Chapter Text
His eyes were closed.
Seth breathed a sigh of relief (disappointment) because he was in no kind of state to be offering comfort to anyone, let alone to this specific someone right now. But then, the hand cupped in his squeezed again, and he gave a sort of breathy little groaning noise that hit Seth’s spine like a ton of bricks, and again, “Seth,” but this time there was something in the name, something like confusion, and again, “Seth?” It was a definite question, and the man in question held his breath because no fucking way was this happening but of fucking course this was happening.
“Know ‘t’s you. Shitty pine tree hair gunk,” and the raspy voice was thicker than usual and hoarse, raw, and it was the most beautiful sound in the known universe, “always smell… you.” He made a harsh little noise, swallowed in the back of his throat almost before it escaped, as he tried to move, and if Seth didn’t know any goddamn better he would have sworn that noise was a whimper; Dean stilled again, fingers curling limply against the bed, and released a wheezy breath. “Why’m’I… why does it hurt,” and he sucked in a deep breath, shaky, because this was a man who had literally been thrown into a table covered in barbed wire and beaten unconscious with fluorescent light tubes more than once, and he knew exactly how high a dose of pain medication he was on, and if he hurt now… Seth didn’t want to think about the extent of his injuries. “Hurtsss…”
He straightened, shifting his arm and trying to move his hand away to reach for the call button, but Dean made the noise again, the whimper, and slack fingers scrabbled for his. “No don’, don’ go away,” he mumbled, voice heavy and sharp with fear, “pleas’ stay,” and it was a boot to his chest, that desperate rasp, because Seth recognized that tone, and it always preceded a screaming nightmare, kicking legs and wild grabs for anything within reach, wild-eyed panic and thrown punches when he awoke. For the first time, he saw past his own self-fueled panic and realized that Dean was probably not entirely awake, but he was at least aware enough to recognize that Seth was there (was he? Or was he dreaming? Did he want to think about the implications—for either of them—of the idea that Dean, at his most vulnerable, dreamed of Seth?). He paused, breath coming in jerks, staring at the hand coiled under his, staring at the hand as it was pulled away only to flop back and run stiff fingers along his. Watching Dean, the strongest person he knew, fighting shadows was hard for him to bear, and knowing that he was drowning in god-knows-how deep a sedative, trapped in the semi-darkness next to his demons but aware enough to know who was here and further to try to comfort him—it struck something in the hollow of Seth’s breast, and he shrank unsteadily next to the bed, but there was no wavering in him as he caught the hand and ran warm fingers soothingly over the cool skin on the sheets.
“I’m here,” he murmured, voice betraying him, a shade too shaky to be called a croon, and it was so damn funny to him that he was saying those words again, those words he had told Roman only a few hours before only a few feet away; he had not been there, he was never there when it counted. He knew consciously his presence for the accident just would have earned him his own hospital bed, but it was a tougher thing to convince his viscera; the crawling shadows pooled in his brain and accused, delighting in the eerie flash of a cell screen with only two texts on it. His eyes were hot again, burning, but he wasn’t conscious of the tears trickling down his face until he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the damp cool one in the bed, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He felt the brow under his furrow, felt the clumsy push of drug-sloppy muscles as a cheek brushed his, felt the exhaled breath and the firefly patterns of lips moving in untidy time, “You’re---y’re cryin, don’ cry,” a heavy, ungainly lift of linked hands to brush awkwardly at damp cheeks, “why’re you cryin?”
Because you asked me to come and I wasn’t there. Because you died today. Because I’m a fucking moron.
“Seth,” and the voice was suddenly serious, despite the sleepy rasp, and belatedly he realized Dean’s hand was still pressed to his face, knuckles molded into his jaw, felt the flutter of ungodly long eyelashes and for one precious, unbearable second everything disappeared into the unfocused pool of blueblueblue that opened millimeters from him, but he was jerked cruelly back to reality by the fear in the serious voice, “why c’n’t I open my eye?”
He paused for a moment, fingers stilling against the scarred wrist, then absently stroking again, following the bitten lines back to the fleshy heel of the palm. How much should he tell him? How much did he remember? His resolve crumbled as the request was repeated with a taste more desperation.
“You were in a car accident,” Seth decided on honesty, feeling more than seeing the twitches of reaction shockremembrancefear, “and there was some glass in that eye that they had to remove. So it’s bandaged.”
The breaths against his face were quick and panicked, the muscles of the face and mouth moving in spasms, and there was a sudden sharp inhale, and then, “Roman, oh god, is Roman okay,” and if Seth hadn’t known him for so damn long, hadn’t known exactly how to keep him down, he would be up, hospital equipment be damned, and he pressed his face and shoulder into the body on the bed, trying to pin him firmly but gently while avoiding the lion’s share of his injuries and getting a mouthful of Dean’s neck in the process (he was sticky cool with sweat and tasted like cigarettes and disinfectant and Seth was going to file that away to deal with later, much much later, possibly never, because it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten a taste of Dean and this was so not the place or time to be thinking about that). Lips still flush with his neck, forehead pressed to temple, trembling not entirely from the effort of pinning the weakly thrashing man to the bed, he managed, “Roman is fine. Roman is asleep in a chair about ten feet away. Please calm down, please, Dean.”
At his name, the body stopped thrashing, slumping weakly, and dampness that wasn’t sweat filtered down to his cheek, and he pulled back, watching the man in the bed struggle through his own emotions. Their hands were still linked, fingers less intertwined than tangled, and he felt the weight of the hand heavy between them; it was too easy, this intimacy, too quick, for the guilt that clung to his bones like humidity. But that was how it had always been, easy, smooth, like slipping into a pair of worn jeans or easing onto a bed; Seth knew that words didn’t help him when he was like this, knew what he needed was a steady thing to cleave to until the world around him stopped pitching and heaving, and Dean knew that only words helped him, drew him out of himself and the pitch-black tar of his thoughts, sometimes gently, sometimes by force. That blackness was threatening now, the chasm taunting as he watched the muscles twitch in fingertips, and somehow he knew, and there was a soft, choking laugh, and then, “Am I dead?”
His head snapped up, searching the dark wistfulness of aching stormy blue, fighting back the harsh hissing breaths that would betray him, because no, no, no way was he dealing with that fact that he had just asked that, not after this afternoon, not when he’d never get the scream of that flatline out of his head; he was gripping the hand he held, almost crushing it, and he released with an apologetic murmur, shaking his head but dropping his face, “No, you’re not.”
“Damn, I was k’nd of hopin this was a dream.” He dared to lift his gaze for a moment—blue was closed, head rested back against the pillow with wispy curls fanning around his head like some sort of built-in heavenly glow, and the near-serenity of the pose belied the purplish bruises already dancing out from under the bandage on his face, the cautious, shallow breaths pushed between chapped lips. “M’not this eloquent in real life much. Maybe ‘ts the drugs.”
There was a short, hollow silence, filled with the soft squelchy breathing of the man in the bed, and Seth thought he may have fallen well and truly asleep again. He sank a little bit into his knees, ignoring the cold bite of the linoleum, resting his forehead against the crisp edge of the mattress. Too much, too much was spinning in his brain, in his lungs, in his fingers still gently tracing nonsense patterns on soft inner arm skin; he wanted to abandon his body and run, sprint away, so he didn’t have to deal with the coiled-up tension that had made a home out of his neck in the last few minutes. His breathing was taking on a ragged quality again, too short, too little, but still too much, too much, and he concentrated on his fingertips, tracing well-worn paths on too-familiar skin. Then a sudden, shuddery little breath from Dean had him on his feet again, hovering over the sprawled body, nervously watching the rise and fall of the chest, counting seconds until the molasses exhale from parted lips, and he was well and truly asleep now. It must have just been a momentary spasm, the pressure of normal breathing a strain on his abused lungs, and Seth felt stupid for his overreaction. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine, so why couldn’t he let go of his hand? Dean wasn’t clinging to it any longer; his fingers had fallen, limp, to the bed, upturned, and now he was just tracing shivery little scales the length of them only to fall back and repeat the motions. It was calming to him, this replay of terra au fait, and he could feel the heated havoc pulse of his heart slowing until he may have been able to maintain some normalcy, whatever that was now. He turned to go, finally, reluctantly pulling his hand away from the warmth, and he fought the urge to return immediately to reassure himself that Dean was still there and still breathing. He had almost reached the curtain when he was stopped in his tracks by a soft, plaintive, “Seth…”
Frozen in place, hand outstretched to move the fabric out of his way, he fought a losing battle with himself not to turn around. Dean was still asleep, head now tossed the other direction, hair mussed and crushed where he had been laying on it, a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck and chest. He was beautiful, even injured, especially injured, and a flood of memories swamped the other wrestler, memories of him treating this bleeding scrape or that swollen joint, a recognition of how the easy familiarity with his body had been gained, and heat swelled in his cheeks because he was literally in a hospital bed, had died earlier that day. “Fuck,” he finally muttered, voice rough, and dragged a hand through his (admittedly disgusting) hair as he approached the bed again, hand hovering centimeters from the other body. Why was this so hard?
“Fuck, Dean,” he muttered again, softer in volume but harsher in tone, why do you make this so hard, and he leaned forward, brushing dry lips against his temple, lingering for a second, two, three, at his hairline and breathing in, because even though there was the awful sting of disinfectant there was still the distinct smell of leather and spice and heat that meant him, and then he jerked himself back and practically bolted back to his chair. Roman was stirring, and he could see a nurse outside the door, writing something on the chart, and he rubbed at the corner of his jaw and mumbled, “You’re a fucking idiot,” and he knew he wasn’t talking about the man behind him on the bed.