Warning: you left too many prompts, and I may or may not have actually filled any of them. ;)
**
"We didn't mean to go to sea," Sam says, dreamily, the corners of his mouth curving upward. His face, his whole body is blurred by the sedatives and the curious shrinking effect of the hospital gown, but the words are the first he's said clearly since they gave him the shot. Dean sits up immediately in his chair, bolt upright and attentive.
"Sam?" His newspaper crumples on the floor, but it isn't as if he was paying much attention to it anyway. It isn't as if anything exciting ever happens in slow-drifting Howard. Maybe that was why he drove Sam all the way back here after his accident with that spirit down in Houston, some part of him unconsciously associating Howard with safety.
Bullshit.
Maybe.
Sam's smiling at him now, though his eyes droop drowsily. He looks like the world's most gargantuan six-year-old boy, and it's - weirdly endearing, reassuring. Dean allows his muscles to relax infinitesimally. "That the meds talking, Sammy?" he prods, cautiously. Something about what Sam said - the rhythm of the words - rang an ancient bell in his mind, but it was probably nonsense. Something unimportant, half-remembered.
Sam rolls his shoulders, laughs a little, and says it again. "Didn't mean to go to sea, Dean." He stretches out a long arm, fingers grasping at the air. "Remember that book?"
Dean doesn't, but he smiles back anyway, shifts his chair a little closer to the bed. Sam's hand looks warm, bony and inviting, and he doesn't even think before he slips his own into it, feels Sam's grip close firm around his palm. "Remember you always readin'," he says. "Nerd."
This is about the point at which Sam would usually get his bitch on, but apparently the meds have taken care of that. He just laughs more, low and tired, fingers flexing reflexively around Dean's. "We didn't mean to settle down," he says, and Dean hears it, the parallel rhythm. Wonders if, maybe, thinking the one made Sam's drugged mind recall the other. "How'd we end up here, Dean?"
And God, Dean thinks, but Sam is - Sam like this, battered but smiling, leg in probably the longest cast this hospital's ever made up. Dean can't remember how they got here, but he remembers why. Remembers why they stopped: the moment when Sam grinned at him and a secret, stubborn, sentimental part of Dean said, no, we've done our bit. Not gonna lose this. They didn't choose Howard so much as Howard grew up around them without so much as a by-your-leave, but it's good. It's good.
Dean's still scrambling for a response when the nurse comes in - must've heard them talking. "You see," she tells Dean, flashing white teeth, "Didn't we say he'd be fine?" There's a smudge of lipstick on the front incisor, which turns slightly inward. She's pretty. Dean smiles up at her, not flirtatiously. It's not his habit to flirt like breathing any more.
"Yeah," he concedes, echoing her quiet, hospital tones, "Sammy always lands on his feet."
omfg, how did this exceed a comment length? *facepalm* 1/2
**
"We didn't mean to go to sea," Sam says, dreamily, the corners of his mouth curving upward. His face, his whole body is blurred by the sedatives and the curious shrinking effect of the hospital gown, but the words are the first he's said clearly since they gave him the shot. Dean sits up immediately in his chair, bolt upright and attentive.
"Sam?" His newspaper crumples on the floor, but it isn't as if he was paying much attention to it anyway. It isn't as if anything exciting ever happens in slow-drifting Howard. Maybe that was why he drove Sam all the way back here after his accident with that spirit down in Houston, some part of him unconsciously associating Howard with safety.
Bullshit.
Maybe.
Sam's smiling at him now, though his eyes droop drowsily. He looks like the world's most gargantuan six-year-old boy, and it's - weirdly endearing, reassuring. Dean allows his muscles to relax infinitesimally. "That the meds talking, Sammy?" he prods, cautiously. Something about what Sam said - the rhythm of the words - rang an ancient bell in his mind, but it was probably nonsense. Something unimportant, half-remembered.
Sam rolls his shoulders, laughs a little, and says it again. "Didn't mean to go to sea, Dean." He stretches out a long arm, fingers grasping at the air. "Remember that book?"
Dean doesn't, but he smiles back anyway, shifts his chair a little closer to the bed. Sam's hand looks warm, bony and inviting, and he doesn't even think before he slips his own into it, feels Sam's grip close firm around his palm. "Remember you always readin'," he says. "Nerd."
This is about the point at which Sam would usually get his bitch on, but apparently the meds have taken care of that. He just laughs more, low and tired, fingers flexing reflexively around Dean's. "We didn't mean to settle down," he says, and Dean hears it, the parallel rhythm. Wonders if, maybe, thinking the one made Sam's drugged mind recall the other. "How'd we end up here, Dean?"
And God, Dean thinks, but Sam is - Sam like this, battered but smiling, leg in probably the longest cast this hospital's ever made up. Dean can't remember how they got here, but he remembers why. Remembers why they stopped: the moment when Sam grinned at him and a secret, stubborn, sentimental part of Dean said, no, we've done our bit. Not gonna lose this. They didn't choose Howard so much as Howard grew up around them without so much as a by-your-leave, but it's good. It's good.
Dean's still scrambling for a response when the nurse comes in - must've heard them talking. "You see," she tells Dean, flashing white teeth, "Didn't we say he'd be fine?" There's a smudge of lipstick on the front incisor, which turns slightly inward. She's pretty. Dean smiles up at her, not flirtatiously. It's not his habit to flirt like breathing any more.
"Yeah," he concedes, echoing her quiet, hospital tones, "Sammy always lands on his feet."