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[He nods, and looks stomach-churningly victorious in the way he beams, lip raw and swollen and tainting that usually toothy smile. Like everything's gonna be okay, for all the wrong reasons.]

Yeah. The colt works. Maybe even other weapons that wouldn't have before. It's better than nothing. [It's a little sliver of hope Sam doesn't usually allow himself. And it's also fucked up, in ways that are a little too clear. But give him this, alright?] Either way, Lucifer's weak right now. Baby bird weak.

... We've got time again.

Edited 2021-04-18 03:42 (UTC)

Good, good. [ Baby bird weak is a good thing, he guesses. At the expense of Sam's health and sanity, but. Sure. It's good.

God, this is so ridiculously fucked up; it makes Dean's stomach turn over on itself, bile rising in the back of his throat. He takes another drink, a smaller one, lets it wash the acid back down, whiskey settling warm in his belly. ]

There's five bullets left. [ Dean says, though he's not keen on letting Sam get his hands on the gun again - he's not sure he can go through that again and come out unscathed. ] But let's focus on that spell of yours, huh?

[Sam nods, relaxing in his chair a bit. He feels kind of... tired. Maybe sleep would be a bad idea right now, though; dad always did warn them excessively about head injuries. Never underestimate a concussion, and all of that.]

... Right. Spell. Other Sam, he's hopefully been working on it while I've been, uh... out of commission. We were gonna try to talk to Cynthia Sodder, since she'd possibly know how to read the language from this universe.

I'll get in touch with him.

[He makes a great effort to take another bite of pear, grimacing.

The thumping pain his jaw makes him think of Dean, though.

Not the Dean sitting in front of him, but the Dean slumped against a tree.

Bloody. Broken. Looking at him in panic.]

... You're okay, right? I — he hurt you pretty good back there, and...

[ He nods, because that's smart. Utilize the resources they have, and thing one and two are a good combination. They're fucking nerds obsessed with lore and whatnot, it's good to team them up. ]

I'm okay.

[ Okay as in..he's alive, Cas healed him, it's fine, everything is good.

Sort of.

Mentally, it's all another story, because Dean is fucked up ten ways from last Sunday, and he's a hair trigger from doing something stupid, just the slightest push, a whisper of air and he's gone.

He watches his brother, his baby brother, with the swollen face and the shut eye and he resolves to do something about it, fix it in other way he knows how, by figuring out who did it and fucking them up in return.

For now, he settles on getting up, grabbing a clean towel and dampening it a little, then coming over to slowly, gently, wipe his forehead. ]

Cas healed me, I'm good. I promise.

[Sam lets Dean do whatever he needs to without complaint. If he's honest, every reminder that his brother doesn't hate him, hasn't given up on him, it makes him a little stronger. A little more sure of himself. It may not have been strong enough to keep Lucifer from taking over inevitably, but it was strong enough for Sam to return long enough. Long enough to do what was right.

He doesn't regret that, not for a second. But he knows what it does to someone, to watch their brother die. Dean does, too, of course, but Sam... Sam's had to live with it for a long time. More than once.

He's buried Dean twice. Put him in a grave because his hands shook too much to start a lighter for a pyre. But the shovel, he just had to grip it hard enough to hurt. The touch when it comes to a Winchester tending to another Winchester's wounds can depend on their mood, on their grievances: a slap on some sutures after black dog clawmarks, an elbow to a pan-sized bruise from an angry poltergeist. But the care right now is careful and easy; reminds him of the kind of caution they'd all have with each other when they thought the other was done for. A relief that becomes something softer than a bunch of macho dudes in their grimy hotels.

Some of the softest scenes he's ever had with his father, that's for sure.

Wincing, gritting the aching teeth on an aching jaw, he sits patiently.]

... Cas doesn't heal everything.

[He says it quietly, guilty as charged.]

I know... I know this time I made the right choice.

But I'm — sorry for how it happened.

[ He gave up once and he's spent the last five years rotting without his brother. Dean won't make that mistake again. ]

I know you are. So am I.

[ Dean isn't a sappy guy, no chick flick moments; he isn't about to coo and pat Sam's head and tell him everything is okay, it's all fine. No, he knows Sam is sorry. They're both sorry as hell for a lot of things; things both avoidable and not.

He looks at the towel in his hand and makes a little face. ]

I got a first aid kit. Sit tight.

[ One of those things he'd picked up along the way, because that seems like the kind of thing you'd need around here, in a place like this. ]

[He hums tiredly at that, figures Dean'll know it translates to 'yeah yeah, I won't move'. Now that he's off his feet, the world isn't quite spinning so violently, so that's nice. While he's okay enough to do it, he quietly catalogues his injuries with his hands, which are... pretty much untouched; not a cut or bruise on them, because he hadn't so much as lifted a finger to stop Raleigh. Cut lip, gashed cheekbones, bruised ribs, no breaks (he thinks?) — ah, yeah broken nose. He hisses at the sharp ache, drops his hand.

... He may or may not abandon the pear in exchange for the whiskey.

It's one of those days.

It burns something awful, but the pain's not so bad. He's had worse.]

[ Good. Don't move, kiddo. He'll fix you up. He's done it many times over the years; slapped Sam back together, tenderly wiped blood from his face. It's his baby brother, and Raleigh Becket is gonna pay.

Dearly. ]

Success. [ He says as he comes back; the stairs are fixed now, thanks to Sam's laboring with the wood, and it's a quick jog up instead of Dean having to pole vault to get to his shit, thank fuck. ]

This is gonna sting. [ He doesn't give Sam a chance to say anything or jerk away, he just starts wiping his face clean with an alcohol wipe. ]

[Sam hisses between his teeth, lips pulling and causing blood to drip from his lip anew — well, until Dean wipes that too and makes him hiss again. But once he's used to the fiery, familiar pain, he settles a bit more in his seat.]

You're about as delicate as Dad used to be.

Lemme remember the words... uh... "Suck it up, buttercup?"

[Hunts in their youth were a hoot, huh.]

Nurse Ratched had nothin’ on Dad.

[ There ya go. Stop squirming, Sammy. Dean’s got this - he’s done it a hundred times over the years. ]

You really not gonna tell me who did this to you?

[He sighs softly, exhaustion pulling at him the longer he sits. His eye drifts shut as he gets used to the ache in his face, and of Dean's somewhat gentle prodding... Or maybe that's just him finally pitching in slow motion toward unconsciousness? Either/or. He's got to admit, he had a little trouble with balance on the way here.

He licks his lip, and says, voice heavy:]

Just gonna go getting yourself in trouble.

[ He sighs, a little exasperated though he gentles his touch, because this is his brother, his baby brother, and ultimately Dean just wants to take care of him, make sure he's okay. ]

You know me. Gonna do that regardless.

[Any attempt to breathe a huff through a broken nose is a terrible choice, really.

Maybe this'll give Dean a small break from always getting huffed at.

Maybe.]

If I wanted to kick their ass, would've done it myself.

[The reply smacks of a 14-year-old saying, desperately, because I don't want to be the freak for once, Dean! I want to be normal! Only Sam's far too aware now that there's no such thing as normal for a Winchester — especially not for one that has caused an apocalypse and drank demonic blood and got a lot of his loved ones killed.

C'est la vie.]

[ Yeah, the Winchesters are pretty good at fucking things up for a lot of people. They're generally well intended, but sometimes the devastation they leave behind is..

Significant. ]

Yeah, well. [ Dean's gonna do it anyway. ] They did a number on you.

[ And they're gonna pay. ]

[Yeah, well, maybe some other people could pick up the goddamn save-the-world-from-demons-and-angels slack. They're just two traumatized dudes, how were they supposed to fix things instead of making the, worse? That's a design flaw by nature.]

Yeah, they sure did. I broke a molar.

[He runs a tongue over the spot where fragmented tooth still sits. It's fine, it's fine. Winchesters get impromptu dental visits with fake insurance cards all the time. After a moment, he says tiredly:]

Really good form, too. All things considered.

[What? He has no self-love, he's allowed to compliment attempted murder.]

[ Seriously. They've had enough thrown on their shoulders. Isn't there someone else that can carry the load for a little while? Fucks sake. ]

You should probably get that looked at.

[ Christ, Sam. Dean sighs, digging out antibiotic ointment and slapping it on Sam's various cuts. ]

Military style, like Dad?

Mm. I'll call the tooth fairy over.

[Sam's gaze flicks up to Dean, at the question.

He would have said 'something uniformed, something close to boxing'.

He would have, if Dean weren't adamant on getting hints on who hurt him.

So instead he says:]

Not sure. I probably wasn't the best judge of anything, at the time.

There's probably one here.

[ Hm. Sam's onto him. He'd tried to ask nonchalant, like a throwaway question Sam would just automatically answer, but oh no.

Stanford here is too smart for that. ]

No, I guess you wouldn't have been, not with someone beating your face in.

[He smiles thinly; it's mostly a wince, because Dean's prodding at his cut face.]

I'm guessing you're not going to let me sleep this off right now?

[Like Dad always said: "never mess with concussions".

Not to be confused with likening them to soldiers or cadets at elementary school ages.]

No, definitely not.

[ There's no way he's letting Sammy fall asleep right now. So, you get to sit up with him and play some cards, because he's got a deck and a bottle of booze to burn.

Sam's face is as cleaned up and disinfected as it's gonna get, and Dean gently pats his shoulder as he closes the little plastic kit and gets up to put it away (though he has a feeling he's gonna need it again pretty soon).

When he returns, he's holding a deck of cards. ]

You still suck at poker?

[He rolls his eye, slumping back more into his chair. Guess this is going to be one of those all-nighters were Dean eyeballs the hell out of him until he's out of the danger zone.

(And let's not talk anymore about the fact that the last time they were together, Sam blew his brains out, let's not talk about what he did to Dean, or the fact that he was gone, or the things he'd done; let's not talk about how Sam feels worse on the inside than he does on the outside, and how he'd failed this town, and failed his brother and Cas and those people-)

He clears his throat, glances up.]

Depends. You still suck at chess?

Edited 2021-04-29 19:20 (UTC)

[ He sits down across from Sam, ignoring everything that happened, that he watched his brother die, that he sat for days and watched the death on repeat until Sam 2 showed up and helped him banish it, that he spent time following Sam's death killing everything Deerington offered that he could get his hands on, there's still blood under his nails. ]

Shaddup. Five card?

Five card.

[He refrains from sniffing, because his nose hurts like a bitch right now; instead he leans forward in his seat. Dean'll probably cut him some slack and ignore the slight tremble in his hands as they sit on the table, ready to catch any cards slid his way.

He runs his tongue over the tender, swollen cut on his lip, glances to the deck of cards in Dean's hands.]

Got anything to bet? Can't imagine you have a bag'f marbles for this one.

[They used to bet with all kinds of shit in their youth. Marbles were always cooler than most of what they used. LEGOs, too. Dean was always a hundred times better than Sammy ever was, though; he half suspected back then that Dean snuck into bars to watch older hunters play, but the burden of proof was on him, and he had zero interest in those gross, smoke-filled places at that age.

This Sam never out-played a witch for Dean's life, though.

Never got the opportunity to prove he's got what it takes.

Maybe someday.]

[ That's exactly what Dean did, and it paid off, so don't judge him for going into smokey, gross dives. It always worked out well enough for them when he hustled people later, winning them enough to buy a better dinner than a lukewarm burrito warmed in a gas station microwave.

He flashes a smile, holds up a finger, then disappears because you better believe he's got some. This is the fifties, man. Marbles and jacks and shit are all there is and Dean likes toys, sue him.

He'll reappear with a shiny little bag of marbles that he'll push over at Sam. ]

Divvy 'em up while I deal.

Edited 2021-04-30 11:55 (UTC)

... Alright.

[His lips twitch, and though he looks wretched and sickly, it doesn't exactly stop him from shakily divvying up those marbles — giving Dean ten as... he slides way more than ten to his side of the table.

If Dean gives him any sort of look, he says:]

What? I'm probably concussed. Can't be held accountable.

[Even in the midst of dying and abject misery and sappy, sad reunions after a nightmare of a month, he can still manage a bit of younger brother teasing.]

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venatoris - 2021-05-01 01:18 (UTC) - Expand