[identity profile] acidquill.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] verse17_17
title: sometimes you run back home
author: [livejournal.com profile] acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: pg
word count: 612
characters: teen!Sam, mentions of John & wee-ish!Dean
notes: days late to be real birthday fic for Deano, but I never was punctual. a bit more pre-series angst.



Dean is sick. Sick as Sam's ever seen him, or anyone else. But with his little brother it looks so much worse because Dean's still and quiet and pale in the hospital bed. Sam's never wanted his brother to wake up and bug the hell out of him so much in his life. Now when Dean's awake he cries, wants Momma. Doesn't want anything to do with Dad, or him. Then a nurse will come and give Dean some juice and some medicine and he'll drift off to sleep again. Dad's been camped out beside the bed since the night Dean was admitted, looks like someone's punched him in the gut.

Sam doesn't know what to do.



He goes through every box in the store; he sits in the middle of the aisle in fucking Wal-Mart - he dares anybody to tell him to move - and opens every single pack of Crayolas they have on the shelf. Dumps all of them out in his lap and picks out the ones he's looking for until he has a 48 count box filled with nothing but black. Rows of perfect, unbroken, dark points. He only feels a tiny stab of guilt at doing all of it, figures some kid will get a kick out of having two or three greens or whatever. And he needs these. Dean's last box of crayons got left behind on at the last motel, every single one of them still pristine. Except one. Dean only uses one color. And that one got left behind with the rest. Dad wouldn't turn around either, not then.

Sam's heard his Dad cry, late, when he's supposed to be asleep and knows that if it would help, Dad would've gone two hundred miles back and got the damn things. He knows shoplifting a bunch of crayons isn't going to fix his brother any faster, and God help him if he gets caught and they have to call Dad, but he wants Dean to have something for when he's better.

Because Dean will get better. And Sam won't mind the piles of drawings that will take over the back seat, their bed, the table. He'll laugh at the way Dean can draw the Impala almost as good as the actual car, but can't draw people worth shit. He'll let Dean smack him for laughing. But for now he slips out the store without a hitch and walks back to the hospital. He sits the crayons on the table beside Dean's bed. His dad doesn't say a word.



The day Dean wakes up, really wakes up, Sam's sitting beside him reading White Fang out loud. One of the nurses finally convinced Dad he needed something besides coffee and dragged him off to the cafeteria for some real food. Sam doesn't even realise his brother's awake until he feels a tug on his sleeve and hears a scratchy 'Sammy --'. He jerks his head around so fast it hurts. Dean.

Sam pulls his brother close, hugs him as tight as he dares. Dean's still groggy and rests his head on Sam's shoulder without complaint. Sam wants to laugh because he knows before long Dean'll be back to refusing to hug anybody because I'm not a baby, Sammy. The door to Dean's room opens and suddenly the two of them are wrapped up in their father's arms. The side of Sam's face gets damp and he leans in close.

"It's alright Dad."



Two days later Dean's room is covered in pictures. Most of them are of the Impala, with three little stick people standing beside it. Sam grins every time he tapes another one up.


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