ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-02-18 07:01 pm
ratherastory) wrote2011-02-18 07:01 pm
Entry tags:
Simple Misadventure
Title: Simple Misadventure
Summary: Set in the Fusion 'verse. A simple coffee run goes wrong, because accidents can happen to anyone, at any time.
Characters: Sam, Dean, the usual set of OCs.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,062
Disclaimer: They still don't belong to me, alas.
Warnings: AU after 5.22, vague Season 5 spoilers. If you haven't read at least the first fic in this 'verse, you will not understand what's going on.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandom_flood_ap for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
harrigan who won the charity auction. Congrats, babe! She requested some hurt!Sam, with bonus points if it was a Fusion 'verse fic, so here we are.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: The Fusion 'verse never ever pays attention to anything I have planned. This was meant to be a one-shot, and instead there's going to be at least one more story following this, probably two. *headdesk* IDEK, okay? This is worse than when I was trying to give Sam and Dean a puppy.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: This is set chronologically after And Death's Dark Shadows Put To Flight. It's actually probably chronologically just short of one year after Fusion itself.
After nearly a year of Sam wandering off on his own, you'd think he would be used to it by now, Dean tells himself. Used to leaving Sam perfectly content in a room, only to come back fifteen minutes later and find him gone. Used to waking up to an empty house. Except that he's not used to it, not in the slightest. Every time it happens he gets the same tight, clawing sensation in his chest, as though there's a weasel clawing at his insides.
Perry's waiting for him at the foot of his bed, tongue lolling, and the fact that she doesn't seem particularly distressed is reassuring. She's taken to waking Dean up when Sam has a nightmare, or when he leaves the house at irregular hours, so it's probably okay. A glance at the clock tells him he hasn't quite overslept, but that it was a near thing. It's his day off, sure, but that doesn't mean they don't have a schedule to keep to, and it's never sure from one day to the next if Sam will be in good enough shape to remember to take his meds on his own or put the coffee on to percolate. He reaches over to fondle Perry's ears.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She pants happily and swipes her tongue over his knuckles.
“Ew. Seriously, it is never not gross when you do that,” he laughs, wipes his hand on his bedspread, and resigns himself to getting up after all. He swings his legs carefully out of bed and perches on the edge, resting the heel of his bad leg on the floor. The scars from the surgery have faded into faint white lines now, but he can't quite seem to get used to them the way he's become accustomed to the fact that his knee doesn't bend anymore. “You seen Sam?”
She wags her tail, but he already knows the answer. He can always tell, somehow, when Sam's in the house and when he's gone. There's a different quality to the silence, even when Sam is sleeping or holding himself really still. He gets dressed slowly, still perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. In spite of himself he finds he's a little annoyed at Sam for disappearing and even more annoyed at himself for having come to depend on Sam so much for stupid things like putting on his pants. It's not like Sam doesn't have enough resting on his shoulders without adding himself to his brother's burdens. He deliberately doesn't let himself dwell on the fact that Sam probably has the exact same thoughts every day. He pushes himself back to his feet, does up his jeans, remembering when getting dressed wasn't a major production with something that feels weirdly like nostalgia. At least he can still put his shirt on unassisted, he thinks with a snort before heading for the stairs.
There's a note on the coffee table, in Sam's new, careful handwriting. The kind of handwriting that he has to concentrate on so that his hands don't shake and render it illegible. It's perfectly legible today, which is something of a relief. It reads simply: 'Went to get coffee —we're out. Back before 7:30. S.'
“Well, that answers that question,” Dean tells the dog as she follows him into the kitchen, nails clattering on the linoleum. He checks the clock again, just to reassure himself that everything's fine, and decides that he's not going to look at it again until Sam is back, otherwise he'll go out of his mind. Sam is fine, he's coherent and writing notes, but that doesn't make it any easier for him not to start imagining all the things that can go wrong, because things always used to go wrong before. Accident, misadventure, deliberate malice. There's a lot less of the latter in their lives, for which he's grateful, but accidents? Accidents can happen to anyone.
“Did you notice when I became a nagging, anxious old woman?” he asks Perry. “'Cause I sure didn't. At least he left a note. That's something.”
He pulls open the cupboard where they keep the dog food, then tugs the whole shelf out on its sliding track. That was one of Sam's ideas, which he actually managed to pull together during a few good days: he installed sliding tracks in all the cupboards below waist level, re-organized the whole kitchen to minimize the impact on Dean's bad leg, so that he wouldn't have to bend over too far or ever crouch down to get whatever he needed. Even the dog food has a convenient dispenser, jury-rigged out of plastic and sliding parts, and it works pretty damned well. Dean's always been the innovator in the family, but it turns out his little brother isn't a slouch in that department either, and on his good days he's been finding ways to keep busy around the house while he's waiting for Dean to get back from his job, teaching himself plumbing and basic carpentry and things that Dean is pretty sure he never would have bothered with before.
If it keeps up, Dean's thinking of helping him maybe set up a workshop in the garage. The Impala only takes up about half the space in there, and there's no reason they wouldn't be able to put in a work bench and one of those peg boards for tools and whatever. So long as Sam isn't using power tools totally unsupervised, it's a good way to keep him engaged, as Amanda would say. Grounded in this reality, which is a hell of a lot better than wherever it is he checks out to on his bad days.
A minute later and Perry is digging happily into her dish, kibble crunching noisily between her teeth, and Dean leans on the counter, watching her and lamenting the fact that he apparently didn't notice that they were out of coffee. He's really not sure how that happened, given how much both of them have come to rely on their morning ritual. It's probably because Sam was having a bad day the last time they were supposed to go on a grocery run. Not that it's Sam's fault, but it was a distraction, and now he doesn't have any coffee and Sam is gone, and he doesn't like just how off-balance it all makes him feel.
He pours himself a bowl of cereal, notes that Sam's pill box is on the table, this morning's compartment entirely empty. Okay, then. Today's a very good day if Sam took his pills and left a note and went out with all his faculties intact, which is awesome, because when Sam gets back they'll be able to go out, maybe. Go to the diner, or take a walk, because Sam likes that sort of girly shit where they go outside of town and explore the fields and stuff. He's even taken to birdwatching, for some reason Dean can't fathom, but that didn't prevent him from digging out a Peterson's field guide to the birds for his brother out of one of the bargain bins, and Sophie didn't even let him pay for it. It was worth it to see Sam's face light up like it was Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one, and they'd spent a damp, uncomfortable afternoon outside identifying every single bird Sam could spot. It's gotten to the point where there are almost as many good days as there are bad ones, and Dean is almost afraid that they're getting complacent, that something is lurking just around the corner to make it all go bad again.
“You don't think I'm borrowing trouble, do you girl?” he asks Perry, but she's busy with her kibble, and he shakes his head, feeling ridiculous.
The phone rings, startlingly him so badly he jumps. Immediately his heart speeds up. Sure, it could be any number of innocent things —Sophie calling about work, any one of their friends (and God, how weird is it that he and Sam can actually say that they have friends?) calling about something innocuous— but when Sam isn't next to him, he can't help but think that something has gone horribly wrong.
“Perry, phone!”
The phone isn't that far away, but he's kind of worried he'll fall flat on his face if he tries. Perry obediently lifts her nose out of her bowl and immediately goes to fetch the phone, and he tries to clamp down on the weird guilt he gets when he interrupts her breakfast. She's happy to do it, and she can go back to eating right after, he reminds himself as he takes the cordless phone from her and hits the 'talk' button.
“Dean? It's Margery.”
His heart lodges in his throat at her tone. “What's wrong?”
“I'm outside the grocery store, there's been an accident.”
Oh, God. “I —is Sam—”
“No, sweetie, it's all right. He's hurt but he's not in any danger, I promise. But you need to come. Albert's on his way to pick you up, he should be there any minute, and he'll fill you in. You should get ready if you're not, and bring Sam's insurance information with you, all right?”
He's already moving, trying not to let himself think that he somehow brought this down by thinking about it. God, him and his overactive imagination, thinking about Sam and accidents at the same time. Shit! “Yeah, okay. How badly is he hurt?”
“It's his arm. He's going to need a hospital, but he's not really letting anyone near him. Someone's already gone to fetch Amanda.”
The doorbell rings. “I gotta go, Margery. I'll be there in a few minutes.” He drops the phone on the sofa, snatches his jacket from the hook and unlocks the front door to reveal Albert's solid reassuring form in the doorway. He's dressed in a warm winter jacket and a hat with ear flaps. It's snowing outside, and fat flakes are clinging to his head and shoulders like a really bad case of dandruff. Dean steps back, waves him in.
“I'm almost ready, just gotta get my boots and Perry.”
He whistles for Perry, lowers himself into the chair by the door and pulls his boot on his good foot, tugging at the laces with shaking hands. Albert gestures to the remaining boot.
“It'll go faster if I help.”
Dean hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, thanks.” He's not exactly used to anyone except Sam helping him, and sometimes Amanda, after his check-ups, but this isn't really the time to be squeamish about this. Albert is surprisingly deft, tugging Dean's foot into his lap and doing up the laces with practised ease. He chuckles at Dean's surprised look.
“Three kids, son, and two different sets of grandkids. Some skills you never lose. Need a hand up?” He doesn't wait for Dean's answer, just holds out his hand, and doesn't budge an inch, solid and steadying, when Dean has to lean heavily on him to get to his feet.
Dean clips Perry's harness into place, drops his house keys into the pocket of his jacket, and grabs his cane. “Okay, let's go. You come on foot?”
“Truck. I'll drive you two to the hospital, as soon as you convince your brother he's safe.”
“How bad is he?”
Albert seems to realize he's not talking about the injury. Injuries Dean knows how to deal with, they've been a part of their lives for so long, but the rest... “Honestly, I can't tell. He seemed okay at first, but then he sort of started to shut down. Okay, you think you can get in the front if I move the seat back all the way?”
Dean stares dubiously at the truck. “Backseat's probably better. Perry, up!” he ushers the dog ahead of him, hoists himself into the seat, pulling himself in with his arms and bracing himself with his good leg in the footwell. At least Albert has one of those trucks with the extended cabs, he consoles himself, otherwise he'd be in for a world of discomfort.
“So what happened?” he asks as Albert swings himself into the driver's seat —and damn if Dean doesn't feel a twinge of jealousy watching a man more than twice his age accomplishing something he'll never be able to do again. He keeps a steadying hand on Perry's back the whole time, more for himself than her, if he's honest about it, scrubs at his mouth with the other hand, trying to clamp down on the guilt and worry that keep trying to work their way to the surface of his mind. If he'd only been there...
“It was an accident. Tilly Blake's little girl ran out into the street, God only knows why. There was a cube truck coming her way, and the driver didn't see her until it was too late,” Albert shudders and shakes his head. “Maybe if it hadn't been snowing he could have stopped, I don't know. She's fine, though. Your brother knocked her out of the way.”
“God,” Dean bites his lip. “We were out of coffee. Why the hell didn't he wake me up?”
“Hey,” Albert glances over his shoulder. “Don't do that to yourself, son. Accidents happen, there's nothing you could have done even if you were there, and even if you had, that little girl would be dead. We'll make sure Sam is taken care of, don't you worry.”
The grocery store is a fifteen-minute walk for Dean, but a truck doesn't move at the same speed as a crippled guy on foot. Dean can already see the building, the small crowd milling about the sidewalk. The people part like the freaking Red Sea as soon as they spot Albert's truck, and he pulls up alongside the building and hops out. Dean's too damned freaked out to be embarrassed at having to be all but lifted out of the truck by his armpits and set on his feet like a little kid.
“Where is he?” he asks, half a second before spotting his brother at the centre of the commotion. “Sam! Sammy!”
He recognizes Margery and Drew, the manager of the grocery store, each doing their best to keep people at a distance. Sam's sitting on the ground, and even at a distance Dean can see he's soaking wet from having fallen in the slush-filled street. A half-dozen yards away Tilly Blake is clutching a sobbing child in her arms, and he doesn't know whether he's relieved or furious at them for all this, all rational thought driven out of his head by the litany of Sam-Sam-Sam that always seems to take over at times like these. He limps over to Sam, none-too-gently nudging people out of his way and using his cane when they don't move fast enough, and Perry helps by nosing her way forward through the thicker knots of people.
“Sammy!”
Sam's cradling his right arm to his chest, both hands hidden under his jacket. He's got his head down, hair obscuring his face, hunched over on himself as though he's expecting someone to hit him at any moment. Perry whines, shoves her wet nose against Sam's cheek, then looks back at Dean, who's still trying to figure out just how the hell he's supposed to go from standing to sitting down next to his brother without hurting himself. Drew steps away from the people he's been shooing away and offers an arm.
Dean nods his thanks, even as he's mentally adding this to the tally of ways in which he's become absolutely useless. The snow immediately starts soaking into his jeans, but he can't bring himself to care. He reaches over, puts a hand on Sam's knee.
“Hey, Sammy. I'm here. You want to let me take a look at that?”
Sam shakes his head. “I'm okay. I'm okay, I just need a minute. I just...” he trails off, and Dean can hear him breathing hard, fast and shallow. Shock, probably.
He rolls his eyes, gently nudges Sam's shoulder with his own. “Sammy, it's me, come on. We have to get you checked out. Look, even Perry's worried,” he adds, as Perry whines again and tries to lick Sam's face. “And we all know she's only supposed to worry about me. So how about you cooperate so she can go back to doing what she's been trained for? Let me see, Sam.”
He gets another headshake. “Too many people.”
Dean grimaces at that. “Yeah, okay. We're working on that.” He looks up at Drew. “Think you can get us a little more breathing space, here?”
Drew nods. “Yeah, sure. Deputy should be along any minute, too, get these folks moving along. He's on a call on the other side of town with the Sheriff, but he said he'd be here as soon as he could.”
“Thanks.”
“I should be thanking you.”
Dean catches Sam by the shoulder as he tries to curl up further on himself, shivering. He can hear his teeth chattering. “Hey, Sam! Sammy! No checking out on me, dude. You stay right here, you hear me? Come on, tell me how bad it is. Let me see, Sam.”
Something catches in Sam's voice. “Broke my hand...”
“Same one as before, huh?” Sam just makes a muted sound of pain, and damn but if that doesn't go right through Dean's chest like a knife. “Sammy,” he says gently. “It's just you and me, okay? No one else is here, they're all backing up. Let me see, dude, and then we're taking you to a hospital. Sam,” he squeezes harder as Sam tenses up, “Sam, you know I wouldn't make you if we had a choice. I'll be right there the whole time, okay? How about you tell me what happened?”
It's a diversionary tactic, but it works. Sam pulls in a shuddering breath. “I... there was a truck, and I thought... there was a girl, and I could hear screaming, and I didn't want... is she okay?”
“She's just fine. Shaken up, but she's all in one piece. Did you grab her?”
Sam shakes his head. “I was too far. Had to push her, and there... I don't... for a minute I couldn't tell if I was here or...”
Or back in the Cage. Dean swallows. “What happened to your hand, Sammy? Did you fall on it?”
“Truck. It was an accident.”
Shit. “Sam. Let. Me. See.”
He reaches over, pulling the jacket aside, and Sam doesn't stop him. Dean gags, bile rising in his throat. So much blood. “Oh my God, Sam. Okay. Okay,” he forces himself to breathe, in, out, and not think about the fact that his brother's wrist looks like it's been through a meat grinder. “Okay, we're going to fix this, but I need you to trust me, okay Sammy? You with me? How's the pain, one to ten? Don't lie.”
Sam lets himself sag a little against Dean's shoulder. “Eight.”
“Okay. Well, kudos on not screaming yourself hoarse, then. I can't get you up on my own, so someone else is going to have to help. You going to let them? You still with me?”
“Uh...”
“Sam?”
His brother pulls in another shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yes. It's a good day. I'm okay. I'm okay,” he repeats, and it sounds as though he's trying to convince himself as much as Dean.
“Dude, your arm's been run over by a cube truck. It's not a crime if you're not okay. I'm gonna get up, but I won't be far, promise. Perry's going to stay right next to you, and then we're going to take you to the hospital.”
“Dean...” Sam's breath hitches, and Dean can hear panic creeping back into his voice. He pats his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know, but we don't have a choice, here. You get that, right?”
“I'm sorry.”
He sighs. He knows exactly what Sam means, and he wonders how it hasn't already broken his heart. “Hang tight, Sammy.”
It takes a lot longer than he'd like to get to his feet, and this time no one moves to help him —Drew and Albert and Margery are still doing crowd control, he thinks. Once he's upright, leaning on his cane for balance, he finds himself face to face with Amanda, and he all but clutches at her like he's drowning and she's the only buoy for miles.
“We need a hospital. Preferably yesterday.”
“They told me,” she squeezes his shoulders reassuringly, and the feeling grounds him a little. “Do you want me to call for an ambulance? You can ride with him, if you want.”
He shakes his head, forces himself to breathe calmly. “That'll freak him out, and he's pretty calm, all things considered. Albert offered to drive, but I don't —it's a truck,” he says lamely, gesturing at his leg. “I can't go with him like that.”
“Right. I can borrow a van, so that we can remove one of the seats for you, let you stay with him. Will he let me near him?” she looks over at Sam, still hunched over on the ground.
Dean nods once jerkily. “Yeah, he's okay. I mean, his arm's a mess and he's more than a little shocky, but he's all there. He's all wet, though. He'll freeze if we don't do something.”
“Don't worry about that. We've got this, okay?”
He manages a jerky nod, hands clenching into fists at the idea of someone else taking care of his Sammy, remembering a time when none of this would have happened. Not like this. He and Sam have both had worse injuries, but before it was just a matter of one of them picking up the other off the ground, dragging him to the Impala and booking it to the nearest hospital. Now Dean can't even pace as someone else —someone not him— picks Sam up off the ground once Amanda has made sure he's stable, his hand loosely bandaged, and helps him over to a waiting minivan. The fact that Dean needs a hand to get himself and his dog into the van is only adding insult to the multiple injuries going on here, and he bites on the inside of his cheeks to keep from punching the side of the van in frustration.
Amanda settles herself in the shotgun seat, Albert at the wheel of the van, and looks over her shoulder at him. “How you doing back there?”
He opens his mouth just as Sam leans against him, burying his face against his collarbone. Dean drops a hand on Sam's head, pets his hair, and swallows the bitter words that want to spill from his lips. Instead he looks down at the top of his brother's head, shifting a little so he can keep his leg stretched out and still let his brother lean against him. “Okay, Sammy?”
Sam nods, but he's shaking under the blanket that someone threw over his shoulders in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, and Dean pulls him closer, careful not to jostle his arm. Sam's other hand is already fisted in the hem of Dean's shirt, fingers clenched so tightly his knuckles are turning white. He twists in Dean's arms, looks up at him, pupils so large Dean can barely make out the faint ring of hazel of his irises.
“It was just an accident,” he says. “Just an accident, Dean.”
Dean's heart skips a beat, but Sam lets his head drop back onto his chest. His breathing has evened out, there's no tension in him other than what Dean recognizes as simple physical pain, and Dean feels something in his own chest give way, eyes stinging. He swallows hard, gives Sam's head another pat, then looks back at Amanda.
“We're fine.”
Summary: Set in the Fusion 'verse. A simple coffee run goes wrong, because accidents can happen to anyone, at any time.
Characters: Sam, Dean, the usual set of OCs.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,062
Disclaimer: They still don't belong to me, alas.
Warnings: AU after 5.22, vague Season 5 spoilers. If you haven't read at least the first fic in this 'verse, you will not understand what's going on.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Written for the
fandom_flood_ap for harrigan who won the charity auction. Congrats, babe! She requested some hurt!Sam, with bonus points if it was a Fusion 'verse fic, so here we are.Neurotic Author's Note #2: The Fusion 'verse never ever pays attention to anything I have planned. This was meant to be a one-shot, and instead there's going to be at least one more story following this, probably two. *headdesk* IDEK, okay? This is worse than when I was trying to give Sam and Dean a puppy.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: This is set chronologically after And Death's Dark Shadows Put To Flight. It's actually probably chronologically just short of one year after Fusion itself.
After nearly a year of Sam wandering off on his own, you'd think he would be used to it by now, Dean tells himself. Used to leaving Sam perfectly content in a room, only to come back fifteen minutes later and find him gone. Used to waking up to an empty house. Except that he's not used to it, not in the slightest. Every time it happens he gets the same tight, clawing sensation in his chest, as though there's a weasel clawing at his insides.
Perry's waiting for him at the foot of his bed, tongue lolling, and the fact that she doesn't seem particularly distressed is reassuring. She's taken to waking Dean up when Sam has a nightmare, or when he leaves the house at irregular hours, so it's probably okay. A glance at the clock tells him he hasn't quite overslept, but that it was a near thing. It's his day off, sure, but that doesn't mean they don't have a schedule to keep to, and it's never sure from one day to the next if Sam will be in good enough shape to remember to take his meds on his own or put the coffee on to percolate. He reaches over to fondle Perry's ears.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She pants happily and swipes her tongue over his knuckles.
“Ew. Seriously, it is never not gross when you do that,” he laughs, wipes his hand on his bedspread, and resigns himself to getting up after all. He swings his legs carefully out of bed and perches on the edge, resting the heel of his bad leg on the floor. The scars from the surgery have faded into faint white lines now, but he can't quite seem to get used to them the way he's become accustomed to the fact that his knee doesn't bend anymore. “You seen Sam?”
She wags her tail, but he already knows the answer. He can always tell, somehow, when Sam's in the house and when he's gone. There's a different quality to the silence, even when Sam is sleeping or holding himself really still. He gets dressed slowly, still perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. In spite of himself he finds he's a little annoyed at Sam for disappearing and even more annoyed at himself for having come to depend on Sam so much for stupid things like putting on his pants. It's not like Sam doesn't have enough resting on his shoulders without adding himself to his brother's burdens. He deliberately doesn't let himself dwell on the fact that Sam probably has the exact same thoughts every day. He pushes himself back to his feet, does up his jeans, remembering when getting dressed wasn't a major production with something that feels weirdly like nostalgia. At least he can still put his shirt on unassisted, he thinks with a snort before heading for the stairs.
There's a note on the coffee table, in Sam's new, careful handwriting. The kind of handwriting that he has to concentrate on so that his hands don't shake and render it illegible. It's perfectly legible today, which is something of a relief. It reads simply: 'Went to get coffee —we're out. Back before 7:30. S.'
“Well, that answers that question,” Dean tells the dog as she follows him into the kitchen, nails clattering on the linoleum. He checks the clock again, just to reassure himself that everything's fine, and decides that he's not going to look at it again until Sam is back, otherwise he'll go out of his mind. Sam is fine, he's coherent and writing notes, but that doesn't make it any easier for him not to start imagining all the things that can go wrong, because things always used to go wrong before. Accident, misadventure, deliberate malice. There's a lot less of the latter in their lives, for which he's grateful, but accidents? Accidents can happen to anyone.
“Did you notice when I became a nagging, anxious old woman?” he asks Perry. “'Cause I sure didn't. At least he left a note. That's something.”
He pulls open the cupboard where they keep the dog food, then tugs the whole shelf out on its sliding track. That was one of Sam's ideas, which he actually managed to pull together during a few good days: he installed sliding tracks in all the cupboards below waist level, re-organized the whole kitchen to minimize the impact on Dean's bad leg, so that he wouldn't have to bend over too far or ever crouch down to get whatever he needed. Even the dog food has a convenient dispenser, jury-rigged out of plastic and sliding parts, and it works pretty damned well. Dean's always been the innovator in the family, but it turns out his little brother isn't a slouch in that department either, and on his good days he's been finding ways to keep busy around the house while he's waiting for Dean to get back from his job, teaching himself plumbing and basic carpentry and things that Dean is pretty sure he never would have bothered with before.
If it keeps up, Dean's thinking of helping him maybe set up a workshop in the garage. The Impala only takes up about half the space in there, and there's no reason they wouldn't be able to put in a work bench and one of those peg boards for tools and whatever. So long as Sam isn't using power tools totally unsupervised, it's a good way to keep him engaged, as Amanda would say. Grounded in this reality, which is a hell of a lot better than wherever it is he checks out to on his bad days.
A minute later and Perry is digging happily into her dish, kibble crunching noisily between her teeth, and Dean leans on the counter, watching her and lamenting the fact that he apparently didn't notice that they were out of coffee. He's really not sure how that happened, given how much both of them have come to rely on their morning ritual. It's probably because Sam was having a bad day the last time they were supposed to go on a grocery run. Not that it's Sam's fault, but it was a distraction, and now he doesn't have any coffee and Sam is gone, and he doesn't like just how off-balance it all makes him feel.
He pours himself a bowl of cereal, notes that Sam's pill box is on the table, this morning's compartment entirely empty. Okay, then. Today's a very good day if Sam took his pills and left a note and went out with all his faculties intact, which is awesome, because when Sam gets back they'll be able to go out, maybe. Go to the diner, or take a walk, because Sam likes that sort of girly shit where they go outside of town and explore the fields and stuff. He's even taken to birdwatching, for some reason Dean can't fathom, but that didn't prevent him from digging out a Peterson's field guide to the birds for his brother out of one of the bargain bins, and Sophie didn't even let him pay for it. It was worth it to see Sam's face light up like it was Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one, and they'd spent a damp, uncomfortable afternoon outside identifying every single bird Sam could spot. It's gotten to the point where there are almost as many good days as there are bad ones, and Dean is almost afraid that they're getting complacent, that something is lurking just around the corner to make it all go bad again.
“You don't think I'm borrowing trouble, do you girl?” he asks Perry, but she's busy with her kibble, and he shakes his head, feeling ridiculous.
The phone rings, startlingly him so badly he jumps. Immediately his heart speeds up. Sure, it could be any number of innocent things —Sophie calling about work, any one of their friends (and God, how weird is it that he and Sam can actually say that they have friends?) calling about something innocuous— but when Sam isn't next to him, he can't help but think that something has gone horribly wrong.
“Perry, phone!”
The phone isn't that far away, but he's kind of worried he'll fall flat on his face if he tries. Perry obediently lifts her nose out of her bowl and immediately goes to fetch the phone, and he tries to clamp down on the weird guilt he gets when he interrupts her breakfast. She's happy to do it, and she can go back to eating right after, he reminds himself as he takes the cordless phone from her and hits the 'talk' button.
“Dean? It's Margery.”
His heart lodges in his throat at her tone. “What's wrong?”
“I'm outside the grocery store, there's been an accident.”
Oh, God. “I —is Sam—”
“No, sweetie, it's all right. He's hurt but he's not in any danger, I promise. But you need to come. Albert's on his way to pick you up, he should be there any minute, and he'll fill you in. You should get ready if you're not, and bring Sam's insurance information with you, all right?”
He's already moving, trying not to let himself think that he somehow brought this down by thinking about it. God, him and his overactive imagination, thinking about Sam and accidents at the same time. Shit! “Yeah, okay. How badly is he hurt?”
“It's his arm. He's going to need a hospital, but he's not really letting anyone near him. Someone's already gone to fetch Amanda.”
The doorbell rings. “I gotta go, Margery. I'll be there in a few minutes.” He drops the phone on the sofa, snatches his jacket from the hook and unlocks the front door to reveal Albert's solid reassuring form in the doorway. He's dressed in a warm winter jacket and a hat with ear flaps. It's snowing outside, and fat flakes are clinging to his head and shoulders like a really bad case of dandruff. Dean steps back, waves him in.
“I'm almost ready, just gotta get my boots and Perry.”
He whistles for Perry, lowers himself into the chair by the door and pulls his boot on his good foot, tugging at the laces with shaking hands. Albert gestures to the remaining boot.
“It'll go faster if I help.”
Dean hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, thanks.” He's not exactly used to anyone except Sam helping him, and sometimes Amanda, after his check-ups, but this isn't really the time to be squeamish about this. Albert is surprisingly deft, tugging Dean's foot into his lap and doing up the laces with practised ease. He chuckles at Dean's surprised look.
“Three kids, son, and two different sets of grandkids. Some skills you never lose. Need a hand up?” He doesn't wait for Dean's answer, just holds out his hand, and doesn't budge an inch, solid and steadying, when Dean has to lean heavily on him to get to his feet.
Dean clips Perry's harness into place, drops his house keys into the pocket of his jacket, and grabs his cane. “Okay, let's go. You come on foot?”
“Truck. I'll drive you two to the hospital, as soon as you convince your brother he's safe.”
“How bad is he?”
Albert seems to realize he's not talking about the injury. Injuries Dean knows how to deal with, they've been a part of their lives for so long, but the rest... “Honestly, I can't tell. He seemed okay at first, but then he sort of started to shut down. Okay, you think you can get in the front if I move the seat back all the way?”
Dean stares dubiously at the truck. “Backseat's probably better. Perry, up!” he ushers the dog ahead of him, hoists himself into the seat, pulling himself in with his arms and bracing himself with his good leg in the footwell. At least Albert has one of those trucks with the extended cabs, he consoles himself, otherwise he'd be in for a world of discomfort.
“So what happened?” he asks as Albert swings himself into the driver's seat —and damn if Dean doesn't feel a twinge of jealousy watching a man more than twice his age accomplishing something he'll never be able to do again. He keeps a steadying hand on Perry's back the whole time, more for himself than her, if he's honest about it, scrubs at his mouth with the other hand, trying to clamp down on the guilt and worry that keep trying to work their way to the surface of his mind. If he'd only been there...
“It was an accident. Tilly Blake's little girl ran out into the street, God only knows why. There was a cube truck coming her way, and the driver didn't see her until it was too late,” Albert shudders and shakes his head. “Maybe if it hadn't been snowing he could have stopped, I don't know. She's fine, though. Your brother knocked her out of the way.”
“God,” Dean bites his lip. “We were out of coffee. Why the hell didn't he wake me up?”
“Hey,” Albert glances over his shoulder. “Don't do that to yourself, son. Accidents happen, there's nothing you could have done even if you were there, and even if you had, that little girl would be dead. We'll make sure Sam is taken care of, don't you worry.”
The grocery store is a fifteen-minute walk for Dean, but a truck doesn't move at the same speed as a crippled guy on foot. Dean can already see the building, the small crowd milling about the sidewalk. The people part like the freaking Red Sea as soon as they spot Albert's truck, and he pulls up alongside the building and hops out. Dean's too damned freaked out to be embarrassed at having to be all but lifted out of the truck by his armpits and set on his feet like a little kid.
“Where is he?” he asks, half a second before spotting his brother at the centre of the commotion. “Sam! Sammy!”
He recognizes Margery and Drew, the manager of the grocery store, each doing their best to keep people at a distance. Sam's sitting on the ground, and even at a distance Dean can see he's soaking wet from having fallen in the slush-filled street. A half-dozen yards away Tilly Blake is clutching a sobbing child in her arms, and he doesn't know whether he's relieved or furious at them for all this, all rational thought driven out of his head by the litany of Sam-Sam-Sam that always seems to take over at times like these. He limps over to Sam, none-too-gently nudging people out of his way and using his cane when they don't move fast enough, and Perry helps by nosing her way forward through the thicker knots of people.
“Sammy!”
Sam's cradling his right arm to his chest, both hands hidden under his jacket. He's got his head down, hair obscuring his face, hunched over on himself as though he's expecting someone to hit him at any moment. Perry whines, shoves her wet nose against Sam's cheek, then looks back at Dean, who's still trying to figure out just how the hell he's supposed to go from standing to sitting down next to his brother without hurting himself. Drew steps away from the people he's been shooing away and offers an arm.
Dean nods his thanks, even as he's mentally adding this to the tally of ways in which he's become absolutely useless. The snow immediately starts soaking into his jeans, but he can't bring himself to care. He reaches over, puts a hand on Sam's knee.
“Hey, Sammy. I'm here. You want to let me take a look at that?”
Sam shakes his head. “I'm okay. I'm okay, I just need a minute. I just...” he trails off, and Dean can hear him breathing hard, fast and shallow. Shock, probably.
He rolls his eyes, gently nudges Sam's shoulder with his own. “Sammy, it's me, come on. We have to get you checked out. Look, even Perry's worried,” he adds, as Perry whines again and tries to lick Sam's face. “And we all know she's only supposed to worry about me. So how about you cooperate so she can go back to doing what she's been trained for? Let me see, Sam.”
He gets another headshake. “Too many people.”
Dean grimaces at that. “Yeah, okay. We're working on that.” He looks up at Drew. “Think you can get us a little more breathing space, here?”
Drew nods. “Yeah, sure. Deputy should be along any minute, too, get these folks moving along. He's on a call on the other side of town with the Sheriff, but he said he'd be here as soon as he could.”
“Thanks.”
“I should be thanking you.”
Dean catches Sam by the shoulder as he tries to curl up further on himself, shivering. He can hear his teeth chattering. “Hey, Sam! Sammy! No checking out on me, dude. You stay right here, you hear me? Come on, tell me how bad it is. Let me see, Sam.”
Something catches in Sam's voice. “Broke my hand...”
“Same one as before, huh?” Sam just makes a muted sound of pain, and damn but if that doesn't go right through Dean's chest like a knife. “Sammy,” he says gently. “It's just you and me, okay? No one else is here, they're all backing up. Let me see, dude, and then we're taking you to a hospital. Sam,” he squeezes harder as Sam tenses up, “Sam, you know I wouldn't make you if we had a choice. I'll be right there the whole time, okay? How about you tell me what happened?”
It's a diversionary tactic, but it works. Sam pulls in a shuddering breath. “I... there was a truck, and I thought... there was a girl, and I could hear screaming, and I didn't want... is she okay?”
“She's just fine. Shaken up, but she's all in one piece. Did you grab her?”
Sam shakes his head. “I was too far. Had to push her, and there... I don't... for a minute I couldn't tell if I was here or...”
Or back in the Cage. Dean swallows. “What happened to your hand, Sammy? Did you fall on it?”
“Truck. It was an accident.”
Shit. “Sam. Let. Me. See.”
He reaches over, pulling the jacket aside, and Sam doesn't stop him. Dean gags, bile rising in his throat. So much blood. “Oh my God, Sam. Okay. Okay,” he forces himself to breathe, in, out, and not think about the fact that his brother's wrist looks like it's been through a meat grinder. “Okay, we're going to fix this, but I need you to trust me, okay Sammy? You with me? How's the pain, one to ten? Don't lie.”
Sam lets himself sag a little against Dean's shoulder. “Eight.”
“Okay. Well, kudos on not screaming yourself hoarse, then. I can't get you up on my own, so someone else is going to have to help. You going to let them? You still with me?”
“Uh...”
“Sam?”
His brother pulls in another shuddering breath. “Yeah. Yes. It's a good day. I'm okay. I'm okay,” he repeats, and it sounds as though he's trying to convince himself as much as Dean.
“Dude, your arm's been run over by a cube truck. It's not a crime if you're not okay. I'm gonna get up, but I won't be far, promise. Perry's going to stay right next to you, and then we're going to take you to the hospital.”
“Dean...” Sam's breath hitches, and Dean can hear panic creeping back into his voice. He pats his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know, but we don't have a choice, here. You get that, right?”
“I'm sorry.”
He sighs. He knows exactly what Sam means, and he wonders how it hasn't already broken his heart. “Hang tight, Sammy.”
It takes a lot longer than he'd like to get to his feet, and this time no one moves to help him —Drew and Albert and Margery are still doing crowd control, he thinks. Once he's upright, leaning on his cane for balance, he finds himself face to face with Amanda, and he all but clutches at her like he's drowning and she's the only buoy for miles.
“We need a hospital. Preferably yesterday.”
“They told me,” she squeezes his shoulders reassuringly, and the feeling grounds him a little. “Do you want me to call for an ambulance? You can ride with him, if you want.”
He shakes his head, forces himself to breathe calmly. “That'll freak him out, and he's pretty calm, all things considered. Albert offered to drive, but I don't —it's a truck,” he says lamely, gesturing at his leg. “I can't go with him like that.”
“Right. I can borrow a van, so that we can remove one of the seats for you, let you stay with him. Will he let me near him?” she looks over at Sam, still hunched over on the ground.
Dean nods once jerkily. “Yeah, he's okay. I mean, his arm's a mess and he's more than a little shocky, but he's all there. He's all wet, though. He'll freeze if we don't do something.”
“Don't worry about that. We've got this, okay?”
He manages a jerky nod, hands clenching into fists at the idea of someone else taking care of his Sammy, remembering a time when none of this would have happened. Not like this. He and Sam have both had worse injuries, but before it was just a matter of one of them picking up the other off the ground, dragging him to the Impala and booking it to the nearest hospital. Now Dean can't even pace as someone else —someone not him— picks Sam up off the ground once Amanda has made sure he's stable, his hand loosely bandaged, and helps him over to a waiting minivan. The fact that Dean needs a hand to get himself and his dog into the van is only adding insult to the multiple injuries going on here, and he bites on the inside of his cheeks to keep from punching the side of the van in frustration.
Amanda settles herself in the shotgun seat, Albert at the wheel of the van, and looks over her shoulder at him. “How you doing back there?”
He opens his mouth just as Sam leans against him, burying his face against his collarbone. Dean drops a hand on Sam's head, pets his hair, and swallows the bitter words that want to spill from his lips. Instead he looks down at the top of his brother's head, shifting a little so he can keep his leg stretched out and still let his brother lean against him. “Okay, Sammy?”
Sam nods, but he's shaking under the blanket that someone threw over his shoulders in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, and Dean pulls him closer, careful not to jostle his arm. Sam's other hand is already fisted in the hem of Dean's shirt, fingers clenched so tightly his knuckles are turning white. He twists in Dean's arms, looks up at him, pupils so large Dean can barely make out the faint ring of hazel of his irises.
“It was just an accident,” he says. “Just an accident, Dean.”
Dean's heart skips a beat, but Sam lets his head drop back onto his chest. His breathing has evened out, there's no tension in him other than what Dean recognizes as simple physical pain, and Dean feels something in his own chest give way, eyes stinging. He swallows hard, gives Sam's head another pat, then looks back at Amanda.
“We're fine.”
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