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It’s mid-morning, and Sam wakes slowly. It’s somewhat strange for a couple of reasons: usually he likes to wake up fairly early to get started on the day, and he usually wakes with a start from a nightmare or overall sense of anxiety. Even so, he physically feels the same as he always does; with aches and pains radiating across his body. He probably overdid it on the hunt that ended yesterday—he knew it then and he’s paying for it now.
Something in his body changed after the trials. He’s always had a bit of pain here and there from the various injuries throughout the years, like when he broke his wrist or was shot in the shoulder. But after the trials, even with angelic interference, his body is no longer the same. Everyday is a struggle. Everyday is pain without an end in sight. There’s no explanation or reasoning from human doctors of course, but even Cas is at a loss of what is happening inside of Sam. Something about godly intervention and whatnot. In any case, the fact of the matter is this: Sam’s body hurts. It always hurts and it never stops.
He works himself up into a sitting position, biting his groans back. As he sits up and assesses, he seems to have really overdone it yesterday—he was feeling too confident during a low-pain day and went overboard in the hopes that things will feel the same the next day. It very much is not the case.
He wishes he could say it’s the first time this has happened. Sometimes he forgets that his body is no longer what it used to be. There’s a bit of grief there under miles of denial.
He drags himself up out of bed and stands. Sharp pain shoots down the back of his legs, and he wobbles but manages to catch his balance. It might be a day to use his walker or cane, though he hates using them, and admitting that he might need to use them, but the damned things do actually help.
He takes his walker with him down the hallway into the bunker communal showers. He gets into the first shower right to the left of the door where their shower chair is. Another item he hates using that actually does help.
As he sits in the chair and feels the warm water against his skin, he tries to plan the rest of his day. There’s no more cases to work on right now so maybe he can just work on research for today, or perhaps he can clean out another part of the bunker that hasn’t been touched in fifty years. The latter would be more of a physical task, but maybe it’d do him some good to stay busy.
The shower takes longer than usual, but the warmth flowing over him feels good. His muscles and nerves exhale the smallest bit in relief. It’s a temporary respite, but it’s appreciated within his body nonetheless.
Back in his bedroom, he gets dressed with little problems, though all of the movement causes him to feel a bit woozy. He sits on the edge of his bed and counts his breaths until his heart is able to reach a more steady rate. Pain is radiating down through his arms and legs, pulsating with every rush of blood, centering around his chest and back. He isn’t sure how many minutes pass, but when he eventually stands, leaning on his walker, the pain is more manageable; manageable enough to walk, at least.
He travels down the halls towards the kitchen. Food is next on his list—food is important, he reminds himself, even if he’s currently feeling too dizzy to eat.
He finds his brother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him. Dean looks up at him when he shuffles in the room.
“Bad pain day?” Dean asks, glancing down at the walker Sam is using.
“Bad pain day,” Sam confirms, wincing as he sits at the table. Dean winces back sympathetically.
“Well, I told you you shouldn’t have pushed it so hard on the hunt yesterday,” Dean scolds him, though flippantly.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, thanks Mom.”
Dean purses his lips with annoyance. “C’mon Sam, I mean it. You gotta take better care of yourself. I can’t have you falling down on me again.”
Sam looks down at the table. He would say that that’s an exaggeration, but he would be kidding himself. Dean has definitely walked in on him on the floor passed out,or hanging onto the wall almost passing out before.
The thing is, he knows the pain is chronic and is often debilitating. He is extremely aware of that. He just doesn’t want to show Dean how much he’s struggling with it. He doesn’t want to be seen struggling; he doesn’t want to be seen as weak. Especially by his brother of all people.
“Look,” Sam sighs, glancing back up to his brother. “I’m fine. Look at me, I’m walking and talking—”
“For now.”
“—So what if I’m in a little bit of pain? I can still do my job, and live my life for that matter.”
Dean looks at him with an unreadable expression. Sam fights the urge to squirm in his seat under his gaze.
“Okay,” Dean settles on. “If you’re sure. But you tell me if it becomes too much.”
Sam nods, pretending to agree.
He’s fine. He will be fine. He has to.
The rest of the day consists of Dean essentially mothering him. Sam is suffocating from it, but he doesn’t want to repeat the argument they’ve had over and over again about Sam’s ability to do… well, almost anything. So he lets Dean follow him around, helping him with various tasks, feeding him, reminding him to take breaks and drink water, all that smothering crap.
It’s one of those days where his walker doesn’t leave his side. He tries not to think about the pain, which sometimes works as he’s so used to it, but then there are moments where it demands his attention. Every time that happens, he stops to take a deep, quivering breath, trying to focus on anything but the pain overtaking his senses, and then continues on with whatever he was doing once it subsided to a more manageable degree.
Afternoon bleeds into evening, and the pain becomes more excruciating. Nights are when the pain is at its worst, mostly from his body being used so much, all that standing and walking and sitting throughout the whole day. He dreads dinner time, sitting at that hard dining table, but he manages to get there, Dean placing his bowl of homemade soup in front of him. All he wants is to lay in bed for the next day or two, but instead, he sits at the table across from Dean and eats.
Sam tries to hide his shaking hands with every bite of his soup, but he can feel Dean’s eyes on him. Even so, he pretends that everything is fine and that the pain isn’t making him feel dizzy.
He only gets a few sips down before his stomach starts to twist. Oftentimes during bad pain days like this, he either doesn’t feel much up to eating, or physically can’t due to nausea. Right now it feels like the latter.
“Alright, that’s it,” Dean declares, setting his spoon down next to his bowl. The clank of the utensil against the table causes Sam to flinch a little. “Get up, we’re going to bed.”
The way it’s worded causes Sam to blush and stutter. He can hardly get his next words out while Dean takes the bowl of soup away from him.
“Dean, what, I’m fine—”
“No, you’re not, you’re hardly eating, and you’re shaking like a damn leaf. You’re not taking it easy like you said you would, so it’s time to do things my way.”
Sam very much wants to protest, but the way Dean is looking at him leaves no room for argument. He purses his lips and fights the urge to shake his head. Breath leaves through his nose sharply.
“Fine,” Sam says snarkily. “Lead the way.”
Dean gives him a satisfied look, and does as he’s told.
He leads Sam towards his own room, the journey slow with Sam having to use his walker. They get there all the same, and it’s just how Sam left it this morning: bed in disarray, yesterday’s clothes and this morning’s towel on the floor, and desk littered with books and articles regarding their latest hunt. He feels slightly embarrassed that Dean is seeing his room in such a state, but then he remembers that Dean has seen him in every state of his life, both good and bad, and he relaxes.
“Take your shirt off and lay down on your stomach,” Dean tells him. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves while Sam sputters.
He isn’t sure what Dean has planned, but this seems a bit… intimate. His hands shake and he blames it on the pain radiating through his body. Nonetheless, Sam strips himself of his shirt, and shudders as he lays onto the bed, knowing that he’d only hear complaints from Dean if he didn’t follow orders.
There’s an immediate sense of alleviation when he settles into his bed. The weight of his body being taken off of his muscles and joints allows him to sigh a breath of relief. He’s almost starting to drift off a little when Dean enters the room again.
“Just me,” Dean alerts him quietly. He stands over the bed, hovering over Sam. “You tell me if you need more or less, okay?”
Before Sam can question, he feels his brother’s rough, lotioned hands against his skin. His hands rub and knead softly, starting at his shoulders and neck.
Sam absolutely melts. The ministrations digging tenderly into him causes little sparks of pleasure and respite to shoot across his nervous system. He never knew that a massage could be so heavenly. He was always scared of it causing more pain, of someone touching him and it hurting more than it helping, but Dean seems to know his body almost better than he does. He’s so gentle with the spots that hurt the most as he travels across his arms and down his back. Sam groans as he sinks his thumbs into the spots that really need it.
Going down his legs is a bit tricky, as it, again, feels weirdly intimate, but it’s a thought that lives in the back of Sam’s mind. In the forefront is only the thought that he should have asked for this so much sooner.
Sleep is calling to him like a siren song. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long damn time. The pain isn’t completely gone of course—it likely never will be—but he feels better right now than he has in a while, and especially all day today.
Dean is surprisingly tender with him, and he hums a Metallica song under his breath that Sam knows by heart from hearing him and his father play it a thousand times throughout his life. He suddenly feels little again, really little, and randomly remembers his brother rubbing ointment on his chest when he was really sick once as a young kid. It’s not the same situation at all, but the feeling in his heart is similar.
Dean’s presence around him and the warm bed underneath him causes him to drift further into a world of quiet comfort.
“Take it easy, little brother,” he hears Dean murmur to him.
It’s the last thing he hears before he falls into a restful sleep.