Fic - Apogee
Title: Apogee
Characters (Pairings): Sam/Dean
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 2800ish
Summary: Written for the hoodie_time Comment Meme. Prompt: Skinny!sick!Dean and protective!Sam? Perhaps something bad has happened and Dean won't eat anymore. Gen or slash.
He should have seen it coming or figured it out sooner. And although Looming Apocalypse is pretty much the best damn reason for not noticing, it doesn’t make him feel any better.
The problem is, Dean’s a big guy. Fluctuation in his weight by 5 or even 10 pounds is not really all that noticeable - a smidgen off the legs, some off the torso, maybe a pinch from the arms. So by the time Sam notices he’s dropped weight, it’s likely twenty or thirty pounds.
They go through these rubber-band cycles, Sam and Dean; impossible closeness, followed by a long stretch away and then back again. There are times they are all over each other, stretches of days, weeks, months they’re all hands groping and fingers touching and pressing up against one another at every opportunity.
Then something seems to snap or break and they drift aimlessly away from one another. Still in the same room together, driving in the Impala side by side, fighting night after night next to each other, but crashing to separate beds, one of them going off for hours at a time just to be alone.
They’re in one of their apogees right now, and must have been when it started. Adding to that, despite the predicaments they generally find themselves, Dean hasn’t been seriously injured lately and Sam hasn’t had to tend to any wounds necessitating a removal of Dean’s clothes.
So when he gets fed up waiting for Dean to get out of the shower, convinced the motherfucker is using up all the hot water available to the entire eastern seaboard, and his bladder can’t take it anymore, Sam busts into the tiny hotel bathroom, cursing a blue streak. He was so focused on being angry, and frankly, being really fucking uncomfortable from a full bladder, that it’s not until he’s done that he turns to give Dean shit for taking so much time.
He opens his mouth to bitch him out and then closes it abruptly.
Dean’s thin.
He’s not ‘Trainspotting’ thin or emaciated, but Sam would guess that he’s lost about twenty to twenty five pounds, and on Dean it would be all muscle, his body turning on itself to find the energy to keep doing what they do.
He looks down at the pile of clothes Dean discarded before he went into the shower and sees four shirts. His eyes flick over to Dean’s toiletries, the way they are carefully lined up on the counter, in order of largest item [shaving cream] to smallest [razor and then floss]. Each one meticulously placed a millimeter from the edge. Dean’s fresh clothes are neatly folded and sitting on the counter, perfectly placed to be at the right place when Dean’s ready for them. Socks neatly balled up, shorts folded, three shirts and a pair of sweatpants, stacked.
The water shuts off and Dean drags the curtain back, eyes locking with Sam for a (mutinous) moment before he grabs a towel and slings it around his waist.
“What?” Dean asks defiantly.
Sam purses his lips and then leaves the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
Waiting for Dean to come out of the bathroom, Sam goes over the last few weeks in his head and sees all the things that he missed on the first go round.
Coming out of the shower himself and Dean is drinking coffee, pointing at a brown bag with muffins in it and a second coffee for Sam.
“Where’s yours?”
“Ate it on the ride back. Dude! I was starving!”
Sitting at a diner, tucking into his tuna melt and side salad, watching Dean pick at his food.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just feel off today.”
Waking up in the passenger seat of the Impala finding a bag of McDonald’s on his lap, looking at Dean quizzically.
“Ate while you were asleep, princess. You sleep like the dead.”
They’re together all the time so the amount of lying, the sheer effort Dean put into it makes Sam furious.
The kicker is, he knows it’s not about the food. It’s not about the weight. As with most people like Dean, it’s about the control.
He looks around the room and sees Dean’s nightstand is perfectly organized; cellphone and wallet precisely side by side, lamp straightened, book centered on the small table. Where as Sam’s is cluttered with bills, receipts, his own phone, a laptop cord.
Sam sighs. It’s never just about the food.
The first time, back when it had started or at least when it first became visible, Dean was sixteen and practically begging Dad to take him on every hunt. And if they were at Bobby’s or Pastor Jim’s then maybe, just maybe, Dean could go, leave Sam with adults who would keep him safe. But more often than not, Dean and Sam were left behind while Dad went off to fight some monster or another.
Sam’s not dumb, far from it. He can see exactly how Dean’s personality and their lifestyle pretty much came pre-packaged with some kind of eating disorder or mental illness. He guesses it’s just lucky that nothing else has surfaced.
So far.
At sixteen, Dean had already been lanky. And Jesus had he been pretty. Of course Sam’s biased, but there’s no mistaking the kind of pretty Dean had been. Still is.
He remembers watching Dean push food around on his plate. How Dean would perk up when he would hear the low rumble of a big car and then slouch again when it wasn’t Dad. How Dean hardly ever argued back, never said a word against John, just ‘yes, sir’ and started packing as soon as John gave the order.
How, when it boiled right down to it, food was about the only thing that Dean had control over.
He remembers walking into the bedroom one morning, searching for one of his textbooks, and catching Dean in his boxers, searching for something to wear.
He was all sharp angles and protrusions. At the time, he still thought Dean was the most beautiful thing he had seen, but even at twelve, he knew that something was wrong with him.
“You’re sick,” he had blurted out.
“Jesus, how about knocking?” Dean shot back, scrambling for clothes.
“It’s my room too! I don’t hafta knock,” he replied before he realized it was a distraction. “You’re skinny.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s called a growth-spurt, dickwad.”
Sam considered this and then shook his head. “Nope, you’re the same height.” He knows because he’s been getting taller and like little brothers everywhere, he measures his height not in feet and inches but in measurements of Dean.
“Just… knock it off, Sammy.”
It had been another month and at least ten more pounds before Sam could convince his father that something was wrong. After that, Dean lost control over eating too. John took three months off hunting, which should have been a sign of the world coming to the end, for all it happened. They moved in with Bobby and John put food in front of him and wouldn't let Dean leave until he ate it. Dean had maybe five minutes to himself every day, between helping Bobby after breakfast and lunch, sitting with Sam and his homework after dinner, helping John catalogue research.
The weight came back on, Dean hit a real growth spurt and put on more muscle and life went on.
Sam knows it happened again after he left for Stanford. Dean had blurted it out one night, half asleep, half drunk, happy and content after a round of lazy fucking.
“Tell me some of that smart stuff you learned at school,” Dean mumbled against Sam’s collarbone.
Sam snorted. “Actually, I learned a lot of junk. It’s like high-school but bigger. They make you learn all this stuff, memorize it, regurgitate it back out when really, in the real world you either have time to look something up or you don’t, and then you’re dead.”
“So you didn’t get a chance to practice all your onomatopoeia or Newtonian physics or Freudian psychobabble?”
“Unfortunately, no. What about you?”
Dean turned his face and placed a sloppy kiss on Sam’s chest. “Smack. That’s about the extent of my onomatopoeia.”
Sam laughed. “No, I mean, what did you do after I… well after I…”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Left. It just kept getting stuck in his throat.
Dean shifted away from him, rolling onto his side, his back to Sam and Sam was immediately sorry he asked. He saw Dean’s shoulder move in a shrug. “Nothin’ much. Just… you know hunting and stuff. And then we were at Bobby’s for a while.” Dean’s voice was lazy and mumbled as he drifted in that place in between ‘asleep’ and ‘awake.’
“Yeah? How come?”
“‘cause it was too hard for Dad to watch me eat by himself.”
He said it casually, forgetfully as he fell asleep and Sam felt an iron vise clench tightly around his chest. Of course his leaving had triggered Dean. Of course. He wondered if he’d purposefully not thought about it before now. Convinced himself that Dean had been fine, Dad had been fine. Everything had been fucking fine.
But it hadn’t been.
He curled up behind Dean and was simultaneously glad he was asleep and sorry he wasn’t awake.
Twenty minutes later, Dean comes out of the bathroom finally. Sam checks his watch and pointedly looks at Dean.
Dean scowls.
“How long, Dean?” Sam asks.
“What?” Dean replies, tossing his dirty clothes into a garbage back for laundry later. “There’s plenty of hot water for you.”
Now that he’s looking he can tell Dean’s wearing three layers instead of two. He looks at Dean’s fingers and sees each one of his knuckles pronounced and jutting. His sweatpants, while never truly fitted, hang lower on his hipbones than they used to.
The socks should have been a dead give away. Dean hates wearing socks and once he started wearing them to bed, Sam should have known.
Except they haven’t been sharing a bed lately, so he didn’t notice the soft press of cotton covered feet against his legs.
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jesus, Dean. I know you. I know you. I know your body. And it took me longer than it should have to clue the fuck in. But I’m clued in now. So don’t stand there and waste time pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
For a couple of seconds, it’s a standoff. Sam sitting on the corner of the bed, open faced and waiting and Dean glaring back at him.
Dean’s shoulders sag, and he sighs. “Just a couple of weeks.”
Sam raises an eyebrow.
“Fine, a few weeks.”
Now that they’re talking about it, Sam’s completely unprepared and has no idea what to say. There’s a long pause of silence. Dean stretches out on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, staring up at the ceiling.
“You know it’s not about the food, right?” Sam hedges.
“Yes, I know it’s not about the fucking food, Sam,” Dean says angrily. “I’m not an idiot. I know it’s about control. But what the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Jesus, I want you to talk to me. Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
Dean flicks his eyes over to Sam, his gaze incredulous. “Because we’re known for our heartwarming bonding moments.”
“Did you think you could hide it from me?”
“Actually, yeah.”
That stings. It burrows it’s way into Sam’s chest like a wicked, twisted barb and it stings.
“How?” Sam asks.
Dean shrugs, not looking at Sam. “We’re busy. Looming apocalypse. I figured I had enough time to figure it out and get back on track before you noticed.”
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you. We’re fucking in this together.”
Dean sits up. “Yeah? Well if we’re so fucking together, then you eat.”
Sam buries his immediate angry response and takes a calming breath. “You gotta tell me what’s going on, Dean.” He immediately frowns at his choice of words. He didn’t mean to make it sound like he was forcing Dean to talk, like he’s taking control of the situation. “I mean, I can probably take a few good guesses, but I’d rather you told me.”
There’s another long, drawn out silence that just hangs in the air. Sam tries to wait patiently, he really does. His knee starts jigging. His fingers start tapping and after three minutes he decides that discretion is not the better part of valor.
“Dean.”
“Fuck, take your pick,” Dean exclaims. “We’re both slated to be meat suits and no matter what we do, it just keeps on looking like it will happen. We fight, we don’t fight, we get away, we get trapped, we gain allies, we lose allies, we lose family and nothing fucking changes. And every time I turn around I’m doing something I don’t fucking want to do. We keep getting backed into corners and it’s like… there’s no way out, man.”
Dean shakes his head, running his hand over his chin and Sam’s afraid to speak, afraid if he does Dean will clam up again and Sam won’t hear a peep until Dean’s lost another ten pounds.
“I know it’s not about the food, believe me I know,” continues Dean. “It’s fucked up but when I don’t eat, I feel… better. Calmer. Like it’s manageable.”
“But it doesn’t really solve anything,” Sam says lowly. “Does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” Dean’s tone is resigned, flat.
“Do you want to get better?”
Dean frowns at him. “Of course I want to get better.”
“I’m sorry, I gotta ask. You don’t talk to me so unless I ask…”
“I’m just tired, Sammy. I’m really fucking tired.”
What can he say to that? Sam feels like anything he says is going to sound like a platitude. So he stands up.
“All right, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Let’s go eat, right now.”
“Dude, it’s midnight.”
“So, you got a curfew I’m not aware of?”
“I’m not hungry,” Dean says automatically and then realizes how it sounds. “Just… don’t push me.”
“I don’t want to push you, but I don’t know how else to do this.”
“Tomorrow, okay. Tomorrow morning.”
Sam eyeballs Dean hard. Weighing Dean’s words, trying to figure out if Dean is just bullshitting him or really means it.
“I’m serious,” Sam finally says.
Dean sighs and shifts, getting under the covers of his bed. “I got it, Sam. You’re serious. But, tomorrow.”
Sam stands there with his hands on his hips as Dean flicks off his lamp and then turns on his side, back facing Sam. Sam watches Dean’s back for a few seconds, the rise and fall of his lungs barely discernible underneath the three layers of clothes.
Mind made up, Sam toes off his shoes, shimmies out of his jeans and shucks his shirt. He pulls the covers back quick and slides into bed with Dean, fitting his body together with Dean’s.
“Sam…” Dean warns, pulling away slightly. Sam snakes an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him in closer.
“Shut up, Dean.”
This close, their bodies pressed together, he can feel Dean’s spine, each vertebrae like cobblestones on a road leading up to the larger protrusion at the base of his neck. Under his arm, he can feel the Dean’s ribs, not quite poking out, but closer to the surface than he remembers, and the hard jut of collarbone under his fingertips.
“Stop pawing the merchandise,” Dean murmurs, body finally relaxing slightly against Sam.
Sam stills his wandering fingers. “Sorry.” He tips his head forward until his nose is resting against the back of Dean’s neck.
“Giant fucking sasquatch, you better not hog the covers.”
Characters (Pairings): Sam/Dean
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 2800ish
Summary: Written for the hoodie_time Comment Meme. Prompt: Skinny!sick!Dean and protective!Sam? Perhaps something bad has happened and Dean won't eat anymore. Gen or slash.
He should have seen it coming or figured it out sooner. And although Looming Apocalypse is pretty much the best damn reason for not noticing, it doesn’t make him feel any better.
The problem is, Dean’s a big guy. Fluctuation in his weight by 5 or even 10 pounds is not really all that noticeable - a smidgen off the legs, some off the torso, maybe a pinch from the arms. So by the time Sam notices he’s dropped weight, it’s likely twenty or thirty pounds.
They go through these rubber-band cycles, Sam and Dean; impossible closeness, followed by a long stretch away and then back again. There are times they are all over each other, stretches of days, weeks, months they’re all hands groping and fingers touching and pressing up against one another at every opportunity.
Then something seems to snap or break and they drift aimlessly away from one another. Still in the same room together, driving in the Impala side by side, fighting night after night next to each other, but crashing to separate beds, one of them going off for hours at a time just to be alone.
They’re in one of their apogees right now, and must have been when it started. Adding to that, despite the predicaments they generally find themselves, Dean hasn’t been seriously injured lately and Sam hasn’t had to tend to any wounds necessitating a removal of Dean’s clothes.
So when he gets fed up waiting for Dean to get out of the shower, convinced the motherfucker is using up all the hot water available to the entire eastern seaboard, and his bladder can’t take it anymore, Sam busts into the tiny hotel bathroom, cursing a blue streak. He was so focused on being angry, and frankly, being really fucking uncomfortable from a full bladder, that it’s not until he’s done that he turns to give Dean shit for taking so much time.
He opens his mouth to bitch him out and then closes it abruptly.
Dean’s thin.
He’s not ‘Trainspotting’ thin or emaciated, but Sam would guess that he’s lost about twenty to twenty five pounds, and on Dean it would be all muscle, his body turning on itself to find the energy to keep doing what they do.
He looks down at the pile of clothes Dean discarded before he went into the shower and sees four shirts. His eyes flick over to Dean’s toiletries, the way they are carefully lined up on the counter, in order of largest item [shaving cream] to smallest [razor and then floss]. Each one meticulously placed a millimeter from the edge. Dean’s fresh clothes are neatly folded and sitting on the counter, perfectly placed to be at the right place when Dean’s ready for them. Socks neatly balled up, shorts folded, three shirts and a pair of sweatpants, stacked.
The water shuts off and Dean drags the curtain back, eyes locking with Sam for a (mutinous) moment before he grabs a towel and slings it around his waist.
“What?” Dean asks defiantly.
Sam purses his lips and then leaves the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
Waiting for Dean to come out of the bathroom, Sam goes over the last few weeks in his head and sees all the things that he missed on the first go round.
Coming out of the shower himself and Dean is drinking coffee, pointing at a brown bag with muffins in it and a second coffee for Sam.
“Where’s yours?”
“Ate it on the ride back. Dude! I was starving!”
Sitting at a diner, tucking into his tuna melt and side salad, watching Dean pick at his food.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just feel off today.”
Waking up in the passenger seat of the Impala finding a bag of McDonald’s on his lap, looking at Dean quizzically.
“Ate while you were asleep, princess. You sleep like the dead.”
They’re together all the time so the amount of lying, the sheer effort Dean put into it makes Sam furious.
The kicker is, he knows it’s not about the food. It’s not about the weight. As with most people like Dean, it’s about the control.
He looks around the room and sees Dean’s nightstand is perfectly organized; cellphone and wallet precisely side by side, lamp straightened, book centered on the small table. Where as Sam’s is cluttered with bills, receipts, his own phone, a laptop cord.
Sam sighs. It’s never just about the food.
The first time, back when it had started or at least when it first became visible, Dean was sixteen and practically begging Dad to take him on every hunt. And if they were at Bobby’s or Pastor Jim’s then maybe, just maybe, Dean could go, leave Sam with adults who would keep him safe. But more often than not, Dean and Sam were left behind while Dad went off to fight some monster or another.
Sam’s not dumb, far from it. He can see exactly how Dean’s personality and their lifestyle pretty much came pre-packaged with some kind of eating disorder or mental illness. He guesses it’s just lucky that nothing else has surfaced.
So far.
At sixteen, Dean had already been lanky. And Jesus had he been pretty. Of course Sam’s biased, but there’s no mistaking the kind of pretty Dean had been. Still is.
He remembers watching Dean push food around on his plate. How Dean would perk up when he would hear the low rumble of a big car and then slouch again when it wasn’t Dad. How Dean hardly ever argued back, never said a word against John, just ‘yes, sir’ and started packing as soon as John gave the order.
How, when it boiled right down to it, food was about the only thing that Dean had control over.
He remembers walking into the bedroom one morning, searching for one of his textbooks, and catching Dean in his boxers, searching for something to wear.
He was all sharp angles and protrusions. At the time, he still thought Dean was the most beautiful thing he had seen, but even at twelve, he knew that something was wrong with him.
“You’re sick,” he had blurted out.
“Jesus, how about knocking?” Dean shot back, scrambling for clothes.
“It’s my room too! I don’t hafta knock,” he replied before he realized it was a distraction. “You’re skinny.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s called a growth-spurt, dickwad.”
Sam considered this and then shook his head. “Nope, you’re the same height.” He knows because he’s been getting taller and like little brothers everywhere, he measures his height not in feet and inches but in measurements of Dean.
“Just… knock it off, Sammy.”
It had been another month and at least ten more pounds before Sam could convince his father that something was wrong. After that, Dean lost control over eating too. John took three months off hunting, which should have been a sign of the world coming to the end, for all it happened. They moved in with Bobby and John put food in front of him and wouldn't let Dean leave until he ate it. Dean had maybe five minutes to himself every day, between helping Bobby after breakfast and lunch, sitting with Sam and his homework after dinner, helping John catalogue research.
The weight came back on, Dean hit a real growth spurt and put on more muscle and life went on.
Sam knows it happened again after he left for Stanford. Dean had blurted it out one night, half asleep, half drunk, happy and content after a round of lazy fucking.
“Tell me some of that smart stuff you learned at school,” Dean mumbled against Sam’s collarbone.
Sam snorted. “Actually, I learned a lot of junk. It’s like high-school but bigger. They make you learn all this stuff, memorize it, regurgitate it back out when really, in the real world you either have time to look something up or you don’t, and then you’re dead.”
“So you didn’t get a chance to practice all your onomatopoeia or Newtonian physics or Freudian psychobabble?”
“Unfortunately, no. What about you?”
Dean turned his face and placed a sloppy kiss on Sam’s chest. “Smack. That’s about the extent of my onomatopoeia.”
Sam laughed. “No, I mean, what did you do after I… well after I…”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Left. It just kept getting stuck in his throat.
Dean shifted away from him, rolling onto his side, his back to Sam and Sam was immediately sorry he asked. He saw Dean’s shoulder move in a shrug. “Nothin’ much. Just… you know hunting and stuff. And then we were at Bobby’s for a while.” Dean’s voice was lazy and mumbled as he drifted in that place in between ‘asleep’ and ‘awake.’
“Yeah? How come?”
“‘cause it was too hard for Dad to watch me eat by himself.”
He said it casually, forgetfully as he fell asleep and Sam felt an iron vise clench tightly around his chest. Of course his leaving had triggered Dean. Of course. He wondered if he’d purposefully not thought about it before now. Convinced himself that Dean had been fine, Dad had been fine. Everything had been fucking fine.
But it hadn’t been.
He curled up behind Dean and was simultaneously glad he was asleep and sorry he wasn’t awake.
Twenty minutes later, Dean comes out of the bathroom finally. Sam checks his watch and pointedly looks at Dean.
Dean scowls.
“How long, Dean?” Sam asks.
“What?” Dean replies, tossing his dirty clothes into a garbage back for laundry later. “There’s plenty of hot water for you.”
Now that he’s looking he can tell Dean’s wearing three layers instead of two. He looks at Dean’s fingers and sees each one of his knuckles pronounced and jutting. His sweatpants, while never truly fitted, hang lower on his hipbones than they used to.
The socks should have been a dead give away. Dean hates wearing socks and once he started wearing them to bed, Sam should have known.
Except they haven’t been sharing a bed lately, so he didn’t notice the soft press of cotton covered feet against his legs.
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jesus, Dean. I know you. I know you. I know your body. And it took me longer than it should have to clue the fuck in. But I’m clued in now. So don’t stand there and waste time pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
For a couple of seconds, it’s a standoff. Sam sitting on the corner of the bed, open faced and waiting and Dean glaring back at him.
Dean’s shoulders sag, and he sighs. “Just a couple of weeks.”
Sam raises an eyebrow.
“Fine, a few weeks.”
Now that they’re talking about it, Sam’s completely unprepared and has no idea what to say. There’s a long pause of silence. Dean stretches out on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, staring up at the ceiling.
“You know it’s not about the food, right?” Sam hedges.
“Yes, I know it’s not about the fucking food, Sam,” Dean says angrily. “I’m not an idiot. I know it’s about control. But what the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Jesus, I want you to talk to me. Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
Dean flicks his eyes over to Sam, his gaze incredulous. “Because we’re known for our heartwarming bonding moments.”
“Did you think you could hide it from me?”
“Actually, yeah.”
That stings. It burrows it’s way into Sam’s chest like a wicked, twisted barb and it stings.
“How?” Sam asks.
Dean shrugs, not looking at Sam. “We’re busy. Looming apocalypse. I figured I had enough time to figure it out and get back on track before you noticed.”
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you. We’re fucking in this together.”
Dean sits up. “Yeah? Well if we’re so fucking together, then you eat.”
Sam buries his immediate angry response and takes a calming breath. “You gotta tell me what’s going on, Dean.” He immediately frowns at his choice of words. He didn’t mean to make it sound like he was forcing Dean to talk, like he’s taking control of the situation. “I mean, I can probably take a few good guesses, but I’d rather you told me.”
There’s another long, drawn out silence that just hangs in the air. Sam tries to wait patiently, he really does. His knee starts jigging. His fingers start tapping and after three minutes he decides that discretion is not the better part of valor.
“Dean.”
“Fuck, take your pick,” Dean exclaims. “We’re both slated to be meat suits and no matter what we do, it just keeps on looking like it will happen. We fight, we don’t fight, we get away, we get trapped, we gain allies, we lose allies, we lose family and nothing fucking changes. And every time I turn around I’m doing something I don’t fucking want to do. We keep getting backed into corners and it’s like… there’s no way out, man.”
Dean shakes his head, running his hand over his chin and Sam’s afraid to speak, afraid if he does Dean will clam up again and Sam won’t hear a peep until Dean’s lost another ten pounds.
“I know it’s not about the food, believe me I know,” continues Dean. “It’s fucked up but when I don’t eat, I feel… better. Calmer. Like it’s manageable.”
“But it doesn’t really solve anything,” Sam says lowly. “Does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” Dean’s tone is resigned, flat.
“Do you want to get better?”
Dean frowns at him. “Of course I want to get better.”
“I’m sorry, I gotta ask. You don’t talk to me so unless I ask…”
“I’m just tired, Sammy. I’m really fucking tired.”
What can he say to that? Sam feels like anything he says is going to sound like a platitude. So he stands up.
“All right, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Let’s go eat, right now.”
“Dude, it’s midnight.”
“So, you got a curfew I’m not aware of?”
“I’m not hungry,” Dean says automatically and then realizes how it sounds. “Just… don’t push me.”
“I don’t want to push you, but I don’t know how else to do this.”
“Tomorrow, okay. Tomorrow morning.”
Sam eyeballs Dean hard. Weighing Dean’s words, trying to figure out if Dean is just bullshitting him or really means it.
“I’m serious,” Sam finally says.
Dean sighs and shifts, getting under the covers of his bed. “I got it, Sam. You’re serious. But, tomorrow.”
Sam stands there with his hands on his hips as Dean flicks off his lamp and then turns on his side, back facing Sam. Sam watches Dean’s back for a few seconds, the rise and fall of his lungs barely discernible underneath the three layers of clothes.
Mind made up, Sam toes off his shoes, shimmies out of his jeans and shucks his shirt. He pulls the covers back quick and slides into bed with Dean, fitting his body together with Dean’s.
“Sam…” Dean warns, pulling away slightly. Sam snakes an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him in closer.
“Shut up, Dean.”
This close, their bodies pressed together, he can feel Dean’s spine, each vertebrae like cobblestones on a road leading up to the larger protrusion at the base of his neck. Under his arm, he can feel the Dean’s ribs, not quite poking out, but closer to the surface than he remembers, and the hard jut of collarbone under his fingertips.
“Stop pawing the merchandise,” Dean murmurs, body finally relaxing slightly against Sam.
Sam stills his wandering fingers. “Sorry.” He tips his head forward until his nose is resting against the back of Dean’s neck.
“Giant fucking sasquatch, you better not hog the covers.”