14
It’s a fucking cliché (and he should know the answer by now) but Dean spends a lot of time wondering how the hell this happened.
How did he end up alone in a motel room, with only his squalling loaf of a brother for company, when a week ago he was being kissed goodnight by his mother?
How did he end up in the hospital with his shoulder blade in three pieces, his father pacing and angry, Sammy’s head on his knee?
They don’t talk about hell (where the fuck would you start?) but if he did talk about it, he’d say the biggest shock wasn’t the horror or pain, but the fact that he has had to go on living and he’s not the man he used to be. I shouldn’t have to be alive, he thinks sometimes, in the night, and doesn’t know what the hell it is he’d rather be.
A week ago, Sam smiled at him in the car and didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know (he’s seen the blood on the discarded tissues, he’s not an idiot, Sammy) and they laughed together and the car filled with something that was half fear and half hope.
What the hell happened.
***
He doesn’t hunt. He says gruff things about “taking some downtime” when Garth calls or Cas comes around, because that’s all this is. Downtime. Man down.
Sam’s curled up on the floor under a blanket. Dean drops the drugstore bags and shit goes everywhere. “Fuck, Sammy.”
“Sorry…” Sam doubles in on himself, coughing, and Dean slips a hand between his brother’s head and the hardwood. “Unmade your bed…”
“Shut up. Why are you on the floor?”
Sam shivers and pulls the blanket over his head.
“You couldn’t make it to the bed, could you.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Fuck, Sam.”
Sam’s answer is lost in violent coughing. One arm snakes up around his head and the other tightens on his abdomen, and fuck, that’s too much blood, holy shit.
“Hey!” Dean hauls his brother off the floor, adjusts the blanket over his shoulders, leans forward with Sam pressed to his chest. “Easy, Sammy. Breathe. Hey. C’mon, breathe in, you got this.”
Sam’s hand scrabbles at Dean’s knee.
“I know, buddy. C’mon. In.”
The inhale is more of a gasp, and he coughs it back out with a whimper. “D-Dean…”
Dean cups his brother’s throat, so, so gently. “I know. I gotcha.”
***
The humidifier gives the whole room a hazy feel and makes the air visible and thick. Sam breathes wetly, propped up on pillows and sipping a mug of soup.
Dean swaps back and forth between a spellbook and a Physician’s Desk Reference and can’t really read either one. Too much fucking Latin. This is Sam’s job.
Lung cancer, lung cancer, lung cancer, the internet taunts him. Dean slams the computer shut. Nope.
Sam says, “Dean, you know I’m gonna be okay, right?”
And then he coughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes (or maybe he’s just crying) (or maybe that’s just Dean) and Dean grips his shoulders and cups his chin and holds on while his brother bleeds into his hands.
What the hell happened.
How did he end up alone in a motel room, with only his squalling loaf of a brother for company, when a week ago he was being kissed goodnight by his mother?
How did he end up in the hospital with his shoulder blade in three pieces, his father pacing and angry, Sammy’s head on his knee?
They don’t talk about hell (where the fuck would you start?) but if he did talk about it, he’d say the biggest shock wasn’t the horror or pain, but the fact that he has had to go on living and he’s not the man he used to be. I shouldn’t have to be alive, he thinks sometimes, in the night, and doesn’t know what the hell it is he’d rather be.
A week ago, Sam smiled at him in the car and didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know (he’s seen the blood on the discarded tissues, he’s not an idiot, Sammy) and they laughed together and the car filled with something that was half fear and half hope.
What the hell happened.
***
He doesn’t hunt. He says gruff things about “taking some downtime” when Garth calls or Cas comes around, because that’s all this is. Downtime. Man down.
Sam’s curled up on the floor under a blanket. Dean drops the drugstore bags and shit goes everywhere. “Fuck, Sammy.”
“Sorry…” Sam doubles in on himself, coughing, and Dean slips a hand between his brother’s head and the hardwood. “Unmade your bed…”
“Shut up. Why are you on the floor?”
Sam shivers and pulls the blanket over his head.
“You couldn’t make it to the bed, could you.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Fuck, Sam.”
Sam’s answer is lost in violent coughing. One arm snakes up around his head and the other tightens on his abdomen, and fuck, that’s too much blood, holy shit.
“Hey!” Dean hauls his brother off the floor, adjusts the blanket over his shoulders, leans forward with Sam pressed to his chest. “Easy, Sammy. Breathe. Hey. C’mon, breathe in, you got this.”
Sam’s hand scrabbles at Dean’s knee.
“I know, buddy. C’mon. In.”
The inhale is more of a gasp, and he coughs it back out with a whimper. “D-Dean…”
Dean cups his brother’s throat, so, so gently. “I know. I gotcha.”
***
The humidifier gives the whole room a hazy feel and makes the air visible and thick. Sam breathes wetly, propped up on pillows and sipping a mug of soup.
Dean swaps back and forth between a spellbook and a Physician’s Desk Reference and can’t really read either one. Too much fucking Latin. This is Sam’s job.
Lung cancer, lung cancer, lung cancer, the internet taunts him. Dean slams the computer shut. Nope.
Sam says, “Dean, you know I’m gonna be okay, right?”
And then he coughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes (or maybe he’s just crying) (or maybe that’s just Dean) and Dean grips his shoulders and cups his chin and holds on while his brother bleeds into his hands.
What the hell happened.