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This wasn’t the way Dean ever thought he’d go out. He’d always imagined some epic battle, maybe with a vampire nest or an army of demons.
Hyperventilating on a motel bed in South Carolina was pointedly not as cool.
At least his brother was here, like he was in Dean’s fantasies, fighting by his side. He was saying something right now. Yelling, actually, if how red his face was was anything to go off of. Dean did his best to listen.
“Dean! You need to calm down,” Sam was saying, crouched down in the space between the two beds and looking up at him.
Dean clutched his chest. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the ground. “How the fuck do you expect me to do that?” he tried to say. What he actually said was a breathless, “How?”
Well, it got the message across anyway, perhaps with a bit less snark than Dean wanted, but it was the best he could do right now.
Sam placed his hands on Dean’s knees. “What’s 5 things you can see?”
What? “What?”
No, seriously, what?
“5 things you can see,” Sam repeated. “Come on.”
“Uh. Um.” Dean blinked hard, then figured, might as well. “You. I see you. Uh, the moldy carpet. Your bed. Your duffel bag. Um …” Dean turned his head slightly. “The nightstand.”
“Good,” Sam said. “4 things you can feel?”
Seriously? Dean found whatever this was stupid—probably some hippie bullshit Sammy learned at Stanford—but fine. He’d play along. “My bed. Your hands. The—the ground. My jeans.”
“Good,” Sam said again, and he sounded like Mrs. Mason from the third grade. The reassuring tone sounded better on Sammy, somehow. “3 things you can hear?”
“The AC. My breathing.” Huh. His breathing was significantly less heavy. When did that happen? “Your voice, I guess? I mean, you’re not talking now, but…”
Sam smiled. “It counts. 2 things you can smell?”
Dean smiled back. This one was easy. “You,” he said. “Seriously, dude, shower.”
Sam smacked his knee, but he was still smiling. “And?” he prompted.
“And the fuckin’ carpet.”
Sam chuckled. “Okay. One thing you can taste?”
“The fuck? One thing I can taste? I can’t taste anything. There’s nothing in my mouth. I swear, this hippie bullshit isn’t even—“
Sam rose himself up on his knees and put one hand on Dean’s cheek, keeping his other down on his leg. Then, he brought his mouth to his and kissed him. It only lasted a second, maybe two, but it was open-mouthed thanks to the fact that Dean was mid sentence.
Sam pulled away. “One thing you can taste?”
Dean blinked, mouth still hanging open. “Um, you,” he said, distaste in his tone. (Really, though, it wasn’t so unpleasant. Sam tasted like fresh produce and spearmint.)
Sam nodded in approval. “Great. Feel better?”
Dean sat up straighter. Strangely, he did.
He screwed up his face and shoved Sam away. “No,” he said.
Sam smiled knowingly and stood up. “Next time you have a panic attack, go through that excercise. It’ll help.”
“I wasn’t having a…”
Sam raised a brow at Dean.
“Oh, whatever,” Dean said.
Sam started walking away then, but Dean caught his wrist. He hadn’t meant to do that, but it was too late.
Sam turned and looked expectantly down at Dean.
“Um,” Dean said dumbly. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“But, did you have to kiss me?”
Sam’s eyes twinkled, and he shrugged. “I guess start keeping a mint on you for next time you need one thing you can taste.”
Smartass.
Dean held onto Sam’s wrist for a moment longer. “Bitch,” he said, when he realized he’d been staring.
Sam wrenched his arm out of Dean’s hand and flicked his forehead. “Jerk,” he said, before walking away, successfully this time.