Unarmed - Part 3

Dean's got a secret that he's not very good at keeping.

After all the trials and tribulations of Dean's convalescence, the boys get all soppy on us …


Dean sat on the side of the bath with closed eyes as Sam gently lifted his chin, running the razor along his jawline.

"Big day today" Sam smiled broadly; he tapped the razor on Dean's left cast, " they're coming off today!"

"Hmmm …" Dean answered vacantly.

Sam rinsed the foamy razor in the sink, and brought it back up to Dean's throat. "I don't know who'll be more relieved – you or me!"

Dean smiled; feeling Sam's hand against his neck, he almost allowed himself to lean into the touch. He righted himself just in time to make it look like a slight loss of balance.

The fact was, Dean was not particularly relieved at all. He realised that he had come to enjoy Sam's fussing and care, the love that only his own flesh and blood could deliver; a closeness that Dean hadn't enjoyed since that terrible day many years ago when that bastard yellow eyed demon had made him a motherless four-year-old.

Not that he'd ever admit that to Sam, the little snotball, ok, big – great big, lanky – snotball; wild horses wouldn't drag it out of him. He was the big brother, and big brothers didn't do mushy stuff; did they?

So he kept up the pretence; moaning, bitching, delivering the expected level of pain-in-the-ass-ness; Sam was gay, Sam was a woman, Sam was loving this far more than was healthy … but, in truth, he had relished the comfort of Sam's care; a strong, warm hand washing his back, unearthing a long-buried memory of his mother bathing him all those years ago; Sam's long nimble fingers working their way through his short hair, rinsing shampoo, or gently manipulating his face as he carefully shaved him. Dean desperately didn't want the bond to break.

At first he had hated his casts; despised the physical limitations they had imposed upon him. Now they were his friends, tools that provided the comforting touch he had come to crave, and today they would be taken away from him.

Sam would back off to give Dean the space and independence that he outwardly insisted on, they would go back to their normal rough and tumble lives and Sam would never know how much Dean appreciated his tender loving care. The thought made Dean feel physically sick.

He sighed. Dean Winchester – you are a complete dick!


"Hey, you still with me there?" Dean opened his eyes to find Sam squatting down looking directly into his face.

"Um … yeah" Dean whispered, "sorry dude, miles away!"

"Hey, what's wrong, are you … crying?" Sam looked closely into the deep green pools. Dean suddenly realised with a jolt that his eyes were teary, "oh, uh … no" he stuttered, blinking wildly and bringing a hand up to brush the stray tears off his face, belting the back of a cast across his nose as he did so, "new aftershave; freakin' stuff is strong, won't use that again" he whispered, trying to avoid Sam's gaze.

Sam turned away to put the aftershave bottle back on the shelf, keeping concerned eyes on Dean as long as possible.

Dean took a deep breath; "thanks Sammy."

The voice sounded so small, Sam couldn't believe it came from his brother.

"What for?" he asked.

"For helpin' me, I appreciate it". Dean hesitated, "an' I'm sorry I've been such a dick about everything."

Sam looked completely perplexed. "Dean … have you been drinkin'?"

Dean looked genuinely offended.

"NO!" he snapped, "I'm gifting you a genuine chick-flick moment here; one you'll probably use against me for the rest of my life, and all you can do is ask if I'm drunk. Well thanks dude!"

Sam laughed nervously, "sorry, bro', but it is kinda out of character."

He knelt down in front of Dean, placing his hands on his brother's shoulders. "Dean, you're my brother. I would die for you; I would walk through fire for you." He smiled mischeviously, "I'll even handle your socks".

Dean snorted.

"An' I know you'd do the same - you have done the same - for me, without a thought" added Sam.

"I draw the line at handling your socks!" Dean grunted.

Sam grinned, touched by the sadness in his brother's liquid eyes; "well, dude, seeing as we're having a chick-flick moment here, you won't mind if I do this …"

Sam pulled Dean forward into a crushing hug.

"Oh, jeez" Dean mumbled against Sam's chest, "If I must …" he lied. His arms slowly wrapped themselves across Sam's back, and he melted into a hug he didn't want to end.

"I am so gonna hear about this later" he thought.


Dean sat in front of the young nurse; she bent over him with a small circular saw. "This won't hurt", she smiled kindly. Dean smiled back, "I believe you; I'd never argue with a woman with a chainsaw!" The nurse giggled and bought the saw to bear against the first of his casts.

Then, they were gone, two empty casts laying on the table. Dean looked at his pale, wasted wrists; he wiggled his fingers, thumbs, flapped his hands around. Everything worked, exactly as it should.

He was an island once again.


He made his way out into the corridor, weak and wobbly arms clutching a sheet of paper showing physiotherapy exercises that he had no intention of doing, and caught up with Sam who was sitting in the most uncomfortable looking chair Dean had ever seen, reading a leaflet about healthy eating.

"Hey", said Sam, "everything OK?".

"Peachy" grunted Dean, stuffing the paper in his pocket, "c'mon lets get out of this abbatoir - it gives me the creeps."

"Wanna hug?" grinned Sam, holding out his arms to Dean.

"Wanna punch?" snorted Dean, and stomped off ahead of Sam.

Sam shook his head with a laugh, chick-flick moment well and truly over … obviously.


Dean trotted down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the corridor.

He thought about their next hunt; they needed to get back to work, get back on he road as soon as it was practical. Six weeks he'd been loafing around under Bobby's feet like a dying swan.

Getting back on the job would shake him out of this clingy, drama-queen frame of mind he'd gotten himself into while he was laid up feeling sorry for himself and he was no damned good to anyone or anything like that.

It should only take a few days to get the strength back in his wrists - fiddling about with some of the wrecks at Bobby's yard would do that - don't need no pussy 'press your palms together' physio!

His thoughts were suddenly distracted by a yell and a commotion, and Sam came tumbling down the stairs behind him, landing with an untidy crash in a groaning heap at the bottom.

He was at Sam's side in an instant, hand on his prone brother's shoulder

"Sammy, SAMMY! Shit, man, what happened?" he gasped.

Sam looked up at him and winced violently, "owwwww … untied shoelace happened," he croaked.

"Don't move, dude, don't move!" Dean leapt to his feet, head wheeling in all directions until he saw a nurse approach. "Hey, miss" he yelled frantically, "my brother fell down the stairs - I think he hurt himself"

The nurse knelt beside Sam, asking him questions and checking him over with experienced hands.

Dean fidgeted and paced behind her.


A sense of disbelief crossed Dean's mind as a slinged, strapped up Sam was delivered out of the treatment room to him, dazed on industrial strength painkillers, and with a diagnosis of broken right collarbone and broken left thumb. Freakin' Winchester luck was unkind to them at the best of times, but this? This was like a damned Greek tragedy!

Dean could see a few weeks of caring for his injured and immobile brother looming.

Hang on, hold that thought on Winchester luck …

He couldn't hide his smile.



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