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„No.” Dean slides behind the wheel like nothing happened, like his shoulder isn’t bleeding through the layers he has on, like his brother didn’t shoot him, „I’m not really in the talking and caring kinda mood. I just wanna get some sleep.”
There’s a tight, tight line to Dean’s lips, a hard set of his jaw and yeah, Sam won’t get anything out of his brother. So he only nods, gets into the passenger seat and tries to ignore the taste of blood and dust in his mouth. Ignores the churning of his stomach, the sharp smell of blood that fills the inside of the car. Sam breathes it in, thick and heavy and fights the urge to hurl.
Dean’s knuckles are bone-white over the wheel, the radio is off and the silence is suffocating, Sam’s jaw throbbing with dull pain, but he welcomes the ache with gratitude. It’s the least he deserves.
His brother doesn’t look at him again for the rest of the ride, doesn’t throw him even one glance for the whole remaining evening.
Doesn’t ask for help when he takes off each layer, the blood making a squelching sound as he peels off the last of his shirts; a sound that makes Sam bite down on his lower lip over a wince. The wound looks worse than Sam expected, Dean’s left pectoral – below the clavicle - torn and bruised, the blood thick and rich and God, Sam did this, Sam shot his brother with cold, cold intent and there’s nothing, absolutely fucking nothing he can do to change the fact.
Couple of inches lower and…
Bile rises in Sam’s throat again, at the very thought of what could happened, at the way Dean’s not using his left arm anymore, at the sight of blood still oozing out of the wound, a lazy crimson trail down Dean’s chest.
“Dean.” He says, desperate and in pain, and fucking Hell, isn’t this ironic that he sounds like he’s suffering ,while it’s Dean who’s bleeding and tending to himself.
Dean takes the first aid-kit without a word, without a fleeting glance in Sam’s direction, and carefully locks himself in the bathroom to tend to the wound.
The sound of the lock sliding in place rings loud like a gunshot – likethe gunshot – in Sam’s ears and suddenly it’s too much, too raw and it cuts through him like a knife. Sam bolts outside, the cold air hitting his face like a wet rag, and throws up into the trash-bin just outside the door. His fingers are tightly curled around the rusty iron, his body shaking when he’s done emptying his stomach.
The only sound he hears is the furious rush of his own blood, his vision blurred by angry, burning tears and no matter how big his breaths are, his lungs refuse to fill with air.
He shot his brother.
The four words rattle around his brain, cause his stomach to tighten unpleasantly again and he gags, heaves on empty, knees so weak it’s a miracle he’s not hitting the concrete yet. He remembers every word he spew, he remembers the easy glide of the trigger and God, the look in Dean’s eyes when the bullet ripped through flesh and muscle…
The inside of his mouth is sand dry and foul-tasting when Sam forces himself back inside. The bathroom door is still closed, but he can hear the sound of water running, the soft clang of metal against porcelain as he collapses against the wood. His nails catch on the surface as he claws at it with silent desperation and fuck it all, he’s crying, fat hot tears streaming down his dirty cheeks and those awful, meek noises escaping his throat that suspiciously sound like his brother’s name. Sam’s not above the point of begging but there are no words he can think of, nothing more but the broken line ofDeanDeanDeanDeanDean and it echoes right off the door as soon as it leaves his mouth.
The passage of time is lost to him; it could be minutes or over an hour, and Sam’s on the floor, his legs gone numb underneath his weight. His nails are chipped, his voice raw and when Dean finally,finally opens the door… Sam’s unable to say anything.
He can only watch through blood-shot eyes as Dean carefully moves past him, cautious not to even let his jeans brush against Sam’s shoulder. He wants to grab and beg, wants to hear Dean’s voice, wants to see Dean’s eyes but the weight on his shoulders is crushing, his limbs immobilized as he watches the careful way in which Dean holds himself.
The bandage is clean and tight, stark white against red skin over Dean’s body, the ends neatly tucked in and secured.
And Sam should be the one to do that, to care for his brother when he gets hurt, not the one to cause it in the first place.
“Dean.” The sound wrenches itself from the very core, desperate and thick with everything and finally, finally Dean looks at him.
Sam wishes he didn’t.
The green of Dean’s eyes is dull, dark and alien. It’s a look Sam doesn’t know, doesn’t recognize, a look that has never been directed at him and it causes a gut-wrenching flare of pain to ripple through his body. The corners of Dean’s mouth fall down softly, he looks older than has any right to be and bone-tired.
“I’m sorry,” the words sound pathetic, weak, but Sam has to say it over and over, because he means it, he never meant this to happen, and Dean has to know, because Dean always knows, despite everything, despite everyone even Sam…
Dean looks away and lays down, the angles of his body oddly sharp and wrong and it feels like Sam’s world is crumbling. Dean lies with his back turned, for the first time since ever and the way he shields his body speaks more than any word he could ever muster.
Sam hangs his head in shame, lets his vision blur and breath run short, and allows the guilt settle heavy in his heart.