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Dean: “Sammy, I need you to be honest with me from here on out, man.”
Sam: “You’re right. And I will be.”
-8.17. Goodbye Stranger-
Sam decides to take Dean at his word. It happens one night when he’s heading back to bed after a pretty disgusting half hour in the bathroom. He can take a left back to his room and lie awake cramping and hopefully sleeping a little until Dean sticks a coffee under his nose.
Or he can turn right.
Every instinct tells him left is best, tells him to hide this annoying weakness from his brother for as long as possible. Promise aside, it’s not like Dean can actually do anything. There’s nothing for him to stitch, put back in place, or even drown in whiskey.
If it bleeds, you can kill it.
True. And you can also patch it the fuck up and move on.
“Sam?”
Sam startles, caught standing and wavering at Dean’s open door.
“Um, yeah. Sorry, go back to sleep.”
“No, no... ’M up. What is it?”
Sam can see him, vaguely silhouetted from the light on the landing. Dean is sitting up and scrubbing a hand over his face.
“I, uh. I don’t feel so good.”
Dean’s hand stills.
“Yeah?” Wary, like Sam is winding him up or something.
“Forget it.” Sam breathes in tightly, stomach hurting. He turns to go. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Hey! Don’t you goodnight me, Samuel Winchester. Get your ass in here.” A lamp light clicks on and there’s Dean, blinking owlishly, hair every which way.
Sam can’t help but smile. “Yes, Grandma.”
But Dean is already on his way over, eyes raking Sam from head to toe. “Whatever. What’s wrong?”
Sam backs up a step, remembering why hiding this crap was a good idea. Dean can be intense when it comes to Sam and what ails him. It’s like Sam’s goes back to four and whiney, while Dean simply amps up Big Brother and growly – with Sam, as well as the forces doing the hurt.
A hand lands on Sam’s forehead, none too gracefully. Sam scowls and bats it away.
“I don’t have a fever. It’s, uh...” He clears his throat. “Cramps? I think. In and around my ribs. And some coughing. Also, I’m just really fucking cold for some reason.” As if to prove his point, he shivers and bites his lip to stop his teeth from chattering.
“Blood?”
“Some, yeah.” In truth a lot more than in previous coughing episodes in the bathroom, but they’re going to babystep this truth thing between them.
“Right. Right. Okay, then.” Dean nods a few times. Sam is in his usual sleepwear of sweats and a white t-shirt, but Dean has found dead-guy gray pajamas from somewhere and he looks very serious in them. Dean studies Sam a moment longer and then points to his bed.
Sam raises his eyebrow.
“Sit,” says Dean. As if Sam is indeed four, retarded, and maybe a pet of some kind.
“What? Look, Dean. I don’t—
“Sammy.”
Said just so, damn him. Quiet and instantly softer.
“Sit down, dude. Hell, lie down if you want. About time you felt how awesome this mattress is.” Dean pats Sam’s shoulder on his way out the room. “I’ll be back with something, you’ll see.”
Sam shivers again, ribs tingling. He eyes Dean’s army style approach to bedding with suspicion but walks over anyway.
What the hell. He really is curious about memory foam.
Turns out Dean might be on to something. Sam is sitting up with Dean’s single spartan pillow as a back rest and his legs stretched out on the blanket, when Dean comes back in with a tray and something tucked under his arm. Sam is actually starting to feel a little less achey.
Sam carefully moves Led Zepplin aside so the tray has a place on the bedside table. He peers at the steaming mug on it, which smells...Sam sniffs...kinda nice. He looks at Dean, who is determined to jut out his jaw and behave as if bringing Sam herbal tea in the middle of the night is as routine as a weapons’ check.
“Found it in the pantry-thing next to the kitchen. It’s called ‘Ada-chay'. For ‘General Soothing’. I figure if anyone needs general soothing, it’s you. So, y’know. Drink up. Or not. Whatever. It’s not like you’re the only one exploring this batcave.” He fidgets, clearly uncomfortable, and Sam drops his gaze. Which was probably stupidly fond, because... Dean.
Sam takes a sip. And immediately takes another. Dean has sweetened it with honey, and also added maybe cloves and cinnamon.
“It’s good,” he says, licking his lips. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” Dean’s whole face brightens. “You taste the cinnamon and cloves I put in?”
“Absolutely.” Sam takes another mouthful, hides his smile. Gun-toting machismo and momma bear. In one unique package.
“I also found this and filled it up. Here” Dean waves his hand impatiently for Sam to get under the bedsheet. Which is ridiculous, because Sam is going to have to go back to his own bed once he’s finished the tea. But Sam does realize he’s not the only one in need of general soothing. Dean can’t bandage or stitch whatever the trials are fucking up inside Sam (and how much does Sam hate the way Cas so casually said the word ‘damage’ to Dean?). So the least Sam can do is take on board whatever Dean throws at him for this.
Besides, the tea is helping. His ribs feel less sore, and the strange itch and flutter he sometimes feels before he coughs is all but gone. He gets all the way under the blanket and takes the heavy, warm thing in a towel Dean then hands him.
“A hot water bottle?” Sam can’t quite believe it. He hasn’t had one of these... well, ever.
“You have no idea, Sam. There is a whole bunch of wussified crap lying around this joint. One of the Men of Letters was clearly a man after your own heart.”
Sam carries on sipping.
Dean watches him for a few seconds. “How’re you doing?”
“Well, I’m not feeling the urge to go back to the bathroom, if that’s what you mean.” He tries to drink the tea a little quicker, so that he can get up, and Dean can stop standing there like a pajama-clad sentry.
He finishes the last mouthful with genuine regret and peels back the blanket, hoping the shivers don’t return once he gets up. He’s definitely taking the hot water bottle back with him.
“Dude, stay,” says Dean, sounding affronted.
Sam stops moving.
“What? I got you all comfortable, so fuckin’ stay, would you? Jesus.” Dean turns on his heel and leaves the room.
Sam gives up. He gets both legs under the blanket again, clicks the lamp off, and curls up around the hot water bottle as best he can. What with the heat and the memory foam, he’ll make it through a single solitary bed cover and Dean treating him like a labrador until morning. Dean can go nap on the couch for all Sam is going to waste any more time thinking about—
Something soft and familiar lands on his legs. Then his hips, his shoulders. Then is freaking tucked in around his neck. He can’t help the long, drawn out sigh/groan/moan that escapes. “Oh my God...”
“Purple, Sam. With yellow fucking moons all over one side. At least six comforters in that linen closet, and you pick the purple one.”
Sam can barely concentrate. “’V’ndar.”
“What?”
Sam lifts his head, licks his lips. “Lavendar. ’S goose feathers.”
“Oh. Well, excuse me, princess.”
All is quiet for a blissful minute or so while Sam unashamedly snuggles into the warmth of his own comforter. Then he remembers where he is.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean is right behind him. Sam tries to see. Dean has also brought the pillow back from Sam’s bed as far as Sam can tell, and is stretched out about a foot or so behind him.
“Do you uh, want me to...?”
“Nah. I’m fine on top of your lavendar moons. Might get up anyway.”
Sam makes a frustrated noise. “Don’t be a dick. It’s your bed, asshole.” He starts to pull at the comforter under Dean, aware he has to be gruff to make this happen.
It takes some maneuvering, and Sam ends up getting an elbow in the face while Dean mutters about gigantor limbs. But then they’re on their left sides facing the door, they’ve got a pillow each, they're both under the comforter and it’s quiet. Dean’s knuckles set to grazing Sam’s back in a careful, light pattern, and the terrible ache under Sam’s skin finally lets him go. He has no idea how psychological all of this is – he doubts Dean’s tea is really that amazing, or that Dean himself exudes any kind of pain-killing balm from his pores. But he’s smart enough to know how deep-down good his brother has always been for what truly ails him. So he hugs the toweled heat and listens to Dean shift and settle.
It comes to Sam then, sharp and fierce; this is the light at the end of the tunnel.
The mattress dips, a knee nudges the back of his leg, and Sam opens his eyes.
“Can I...?” Dean’s fingers are hesitant on Sam’s hip.
He and Dean. Not since before Ruby. And before that it had been little more than a few fervent fumbles against walls the awful year Sam had tried and failed to save him. Sam remembers crying through much of it, remembers Dean holding him by the back of the neck and shushing him. They’re not great memories.
He doesn’t turn – face to face across a few inches of mattress is something they’ve never done. But he does reach for Dean’s right hand, tugs it until it’s under his own and resting on the hot water bottle.
Maybe they could try this again, under a lavendar comforter and in a place of peace for once. A place where they drink good coffee from their own mugs each morning, where they pour the finest whiskey into crystal glasses each evening, and where Dean has an honest to god recipe book earmarked on the table downstairs.
Sam senses Dean fidget behind him and he holds his breath. He could be reading this wrong.
“How’s your PMS, Sammy?” A wicked and hot whisper in his ear.
Sam relaxes that very last inch, squeezes the hand under his. He doesn’t even open his eyes. “Fine. Your tea helped enormously, Martha.”
“’Course it fucking did,” says Dean around a yawn, lying back down. He doesn’t move his hand from under Sam’s.
A minute passes and nothing else happens, except for Dean’s breathing. It slows and deepens and Sam guesses this is as far as they’re going tonight, which is more than fine. He’ll take the hand-holding as foreplay, and he’ll take his heat in whispers, tea, and a bottle for right this minute, thank you kindly.
Dean’s snores finally take him down to sleep, as they always have.
In the morning, Sam changes his mind about memory foam. It’s lumpy, uneven, and fucking waking him up....
“That whole carry you thing? Not...not quite this literal, Sam. Need to breathe here.”
Oh.
Dean, then. Not memory foam.
Sam disentangles himself from where he was apparently using Dean’s ribs as a back rest. He groans, rolls onto his front and smashes his face back into the pillow. He pulls the comforter up tight. That was the best night’s sleep in forever, he is so not done yet.
“How’re the lady pains?”
Sam raises his middle finger, slowly and eloquently. His answer is a chuckle and a slap to his padded, still-oh-so-comfortable ass.
Sam wriggles around on the mattress some more.
Dean was right. Memory foam is fucking awesome.
****