ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-21 12:51 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-21 12:51 pm
Entry tags:
In from the Rain
Title: In From the Rain
Prompt/Summary: Fusion 'verse. The whole town knows that sometimes, Sam Winchester doesn't have the good sense to come in out of the rain.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,829
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, to my eternal disappointment.
Warnings: Nothing major. Mentions of past trauma. Not-quite-spoilers for Season 5.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: This is set in the same 'verse as another fic, Fusion (link leads to the master post for the 'verse). You may want to read that before reading this, although you don't need to in order to understand the story.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: This was actually meant to be a response to one of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pkwench's prompts, wherein Dean got Sam a puppy. It didn't work out that way, at all. There is no puppy, I am sad to say, and this turned out instead. That fic will eventually happen, just not today.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: There's not much plot to this, but since I wrote it and I don't hate it, I figured I would post it. I also kind of like outsider POVs, so there you go. It's unbeta'd, but I did give it a second pass, so the most egregious typos and things ought to be mostly fixed.
One of the perils of getting older is that, eventually, small things start keeping you awake. Sometimes, not-so-small things. Sure, Margery tells herself, in the grand scheme of things hot flashes are probably small fry, but right now she kind of wants to live inside her freezer for the next three years. She slips out from under her sheets, wanders over to the window, flapping her nightdress to create a breeze, and stares out into the pouring rain. She snorts quietly. 'April showers' her ass. The rain has gone right through into May, this year, the way it always does. Still there's something peaceful about watching the rain fall at night, when there's no one else around. Or almost no one. She does a double-take when she catches sight of a silhouette in the street, peers more carefully to see who it is, and unconsciously her hand goes to her heart.
“Oh, poor thing,” she murmurs. She turns back to her bed and pokes the snoring lump under the covers. “Albert, wake up!” There's a snort, but no other answer, and she shakes her husband's shoulder more vigorously. “Albert!”
Albert's head emerges from under the covers, grey hair sticking out in wings from the side of his head. “What? What is it?”
“Get up. Sam Winchester is outside.”
Her husband blinks at her as though she's lost her mind. “What?”
“It's raining, Albert. Someone has to go fetch him.”
He catches up with her a moment later. “You want me to go?”
“Well I certainly can't go! I'm in my nightdress!”
Albert crawls out from under the covers and reaches for his bathrobe. “Boy doesn't even have the sense to come in out of the rain. What's he doing out there, anyway?”
Margery smacks his shoulder. “You know perfectly well he's not all there. Bring him inside and then we'll call his brother to let him know he's here.”
She pulls out a stack of towels while Albert heads outside, then puts on the kettle for tea. It's a little too early in the morning for coffee, after all. She fusses with mugs for a while, then lets her curiosity get the better of her and goes to stand in the doorway, holding her own bathrobe closed over her nightdress. It's pouring outside, raining harder even than when she woke up, and Albert seems to be having trouble convincing Sam to go with him. She sighs. The whole town knows about Sam by now —he and his brother haven't been around for more than a few months, but they've slotted themselves into town and fit in a way that new people haven't fit in a very long time— and sometimes it's difficult to pull him out of his own head. After a few more minutes of watching Albert try fruitlessly to talk Sam out of the rain, she ventures out herself. The rain feels nice and cool against her skin, and she approaches cautiously, making sure he can see her. He's never been violent, but he does spook easily.
“Sam?”
Albert shrugs helplessly. “He isn't hearing me.”
Sam isn't looking at either of them, his gaze searching the street for something that probably isn't there. He looks like he must have simply wandered from home, barefoot and in a t-shirt and sweatpants which are now thoroughly soaked from the rain, his long hair sticking to his face. Margery reaches out and takes his hand, and he stops the anxious hand-wringing motion that usually signals a bad day, the thumb of his right hand rubbing the knuckles of his left hand.
“Sam, honey, it's Margery.”
He starts a bit, but doesn't pull away. He blinks at her, and she's pretty sure he doesn't know who she is, might not even know who he is for that matter. It's never certain, from one day to the next, even though he's spent countless hours in her bakery. On his good days, he'll tell her she bakes the best cupcakes of the entire continental U.S. and that she should enter them in a contest. He flirts sometimes, harmless fun, and it's at those times that she can see the sweet, clever young man he must have been before the war ruined him.
“I'm on the wrong level,” he says now.
She doesn't bat an eye. It's obviously a very bad day. “The wrong level, huh? Okay. Well, it's raining out here, honey. You come on with me, and I'll make you some tea.”
He takes a small step toward her when she pulls gently on his hand. “I'm not supposed to be here. I was walking, and I think I took a wrong turn,” he tells her earnestly. “It all looks the same here. I can't tell... the colours all fade. I keep getting lost.”
She leads him slowly toward the house. “It's okay, honey. You can never get lost in this town. You know that, right? No one here will let you get lost, I promise.”
“Okay.” He nods, stumbles up the three stairs to her front door, lets her usher him inside and sit him on one of the kitchen chairs before speaking again. “I was looking for Dean. I fell, and then I was gone for a hundred years, and I missed him every day, so I tried looking for him, but I couldn't find him.” He lets her apply a towel to his hair, looks like nothing more than a scruffy kid with messy hair, except that his eyes are glassy and staring off at a point in space somewhere over her shoulder.
“Albert's going to call Dean for you,” she promises, wrapping a large towel around his shoulders, and noting with some dismay that he's shivering, teeth chattering, and she presses a hand to his forehead. “Poor thing,” she clucks her tongue in disapproval. “You're burning up. No wonder you're out wandering.”
Albert is dripping on the kitchen floor, holding the phone to his ear. “Brother isn't picking up.”
“Give him a minute to get to the phone, Albert. You know he can't get around well.”
Albert just rolls his eyes and nods, then perks up and turns away slightly. “Hello, Dean? Yes, Albert here... Yeah, that's right. Look, sorry to wake you, but we've got your brother here... Yes, Margery and me... No, he's fine, just wet... All right, son. We'll be here, you just take your time... All right, now. Bye.” He turns back to her. “Brother's on his way. Didn't realize he'd wandered off.”
“I think he's under the weather, poor boy.”
Albert snorts, but his eyes soften. “Wandering out in the rain'll do that. Why don't you go change into dry clothes? I'll keep an eye on him.”
She heads back up the stairs a bit reluctantly, in spite of the good sense in the words. It takes her only a few minutes to change into a long-sleeved shirt and slacks, but somehow it feels like longer, and even though she can't quite put her finger on why, she can't get rid of the nagging sensation that she should be downstairs, with Sam and Albert. She hurries back, and finds them much as she left them, though Albert's pulled up a chair to sit next to the boy, who's hunched over in his chair, rubbing his hands together anxiously.
The kettle's whistling, so she pours out three mugs of tea, and adds in milk and a lot of sugar for Sam, and Albert vacates both his chair and the kitchen so she can sit with him. “Here you go, honey. I want you to drink that, all right? You're all chilled. Be careful not to scald yourself.”
The mug looks ridiculous and small in his large hands, she thinks, watching him take a careful sip of the tea, head ducked down, elbows on his knees. He's not shivering as badly, but otherwise he's the very picture of misery, looking for all the world as though he's trying to fold himself up and disappear. Under the towel she can see thick white scars on his arms, coiling along his forearms, running up under his shirt. She's never seen Sam wear short sleeves, she realizes, letting her hand drift to his arm, fingers tracing the scar closest to them.
Sam comes out of his chair as though she's electrocuted him, startling her so badly she almost falls backward. The mug shatters on the tile, spilling tea everywhere as he scrambles away and wedges himself in the furthest corner of the kitchen from her, arms up in front of him in a warding gesture, as though he expects her to hit him.
“Oh, Sam,” she forces herself not to run to him, to stay rooted to the spot. “Sam, I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to startle you.”
He's far past hearing anything she has to say, legs drawn up to his chest, arms over his head, panting with fear. She can hear him murmuring under his breath, a continuous litany of “No, no, no,” that almost breaks her heart.
“What happened?” Albert appears in the kitchen doorway.
She makes a helpless gesture. “I don't know. I touched his arm and the next thing I knew he was in the corner.”
“Flashback?”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
The doorbell rings, and she heaves a sigh of relief. No one in this town rings doorbells, ever, which means it must be Dean. He still has enough outsider manners that he hasn't caught on to the practice of simply opening someone's front door and announcing his presence. Albert nods to her, goes to open the door. She can hear the murmur of voices, Albert's gruff tones overlaid by Dean's anxious questions. When he comes in she sees he's as soaked through as his brother, leaning on his cane, carrying a pair of battered sneakers in his other hand. He limps stiffly toward her, favouring the right leg which no longer bends at the knee following some sort of surgery. He's never spoken of it, and no one has asked, sensing it's a delicate topic. He looks tired, she thinks, his handsome face drawn tight, dark circles under his eyes.
“Oh, Dean. I'm so glad you're here!” she gets up but stops just short of touching him. He may not be in the same condition as his brother, but he's a war veteran too, and she doesn't want to risk overstepping her bounds.
“What happened?”
“I don't know. I spotted him through the window outside, and we brought him in because of the rain. He was all right up until a few minutes ago, but I touched his arm and he reacted... well, like that. I'm so sorry, I didn't realize it would have that effect.”
Dean gives her a wry smile. “It's okay. It's hard to tell what'll set him off, sometimes. Just... give me a minute?”
He limps over to his brother, braces himself against the wall, then lowers himself stiffly to the floor, bad leg out at an angle. His face twists briefly in pain, them smooths out again, and he shifts until he's almost —but not quite— touching his brother's knee.
“Hey, Sammy,” he says quietly. “You with me?” When his brother just keeps making those small, distressed sounds under his breath, he reaches out and clamps a hand over his knee. Sam flinches but doesn't pull away. “Sam, it's me. You're safe, here, remember? It's just a flashback, Sammy.” He looks up at Margery. “Have you got ice? Or something that smells strong? Like pine cleaner or something?”
Margery is up in an instant. “I have mint. Peppermint. Will that do?”
He nods. “That'd be great.” He turns back to his brother, digging his fingers into his knee. “It's a flashback, Sammy. Just listen to my voice and come on back, okay? Come on, talk to me. Tell me what you can see. You know the drill.” He takes the jar of peppermint she hands him, holds it close to Sam's face, and a moment later closes Sam's hand around an ice cube from a bowl she gives him, pulling his arms away from his head. He strokes Sam's face with his free hand, smoothing the hair off his forehead, then shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “How long you been nursing that fever, Sammy? Huh? You should have said something. Come on, now. Come on back.”
Margery looks away, feeling almost as though she's intruding on something private and strangely intimate, as Dean keeps talking, his voice warm, the words encouraging. The change is slow, imperceptible at first, but soon the quiet litany of “no” turns into a more coherent murmur, and slowly Sam uncurls from the corner and lets himself sag against his brother, tear-stained and exhausted, still breathing hard. After a few minutes, when Sams breathing has mostly gone back to normal, Dean thumps his shoulder affectionately.
“Attaboy, Sammy. You did real good there. You think you can get up? We're kind of taking up a lot of room on Margery's floor here,” he jokes softly. Nonetheless, it has an effect, because Sam struggles to his feet, shaking, pressing his back to the wall. He turns red-rimmed eyes on Margery, scrubs at his face with the back of his wrist.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetie.”
“Hey, Sammy. Think you can give me a hand, here?” Dean reaches out and pats his shin, and belatedly Margery realizes just how difficult it must be for him to perform even the simple task of getting up off the floor with a leg that won't bend at all.
Without hesitating Sam reaches down and hauls Dean upright, taking care not to jostle his bad leg, then stands hunched over, eyes closed against what looks like it must be a terrible memory, arms folded over his chest, hands jammed under his armpits. Dean staggers for a moment until he gets his balance, leaning on his cane, then gives his brother another pat.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he says to Margery. “We'll be out of your hair in a minute. Uh... we can replace the mug.”
“It's no trouble at all,” she hastens to assure him. “It's just a coffee mug. They're a dime a dozen. Just mind you don't slip where the floor's wet, honey. Would you like to stay? The guest room is already set up.”
He shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “No, thanks. I should really get Sam home. He's kind of been fighting off a bug for a couple of days, and I think he's got a fever. Must be what set him off. Thanks for looking out for him, and for calling.” He nudges his brother in the ribcage. “Think you can make it, Sammy? It's just a few minutes, and we'll get you sorted out, okay? Let's get your shoes on.”
Sam blinks hard a few times, scrubs at his face again, but he slips his feet into his sneakers without being told twice. When he speaks Margery can barely make out the words, whispered only for Dean's benefit. “You'll show me which way to go, right? I couldn't... I got lost.”
“Yeah, I'll show you. Have I ever led you wrong?” Dean hooks his arm around Sam's elbow, as much to guide him as to lean on him for support, and for a moment she can't stand the thought of sending them out by themselves, even if they are both grown men.
“Why don't you boys let Albert give you a lift home?” she blurts. “It's pouring rain outside, and...” she hesitates, unsure if she'll offend them.
Sam stiffens, and Dean just shakes his head. “No, really, it's okay. I think we could both use some air, and it's not that far. Thanks, though. For everything, I mean. It's not everybody who'd take this Sasquatch in at two o'clock in the morning just because it's raining out,” he favours her with one of those smiles that's caught the attention of every single girl in town, but she can see wistfulness and genuine gratitude there too. She nods.
“All right, then. If you're feeling up to it, you boys stop by for coffee tomorrow, all right? I'll be making cupcakes,” she smiles at Sam, but he's not listening, locked in his own head, and she presses a hand to her chest, rubbing against the sudden ache there. “You sure you'll be all right?”
Dean's smile widens, his eyes going soft. “Aw, sure I'm sure. Don't you worry, Margery. We'll be just fine.”
And with that, arms locked, they head back out into the rain.
Prompt/Summary: Fusion 'verse. The whole town knows that sometimes, Sam Winchester doesn't have the good sense to come in out of the rain.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2,829
Disclaimer: None of it is mine, to my eternal disappointment.
Warnings: Nothing major. Mentions of past trauma. Not-quite-spoilers for Season 5.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: This is set in the same 'verse as another fic, Fusion (link leads to the master post for the 'verse). You may want to read that before reading this, although you don't need to in order to understand the story.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: This was actually meant to be a response to one of
pkwench's prompts, wherein Dean got Sam a puppy. It didn't work out that way, at all. There is no puppy, I am sad to say, and this turned out instead. That fic will eventually happen, just not today.Neurotic Author's Note #3: There's not much plot to this, but since I wrote it and I don't hate it, I figured I would post it. I also kind of like outsider POVs, so there you go. It's unbeta'd, but I did give it a second pass, so the most egregious typos and things ought to be mostly fixed.
One of the perils of getting older is that, eventually, small things start keeping you awake. Sometimes, not-so-small things. Sure, Margery tells herself, in the grand scheme of things hot flashes are probably small fry, but right now she kind of wants to live inside her freezer for the next three years. She slips out from under her sheets, wanders over to the window, flapping her nightdress to create a breeze, and stares out into the pouring rain. She snorts quietly. 'April showers' her ass. The rain has gone right through into May, this year, the way it always does. Still there's something peaceful about watching the rain fall at night, when there's no one else around. Or almost no one. She does a double-take when she catches sight of a silhouette in the street, peers more carefully to see who it is, and unconsciously her hand goes to her heart.
“Oh, poor thing,” she murmurs. She turns back to her bed and pokes the snoring lump under the covers. “Albert, wake up!” There's a snort, but no other answer, and she shakes her husband's shoulder more vigorously. “Albert!”
Albert's head emerges from under the covers, grey hair sticking out in wings from the side of his head. “What? What is it?”
“Get up. Sam Winchester is outside.”
Her husband blinks at her as though she's lost her mind. “What?”
“It's raining, Albert. Someone has to go fetch him.”
He catches up with her a moment later. “You want me to go?”
“Well I certainly can't go! I'm in my nightdress!”
Albert crawls out from under the covers and reaches for his bathrobe. “Boy doesn't even have the sense to come in out of the rain. What's he doing out there, anyway?”
Margery smacks his shoulder. “You know perfectly well he's not all there. Bring him inside and then we'll call his brother to let him know he's here.”
She pulls out a stack of towels while Albert heads outside, then puts on the kettle for tea. It's a little too early in the morning for coffee, after all. She fusses with mugs for a while, then lets her curiosity get the better of her and goes to stand in the doorway, holding her own bathrobe closed over her nightdress. It's pouring outside, raining harder even than when she woke up, and Albert seems to be having trouble convincing Sam to go with him. She sighs. The whole town knows about Sam by now —he and his brother haven't been around for more than a few months, but they've slotted themselves into town and fit in a way that new people haven't fit in a very long time— and sometimes it's difficult to pull him out of his own head. After a few more minutes of watching Albert try fruitlessly to talk Sam out of the rain, she ventures out herself. The rain feels nice and cool against her skin, and she approaches cautiously, making sure he can see her. He's never been violent, but he does spook easily.
“Sam?”
Albert shrugs helplessly. “He isn't hearing me.”
Sam isn't looking at either of them, his gaze searching the street for something that probably isn't there. He looks like he must have simply wandered from home, barefoot and in a t-shirt and sweatpants which are now thoroughly soaked from the rain, his long hair sticking to his face. Margery reaches out and takes his hand, and he stops the anxious hand-wringing motion that usually signals a bad day, the thumb of his right hand rubbing the knuckles of his left hand.
“Sam, honey, it's Margery.”
He starts a bit, but doesn't pull away. He blinks at her, and she's pretty sure he doesn't know who she is, might not even know who he is for that matter. It's never certain, from one day to the next, even though he's spent countless hours in her bakery. On his good days, he'll tell her she bakes the best cupcakes of the entire continental U.S. and that she should enter them in a contest. He flirts sometimes, harmless fun, and it's at those times that she can see the sweet, clever young man he must have been before the war ruined him.
“I'm on the wrong level,” he says now.
She doesn't bat an eye. It's obviously a very bad day. “The wrong level, huh? Okay. Well, it's raining out here, honey. You come on with me, and I'll make you some tea.”
He takes a small step toward her when she pulls gently on his hand. “I'm not supposed to be here. I was walking, and I think I took a wrong turn,” he tells her earnestly. “It all looks the same here. I can't tell... the colours all fade. I keep getting lost.”
She leads him slowly toward the house. “It's okay, honey. You can never get lost in this town. You know that, right? No one here will let you get lost, I promise.”
“Okay.” He nods, stumbles up the three stairs to her front door, lets her usher him inside and sit him on one of the kitchen chairs before speaking again. “I was looking for Dean. I fell, and then I was gone for a hundred years, and I missed him every day, so I tried looking for him, but I couldn't find him.” He lets her apply a towel to his hair, looks like nothing more than a scruffy kid with messy hair, except that his eyes are glassy and staring off at a point in space somewhere over her shoulder.
“Albert's going to call Dean for you,” she promises, wrapping a large towel around his shoulders, and noting with some dismay that he's shivering, teeth chattering, and she presses a hand to his forehead. “Poor thing,” she clucks her tongue in disapproval. “You're burning up. No wonder you're out wandering.”
Albert is dripping on the kitchen floor, holding the phone to his ear. “Brother isn't picking up.”
“Give him a minute to get to the phone, Albert. You know he can't get around well.”
Albert just rolls his eyes and nods, then perks up and turns away slightly. “Hello, Dean? Yes, Albert here... Yeah, that's right. Look, sorry to wake you, but we've got your brother here... Yes, Margery and me... No, he's fine, just wet... All right, son. We'll be here, you just take your time... All right, now. Bye.” He turns back to her. “Brother's on his way. Didn't realize he'd wandered off.”
“I think he's under the weather, poor boy.”
Albert snorts, but his eyes soften. “Wandering out in the rain'll do that. Why don't you go change into dry clothes? I'll keep an eye on him.”
She heads back up the stairs a bit reluctantly, in spite of the good sense in the words. It takes her only a few minutes to change into a long-sleeved shirt and slacks, but somehow it feels like longer, and even though she can't quite put her finger on why, she can't get rid of the nagging sensation that she should be downstairs, with Sam and Albert. She hurries back, and finds them much as she left them, though Albert's pulled up a chair to sit next to the boy, who's hunched over in his chair, rubbing his hands together anxiously.
The kettle's whistling, so she pours out three mugs of tea, and adds in milk and a lot of sugar for Sam, and Albert vacates both his chair and the kitchen so she can sit with him. “Here you go, honey. I want you to drink that, all right? You're all chilled. Be careful not to scald yourself.”
The mug looks ridiculous and small in his large hands, she thinks, watching him take a careful sip of the tea, head ducked down, elbows on his knees. He's not shivering as badly, but otherwise he's the very picture of misery, looking for all the world as though he's trying to fold himself up and disappear. Under the towel she can see thick white scars on his arms, coiling along his forearms, running up under his shirt. She's never seen Sam wear short sleeves, she realizes, letting her hand drift to his arm, fingers tracing the scar closest to them.
Sam comes out of his chair as though she's electrocuted him, startling her so badly she almost falls backward. The mug shatters on the tile, spilling tea everywhere as he scrambles away and wedges himself in the furthest corner of the kitchen from her, arms up in front of him in a warding gesture, as though he expects her to hit him.
“Oh, Sam,” she forces herself not to run to him, to stay rooted to the spot. “Sam, I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to startle you.”
He's far past hearing anything she has to say, legs drawn up to his chest, arms over his head, panting with fear. She can hear him murmuring under his breath, a continuous litany of “No, no, no,” that almost breaks her heart.
“What happened?” Albert appears in the kitchen doorway.
She makes a helpless gesture. “I don't know. I touched his arm and the next thing I knew he was in the corner.”
“Flashback?”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
The doorbell rings, and she heaves a sigh of relief. No one in this town rings doorbells, ever, which means it must be Dean. He still has enough outsider manners that he hasn't caught on to the practice of simply opening someone's front door and announcing his presence. Albert nods to her, goes to open the door. She can hear the murmur of voices, Albert's gruff tones overlaid by Dean's anxious questions. When he comes in she sees he's as soaked through as his brother, leaning on his cane, carrying a pair of battered sneakers in his other hand. He limps stiffly toward her, favouring the right leg which no longer bends at the knee following some sort of surgery. He's never spoken of it, and no one has asked, sensing it's a delicate topic. He looks tired, she thinks, his handsome face drawn tight, dark circles under his eyes.
“Oh, Dean. I'm so glad you're here!” she gets up but stops just short of touching him. He may not be in the same condition as his brother, but he's a war veteran too, and she doesn't want to risk overstepping her bounds.
“What happened?”
“I don't know. I spotted him through the window outside, and we brought him in because of the rain. He was all right up until a few minutes ago, but I touched his arm and he reacted... well, like that. I'm so sorry, I didn't realize it would have that effect.”
Dean gives her a wry smile. “It's okay. It's hard to tell what'll set him off, sometimes. Just... give me a minute?”
He limps over to his brother, braces himself against the wall, then lowers himself stiffly to the floor, bad leg out at an angle. His face twists briefly in pain, them smooths out again, and he shifts until he's almost —but not quite— touching his brother's knee.
“Hey, Sammy,” he says quietly. “You with me?” When his brother just keeps making those small, distressed sounds under his breath, he reaches out and clamps a hand over his knee. Sam flinches but doesn't pull away. “Sam, it's me. You're safe, here, remember? It's just a flashback, Sammy.” He looks up at Margery. “Have you got ice? Or something that smells strong? Like pine cleaner or something?”
Margery is up in an instant. “I have mint. Peppermint. Will that do?”
He nods. “That'd be great.” He turns back to his brother, digging his fingers into his knee. “It's a flashback, Sammy. Just listen to my voice and come on back, okay? Come on, talk to me. Tell me what you can see. You know the drill.” He takes the jar of peppermint she hands him, holds it close to Sam's face, and a moment later closes Sam's hand around an ice cube from a bowl she gives him, pulling his arms away from his head. He strokes Sam's face with his free hand, smoothing the hair off his forehead, then shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “How long you been nursing that fever, Sammy? Huh? You should have said something. Come on, now. Come on back.”
Margery looks away, feeling almost as though she's intruding on something private and strangely intimate, as Dean keeps talking, his voice warm, the words encouraging. The change is slow, imperceptible at first, but soon the quiet litany of “no” turns into a more coherent murmur, and slowly Sam uncurls from the corner and lets himself sag against his brother, tear-stained and exhausted, still breathing hard. After a few minutes, when Sams breathing has mostly gone back to normal, Dean thumps his shoulder affectionately.
“Attaboy, Sammy. You did real good there. You think you can get up? We're kind of taking up a lot of room on Margery's floor here,” he jokes softly. Nonetheless, it has an effect, because Sam struggles to his feet, shaking, pressing his back to the wall. He turns red-rimmed eyes on Margery, scrubs at his face with the back of his wrist.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetie.”
“Hey, Sammy. Think you can give me a hand, here?” Dean reaches out and pats his shin, and belatedly Margery realizes just how difficult it must be for him to perform even the simple task of getting up off the floor with a leg that won't bend at all.
Without hesitating Sam reaches down and hauls Dean upright, taking care not to jostle his bad leg, then stands hunched over, eyes closed against what looks like it must be a terrible memory, arms folded over his chest, hands jammed under his armpits. Dean staggers for a moment until he gets his balance, leaning on his cane, then gives his brother another pat.
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he says to Margery. “We'll be out of your hair in a minute. Uh... we can replace the mug.”
“It's no trouble at all,” she hastens to assure him. “It's just a coffee mug. They're a dime a dozen. Just mind you don't slip where the floor's wet, honey. Would you like to stay? The guest room is already set up.”
He shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “No, thanks. I should really get Sam home. He's kind of been fighting off a bug for a couple of days, and I think he's got a fever. Must be what set him off. Thanks for looking out for him, and for calling.” He nudges his brother in the ribcage. “Think you can make it, Sammy? It's just a few minutes, and we'll get you sorted out, okay? Let's get your shoes on.”
Sam blinks hard a few times, scrubs at his face again, but he slips his feet into his sneakers without being told twice. When he speaks Margery can barely make out the words, whispered only for Dean's benefit. “You'll show me which way to go, right? I couldn't... I got lost.”
“Yeah, I'll show you. Have I ever led you wrong?” Dean hooks his arm around Sam's elbow, as much to guide him as to lean on him for support, and for a moment she can't stand the thought of sending them out by themselves, even if they are both grown men.
“Why don't you boys let Albert give you a lift home?” she blurts. “It's pouring rain outside, and...” she hesitates, unsure if she'll offend them.
Sam stiffens, and Dean just shakes his head. “No, really, it's okay. I think we could both use some air, and it's not that far. Thanks, though. For everything, I mean. It's not everybody who'd take this Sasquatch in at two o'clock in the morning just because it's raining out,” he favours her with one of those smiles that's caught the attention of every single girl in town, but she can see wistfulness and genuine gratitude there too. She nods.
“All right, then. If you're feeling up to it, you boys stop by for coffee tomorrow, all right? I'll be making cupcakes,” she smiles at Sam, but he's not listening, locked in his own head, and she presses a hand to her chest, rubbing against the sudden ache there. “You sure you'll be all right?”
Dean's smile widens, his eyes going soft. “Aw, sure I'm sure. Don't you worry, Margery. We'll be just fine.”
And with that, arms locked, they head back out into the rain.
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