seeing double
hoo, this was written pretty fast. and i am halfway out the door on my way to the east bay and running late and disregarding the fact that it probably needs another read-through or two. damn the torpedoes, etc etc.
sam/dean, pg-13. 5127 words long (insanely short for me!).
Be Awake
By Candle Beck
Dean got the worst of their climactic fight with the spirit, mostly when he was flung into the side of a mausoleum so hard he bounced, and it kinda felt like he had cleats embedded in his sternum but he still insisted on driving once they'd prevailed. His immediate surroundings were losing definition at the edges, spinning and overly complicated and he needed something inarguable, something he knew as well as the Impala.
Sam's hands reeked of accelerant, pounding spikes into Dean's fuddled brain, and he clutched the keys like a crucifix in a room of vampires, glaring at his brother. Sam was filthy with soot and dirt, blackfaced, almost unrecognizable. He was holding his shoulder, hunched down in the seat, and he squinted at Dean, looking pained.
"What? Drive."
Dean shook his head, distantly confused. He'd forgotten what he'd meant to say. He'd never intended to say anything to begin with. It was too much for him right now. He started the car, gazed at the pretty wash of the highbeams across the lacework of cemetery trees, the shaven grass green as a parrot, and he was trying to tell if one headlight was shining brighter than the other when Sam punched him and said:
"Dude, drive,"
and Dean thought that sounded like a pretty good idea. He grinned kinda messily at his brother, thinking how lucky it was Sam had that big brain on him, and steered them out of the cemetery, back towards the highway.
Dean's left eye stung and when he rubbed it his fingers came away wet, shining. He blinked at them, flashing red in the intermittent streetlight, and said, "Hey look, Sammy, I'm bleeding."
He held out his hand for Sam to see, watched Sam's eyes flicker and catch and go wide, panic lighting him up and taking years off, and Dean had time to think that it was a good look for him, abject terror, and then he passed out on the steering wheel.
*
Dean regained consciousness slow, like defrost clearing a windshield in the cold, bits of awareness filtering to him. He was in the Impala, and she was moving. He was lying on the seat, his legs twisted into the seat well, muscles in his side pulled taut. He was trying to figure who the fuck had mangled his Appetite for Destruction tape but then he realized that was Sam, speed-mumbling the lyrics of 'Sweet Child o' Mine' and humming bizarrely through the guitar parts. There was something on Dean's face, some coarse bit of cloth, and Sam had his hand plastered across it, holding him sightless, keeping Dean's head pressed to the car seat.
"What. The fuck," Dean asked dully, muffled. Sam cut off his lousy singing, surprised, and drew in a breath. His fingers squeezed Dean's face slightly.
"Are you okay?"
"If you'd let me the fuck up," Dean snapped, his head throbbing furiously and when he tried to press up Sam countered with exactly no effort, fingers flexing against the cloth, keeping him pinned. "Sam."
"I'm trying to apply pressure to your massive head wound, do you mind?"
Dean stopped squirming, trying to gauge how much of that was bullshit. His head hurt enough to be massively wounded, that was true enough, bristling with splinters and ice, skull fragments, god knows. There was that frayed undertone to Sam's voice, rasped and worried even if he tried to play it off like he was just annoyed. The cloth was sticky, scratchy with blood and Sam's fingers were flat and hard across Dean's temple, glued in place.
"Dean?"
"'m okay," Dean said, resigning himself to it. "Don't let my brains leak out, Sam."
Sam snorted. "I'm not sure that would be a noticeable change."
Dean twisted his head, tried to bite at Sam's fingers but Sam was too quick and pulled away, the cloth coming unstuck from Dean's head, peeled off like a band-aid and it wasn't pleasant. It made Dean dizzy, a sloshing sensation in his brain. Dean dropped his head back on the seat, moaning a little, and Sam's giant hand came to rest again, pressing harder this time, holding Dean in place.
"Knock it off," Sam told him, and his voice broke and so Dean decided to go along with it. He was tired, anyway, sleepy. "And don't fall asleep." Sam could evidently now read minds.
"Don' tell me what t'do."
Dean's mouth touched the slick of the seat, his lips mashed. He focused on the dig of Sam's fingertips through the cloth, pieces of heavy gold laid on his temple. Sam's fingerprints would seep through to tattoo Dean's skin, blood for ink which was only appropriate. It was a disconcerting thing to think.
Dean wished he could get this damnable thick smog out of his perception, driven astray by a glowing haze of pain and endorphins and all sorts of messed up shit. He rubbed his nose on the leather, felt the buzz of the car hurtling around him, and took some comfort in it. His car didn't care if he kept passing out, she loved him anyway.
"Dean?"
Sam again. Sam always and forever, and Dean didn't particularly like that thought. There was more to him than his brother, surely. His dependence on Sam wasn't as elemental as it sometimes felt; it wasn't like oxygen and hydrogen and neither of them making sense on their own because they were meant to be water the whole time. It wasn't anything like that.
"Hey, Dean." Sam tapped his thumb on Dean's cheek, returning him to dry land. "Be awake, Dean."
"Yeah Sam," and Dean was turning his face up, into Sam's hand which stayed affixed to his temple but shifted, curved across his eyes, cloth scuffing Dean's forehead. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," Dean mumbled, blind, and he didn't even notice when he lost consciousness again.
*
The next time Dean woke up, he was alone in the car. There was a T-shirt on his head in place of the cloth, but the worst of the bleeding appeared to have stopped because it was still mostly clean.
He sat up carefully, lifting his head in gentle stages. It felt sodden, dense and overweight, the muscles in his neck trembling. The world beyond the windshield was a smear of streetlight and neon; nothing would come into focus. The long shape of the lights, white card of an illegible marquee, seemed like something Dean should recognize even with his vision drowned like this.
Dean lay back down. He was sick to his stomach and dimly scared because he couldn't pull himself together, everything diffuse and out of order. But it was okay, it was fine: Sam was out there somewhere. This was why you equipped yourself with a brother; this was the big reward. Dean was just going to rest up for a minute and pretty soon Sam would be back, once again here to hold Dean's mind together with his bare hands.
*
Dean revived to find himself jackknifed over his brother's shoulder, all the blood having rushed to his head. It was more than a little disorienting, Sam's arm a tight band across his legs and Dean's head jostling against his back with every step. Dean hollered all choked with fury, astonished and mortified, and whipped his elbow into the back of Sam's head, thrashed right off him.
It was a long way down to the ground.
Dean hit hard enough to raise a cloud of dust, a meaty thwack on the concrete. Every bone in his body felt cracked, his wind gone, and he wished to god that he would black out again but no, this was a moment he was going to live crystal clear, pain in technicolor.
"Jesus Christ, Dean." Sam dropped to his knees beside him, his face knotted with anger and concern. "Do you want to have to go to the hospital? Are you okay? You stupid jerk, fuck."
Dean gasped at him, trying to glare but it was difficult, the whole thing was so difficult right now. Sam's hands fluttered over him nervously, not sure where to set down. Dean concentrated on breathing, his lungs in spasms. He felt like one huge bruise.
"Don't," Dean finally managed, sucking at air. "Fuckin'. Carry me."
Sam sat back on his heels, disbelief wiping his face for a second before his jaw tightened and his eyes flashed. He bent over Dean, baring his teeth and Dean flinched back but that was just a lizard brain thing, he was sure of it. He wasn't scared of Sam, for christ's sake.
"You passed out behind the wheel, you do not get a say."
Dean stared at him, appalled. "I would never."
Sam laughed, no humor in it at all. "'fraid so, champ. Lucky for you it's nothing but plains out here, and I got quick reflexes."
Pushing himself up, a barbed wire jerked through his head and Dean hissed, batted Sam's hands away when he reached to steady him. He shot his brother a filthy look, sneering, not believing him for a second.
"Goddamn liar," Dean muttered. Sam blew out an irritated breath, and Dean stared at his hands braced on the cement as he heard Sam get to his feet.
"Fine. Get to the room your own damn self." Sam paced away, said over his shoulder, "If you can even remember the number," and Dean hated that he was right (Sam was always motherfucking right), but he had to look up, see which room Sam went into, before dropping his head onto his knees and gathering his strength for the trip.
He checked on the Impala first because he wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise, and she was fine, beautiful. Sam was a dirty rotten liar because she was pretty as ever, maybe matte with dust and marred by minor dings and scratches but that was just the job. Sam just wanted him to feel bad but Dean was too smart for him.
He staggered back to the rooms, completely forgot which one was theirs and wandered up and down the length of the block for some unremembered period of time. There was a waning moon jolting across the sky, the stars burring like static, and Dean got exhausted, winded, his eyes over-full.
Sam found him sitting on a concrete parking block, his knees pulled to his chest and his face turned to the sky. Dean's head hurt very badly, and he wasn't sure why.
Sam crouched next to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, man," he said, sounding strange and rough.
Dean leaned into him, his relief unspeakable. He let Sam pull him up, let Sam take most of his weight and steer him down the length of interchangeable rooms. It was okay not to know what was going on as long as Sam was around. He was more solid than regular people, sure as the earth against Dean's body.
"I'm sorry," Sam said as he sat Dean down on the bed, stepped back. He had a hard flush on his face, a downcast shadow in his eyes. "Shouldn't have gotten mad, I, I shouldn't have left you out there."
Dean shook his head, smiling dazedly at him. Sam's edges were blurred and his hair looked funny, fuzzing out like a halo, but the lines of his face stayed sharp, Dean's last remaining constant. He couldn't remember what Sam was talking about, but he said:
"It's okay, Sammy,"
because it was, and Sam would see that, Sam was smart. Dean wanted to get that serious look off his brother's face, win a smile from him no matter how far south the night had gone, but the fog was building in his mind again, rolling down hills to obscure his cities, ground his airplanes, wreck his ships.
Dean held his wavering head steady, fixed his eyes on Sam's face with the last of his focus. He managed to say, "Exit light," and then pitched backwards on the bed.
*
He woke up shivering.
He was wearing substantially fewer clothes, his outer shirts stripped away and his muddy boots and socks removed. Not being dressed the same as he was when he fell asleep made Dean suspect that the whole thing had just been a dream. His head still hurt. Maybe his head would always hurt from now on.
"Dean? You awake?"
Sam! Dean's heart clutched, stuttered. He was in such a weird mood.
"Yep," Dean said. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why he was shaking, why the pillow under his head felt so cold.
"You feel okay? You need to throw up or anything?"
Dean thought about it. He rested one hand on his stomach. "Nah."
He heard the carpet-scraping sound of Sam getting to his feet, coming to stand over Dean. Sam stuck his hands in his pockets like he didn't trust them out on their own. Dean tried to smile at him but it felt odd, unnatural.
"You should try to stop passing out," Sam told him. His eyebrows were pulled down, making him look solemn and old and Dean wished he would stop.
"You should try biting me," he replied absently. His skin felt like it was trying to honest-to-god escape, tremble and chatter and detach from his flesh and what the hell would he do then.
"You've got a concussion," Sam said. Dean glared at him.
"I know that. You think I don't know that?"
Sam was always underestimating him, Dean thought uncharitably. Dean knew some shit; you didn't have to go to college to learn about concussions, that was for goddamn sure. Dean had had more than your average defense line, and you couldn't buy that kinda experience.
It was a good thing he was already laying down, dizziness spiraling through him again but Dean fought it off, rode it out. Sam was watching him too carefully, his mouth set small and tense.
"Could you turn up the heat or something," Dean finally asked, rubbing his forearms together like sticks for a fire, slowly freezing to death.
Sam's eyes widened, and his hands jerked out of his pockets. "Um. Your hair's wet. That pillow--here." Sam grabbed a pillow from off his bed, hesitated before saying, "Just, hold still, all right."
Dean didn't really trust him but it wasn't like he had a lot of leverage at the moment, so he let Sam cup a hand under his neck, the base of his skull, and keep it steady as he switched out the damp pillow for the dry. It all happened very quickly and without a seam, not much more than three seconds that Sam had Dean's head cradled in one hand. It still had an effect.
Sam stepped back, breathing uncertainly, and visibly second-guessed himself a few times before pulling the blanket off his own bed and draping it haphazardly across his brother. Sam wouldn't meet his eyes, his face crimson and the corner of his lip bitten.
"There you go. Now. Don't fall asleep." Sam turned away, and Dean didn't like that one bit, said his name sharply and watched, semi-amazed as Sam jerked back around like he was on a string.
"Dude, why the hell is my hair wet?" Dean lifted one hand gingerly, squeaking damp strands between his fingertips.
"Because you were a bloody mess. And I didn't wanna look at you like that for however long until you could wash it out yourself."
It took Dean a minute to piece that together, fascinated by the skinny sleek bits of hair he was toying with, the patch of gauze taped over his temple, this ever-distracting windstorm of a headache. He stopped suddenly, looked at Sam aghast.
"You washed my hair?"
"Oh my god." Sam pressed his hands over his face, beseeching unknown forces for strength. "I scrubbed your head with a wet towel, you freak."
Dean wasn't necessarily appeased, but he grumped more quietly, tugging at the blanket and fixing it the way he liked it. He was warm and getting warmer, and it was one of those essential human joys, but that didn't mean he was gonna thank Sam or something, not after all the indignities he'd suffered tonight at the hands of his little brother.
Sam was rubbing his shoulder unconsciously, his gaze trained on Dean like a sharpshooter. Dean glared back at him, not liking the scrutiny, but Sam didn't bother acting like he cared.
"You're takin' advantage of this whole situation," Dean accused sleepily. "You probably gave me the concussion to begin with, just so you could mess with me."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Can't take credit for this one, buddy, it was all you."
"Lies lies lies. I don't know why I put up with you." Dean closed his eyes, tipped his face up. He tried to make every muscle go slack but his body wouldn't allow it, kept him taut and ready.
There was a hushing sound as Sam sighed, and the pain in Dean's head rolled and bucked like a current, an undertow. His nausea came back, a taste like brine in the back of his throat. He'd never liked the sea.
The bed dipped as Sam sat down beside him. Dean frowned without opening his eyes. He was so tired and he didn't know what Sam's motivations were but he was still lucid enough to be wary.
"Dean?"
Dean grunted. "I'll let you know if I slip into a coma, Sam, okay?"
"Dean."
Dean exhaled, slitted his eyes open. Sam was looking down at him, face all pinched and worn at the corners of his mouth, the new lines around his eyes. It made something wrench in Dean's chest, the way Sam looked eroded and numb, one hand still folded around his own shoulder.
"I really am okay," Dean told him, wishing that Sam would just believe him for once in his damn life. "I'd tell you if I wasn't."
"No you wouldn't," Sam replied without heat. "It's just. It's very unnerving, seeing you faint."
"Dude, it wasn't fainting," Dean said, his hand curling against his face, agonized by his brother. "It was blacking out manfully. Like a boxer. Or a cowboy."
Sam angled a look from the corner of his eye. "A cowboy?"
"If there had been a horse trough," Dean explained seriously, "I woulda fallen into it."
"Well." Sam was trying not to smile, a dent where his cheek was sucked in. "Next time, I guess."
"Next time," Dean said agreeably, and shut his eyes again. Looking at Sam was having some strange alchemic effect on him, mixing with the head injury and exhaustion and lateness of the hour. Sam's watchful eyes, his big hands, the way his mouth twisted specially when he was upset with his brother, and all of it rattled through Dean, tightened something low in his stomach.
Sam touched his forehead, fingers close to the taped edge of the gauze, where Dean's skin was tender and stretched. Dean flinched, and Sam's hand hesitated, settled back down again.
"Hey," Sam said, passing his fingertips down Dean's nose, across his cheek. His thumb curved over Dean's jaw and Dean held perfectly still, not at all sure that this wasn't another result of having brain trauma. "Be awake, Dean."
And Dean started to say, yeah yeah, but he didn't really get a chance because Sam was kissing him, quick and hard. It was a whole different kind of blow to the head, Sam's mouth sealed against his, a breath stolen straight from his lungs, and the world reeled sideways, everything in Dean jolted suddenly to the surface.
Sam sucked Dean's lower lip, took it between his teeth for a moment, and then let him go, leaned back. He kept his hand on Dean's face, long fingers bracketed across his cheek, holding Dean in place and it was probably at least eighty percent in self-defense. Sam looked plainly shocked, as if he'd had no part of kissing his brother, as if some other Sam Winchester were to blame.
Dean gaped, his mouth half-open and feeling burned, scored. He wanted to press his fingers against his lips, check for blood, but he knew it wasn't like that. The burn of it, the fact that it had hurt at least as much as it was good, that was just Sam and Dean like always.
"Dude," Dean said, his voice disappointingly squeaky. "I have a head injury."
Sam's expression plummeted, darkened to despair and humiliation and he was nodding fast, kneading at the blanket nervously and not looking at Dean. "I know, I'm sorry. That was really stupid, I, I, I know you don't--it's just the concussion, I get it. It's okay."
Sam stood up as if to leave and Dean felt a visceral no rip through him, but Sam only hovered uncertainly for a second before his knees gave and he fell back on the bed, dropped his face in his hands.
"Fuck. I'm a fucking idiot," Sam said to his palms.
Dean nodded, laid his hand on Sam's back. "Yeah, you are."
Shuddering on a sigh, Sam dug his hands into his hair, bent over his knees. Dean didn't particularly like watching him tear himself up about it, but Sam was just so good at it. Dean was in a daze, feeling tuned a few seconds into the future, watching the scene unfold, his hand moving slowly across his brother's back.
"I'm really sorry," Sam said. He sounded broken and Dean decided that was just about enough of that.
"Yeah," he said, and sat all the way up, pushed Sam's shirt up his back and let his palms skate across all that clean bare skin. Sam gasped, jerking back against Dean's hands, and Dean leaned his chin on Sam's shoulder, said low into his ear, "You can shut up now, Sammy."
Sam shivered, his skin burring, and he bit into the heel of his own hand to obey, folded over his knees with his whole back on offer to Dean. Dean's head spun, broke out of its orbit for long moments as he pressed his hands and arms to Sam's back, drunk on the feel. He put his mouth on Sam's spine and Sam made a wild noise beneath him, smothered and choked but life-changing all the same.
Dean pulled back, rolled his forehead on Sam's shoulder, breathing hard. Silver stars sparkled across his vision and he could feel Sam, taste him, none of it quite real. He almost passed out again, all his weight on his brother's back, but he refused, clawed his way towards sunlight.
"Have a head injury," he mumbled into the nape of Sam's neck, catching Sam's little twitches. "Startin' something I can't finish."
Sam blew out a groaning half-laugh, and Dean felt him nodding, his hair getting in Dean's mouth. Dean rested his face on the back of Sam's neck, utterly comfortable for a second, then peeled off, fell back on the bed. His head sparked with pain, a disgruntled flare, but it didn't last--Dean didn't let it. He was invincible, untouchable.
Sam turned to look at him, badly flushed and biting back a smile with what looked like all his strength. Dean didn't have to worry about looking stupid or sappy because he had a head injury, and he grinned at his brother, so fond of him he ached.
"Um," Sam said intelligently. His face was a blistering color, his eyes huge and freaked-out and dangerously overjoyed and Dean couldn't look at him for too long. "You, uh. You're gonna wanna finish it, though, right? When you're, um, a little less concussed?"
Dean rolled his eyes. Sam could be so dumb sometimes. "Duh."
"Oh. Well." Sam picked at the bedspread, his eyes down and his teeth working on the inside of his lip. "Good."
He flicked his eyes at Dean, half-smiled. All blurred and smoothed of his lines, Sam looked soft, impossibly easy to touch, and Dean was worn-out just thinking about all the stuff he was gonna do to him. He yawned, turning his face into the pillow.
"C'n I go to sleep now?" Dean asked. His mind was already fragmenting, breaking up like shrapnel. "'s there any other natural laws you want us to break?"
Sam blushed even worse, rolled his eyes and flicked at Dean's forehead. Dean grinned up at him, thinking that it was probably just the concussion making the world seem so edgeless and unthreatening. It was only because he'd been hit in the head that Sam seemed like such a good idea.
"I'll wake you up in a couple hours," Sam said, voice low and warm. "No comas."
"No comas," Dean repeated, and then he said, "Sam," just because he wanted to say it, and then Sam touched his forehead again and he sank back into the black.
THE END