When Sammy was Twenty-Four [SPN, Sam&Dean, PG-13]

[badbastion]

Title: When Sammy was Twenty-Four
Rating: PG-13 for language and injuries
Warnings: injured!Dean, hurt/comfort
Timeline: S2, if All Hell Breaks Loose happened just a few months later.
Misc.: Gen. Sam&Dean. ~4k words. Unbeta'ed, will give another run-through edit later.
Summary: After being run down by a vengeful spirit, Dean is immobilized and must wait for Sam to find him. Dean refuses to go to the hospital, of course, so it's up to Sam to patch him up.



Dean is supposed to be interviewing a witness. Supposed to be, but of course it had turned out a lot more complicated than that. He might as well stop calling dibs on the "easy" errands, because this is about par for the course; instead of sitting in Mrs. Ingram's parlor, eating her cookies and pretending to drink her tea, what he's actually doing is trying to outrun a pissed-off, centuries old, ex-haberdasher in a goddamn horse-drawn carriage.

Sam would probably know what the thing is called. All Dean knows is that it has four big-ass wheels and two big-ass horses, and that it's about twice as fast as he is.

Dean wipes the sweat away from his forehead, curses, and vaults the scrubby vegetation at the side of the road. He opens up his stride in the broad, open field, boot heels kicking up clods of dirt. It's a solid move, for someone already alarmingly accustomed to being chased by cars. Apparently carts are another matter; the gently rolling hills and long grass drag at Dean's legs, but the horses come on just as strong as ever. Fucking horses are fucking fast.

Or maybe just ghost ones are.

Doesn't matter. Dean sucks in harsh breaths and reaches down deep for another burst of speed. His lungs burn, his boots are ten times as heavy as when he put them on this morning and the horses are so close he can smell their sweat. He looks over his shoulder just in time to get a face-full of ghost horse breath.

Then it's the crush of hard hooves and creaking wheels, spinning like a ragdoll to the ground and then rolling, splashing into water. Pain, pain, pain, and finally blackness.




Dean gasps, cloudy blue sky filling the whole of his sight, soft and unfocused. He blinks and it feels like he's punched back into his body and oh, goddamn. He's soaked all down his back, and something--strike that, lots of things feel broken. Without moving, he tries to inventory his various aches and pains. His head hurts like a bitch, lightning searing his brain with every heartbeat, and his right arm throbs from his shoulder to his wrist. His left ankle feels wrong in his boot: fat, and at turns numb and aching. And his chest... he doesn't even really want to think about his chest. He can only manage tiny sips of air; more than that, and his eyes well with tears. Unwilling to be a pussy even when no one is out here to see him, he blinks the tears away. Fake it til you make it, and all that shit.

He tries to steer his mind away from the memory of a hunt with his father, shortly after Sammy left for Stanford. At a ranch down in Montana, the spirit of a murdered cowhand had been spooking the horses. He and John had arrived on-scene just in time to find a cloud of dust, the thunder of retreating hoof-beats, and the unfortunate groom, his chest staved in, jagged edges of rib gleaming ivory through the tatters of shirt, skin and muscle.

Carefully, carefully, Dean lifts his left hand. It's like lifting a cinder-block, and moving only that much makes the sky spin and darken. Not allowing himself the luxury of passing out again, Dean bites his lip and drags his hand up to touch his chest. A sickening starburst of pain rocks through him, but Dean curses himself to go on, to just do it already, and he runs his hand over his torso.

It feels... weird. The topography of his chest might be slightly altered, though in what way he can't tell; the pain radiating from inside his body makes it hard to get things like touch sensitivity through the filter. There are no protruding bones though, and his chest isn't messy and smashed, so he allows his arm to rest at his side again.

Now that he knows he's not going to die immediately, he takes in his surroundings. The trampling he'd undergone had rolled him into a shallow creek. The water trickling through is cool, and it slides down the neck of his shirt and along his back. It's late afternoon, so the bank of the creek creates a shade that, combined with the water, will probably keep him from having heat stroke on top of everything else. At least there's that.

On the other hand, he knows without even having to try that he'd pass out a hundred times, maybe piercing his internal organs with his definitely broken ribs, before he actually climbed out. If he could do it without having to grit his teeth in pain, he'd sigh.

He still grits his teeth in pain.

At this point, much as it galls him, Sam's going to have to come to his rescue. Once Sam realizes that he needs rescuing. And if Sam can even find him.

Really though, there's no if to it. Dean licks his lips, tastes blood, and stares up at the sky, willing his heart and brain and body to continue working until Sam gets here.




The shadows reach longer, eventually spanning the whole width of the creek, and Dean's having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He's also starting to get cold. It's bad, he thinks, but it could have been so much worse on the hot July afternoon. Or evening. Whatever it is now.

Dean's eyes widen when he hears his phone ring from above him, up on the ledge of the creek, and Dean counts it as a small miracle that it survived untrampled and unsoaked. The opening chords of Iron Man are sweet as birdsong. Sam.

"I'm here Sam," he whispers, and he opens his eyes as wide as they can go. "Come on, Sammy."





Maybe ten minutes later, his phone rings again. "Good boy, Sammy," Dean whispers, and he pulls himself together to wait for the next ring.





It comes soon enough, and Dean's fully awake for it, though a little woozy. "I am Iron Man," he whispers along with it, "I am Sam and I am Iron Man."

It's stupid enough that it keeps him repeating it in his head, a little mantra to keep himself awake. Sam's got to be close now. Got to be.

Dean stares wide-eyed as soft pinks and oranges overtake the blue of the sky. Sam, Sammy, where the fuck are you? I don't know if I can-- how much longer I--





The next time his phone rings, Dean talks to it like it's Sam. He's feeling a little melodramatic, shivering painfully in a ditch, so he tells Sammy it's okay, that he tried his best. But then

Then as soon as the ringtone stops, it starts again. "Sammy," Dean whispers, and he hears, from some distance away, Sam calling his name.

"Dean, Dean!" Sam yells, his voice ragged and terified.

Again the phone rings, and Sam's getting close enough that Dean can hear him moving through the thick grass.

"Sam," Dean says, wishing it were a yell. Then Sam is right there, the stars coming out over his head, floppy hair falling down around his face.

"Oh my God, Dean, what the hell happened?"

"Run over," Dean whispers. "Ghost horses. And cart, or something."

Sam's kneeling beside him, his brow all wrinkly with worry. "Where does it hurt?"

"Head. Right side, ribs, bad. Right arm. Left ankle." It's such a relief to be able to say these things, to fall into the familiar rhythms of patching things up.

The flashlight in his eyes startles him, though he should have expected it. Sam tenderly examines the bump at Dean's temple, then asks him a lot of stupid questions. "Maybe a concussion," Sam says. He squishes his thumb against Dean's eyelid then lets it go. "You're in shock. It's better than... It's not bad. You did good, Dean."

Dean wants to tell him to shut up, embarrassed by the praise even while he's in so much pain he doesn't know if he'll ever move again.

Now that Sam's here, Dean can relax his constant vigilance. He drifts in and out of full awareness as Sam categories his injuries, hissing and squeezing his eyes closed against the wetness when Sam cuts open his shirt and gently explores his ribs.

"How bad?" Dean asks.

"Well... it could have been worse. I think your ribs may be cracked, but they're intact."

"Huh," Dean says weakly. That was the most pressing worry, and Dean kind of fades out after he gets a drink of cool water from Sam's canteen. While Sam does a lot of really painful and necessary stuff to him his mind drifts ahead, away from the pain.

Not for long, though; getting Dean out of the creek bed has them both panting, and Dean feels sweat rolling off his face, dripping off the tip of his nose. After an agonizing walk back to the--a car, not his baby but some strange car, they get him settled in the front seat.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" Sam asks.

"Hell no," Dean mutters.

"I'm almost tempted to bring you in, but... you seem like you might be okay without it. Maybe. So here's what we're going to do."

Sam grabs his hand. "While I'm driving back, I'll squeeze your hand. You have to squeeze back. The first time you don't squeeze back, we're going to check you in."

"Yeah, sure Sammy," Dean agrees. Once Sam has the car rolling down the dirt road, going about 5 miles an hour to minimize the bumps, for which Dean is grateful, Dean musters up the energy to say, "Just because we're holding hands doesn't mean I'm your sweetheart. You gotta buy me flowers first."

Sam says something stupid about how Dean's gonna be fine, but Dean tunes him out, focusing all his energy on knowing when to squeeze.




It's a relief to be dressed in clean, dry clothes, his wounds all sterilized and freshly wrapped and splinted, then even more of one to be able to lie in the motel bed, soft as a cloud after the rocky creek bed. Sam fusses around him, propping up Dean's bound ankle and arranging pillows until Dean tells him they're perfect, now let me sleep.




It feels like he's just closed his eyes when Sam's touching his good shoulder. "Dean," he says. "Wake up."

"The hell?" Dean asks, groggily.

"You know we're not out of the woods yet. I know this sucks. But look at me."

Dean would snort if he could. "You're not that bad-looking, Sammy."

Sam smiles at him. "I'm going to get some ice. Be back in a minute."




Dean gasps awake, whole body throbbing with pain. "Sam," he rasps, "Sammy."

"I'm here," Sam says, out of breath. "Just had to get ice for your ribs. Dean, you're moving all over, you can't do that." Sam's voice is agonized, guilty. "I'll get the ice-packs finished and come back. Try not to move?"




Easier said than done, apparently. Dean shakes himself awake again, and through running eyes he sees Sam walking toward the bed, ice-packs in hand. "Dean! You gotta stop. Please."

Dean can do nothing but try to breathe, shallow and careful. "Pain pills," he demands, gritting his teeth and blinking the wetness away.

"I gave you Tylenol earlier, remember? You can't have the other stuff yet."

"Fuck," Dean whispers, then he does his best not to tense up when Sam carefully tucks the ice packs around his torso. "A cheeseburger. I'm starving," he says, to try to distract himself.

Sam looks unsure. "I can't leave you yet. Later I'll--"

Dean closes his eyes, and the rest of the sentence is lost.




"Dean, wake up," Sam whispers.

"No," Dean says.

"Dude. Wake up or hospital."

"Fucking tough love," Dean grumbles, then he pries his eyes open. The ice-packs are gone, and Sam's looking all comfortable sprawled across the bed beside him.

"Look at me. You still with me?" Sam asks.

"Yes," Dean says, all exasperation and impatience. "How long are you going to keep this up?"

"Jesus, Dean, haven't you done this with Dad lots of times? A few hours, I don't care how much it sucks."

Dean flares his nostrils; it's still fresh enough that talking about Dad can be a punch in the gut, but Sam's right, he's--




Sam's still stretched out beside him when he's woken the next time. "You're going back out too fast. I don't like it. I want you to talk to me."

"I hate you."

"That's a start," Sam says. "Open your eyes and talk."

Dean does, and for the first time he notices how low the light is.

"How can you even see me?" Dean asks.

"Used to it. Now tell me a story."

Dean makes a sound that would be a sigh, if only he had the air to sustain one. "When you were four," Dean says, "You used to have this green bear." He has to take a little breath after every few words. "It was such an ugly thing, I don't even know where you got it, and every time I told you it was ugly, and that you should get another one, you yelled at me. You told me you hated me." It's kind of funny, but Dean can't laugh. "How's that for a story?"

"It'll work. Go back to sleep."




The next time Sam wakes him, it's for more ice packs at ribs and ankle and head, and he tells Dean the story, this time. "When you were sixteen, you had this girlfriend for a while when we were in Ohio. What was her name?"

"Paula? or Misty?"

"Paula was the one." Sam carefully presses the cold pack to the knot at Dean's temple. "Well, one time when she was waiting for you to come back from wherever you were--I think you had detention--she asked me if I wanted to kiss her. I don't know if it was serious, like she was offering me my first kiss, or if she was trying to, you know, gross a little kid out. But it scared me so much I hid every time she came over after that."

"Always such a girl, Sammy," Dean says, not unkindly. Paula had been a dream come true at sixteen, spreading love in such a cheerful, generous way that Dean hadn't even cared she had another boyfriend.

"Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep."




This went on for a handful of wakings, and it only took another round for Dean to realize how they thought about the past. When Sammy was six, he'd think. When you were fourteen, Sam would say. They were each other's reference point, and that was a startling glimpse into their relationship, and a humbling one. People could call them codependent, but they'd never really understand the degree to which he and Sam depended on each other. You had to be a part of it to get it. They told the years by each other, for God's sake, they told their stories by each other's years.

When Sammy was five. When Sammy was five. For four months they'd stayed in this house--little more than a shack, really--in Tennessee, and the only thing that had made it bearable was the rocking horse they'd found abandoned in the weed-choked square of a back yard. Dad had brought it in, scrubbed the worst of the dirt off, and he'd stuck it in the boys' bedroom. Sammy rode the thing for hours on end, and for all the oil John (not a punch in the gut, not in this gentle memory) squirted in the ancient springs, it never stopped squeaking. Squeak, squeak, squeak, Sammy rode it, smiling and bright-eyed. Dean stole him a

He realizes he's clawing toward wakefulness, wanting badly to share this memory. "Remember when you were five, Sammy," he says, his voice rough with sleep, "I stole you a cowboy hat and fake gun. You used to ride that rocking horse, and it squeaked so loud I could hear you from the front yard..."

"God, I remember that. I loved that old horse. You stole the hat and gun? I thought Dad gave you the money for it."

"No," Dean says. He'd told Sam that because he was starting to reach the age where open kindness was embarrassing, even with your little brother. That, and it had been so convenient to be anywhere in the house and know exactly where Sammy was, and the more things Sam had to fuel his horse stories, the longer he'd play. Dean could go outside and have battles with the soldiers he'd found in a mossy bucket, and squeak squeak squeak went Sammy, so reassuring. Like Sammy was right there. When he was five. And he's right here now, and Sammy is

Sammy is twenty-four, and he's

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam says.

When Sammy was twenty-four, I was run down by a horse, and if he hadn't been around, I would have died.




Something's different this time. Dean's side is cold, and his head is aching more with the memory of voices. He cracks his eyes open and sees Sam leaning over the bed, his hair a fluffy mess.

"Hey, Dean. Got you flowers. Don't they smell wonderful?" Sam pushes something toward him and Dean moans, his mouth flooding with saliva as the scents of beef and cheese and bacon and onion and tomato sauce make love to his nose.

"God Sammy, if that's a cheeseburger pizza you're gonna be my best sweetheart. I'll even take you to homecoming."

Sam makes some sound between a groan and a laugh and he places the pizza box on the table. He helps raise Dean's head with pillows, moving slowly until they both decide it's as good as it's going to get, and then he helps Dean eat a few slices. "Might even pin you," Dean says, and gets tomato sauce smeared down his face.

Once he's finished eating and had a whole glass of water, sipping it from the cup Sam holds, he feels markedly better. "Thanks, sweetheart," he grunts.

"Shut up," Sam says, fake-scowling. "Be nice, or you won't get the good stuff next time I wake you."

"Oh. Yeah. Like you'd withhold it just because I called you names. Nice names, even."

"Whatever. It doesn't matter how hurt you are, you're still a jerk."

"Uh-huh. Bitch."

Sam's saying something else, but Dean's slipping down, down, slinking into the wonderful fuzz of a food coma.




When Sam wakes him up again, Dean has a hard time resurfacing. "What time is it?" he finally asks Sam, and that wipes the squished-up look off of his face.

"A little after eleven," Sam says.

"Oh, okay." He takes in a slow, careful breath that slips out shaky. Sammy's twenty-four and long and tall and skinny, and hemming Dean in so he doesn't move too much. And he must know how these little breaths feel like slow suffocation, because he's grabbing Dean's good hand.

"Take a few long ones," Sam says. "Careful, this is going to hurt. Squeeze down on my hand because I'm a real asshole for making you do this."

Dean closes his eyes and opens his mouth, and he sucks in the longest, sweetest breath, one that turns into nauseating pain at the end. Another that clears his head, washes away the claustrophobic sickness with more pain. Then one more, an indulgence that makes his vision pulse red around the edges.

When he lets that one out he feels high, the flood of oxygen a welcome tranquilizer. He relaxes his head into the pillow.

"You with me?" Sam asks.

"Uh-huh."

"Then you can let go of my hand. Sweetheart."

With a grimace, Dean grunts and loosens his fingers. They're clammy and sore from gripping too tight, but he's vindictively pleased to see that Sam's fingers are striped with a red and white marbling that looks like it hurts much more.

"Tell me what happened when you were fourteen," Sam says. "When we were in Calico Rock. Look at me."

Sammy was ten, and the lake was a 15-minute walk from their zero-amenities cabin, and "I caught that giant-ass fish. Even the old dudes were impressed. They took a picture and wrapped it up for me. I carried it home even though it stank."

"And Dad actually made it home that day," Sam adds. "He fried it up on the grill."

"It was really good," Dean says, his eyelids drooping. Sam and Dad eating something he'd brought home, sitting at a camp picnic table like they were a normal family having a cookout. Enough leftovers that he and Sammy had plenty of meat for the next day, for free and Dad said he'll bring fries back tomorrow will he come back tomorrow or disappear--

"Hey, not yet," Sam insists. "It's been long enough; you can have a vicodin now."

"Yeah," Dean says. He takes the pill with a few sips from the straw and rests his head back on the pillow. "Thanks, Sammy," he says, bringing his good hand up to awkwardly pat at Sam's chest when Sam lies back down.

"You can sleep for a while now, okay?" Sam says, and Dean's grateful even though he's already slipping away. "I'll stay here and keep you still."




Dean wakes on his own again, body buzzing gently from the warm, muffling cloud of the vicodin. He has no clue what time it is, but Sam's asleep facing him, one arm tucked under his head and the other crammed into his pajama pocket. His face is young and smooth and untroubled, and kind of dumb without the intelligence that animates his features. His mouth is hanging open and his minty breaths are slow and even. When Sammy was eleven. Mouth open, breathing right against the side of Dean's face. Eleven, and he'd fallen through the ice. Blue lips, frozen lashes. Dean had insisted he be the one to bundle up with him to warm him, to chafe at his limbs, because he couldn't imagine Dad being gentle enough on Sam's cold and aching joints.

"When you were nineteen," Dean whispers, then he doesn't say anything else.




Time passes in fits and starts, Dean sleeping off and on. There's pain, a lot of it, but Dean grows used to it, and each small cessation of it is like a gift. He talks to Sam when he's awake, drifts up to the surface of consciousness when Sam adjusts his pillows or gingerly lays an ice-pack beside his ribs or fluffs the pillows under his left ankle. It's rare that Sam has to do this kind of thing for him, but it's not the worst thing in the world. And at least Sam knows what snacks he likes from the motel vending machine, and Sam knows what to order from any take-out place. Plus, he knows how to help Dean use the bathroom and eat without making Dean feel like a tool.

Better than being taken care of, it feels good to be fed these little slices of sweet memories. When Sammy was seven, Dean taught him how to ride a bike. When Dean was fourteen, he stole a twenty out of Dad's wallet and they splurged at the county fair, their consciences untroubled because it would have gone for whiskey, anyway.

It feels good to remember that, well... it wasn't all bad for Sam. Maybe Dad was overbearing, and maybe he didn't understand Sam, and maybe moving all the time was hard on Sam, but... Dean's glad he got to be Sam's big brother, and glad that he was able to make some parts of Sam's young life bearable.

Not that he'd say that out loud (and he's really careful not to, when Sam gives him a pain pill and it kicks in hard before he falls back asleep), but he thinks that's what all these stories are about, anyway.




Dean yawns awake, grunting when the deep breath pulls at his ribs. But it's... better. Just a little. Same with his arm. Dean rotates his ankle slowly and carefully shakes his head, and hell yeah, Dean Motherfucking Winchester is Back.

"It lives," says Bobby's perpetually grumbly voice from beyond the wall of Sam's back. "How ya feelin', kid?"

"I got run over by two horses, then Sam insisted on cuddling for two days. You decide."

He hears Sam's soft laugh, and then Sam's carefully rolling out of bed. "You are feeling better, aren't you?" he asks. "Feeling good enough to feed yourself?"

"Of course," Dean says, and his mouth waters when Sam plants a Burger King bag on the bed. Sam helps prop him up with pillows, then opens the food wrappers and lays out the small pile of greasy, awesome-smelling food on the flattened bag.

As he's eating, Sam's arranging things on the bed, in the spot that Sam had so frequently occupied. Water, pills, cell phone, a few bags of snack foods, an empty bottle.

"You going somewhere?" Dean asks, biscuit crumbs sticking to his lips.

"Gonna go pick up the Impala," Bobby says, and Dean blanches. He thought Sam had-- he was sure he'd mentioned it-- oh, god.

Sam hefts his shotgun and slides it into his bag. "And we're going to see if we can get eyes on that ghost."

Dean nods and gives him a thumbs-up, mouth full of biscuit.




When Sammy was twenty-four, he salted and burned the ghost that ran his brother down, and he brought the Impala back to Dean, black and shining and beautiful as ever.



the end



For this prompt at the hoodie_time comment meme