Part 12: ...Up close, barbwire is rather unpleasant.
Given that this must look like right out a horror movie, that might not be so far off. It’s always amazing how steady Sam’s hands are when he threads the needle. He swallows more of the colorless liquid in the bottle, preparing for the dreaded part of this. Brian’s quiet the whole time, silently watching when Sam pats his arm dry with one of the fluffy towels. It’s a shame, really, but Dean isn't sure he cares. “Think that’s enough, Sammy?” he asks, quietly.
“It’s Sam.” The response is curt, automatic, but it’s there. And that is never going to get old.
“’Course it is, Sammy boy.”
Brian snorts, looking as relaxed as could be leaning against the wall - as if there is nothing wrong with this scene. Or the world. Totally not like a guy who was about ready to get lucky in a threesome a minute ago. Before he noticed two lunatics in his bathroom, bleeding all over the place.
Sam ignores Brian and him, no doubt finding nothing funny in any of this. Well, nothing new there. Instead, the bottle is removed from his hands and put down beside them on the floor. Dean watches it tumble for a second, feeling eyes on him. He knows Sam’s watching him. The same look he’s been watched with ever since. Since they told his brother his heart was giving out, told him he was gonna die. He doesn’t like to think about those days, hates the fact that Sammy can’t just let go of them.
He’s fine, damn it, perfectly fine. And still, Sam sometimes looks at him like he’s gonna vanish into thin air. It makes his heart hurt, just a little. And not for himself, but for Sam. They don’t talk while Sam stitches the ripped open skin together. He’s too busy biting the insides of his cheeks against the pain of the threading needle, Sam’s too busy clenching his jaw shut as he works, hands gentle as they ever were. The movement of the needle is close to mesmerizing: in, out, tug, in out, tug - steady as the ticking of a clock, the pitter patter of the waves at the beach.
He almost jumps when Brian breaks the silence, voice overly loud in the tiled room. Silence covering them like a wet, heavy blanket. “So,” he says, taking in the bloody mess, “this is how it usually goes. With the ghosts.” When Dean opens his eyes to look at him, he looks calm. Almost cold. Like this is just any other night. Like he’d been spending at least one night a week watching guys stitching each other up. If he does, Dean’s not sure he wants to know.
“Yeah, more or less,” Sam murmurs when he keeps his silence. Dean’s not sure anyone but he notices when he flinches just a bit as the needle once more breaches broken skin. The little over half a dozen stitches already in are even and smooth, like they always were. Sam was better at this, ever since their father taught him how to do it so many years ago, and Dean was always happy when it was him. He has the suspicion his dad felt the same way. Oh Sam doesn’t like doing it – hates hurting Dean, and come on, this is Sam, so it has to be part of the why – never did – but he does it anyway because it’s important. And because it’s Dean.
Because as much as Dean worries about his little brother, Sam worries just as much about him. He’s always known this, you know, deep inside, but the disaster with the raw head made it obvious. Painfully so. There’s got to be a joke in there somewhere, but he’s too busy trying to keep the pain at bay that he can’t spare the power to figure it out. And he hates it. One of his defenses and it’s compromised because of the drugs and the alcohol and oh yeah, the concussion he probably has, too. Concentrating hard on his breathing, he barely hears Brian’s voice, questioning and Sam answering.
“Up close, barbwire is rather... unpleasant,” he hears himself say, slurring just a little. “But! We had worse!” And, yes, that’s true. They had.
Sam says nothing after that. Which says a lot, mind you. But Justin does. Dean’s pretty sure it’s Justin. “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? I can make something to eat, we have…”
“Justin--”
“…something here, I am sure we--” He stops rambling so suddenly that Dean involuntarily turns. And blinks. Brian’s kissing him. That’s one way to shut someone up, he thinks. When they part, Justin’s looking a little flushed and a lot confused. “What?”
“You’re rambling. Go. Heat up some soup for the two Ghostbusters over there. We can fuck later.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Free food is always great. Only Dean isn’t so sure he can get it down right now. Or no, getting it down isn’t the problem, it’s the keeping it down part that is. But it gives the kid something to do, and he remembers the mountain of cut vegetable from the other night, too. Considering it was partly their fault, it’s only fair they help to get rid of them. Justin leaves with a small smile. Once he’s gone, Brian steps further into the room. He’s eyeing the sink, the artful pink splashes of watered down blood on the mirror.
“How did you end up tangled in barbwire?”
“Got tossed around for a bit and I managed to shred my arm in a heap of that shit,” he grits out, digging blunt nail of his uninjured hand into his palm. “Now, three guesses as to who did the throwing. And the first two? So don’t count, dude.”
“Fuck.”
That poker face? It could be one of his own, Dean knows. Somehow it doesn’t surprise him when the other man turns around and stalks out of the room. It’s one thing to be told about these things, but another to be shown. To see. And if this isn’t pretty graphic, Dean doesn’t know what is. He can hear the clutter of dishes from the other room, the trickle of water on metal, and he can’t help but smile. It’s comforting somehow, a reminder of a time long gone. At time that might have been just a dream.
And that right there? Must be the alcohol talking.
The second Sam’s done patching him up, Dean sends him to take care of himself. Or attempts to anyway, since Sam doesn’t deem his injuries as severe enough. No open wounds, but even the bruises he must sprout have to be taken care of, too. Just with some ice, but Sam has to move tomorrow. So he might as well get it done. His little brother snorts, an ugly snarl marking his face. “Funny, Dean. If you ever start following your own advice,” he hisses, “I’m gonna remember this conversation with fondness. But now, not so much.”
“Dude. Stop being such a worrywart. I can take it from here, time to lick your own wounds.” He waves his uninjured hand – make that less injured hand – toward the open doorway. “Get out of here, I’m gonna shower.” Sam doesn’t move. The hell?! “Oh come on, Sammy, back off.”
“But…”
Dean’s already shaking his head, nope, not going to work. “Nuh-uh.” He wildly gestures towards the door. Again. “Out. Now. Before I shove your ass out of here myself.”
“You shouldn’t be alone, you’re--”
“Oh for the love of!” He takes a deep breath. “Dude. I’m fine. I’m good.” He’s not really, but what’s new? Sam doesn’t need to know. “Do what big brother tells you, and fetch yourself ice okay.” He smirks. That said, “Besides, I took showers before you even knew how to go pot--”
Sam slams a hand over Dean’s mouth, eyes blazing. “Don’t you even think about finishing that sentence, man. Don’t you dare.”
He snorts – wetly – and gets a kick out of the fact that Sam squeals like a girl, as he’s snatching his hand back as fast as humanly possible. Wiping it on his scrubby pants. “Oh come on, spit won’t kill you.”
“You’re disgusting, Dean.”
“Yeah yeah, now get out of the room so I can take my shower in peace.” And just for the sake of baiting his brother some more, he adds, “That is, if you don’t want to stay.” He wriggles his brows suggestively, and the next thing he knows, something wet smashes into his face and a door slams shut. He pats himself on the back as the wet towel hits the floor next. Not his fault that Sam is so easily distracted, but it’s pretty neat.
Oh so slowly removing the rest of his clothes, he turns on the water… and oh God! It’s actually hot! Stepping under the spray he sighs half in pleasure, half in pain. The pleasure wins. The pressure is just right, needling his all too tired muscles and – God – it’s heaven. Heaven! Who needs a house with a white fence, 2.3 kids and a freaking dog? He’d move into the shower, hell, he’d marry the shower if Brian only lets him.
So… probably not.
Jarring himself out of his blissful daze, he starts to scrub himself clean under the hot spray and ow, shit OW! Stupid bruises. On the other hand, it’s not like it’s going to kill him. Shrugging to himself, he scrubs some ore at a patch of dried blood on his left thigh. All he wants now, thought, is to finish his shower, get a bite to eat – maybe – and then crawl under the fluffy comforter on the sofa. Falling asleep to the sound of the traffic downstairs. Or, falling asleep period. That sound about right. And sooo good. Tempting. Really, really tempting.
But it’s only as he gets out of the shower, ignoring his itching stitches and petting himself dry that he actually notices just how tired he really is. It takes a lot more strength then it should to slip on his clean clothes – thanks Sammy. His body’s protesting every single move, every muscle screaming out in agony as he stretches his arm over his head. Oh yeah, that what so little sleep gets you. And getting thrown around, of course. The painkillers are doing their part, taking the edge off the pain. He doesn’t want to think about how much he’d ache without them.
Propping himself up against the sink, he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on how to breathe and not fall down like an idiot.
As soon as the room actually stops spinning, he pushes himself off the sink and toward the door. Not good to let little brother wait too long and let him agonize over his well-being, or lack of therefore, as he’s sure Sam is doing by now. Then again, if he can manage to walk over to his sleeping place, a.k.a. the sofa, without falling on his face or something equally humiliating? Would be just as good.
But you see, Winchesters are never that lucky, so Dean isn't either. Just as karma has it out for him, the dizziness hits him as soon he steps out of the room, moist air following in his wake. Walking straight into his brother. Well, almost. Joy! And what the hell is the kid doing hovering in front of the freakin’ door anyway?
“You okay?” Sam’s voice makes it barely over the rushing blood in his ears to his brain.
Oh. Right. Exactly that. Hovering. Worrying. You’re such a mother hen, Sammy. “No, I’m actually lying passed out in the bathroom, drowning in the shower stall,” he wheezes. And was it always so hard to breathe? “What the fuck do you think?”
“Fuck you Dean! You lost a lot of blood, for God’s sake. I think that justifies the slightest concern I might have of you slipping in there and breaking your neck. But hey! You don’t have to concern yourself about this, right? Because you are so much above that, above mere human effects, or whatever. Right. Be macho all you want but, dude, don--” And that is when this blahblahblah-we-had-it-all-before-drama actually gets interesting.
Or no, no, no. Not interesting, but… uh, weird. Why? Oh, that’s easy. The sound cuts off. Yeah. Cuts off. Just like that. Like you’d suddenly switch the TV on mute. And since he can still see Sammy talk, lips moving and all that, but no noise makes it past that rushing sound? He finally gets the memo that yes, there might be something wrong here. Has to be. Furrowing his eyes, he softly shakes his head. Once, twice. It doesn’t work. It only results in making his head feel like a massive balloon and his brain a little woozy. Maybe a little like flying. Oh Christ!
The next thing to go is the feeling in his hands, and, shit, his legs feel like Jell-o. Not much of a comfort that he, you know, actually feels them. Nope. When Sam reaches for him, he accidently looks down and…whoa! Way too far up from the ground. Oh wow, the feeling of his arms are gone, too, since hello? He doesn’t feel his brother’s hands – paws, really – gripping them. Looking up again, he catches the look of worry, of panic on his brother’s face that only gets more intense, heartbeat after heartbeat.
Or maybe that’s…his head pounding?
Blinking, he tries to clear the black dots from his vision, only to have them melt into each other, the room and—
…this is going to hurt…
—he might already be out cold before he feels himself hitting the floor.
*-*-*
The first thing he hears is his brother’s voice. Which is good. It’s quiet, but not far away quiet, rather the ‘I-don’t-want-to-wake-my-big-brother-so-I’m-going-to-talk-very-softly’ kind of quiet. The next thing he hears, really hears, is what he is saying. It’s all still pretty fuzzy, voices weaving in and out, but what does get through to his brain is not what he wants to hear. Or what he expected. The words, “…heart” and “…damaged.”
Uh-huh. Yeah, he knows where to put those two word in context, even half unconscious, and, yeah, so not cool. He remembers, though, that Sam hates talking about it. Or perhaps it’s him who hates to hear about it, he’s not so sure. Then Sam’s talking again…and what the fuck anyway? Why is he talking about that now? “----like I was going to be sick. Except I knew better, I know things they don’t. I found what I was searching for----ignorant asshole showed up at the motel----sick of----no hot nurses----to see a specialist--
“----anything but ecstatic, complained I wouldn’t let him die in peace----let him die, period. ----healed him. Only it wasn’t okay, others died too, died because of it. Because of me----want to see that there was a catch. Because I couldn’t lose----crazy enough to do something like so the man she loved was still with her. Dean said no, she wasn’t crazy, just desperate----because so was I----a way to keep him alive. If I had known what was going on, I’d probably still have taken him there----never forgive myself if I hadn’t tried. Anyway…”
And that about as much as he can take. Enough to last him the rest of his borrowed lifetime. And then some. Time to cut that shit out. “There you go with the chick-flick moments again,” he mumbles tiredly, barely able to scrape enough energy together to get the words out. And both Justin and Sam, from what little he sees off them sitting there on the stairs, jump about a foot high. Brian snorts from… somewhere. “I’m out, what, a minute? And you go all Dr. Phil on them.”
“You were asleep, or should I say. Knocked. Out. Flat on your ass, so it doesn’t count…”
“It totally does. And I’m sure other people in here would like to not drown in your God damned chick flick moment. Christ. Now shut up… and g-get out of my way, I have to piss.” And possibly throw up, but he’s going to keep that little detail to himself. Not that it will be a secret for long, but hey! Stubborn here! He can almost see Sam’s fingers twitch when he drags himself out from under the covers, itching to help and aid him into the next room. Bright kid that he is, Sam keeps his damn hands to himself. Good.
Lucky fella that Dean is - yeah right! – he makes it to the bathroom just in time. Which is really thisclose, so he’s not going to complain. Much. And not generally about that. Why do hits to the head always have this affect on him? Well, not always. If there is enough adrenalin pumping through his veins, then hell no, this does not happen. Like in a life or death situation, the infamous ‘I’ll-have-to-move-otherwise-we’re-dead’ moment, and ‘Move your ass nownownow’. Only now? No such luck.
He’ll just crouch in front of the toilet and worship the porcelain gods a little bit longer, thank you very much.
And just so you know, coughing up Tequila along with other… fluids and stuff? Not cool. Nope. Burns like hell. He is all too aware of the fact that Sam and Justin and Brian should be able hear him in the next room, but even more aware that none of them – especially that goddamn mother hen of a little brother – make their way in here. Let him keep some dignity, ‘kay? That said, how the hell Sam came up with the topic of his… almost dying, he’ll never know. Not even sure he wants to.
When he walks out again, teeth brushed, he silently walks back to the bed, sitting down. “So, blood loss?”
“Yeah, the adrenalin finally wore off…”
“And me down,” he jokes. “Yeah, I figured.” Not that somebody actually has the decency to laugh or anything. Or it’s just not funny, who knows. Sam looks like he’s either going to cry, or hug him, which dude, both unacceptable. So yeah. “So, someone said something about food?”
*-*-*
It takes a few minutes before Justin finally shows up in his line of sight, ignoring Brian’s words of mockery, carrying a tray with a bowl, a glass of what Dean assumes is orange juice and a bottle of water. “I didn’t know which you’d like better,” Justin says, placing the tray next to him on the bed.
“Water’s fine, thanks.” The bowl is filled with some kind of soup and, hmmm, it smells wonderful. If it tastes only half as good…yum! Dean, however, eyes Sam and Justin with distrust and a moment later increasing horror as they make themselves comfortable and at home on the huge bed. Justin’s holding the bowl, Sam the spoon. And if they are going to do what he thinks they are thinking of doing… oh no, no, no! Oh hell, no!
“Dude! Personal space here,” he snaps.
“Shut up Dean, and eat.”
Brian, walking up the stairs, snorts. “I can get you a towel to cover him up if you need one,” he mocks, eyeing the three of them with open gloating.
And why wouldn’t he? Enough is enough. “If one of you two clowns has the nerve to actually try and spoon feed me that fucking soup,” he says, glowering at them both, “I’m gonna kick your ass out of the door, down the stairs and out onto the street butt naked like the day you were born with my hands tight behind my back. So… back THE HELL off!!”
They do. Now would you look at that?
Justin and Sam both glare at Brian when he laughs.
“Now that’s better.” He proclaims cheerfully, taking the bowl from Justin and wriggling his fingers at Sam. “Gimme,” he says, snatching the spoon out of too big hands as soon as he can. Dipping it into the clear, hot liquid, his stomach grumbles at him. Oh yeah, something to eat might not be a bad idea. He’s worried about it being bad, since it smells good enough. Come to think of it, he survived countless not-so-good diner’s all over the country and his father’s cooking. And as much as he loves the man, nothing, nothing could ever be worse than that.
Aside from that, it is a home cooked meal, which makes him totally not picky. And to his stomach’s delight, the soup is more than good. It’s fantastic.
“Uh, I had to warm it up after you…uhm, so, it could be a bit--”
“Can it, kid. It’s good,” he says another mouthful, already shoveling more vegetable and soup on the spoon.
It doesn’t take long to empty the bowl and he doesn’t decline the second one or the third. By then his brother is rolling his eyes and Justin can barely keep from smiling. That’s makes it worth it. Not that it is a burden to eat the delicious soup in the first place. He is kinda hungry, so that’s not a problem. But it’s a nice side effect that it makes the pretty blond smile and Sam worry less. Gets them both off his back.
As soon as Justin and Sam are gone to do one thing or another, Dean takes a deep breath of relief. He’s tired, hurting, and he longs for a good night’s sleep. Since that’s not an option, he could go for the next best thing: a nap of a few hours a day.
The pillows are heaven when he leans back into them, taking the strain off his upper body. Somewhat at least, since the arm is still throbbing like a bitch, shoulders feeling like they’re going to rip themselves off the rest of his body. In other words, he feels like shit. Dean closes his eyes briefly, trying to will the pain away the happy pills cannot. And with his eyes closed, the headache is almost easier to take, too. Taking a careful breath, he concentrates on the soft noises of dishes being cleaned, paper shuffling and glasses rattling.
Getting thrown around by bitchy ghosts so isn't fun. In fact, it outright sucks.
He startles a bit when the bed dips beside him. Forcing his eyes open, he wonders why he didn’t notice Brian coming so close. The light in the bedroom is off, Brian holding out a glass filled with honey colored liquid to him. “Beam,” he enlightens him in a low, steady voice, sensing his confusion. “You look like you need it.”
Dean snorts. He just might. Taking the glass from long, elegant hands, fingers touching for a little more than the necessary seconds – or a lifetime. The first sip burns down his throat, settling warm and heavy in his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his head, a soft voice that sounds just like Sam tells him it’s probably not smart to mix painkiller with even more hard liquor. Then again, the same voice tells him that every time. Doesn’t listen. The second swallow goes down more smoothly; by the fifth, he doesn’t even notice the burn anymore.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t protest when the brunette stretches out alongside him, watching. Too close, the rational part of his mind shrieks, but the alcohol and the fuzzy feeling all around get to him and he doesn’t care. Or maybe it’s ‘cause Dean feels so goddamn cold, like he’s freezing from the inside out, and Brian’s so wonderfully warm – he can feel it even though they’re not quite touching. Otherwise Dean might just be going crazy. Maybe all of the above. Or somewhere in between.
Yeah… He watches out of the corners of his eyes as he drapes that sinfully body even closer to Dean’s side, propping his chin on his hand.
Guy looks like a piece of art.
He chuckles to himself and his thinking. That thought’s just a bit too corny, he can’t help himself. Brian, well, Brian’s frowning, confused. Yeah, guy can’t hear his thoughts after all, which is not that bad. Really. If if he think Deans crazy. “‘Tis nothing,” he mumbles, blinking against the urge and let heavy lids close. The smile he receives, the raised brow, it’s so familiar. Probably because he saw it on himself so many times before. “‘Tis nothing,” he says again, draining his glass slowly before it slips from his already fragile hold.
When he’s done, Brian leans closer, so close that his breath tickles Dean’s ear “You should go to sleep,” he says, “you’ll probably feel better when you wake up.”
“mmm…”
Drawing lazy circles on Dean’s thigh, he murmurs, “You should feel honored, you know, not a lot of people get to sleep in here.” That makes him chuckle again, and my, who knew that laughing could hurt so much? You do know. Right he probably just… forgot. Kinda. “Don’t fucking laugh at me, you asshole,” Brian scowls softly, but there’s a smile in his voice, so, “it’s true.”
It might very well be. Dean doesn’t care. Couldn’t care less, droopy eyes feeling like they weigh a ton - or twenty. “Mm…”
There’s a long pause where the world seems to slow around him, everything he hears are the dishes clattering in the background, water rushing and the faint scratching noise Brian’s nail makes moving over his jeans clad thigh. “Very eloquent.” He isn’t sure, but he thinks there are lips touching his for the fraction of a second before he whispers, “Go to sleep, Dean,” breath tickling his cheek.
Dude, I’m not a kid! Don’t tell me what to do!, he wants to say, protest, because really, Sammy does it all too much these days. But when he opens his mouth to tell him off, everything that gets out is a yawn. Next to him, Brian starts talking, close to his ear, voice barely above a whisper, low and a little raspy. Dean slips into a light doze as he listens to it, lulling him to sleep little by little.
Already half asleep, he wonders how this bone deep exhaustion could sneak up on him like this. Without… him noticing. Hmm…weird... Or maybe it didn’t sneak up on him so much as the last few days did. Fucking pain pills. Fucking ghosts, he thinks.
He doesn’t think for long anymore, as sleep finally claims him as their own.
He dreams of hazel eyes and brown hair that night.
-- TBC
