trans_9 | Road to Recovery [R for Cussing] [Open]

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Road to Recovery [R for Cussing] [Open]

Sam sat on his bed in the medbay with a pad of paper resting on a tray and a pen gripped in his hand. He didn't know where she had found it, but Dr. Grey had given them to him--along with a set of cards with a series of shapes drawn on them--and told Sam to trace the shapes onto the paper. It was an effort to rebuild his hand-eye coordination, just one of the many of the things, along with his memory and balance, that had been damaged when the bullet entered his brain.

His brow was knitted together as he focused on the image of the black triangle on the card that was visible through the paper. He pressed the tip of the pen against the paper and carefully forced his hand to move a long the lines of the triangle. Almost instantly, his hand shook with slight tremors, pushing the pen off course, which forced him to correct. This, in turn, would often result in an over-correction which sent the pen drifting off in the opposite direction and thus creating a wavy line with 'mountains' and 'valleys' instead of one that was crisp, clean and straight.

He felt like a toddler, again, trying to color within the lines.

"God DAMN it!" he cursed when his hand jerked, sending the pen off in a perpendicular direction to the one he wanted it to go. "I can't do this!"

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"Dude, you smell like you bathed in it," Sam retorted. "Anyone standing up wind in a hurricane would be able to smell you."

"Now you're just exaggerating," Dean says carelessly, rolling his eyes. "What are you, my mother?"

... Wow, did he really just say that?

"Yeah, that's exactly who I am," Sam said. He's not bothered by Dean's careless remark. "Because I've been the one glued to your bedside for the last few days, right?"

Silence, because Dean isn't sober enough to reply to that. Instead, he scowls and mumbles, "At least I can draw a straight line."

First he's shocked. That stung. Big time. Looking back down at his awful attempts to draw a trapezoid, a triangle, a square, and a pentagon, Sam flipped the pad of paper shut and tossed it to the end of the bed.

"You're an asshole."

And oops, Dean's realized what he's said. When Sam calls him an asshole, Dean nearly flinches, and straightens, looking at Sam. After a minute of awkward silence:

"Look, I didn't mean that, alright?" Dean says, looking guilty.

Sam, unfortunately, is not buying it. He's been working his ass off trying to get something that at least resembled a straight line. And his faith in himself was already weak, even after Chief and Brainy--as poor as their bedside manners were--had convinced him that he would eventually get it.

"Just leave, Dean."

Crap, Dean is panicking internally. No matter what he does, he can't seem to get through the day without pissing Sam off, or making him feel like crap, and Dean doesn't want that. ~~That's half of why he's drinking, but shh, don't tell anybody.~~

But instead of just leaving, Dean has to make it worse. He stands up, and tries to explain himself.

"Look, Sammy, I swear I didn't mean that. I don't--" Dean doesn't really have an excuse, so he rambles, and the buzz helps. "Listen, I'm trying, man. I am, okay? I know I'm a douchebag, trust me, you're not the only one who's told me that on this ship... thing."

Dean stops, and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He's crap at apologizing. And being a big brother.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever," Sam said, shrugging off both Dean's insult and his apology. Yeah, right, he's going to be carrying that around for a while. Especially the insult.

Ouch. C'mon, Sam, that took a lot for Dean to say. So of course, Dean's going to ruin it all and start yelling.

"You want me to leave? Fine! I will. I'll just go drink myself to death, is that what you want?" Dean says loudly, and, just because he can and he's pissed, he knocks over every stool on his way out. And yes, he is going to go find more booze. Or something.

And of course, since Sawyer has hoarded all the booze, Dean can't find any. So he wanders back in an hour or two later, much more sober and not smelling like alcohol. He's got half a mind to just go back to the sensoriums and spend all his time in Bobby's yard, but he's feeling guilty as hell, and he needs to apologize.

So, he approaches Sam.

"Look, Sam," Dean starts, taking a deep breath. "Sammy. Listen, I'm... I'm sorry. You're my brother, I'm not supposed to be an asshole like that, and I know it. So."

Dean rubs the back of his head sheepishly, and then turns, like he's going to leave again, though he's sort of hoping Sam will forgive him.

Sam is back to working on his tracing when Dean comes back into the medbay. But, as his older brother apologizes, Sam doesn't look up. His eyes remained focused on the pad of paper and the faded lines of an octagon that he's trying to draw.

"You didn't shoot the werewolves yet, did you?" Sam asked. Conversation! Changing the subject: The Winchester way of saying 'I forgive you.'

Dean gives a sigh, and slumps into the stool again, rubbing at his forehead. At least Sam's not pissed. Hopefully.

"Nah, but one of 'em almost took my head off." Dean replies, almost wearily.

Sam's brow furrowed with concern and curiosity. "Why?"

"Because some blonde moron thought it would be a good idea to call her a bitch, and I was in the way." Dean grumbles.

"Blonde moron?" Sam echoed. "Are you talkin' about Brainy's girl? 'Cause I wouldn't let her hear you say that."

"What? Brainy?" Pause. "Oh, right, Cabbage Butt. Nah, his chick is not someone who I'd mess with. I mean that Sawyer guy."

"Oh, you mean the guy with the porn..." Sam said with a nod. "Why was he picking a fight with a werewolf?"

"Yeah, that guy." Dean shrugs. "Because he's stupid? He's got a death wish? Hell if I know. I mean, the thing was nine feet tall and had an axe. Not my idea of a fair fight."

"You do have silver bullets, Dean..." Sam said, reminding his brother of just how 'fair' the fight actually would have been. "...right?"

"... Well, yeah, obviously." Dean says. He's lying, Sammy, don't believe him. "I meant for him."

....

"You don't have silver bullets on you?" Sam said, cutting right through Dean's lie. "Dean, how can you not have silver bullets?"

"Because I haven't exactly seen any laying around!" Dean protests. "I've had slightly more pressing issues to deal with!"

"Yeah? What's been so pressing that you've been walkin' around unpreparedd?" Sam reached into one of his chest pockets and pulls out a few silver bullets and hands them to his brother.

"You losin' your touch or what?"

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