun to aim at it, yelling a warning to Dean as he pulls the trigger and shoots.
It should work - they’re brothers, for goodness’ sake, and they’ve been fighting alongside for too long that Dean would know to duck or dodge or something, but he watches with a kind of amazed horror as Dean turns to stare at him right the second the shot fires, hitting the entire right side of his chest, and the machete sinks into his arm.
Everything is a blur after that - Sam instinctively shoots another load of salt into the spirit, Dean falling straight to the ground - which works as ducking well enough, and then rushes over to the open and salted grave, hurling the zippo into it. The spirit disappears in flames, too easily now that they’ve paid the price, and Sam runs over to Dean, who’s already sitting up and has wrapped a bandana over his arm.
“I’m fine, Sammy, I’m fine,” he says, too hurriedly, even before Sam can speak a word. “Are you okay?”
The big-brother concern hits him right as he’s trying to get Dean’s clothes out of the way and Dean’s good arm shoots out to shove him away, instantly igniting a familiar flash of annoyance. By the time he’s pushed that down, Dean’s already standing up unsteadily.
“Just a nick, don’t worry about it,” he says again, and then starts moving towards the Impala.
“I’m driving,” Sam declares nonetheless, only to meet Dean’s glare.
“Yeah - good try, Sammy, no you’re not.”
“Oh yes I am - you’re hurt, you can sit in the backseat or something, but I’m driving. Keys, now.”
Something in Dean’s expression shuts down halfway through the sentence - the next thing he knows, Dean is already in the driver’s seat, starting up the car. “In now, Sam,” he says flatly, “or I’m driving off without you.”
--
Sam opens his eyes to see the Impala listing towards the other side of the road, and in between registering that fact and as his heart lurches, he realises they’re no longer listing but careening straight towards a tree, and does the only thing that comes to mind.
Dean jerks awake to Sam wrestling with the steering wheel and screaming in his face to slam on the freaking brakes, dammit Dean! He blinks at the windscreen - and immediately hits the brakes, heart still racing as Baby screeches to a stop. The car is eerily silent for a few moments save for wildly accelerating heartbeats and heavy pants.
Then Sam is turning to him, voice hard. “What the hell, Dean. I told you - you couldn’t drive!”
The orange light from the overhead freeway lamp (that they narrowly avoided crashing into) is shining harshly into the car, and Sam is staring him down, and then suddenly the furious expression turns aghast.
“You told me it was just a nick!”
Dean blinks again at the sudden change of topic, following Sam’s eyes to his arm. And then it’s not just Sam’s gaze he’s flinching from, but hands trying to manhandle him, trying to pull his jacket out and away. He barely knows why, just knows he needs to get away, get out and not let Sam know, but Sam is shouting at him again, and the light is flickering out - freaking government can’t even get a freaking light to stay on - and then it’s all dark.
--
Dean wakes up for the third time in one day, and they’re already back in their motel room. How Sam managed to get him out of the car and onto the bed he doesn’t know, but Sammy’s a tough son of a bitch - he was always stronger than Dean anyhow, better, so it’s not too unexpected either. Neither is the fact that Sam isn’t there. He’s only started to push himself up when Sam comes out from the bathroom, and there’s hurt and anger and concern and confusion in his eyes. “Needs stitches,” he says neutrally, gesturing at the gash on Dean’s arm, then sets to work.
It hurts like hell - some of the rock salt got onto his arm too, and the entire right side of his torso is red, bruised, and abraded, tiny cuts bleeding sluggishly. But Sam mustn’t be too angry at him, because his hands are gentle, careful - even if he’s not talking, not keeping up the verbal reassurances that they usually do. He settles his left hand over Dean’s good side just above his heart as he uses the tweezers to painstakingly remove bits of salt, a heavy, unnervingly comfortable weight. Then he gestures for Dean to turn on his side, hand slipping into short hair to feel gently around the healing tear on the back of his skull that Dean had tried to clean in the bathroom a couple days before, biting back curses. And then a heat compress gets pressed onto the bruise on his back, along with an arm helping him up to swallow two pain pills with a glass of water.
“Go to sleep,” Sam says, voice still unreadable, and turns the lights off.
--
Sam is watching him when he wakes up, which is less unexpected than the fact that Sam is even there at all. There’s a packed duffle sitting beside him. Neither of them speaks for a moment, but then Dean thinks, screw it. It’s going to have to happen sooner or later, and he’d rather set it going rather than sit back and just… watch Sam leave. “Didn’t expect you to still be here,” he says.
Several emotions pass over Sam’s face, and it would be hilarious to watch if it weren’t heart-breaking. Then he nods. “Thought I’d wait for you to wake up,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want you to think I’d just abandoned you here.”
Dean can’t help it when a snort escapes from him. “Yeah,” he agrees tiredly. “Doesn’t count if I’m awake, I guess.”
The resignation on Sam’s face morphs into confusion. “I don’t… Dean, you don’t even trust me to tell me when you’re hurt! I mean, I get it, okay? The entire… demon thing, I get it. But I can’t… I’ve seen how you look at me, alright? It’s like you’re scared of me, and... just - you shouldn’t have to be on your guard all the time, and if you don’t trust me to have your back…”
“Wait - wait, you think I’m afraid of you?”
Sam stares at him. “Yeah, well - you were hurt and you didn’t even want me to know… Dean, I’m your brother - I’m not going to poison you or… I don’t know, stab you in the back when you’re down man - “
“Might leave though,” Dean mutters. He huffs, then shakes his head a little. “You’re kinda like Dad sometimes, y’know?”
Sam is still looking at him, warily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you’re so set on getting what you want that you’ll just cut down anyone who’s standing in your way - can’t see anything past that.” A slight chuckle. “Guess I just didn’t want to be the thing slowing you down. Or maybe I just don’t want to see you realise that I’m slowing you down and leave.” He shrugs, laughs again, no mirth in the sound. “Well, cat’s out of the bag now.”
“You weren’t… you weren’t afraid I was… I don’t know, going to turn darkside or something?”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, no - you’re the only one who’s remotely afraid of that, dude.” He shakes his head. “Your hair’s gonna take over the world before you do.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips twisting upwards in reluctant amusement before sobering. “I didn’t know you were hurt,” he says, confession and apology all at once. He wants to say you should have told me, but even though he’s never been in Dean’s position, he knows well enough how that works - Sam never had Dean leave him, not really, not like how he left, certainly not like how John left… but lately he’s had his own doubts, his own fears that someday Dean will see how Sam’s not his brother, not his family, his blood - not enough, and he’ll leave.
Dean’s studying him - intent and searching, and Sam lets him, hoping that whatever it is, it’s there, and it’s enough. It seems to be, because Dean looks away after a moment. “Yeah well, it’s not like I told you.”
There’s still a little hesitation, vulnerability that Sam’s not accustomed to seeing - effects of painkillers or not. “I’m not leaving you, Dean. So you may as well get used to it.”
There’s a pause, and Sam sees the doubt flickering in Dean’s eyes, chest tightening at it. But Dean rolls his eyes and then chucks the box of tissues on the nightstand at Sam. “Yeah yeah, now dry your eyes and get me my breakfast, bitch.”
Sam can’t help the surprised laughter that bursts forth, accompanying gratitude - that even if Dean doesn’t completely believe him, he still trusts Sam. “Jerk,” he volleys back, reflex more than anything. He picks up the keys, remembers, and turns back - “You do know you nearly totaled the ‘pala yesterday, right?”
He ducks out before anything else gets lobbed at him.
Maybe it’s not enough, maybe he’ll always want more, maybe Dean will always need more - but they’re all that’s left, and between the two of them, they’ll make do.
Genre: Gen, no pairings
Summary: The Winchesters have issues. Written for Greta's prompt of "codependenty hurt!Dean or hurt!Sam, hiding their injury from the other"
“Dean,” escapes from his lips more a gasp than a name the moment it’s over, reflex more than anything - when in pain, in fear, in doubt, call for Dean. There’s a brief flare of panic when there’re no gentle hands skimming over his sore, bruised body for injuries, no familiar green eyes in his face wide with concern, no bossy big brother hovering over him with his customary unique brand of worry and reassurance. It subsides when a heavy hand lands on his chest right where the spirit of the girl had aimed her stiletto at (and hit the mark squarely), morphing into nonplussed annoyance. “What the hell - watch what you’re doing, Dean!”
The hand lifts immediately, and there’s a noise like Dean’s scrabbling for something on the ground in the dark - and then two hands return, lighter - checking for injuries. “Yeah well, tell me when you can see in the dark, Sammy,” comes the standard retort, heatless and customary. A beat. “Wait, you can’t actually do that now, can you - y’know, with the…” He trails off, and Sam bites back a scathing rejoinder, impatient annoyance firing up beneath his skin from the pain. He just wants to get the hell out of here and Dean can’t stop talking and he’s so incredibly slow like he’s taking his own sweet time… And then Dean’s pulling his good arm around his shoulders and heaving him up.
The trek back to the Impala takes longer than he cares for, and he knows he’s being impatient, acting like that whiny kid Dad always accused him of being, but his back hurts and his chest hurts and his head hurts, and he’s just really not in the mood for any of Dean’s shit.
The twenty miles back to the motel isn’t any much better - the roads are uneven, filled with bumps and dips, and Dean certainly isn’t making any extra effort in deference to Sam’s injuries, driving like a drunkard. He bites his tongue, refraining from snapping at Dean - it’s not Dean’s fault that the spirit was throwing him around, not Dean’s fault that the roads are badly laid - but the knowledge doesn’t do any favours for his foul mood either.
Dean puts him in bed, stripping multiple layers off his aching body, checking for cracked ribs and internal injury thoroughly, making sure he’s not concussed, throwing a blanket over him, then moving off to the bathroom. Dean is quieter than usual, none of the banter to ease the entire process, and Sam briefly wonders if Dean noticed his irritation. It’s more likely than not - Dean can be obnoxious, but it’s too often simply just big brother crap, trying to piss Sam off rather than being truly oblivious to Sam’s moods. He catches on more than most people give him credit for, even Sam. He sort of wants to ask Dean about it, but he’s out before Dean reappears from the bathroom.
--
They usually take it easy for a day or two when one of them gets banged up on a hunt, but there’s a restlessness bubbling inside Sam, something that makes his tongue loose and nags at him to drive himself to exhaustion. He snaps at Dean in the morning when he realises Dean’s let him sleep past noon over some bruises and a twisted arm, even more viciously when Dean hasn’t found them a hunt - “useless” and “gonna leave” and “pull your own freaking weight” slipping past his lips, meaningless and stupid. It’s difficult not to throw something across the room when he sees how Dean is looking at him, something he recognises as fear in his brother’s eyes - something he’s been seeing more and more lately. But throwing a tantrum isn’t going to make his brother trust him or look at him less like a freak - and if he’s honest, probably nothing will.
Dean does find them something though, even if it’s just another vengeful spirit down in Texas. It gnaws at Sam that it’s just a tiny insignificant ghost, but it’s killed three people so far, and saving lives is what they do after all.
As it turns out, the ghost is neither tiny nor insignificant - at least not when it’s looming over him with a machete in his hand, snarling at him. A load of salt disperses him right as the blade is sweeping down to decapitate Sam, but it returns almost immediately, this time right behind Dean. Sam rolls over to grab at the shotgun to aim at it, yelling a warning to Dean as he pulls the trigger and shoots.
It should work - they’re brothers, for goodness’ sake, and they’ve been fighting alongside for too long that Dean would know to duck or dodge or something, but he watches with a kind of amazed horror as Dean turns to stare at him right the second the shot fires, hitting the entire right side of his chest, and the machete sinks into his arm.
Everything is a blur after that - Sam instinctively shoots another load of salt into the spirit, Dean falling straight to the ground - which works as ducking well enough, and then rushes over to the open and salted grave, hurling the zippo into it. The spirit disappears in flames, too easily now that they’ve paid the price, and Sam runs over to Dean, who’s already sitting up and has wrapped a bandana over his arm.
“I’m fine, Sammy, I’m fine,” he says, too hurriedly, even before Sam can speak a word. “Are you okay?”
The big-brother concern hits him right as he’s trying to get Dean’s clothes out of the way and Dean’s good arm shoots out to shove him away, instantly igniting a familiar flash of annoyance. By the time he’s pushed that down, Dean’s already standing up unsteadily.
“Just a nick, don’t worry about it,” he says again, and then starts moving towards the Impala.
“I’m driving,” Sam declares nonetheless, only to meet Dean’s glare.
“Yeah - good try, Sammy, no you’re not.”
“Oh yes I am - you’re hurt, you can sit in the backseat or something, but I’m driving. Keys, now.”
Something in Dean’s expression shuts down halfway through the sentence - the next thing he knows, Dean is already in the driver’s seat, starting up the car. “In now, Sam,” he says flatly, “or I’m driving off without you.”
--
Sam opens his eyes to see the Impala listing towards the other side of the road, and in between registering that fact and as his heart lurches, he realises they’re no longer listing but careening straight towards a tree, and does the only thing that comes to mind.
Dean jerks awake to Sam wrestling with the steering wheel and screaming in his face to slam on the freaking brakes, dammit Dean! He blinks at the windscreen - and immediately hits the brakes, heart still racing as Baby screeches to a stop. The car is eerily silent for a few moments save for wildly accelerating heartbeats and heavy pants.
Then Sam is turning to him, voice hard. “What the hell, Dean. I told you - you couldn’t drive!”
The orange light from the overhead freeway lamp (that they narrowly avoided crashing into) is shining harshly into the car, and Sam is staring him down, and then suddenly the furious expression turns aghast.
“You told me it was just a nick!”
Dean blinks again at the sudden change of topic, following Sam’s eyes to his arm. And then it’s not just Sam’s gaze he’s flinching from, but hands trying to manhandle him, trying to pull his jacket out and away. He barely knows why, just knows he needs to get away, get out and not let Sam know, but Sam is shouting at him again, and the light is flickering out - freaking government can’t even get a freaking light to stay on - and then it’s all dark.
--
Dean wakes up for the third time in one day, and they’re already back in their motel room. How Sam managed to get him out of the car and onto the bed he doesn’t know, but Sammy’s a tough son of a bitch - he was always stronger than Dean anyhow, better, so it’s not too unexpected either. Neither is the fact that Sam isn’t there. He’s only started to push himself up when Sam comes out from the bathroom, and there’s hurt and anger and concern and confusion in his eyes. “Needs stitches,” he says neutrally, gesturing at the gash on Dean’s arm, then sets to work.
It hurts like hell - some of the rock salt got onto his arm too, and the entire right side of his torso is red, bruised, and abraded, tiny cuts bleeding sluggishly. But Sam mustn’t be too angry at him, because his hands are gentle, careful - even if he’s not talking, not keeping up the verbal reassurances that they usually do. He settles his left hand over Dean’s good side just above his heart as he uses the tweezers to painstakingly remove bits of salt, a heavy, unnervingly comfortable weight. Then he gestures for Dean to turn on his side, hand slipping into short hair to feel gently around the healing tear on the back of his skull that Dean had tried to clean in the bathroom a couple days before, biting back curses. And then a heat compress gets pressed onto the bruise on his back, along with an arm helping him up to swallow two pain pills with a glass of water.
“Go to sleep,” Sam says, voice still unreadable, and turns the lights off.
--
Sam is watching him when he wakes up, which is less unexpected than the fact that Sam is even there at all. There’s a packed duffle sitting beside him. Neither of them speaks for a moment, but then Dean thinks, screw it. It’s going to have to happen sooner or later, and he’d rather set it going rather than sit back and just… watch Sam leave. “Didn’t expect you to still be here,” he says.
Several emotions pass over Sam’s face, and it would be hilarious to watch if it weren’t heart-breaking. Then he nods. “Thought I’d wait for you to wake up,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want you to think I’d just abandoned you here.”
Dean can’t help it when a snort escapes from him. “Yeah,” he agrees tiredly. “Doesn’t count if I’m awake, I guess.”
The resignation on Sam’s face morphs into confusion. “I don’t… Dean, you don’t even trust me to tell me when you’re hurt! I mean, I get it, okay? The entire… demon thing, I get it. But I can’t… I’ve seen how you look at me, alright? It’s like you’re scared of me, and... just - you shouldn’t have to be on your guard all the time, and if you don’t trust me to have your back…”
“Wait - wait, you think I’m afraid of you?”
Sam stares at him. “Yeah, well - you were hurt and you didn’t even want me to know… Dean, I’m your brother - I’m not going to poison you or… I don’t know, stab you in the back when you’re down man - “
“Might leave though,” Dean mutters. He huffs, then shakes his head a little. “You’re kinda like Dad sometimes, y’know?”
Sam is still looking at him, warily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you’re so set on getting what you want that you’ll just cut down anyone who’s standing in your way - can’t see anything past that.” A slight chuckle. “Guess I just didn’t want to be the thing slowing you down. Or maybe I just don’t want to see you realise that I’m slowing you down and leave.” He shrugs, laughs again, no mirth in the sound. “Well, cat’s out of the bag now.”
“You weren’t… you weren’t afraid I was… I don’t know, going to turn darkside or something?”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, no - you’re the only one who’s remotely afraid of that, dude.” He shakes his head. “Your hair’s gonna take over the world before you do.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips twisting upwards in reluctant amusement before sobering. “I didn’t know you were hurt,” he says, confession and apology all at once. He wants to say you should have told me, but even though he’s never been in Dean’s position, he knows well enough how that works - Sam never had Dean leave him, not really, not like how he left, certainly not like how John left… but lately he’s had his own doubts, his own fears that someday Dean will see how Sam’s not his brother, not his family, his blood - not enough, and he’ll leave.
Dean’s studying him - intent and searching, and Sam lets him, hoping that whatever it is, it’s there, and it’s enough. It seems to be, because Dean looks away after a moment. “Yeah well, it’s not like I told you.”
There’s still a little hesitation, vulnerability that Sam’s not accustomed to seeing - effects of painkillers or not. “I’m not leaving you, Dean. So you may as well get used to it.”
There’s a pause, and Sam sees the doubt flickering in Dean’s eyes, chest tightening at it. But Dean rolls his eyes and then chucks the box of tissues on the nightstand at Sam. “Yeah yeah, now dry your eyes and get me my breakfast, bitch.”
Sam can’t help the surprised laughter that bursts forth, accompanying gratitude - that even if Dean doesn’t completely believe him, he still trusts Sam. “Jerk,” he volleys back, reflex more than anything. He picks up the keys, remembers, and turns back - “You do know you nearly totaled the ‘pala yesterday, right?”
He ducks out before anything else gets lobbed at him.
Maybe it’s not enough, maybe he’ll always want more, maybe Dean will always need more - but they’re all that’s left, and between the two of them, they’ll make do.