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Alright, Sam knows he’s gone through a fuckload of brain trauma. He does.
An exorbitant amount, really, not just for someone his age but for a hunter, too. It’s like spirits and ghouls and demons alike have a fascination with throwing him into brick walls.
Even so, it seems a little rude that this time, whatever-it-was decided to fuck with his head and put him into a washing machine with a super fast spin cycle. Really.
His vision’s all fucked up and his head feels like there are thirty-pound weights pressing it from every side, but he feels strangely calm, strangely put together, and he’s got enough of his wits about him to realize this is one of those Very Serious injuries, the ones they get Cas to heal so he doesn’t end up hemorrhaging in his sleep or something.
It’s not a good feeling.
He groans, and a long drop of some warm liquid (drool? blood?) slides out of his mouth, pulled away by gravity. Which is currently beating the shit out of him.
He hears some inane screech, like metal on metal, and the spin cycle stops. Whatever he gets placed onto is soft and smells like home, so he bets he’s probably not in any immediate danger. Good.
He passes the fuck out.
The next time he wakes is considerably less traumatic.
He’s in bed, he knows that much, drowning in downy comforters, propped up by feather pillows. Back at the bunker, then. That’s a good sign.
His head still feels like it went twenty rounds with a particularly aggressive pinball machine, but he’s glad that his eyes are cooperating with him. He blinks owlishly, squinting up at the stains on the ceiling. His neck aches a little, so he just barely tilts it to the side, where Dean sits in a chair at a desk that’s hardly ever been used.
He’s in Dean’s room, then.
Dean stands up the moment Sam shifts and breathes out, crowding closer to Sam.
“Sammy?” he says, but he sounds like he’s at the far end of a long tunnel, and muffled like he’s speaking through a cloud of cotton balls. “Sam, you okay?”
“Dean?” Sam responds, even though it’s redundant and useless. It makes both of them feel better. “What the hell happened?”
Dean freezes, his head ticked to the side like a dog who doesn’t know where the ball went. After a moment, he pulls the chair over and sits down right at Sam’s side, peering deeply into his eyes with an intensity that makes Sam think something’s up. “Sam, you feelin’ okay?”
Sam shrugs. “My head hurts a little, but other than that, I feel fine. What happened?”
Dean’s adam’s apple bobs and Dean wets his lips. There’s a strange, hybrid expression on Dean’s face--he’s caught in the middle of deciding whether he should laugh or cry. Or at least that’s how it looks to Sam.
Sam’s heart picks up speed in his chest, because he does not like how things are going. Why won’t Dean answer his question? Why does he look like Sam just kicked his puppy?
“Sam, you’re not making any sense,” Dean finally says, his voice hoarse. Sam watches as Dean runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t get it.
“What do you mean?” Sam asks, frowning. He opens his mouth to add something but slams it back shut when he sees the look that shutters across Dean’s face.
Something is seriously wrong.
He decides to wait instead, as verbalizing his concerns seems to make Dean look weaker and weaker. Dean stares at him, and he stares back. He tries to write “what the fuck” across his features as eloquently as possible, so Dean will get with the program and explain something, anything.
“You keep saying shit, but it doesn’t make sense.” Bingo. “Like you’re just talkin’ nonsense. Gibberish. It’s fucking creepy, dude. You seem fine otherwise but I think that witch really did a number on you when you went through that fireplace.”
So it was bricks again. God damn it.
Okay, maybe Sam shouldn’t be finding humor in this situation, but he just doesn’t know what else to do. He clears his throat and tries again, enunciating each word as clearly as possible. “Should we get Cas?”
Dean’s face falls and he looks away, rubbing a hand across his face, and wait--no. He can’t be.
He’s hiding a smile.
Sam huffs and points to the notepad on Dean’s desk. Dean turns back to him and quirks an eyebrow. He picks up the pad and paper. “You want this?”
Sam nods.
Dean hands it over and Sam clicks the pen, scrawling thickly and sharply in a way he knows even sounds pissed. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. He tears off the top sheet and thrusts it at Dean, who plucks it off of his fingers.
This isn’t funny, Dean.
He thought Dean would make some joke and lighten the mood, do that Dean-patented goof thing that makes Sam feel better every time he freaks out, but he doesn’t. His lips thin and his jaw tightens, and Sam would ask what’s up this time but he doesn’t want to make things worse.
Dean holds the note out.
Sam’s handwriting weaves up and down the page, the letters wide and sloping like a first grader who hasn’t quite mastered his penmanship. The words are legible, but just barely. The childish scrawl makes something tighten in Sam’s throat and he looks away, biting his lip.
“Sam, look at me.”
Sam blinks back the frustrated pinpricks of moisture at the corners of his eyes and turns to Dean. He looks past Dean at the wall. He just feels so fucking useless. He can’t speak, he can hardly hear Dean, he’s developing tinnitus, and he writes like a damn toddler. He doesn’t even want to try to open a book just because of the possibility that he might not understand the print that lies on its pages.
“No, really look at me.”
Sam can’t argue with Dean’s tone. He looks at Dean’s eyes, so sincere, Dean’s brows pushed together in the picture of brotherly worry.
It makes him feel a little bit better.
“We’re gonna fix this, okay?” Dean says, and it’s not up for argument. “You just lie in bed and watch some porn or something, I’ll get Cas to patch you up. I’m gonna get you some water. Just don’t freak out, alright? You’re fine.”
Sam nods, letting out a breath and relaxing all the tensed-up muscles in his body along with it. Dean looks satisfied and gets up, ruffling Sam’s hair before he leaves. He plants a rare kiss on Sam’s temple. “Be right back,” he murmurs, and Sam nods. He watches Dean go and keenly feels the separation.
When Dean comes back with a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk, he doesn’t leave. He plops onto the bed next to Sam and grabs the remote off the nightstand, flicking through channels as Sam quietly munches on his meal.
Dean settles on some old nineties movie and throws an arm around Sam.
“Prayed for Cas,” he says as Sam takes a sip from his glass. “We can just chill out until he comes.”
Sam nods, feeling warm. Dean’s arm tightens around his shoulders. If this is the kind of treatment he gets for having a bump on his head, he doesn’t really give a shit about all of the other consequences and side effects.
This right here? This makes it all worth it.