Falls on a Tuesdayby Nomelon
Rating: PG-13
~~~ Sam wears Dean's t-shirts next to his skin. He wears Dean's socks to bed on those nights that he actually makes it into a bed instead of falling asleep in front of his laptop, or with his head on a stack of books. He toys with the rings Dean leaves on the bedside table when Dean's in the shower, lifting his hand to the light and trying them on each of his fingers, even though he knows from experience that they only ever fit on his pinkie and his ring finger. He's started using Dean's shampoo, shaving with Dean's razor. He steals Dean's underwear. He borrows Dean's jacket if he's ducking out to get coffee. He takes sips of Dean's drinks, eats food from Dean's plate. Dean lets him get away with it, doesn't say a word, until one night Dean's standing at the foot of his bed with a towel around his waist and water dripping from his hair. Every time Dean takes a shower, Sam's stomach knots with worry. It takes everything he has not to go in there with Dean, hovering and fussing like a mother hen. One misplaced step, one patch of soapy water under his foot, and Dean could slip and hit his head. Dean's razor could slip while he's shaving. The light fixture could explode and electrocute him. A werewolf could burst in through the window. It's not like it all hasn't happened before. A million things could happen, and that's just taking a shower. Sam's constantly on edge; everything Dean does makes his heart lurch. He's forever reaching out to say, Stop. Don't. You can't. Let me. Dean's been rifling through his duffel for a good five minutes, and it's background noise. Sam doesn't even look up from where he's sitting until he hears the muttered curse as Dean throws his bag on the floor. "Okay, Sammy," he says, like he's gearing up for an argument. "I've had it. You want to tell me why I have no clean clothes left again?" Sam doesn't say anything, just darts his eyes around the room and gives a little shrug. "Okaaay. Then you want to tell me why I'm out of shampoo again? Or why you keep eating all my goddamn food?" This is enough to make Sam blush and he tries turning back to his books. "Oh no," Dean says, striding across the room. "Not this time. I've put up with some weird shit from you over the years, but this klepto thing has got to stop. It's really annoying." "Nothing," Sam says quietly, wishing this would all just go away, that Dean would just leave him to it. "It's nothing." "Bullshit, Sam." Dean grabs his shoulder. "I call bullshit. This has gotta stop, you hear me?" Sam throws his pen down and it goes skittering right off the table. Dean choked to death on a pen lid once. Sam stands up with enough force to tip his chair over, getting in Dean's space. Dean's not expecting it, and his eyes widen in surprise when Sam grabs his biceps, the heel of one hand sliding on wet skin. Sam looks in his eyes and thinks, heart attack. He thinks, pulmonary embolism. He thinks, brain haemorrhage. He thinks, Dean. "It's..." "Sam?" Sam can see that Dean's more than a little freaked out here, but that he's trying to get it, he's trying to understand. "It's... pieces of you." Sam closes his eyes and screws up his face a little, because he knows how lame this sounds. "It's just... Do you know what I mean?" "Sammy..." Dean stares up at him, a frown of worry on his face. He takes a deep breath, hooks his hand on the back of Sam's neck and squeezes, warm and reassuring. "Sammy, I'm still here, you know. You don't need to start missing me before I'm gone." Sam lets out a choked little sob and turns his face away. "I lost count. You know that? I lost count of the days. I couldn't even tell you all the different ways that you-- And I couldn't stop it. Not once. It happened every day." "But you did stop it. What day is it today?" The non-sequitur throws Sam off. "What? Thursday. It's Thursday." "Thursday," Dean says, and gives another little squeeze. "See? Not Tuesday. Thursday. And I'm still ticking." Sam nods unevenly. "All right," Dean says. "All right." He pats Sam's neck a couple of times, smoothes his hand over Sam's hair and lets go. "You want to ease up on the merchandise?" he asks, glancing at Sam's hold on his arms, but there's no heat to his question. Sam blinks, thinking about blood circulation, thinking about severed arteries and watching Dean bleed out again and again and again, and he has to concentrate to unclamp his hands. Dean bobs his head and he pads over to Sam's bed. Without a word he pulls one of Sam's t-shirts and a clean pair of shorts out of Sam's bag. He tugs the t-shirt on over his head and he's instantly swamped. It's the light blue one, Sam's favourite, and when Dean emerges, his hair is flattened to his head. It makes him look so young that Sam's chest aches. Dean makes a face at Sam like Sam's the world's biggest freak for watching his brother get dressed, or maybe for needing clothes this big in the first place, Sam's not entirely sure which. Dean steps into the shorts and tugs off his towel, throwing it at Sam's head like it's just another part of his everyday bedtime routine. "Tomorrow you're on laundry duty," he says, hopping into bed and pulling the sheets up to his chin. "And you can bring me breakfast too. I want Sausage McMuffins." "No sausage," Sam says. "Right, right. Bacon then." Sam's lips twitch in a smile, but he can't hold it. His face won't work that way right now. He listens to Dean shuffling around and waits until his breathing evens out and he knows Dean is asleep. Another day over and Dean's still breathing. Sam doesn't lose track anymore. One hundred and eighty-nine days. That's how long Dean has left. In half an hour it'll be midnight, and then Dean will have one hundred and eighty-eight days left. Sam knows because he's counted. He has a calendar in his head and he's never going to lose track again. Right now, right this second, Dean has one hundred and eighty-nine days to live and Sam doesn't know how to save him. Day one hundred and eighty-nine falls on a Tuesday. The end. Leave a comment in livejournal. Email the author | nevermelon AT yahoo.com |