PLEASE READ FIRST: Author's note: Despite my previous "Taken" epilog, I honestly don't make a habit of writing continuations of other people's work. But both AJ Wesley and I really enjoyed our friend A-blackwinged-bird's story "Obsession"--www (dot) fanfiction (dot) net (slash) s (slash) 3552177 (slash) 1 (slash)--and only wished it were longer. When Mother's Day rolled around, I wrote a little epilog to the story just for AJ, which I ended up sharing with bird, which she ended up giving her blessing to for sharing. So here it is. It does not stand alone; please go read "Obsession" first if you haven't already. And then...well, here's my take on what came after. Warning: pure fluff ahead!
K Hanna Korossy
The car kept getting farther and farther away.
Sam squinted perplexedly at his goal. That wasn't right, was it? He was walking toward it, or at least following Dean toward it. It should be getting closer, not more distant.
Dean? He thought he said it out loud, but maybe not because his brother kept walking. Dean wouldn't ignore him, not now, not after coming to the rescue like that, would he? Not his Dean.
Unless…maybe it wasn't really Dean. If Sam was still back in the tent, tied to that stinking pole, just hallucinating this…
He stopped, lifting one rubbed-raw wrist. Frowning at it, he pinched the skin.
But he hurt all over. His head alternately ached and seared, his arm felt like he'd chewed it off, and his hands were lumps of throbbing flesh. The pinch didn't even register. Sam concentrated, forcing swollen fingers to squeeze harder, until a rush of bright red welled between them.
He still couldn't feel it, though.
"Dude, what—crap! Sam, what're you doing!"
Rough hands knocked his apart, cradling one arm in a dry palm. No gloves; Sam checked.
"Sammy?" His chin was nudged up. "Hey. What, you weren't beat up enough?"
Dean. Those were Dean's eyes, Dean's hands. He had to be real.
Just like Stan had been. A real person under the make-up, not supernatural. Kinda ironic that Sam feared a real person more than most creatures they hunted. Hilarious, in fact.
He started to laugh.
Dean's face flashed through surprise, confusion, then constricted with worry. "Sammy, easy now. Bad guy's dead, remember? It's over."
Sam's laugh caught in his throat, and he only knew he was crying when the salt water scalded the burn on his cheek, and Dean's face crumpled.
"Okay, yeah, meltdown first. We can do that." He pulled Sam in, gentle with his hands, his arm, his bruised back. Warm and familiar and soothing. "We can do that, kiddo. Anything you want, okay?"
And that's when Sam really started to cry.
The car bounced gently on the road, rocking Sam's head against the hoodie wadded between him and the window. He blinked sleepily at the countryside that rushed by, the aches in his body reduced by painkillers and exhaustion to a dull background noise. He wrinkled his prickling nose sometimes, but otherwise was content to let himself rest in the warm womb of the car.
"Almost there, okay?"
He had no idea where there was, but Dean's low voice prompted some sort of response so he hazily nodded. Didn't even startle when a hand curled around the back of his neck, rubbing once before withdrawing again.
Dean cleared his throat. Sam shifted his eyes in that direction. "Hey, uh. Your pants were practically hanging off you back there. He didn't, uh…" Dean's face contorted.
Sam snorted softly, a puff of condensation on the window. "No. Just…beat the hell out of me and…threw knives and…used bleach as disinfectant, and…" He squeezed his watering eyes shut. "God, Dean…"
A hand squeezed his leg, hard, then stayed there. All the way to the motel.
He dozed through Dean getting a room, rousing reluctantly only when his door was opened and the sharp bite of outside air made him shiver. Sam blinked blearily in the sodium lights of the parking lot and the dark shadow silhouetted in front of them.
For a second, Stan's white face leered back at him.
Sam recoiled, almost falling off the bench seat in his panic. He slapped at the hands that grabbed at him, panting his fear until the shadow ducked far enough into the car that he could see familiar green-gold eyes and an amulet that caught the interior light. The hurried "Whoa, whoa, Sam, it's me" finally penetrated.
Dean. Just Dean.
Sam sank back into the seat in a rush of exhaled breath.
"Okay? No make-up, no rubber nose—Bongo's toast, remember?"
"Okay. Just relax, Sammy. Let's get you inside and then we'll fix you up."
We. Sometimes he wasn't even sure Dean had "I" in his vocabulary.
He zoned out during the trek into the room, registering just that it was uncomfortable and difficult. Then he was horizontal and he still hurt but it was a tiny bit of heaven in the midst of a lot of hell, and he clung to it, ready to stay there for the rest of his life.
"Come on, dude, gotta clean you up first. You'll feel better, I promise."
"Doubt it," he mumbled, and ghosted a smile when Dean snickered. But he let himself be manhandled up, breath hitching as his shirt was stripped and hands landed on his jeans.
He would've denied the soft whimper of sound if he'd been able.
The hands paused. "Sam, open your eyes."
He cringed away.
"Sammy. Hey. C'mon, man, open your eyes and look at me."
They hurt. He hurt all over. The light was too bright as he peered up into it.
"That's it. Keep 'em trained on me, Sam. It's just me, all right?"
Dean. He watched his brother's hair shine gold in the light, and the way his eyes crinkled as he worked. Jeans came off, along with underwear. He felt himself being redressed, and drifted, only his eyes anchored to the here-and-now of watching hazel. Clean underwear, clean shirt, stretched wide to fit over him without brushing against anything that hurt. A warm blanket up to his hips, and then an almost-hot washcloth cleaning away the grime and snot and smeared make-up and blood.
Somewhere along the way, his eyes slipped shut, and Dean started humming.
His hands were manipulated, and he choked out a noise when his thumb slid back home. But the icy cold that wrapped around it a moment later quickly numbed it. His hands were massaged until they tingled, then tucked under the blanket. Dean moved across his abdomen, pressing lightly on sore spots, then up to his arm.
Where Stan had kicked him… Sam jerked awake and half up off the bed.
"Easy, easy," Dean said quietly, hands curled around the balls of Sam's shoulders. "You're okay. It's just me."
Sam sank down, watching the flex of Dean's arms as he went back to looking after Sam. The opposite of Stan, and Sam let his eyes close again, weary of thinking about the circus freak. "'M tired," he whispered.
"Go to sleep, bro. Just gonna finish up your arm, then I'll join ya."
Dean had looked tired. Probably hadn't slept much, searching for him. There was the prick of a needle, not scary like the one in the parking lot had been, and the pain in Sam's arm slowly numbed to a heavy deadness.
"Dude, only you would get snatched by Ronald the demented…"
He wasn't sure he was supposed to hear that part, or even if he really did hear it. His head wasn't working right, maybe wasn't even there anymore. His body had already melted into the mattress. There was only the slightest tug as Dean kept working.
"…swear, Sammy, gonna put a tracker on you…"
"'anks," he murmured suddenly.
He was pretty sure he felt Dean brush his bangs out of his face as he fell into sleep. And even more sure that his brother would still be there when Sam woke up.