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lovesrain44) wrote2009-07-28 07:43 pm
Blue Skies From Rain Part 6 - Chapter 29
Dean woke up and sat up, mindful of his knee, his mind blurry with sleep, not really thinking. The lights were off, but he could feel the fan slowly spinning overhead. He got up to hobble to the bathroom. Of course, his knee still hurt, but nothing else did, not his heart, not his gut, and he felt the smile bubble up as he looked in the direction where Sam was still sleeping in the dark.
He turned on the light in the bathroom, and stripped his bandage, bending to unroll it from his leg, rolling it back up as he went. He would take a shower and then get Sam to help him put it back on and then maybe they could eat. Hopefully the food at the café would be good, or maybe that wouldn’t matter. When he got this hungry, he could eat a bowl of mud and call it fine.
The shower helped, the hot water making his skin feel less sticky and his brain less scattered. Of course they were going to be okay, they could go on like this, together, and keep hunting, and if they had some trouble remembering why this was good or remembering who had almost fucked them both up (Dean), they would work it through. Like they had, like they always would. His heart felt full and good, and though it might be dangerous to be that fucking happy, he had it now, and he‘d always lived in the moment, so that was okay.
After he dried off, he took some more aspirin, washing the pills down with water cupped in his hand at the sink. Then he gave himself a shave in the foggy mirror, and brushed his teeth. By the time he put a clean t-shirt and boxers on, he felt like a new man. He carried his dirty clothes and the bandage out into the cool, tiled room, where Sam was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, hair spilling across his neck.
“Hey,” said Dean. “Help me with this?”
Sam got up and pulled on his boxers without a word, still sleepy as he turned on the lights, blinking, trying to focus on the task Dean had asked of him. He took the bandage and motioned to the bed. Like always, because the bed made it easier to wind the bandage from side to side without knocking into chair handles. Sam knelt down, frowning at his task, but that wasn’t unusual, he did that when he concentrated. There was only the tiniest shake to his hands as he pulled Dean’s now clean foot to rest on his thigh and began to wind the bandage around Dean’s bare leg.
“You want it tight?” Sam asked at one point, looking up through his bangs.
“Yeah, a little,” said Dean. “Sleeping tight, I’m not going to try and win any races with it.”
With a little grunt in his throat, Sam nodded and kept winding until he was finished. Then he took the time to make the little fold at the end that would keep the bandage in place. Like Dean had taught him years ago, when the little poky things went off the market and had always been too much hassle anyway. “There’s that café,” Sam said, standing up and moving back. “You hungry?”
“I could eat my own arm,” said Dean.
He knew Sam was being extra casual, not looking at him, not making a big deal out of it, but distancing himself just the same, as if he were protecting Dean. And Dean didn’t want that, so he went over to Sam and put his hand on Sam’s arm and let it stay there. He looked right at Sam for a minute, letting Sam get used to him being so close.
“Hey,” he said. “C’mere.” When Sam took a step closer, Dean pulled him in for a kiss, whispering his lips across Sam’s, letting him get used to that, and wasn’t surprised when Sam responded, all at once, in a rush, pushing into Dean, all bare skin and heat, licking into his mouth, hands curving around Dean’s back. Possessive. Dean could feel Sam’s heart beating fast.
When he pulled away, licking his lips, Dean asked, “Okay? You okay?”
“Yeah,” said Sam, smiling now.
Something in his chest eased, because of course this was why he’d done it. To get Sam out of that awful place, to bring him back to himself, where he wasn’t afraid, where he knew what he was, who he was. Where he could smile at Dean and not worry who was watching. Everything else was just a bonus. A big, huge, sky-filled bonus.
“So get dressed,” said Dean, letting go of Sam, reaching to throw a t-shirt in Sam’s direction. “We got to eat or I’m going to pass out.”
Some of it, Dean realized, could be like it always had been, while other parts of it would be brand new. He smiled, thinking of it as he watched Sam get dressed, like he had a hundred times. And like he would, a thousand times more.
*
Sam got dressed and helped Dean on with a pair of jeans, and helped him with his socks and sneakers while Dean sat on the bed and slid on his shirt. Then Sam took the keys to lock up the room behind them. His brain was very focused on Dean, where he was, where his body was in relation to Sam’s, what his footsteps said, how he limped as they walked the short distance to the café. It was a typical southwestern place, all brown and ochre and yellow-red, with coyotes and cactus everywhere you looked. But there would be cold beer, which Sam knew Dean would love.
The place wasn’t very busy, and they only had to wait a minute, standing side by side in the slightly dark alcove, shoulders brushing, their hands not touching, until the waitress led them to a table by the dark windows.
“Anything to drink?” she asked, passing them their menus as they sat down.
“I’ll have a
She nodded and then turned to Sam. He looked at Dean, feeling the newness sink into him again, him and Dean, ordering beer like it always was, Dean going first because he loved beer, and Sam usually getting what Dean did, because the beer that Dean ordered tasted better. He watched the corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle up, the dimple at the corner of his mouth forming as he smiled, watching Sam watching him.
“Me too,” Sam said, looking at the waitress, feeling the rather nice warmth settle over him, full of the feel of him and Dean being together. Like this. “But just one lime.”
Then she left them to bring back beers and chips and salsa, which they both attacked like they’d not eaten in years. Sam knew he was being far too silent, but it was strange how it could be like this and how they could be brothers at the same time.
When the food came, Dean shoveled in the first bite of his chimicanga and sighed as though the heat was soaking into his skin from the inside. After that came the first swallow of beer straight from the bottle with the lime jammed in the bottom.
Sam took a bite of his own food and watched Dean’s throat work as he swallowed the beer. Then Dean put the bottle back on the table and picked up his fork again.
“Oh, man,” Dean said. “Mine’s great, how’s yours?”
“Sure,” said Sam. He took a swig of his beer, wanting to rinse his mouth. “You picked the good one. I think mine has green peppers in it.”
Then Sam snapped his mouth shut because he’d not meant to complain. Why was he like this, always so fussy with his food? Dean looked like he was on the verge of making them exchange plates so Dean could eat the nasty green peppers, just like he’d eaten all the stewed tomatoes in the hospital, and Sam’s throat was about to close up, and fast, just thinking of it, when the waitress, who had overheard them, came over.
“I’m sorry sir, you don’t like green peppers?”
Sam opened his mouth to say no, it was fine, so Dean butted in. “No, he really doesn’t. Could you just bring him a chimichanga like this one? Extra guac and sour cream, okay?”
“Certainly,” said the waitress, and Dean turned his head a moment as though admiring the way the brightly colored flounces of her skirt made her waist tiny enough so that two hands could span it. Then he looked at Sam like he could care less about the waitress.
“Thanks, Dean,” said Sam. He felt bad to be so much trouble, but it was nice having Dean look out for him. Like always. Like he would forever; you couldn’t change someone like Dean and Sam knew he didn’t want to. It would just take a while for him to get used to how they were now.
“I got my special badge for helping picky eaters,” said Dean, shrugging as he dug into his food with his fork. Keeping it causal, and smirking. “I figured I could keep doing it, even though I’ve already earned the badge, so—”
“Shut up,” said Sam. But he was laughing.
Dean smiled and kept eating. He was halfway done with his plate when Sam’s food came, steaming and piled high with all the fixings, except for no green peppers. Sam dove in and then Dean took a deep slug of his beer.
“So I meant to ask you,” Dean said around a mouthful of food, chewing with his mouth open as always in a way that now made Sam feel unexplainably happy. “How did you find me, anyhow?”
Sam had his mouth full too, but he was smiling around it. It was a good story and he wanted to tell it.
“I mean, forty-eight contiguous states,” Dean continued, letting Sam chew. “It must have been like a crap shoot. You just got lucky.”
The challenge was thrown down and Sam rose to the occasion like Dean had probably known he would.
“Actually,” said Sam, “I spotted an article in the Tulsa World, and after that, it was a cakewalk.”
“A cakewalk?” Dean made a scoffing sound. “Cakewalk, my ass.”
Sam swallowed his mouthful. “Sure,” he said. “You left a little trail of breadcrumbs from helping people. Like you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it. And they couldn’t wait to call the nearest newspaper to tell someone all about their rescuer. Their angel from heaven.” Sam rolled his eyes dramatically, both hands up like a status of the Virgin Mary, food flying from his fork.
Dean snickered into his beer, watching Sam with bright eyes, as though loving this story, and Sam laughed back, opened mouthed, flushed from his beer.
“I started in
Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on Sam as he listened.
“So there was that article, with you using Kris whathisname again, that was easy to recognize. When I drove to
Dean listened while Sam rambled on, eating more chips to sop up the melted cheese on his plate. Ordering another beer.
“And then,” Sam continued, “there was
“Did you interrogate her?” asked Dean.
“For hours,” said Sam. “Hours. I think I even got some rhubarb pie out of the deal, did you get any of that?”
“No,” said Dean, exaggerating his irritation, laughing along with Sam. “I rescue her from the black dog, and you get pie? It’s not fair.”
“Everything is timing, Dean,” said Sam smugly, snagging a bit of cheese from Dean’s plate with his fork.
Towards the end of the meal, Dean debated getting an apple empanada or a basket of sopapias. Sam was looking at the menu, too, so when the waitress came by, they ordered one of each, to share.
Then Sam asked, “So I meant to ask you, where did you get the paperclips?”
“Paperclips?” asked Dean absently as he watched the waitress come to the table with their deserts. “What paperclips?”
“The ones,” said Sam. He paused to divvy up the sopapias, which he had to do or Dean would eat them all and they both knew it. “The ones you used on all the doors in the hospital, and the padlock at the car pound. I know full well and good Greer wasn’t handing those out with the meds.”
Dean’s lips went stiff, suddenly, as though the bite of empanada in his mouth lost its taste. Then Dean swallowed the bite, and kept the smile on his face. “Well,” he said, “When I went to the infirmary, the doctor had a clip board, and some paperclips stuck on the paper. So I grabbed ‘em, and stuck them on my sock. No one ever knew. Not even you.”
“Infirmary,” said Sam. “Oh, wait,” said Sam. “That was when I—and you—and. Oh.”
Too late he realized they shouldn’t be talking about this because he could see right where it was going. Down a very dark, unfun road. Fast. Which it did as he realized why Dean had stopped smiling, and remembered why Dean had been in the infirmary, or what had upset Sam enough to make him attack Dean and send him there. None of that memory was good. He took a deep breath and his heart sank. “Shit.”
“Uh,” said Dean, chewing on his lip.
And at that moment, all the light, buoyed up feeling went out of his heart, because he knew he’d just made Dean feel bad by forcing him to remember. At some point, yes, they would need to have conversations about it and deal with the issue, as Dr. Logan would say. But not yet, not now, in this peaceful, quiet time that they had. Before they got back on the road and re-entered their own lives, saving people, hunting things.
“None of that matters, Sam,” Dean said. “It was just that place.”
Sam’s mouth felt tight, and he flicked his eyes away from Dean’s. He stuck out his jaw, trying to keep a lid on.
Dean placed his knife and fork down on the table with a dull click. The shift and sounds of the restaurant seemed far away. Sam kept his eyes on Dean’s hands, and let himself be distracted.
“Sam,” said Dean, going slow, as though Sam were indeed that Sam, simple and in need of extra care and guidance. “It was what it was, that place. You said it yourself, those kinds of places don’t make you sane, they make you insane. But we got out. You and me.”
Sam couldn’t say anything, his chest hurt and he wanted to put his hands over his eyes.
“Sam, look at me, damnit. It’s me Dean, we were both there, and I know—”
“But Dean,” said Sam, a small, hot explosion bursting in his throat. “I hurt you, hurt you bad—”
“But you were the one they dragged off to Treatment, and how much you wanna bet that I’m going to carry that as my responsibility for a hell of a long time?”
This stopped Sam, and he could see how it would go, each of them counting it up, till there was nothing left but a spiral of accusations and self-recriminations and guilt and a bad taste that would just never go away—
“Besides,” said Dean. He dipped his chin to smile a little, though Sam could not for the life of him understand why. He picked up the sopapia on his plate and drizzled honey over it, too much honey, but Dean liked sweet things. Had forever. “You can always make it up to me.”
Sam felt his eyebrows come down, confused, knew that he was pouting because he didn’t understand.
“Still,” said Dean, shoving the pastry in his mouth, half of it, all in one honeyed glob, like he knew would annoy and distract Sam. “We really should wait till my knee is better for next time. But, if you really wanted it, I could—” He broke off to swallow the bite in his mouth.
In spite of the joking tone of his voice, and the glisten of honey on his lips, Dean’s eyes were steady, glinting with that deep, green light, like they had in the hospital—the loony bin—steady and green and always on Sam. Watching him. Wanting him. His every waking moment, all of it, all about Sam, and loving him, even though he never said it.
Sam felt his eyes grow hot as he took it in, all that love, wordless and sure and forever. Constant. Just like Dean. He didn’t want to break the spell, but he wanted to match Dean’s tone, to make it easy for Dean. A little joking, keeping it light, even with the way Dean’s eyes pulled him into that steady firm weight of love and wanting and joy.
“Oh,” Sam said, arching his eyebrows, swallowing against the thickness in his throat. He reached for what was left of Dean’s sopapia, and took it right out of his hand and shoved it all into his mouth. Licked his lips. “So you think there’s going to be a next time?”
“There better be,” said Dean, joining in, growling, looking grateful that Sam had taken him up on keeping it light, jabbing with his fork to nab the crust of Sam’s empanada. “Or I’ll lose my mind and they’ll send me right back in there, and won’t that put Mr. Randy Pointy Fingers on his ass, because you know, don’t you, that Dr. Baylor will let me sit in the Special Seat, and I’ll be so special—”
Sam tilted back his head, mouth open, laughing at the thought of it, his heart doing warm flips, thinking of it, how Dean could make him laugh, how Dean was here, smiling at him, smirking really. Laughing too, silently, mouth curved wide, with that dimple forming in the corner. Then he licked his lips, taking the honey on his tongue.
Sam dipped his head, filled with it, his eyes blurring, mouth working as he made himself not cry. Later, he could, in the dark, pressed against Dean, and that would be okay. But Dean needed this now, Dean had been so brave, not running off but holding his ground and when confronted with the truth of loving Sam, had reached out for Sam and said yes. In Dean’s way, without words, but a yes truer and stronger than any words could be.
Sam swallowed and made himself look up. He wanted to keep his voice low and even, none of that mushy love stuff for Dean, but he was so horribly bad at keeping back what was rushing up in his throat from his heart, a fierce love for Dean, a love strong enough to withstand even Dean’s reluctance to let himself be loved.
“I’ll be gentle with you,” he said.
Dean looked back at him, the lights in his eyes just as steady as ever, gleaming, guiding Sam to him. “I know,” he said. His voice was a little husky, and he seemed to frown as if judging himself for this, so Sam had to fix it.
“At least till your knee is better. Then, well,” Sam shook his head, pretending to be less than concerned for Dean’s welfare. “You just better be ready.”
“I will be, Sam-I-Am,” said Dean. He tilted his head back, looking back at Sam, cocky and sure, that smirk firmly in place. “I will be.”
The End
Blue Skies From Rain Master Post
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