We Meet Again
Title: We Meet Again
Author: Neonchica
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Really only the first episode.
Authors Notes: This was written for roque_clasique in honor of her birthday! She has a little comment-fic memme going on over at her lj page, here that I was inspired to try! Yay, go me! Anyway, this should be considered AU as I pretty much just sent Sam away to college and never picked him up again. This is written as though none of the events from the series ever happened and Dean and John kept on with business as usual. Happy Birthday, girl! Hope you enjoy...
Written for the prompt: Dean and Sam see one another after a long time, and Dean has been permanently injured in some way and is trying to hide it from Sam.
~~~~
It’s been five years since they’ve seen each other, five years since they’ve spoken. So it’s only normal that Dean would do a double-take at the giant who walks into the no-name bar in the middle of nowhere.
His hair is shorter, build larger, and he walks with a confidence he never possessed before. But Dean would recognize his baby brother anywhere, no matter how much he’s grown up since leaving home at 18.
With a muttered ‘shit’ Dean sinks lower into his seat and tries to hide. It’s too late to get up and leave, not if he wants to remain incognito, at least. But really, he does not want to see Sam. Too much has happened. Too much he can’t explain. Too much he doesn’t want to talk about.
But his gut tells him a meeting is inevitable, and before he can regret anything he subtly tucks his crutches into the empty booth behind him and buries his nose in the beer he’s been nursing for the past hour.
Just as he’d feared, his brother takes just enough time to order a drink before turning and scanning the bar - for what, Dean can’t fathom. He and dad are two states away from California, in Washington, and the last Dean had checked his little brother was happily soaking up knowledge at Stanford Law School. Near as Dean can tell, he’s not supposed to be anywhere near Wenatchee.
“Dean?” The call is a mixture of surprise and incredulity, comes from just far enough away that Dean has exactly six seconds to school his features and put on a feigned look of shock and joy.
“Sammy!” Dean cries out, pretends to be ecstatic that his wayward brother has just walked back into his life after such a long absence. And, in a way, he supposes he is thrilled to see him. Because, face it, he’s missed his little brother. And there is no denying the fact that, while in the hospital, it was Sam’s face he was constantly wishing would appear in the doorframe. But now - now that Dean has moved beyond the initial need for his brother’s helping hand - Dean can’t help but feel his gut clench with fear and shame, and a strong desire to get Sam gone before he can throw out the pitying stares and the demanding questions that Dean knows are sure to come.
“Oh my god, Dean, I can’t believe you’re here. Of all places!” There is nothing but genuine joy in Sam’s words, his smile, the sparkle in his eyes as he moves in, lowering himself to Dean’s level and offering a boisterous hug.
Dean turns himself ever so slightly, embracing Sam back and saving a wince until his brother can’t see it, clearing the pain from his face before they release. “Of all places? What are you doing here?”
Sam smiles, huffs a brief laugh as he motions his chin towards the opposite bench seat with a questioning glance. Dean nods, and Sam sits.
“My girlfriends’ folks live up here. We’re just in town for the long weekend. Her brother is supposed to be meeting me here, but it looks like he got held up at work.”
Mentally, Dean kicks himself. Of course, Jess. How could he forget? But still, what are the chances that Sam happens to be in this town on this weekend at this particular bar? Someone up there must really hate him.
“Where’s dad?” At this, Sam sounds slightly wary, and Dean watches with slight amusement as Sam carefully scans the bar for any sign of the man.
“Researching a hunt,” Dean says casually, as though he hadn’t just been abandoned again, so that his father could track his latest prey unhindered. He hasn’t seen the man in two days, but lately that’s par for the course. Just has to keep reminding himself that he, at least, does come back. Which is more than he can say for Sam.
Sam visibly relaxes. He takes a swig of beer and another glance around the bar, this time more nonchalantly. “So how’ve you been?”
It’s amazing how quickly the conversation goes to awkward, neither of them really knowing what to say to the other, avoiding taboo subjects.
Dean nods, gulps more of his own beer than he has in the whole time he’s been in possession of it. He’s really not supposed to be drinking on the pain killers he’s on, but sometimes he just needs the taste of beer. And a few sips don’t really hurt anything. Much more and he gets loopy - at best. “I’ve been good,” he lies. “You know - same old, same old. Dad’s all about finding the demon and we just pick up whatever random jobs come along in the interim.”
“He’s always been very single minded,” Sam agrees, and it’s the best he can come up with without starting some kind of fight. He and Dean have never seen eye to eye on their father, and it doesn’t seem like five years apart is going to have changed that much.
“And you?” Dean asks. “Things are good?”
Once again, Sam seems to relax as he falls into several minutes worth of discussion about school and Jess and juggling a clerk’s job at a law firm on top of everything else. He seems happy, content. Dean can’t help but feel somewhat resentful of Sam’s good fortune when his own has been anything but.
As the evening goes on Sam buys Dean another beer, and then a third. Dean does his best to go slow, but it’s hard when he suddenly finds himself falling into a depression that he hasn’t experienced in months…since the accident. Eventually his eyes begin to droop, words start slurring, and Sam makes some joke about him becoming a lightweight in his old age.
And then, blessedly, Sam’s phone rings. He excuses himself to answer it, turns just slightly away in an effort to make the call more private, then soon hangs up with a grim expression on his face. “That was Jess,” he says. “I gotta go - apparently they’re having some family drama. Something with her brother…you know, the guy-”
Who was supposed to meet you’re here, Dean fills in silently as he nods his understanding. Secretly, he’s glad Sam’s being called away. Because he’s not sure he could stay awake much longer. As it is, he doesn’t know how he’s getting himself back to the motel now that he’s drunk off his ass on 3 beers and a shit-ton of pain meds. And speaking of which, damnit, he’s about do for more.
Sam stands, does sort of a stutter-step over to Dean because, yeah, strangely it’s a bit more awkward doing the whole good-bye hug after they’ve been talking for awhile than it was to do the spontaneous “long time no see” hug at the beginning. And Dean still isn’t getting up, isn’t meeting him halfway, and that certainly doesn’t help to make any of this easier.
But they do manage some semblance of a good-bye, a pat on the back rolling into a hand-shake. A casual call-me, that Dean immediately throws away because he has called, and he’s getting a bit tired of never having said calls returned. So it’s Sam’s turn this time - doesn’t matter how much it hurts to see his brother’s back retreat out the bar, or the question of whether or not they will ever see each other again.
The door swings shut and Dean immediately stretches back around the booth to grab his crutches that he’d hidden there earlier, wincing in agony as it pulls at the twinging back muscles that never want to cooperate with him anymore. He plants one crutch on either side of the bench seat, pushes himself up shakily, and locks his forearms into their respectful spots on the special crutches.
Slowly, carefully, Dean starts maneuvering his uncooperative legs forward, one sliding step at a time. He’s fucked up his back on a hunt nearly a year ago, thrown against the edge of a gravestone at 40 miles an hour, pinched nerves and compressed vertebrae causing all kinds of numbness and weakness from his hips down. Days are plagued by a combination of excruciating pain and absolute nothingness, spasticity that makes his legs go stiff and jerky all in the same breath.
The doctors told him he’d never walk again. He’s proven them wrong - to a point.
Walking is hell. Hell, just moving is hell. But Dean won’t give in, refuses to use a wheelchair when he’s capable of walking. And somehow, in some twisted, fucked up reasoning, he thinks his Dad sees him as more of a man when he’s up and struggling to get around on the damn crutches than when he gives in and wheels himself around.
Dean has made it halfway to the exit when the door swings wide again. He barely looks up, too concerned with planting one foot in front of the other when the room is spinning from his drunkenness and his back is screaming for more meds.
The gasp and the “what the fuck” coming from his brother’s suddenly confused voice is the first thing to tip Dean off and he immediately goes into protection mode. His walls go up, masterful façade of constant jokester coming out as fortified iron against all the possible ways this could go.
“April Fools!” He tries, beaming with pride at his quick thinking as he forces himself to stand up straighter, makes himself forget about the pain. It’s easier said than done.
Not to mention it’s neither the first nor April, and his joke goes off exactly as he should have expected to. With a gigantic explosion of failure, screams of pitiful and loser. And he’d been so close!
He sighs, droops slightly into the crutches and lets them do most of the work of holding him up. “Hey, Sammy. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“When were you gonna tell me about this?” Sam demands. He’s angry, that much is clear, but his brotherly instincts override anything else and he’s suddenly at Dean’s side, gripping his arm and offering him support. Sam tries to lead him back to a seat, but Dean shakes his head, too tired for another confrontation in a bar.
“Not here, Sam. Let’s go back to my motel.”
For once, Sam complies without asking more questions, making more demands. He manages to fall naturally into assistance mode and somehow gets Dean out the door and to the Impala, sitting just outside the door in the lone handicapped parking spot. And the fact that he hadn’t noticed that before, that he’s cursing his lost sleuthing skills, is written clearly across his face.
It is a brief argument where they debate over who will drive, but Sam quickly wins out when Dean proves he can barely keep his head up, let alone trust himself to get safely home. He reluctantly pulls the keys out of his pocket and hands them over to Sam before allowing his brother to assist him into the passenger seat.
Dean remembers the last time Sam drove his car, and he spits that memory out in a rush of jumbled words, an effort to delay the inevitable. It’s not that great of a memory - just a leisurely drive to a grocery store and back for some dinner. But it’s one of his last good memories of Sam, one of the last times he remembers that doesn’t involve arguments and threats - doesn’t actually involve their father at all.
It doesn’t take much time to get back to the motel, and Dean is just finishing his pointless story as Sam pulls into the lot, right in front of the room Dean indicates.
“Dad isn’t in there, is he.” It’s a statement, a realization. Sam has already managed to put two and two together, and come up with four over and over again. He’s not researching is he? He’s actually on a hunt.”
Dean can’t help feeling like he’s under attack, and he snatches the crutches angrily from his brother’s outstretched hand when he comes around to help Dean back out of the car. Shrugging out of Sam’s gentle hold, Dean tries to push himself up by himself. But as the alcohol sets in further into his system and the pain escalates he finds himself fighting gravity and losing miserably.
Reluctantly, Dean accepts Sam’s help, ends up leaning into him more than he would like as they cross the short distance between car and room. His feet no longer want to cooperate, and he’s tripping over himself to an embarrassing degree.
To his credit, Sam doesn’t say another word until Dean is in the door and settled, splayed out, on the bed closest to the door. But then he holds his tongue no longer.
“How could you keep something like this from me?”
Dean shrugs, looks away. “What could you have done? It was easier just to let you keep living your life.”
“I could have helped.”
“Helped with what, Sam? Wiping my ass? Carrying me from the car to the motel until I was strong enough to get around by myself? No thanks, man.”
Sam sinks to the other bed, sitting on the edge as he runs a hand through his hair. He bites his lower lip, furrows his brows. Clearly he’s thinking something - something that doesn’t end up coming out of his mouth, and whatever it is Dean knows he would have been pissed to hear it. Instead, “Dean, I don’t understand. What happened to you?”
“Back meets granite. Hello fucked up back.” The reply is short and succinct, says a lot without really saying anything at all, and Sam seems more confused than ever.
Dean sighs before Sam can say more, and concedes a bit. “Look, it wasn’t ideal, but Dad and I had things under control. But we had to fly low under the radar with insurance and everything. So it really wasn’t a good idea for me to have a lot of visitors and shit.”
“That must have sucked - all those days alone in a hospital. You must have gone stir crazy!”
Dean shrugs. They had me pretty drugged up for the first few weeks. By the time I was lucid enough to realize where I was Dad was already making plans to take me to Bobby’s. It was alright.” He says it in a way that says it wasn’t alright at all. Sam can read through the complete nonchalance of the conversation as easily as if they’d never been apart, and in his heart he knows that Dean isn’t nearly as well adjusted as he appears to be on the surface.
“So what are you doing now? Just following Dad around the country? Hanging out in hotel rooms? That can’t be much fun for you.”
“I can still help Dad out with the hunts,” Dean defends himself. I do research and keep the weapons in working order. And I can still play a pretty mean hand of poker - the sympathy vote gets ‘em every time. Which means we’re doing alright for cash.”
“So basically you’re Dad’s bitch.”
Dean’s face storms dark and he suddenly springs to life, hand reaching out across the distance of the two beds to grab Sam’s shirt faster than he would have expected possible. “That’s not fair, you little ingrate. I didn’t necessarily agree with the choices you made, but I didn’t judge you for them, either. Don’t you dare judge me for mine.”
At that, Sam is speechless, because really, what do you say to that? I’m sorry just doesn’t seem to be enough, and he’s not really sure he is. But he certainly can’t argue the logic in the request, either.
He finally settles for “I just thought maybe you would have taken the opportunity to settle down. You could come back to Stanford with me. I’ve got a spare room.”
“I’m not gonna be the third wheel in some crazy ‘Three’s Company’ skit,” Dean snaps out without even pausing to consider the possibility. “You’ve got your life and I’ve got mine. I’m happy Sam.”
Dean pauses at Sam’s skeptical look and revises his statement. “I’m as happy as I can be under the circumstances. Dad needs me; it gives me a purpose.” There is more left out of his statement, but the implication is clear. Because maybe Dean did consider running to Sam’s at one point, when the heaviness in his heart at what he’s lost became too much of a burden to bear. But at least here, with Dad, he still can do something. He can watch out for the old man, make sure he’s the best damn researcher in 50 states. And so far his information has been spot on, saved his Dad on more than one occasion with details alone. It may not be an ideal situation, but it’s the best option he’s got.
Sam sighs, nods. He understands that the conversation is over, and he can see Dean’s eyes drooping more by the minute. “Alright. Well, I guess I better let you get some sleep. Do you need…”
Dean shakes his head stubbornly, solemnly, already climbing back to his feet with the aide of his crutches. And this time he meets Sam’s gaze, standing eye to eye. “Thanks for understanding. You take care of yourself, Sammy. And take care of that girlfriend, too. Maybe I’ll take a week to come visit soon, we’ll see.”
“I’d like that,” Sam agrees. He’s honest this time, genuine, almost begging. Maybe Sam misses Dean as much as Dean has missed him.
There is another awkward hug, one that isn’t helped by Dean stumbling forward a bit as he tries to regain his balance, and then Sam heads for the door. He turns at the last minute, flashes a smile and an appraising glance. “I’ll call you soon,” he says.
Dean nods, lips tight against a flow of emotion. He wants to tell Sam to stay, to try and make up with their father, come back out on the road with them. But he’s got his own life now, and so does Dean. Not exactly the life he’d thought he’d be leading, but it’s a life nevertheless. And at least now, he’s found his brother again. For the first time he sees a point to the injury, a reason it happened. It was meant to bring them back to each other.
Slowly making his way back to the bathroom Dean can’t help but feel a sense of warmth envelope him, and he smiles to himself. His pocket buzzes, and he stops to pull out the phone, reading the text that has just come through.
It’s from Sam. Good to see you, Dean. I will call.
And Dean believes him.
Author: Neonchica
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Really only the first episode.
Authors Notes: This was written for roque_clasique in honor of her birthday! She has a little comment-fic memme going on over at her lj page, here that I was inspired to try! Yay, go me! Anyway, this should be considered AU as I pretty much just sent Sam away to college and never picked him up again. This is written as though none of the events from the series ever happened and Dean and John kept on with business as usual. Happy Birthday, girl! Hope you enjoy...
Written for the prompt: Dean and Sam see one another after a long time, and Dean has been permanently injured in some way and is trying to hide it from Sam.
~~~~
It’s been five years since they’ve seen each other, five years since they’ve spoken. So it’s only normal that Dean would do a double-take at the giant who walks into the no-name bar in the middle of nowhere.
His hair is shorter, build larger, and he walks with a confidence he never possessed before. But Dean would recognize his baby brother anywhere, no matter how much he’s grown up since leaving home at 18.
With a muttered ‘shit’ Dean sinks lower into his seat and tries to hide. It’s too late to get up and leave, not if he wants to remain incognito, at least. But really, he does not want to see Sam. Too much has happened. Too much he can’t explain. Too much he doesn’t want to talk about.
But his gut tells him a meeting is inevitable, and before he can regret anything he subtly tucks his crutches into the empty booth behind him and buries his nose in the beer he’s been nursing for the past hour.
Just as he’d feared, his brother takes just enough time to order a drink before turning and scanning the bar - for what, Dean can’t fathom. He and dad are two states away from California, in Washington, and the last Dean had checked his little brother was happily soaking up knowledge at Stanford Law School. Near as Dean can tell, he’s not supposed to be anywhere near Wenatchee.
“Dean?” The call is a mixture of surprise and incredulity, comes from just far enough away that Dean has exactly six seconds to school his features and put on a feigned look of shock and joy.
“Sammy!” Dean cries out, pretends to be ecstatic that his wayward brother has just walked back into his life after such a long absence. And, in a way, he supposes he is thrilled to see him. Because, face it, he’s missed his little brother. And there is no denying the fact that, while in the hospital, it was Sam’s face he was constantly wishing would appear in the doorframe. But now - now that Dean has moved beyond the initial need for his brother’s helping hand - Dean can’t help but feel his gut clench with fear and shame, and a strong desire to get Sam gone before he can throw out the pitying stares and the demanding questions that Dean knows are sure to come.
“Oh my god, Dean, I can’t believe you’re here. Of all places!” There is nothing but genuine joy in Sam’s words, his smile, the sparkle in his eyes as he moves in, lowering himself to Dean’s level and offering a boisterous hug.
Dean turns himself ever so slightly, embracing Sam back and saving a wince until his brother can’t see it, clearing the pain from his face before they release. “Of all places? What are you doing here?”
Sam smiles, huffs a brief laugh as he motions his chin towards the opposite bench seat with a questioning glance. Dean nods, and Sam sits.
“My girlfriends’ folks live up here. We’re just in town for the long weekend. Her brother is supposed to be meeting me here, but it looks like he got held up at work.”
Mentally, Dean kicks himself. Of course, Jess. How could he forget? But still, what are the chances that Sam happens to be in this town on this weekend at this particular bar? Someone up there must really hate him.
“Where’s dad?” At this, Sam sounds slightly wary, and Dean watches with slight amusement as Sam carefully scans the bar for any sign of the man.
“Researching a hunt,” Dean says casually, as though he hadn’t just been abandoned again, so that his father could track his latest prey unhindered. He hasn’t seen the man in two days, but lately that’s par for the course. Just has to keep reminding himself that he, at least, does come back. Which is more than he can say for Sam.
Sam visibly relaxes. He takes a swig of beer and another glance around the bar, this time more nonchalantly. “So how’ve you been?”
It’s amazing how quickly the conversation goes to awkward, neither of them really knowing what to say to the other, avoiding taboo subjects.
Dean nods, gulps more of his own beer than he has in the whole time he’s been in possession of it. He’s really not supposed to be drinking on the pain killers he’s on, but sometimes he just needs the taste of beer. And a few sips don’t really hurt anything. Much more and he gets loopy - at best. “I’ve been good,” he lies. “You know - same old, same old. Dad’s all about finding the demon and we just pick up whatever random jobs come along in the interim.”
“He’s always been very single minded,” Sam agrees, and it’s the best he can come up with without starting some kind of fight. He and Dean have never seen eye to eye on their father, and it doesn’t seem like five years apart is going to have changed that much.
“And you?” Dean asks. “Things are good?”
Once again, Sam seems to relax as he falls into several minutes worth of discussion about school and Jess and juggling a clerk’s job at a law firm on top of everything else. He seems happy, content. Dean can’t help but feel somewhat resentful of Sam’s good fortune when his own has been anything but.
As the evening goes on Sam buys Dean another beer, and then a third. Dean does his best to go slow, but it’s hard when he suddenly finds himself falling into a depression that he hasn’t experienced in months…since the accident. Eventually his eyes begin to droop, words start slurring, and Sam makes some joke about him becoming a lightweight in his old age.
And then, blessedly, Sam’s phone rings. He excuses himself to answer it, turns just slightly away in an effort to make the call more private, then soon hangs up with a grim expression on his face. “That was Jess,” he says. “I gotta go - apparently they’re having some family drama. Something with her brother…you know, the guy-”
Who was supposed to meet you’re here, Dean fills in silently as he nods his understanding. Secretly, he’s glad Sam’s being called away. Because he’s not sure he could stay awake much longer. As it is, he doesn’t know how he’s getting himself back to the motel now that he’s drunk off his ass on 3 beers and a shit-ton of pain meds. And speaking of which, damnit, he’s about do for more.
Sam stands, does sort of a stutter-step over to Dean because, yeah, strangely it’s a bit more awkward doing the whole good-bye hug after they’ve been talking for awhile than it was to do the spontaneous “long time no see” hug at the beginning. And Dean still isn’t getting up, isn’t meeting him halfway, and that certainly doesn’t help to make any of this easier.
But they do manage some semblance of a good-bye, a pat on the back rolling into a hand-shake. A casual call-me, that Dean immediately throws away because he has called, and he’s getting a bit tired of never having said calls returned. So it’s Sam’s turn this time - doesn’t matter how much it hurts to see his brother’s back retreat out the bar, or the question of whether or not they will ever see each other again.
The door swings shut and Dean immediately stretches back around the booth to grab his crutches that he’d hidden there earlier, wincing in agony as it pulls at the twinging back muscles that never want to cooperate with him anymore. He plants one crutch on either side of the bench seat, pushes himself up shakily, and locks his forearms into their respectful spots on the special crutches.
Slowly, carefully, Dean starts maneuvering his uncooperative legs forward, one sliding step at a time. He’s fucked up his back on a hunt nearly a year ago, thrown against the edge of a gravestone at 40 miles an hour, pinched nerves and compressed vertebrae causing all kinds of numbness and weakness from his hips down. Days are plagued by a combination of excruciating pain and absolute nothingness, spasticity that makes his legs go stiff and jerky all in the same breath.
The doctors told him he’d never walk again. He’s proven them wrong - to a point.
Walking is hell. Hell, just moving is hell. But Dean won’t give in, refuses to use a wheelchair when he’s capable of walking. And somehow, in some twisted, fucked up reasoning, he thinks his Dad sees him as more of a man when he’s up and struggling to get around on the damn crutches than when he gives in and wheels himself around.
Dean has made it halfway to the exit when the door swings wide again. He barely looks up, too concerned with planting one foot in front of the other when the room is spinning from his drunkenness and his back is screaming for more meds.
The gasp and the “what the fuck” coming from his brother’s suddenly confused voice is the first thing to tip Dean off and he immediately goes into protection mode. His walls go up, masterful façade of constant jokester coming out as fortified iron against all the possible ways this could go.
“April Fools!” He tries, beaming with pride at his quick thinking as he forces himself to stand up straighter, makes himself forget about the pain. It’s easier said than done.
Not to mention it’s neither the first nor April, and his joke goes off exactly as he should have expected to. With a gigantic explosion of failure, screams of pitiful and loser. And he’d been so close!
He sighs, droops slightly into the crutches and lets them do most of the work of holding him up. “Hey, Sammy. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“When were you gonna tell me about this?” Sam demands. He’s angry, that much is clear, but his brotherly instincts override anything else and he’s suddenly at Dean’s side, gripping his arm and offering him support. Sam tries to lead him back to a seat, but Dean shakes his head, too tired for another confrontation in a bar.
“Not here, Sam. Let’s go back to my motel.”
For once, Sam complies without asking more questions, making more demands. He manages to fall naturally into assistance mode and somehow gets Dean out the door and to the Impala, sitting just outside the door in the lone handicapped parking spot. And the fact that he hadn’t noticed that before, that he’s cursing his lost sleuthing skills, is written clearly across his face.
It is a brief argument where they debate over who will drive, but Sam quickly wins out when Dean proves he can barely keep his head up, let alone trust himself to get safely home. He reluctantly pulls the keys out of his pocket and hands them over to Sam before allowing his brother to assist him into the passenger seat.
Dean remembers the last time Sam drove his car, and he spits that memory out in a rush of jumbled words, an effort to delay the inevitable. It’s not that great of a memory - just a leisurely drive to a grocery store and back for some dinner. But it’s one of his last good memories of Sam, one of the last times he remembers that doesn’t involve arguments and threats - doesn’t actually involve their father at all.
It doesn’t take much time to get back to the motel, and Dean is just finishing his pointless story as Sam pulls into the lot, right in front of the room Dean indicates.
“Dad isn’t in there, is he.” It’s a statement, a realization. Sam has already managed to put two and two together, and come up with four over and over again. He’s not researching is he? He’s actually on a hunt.”
Dean can’t help feeling like he’s under attack, and he snatches the crutches angrily from his brother’s outstretched hand when he comes around to help Dean back out of the car. Shrugging out of Sam’s gentle hold, Dean tries to push himself up by himself. But as the alcohol sets in further into his system and the pain escalates he finds himself fighting gravity and losing miserably.
Reluctantly, Dean accepts Sam’s help, ends up leaning into him more than he would like as they cross the short distance between car and room. His feet no longer want to cooperate, and he’s tripping over himself to an embarrassing degree.
To his credit, Sam doesn’t say another word until Dean is in the door and settled, splayed out, on the bed closest to the door. But then he holds his tongue no longer.
“How could you keep something like this from me?”
Dean shrugs, looks away. “What could you have done? It was easier just to let you keep living your life.”
“I could have helped.”
“Helped with what, Sam? Wiping my ass? Carrying me from the car to the motel until I was strong enough to get around by myself? No thanks, man.”
Sam sinks to the other bed, sitting on the edge as he runs a hand through his hair. He bites his lower lip, furrows his brows. Clearly he’s thinking something - something that doesn’t end up coming out of his mouth, and whatever it is Dean knows he would have been pissed to hear it. Instead, “Dean, I don’t understand. What happened to you?”
“Back meets granite. Hello fucked up back.” The reply is short and succinct, says a lot without really saying anything at all, and Sam seems more confused than ever.
Dean sighs before Sam can say more, and concedes a bit. “Look, it wasn’t ideal, but Dad and I had things under control. But we had to fly low under the radar with insurance and everything. So it really wasn’t a good idea for me to have a lot of visitors and shit.”
“That must have sucked - all those days alone in a hospital. You must have gone stir crazy!”
Dean shrugs. They had me pretty drugged up for the first few weeks. By the time I was lucid enough to realize where I was Dad was already making plans to take me to Bobby’s. It was alright.” He says it in a way that says it wasn’t alright at all. Sam can read through the complete nonchalance of the conversation as easily as if they’d never been apart, and in his heart he knows that Dean isn’t nearly as well adjusted as he appears to be on the surface.
“So what are you doing now? Just following Dad around the country? Hanging out in hotel rooms? That can’t be much fun for you.”
“I can still help Dad out with the hunts,” Dean defends himself. I do research and keep the weapons in working order. And I can still play a pretty mean hand of poker - the sympathy vote gets ‘em every time. Which means we’re doing alright for cash.”
“So basically you’re Dad’s bitch.”
Dean’s face storms dark and he suddenly springs to life, hand reaching out across the distance of the two beds to grab Sam’s shirt faster than he would have expected possible. “That’s not fair, you little ingrate. I didn’t necessarily agree with the choices you made, but I didn’t judge you for them, either. Don’t you dare judge me for mine.”
At that, Sam is speechless, because really, what do you say to that? I’m sorry just doesn’t seem to be enough, and he’s not really sure he is. But he certainly can’t argue the logic in the request, either.
He finally settles for “I just thought maybe you would have taken the opportunity to settle down. You could come back to Stanford with me. I’ve got a spare room.”
“I’m not gonna be the third wheel in some crazy ‘Three’s Company’ skit,” Dean snaps out without even pausing to consider the possibility. “You’ve got your life and I’ve got mine. I’m happy Sam.”
Dean pauses at Sam’s skeptical look and revises his statement. “I’m as happy as I can be under the circumstances. Dad needs me; it gives me a purpose.” There is more left out of his statement, but the implication is clear. Because maybe Dean did consider running to Sam’s at one point, when the heaviness in his heart at what he’s lost became too much of a burden to bear. But at least here, with Dad, he still can do something. He can watch out for the old man, make sure he’s the best damn researcher in 50 states. And so far his information has been spot on, saved his Dad on more than one occasion with details alone. It may not be an ideal situation, but it’s the best option he’s got.
Sam sighs, nods. He understands that the conversation is over, and he can see Dean’s eyes drooping more by the minute. “Alright. Well, I guess I better let you get some sleep. Do you need…”
Dean shakes his head stubbornly, solemnly, already climbing back to his feet with the aide of his crutches. And this time he meets Sam’s gaze, standing eye to eye. “Thanks for understanding. You take care of yourself, Sammy. And take care of that girlfriend, too. Maybe I’ll take a week to come visit soon, we’ll see.”
“I’d like that,” Sam agrees. He’s honest this time, genuine, almost begging. Maybe Sam misses Dean as much as Dean has missed him.
There is another awkward hug, one that isn’t helped by Dean stumbling forward a bit as he tries to regain his balance, and then Sam heads for the door. He turns at the last minute, flashes a smile and an appraising glance. “I’ll call you soon,” he says.
Dean nods, lips tight against a flow of emotion. He wants to tell Sam to stay, to try and make up with their father, come back out on the road with them. But he’s got his own life now, and so does Dean. Not exactly the life he’d thought he’d be leading, but it’s a life nevertheless. And at least now, he’s found his brother again. For the first time he sees a point to the injury, a reason it happened. It was meant to bring them back to each other.
Slowly making his way back to the bathroom Dean can’t help but feel a sense of warmth envelope him, and he smiles to himself. His pocket buzzes, and he stops to pull out the phone, reading the text that has just come through.
It’s from Sam. Good to see you, Dean. I will call.
And Dean believes him.