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spn_springflingTitle: Stay Tonight
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Any warnings: References to events in season 9, but no specific spoilers.
Sam had never been quite so grateful for his size before. He managed to keep Dean’s arm slung over his shoulder while getting the motel room door open and still juggling take-out bags and – this was important – not spilling anything. Not to say that it was easy or anything. On the contrary, keeping Dean upright with the burning pain in his chest was proving to be at least as difficult as fighting the demons had been. Still, he managed to do it without so much as a whimper so he was going to count that as a win.
He maneuvered Dean into the bathroom, depositing his brother onto the side of the tub without a lot of ceremony. As roadside motel bathrooms went this one wasn’t too terrible. It could have been worse. It didn’t have a lot of visible mold and smelled like it had actually been cleaned recently, not just had the garbage emptied. He sniffed one of the towels and found the vague scent of bleach still clinging to the fibers. “I need to go back and get the bags and crap,” he told the older Winchester. “You just sit tight and keep pressure on that or something.”
“Hey, you gonna leave me some food or something?” Dean scowled, shifting uncomfortably.
“You really want to eat while I’m giving you stitches?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that pastrami will fester nicely in the wound, Dean.”
“’S not gonna fester,” the other sulked. “It’s all salted and preserved and stuff. Cured. Like I’m gonna be once you get to stitching. Chop chop, Sam.”
The taller hunter shook his head and went to go fetch the bags. He should have become a doctor. He should have become a doctor so that he could have gotten an intern to do Dean’s stitches, a nervous intern who would make six times as many stitches and pull too tight and just generally make it as unpleasant as humanly possible. At least then he wouldn’t be playing valet in addition to doctor for a frankly irritating country gentleman. That was the wrong attitude, he reminded himself with a shake of the head. Dean had done plenty for him over the years, before the whole Gadreel thing. Getting the bags wasn’t exactly a hardship and it wasn’t like anyone else was going to do it. It was just Dean’s attitude that was pissing him off.
Even with his chest feeling the way it did he was able to get what he needed from the back. Lugging all the bags didn’t exactly feel fantastic but better to suffer now than to keep running around and let Dean keep bleeding. He dropped the bags unceremoniously on the floor of the main room, fetched the medical bag and returned to the bathroom. He didn’t waste a lot of time, just dropped to his knees in front of his brother. Dean raised an eyebrow and gave a little smirk. Sam ignored him in favor of focusing on the problem at hand.
“I don’t think these jeans are going to be salvageable, Dean,” he shook his head. “Do you think you can get out of them the old-fashioned way or do we need to cut them off?”
The blond thought about it for a moment. “I think we’re going to have to cut, Sam,” he admitted. “You got the scissors?”
“Yeah.” He’d already pulled them out – like he didn’t know that the stupid things were going to have to go? – but he knew it needed to be Dean’s choice. Working quickly, he cut through the denim from the ankle to the hip.
“Hey – careful with those things near my junk,” his brother groused, covering said genitalia with his hand even though Sam was working on the other side of his leg. “Precious cargo here.”
“Funny, Dean.” He peeled the ruined material away. “You really dodged a bullet here.”
“It wasn’t a bullet, it was a knife, genius.”
Sam huffed a little. It hurt. “Cute. You know, maybe a few inches higher and you wouldn’t need to worry so much about me with those scissors. Or, you know, any more little Winchesters running around.” He washed the area as best he could with a wet washcloth before mopping it down with iodine.
“What, not a big fan of the idea of an awesome hunter army following in my footsteps? You’re just jealous that they’ll beat up on your little brood of nerds.”
“Dean, there aren’t – just shut up.” He threaded the needle.
“You and Jess wanted kids, right?”
He stabbed the needle in a little more forcefully than might have been strictly necessary. Dean howled and clutched at the whiskey bottle. “Not particularly. We wanted each other. Maybe a dog. And what we wanted doesn’t matter.” He took the bottle away from Dean. “Now change the goddamn subject.”
“Touchy. Geez.” His stomach let out a loud growl. “Hurry up, Sam. I’m freaking hungry.”
“I can see that.” He focused on his stitching. Dean’s other leg started twitching. “Stop that,” he spat. “Sit still and let me work, would you?”
“I can’t help it. I’m bored and I’m hungry and I’m horny. I can’t exactly go out and pick up a chick with fresh stitches, can I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Besides, you’ve only got one clean pair of jeans left. If you bleed through it you’re screwed and not in the way you want to be.”
“You’ll just wash them tomorrow anyway.” He waved a hand.
“Not if you do something dumb like bleed through your jeans because you couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to heal your stitches,” Sam retorted. “Besides, it’s your turn to do laundry.”
“I’m injured. Look, you’re sitting here stitching up a six-inch gash in my leg.”
“I see why you failed geometry if you think that’s six inches.”
“Look at you showing a sense of humor, Sam. Who’d have thought?” He whimpered. “Jesus that hurts. What did you do, run the dental floss through stinging nettles first?”
Sam looked at the ceiling. “No, but it’s an idea.”
He kept stitching, ignoring the fidgeting, complaining, whimpering and rhythmic tongue-clicking that came from his brother. He finally managed to tie off half an hour later, dousing the wound in the familiar whiskey bath before bandaging it and helping him off with his jeans. “All right,” he said. “Let me get you situated in your bed and you can have your dinner, all right Human Trash Compactor?”
“Hey, MC Prissy Pants, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my diet.” Dean let Sam help him up and Sam had to really struggle to breathe normally. That – that did not feel good, no, not by any stretch of the imagination. “My diet is what keeps this machine running and makes me such an awesome hunter.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Dean. Your diet is what’s going to make your arteries harden before you’re fifty.”
“Like we’re going to see fifty. And you haven’t laughed since you were twenty-two.”
Sam thought about it for a moment while he handed Dean the entire feed bag full of Dean’s meal. “That’s not true,” he objected.
“Of course it is. You laughed when we were messing with those Ghostfacer creeps in Texas. Haven’t done it since.”
“I have so. I laughed in 2008, when you got over your little bout with the ghost sickness thing.”
Dean stopped and gaped. He actually looked like a fish with his mouth hanging open like that. Now Sam did laugh – not a lot, but a little bit of a chuckle, and that did not feel good at all. He couldn’t help but gasp at the pain, which made Dean frown. “What’s wrong, Sam? Are you actually hurt?”
“Little bit,” he croaked. He struggled to breathe normally, managing the pain. “Demon chucked me into a wall while I was exorcising it. Not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal my ass. Your face turned six shades of green. Shirt off. Come on.”
“Dean, I’m fine. Just a little banged up.”
“Now, Sam.”
He sighed and removed his shirts, back to his brother. Honestly, when was the last time Dean had bothered to check him for an injury? Dean’s callused hands moved smoothly, quickly over his bruised torso. When was the last time anyone had actually put their hands on him like this? Put their hands on him at all? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. It was just an injury check. “Turn around, Sam,” Dean ordered.
The younger brother obeyed, eyes firmly on the ceiling. “I’m fine, Dean.
“There’s a shade of Manic Panic specifically named after the color of your chest right now, dude,” Dean snapped. “I’m going to have to wrap this. You’ve got more than a couple cracked ribs, little brother. Go get the kit.”
It had been years since Dean had called him that, even longer since he’d used that tone. He got the bandages. “It’s not a big deal, Dean.
“Did you get a concussion, too? If I’m supposed to be your partner you’re supposed to let me know you’re injured dumbass. Preferably before you let me hang all my weight off you and make it worse.” He shook his head and started wrapping Sam’s chest.
“Well what were you really going to do about it, Dean? Call for wheelchair service and a bellhop?” He wasn’t going to think about Dean’s hands on him. He was going to think about proto-Elamite texts. Nothing was less sexy thank proto-Elamite temple inventories.
“Don’t get smart with me.” He paused when he finished and traced over the space where Sam’s tattoo had been, the slight scar. “You haven’t replaced this yet? Sam, how careless –“
“I did, Dean.” He felt his cheeks flush. Dean’s hand was right on his chest now. Inventories. Temple inventories. They had one from Malyan that consisted entirely of goat offerings. Goat offerings were entirely unsexy, even to people who thought things about goats. Trying to decipher proto-Elamite was even less sexy.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
The tall hunter sighed and undid his belt. That allowed him just enough space to lower his jeans and reveal his right hipbone. Dean stared for a moment, reaching out for a moment to trace it. Sam jerked his jeans back up. “Good placement,” Dean choked.
“Thanks.”
“When’d you get that done?”
“Right after. New Mexico.” He pulled his shirt back on and went to grab his own salad.
They didn’t speak while they ate. Instead Dean flipped on the local news, filling the silence between them with meaningless sound. They’d be here for a few days at least, long enough for Dean to be able to drive with that leg the way that it was. It would be better to be able to heal at the bunker but there was no way that Dean was going to be able to tolerate Sam driving that long.
Somehow Dean managed to wolf down a huge sub, an order of cheese fries and a slice of pie down in the same amount of time that it took Sam to pick at the salad he’d gotten. Sam got up to clean up the mess – he didn’t want Dean on his feet any more than was strictly necessary. He performed his bedtime ablutions and came around to check on Dean’s stitches.
Ordinarily he’d have expected the older brother to swat him away and insist that he could handle his own leg, thank you very much. Tonight, though, he found Dean oddly pliant. He peeled back the sheet and then the bandage and found that the stitches had held just fine. Re-bandaging the wound took only a second, although it was impossible for Dean to hide the fact that he was having a similar kind of reaction to Sam’s earlier excitement. The younger brother reminded himself – firmly – not to look. It was an involuntary response to being handled in a sensitive area, nothing more.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded oddly soft, strangely gentle.
“All set, Dean.”
“It’s been a long time, Sam.”
Sam exhaled sharply. “Yeah. You, uh, you made your feelings pretty clear. And it’s okay.”
Dean grabbed his hand. “You… did you ever stop?”
“What, wanting? Can we not… can we not do this, Dean?” He couldn’t get his voice above a whisper.
“I never did.”
“Dean –“
“I know you hate me for what happened, Sam –“
“I don’t hate you, Dean. I could never hate you. I’m angry. I don’t trust you. But I don’t hate you.”
The hand holding his squeezed, not hard but enough that he knew Dean meant it. “Then stay. Just… just tonight. We don’t even have to… just stay.”
Sam hesitated. He shouldn’t. It wasn’t like anything had changed or Dean had apologized or anything. “Okay.”
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Any warnings: References to events in season 9, but no specific spoilers.
Sam had never been quite so grateful for his size before. He managed to keep Dean’s arm slung over his shoulder while getting the motel room door open and still juggling take-out bags and – this was important – not spilling anything. Not to say that it was easy or anything. On the contrary, keeping Dean upright with the burning pain in his chest was proving to be at least as difficult as fighting the demons had been. Still, he managed to do it without so much as a whimper so he was going to count that as a win.
He maneuvered Dean into the bathroom, depositing his brother onto the side of the tub without a lot of ceremony. As roadside motel bathrooms went this one wasn’t too terrible. It could have been worse. It didn’t have a lot of visible mold and smelled like it had actually been cleaned recently, not just had the garbage emptied. He sniffed one of the towels and found the vague scent of bleach still clinging to the fibers. “I need to go back and get the bags and crap,” he told the older Winchester. “You just sit tight and keep pressure on that or something.”
“Hey, you gonna leave me some food or something?” Dean scowled, shifting uncomfortably.
“You really want to eat while I’m giving you stitches?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that pastrami will fester nicely in the wound, Dean.”
“’S not gonna fester,” the other sulked. “It’s all salted and preserved and stuff. Cured. Like I’m gonna be once you get to stitching. Chop chop, Sam.”
The taller hunter shook his head and went to go fetch the bags. He should have become a doctor. He should have become a doctor so that he could have gotten an intern to do Dean’s stitches, a nervous intern who would make six times as many stitches and pull too tight and just generally make it as unpleasant as humanly possible. At least then he wouldn’t be playing valet in addition to doctor for a frankly irritating country gentleman. That was the wrong attitude, he reminded himself with a shake of the head. Dean had done plenty for him over the years, before the whole Gadreel thing. Getting the bags wasn’t exactly a hardship and it wasn’t like anyone else was going to do it. It was just Dean’s attitude that was pissing him off.
Even with his chest feeling the way it did he was able to get what he needed from the back. Lugging all the bags didn’t exactly feel fantastic but better to suffer now than to keep running around and let Dean keep bleeding. He dropped the bags unceremoniously on the floor of the main room, fetched the medical bag and returned to the bathroom. He didn’t waste a lot of time, just dropped to his knees in front of his brother. Dean raised an eyebrow and gave a little smirk. Sam ignored him in favor of focusing on the problem at hand.
“I don’t think these jeans are going to be salvageable, Dean,” he shook his head. “Do you think you can get out of them the old-fashioned way or do we need to cut them off?”
The blond thought about it for a moment. “I think we’re going to have to cut, Sam,” he admitted. “You got the scissors?”
“Yeah.” He’d already pulled them out – like he didn’t know that the stupid things were going to have to go? – but he knew it needed to be Dean’s choice. Working quickly, he cut through the denim from the ankle to the hip.
“Hey – careful with those things near my junk,” his brother groused, covering said genitalia with his hand even though Sam was working on the other side of his leg. “Precious cargo here.”
“Funny, Dean.” He peeled the ruined material away. “You really dodged a bullet here.”
“It wasn’t a bullet, it was a knife, genius.”
Sam huffed a little. It hurt. “Cute. You know, maybe a few inches higher and you wouldn’t need to worry so much about me with those scissors. Or, you know, any more little Winchesters running around.” He washed the area as best he could with a wet washcloth before mopping it down with iodine.
“What, not a big fan of the idea of an awesome hunter army following in my footsteps? You’re just jealous that they’ll beat up on your little brood of nerds.”
“Dean, there aren’t – just shut up.” He threaded the needle.
“You and Jess wanted kids, right?”
He stabbed the needle in a little more forcefully than might have been strictly necessary. Dean howled and clutched at the whiskey bottle. “Not particularly. We wanted each other. Maybe a dog. And what we wanted doesn’t matter.” He took the bottle away from Dean. “Now change the goddamn subject.”
“Touchy. Geez.” His stomach let out a loud growl. “Hurry up, Sam. I’m freaking hungry.”
“I can see that.” He focused on his stitching. Dean’s other leg started twitching. “Stop that,” he spat. “Sit still and let me work, would you?”
“I can’t help it. I’m bored and I’m hungry and I’m horny. I can’t exactly go out and pick up a chick with fresh stitches, can I?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Besides, you’ve only got one clean pair of jeans left. If you bleed through it you’re screwed and not in the way you want to be.”
“You’ll just wash them tomorrow anyway.” He waved a hand.
“Not if you do something dumb like bleed through your jeans because you couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to heal your stitches,” Sam retorted. “Besides, it’s your turn to do laundry.”
“I’m injured. Look, you’re sitting here stitching up a six-inch gash in my leg.”
“I see why you failed geometry if you think that’s six inches.”
“Look at you showing a sense of humor, Sam. Who’d have thought?” He whimpered. “Jesus that hurts. What did you do, run the dental floss through stinging nettles first?”
Sam looked at the ceiling. “No, but it’s an idea.”
He kept stitching, ignoring the fidgeting, complaining, whimpering and rhythmic tongue-clicking that came from his brother. He finally managed to tie off half an hour later, dousing the wound in the familiar whiskey bath before bandaging it and helping him off with his jeans. “All right,” he said. “Let me get you situated in your bed and you can have your dinner, all right Human Trash Compactor?”
“Hey, MC Prissy Pants, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my diet.” Dean let Sam help him up and Sam had to really struggle to breathe normally. That – that did not feel good, no, not by any stretch of the imagination. “My diet is what keeps this machine running and makes me such an awesome hunter.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Dean. Your diet is what’s going to make your arteries harden before you’re fifty.”
“Like we’re going to see fifty. And you haven’t laughed since you were twenty-two.”
Sam thought about it for a moment while he handed Dean the entire feed bag full of Dean’s meal. “That’s not true,” he objected.
“Of course it is. You laughed when we were messing with those Ghostfacer creeps in Texas. Haven’t done it since.”
“I have so. I laughed in 2008, when you got over your little bout with the ghost sickness thing.”
Dean stopped and gaped. He actually looked like a fish with his mouth hanging open like that. Now Sam did laugh – not a lot, but a little bit of a chuckle, and that did not feel good at all. He couldn’t help but gasp at the pain, which made Dean frown. “What’s wrong, Sam? Are you actually hurt?”
“Little bit,” he croaked. He struggled to breathe normally, managing the pain. “Demon chucked me into a wall while I was exorcising it. Not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal my ass. Your face turned six shades of green. Shirt off. Come on.”
“Dean, I’m fine. Just a little banged up.”
“Now, Sam.”
He sighed and removed his shirts, back to his brother. Honestly, when was the last time Dean had bothered to check him for an injury? Dean’s callused hands moved smoothly, quickly over his bruised torso. When was the last time anyone had actually put their hands on him like this? Put their hands on him at all? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. It was just an injury check. “Turn around, Sam,” Dean ordered.
The younger brother obeyed, eyes firmly on the ceiling. “I’m fine, Dean.
“There’s a shade of Manic Panic specifically named after the color of your chest right now, dude,” Dean snapped. “I’m going to have to wrap this. You’ve got more than a couple cracked ribs, little brother. Go get the kit.”
It had been years since Dean had called him that, even longer since he’d used that tone. He got the bandages. “It’s not a big deal, Dean.
“Did you get a concussion, too? If I’m supposed to be your partner you’re supposed to let me know you’re injured dumbass. Preferably before you let me hang all my weight off you and make it worse.” He shook his head and started wrapping Sam’s chest.
“Well what were you really going to do about it, Dean? Call for wheelchair service and a bellhop?” He wasn’t going to think about Dean’s hands on him. He was going to think about proto-Elamite texts. Nothing was less sexy thank proto-Elamite temple inventories.
“Don’t get smart with me.” He paused when he finished and traced over the space where Sam’s tattoo had been, the slight scar. “You haven’t replaced this yet? Sam, how careless –“
“I did, Dean.” He felt his cheeks flush. Dean’s hand was right on his chest now. Inventories. Temple inventories. They had one from Malyan that consisted entirely of goat offerings. Goat offerings were entirely unsexy, even to people who thought things about goats. Trying to decipher proto-Elamite was even less sexy.
“Oh yeah? Where?”
The tall hunter sighed and undid his belt. That allowed him just enough space to lower his jeans and reveal his right hipbone. Dean stared for a moment, reaching out for a moment to trace it. Sam jerked his jeans back up. “Good placement,” Dean choked.
“Thanks.”
“When’d you get that done?”
“Right after. New Mexico.” He pulled his shirt back on and went to grab his own salad.
They didn’t speak while they ate. Instead Dean flipped on the local news, filling the silence between them with meaningless sound. They’d be here for a few days at least, long enough for Dean to be able to drive with that leg the way that it was. It would be better to be able to heal at the bunker but there was no way that Dean was going to be able to tolerate Sam driving that long.
Somehow Dean managed to wolf down a huge sub, an order of cheese fries and a slice of pie down in the same amount of time that it took Sam to pick at the salad he’d gotten. Sam got up to clean up the mess – he didn’t want Dean on his feet any more than was strictly necessary. He performed his bedtime ablutions and came around to check on Dean’s stitches.
Ordinarily he’d have expected the older brother to swat him away and insist that he could handle his own leg, thank you very much. Tonight, though, he found Dean oddly pliant. He peeled back the sheet and then the bandage and found that the stitches had held just fine. Re-bandaging the wound took only a second, although it was impossible for Dean to hide the fact that he was having a similar kind of reaction to Sam’s earlier excitement. The younger brother reminded himself – firmly – not to look. It was an involuntary response to being handled in a sensitive area, nothing more.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded oddly soft, strangely gentle.
“All set, Dean.”
“It’s been a long time, Sam.”
Sam exhaled sharply. “Yeah. You, uh, you made your feelings pretty clear. And it’s okay.”
Dean grabbed his hand. “You… did you ever stop?”
“What, wanting? Can we not… can we not do this, Dean?” He couldn’t get his voice above a whisper.
“I never did.”
“Dean –“
“I know you hate me for what happened, Sam –“
“I don’t hate you, Dean. I could never hate you. I’m angry. I don’t trust you. But I don’t hate you.”
The hand holding his squeezed, not hard but enough that he knew Dean meant it. “Then stay. Just… just tonight. We don’t even have to… just stay.”
Sam hesitated. He shouldn’t. It wasn’t like anything had changed or Dean had apologized or anything. “Okay.”
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