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Dean’s the one rushing to the bunker door and getting it open, but he still pushes Sam ahead of him. Even when they’re miles from that vamp nest and they’d wasted every last biter there, Dean tosses a look over his shoulder to be sure they’re safe before he follows Sam inside.
“You good?” Dean asks as they take the stairs.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam answers. A little too quick for Dean’s liking.
Then he sees a drag in Sam’s leg on each step and Dean stews - good my ass - and picks up a little speed to catch up to Sam. He rings his arm beneath Sam’s to give him something to lean on for each step.
Sam frowns, annoyed, and his eyes narrow, but he accepts the help. Which makes Dean’s heart kick up just enough to worry that it’s worse than it looks, so he gives his brother a once-over to catalog all of the injuries. The ones on the outside at least.
A cut above Sam’s brow, blood streaked down his temple.
Red rashes wrapping around his neck.
Tears at the knees of his jeans and a bit of red spatter down the shins.
When they get to the bottom of the stairs, Sam grunts and winces, and Dean does his best to not do either. There’s no room to be mad right now.
Yeah, he could toss an I told you so Sam’s way when they’d argued about going at a nest that large, let alone at night when the vamps would have the advantage over them. Yes, Sam insisted they couldn’t waste another night and let another group of coeds get swept off the street and turned, so no time like the present. And sure, it seems Sam got his ass royally kicked by a couple of pretty, sparkly Edward Cullen types … They were faster and tougher than either of them had expected ... but Dean won’t say anything about it.
Not yet.
Instead, Dean directs Sam to the nearest chair in the library and orders, “Sit. Now.”
“Dean,” Sam huffs. “I’m fi—”
“Fine, right, got it.” Dean rolls his eyes as he dumps the weapons sack on the table and quick-turns out of the room for the infirmary.
“Dean!”
“Keep your ass in that chair or so help me,” he shouts back, one foot in front of the other to sweep up supplies and get right back to his brother.
While picking at shelves—gauze, hydrogen peroxide, cotton, tape—Dean’s mind replays every hit he saw Sam take when Dean wasn’t getting his own ass beat in the corner of the warehouse. He relives the way one chick threw him into the wall while Sam was body-slammed face first to cement. Dean’s surprised Sam didn’t get knocked out there and then.
Shouldn’t’ve split up. Shit always goes down when they split up.
A moment later, Dean’s shoulder twinges, but he shrugs it off and rolls his arm up and around until the pain is unbearable. Then he takes a mental note for how high he can stand it, makes sure he stays in the safe zone when he’s back in the same room with Sam.
“Never gonna learn,” he mutters to himself.
He’s not sure if he’s talking about Sam or himself.
Back in the Library, Sam’s reaching across the table for a book and Dean smacks arm away.
“Dude!”
“What’d I say?” Dean narrows his eyes, seething and breathing heavy. His mind keeps looping visions of a vamp knocking Sam real good upside the head before leaping at him with pale fingers closing around Sam’s neck.
Collapsing back in his seat, Sam mumbles. “My ass was in the chair.”
Dean spreads everything out on the table then checks the cuts at Sam’s knees (mostly just skin rash from being tossed around) and then nudges himself between Sam’s legs. “Alright lemme see.” He taps beneath Sam’s chin with a nod until Sam looks up and Dean has a good look at the depth of the cut above his eye. He hmphs as he wets cotton with the hydrogen peroxide.
“How’s it look?”
“You’ll live.” And Dean tries to hide the sigh of relief.
Not that he thought any of the damages were life-threatening, but there are still times when he wonders if he’ll walk into the bunker alone, only his own footsteps to listen to. Each bruise and break he has to right on Sam’s body feels like it’s one step closer to that day.
Surely, Sam knows Dean’s moods by now, but he lets Dean big-brother him. Push him around then down into a chair to be mended. Squashes the protests while Dean plays nurse until Sam can turn the tables … and Dean’s just as shitty a patient, so maybe he can’t blame Sam at this moment.
Sam hisses at the first touch of the cotton to his temple. Dean’s just cleaning up the drying blood, most of it crusty and brown now, but he forces a smile at Sam’s pain.
“A bear walks into a bar,” Dean starts.
Aside from a roll of his eyes, Sam stays pretty well still in the chair.
“Bartender asks him what he wants.”
Sam hums and Dean continues.
“Bear says ‘I’ll take aaaaaa …’” He swabs more wet cotton closer to the cut and purses his lips. “‘Vodka and OJ.’ The bartender’s confused and asks, ‘why the big pause?’ Then the bear holds up his hands and says, ‘I’m a fucking bear!’”
Sam gets just one breath of a chuckle out before he’s seething through pain with Dean wiping through the gash.
“There ya go,” Dean eases with a few more swabs at Sam’s brow. Now he truly smiles at Sam’s wince—painful or not, he’s happy to think it’s mostly for Dean’s dumb joke. “Gets you every time.”
Rolling his eyes again, Sam grumbles, “I knew it was coming. Which makes it worse.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“I’m plenty smart, Einstein.”
Now Sam’s smirking and Dean could smack him if they weren’t already a sad pair of banged-up, washed-out hunters. Changing subjects, Dean asks, “How do the knees feel?” as he bandages Sam’s brow.
“They feel like knees.”
Dean stops his work to glare. “Cute.”
“Just a little scraped.”
Hmph.
“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam emphasizes, all soft and calm in his special way.
Sighing, Dean leans back on the table. “You don’t look fine.”
“And neither do you.” Now Sam’s gentle yet insistent tone comes out. The imploring expression, too, and Dean rolls his eyes just so he doesn’t have to face it. “You done fussing over me now?”
“I could kill you for this,” he grits out, worry flaring to the surface again. “They almost killed you.”
“But they didn’t.” He taps the side of Dean’s thigh and suddenly, Dean feels something wet and cold there.
When he looks down, there’s a rip in his jeans haloed by blood. It doesn’t even hurt, which would be a good sign or … the opposite.
“They got you pretty bad, too” Sam points out while fiddling with the hole, inspecting and judging. Those are definitely his judgy eyebrows.
“I told you we should’ve waited ‘til morning,” Dean complains, crossing his arms at his chest. There’s that wrench in his shoulder and he tries to shift it without Sam noticing.
Ever the pain-in-the-ass little brother in his shadow, Sam picks it up immediately. “Lemme see.” He’s slow to rise from the chair and Dean has half a mind to shove him back into it. But then Sam’s a breath away and holding those big firm hands to Dean’s shoulder and tweaking it around. “The blonde?”
“Mmhmm.”
Sam’s tiny smile makes his eyes shine. “She was half your size.”
Dean scowls, yet he thinks on it. “Good ass though.” A raised eyebrow is his answer and Dean flashes Sam a slanted look. “Don’t worry, Sammy.”
“I’m not.”
“I still spiked her in the chest.”
“Good chest, too?”
The question is flat and Dean side-eyes Sam, but then he’s growling when Sam pitches his shoulder out. “Fuck! Warn a guy.”
“Sorry.” He sounds anything but. “I was out of jokes for the night.”
Dean sighs and starts elbowing Sam out of the way. “Funny guy.”
Sam catches his arm before he can get far. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
He turns away, sure this is some other dumb joke.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Really.” Sam motions at his own face when Dean’s dumb-quiet, and Dean worries over what state he really is in. “You should get cleaned up.”
He knows this shift in the air, when Dean’s ready to let Sam off the hook for the night and Sam steps right into gear. When Sam stews over Dean and Dean quits his own act in trade for Sam letting him boss him around first. “That all, doc?”
In lieu of an answer, Sam marches him down the hall to the bathroom. Dean puts up a weak fight, but when Sam flips on the shower and the water pounds like heavy rain on tile, Dean’s chest goes warm.
The way to his heart is most definitely with one hell of a shower.
Without a word, Sam wrenches Dean’s coat off one arm then another. The flannel follows in the same fashion and then Sam carefully pulls up one side of Dean’s t-shirt, off one arm, over the head, and down the bum arm.
Dean thanks Sam in his mind and, as always, Sam knows, glancing at him with a tiny nod and upturn of his lips. It’s not all too hard to kick his boots off with Sam’s help, his socks tossed in the corner with the rest of the clothes. Sam turns away to check the water and Dean quickly loses his jeans and boxers, now antsy for the hard beat of hot water on his regular-ole achy joints and aging bones, not to mention washing this night off his shoulders.
That’s when Dean gets a flash in the mirror and shit, Sam wasn’t joking. Dirt is smeared along his jaw and blood dribbled down his ear at some point. Grit and blood are caked in his hair, maybe skin and guts, too. They slashed a lot of cold bodies and Dean shudders at the thought of how much of it may not be his.
As soon as Dean’s under water and facing the stream, Sam’s flannel is gone and he moves in to help clean it all away. Long, nimble fingers coast over Dean’s head and Dean closes his eyes against the pink-tinted water running down his face.
Next is shampoo, foaming up with each scrub of Sam’s hands. Dean leans his good arm on the cool tile while warm water storms down on him, tips his head down when Sam massages soap along his neck, down his back, over his legs. It’s Sam’s own exam when Dean’s most vulnerable and quiet, and they determine the wound at his thigh is mostly superficial, along with anything else in view. Dean’s shoulder still throbs, so he figures the worst damage is on the inside.
Every touch after that is methodical and precise, every knead of Sam’s fingers into strained muscles and tight skin. Dean’s mind clears a path to enjoy the steady beat of his heart as visions of the hunt drift off to the outskirts of it all. The heat and steam blankets him and tension eases out with each inch that Sam’s fingers creep south.
Dean sucks in a breath and holds it when Sam washes soapy water down his stomach and fingers drag through curls until Sam’s fingers bracket Dean’s dick.
It could be flat and mechanical, but to Dean it’s the task-driven, clear-cut side of Sam that takes over on these evenings with a firm grip stroking at a steady pace and his other hand washing clean water over Dean’s neck and back.
Dean sets his free hand at his thigh with fingernails digging into skin and he blinks aware to stare at the tile. The shower is full of a hot mist, but he’s sure he can see his reflection in the crisp white squares. His hair is matted to the side from Sam’s wash, lip cut at the corner and chest blushing pink as Sam’s hand quickens. His eyes are the brightest, all wide and aroused, satisfied, grateful. His mouth drops open with unspoken thanks that he gets another night with Sam, one just like this, where they trade off care and attention.
Tremors start in Dean’s toes and he feels them slink up his legs and burrow deep in his belly. His arms begin to shake and his breathing rumbles out with growing pants as Sam whispers encouragement and his fist quickens. Simple things like there you go and you’re good and c’mon now.
I’m trying Dean thinks, laughing to himself.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam’s smile, because he knows. He always knows what’s simmering in Dean’s head. That’s when his fingers massage the base of Dean’s neck while his hand picks up more speed, more pressure in the grip, and he wrings all tension right out of Dean with a long, withered groan that’s barely muffled by the water.
Still on task, Sam washes Dean’s belly, his dick, between his legs, and then smacks Dean on the ass when he deems it a job well done.
Out of the shower, Dean dries off his lower half while Sam works up top, saving Dean’s shoulder the hassle. Dean reaches for his dirty clothes, but Sam’s nuh-uh and quick steer out the door says Dean’s getting a break from laundry for the weekend.
Maybe even a big breakfast in the morning and a quiet day in so Sam can keep an eye on him. He won’t argue with that.
Sam helps him with sleep pants and Dean realizes his shoulder feels stiffer despite the hot shower. He’s babying it with his forearm across his stomach and, again, Sam recognizes it with a quick look that says a hell of a lot.
Sam holds the blankets up for Dean to slip into bed. Before Sam can step away, Dean says a simple, “Hey,” that Sam answers by getting in next to him.
Dean turns onto his good arm, letting his bad one rest loose between them, while Sam stretches out on his back, pushing his head into the extra pillow. He watches Sam close his eyes, but the uneven rise of his brother’s chest says he’s still shaken from the hunt and won’t rest until Dean does.
Funny that. Dean feels the same way about Sam.
Has for a long time. Never sees it stopping.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he mumbles, “Told ya we were outnumbered.”
“You’re just mad you got your ass kicked by a girl.”
“A girl with a nice ass.”
Sam nods his head back into the pillow, probably fighting for the right response.
“Not as nice as yours.”
Hmph.
Dean sees a smile creep onto Sam’s face, so he has a moment of relief. Until he’s distracted by the white bandage on his brow. It’s remained clean, pure white cotton unfazed by the shower. Still. “You okay?”
Sam slips an inch or two lower in the bed and lets out a long breath. “I am now.”
Good, he thinks.
“You?”
Dean parrots, “I am now,” and Sam nods. He thinks he sees good in the way Sam’s face relaxes even a fraction.
It’s contagious. Dean feels his body easing and his eyes growing tired, so he settles in a little closer. Then he taps Sam’s chest and feels the steady thump within that Dean can’t stop himself from tracking.
A good minute later, he finds they’re synched up, so he stops counting each beat and lets himself rest.
When Sam’s fingers trace over his, Dean finally releases a calming breath and falls asleep with his hand pressed to the center of his world.