[backdated]: closed to dean

[precognitioning]

The whole night is a blur. A messy, painful, bloody blur. Or not even the whole night; Sam remembers clearly enough going running, the first wolf coming at him and gutting it with the knife. It's a good knife, he still has it

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[surfaceshine]

Of all the many, many words both positive and negative and everything in between used to describe Dean Winchester, 'meek' has never been among them. Not even once. Not even when he was a baby. We are actually uncertain as to whether he even knows the word, or what to do with it if he does; certainly it's not anything that has ever governed any of his actions. And it certainly had absolutely no place in the decisions he'd made the night he'd heard the wolves howling

[precognitioning]

Taking a few breaths, Sam steadies himself and manages to get vertical again, looking around the room. He noticed the blood earlier, but without Dean, it doesn't tell him much - it could be Dean's, it could be someone else Dean was rescuing, it could just mean that at one point his brother was (wounded) alive (and that isn't a promise of later but no, not going there, not-)

The grounds. He needs to get out there. There might be houses out in the woods, safe houses, or something. He'll be out there somewhere. Dean is just fine.

We're starting down the hallway, then, gingerly and carefully, pausing to hold himself up against a wall when things start getting spinny and strange. This is nothing new. He's gone farther with a lot worse.

The stairs, though. The stairs. Are daunting. Not impossible, just daunting, as he stares at them with a feeling of trepidation growing in his stomach. Or maybe that's just nausea. Hard to say.

Either way, he has a job to do (a brother to find), and dammit, he's going to do it.

[surfaceshine]

Dean had closed his eyes for a moment; at least, he'd intended for it to be a moment, but it stretches out into several minutes without him noticing it. Mostly he's focusing on not moving anything at all - strange how it's his arm and his leg that are injured, but his entire body is protesting in a show of solidarity he really could have done with out - and just breathing, and wondering if he could find some alcohol in the kitchen to make what he still has yet to do a little easier. Deciding he'd probably end up passed out on the floor, Dean steels himself and opens his eyes

[precognitioning]

Sam catches sight of Dean at about the same time, and the rush of relief would make his knees go weak, if he could afford it. Of course, then he notices the pale, and the sweat, and the fact that Dean basically looks like shit warmed over and is clearly not okay per se (but he's alive, that counts for something, for a lot) and anyway, hand wrapped white-knuckled around the railing. He doesn't quite breathe thank god but it's in his head, several times over.

And not quite startled into pitching forward. "Shut up," is his eloquent response, "I'm not going to fall down anything. Jesus, Dean-"

I need to get down there and see that you are actually okay, okay? Don't tell me to siddown.

That part doesn't quite make it out, though.

*cue scene change music* ~ Some Time Later ~

[surfaceshine]

Dean, ultimately, does decide to give rooting through the kitchen a whirl; he doesn't much like the idea or his chances of trying to get to sleep now on his own, not with old sore spots not only brushed but squarely punched in the gut, so he figures the extra time and effort is worth it, because he does locate some pretty strong liquor

BACK AT THE RANCH

[precognitioning]

Sam almost doesn't. Go back, that is. At least not today, not now. However, he's probably seen Guinevere and had some of his bandages fixed and maybe a little bit of talking, and even if it doesn't fix everything (or even most things) it means he knows he can't just...avoid things.

That'd be the easy thing to do, the thing Dean always berates him for doing, running away - though Sam thinks privately it's not just him. But that's not the important part. Dean's not the one with the addiction, Dean's not the one who kickstarted the apocalypse because he was a prideful idiot. So yeah, this isn't on Dean.

He's just going to have to work it out. Somehow. Though he hasn't the least idea how.

So he goes back to the room and steps inside, takes in the whiskey and Dean, and only sighs a little. As stated, it's not like it's a surprise.

[surfaceshine]

Believe us when we say Dean knows he's fucked up; he just doesn't know what to do about it, doesn't think he can fix it on his own, so some of it gets transferred in his frustration. After all, he's always been certain he could fix Sam if Sam needed fixing; he has never thought he could do the same for himself

[precognitioning]

Sam doesn't know where to start with either of them.

He considers going over to take the bottle and pour it out or something, because yeah, but that would probably not be a wise mood, and he decides not to. Just rubs his eyes instead before glancing at the clock. "Early," he says, after a moment. "Or late. Go back to sleep." His voice has gone back to that safe and neutral place where it isn't really saying anything at all, except for what it's saying with what it isn't.

Sam grits his teeth a little. If Dean was sleeping, or unconscious, whatever counts for sleeping right now, he should have stayed out, let him rest a little longer. Whoever knows he does it seldom enough.

[surfaceshine]

Sheer exhaustion - physically, mentally, emotionally, soulfully(wtf?) - combine with the middling amount of alcohol Dean managed to absorb to actually bring about a few hours of sleep, though it's not quite obvious when that happens. He never does move from the position he ended up in over the course of their not-quite-conversation, though at some point his head rolled over towards Sam, and his eyes were closed when it did. He's not sure how much time has passed, only that there's daylight in the room, or some kind of light anyway, and holy shit he hurts worse than he did when he laid the fuck down. That'll be the stiffness - suck it up, Deano, that means you're healing says a voice in his head he last heard five lifetimes ago, and his willingness to snap to in response has eroded, but it's still ingrained there in him. He curses sleepily even as he pulls his good arm over his face to cover his eyes, and gathers himself together to get a move on the day

[precognitioning]

Sam probably didn't spend a whole lot of the last night sleeping, on the other hand. Just thinking, mostly, going around in his own head as he is prone to doing, and brooding, and all of those other wonderful things that are such good habits. But he hasn't gone anywhere either, just lying there and half watching Dean sleep, relieved to see him do it, even if it's short or restless. It's something.

Maye.

"Mm," Sam says, hoping he manages to convey how little he even likes that joke at the moment. You were just gone for most of a week without him knowing where you were. That just does not make for particularly relaxed or humorous Sams under the best of circumstances (which this is not).

[surfaceshine]

The details are different, but the sequence of events is familiar enough - wake up injured, bitch at brother, move on with life - that Dean has momentarily forgotten, actually, that he was gone for most of a week (and so was Sam, and Dean will not hear of the fact that technically Sam was right where he was supposed to be, because Dean is not taking sole blame for this, thanks). He'll remember soon enough, but for right now his head is muzzy enough that he perceives only that Sam has reacted to his statement, and instinctively returns fire.

"It's not too late to rectify it, you know." He hisses sharply through his teeth when, for some inexplicable reason, telling his body to sit up causes the damaged muscles of his thigh to tense and warn him that he'd better fucking not. Dean has never dealt gracefully with being in pain, and it looks like this morning is going to be no exception: there's a bit more snap to his voice when he adds, "Or maybe you could just bash me in the head and put me back out."

[precognitioning]

Sam would not expect him to! After all, he should have been out looking. Or something. Not that we think that would actually have made anything better. Sam grimaces, a little. Still at the ceiling.

Then he gets up, crosses the room - carefully, though he does feel a bit better after Gwen's ministrations - and gets a bottle of painkillers, waves them at Dean. "How's this for an alternative?"