For Destruction, Ice (SPN fic)
For Destruction, Ice
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(From a prompt at Hoodie time)
Sometimes John told stories about young Dean sleepwalking. Sam could recall them, vaguely: Dean, peeing in a closet that he apparently thought was a bathroom; Dean, in the kitchen, going through the cupboards at 3 o’clock in the morning.
Sam couldn’t remember Dean ever doing anything more than muttering incomprehensibly in his sleep, so the stories were just funny, harmless. Unrelated to his brother as he knew him.
But that night Dean had been bitter about his dislocated shoulder, which was still stiff two weeks after a ghost in Des Moines had thrown him over a balcony. And they were out of Vicodin, so Dean dug up an old bottle of Oxycontin.
“Dude, you can’t take that now,” said Sam at once. “We’ve been drinking all night, what are you, stupid?”
“What, sorry Sam, I can’t hear you over the throbbing in my fricking shoulder,” said Dean, dry-swallowing two.
They had just finished a case - water spirit in Maine, nobody’s idea of a good time - and they were both crabby as hell, partly because they were both pretty beat up, and partly because a little girl had been drowned while they followed up on what turned out to be a dead end.
“That’s great,” said Sam, “why don’t you just fry whatever’s left of your liver, after the cirrhosis is done with it.”
It was the kind of comment he had made to Dean a thousand times, ever since his drinking shot back up to pre-apocalyptic levels, but apparently tonight it was a sensitive spot because Dean slammed the laptop closed and said, “Fuck off, Sam, I’m warning you.”
And that was just it.
Sam was tired too, and aching, and Dean wasn’t the only one who felt bad about the kid.
It was a stupid fight. Sam hated it when they fought anyway, even when they had a really good reason, and this wasn’t even a good reason - they were just pissy and blowing off steam, but then Sam had to go open his big mouth and make it worse, saying the kind of thing he always ended up saying and always regretted, every single time:
"You’re fucking kidding yourself if you think I’m going to hang around here watching you kill yourself.”
Dean’s mouth snapped shut, and his expression, which had been working itself up into righteous fury a minute ago, went suddenly blank and flat. "Well, you've got to do what you've got to do, Sammy."
Shit. Threatening to leave was dirty pool: he knew that Dean had a hangup about people ditching him. Sam wished he could reach out and take the words back, like they were still hanging there in the air, and could stuff them back down his throat.
“Dean, man,” he started to say, meaning to apologize -
But Dean had already shut down, and it was too late. “Whatever, man, we’re fricking drunk. M’gonna turn in,” he mumbled, turning his back to shrug out of his button-down shirt. Sam flinched at the livid purple mottling of his shoulder, irrationally feeling for a second like he was physically seeing the damage his of his words.
“Dude, I didn’t - I didn’t mean that,” he tried again, sounding stupid and humble now.
“Do what you want, Sam, just like always. I’m going to bed.”
It was the tone of voice that Sam hated most, like he just didn't care what happened. It was one thing when Dean got mad, when he was taking a swing at Sam or cursing him out, but this total indifference made Sam go cold. And the sight of his brother’s bruised back and sides, and the tense line of his body as he tried to get comfortable on the bed, made him feel like some kind of abusive husband or something. Which was crazy, obviously, because:
1) no matter what anybody said, they weren’t married, and,
2) Dean would kick Sam right in the frigging nuts if he ever heard himself compared to a battered spouse.
Sam tried to get ready for bed quietly, because it looked like Dean had passed out pretty fast, while he tried to think of a way he could make it up to his brother. He had run his mouth off, that was all, but surely Dean knew he didn’t mean it? He would never leave. Dean knew that, right?
He didn’t doubt that Dean would forgive him (Dean always forgave him, for everything) but maybe he could try to be an especially good brother for the next few days. Try to wake up early, maybe, and go for coffee - Dean would be hungover for sure, given how much they’d put away. Find a place to pick up a pie.
He got into bed and turned out the light, whispering goodnight to his brother but unsurprised at the lack of response.
Which is why he was startled, only a few hours later, to be woken up by the sound of the motel door being cracked. He squinted across the room - and there was his brother, apparently in the process of leaving the room.
“Dean? Whatcha doin, man?” he slurred, exhaustion weighing heavy on his eyelids.
Without a word, Dean pulled the door open all the way and headed outside, letting it slam inconsiderately behind him. Hadn’t even bothered to reply.
“Frigging jerk,” Sam muttered, flipping over in the bed and sinking back into his dreams.
Except he kept waking up, every ten minutes or so, uneasy. Something was nagging at him. It was like he was waiting for the sound of Dean returning to the room, which didn’t make any sense because Dean could have easily found a girl in the twenty minutes he’d been gone (Dean could find a girl in the two minute walk to the soda machine). For all Sam knew he was having a great time getting laid, and wouldn’t be back until the morning, glassy-eyed and lose with pleasure.
For a few hours he tossed and turned, held on the knife's-edge of dreaming. But finally he huffed out a curse and sat up to check the clock.
It was three AM, and Dean had been gone for two hours. So what? Yes, it was a little weird he had snuck out in the middle of the night (that was more Sam’s bag, during the whole Ruby-blood-drinking post-hell fiasco), but it wasn’t unheard of - it was a dick move not to even answer Sam’s question but whatever.
Still, Sam didn’t become a great hunter by ignoring his instincts, so he sat in the bed and tried to concentrate. What was it that was bothering him? He closed his eyes and forced his sleep-muddled brain to focus, trying to picture the scene in his mind: Dean, ducking out through the door of the motel room … dressed in his boxers and a wife beater. Barefooted. In January?
Where the hell was he going, dressed in next to nothing? What, did he have the girl stashed in an adjoining room, or something? Surely he wasn't sneaking out just to drink more? Definitely concerned now, Sam reached for the cell phone by the bed and dialed a number from instinct.
Dean’s phone chirped merrily from the bedside table.
“Shit!” said Sam, sitting up and reaching for the light. Dean might sneak out for some late-night nookie, but he’d never leave his phone behind. It was a rule between them, no matter how pissed off they were at each other. Sam looked at the table and saw the phone … sitting on top of Dean’s copy of the room key.
He lurched out of bed, reaching for his jeans which were slung over the back of a chair.
Could something have lured Dean out of the room? Sam wracked his mind, trying to think of a list of things that could lure a fully-grown man out of a warded room. It was a short list, and Sam didn’t like anything on it.
Stuffing on his jacket and pocketing the spare key, Sam shoved his feet into his muddy sneakers from the night before and pulled open the door, peering out into the dark parking lot of the motel.
There was a light dusting of snow on the doorstep, and further out on the sidewalk maybe an inch or two had accumulated. Forcing himself to stop panicking and think like a hunter (his heart was pounding Dean Dean Dean, frantic and demanding), Sam knelt to examine the ground for tracks.
There - he could make out the marks of bare feet, just visible among the windblown drift, and they were no more than a few hours old. They lead, wavering, out in the direction of the parking lot - out towards …
The Impala? Sam could just make out the shape of it, dark and reassuring in the night, and come to think of it Dean’s room key was on the dresser, but his car keys were not …
He hurried out across the gravel lot, flinching when he saw that the footprints were now clearly pitted with drops of blood - it seemed like Dean hadn’t been at all careful where he walked, indifferent to the sharp rocks under his bare feet. What the hell was going on?
Finally Sam reached the Impala and peered through the frosted-over windows. There was his brother, curled up in the back seat, and maybe it was a trick of the light but he appeared positively grey.
“Dean!” Sam shouted, tugging fruitlessly on the handle of the side door; but it was locked - somehow and for some reason Dean had locked himself inside the Impala and gone to sleep, half-dressed in the middle of January ... God, he must be freezing in there -
Sam banged on the glass, surprised that Dean didn’t even appear to stir, and without hesitation he busted the window with his elbow, imagining his brother’s indignant squawking when he learned of it, but not willing to spend another minute separated from his brother. “Dean, what are you doing, you dumbass? Why are you out here?”
But Dean didn’t move. Sam reached immediately for his shoulder and shook him roughly, horrified when he got no response, just Dean’s cold cheek dropping onto his hand.
He leaned into the back seat and knelt on the carpet, one hand instinctively sliding to the back of his brother's neck, the other settling on his shoulder. Both radiated cold right up through his palms. "Dean!"
Gently, he thumbed open his brother’s eyelids, but the pupils beneath were glassy and slow to react. It was like he was still in a drugged sleep - the oxycontin? But then, how had Dean gotten out to the car?
That was when Sam remembered his father’s stories about Dean sleepwalking as a child. Except now it wasn’t a funny anecdote that made Dean’s ears turn pink - his nighttime quirk was putting him at serious risk of hypothermia.
Sam hauled Dean in closer against his side, shaking his head at the icy temperature of Dean’s skin through his thin clothes. “I know you love your baby, dude, but I think the hotel room was a better bet for sleeping,” he said, cupping the back of his brother’s neck, more for personal reassurance than anything. He could have died, thought Sam, fingers ghosting over Dean’s short hair. All the damn demons and angels and the bullshit they’d dealt with - he’d survived all that, survived even Sam in their darker periods - and then he almost died from a stupid drug reaction, wandering out in the cold, after a stupid fight with his dumbshit brother, while Sam slept on a few hundred feet away.
He thought he felt the weight in his arms shift, and he craned his head down to look. “Dean? You with me?”
“Whazzit, S’mmy,” Dean managed, his eyes vague and unblinking. “Y’alri?”
“I’m fine,” said Sam, although he suspected Dean wasn’t really tracking. “I’m alright, Dean. You wanna come in out of the cold, big brother? Or you want to finish turning into a Dean-sicle?”
Dean’s face creased in confusion, but instead of answering his let his head drop back onto Sam’s shoulder, pushing his nose into the warmth of his brother’s shirt.
“C’mon, bro,” Sam coaxed, trying to urge him towards the door of the Impala. Shit, he should have brought clothes out with him, at least a blanket or something. He’d been too focused on finding his brother, figuring out what had taken him, to think of bringing something warm to change into.
They needed to get back to the room, fast.
Dean was obviously trying to cooperate, with whatever part of him was aware and capable of responding, shuffling obediently across the seat after Sam - but he was stiff and frozen and still more asleep than not, and he was making no progress.
Remembering that it was a bad idea to grab the limbs of people who were freezing cold, Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's waist and tugged him forward. Then he got Dean situated, lifting his legs until he sat sideways in the doorframe of the car, his weight against Sam's chest.
Maybe he could have coaxed Dean into walking back to the room, but with his bare, frozen, bloody feet, Sam didn’t even want to try it.
“You so owe me for this,” he noted, sliding one of Dean's icy arms around his neck. Dean wasn’t a small man - although everyone looked a mite puny next to Sam - and he was heavy with muscle, but Sam put his bulk to good use and hoisted his brother up into his arms.
“You’d be so mad, if you could see what I’m doing right now,” he whispered, checking that Dean’s face was in a good position, kept out of the wind by the fold of Sam’s jacket. Luckily the coat was big enough to give them both a little shelter. He struggled to keep his balance as he straightened up, pushing the Impala's door closed with his hip, then hurried across the frozen parking lot and back to the room.
***
“Here you go, dude,” he said, dropping Dean gently down on his bed. “You feeling any better in here? You like this heat?” He left Dean's side for a second to turn up the heater under the window, which rattled into life, and then came back to examine his brother.
Dean lay just as he’d left him, but rolled slightly onto his side, trying to curl around himself. Sam sat next to him on the bed, and the dip of the mattress tipped Dean’s forehead into his knee.
Sam didn’t move away.
Dean's skin was pale and white, cool to the touch, but now Sam could see him shivering faintly. That was actually a good sign - it meant they weren't in the critical stage of hypothermia, which required a trip to the hospital. His pulse was good, slow and deep.
He looked over Dean’s fingers and toes. They were greyish, but not blue - frost nipped, maybe, but it didn’t look like there was tissue damage, to Sam. Thank God. Remembering the bloody footprints, he examined the soles of Dean’s feet, which were torn in a few places - evidently, in Dean’s drugged state, the pain hadn’t registered. At least the fresh snow had kept them pretty clean.
“You don’t look that bad to me,” he said to Dean, reaching for the blankets. “A little freezer burned, maybe, but you’ll be alright.”
Sam had treated worse cases than this, so he knew what to do: try to let him warm up naturally, keep him quiet, and let him rest.
Dean was sleeping hard, maybe dragged under by the oxy, or the beer, or some combination of the two, so the latter wasn't going to be a problem. Sam piled blankets on top of him, then tugged one of his own beanies over his brother’s hair, wanting to keep his head covered. Then he paused to reassess.
He wasn't satisfied; Dean's lips were still white, and he didn't appear to be making much heat. “You gonna make me work for it, huh bro?” he murmured, pushing through the weight of his own exhaustion to help his brother.
He ran hot water in the bathroom and filled their plastic water bottles - they weren’t boiling hot, but pleasantly warm.
“You’re going to like this,” he promised, packing the bottles around his brother under the blankets, gently under each of his arms. He hesitated before tucking one between his legs, quickly covering him up again.
Dean didn’t react to the heat. Didn’t react at all, to any of it.
Sam sat next to him on the bed. He knew he should let the extremities wait, deal with the core first, but it didn’t sit right with him to leave those bloodless fingers to freeze.
“Don’t tell anyone I did this, okay?” he muttered, gently extracting Dean’s hands from under the blanket. “I’ve kind of got a reputation to maintain, here.” He covered Dean’s icy hands with his own, not rubbing or chafing, which could damage the skin, but just letting some of his own heat seep into the frozen digits. Then he blew on them, lightly, hoping his breath would help warm them up.
“You gonna thaw here, or what, bro?” he said. “I’m holding your hand and everything.”
He tipped Dean’s head to face him, examining his expression.
“I’m not snuggling with you, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” he warned. Which was a lie. Of course he would get in the bed with Dean, if that’s what was required, although he couldn’t wait to hear Dean’s thoughts on the matter.
He went to the bathroom again and switched out the water bottles for warmer ones. He wished they had an electric blanket, or at least a heating pad.
Sam wished a lot of things for Dean.
He couldn’t bear the thought of him, dazed and semi-conscious, struggling across the lot like a zombie in a trance, headed for his car, the only place he felt safe.
"Or were you looking for me, dude?" asked Sam, gently running a warm finger over Dean’s cheekbone. It seemed as likely as anything - Dean always came after Sam.
Dean turned his face into the touch, his forehead crinkled, maybe with pain - Sam knew the way it hurt, when frozen things came back to life. At least he was still deeply asleep, and Sam was glad he'd wake up warm and already healed.
He was starting to look a little better, some of the color back in his cheeks, his fingers pink again. "No more oxy, dude," said Sam. "I’m throwing the bottle away. We’ll getcha something else, something that doesn’t give you that urge to ramble, okay?"
Although he was sure Dean had taken Oxycontin before. It was fighting with Sam that had unsettled him. Even now, sound asleep, Dean looked - sad, deep lines of worry etched into his face. Sad, and older than his years, like he was already mostly used-up.
"Don’t wander off, dude," Sam whispered, stroking Dean’s sandy hair back from his face.
It was almost dawn already, and Sam was practically trembling with exhaustion, but he was afraid to take his eyes off Dean. What if he started sleepwalking again?
He didn't think he could stay awake much longer.
Finally he inched himself up on the mattress, settling with his back against the headboard. "Gonna buy you a bell, bro," he whispered, sliding one hand across the bedspread. He curled it tight around Dean’s wrist under the covers, ordering his fingers not to let go, and was instantly asleep.
***
Sam came awake when Dean shoved him onto his stomach, pulling his arm away.
"What the hell, man," Dean protested, pushing him farther off the bed. It was full light in the room, probably close to mid-morning. Sam lay still and pretended to be asleep, keeping his breathing slow and even.
"Dude, you’re not fooling me," said Dean, punching him in the back. "You want to explain this little snuggle-fest we’re having here?"
He sounded honestly confused - to him, they had gone to sleep angry, and there was no likely explanation for why Sam would have crawled into his bed with him.
Later, Sam decided. Maybe later he’d tell Dean the story. Only because they'd need to take steps to make sure it wouldn't happen again - no more Dean wandering off where Sam couldn’t keep an eye on him.
Right now, he was tired.
"You have a nightmare or something?" asked Dean, sounding unexpectedly concerned. One of his arms dropped back to Sam’s shoulder, and Sam blinked back sudden tears at the comforting weight of it.
Oh, Dean.
"Fine, princess, play silent. I know you’re awake." Dean flopped over, but he left his hand where it was, just barely formed to the curve of Sam’s shoulder. "M’going back to sleep. You try to play footsie in your sleep, fair warning, I’m gonna punch you."
The hand lingered, then slid down to the side of Sam’s neck, solid, reassuring and warm.
Sam settled with his side pressed against his brother’s, and closed his eyes.
FIN