trans_9 | On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]

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On Your Feet, Soldier [R for Cussing] [Closed]

After driving himself crazy with the hand-eye coordination work--i.e. tracing shapes--that Dr. Grey had given him to work on, Sam needed a break. Unfortunately, when you have been injured, are in recovery, and your last name just so happens to be Winchester, a 'break' means getting your butt working on something else so that you hurry up and get better. The fact that he was trapped on an insane ship full of life-threatening situations around every corner--Yeerks? Giant Roaches?--just made it all the more imperative that Sam recover even more quickly.

So, instead of hand-eye coordination, Sam was on his feet--in a sense--working on coordinating his walking. The medbay had somehow grown a set of railings for Sam to use for this very purpose. While he wasn't completely incapacitated--he could move his legs rather easily, after all--it was still difficult for him to control just where his feet landed, or how they landed. So it made balancing on his own two feet a struggle. This is what he was working on.

He moved in the space between the railings with his hands hovering over the beams--ready to catch himself if he stumbled--while he took slow, gradual steps, focusing his attention on controlling his stride. Dean sitting on one of the beds, staring, didn't help.

"Dude, you're doing it again," Sam said, slightly irritated.

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The slight smile on Dean's face as Sam walks is not intentional, he swears; it's got a way of creeping up on him.

"Huh. Figures I'd get here during the downtime."

Sam smirks. "What's the matter? Afraid you missed the party?"

If Dean was twenty years younger, he'd stick his tongue out. As it is, he flips Sam the bird. All in good fun.

"Afraid the party's missing me, bitch."

"Whatever. Jerk."

Dean laughs, for once, actually laughs, and lets his eyes close, relaxing slightly. It's quiet for a few moments, and then he speaks up again.

"So other than the giant-ass freaky-deaky bugs and slugs, what kind of entertainment's here? All I've seen is the sensoriums, and as much as I like Bobby's house, I gotta have some variety."

This gave Sam pause.

"You went to the sensoriums...and it gave you Bobby's house?" he asked, confused.

"... Yeah, why, is that weird?"

"Considering it's you, yeah, kinda," Sam answered with a shrug.

"I figured you'd ask for a strip joint or somewhere you could off-road the Impala or...I dunno, something other than Bobby's junkyard."

"I like my girls real, thanks," Dean replies, affronted. And he's had enough of the road to last him a lifetime, but again, that falls under the List of Things to Not Tell Sam.

"And uh, I was drinking. So." Like that explains it.

"Since when has that ever stopped you before?"

"Oh, shut up." Dean says. "You sound like it's offensive that I went to Bobby's house and not a strip club."

"It's not offensives, it's just...weird."

"You're weird." Dean grumbles back, with an excellent comeback, as usual.

"Whatever. Jerk," Sam replied. After reaching the end of the rails, Sam--tired of physical therapy--moved for his bed.

"Don't," he said, giving Dean a warning look before his brother could get up and try to help Sam to his bed. "I can do this myself."

If Sam's listening, he can probably hear the customary "Bitch," in return, but Dean doesn't say it loudly or pointedly. He sort of sounds like he's pouting.

When Sam heads back to his bed, Dean tenses up, watching Sam closely. He doesn't move from his bed, but his body language suggests he's ready to leap up and help Sam if he needs it.

His voice would sound easy and relaxed to anyone else but Sam when he replies with, "Wouldn't dream of it, tough guy."

He walked--or, rather, stumbled--over to his bed, placing his hand on the edge of it the instant it was within range. This was irritating. It was like Sam was trying to get his sea-legs with the way he wavered and his knees buckled when he walked.

"I thought you were supposed to be out doing patrols."

The general stumbling and inability to walk without looking like Sam was on a boat only makes Dean tense up even more, and he's probably gripping the edge of the bed too tight again. His knuckles are turning white.

"I thought I was supposed to be, too, but I haven't heard anything from that captain chick. Can't follow orders if I don't got any, Sammy."

"Oh."

Sam hoisted himself up onto his bed, shifting for a moment to get comfortable.

"So, uh, are we gonna talk about what happened? You know, with you and Hell and...everything."

If Dean had had a drink to spit out, he would've. Instead, he turns to look at Sam, expression surprised. He really wasn't expecting that, not at all.

He needs alcohol for this kind of talk, he thinks.

"... What's there to talk about?" Dean stalls, looking everywhere but at Sam, expression of shock fading into a blank look.

"Oh, I don't know," Sam said sarcastically. "How about what it was like? How long were you down there? Or how about why an angel pulled you out?"

Ooh, was that a wince, Dean? Looking vaguely irritated, he swings himself off his bed and stands, though he doesn't know exactly what he's going to do once he's up.

"Oh, it was just so much fun, Sam," Dean replies just as sarcastically. He's done this once already, and this time, he has no patience. "Four months for you is what you told me, but for me, it was forty. I spent forty years in the Pit, and it was just fantastic. Y'know, in between having my skin ripped off repeatedly using nothing but meathooks and having my eyes gouged out with rusted metal."

Dean's not facing Sam, staring resolutely at the wall. He doesn't answer the angel question, because he's trying really hard not to think.

Sam just sits, quietly listening to Dean as he finally starts to tell him about what he went through, what--apparently--Dean will go through when and if Sam gets sent back to his point in time. He watches Dean for only a few seconds before his eyes turn to a blank space on the floor.

Dean has made his way over to a stool next to Sam's bed, and he collapses into it now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, kneading his forehead.

"That's not even the whole truth, Sammy." Dean mumbles, using his nickname for his little brother in a weary tone. When he speaks next, he doesn't stop, like he's trying to get it all out. "Every day, when the demon was finished with me, he'd tell me he'd take me off the rack if I tortured souls instead. I told him no."

And then he pauses, with a deep breath. "I told him no for thirty years."

Sam was bewildered by that last statement and the creases in his forehead showed it.

"I don't understand, I thought you said you were down there for forty years?"

"Yeah. I was."

Dean is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice shakes.

"For thirty years, I told him no. And then... then I couldn't. I got off the rack. Sammy, I... the things that I did to those souls, I..."

He doesn't move, but his shoulders are shaking. Going through this for the second time, he didn't think it'd be as bad. But it is.

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