Work Text:
Taylor knew the name of her tallest savior, Sam, because the other one couldn't stop calling it to keep him awake.
Not long after the man's desperate bids, Sam nevertheless fell unconscious. He was bleeding heavily and getting cold. With Taylor's help they hiked the frosty Appalachian trail holding Sam in a double carry, Taylor's hands under his knees, the other man carrying the bulk of Sam's weight under the shoulders. They found a small hatch of a hunting bunker half an hour later.
It was a rectangle of space, a handmade bunk bed built into the wooden boards of the wall. All manner of spiders and insects had taken up residence in the corners. A tiny squat cast-iron stove sat innocently in the back. There was a hole in the low roof where the pipe chimney went through.
The man, Sam's partner no doubt, was capable; strong and fast. Taylor had seen him in action earlier but he was still focused and driven. She could tell the adrenaline was still surging through him. The same was happening to her. On his orders, together they settled Sam on the floor.
Taylor backed up, brushing herself off as the man remained kneeling to unzip Sam's puff jacket. Taylor stumbled backwards more, feeling buzzed yet numb, watching. She hit the wall in a corner and clutched herself, unable to do anything but watch and not think, deny acknowledging she was the sole survivor of a camping trip with four of her closest friends. She couldn't face that now. So she focused on the men who'd found her bound and hanging underground, the men who'd lit up an approaching monster like something out of Hellraiser with their flare guns, and the tall one, Sam, getting hurt all along the side of his body during its slashing death throes.
Sam's partner thrust the sides of Sam's jacket apart. Sam was thinner than Taylor thought, the jacket's padding she'd mistakenly perceived as bulk. Instead, while his shoulders were broad, overall he was quite lean. His partner examined him, patting his torso down. Sam's eyes were closed, his hair was long and matted, dirty. The stubble around a strong jaw and high cheekbones had been attractive but now he was unconscious, she felt it was indecent to think. His mouth was partly open, lips thin, teeth white.
A ripping sound and Taylor jumped. The man was tearing Sam's shirt away to see the bloody gash along his side, trailing down past his hips, the waistband of his jeans.
"Get a fire going please, Taylor," the man requested clearly, gruff but not betraying anything as he unbuttoned Sam's jeans and shucked them and his boxers down mid-thigh.
Taylor was jarred by the sudden nudity. Sam was still out cold but he had just saved her life, been the one to meet her first, reassure her she was going to survive this, and cut her down. If he hadn't shoved her away in the nick of time, she would have these wounds... or worse. So, seeing him like this was difficult. He'd been so capable, serious and genuine, gentle with her. He deserved the same treatment.
Instead he had this other man, his work partner or something who still hadn't introduced himself even though he knew who she was, roughly stripping him and rolling him on his side to see better.
Sam, her hero, was gone for the moment though. All they had of him was a limp body, helpless and completely at this other man's mercy. Taylor prayed the man knew what he was doing.
His flashlight roamed over Sam's bleeding ribs, hip and buttocks. There was blood everywhere, the wound was deeper at the bottom, the monster having sunk its claw into the glutes.
Taylor nearly threw up over the gore. The man muttered curses as he took it in.
She averted her gaze and rushed over to the stove to get to work on the fire as the partner had asked. Starting fires was harder than it looked and she had never been that great at it. Her hands shook as she found kindling and started setting up. She looked over and noticed the man's fingers trembling too as he pulled a large first aid kit from his backpack. She hoped it was because he cared about Sam.
He quickly unscrewed a cloudy white bottle to pour what smelled distinctly of alcohol all over his hands. It splashed onto Sam's bare skin.
The kindling took. The man pulled out another bottle of clear liquid labeled only by a crude sketch of a cross on it and then another bottle she recognized as antiseptic. He shone the flashlight over every inch of Sam's wound, flushing it out with the clear liquid, then drenching the whole length of the wound with antiseptic. The reddish brown liquid streamed down his bare stomach, groin, thighs. Taylor was about to look away again when Sam whimpered.
"Shhh shhh Sam," his partner said but he didn't touch. He kept his hands in the air like a surgeon and indeed Taylor saw he was holding a needle and stitching. "Taylor, could you-?" The man swallowed, then nodded at Sam.
"What can I do?"
"Flashlight on the wound for me. And face him. Keep him calm, distract him if he wakes up."
The flashlight was necessary but the light of the fire was growing too, flickering a helpful warm yellow over Sam's pale face and down his exposed body as she situated herself in front of the man who'd rescued her. He'd been so tall, so imposing, larger than life. Now he was a shivering mess of skin and blood, dirty clothes and muddy hair covering his face.
His partner bent over him and started the stitches. Sam gasped and jerked awake, looking to the source of the pain and finding his partner.
"It's okay, it's okay, Sammy," the man said, hovering over him, waiting, letting Sam get his bearings and settle. He'd said 'Sammy' so quietly she almost missed it'd been a nickname. Sam's eyes rolled a bit but comprehension seemed to dawn eventually. "Stitches."
Sam slumped down to the floor again and gave the vaguest nod of resignation. His partner bent over him and resumed. Sam winced at the first stitch but endured. He blinked slowly, breathed through the pain. He squinted at Taylor and shifted, looked down at himself.
"Why'm I naked?" Sam rasped. He didn't seem alarmed, just cloudy and bewildered.
Taylor cleared her throat. Sam's muddled eyes met hers'. "Your wound... goes down," she said dumbly.
"Okay," he breathed. She could see a light sheen of sweat developing along his nose, cheeks, and brow. His eyes fluttered closed.
"Sam, stay awake," the partner ordered, noticing somehow even though he was supposed to be stitching.
"He's just resting," Taylor whispered back, a little defensive, but when she looked back Sam had opened his eyes, had watched that exchange. He offered a wan smile.
"Taylor, right?"
Taylor swallowed and nodded. "Yeah."
"How old are you?" Sam struggled to speak.
"Twenty-one."
Sam closed his eyes and nodded, licked his lips, folded his arms, his shirt still torn down the side. Somehow there was still a measure of dignity to his movements even as exposed as he was, under the torture of getting his whole side stitched back together right now. His partner was positioned near Sam's crotch though, blocking her view, and she approved.
On the heels of that thought, Sam shuddered too much, jarring his partner's meticulous work and making him lean back to mutter obscenities then lean in so his face was close to Sam's.
"Don't move, Sam. We're almost done." Sam closed his eyes and swallowed before nodding his comprehension. He found his partner's leg and latched on to his thigh with long fingers.
Taylor pressed her lips together and wrung her hands. She looked around, feeling helpless, and something shiny caught her eye. It was reflecting off the flickering firelight. She rushed over and found a survival heat blanket, bunched up into a ball like it'd been used and stored away like this many times before.
"Here," she whispered, opening it and pushing it up against Sam's chest. She ducked around Sam's partner so the blanket could cover the rest of his skin. She couldn't explain the urgent need to cover him up, to keep his modesty intact, to get him warm and stable. She just wanted to go back to that image of an impenetrable hero, a rock solid and unshakable savior, that she'd built up of Sam in her mind.
Sam's eyes shone with gratitude as he mouthed 'thank you' when she looked up from her work wrapping the blanket around him. He clutched the fabric against his chest with a tight fist. She noticed he hadn't let go of his partner's leg either; his partner had adjusted his angle working on the stitches so Sam didn't have to.
"Keep talking to her, come on," his partner spoke up again, sounding weirdly like a coach but Sam accepted it without question.
"Yeah, yeah. You..." Sam paused to breathe through the pain. He closed his eyes and cringed. "Go to school?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor could see Sam's partner's worried expression.
"No, not... not yet. In general, I am though, yeah," she stumbled over her words.
"Okay," Sam gasped out as his partner pulled the thread through. He let out a sob. Taylor felt a tear of her own break free and roll down her cheek.
"Taylor, I need you to take a second and feed the fire again," the partner ordered.
She rubbed her face and nodded, turned around to do as she was told. Sam's partner used her distance to lean in and whisper to Sam. His body hid Sam from view but she could see Sam's trembling hands reaching, grasping handfuls of his partner's flannel shirt. The partner didn't touch Sam back though, his hands bloody with more sutures to go, she knew. He was keeping them as sterile as possible for Sam.
She couldn't make out what was said but when Sam's partner pulled away, Sam looked better, more resolute. Whatever conversation they'd had, it'd fortified him.
"Only about 50 stitches to go. Keep him awake," he directed to Taylor. She nodded and hustled over, retaking her spot in front of Sam.
"Um," she darted her eyes over to the guy uncertainly then back to Sam. "What's your partner's name?"
Sam was calm and still, focused on breathing and staring at the dirty wooden floorboards. Hair fell into his face and she brushed it back, startling him enough to look up at her.
"Dean," he whispered, eyes fluttering, "his... that's Dean."
She finally had a name.
Dean didn't look up when she glanced over at him, his focus so unyielding he wasn't even blinking. He was hovering over Sam's lower back, stitching the laceration that ran down Sam's backside where it was deepest.
"How long have you two been working together?"
Sam wheezed a laugh. "Forever."
"That long, huh?" She smiled.
"Yeah," Sam swallowed. He made a face. "I'm, uh," Sam looked around, "cold."
"You're sweating," Dean replied grimly. Sam let his head fall back. His body kept shivering.
"I don't wanna talk. Is that okay?" Sam slurred but his eyes were clear, asking for permission.
"Yeah that's okay," Dean whispered. He gave Taylor a look and she nodded, knowing the conversation part of her job was over now.
For awhile it was just quiet, the fire cracking, Sam's meditative breaths. If Sam squirmed, Dean would shush him and Taylor distantly found it endearing as she zoned out a little bit.
Finally, Dean clipped off the end of the stitches. They were expert-level precise. "Are you guys paramedics?" Taylor stuttered as Dean sighed and sat back on his haunches, his relief palpable. In a blink he was moving again though, using the rubbing alcohol to clean his hands free of Sam's blood, then grabbing a tube of something and popping the cap off. Taylor recognized it as antibiotic cream.
Calloused fingers delicately pressed the ointment all along Sam's stitches. Taylor could tell the pressure was negligible because Sam didn't even move. Taylor squinted, looking more closely.
"Oh shit." Taylor muttered, realizing too late Sam wasn't responsive. "Sam? Sam! Dean?"
Suddenly Dean was there hovering over them, shouting Sam's name. Eventually he gave up, unwilling to jostle him any more than he'd tried. "Okay, it's okay," Dean said and Taylor wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or himself. "I'm impressed he made it through that anyway," Dean muttered as he started grabbing things - his backpack, his own puffy jacket - to press up against Sam's front, making sure he wouldn't roll over. Dean did the same with Sam's back, but using a log bundle with a blanket wrapped around it for cushioning. Sam's stitches remained open to the air for the moment. Taylor was sure eventually Dean would wrap it but for now it seemed he needed a breather.
When Dean spoke next, it was a monotone of information Taylor could barely comprehend. "Our cells don't have a signal. The GPS broke. We're probably a two-hour hike away from the nearest place with a phone line, and the sun's set. The night's supposed to be in the thirties... Taylor?"
Taylor put her hand up and shook her head frantically. "I've never... had a panic attack... but...I think I'm having one," she choked out on a sob. Her gasps built up as she realized how little air she was getting. She clutched her neck, her chest. Her cries pitched higher on every exhale until Dean surprised her by gripping her hands tight, too tight, so tight it was painful. Through tears she looked up at him and his words filtered through.
"-spinning out right now. You've got to focus, Taylor, clear your mind. Drink this," and suddenly there was a bottle of water in front of her. "Stop thinking, drink this, focus on me." Taylor sniffed and nodded frantically, tears still rolling down her cheeks as she sipped from the bottle. "Good, you got this, stay with me," Dean said, only inches in front of her, eyes wide. He had freckles. "You with me now?"
She swallowed and nodded.
"Say it."
"I'm with you." Her voice was wet and shaky.
"What was that?"
"I'm with you," she repeated.
"Say it again. Keep saying it until I believe it," Dean challenged warmly and she nodded, kept saying the phrase, her voice getting steadier. It took a few minutes before Dean interrupted her.
"Good job. I believe you." She looked up at him, almost having forgotten he was there. He smirked and she rolled her eyes. She rubbed her eyes, used her sleeve for her nose.
"Thank you."
"If it happens again, force your mind to blank out and take deep breaths."
"Um," Taylor swallowed. She wasn't sure she'd be able to do that. "Okay."
"We're gonna sleep here tonight, then at the first light of dawn we'll see how Sam's doing and figure out next steps."
Taylor nodded. "Yeah, sounds good."
"Okay, come on, I want you by the fire too." He extended his hand and Taylor didn't hesitate to take it, let him lead her over by where she'd been with Sam while he'd been stitching him up.
There wasn't enough space for three people to huddle near the stove, so Dean stepped out of the direct zone of heat and instead settled behind Sam.
They hunkered down. Dean found a blanket by the bunk bed and asked Taylor if she wanted it, to which she replied she was fine and he should take it. Taylor asked him if he had any snacks. He gave her an M&Ms granola bar from his back pack. She devoured it. After that, silence.
Taylor was an intelligent, curious girl, but for all the questions she would have thought to ask Dean, she refused to do it. She neither could nor wanted to think because if she started thinking about questions for Dean then she'd remember. And if she remembered, she'd have a full-fledged meltdown. They were still out in the wilderness, totally unable to handle a mental breakdown from her, so she buried it as deep as possible. Soon she'd be safe, and she'd be able to fall apart, but not now. Not when she still had to survive this. She stared at the rotting floorboards, sniffed the musty, smoky smell of the tiny look-out shelter. She shivered. Even as she worked to not think, she could feel those memories slithering past her defenses, driving themselves deep into her psyche, scarring her. She wouldn't walk out of these woods the same person. But again, now was not the time to care about that. She closed her eyes and played with the keychain compass on her half-zip sweatshirt. Hopefully sleep would find her soon.
Luckily, it did.
Taylor rolled over and opened her eyes to the sight of Sam staring at her, his breathing clipped, panic simmering just below the surface. Her own heart beat began thudding with adrenaline just by the sight of him.
"We need to get out of here. Now," he mouthed carefully, eyes blazing. He was acting like they'd just tripped a bomb, like any movement or sound and they'd be goners. It was terrifying but more than that, it was impossible. She looked around the tiny space and saw nothing out of the ordinary. They weren't in danger from anything right now.
"What? Sam, how?" She whispered back.
"It's not safe here," Sam insisted. He was sweating, his cheeks were rosy. "We need to find my brother. He knows, he's... he's safe," Sam finished deliriously. "He'll save us."
"Sounds like a swell guy," Dean rumbled from behind, making Sam jump then wince.
"Dean!?" He tried to roll over but Dean was fast, propping himself up so Sam could see him without twisting, without jarring the open-air stitches. Taylor expected the look of relief to continue but as Sam stared up at Dean, his face screwed up and he started to cry. Taylor figured he was still missing his brother, that although Dean was there, he wasn't family. Soft whimpers and slow tears came from Sam. Dean shushed him, pressed his palm along Sam's forehead, his cheek.
"Take it easy, man. You've got a low-grade fever and you're prone to-" but then Dean's voice went so low she couldn't hear him. It sounded like 'hallucinations' though. Sam and Dean stared into each other's eyes, having some sort of silent conversation Taylor wasn't privy to. Sam's eyes shone with worry though, she could see that clear enough. Dean examined Sam's side, then came back up to face his partner. "It's not infected. It's the pain," he said, wiping Sam's hair back then framing his face, gentle palms on either side of Sam's head.
"The stitches are clean but we don't have pain killers. It's just the injury, Sam," Dean added with a whisper. Taylor heard it and sighed with some relief. Sam nodded up at his partner, eyes glistening but transfixed and trusting of the man above him. It put her at ease. She didn't really know what to think of Dean but first impressions hadn't led to her believe he could be this trustworthy until she watched him interact with Sam, whose trust in his partner was reassuringly absolute.
"I'm gonna get started wrapping you and then we can cover you all the way up, okay?" Dean handled the cotton pads and gauze and medical tape deftly. It was so certain that Dean had everything under control with his partner that Taylor drifted off to sleep again as Dean tended to Sam.
Taylor woke up again. It was freezing cold. The fire was on its last embers. She could see slips of gray dawn light through the cracks of the rickety outpost of their shelter.
Dean had bandaged Sam's stitches earlier. Most of his chest and stomach had been wrapped, a smart additional layer of warmth for him. At some point Dean had taken Sam's jeans all the way off but between the blankets that Sam had strewn around in the night, she could see Sam's boxers over white gauze so at least he was decent enough for her to come closer, maybe offer a gentle touch. Sam was lying close and she gave a start when she saw he was awake and just unmoving, staring at nothing, tears slipping down his ashen face.
"Sam? Sam, what's wrong!?" She looked around but Dean was nowhere in the tiny bunker. "Sam!?"
"I see the devil," Sam monotoned. "He's here, waiting. I told him my brother was gonna come for me, my brother always saves me. But my brother's dead and the devil's here for me."
Wow, that was a lot to unpack.
Sam gasped a sob.
"Okay, okay..." Taylor leaned forward and took Sam's hand, hoping it'd offer some comfort. She didn't think twice about the metaphors he used. In delirium, everybody feared their devils and demons, but Sam's mentioning his brother? That was probably real.
Her heart went out to him. This was probably the same brother Sam referred to last night, the one that always saved him.
Sam pressed his face into his jacket to muffle despairing cries. "I miss him. I miss him so much. I want him back." Sam writhed, squeezed the down of the jacket beneath him.
"Sam... Sam, I'm sorry about your brother but... but Dean will be right back, I'm sure. You know, your partner? Cops? Forestry Rangers?" She probed. She still didn't have a great idea on who they were.
Sam stared at her dully for a moment, clearly not having followed what she'd said, then bucked in pain and cried out.
The door to their shelter opened quickly, Dean stepping inside still zipping his fly. Taylor had figured he'd stepped outside to pee but she was relieved he was back all the same.
"Sam?" When Sam didn't respond, he looked to her as he approached. "What happened?"
"I'm not sure. I think... he lost his brother recently-?"
Dean blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"He's upset because his brother died-?" Taylor shrank under Dean's expression. "Or... not? He didn't lose his brother?"
Dean gave her a look like she should know better. About what, she had no idea but she backed up so Dean could have room. He knelt over his inconsolable partner.
"Sammy," Dean whispered low. It was that nickname again only it was crystal clear this time. Taylor gave up any pretense and eavesdropped with intent, going quiet and still, watching them out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to get the fire going. Dean was leaning over Sam, his hand in his hair. It was affectionate, so much more affectionate than what she'd expect out of normal work partners but also not outside the realm of possibility given Sam's awful injuries.
Sam reacted, his language garbled with cries but Taylor caught the tail end as Sam lifted his face to look at Dean. "I watched you. You're gone. And Lucifer. He's in the corner. He's telling me... and I'm on fire, the... the whole side of my body. I never left the cage," Sam stopped there and broke down, holding himself, curling in and making himself smaller as he fell to tears.
Taylor didn't know what to make of any of that so she appreciated Dean's answering levity. "Dude, you are so fucking dramatic," Dean said, voice harsh and yet at the same time he spread out on the floor alongside Sam and gingerly, with so much obvious care not to touch or pull stitches, gathered Sam into his arms. Sam's breath hitched and the floorboards creaked as he clutched and held on to the other man, desperate, trusting. His hands were large, his fingers long, and they trembled but they grappled to hold onto as much of Dean as possible. They pressed closer together until Sam could tuck his head down into the crook of Dean's neck.
"De," Sam whimpered. Another nickname, this one coming off like a toddler only capable of repeating basic sounds. These two were not like any partner duo she'd ever encountered. They were too affectionate, too comfortable with each other. They had to be either lovers or-
"I'm not dead, Sammy. I'm right here. You're safe. We're okay."
Brothers.
Dean's Sam's brother, Taylor finally got it.
"I've got you, take it easy, shh," Dean whispered. Dean had to be the older brother. He was too good at what he was doing, at taking care of Sam, of comforting him. Regardless, she recalled what Sam had said about his brother. He'd said he was safe. He said he'd always saved him.
It clicked that Dean had been joking when he'd said Sam's brother sounded swell. At the time she thought he'd been rather callous.
She probably should've figured this out earlier. Then again, since getting rescued yesterday she'd been on a strict not-thinking campaign.
Dean put his hand against the back of Sam's head and Sam ducked into Dean more. It struck Taylor as so protective, like Dean could shield every part of him from the outside world, from Sam's devil.
Taylor bit her lip, overwhelmed and oddly jealous by the display. She wanted to break down too but she didn't have a brother who'd hold her, whose voice could calm her down.
She wanted her mom. She had to be brave and hold on until her mom came. She could shatter then, when it was safe and her mom could pick up the pieces. It wasn't fair that Dean was safe, and Sam got to shatter now.
Taylor faced the stove, ashamed to be thinking how she was, and worked on getting a fire started again.
"Stop crying, dude," Dean whispered softly to his brother. The blunt demand made Taylor smile. She angled herself so she could still work the fire and see the brothers at the same time.
Dean lifted his leg and, again so careful to avoid the stitches, wrapped it around Sam's knees. Sam bent them so they were tangled. Dean started rocking them, a slow smooth rhythm. The wooden floorboards moaned.
"The devil's in the corner," Sam sniffed.
"Don't look. I won't let him get you." Dean stroked Sam's hair and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, tucked in further. "I had to put in a lot of stitches last night. All the way down to your ass, dude." Sam's pitchy objection was muffled by Dean's shoulder. Dean chuckled. "You got tagged by a wendigo. This was a regular hunt, nothing new. No Lucifer, I'm alive, you're safe. You're hurting, but it's okay. Okay? Sammy?" Dean pulled away to look into his brother's eyes.
"Yeah," Sam sniffed. "Okay." His bloodshot eyes darted to the corner and Dean was so fast, Taylor thought. He moved up closer to Sam, getting in his face, his arm circled around Sam's shoulders again. "Stay with me, Sammy, come on," and Sam looked at Dean, eyes glazed like he wasn't seeing, just listening. "No, not good enough. Snap out of it, little brother, don't listen to him, listen to me," Dean instructed.
Finally, Sam blinked, coughed into Dean's chest, and reached for him, self-conscious and meek but Dean just pulled him in again. "It's okay. Last night was scary."
Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah," he agreed, voice raw and crackly.
"Yeah," Taylor whispered. The fire had caught. She strategically placed additional kindling into it.
Sam startled in Dean's arms at the sound of her voice and lifted his head. He blinked owlishly at her.
Taylor wilted when she saw he didn't recognize her. She gave a weak wave.
"Hi. Taylor," she said, pointing at herself. "You saved my life last night."
Sam's jaw clenched as he nodded. He looked around at how he and Dean were positioned and the faint pink of self-conscious embarrassment colored his cheek. He was tensing up and leaning away from Dean until his movements reached the muscles in his torso, his stitches, at which point he gasped and latched back onto Dean, who'd been inching away from their embrace too but then easily let himself fall back into another round of cuddles on the floor. Like when Sam was hurt and reached for him, there was just no other option.
"I know-I know-I know," Dean muttered, rubbing Sam's back as his little brother endured the waves of pain coming from tensing lacerated muscle. "Pain-killers. Taylor, would you just double-check-?"
After a thorough rummage, Taylor gulped and shook her head. She suspected she'd been asked to get her eyes off them though because when she looked up, Dean was really embracing Sam, holding him so tight it was bordering on restraining him. She realized that's actually what he was doing. Sam wanted to writhe in pain but that would've caused more pain; Dean was forcing Sam to stay still so he wouldn't get himself into an agonizing feedback loop. Smart, Taylor thought. And heartwarmingly caring, because the whole time Dean also managed to avoid the stitches and whisper reassurances into Sam's ear.
Sam's cries tapered off into quiet whimpers and sniffs. He still visibly had a death grip on Dean though; Dean wouldn't be moving any time soon. He didn't seem too bothered though.
"Your hair's dirty," Dean observed idly, still running his hands through the clumpy strands. Sam hiccuped a laugh. "We'll get you out of here. Get you a nice hot shower. What'll you want for dinner?"
"Pizza," Sam replied, his voice wet but steady.
"That was confident," Dean squeezed Sam, rubbed his back. "I like it."
"Did you eat peanut butter recently?" Sam asked. "You smell like peanut butter."
"Yeah I had that sandwich. Lunch yesterday."
"Oh yeah."
Taylor smiled over the casual conversation they could maintain. She was still suffering herself and probably couldn't string a full sentence together. They weren't exactly reciting Macbeth either but they were still doing great, being able to speak casually, feel normal with each other even if they were still hugging, still needed that physical connection to keep them steady for just a little while longer.
Taylor turned back to tend to the fire, obstinately refusing to be jealous or fall into tears wanting her mother. Instead she let the fire mesmerize her until it had grown into modest flames and the heat was finally enough to sink deep down into her bones and stop the chills.
"Good job, Taylor," Dean said. Taylor looked up, surprised Dean's focus was anywhere other than his brother but then she saw Sam had fallen asleep on him, head resting firmly over Dean's heart. Dean was still holding him but he was free to pay attention to other things now, free to compliment Taylor on the fire.
Taylor nodded and shrugged, scooted closer to the stove with her hands up. "Thanks."
"I wanna let him sleep more. When the sun's high, when the day is at its warmest, we'll get him dressed and see if he can't just stroll on out of here."
They smiled at each other. "That sounds great." They both nodded to each other, and Taylor turned back to look into the fire.
Last night she had wanted Sam to stay the mysterious indestructible hero he'd first appeared to be. Now though, now she understood heroes weren't unbreakable. They were just as vulnerable as she was. That in a room full of good people, the only difference between a hero or a victim was a matter of chance. Taylor still wanted her mom, she was still planning on that meltdown, she didn't want to face her grief, and she was pretty inchoate, but Sam had been all those things too and he was still, and would always be, her hero. It was a powerful realization, something that made her understand the nature of real life heroism better than anything she'd ever read, watched, or experienced before.
Taylor had known before that she wasn't going to walk out of these woods the same person. A few hours later, holding Sam up as delicately as possible with Dean's help, stumbling their way on a trail to an outpost with a phone in it, she reached another revelation: she wasn't going to mind the person she'd become.