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It's a tough day in physical therapy.
None of the exercises come easy to Dean, and what's more, he had to be up by 6 AM to make the 7 AM appointment. Sam would ordinarily quip at Dean that if he didn't want to go to PT, then he should keep up with his exercises at home.
But seeing Dean wince and growl in pain during basic exercises and stretches hits Sam square in the chest. He hates seeing Dean in pain, but they both know--from experience--that if Dean doesn't move, the pain will only get worse.
Today's unlucky physical therapist is Devon, a lovely young lady who could probably find easy work being Zendaya's stunt double. Dean hasn't snapped at her... yet. She's been exceptionally patient with him, and has refrained from pushing him too hard. But Sam knows Dean could snap at any moment. This is partially why Sam came with today--to smooth things over if/when Dean needs it.
And to provide support. Though Dean won't ever admit that he needs Sam to be at his PT appointments. That's fine with Sam. They each have their own security blankets of denial.
"Easy," Devon says, keeping her voice as calm as a dinosaur trainer. "Remember to breathe."
Sam watches Dean grit his teeth during each clam exercise. Clams involve lying down on his side and pushing his top leg up. They look like a terrible ordeal, but Sam won't ever admit that.
I hate this so fucking much.
I know, it'll be over soon.
Not soon enough, she's killing me.
Ask for a break.
And extend this torture session? I think not. Fuck!
"Ow!" Dean blurts out. "I'm done, done with these clams--"
Before Dean can launch into a tirade, Devon pats his thigh and nods. "You're done. You did well." She hands him a red stretchy band.
Dean reluctantly sits up. He slips his feet and legs into the band, until the band sits mid-thigh. His job is to open and close his legs using the band--twenty times.
The phone up front rings and the receptionist asks for Devon to come over.
"Call of duty," Devon sighs. She looks at Dean, then at Sam. "Can you count for him? I'll be right back. Here. Sit in the chair of honor." She stands and motions for Sam to sit in front of Dean. "You two just count to twenty."
Puh. 'Just count to twenty,' she says. Like it's so damn easy.
If you do it in little pieces, it's not so bad, Dean.
"I can't take advice from someone who jogs five miles a day," Dean moans, squeezing his eyes shut. He starts with two stretches, then peeks his eyes open. "For pleasure, no less."
Sam sighs. He keeps up his exercise regimen because it makes him happy. The endorphins are worth it. His mood is different when he exercises. He feels a certain sense of satisfaction after a good run. Apparently, not everyone thinks this way.
"Let me help," Sam offers. "Just keep your eyes closed."
"That's easy," Dean grumbles. "Eyes closed. Now what?"
"Now count."
"Duh, Professor, that's what I was doing--mmph!"
Sam leans forward and smacks a kiss on Dean's lips.
One.
Dean whimpers and bites his bottom lip. Two. He successfully completes one whole stretch.
Three. Sam kisses him yet again.
Four. Brow furrowed, Dean struggles, but succeeds.
Five. Sam licks into Dean.
Six. Dean is anywhere but here.
Seven. Encouragement comes in the form of a deeper, longer kiss. Sam even nips at Dean's bottom lip--daring him to continue.
Eight. Dean opens his mouth a little more and tosses the reigns to Sam.
Nine. Sam takes control over every kiss.
Ten. Dean shudders.
Eleven. Sam tosses a picture out there--the front seat of the Impala--and works to shift their attention. They're sitting on the Impala's leather seats, side by side, with the radio on. There's Springsteen in the background and the windows start to fog up.
They can play pretend--they're anywhere but here.
By number fifteen, they're basically making out, with Sam's hands over Dean's hands on the edge of the table.
By twenty, Sam needs a breather in order to... collect himself. He bumps their noses together and opens his eyes. No more Impala. But Dean's eyes are still shut, which means he's still in pain, but dealing with it, and working on coming back to reality.
Sam sends over a wave of calm and relaxation.
Little by little, Dean opens his eyes. He looks at Sam with a vulnerability in his eyes Sam both hates and loves to see. Sam runs his right hand through Dean's hair. He tugs on Dean's left ear.
Two steps away from their station, Devon clears her throat.
"Little unorthodox," she comments, sneaking a smile towards Sam. "But I think y'all counted to twenty."
"Twenty-five," Dean says, loosening his grip on the table.
Sam nods. "Twenty-five."
Devon charts this. She wonders out loud if maybe Sam could accompany Dean next week. Just to see if a certain technique will work again.
When Sam brings up concerns over her coworkers and other patients bearing witness to this new 'technique,' Devon merely smiles.
"That's what these curtains are for," she says, drawing one over her shoulder. "Privacy."
Later on, Dean decides he likes Devon.
Sam decides he likes her, too.