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“But you’d better promise me I’ll be back in time!”
Sam’s eyes shot open to the sound of classic rock, eyebrows knitting together, frantic. He’d spent days of Tuesdays watching his brother die, only to see him again, only to see him die, and as it is that was miserable, but he’d managed to finally stop the Groundhog day cycle.
And then Dean was shot in the parking lot as they were on their way out. Bled out in Sam’s arms, not a word spoken, Sam was too late.
Six months Sam spent tracking down the trickster, to kill it, confront it or do something that wasn’t another hunt without his brother by his side, and he’d finally succeeded. He’d pleaded and pleaded as it went on about codependency, same spiel he’d heard countless times from countless mouths for as long as he remembered, and it meant just as little to him then as it did the first time he heard it.
“ Got to get back in time!”
Because he was sitting up, and there was hideous flamingo wallpaper, and there was Dean, alive, toothbrush in hand.
“What, are you gonna sleep all day?” Dean asked and Sam didn’t know what time it was, he didn’t care, because it was Wednesday, and that was his brother’s voice. His face contorted into one of worry, of confusion, because he really wondered if this was just another trick or if Dean was really here. If he could really have his brother back, just like that. He was about ready to sacrifice his own soul. “I know, no Asia. This station sucks.”
Sam looked to the clock, then reverently back at Dean. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Yeah. Which usually follows Tuesday,” Dean said, gesturing with his toothbrush and looking at Sam with concern. Dean was moving, Dean was talking. “Turn that thing off.”
Sam pulled the yellow patterned quilt off of himself, was fucking hot in there anyway, and went right for Dean, heart pounding with fear that the moment he touched his brother he’d be gone – but he wasn’t. Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, breathing in shakily, and it was all Dean , Dean’s warmth, the smell of him, the tensing of his body when Sam didn’t let go.
“Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?” The voice Sam had cried over countless times until his head was pounding until he couldn’t breathe and he was gonna be sick. He kept breathing in Dean, letting himself believe slowly that this was real.
“Enough,” Sam whispered, pulling back away from Dean, eyes looking him over. Dean was the exact same. “Wait – what do you remember?”
“I remember you were pretty whacked out yesterday,” Dean started, a flash of concern in his eyes. Sam couldn’t say it was unwarranted because fuck knows how he was looking at Dean right then. “I remember catching up with the trickster. That’s about it.”
So Dean didn’t remember the Wednesday they’d had prior, the one where he’d bled out on hot asphalt. Where Sam had cried for him, sobbed because it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, because he was supposed to wake up and have his brother back and he didn’t. Where Sam kept his body, stared at it without the ability to cry any longer, just pleaded with a God that never answered for his brother back.
Good.
“Let’s go,” Sam said briskly, nodding. Dean looked disappointed.
“No breakfast?” Just like before. All of Dean’s lines were the same, but Sam wouldn’t leave him this time. No matter what, he wouldn’t let Dean be alone. He couldn’t.
“No breakfast.” Sam managed a small smile, and Dean’s disappointment seemed to ease. Sam wished he could take his brother into his arms again, no questions asked, just hold him for a while, make sure he made a shield with his body, not letting anything get to Dean. If the hounds had to tear through him, let them.
“Alright, I’ll pack the car,” Dean concluded, and he was moving away from Sam, and Sam lost his chance. He reached out a hand instead, grabbing Dean’s wrist.
“Wait, you’re not going anywhere alone,” Sam told him quickly and Dean looked at him incredulously.
“It’s the parking lot, Sam,” Dean said, like Sam didn’t know, as if Sam couldn’t recall the way the jagged ground made his knuckles bleed the same red that Dean had spilled out onto his clothes, his hands, everywhere.
“Just trust me,” Sam insisted, nodding his head, refusing to let Dean go anywhere out of his sight. Dean seemed to take his word for it and he started packing his bags then and there.
Sam joined him and they packed the car in silence, but Sam couldn’t stop thinking about the six months he’d had, all gone now. Dean was still the same, Dean didn’t know, had no idea how Sam ached for him and could still feel the phantom of his grief. He took a deep, shaky breath as he zipped the last bag, listened to the sound of the door opening, told himself he’s here over and over, would keep doing it until it felt real.
“Hey, you don’t look so good. Something else happen?” Dean questioned, not subtle about his suspicion, but Sam only looked down, weight of Dean’s death still on his shoulders even as his brother was right there. Sam couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
“I just had a really weird dream,” Sam lied, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’s here .
“Clowns or midgets?” No trickster could replicate Dean’s weird, invasive sense of humor. Sam didn’t reply, just looked up at Dean, who grinned at him lewdly. Sam would normally roll his eyes at Dean, call him a pervert, but he just put the bag over his shoulder and followed his brother out to the car with one last glance to the bed he woke up in countless times.
When the door slammed behind him, he kept less than a foot between his brother and him up until they were in the car – doors locked, Sam insisted – and on their way out of the parking lot. No gunshot, no brother dying in his arms, no wrecked sobs as neighbors avoided the outdoors, but still he shook until they were miles away, bordered on hyperventilation for an hour.
Dean didn’t speak for that whole hour or so of Sam waiting for the other shoe to drop – well, except Dean was quietly singing the words to whatever song would come on and excite him enough, which Sam wished was every song, so he didn’t have to keep staring at Dean to make sure he was still there, still himself. The most talking he did to Sam was through concerned glances that Sam ignored until Sam took a deep breath audibly, relaxed a little because at last it seemed safe to assume they were out of the woods.
“What kinda dream’s got you like that?” Dean asked after a few glances when he should be paying attention to the road; Sam had pretended not to notice Dean looking, but saw in his peripheral each time Dean’s head would turn and tilt minutely. Sam brought himself to meet Dean’s eyes finally and he was still practically dripping with concern.
“Nothing good,” Sam sighed, and Dean squinted at him in interest; his eyes being off the road made Sam’s stomach churn and he gestured with his head for Dean to turn back away so he wouldn’t keep thinking about Dean dying in a car accident. “It’s not clowns, or midgets, or anything you’d get a kick out of.”
“Don’t seem to want to talk about it,” Dean observed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in boredom as they drove down a seemingly endless expanse of road. Sam put his head in his hands and shut his eyes, a certain awareness of his clothes on his body making his skin crawl. “What?”
“Can you stop with the – the drumming your fingers?” Sam strained, and Dean tried, Sam knew he did, but within a minute he heard the same thing. He knew Dean couldn’t help it, so he tried a different tactic because he knew what about it was really bothering him. “Can you do it to the music?”
“Sorry,” Dean said sheepishly, doing what Sam asked with little struggle. Sam bit back a deadly sincere you have nothing to be sorry for because Dean was alive and that was all Sam could ask. Sam picked up his head after a deep breath quiet enough for only himself to know about, and Dean turned to him. “Too hot?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, though he hadn’t noticed how warm his body was before. Dean read him like a book with a concerning amount of ease. Sam focused on Dean and Dean alone, his eyes following Dean’s arm to lower down his window and then back to the wheel. Sam did the same with his window and enjoyed the breeze that hit him as Dean sped down the road, enjoyed the way the wind grew loud, drowned out all other sounds.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand found Sam’s where it was lying still on the bench seat and Sam looked up, eyebrows scrunched together. “I don’t know what kinda weird freaky dream you had, or what’s been goin’ on with you–”
“Dean, it’s fine,” Sam tried to interject, having to yell from the way the wind whipped through the Impala, taking their voices with it.
“Nah, Sam, just let me – I just want you to know that you’re safe in here, alright? We’re goin’ to Bobby’s, we’re gonna get your shit sorted,” Dean kept on, not letting Sam get a word in, squeezing his hand. “I don’t know what happened, man. But you’re safe now. Ain’t nothin’ gonna get you. Not with me here.”
Sam breathed in shakily, the nagging and if he isn’t here in the back of his head driving him wild. Dean muffled it, snuffed out any power it had with another squeeze of his hand.
“You’re good man, alright?” Dean said, smiling at Sam experimentally. Sam tried a smile back, and the happiness that he could see overtake Dean had a genuine smile on his face, too. “I’m here. Not goin’ nowhere.”
“I know,” Sam whispered and didn’t move his hand away, needing to feel Dean there. Dean started to move his hand back, but Sam held on, and Dean’s head whipped around. Sam gave Dean his best puppy-dog look, something Dean was always weak to, he knew, and sure enough, Dean rolled his eyes, surrendering. His other hand came from where it’d been hung lazily outside the window to hold onto the steering wheel, just so Sam could feel Dean there, and it was okay.
Safe.