A/N: This features Non Con, between Sam and Dean. And angst. And descriptions of bad wallpaper. Please enjoy?
It's tacky, the wallpaper, with greens and oranges and little cowboy hats that make it art.
Dean said, he thinks it's kinda cool – he's always been about the cowboys and perhaps they could have some Indian food later to complete the cliché; Sam knows they won't.
He's still stuck on it being tacky, like a bad car wreck and really. Do cheap hotel designers always have to have no taste?
Like all bad car wrecks, even those of the wallpaper variety, Sam's eyes are glued.
He's not looking away - even for a second to reaffirm the eyesore - to confirm the footsteps behind him are real. Because obvious as it is, that would make them real. Make them Dean, with black eyes and a simple meat suit, screaming stuck in his head, Please God, anyone but Sammy.
It's so Dean that Sam can hear the screaming in his own head, and if he wasn't tied naked to the bed Sam would've hugged his brother, possession and all, because that's what brothers do.
The screaming's still there, never left, but Sam realizes he had it wrong; Please God, anyone but Dean, even as he can feel the familiar warmth of his brothers fingertips, feather touch on his skin.
Sam holds his breath, one, two beats. Doesn't know why, and keeps his eyes glued on the damn tacky wallpaper, because even bad art is better than reality.
Dean's never been a fan of tight spaces, but he can take them better than his brother.
"I'm the bigger man," Sam would boast, those few times their hight and small spaces became an issue. Comes with the job description, and they rarely complained.
"I'm the better one, though"Dean always shot back, his voice never holding much conviction; would hold even less now, perhaps none at all. Sam wished, wishes Dean would like himself half as much as he boasted. It's an empty wish, especially now, lost amongst wallpaper of the back car wreck variety.
With his fingertips torn and dripping blood onto dirty carpet, Sam guesses small spaces might now be right up there with flying on the Dean Winchester's big list of no-no's.
Buried alive, how original.
Sam would feel disappointed in the crazy redneck hick responsible, if he wasn't so pissed and preoccupied. Blood, dripping from wrecked fingertips still and Sam knows they need a joke. "Attempting to claw your way out of a grave, Dean? That's just cliché."
"Like to see what you'd do," Dean shot back, but it was tired like always, ever since little cowboy hats that make it art, and Sam thinks that maybe he should sometimes keep his damn mouth shut.
He does, even though an apology should be in the air – Dean would just ignore, or glare, or decide he was the one needing to apologize; after all, he'd gotten himself possessed thirty six days ago, and had it really been that long? – but Sam just goes back to wrapping Dean's hands.
He'll be useless for a while, as much as Dean will attempt to crack open a beer, punch a demon – a wall, himself with the sharp edge of a knife - generally attempt to be useful, while Sam will have to be Mr. Handy. And won't that go down well. But it will have to, at least for a while, because Dean's missing two fingernails and the rest are barely holding on.
Dean has dirt in his hair, matted, and a bloody lip. Teeth, Sam recognises the lips attacker. Dean's way of not screaming when he –
Damnit, he tried to claw his way out of a grave!
"Probably could've gotten myself out, had you not decided to play the hero," Dean adds, leaving Sam wondering if he's a mind reader.
Couldn't claw his way out of his own body, though.
Sam wishes he could stop thinking, while their eyes are both on Sam's hands, shaking as they are, and Dean doesn't have to read minds to recognise haunted. It had been in his eyes when Sam had pulled him from the damn coffin, before then; was still there now, just not in technicolour.
"Yeah, 'nother twenty minutes of digging and I would've been a free man," Dean concludes, more to himself and Sam laughs stupidly, wonders why Dean bothered getting his fingers bloody if he thought like that. Twenty minutes more and Dean would have been dead.
Dean knows this, just as sure as Sam knows – Dean wishes he'd never come.
Sam thinks this might be the first time he's helped a drunk Dean to bed.
Dean's been drunk countless times – Sam's memories of his brother wasted are shadowed only by memories of their dad piss drunk and on the couch. Before, all those so many times, he's stumbled into the hotel room with lipstick on his cheek, lips, wherever the girl of the week could find a place, and an impending hangover.
But he always managed to find a bed. Dean's co–dependant; he's independent.
He's drunk. Rambling. Remorseful and hating himself and remembering.
Sam's overshadowed memories don't feature this Dean. But then, Sam was at Stanford when Dean might have been like this, and now he's the one hating himself.
"- seven, maybe eight, and you hit that target perfectly. Told dad you were too young, you were always too young, but you hit it."
Sam is amazed at the clarity in Dean's words, the lucidity of it all. He's amazed just as long as he hears the words as white noise, doesn't let them sink. Underlining of black eyes and skin on skin in those words, Sam doesn't have to hear them to hear that.
It's hard, as he helps his brother onto the bed and Dean continues, all shades of "perfect" and "just wanna protect you".
"Always do, Dean." Sam pulls off a sneaker, the left one, and it reeks. That's just Dean, though, and the right one follows.
"No, I don't." Dean's eyes are on the wallpaper, and Sam wonders if he remembers, truly remembers the cowboy hats, stuck as he was inside himself.
Sam looks as well, can't help himself. This wallpaper might as well have little Indian headdresses with reds and blues, they're that juxtaposed, far away from the cowboy hats, but still stuck in the same sick cycle.
It's just regular tacky though, all greens and white and littered with tiny flowers. Sam swears black and blue that one day, they'll stay in a hotel where the walls are just covered in paint.
Sam finishes putting Dean to bed, watches his brother sleep, with his mind on repeat, don't scream, just don't scream.