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Acta Non Verba

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Sam, says Dean. I have a feeling something bad is going to happen.

Dude, says Sam. You’re disgusting. Opens windows wide to catch the cool night air. Dean laughing like he’s twelve and farts are still the funniest thing in the world. Maybe they are.

Sam tries laughing too.

***

Dean, says Sam. I’m not washing your socks for you.

What, says Dean. The Chosen One is too good for laundry? Throws popcorn from a perch atop a dryer, sees if it will stick in Sam’s hair.

***

Sam, says Dean. Get your ass outta bed.

Nghh, says Sam. S’morning already? Slept for an hour at most when Dean was still awake, cleaning the guns with a gentle snick, snick. The rest of the night eaten by vicious things, too awful to legitimize by calling them nightmares.

Dean calls them annoying. He didn’t get much sleep either.

***

Dean, says Sam. I can do my own stitches.

Shut up, says Dean. And learn to dodge a fucking knife once in a while, would ya? Swipes a wet wash cloth down Sam’s arm, tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking. Stitches in, thread, slide, pull.

It wasn’t on purpose, says Sam. Small voice, broken eyes.

Dean doesn’t answer. Thread, slide, pull.

***

Sam, says Dean. You can be immune to some demonic super virus but not the common cold?

Bite me, says Sam. Not my fault our living conditions are less than sanitary. Coughs till he chokes and shoves snot-filled tissues under his seat to hear Dean wail. Passes out later because of crushed up pills slipped into his coffee.

There’s drool all over Dean’s shoulder and the sound of a wind turbine in his ear but he doesn’t push Sam away.

***

Dean, says Sam. I’m scared.

Don’t worry, says Dean. They couldn’t sell it if it was poison. Pushes the shot towards Sam, watches to see his face. Keeps watching till Sam’s grinning and giggling all over the place.

Dean starts grinning then too. And keeps watching.

***

Sam, says Dean. Start climbing.

Jesus, says Sam. You better not drop me. Shimmies down the rock wall, sinks into the deep black hole in the earth. The rope clipped to his belt wrapped in Dean’s hands. He’s not letting go.

I’ve got you Sammy, says Dean. I’ve got you.