Away to Darker Dreams, Part Two
They don't speak for the rest of the wait, or even when the food arrives. Sam just digs in, eating everything like someone's going to come and steal it from him. He packs it in in a way old-Sam would've found appalling, not to mention it's not a girly salad or something lightweight, it's burgers, protein, sustenance.
When their plates are clean, Dean wastes no time in dropping some bills on the table and escorting Sam out, leading him around by the arm like he's a blind man. He opens the passenger-side door for Sam and watches him as he curls his frame into the car. Dean goes around and gets in behind the wheel, watching Sam shake and shiver the whole drive back to the motel.
The moment the car's in park, he bolts out and over to Sam's side, sticking close even when Sam hisses at him and roughly yanks his arm out of Dean's grasp. Sam seems repelled by Dean, so he uses it to his advantage and keeps trying to shuffle nearer and nearer until they're at their room, and Sam bites out some insult before opening the door himself and storming in.
Dean follows more slowly, gathering his thoughts, scrambling for some plan of attack, some way to bring Sam to his senses. Watching him dig through his bag, a vein twitching on his forehead, his eyes hooded and bright with anger, he can't help but think that it does look like Sam's been on something pretty hardcore. Sam huffs and starts throwing shirts out of his backpack, scrambling for something, but he can't find it.
He turns his anger back to Dean, and Dean sighs inwardly, gearing himself up, rolling his shoulders, just in case worse comes to worst.
"You can't stop me from leaving," Sam tells him, tossing the debris of his search back into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "No way in hell you can stop me."
"Wanna bet?" Dean retorts dryly. "You're like a hundred-and-fifty pounds soaking wet, dude. And you're going through withdrawal, aren't'ya? Mmm-hmm. Odds aren't in your favor on this one, kiddo."
"Don't treat me like a kid!" Sam yells, and moves toward him, arms stretched out like he intends to just brush Dean aside and go out to score some more drugs, probably using his ass.
Dean almost chokes on that thought alone. God, when did he start believing Sam, thinking of him like this? Like some junkie. Fucking fucking fuck no. Something else is wrong here. Dean saw it when Sam almost cried in the Impala, heard it every time Sam forced himself to act like Dean was a stranger. Sam might be on opiates, even if that makes Dean want to scream, but he's not fucking on them because school was too stressful.
It's not hard to beat Sam. Dean had been right about the weight guestimate: all he had to do was wrap his arms around Sam's crazy-skinny waist and toss him back onto the closest bed, and Sam was winded, weakly batting at Dean and telling him to get the fuck off or so help him.
"Sorry, Sammy," he says, making his voice sound as mock-apologetic as possible, "can't do that." Sam's hits hardly affect him, and Sam sweats more and more each time he tries to buck out from under Dean.
He eventually stops fighting, going completely limp under Dean. Dean knows that trick, though, from thousands of sparring sessions with his little brother, so he doesn't loosen up, meeting Sam's red-rimmed, fiery eyes head on and trying not to look away from the horrible, complete brokenness there.
"Gotta go," Sam whimpers, trying to turn the puppydog eyes on, but he doesn't quite remember how. They’re all skewed and dull. "Dean."
Dean's throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he'd rather die before rolling over on this one. "No, Sam. You're not going anywhere without me ever again, I swear to god."
Sam groans low in his throat and flops his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. His face is shiny in a thin, greasy sheen of sweat, his eyes sunken and pale. "I need them."
Dean shakes his head. "No, c'mon Sammy, no you don't."
"Stop calling me that," Sam whispers, staying still.
Dean risks a moment by letting go of Sam and ducking over to his bag, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and locking Sam's tiny wrist to the bedpost. Sam's eyes snap open, his arm jerking reflexively in his restraints. "What the fuck, Dean?"
"As much fun as it is to win fights against you, I'm not gonna watch you all day long," Dean says, using every ounce of his strength to keep his voice neutral, like this is no big deal, like he knows exactly what he's doing. "You're gonna get off the drugs, and you're gonna tell me the truth of what's happening here."
Sam rolls his eyes, slamming his head back against the headboard and shooting a glare Dean's way. "It's cute that you still see me as some sappy little geek boy, but I wasn't fucking lying. Take these off of me."
Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. "Bull."
"Ugh," Sam spits. "Ugh, at least get me some water."
Dean watches him for a moment, his heartstrings pulling like he's a marionette and Sam's the puppetmaster. He nods, getting up, and grabs a water bottle, opening it up for Sam before handing it off to Sam. Sam practically chugs the thing, stopping only to breathe, before slamming the bottle down on the nightstand, panting.
Sam grimaces, rubbing his temple with his free hand. "You're a dick," he says quietly.
Dean ignores him and sits down at the kitchenette table, powering on his laptop. He looks up websites on drug abuse, on possible symptoms of STDs, ignoring the bile in the back of his throat. He shoots an email to Stanford's offices of admissions, inquiring after rescinded scholarships, practically begging them to let Sam back. Even though the night Sam left was the fucking worst night of his life, Sam deserves to be able to go back to that safe, cushioned life, no matter what he's gotten himself messed up in. If any one of the godforsaken Winchesters deserves a second chance, hell, even a third, it's Sam.
Sam passes out, sleeping fitfully, his brows pinched and his head twitching as he mutters plaintively under his breath. Dean hates seeing him like this, but he's confident it'll be over soon, that once Sam has the drugs out of his system, they'll talk for real, and maybe Dean'll make some more progress.
A bead of sweat drips down Sam's jaw and Dean gets up to wipe it down. He gets a washcloth from the bathroom and gently runs it across Sam's face as Sam tosses and turns underneath his ministrations.
"Please, no," Sam chokes out in his sleep, his voice rough and thin and tight, and god, he's shaking. "Please..."
Dean drops onto the bed beside him and rubs a hand up and down Sam's arm. "Just a dream," he murmurs, a phrase he told Sam a thousand times before he left for Stanford, "s'okay, Sammy."
Sam quiets a little, his mouth falling open, and Dean goes back to his research, pulling out a notepad and taking notes on what he reads. He considers calling Dad, even goes so far as to flip his phone open, but he decides against it. Dad doesn't need to know about any of this. Dean just has to make Sam better.
He needs to make him better.
Sam ripples like he's having a seizure in his sleep. Dean's research only gives him bad fucking news, web pages upon web pages of information that he so desperately wants to ignore, but he knows he can't.
Serious addicts can't go cold turkey. It'll kill them, lead them through a looping path of constant pain and delirium, before their bodies just give up. Serious addicts need to be helped by a professional facility, where they can be weaned off of their substance of choice in a safe atmosphere. Or what the fuck ever. Every site he visits sums up to those same words.
What he's doing now, it's killing Sam. If he wants to help Sam, he has to give him drugs.
What the hell. What the fucking fuck. He can hardly believe this is his life now. Still, he'd probably murder some puppies to save Sam, no matter how fucked up that is, and this sort of falls into the same category. If saving Sam means doping him up, it's better than the alternative.
Dean sighs, putting his elbows on the table and dropping his head into his hands. Sam's story makes sense with his appearance, with his symptoms, but it doesn't make sense with Sam. It's pretty much the antithesis of Sam. Sam would study for twenty-three hours a day just to stay at Stanford. Dean knows it. And Sam's certainly smart enough to keep his own there, among his geeky people. Sam's explanation doesn't make sense.
A dull light bulb flickers on and off above Dean's head and he opens a new tab, researching opiates, specifically. Even more specifically, why people take them in the first place, why they get addicted to them, what they do. That sort of shit.
Apparently, they're used to treat pain. The user develops a tolerance and needs more and more. They give a sort of high, an escape from the pain and a happy feeling. Some types of opiates are less hardcore than others, and withdrawal isn't fatal, just shitty as hell. Sam didn't specify what he was taking.
Dean knows why, though. Sam was in pain. Sam wouldn't take it for the high.
Dean glances over at his brother again, still tossing and shivering and sweating. Dean won't wake him. He'll wait. And when he does wake, Dean'll ambush him in the absolute kindest way possible, if he can manage it. Another thing the websites all say is that addicts need kindness and patience and understanding. Dean's capable of that, he thinks. Especially with Sammy.
He loses himself in the research, only pausing to reminisce about watching Sam do the same thing. He writes little sticky notes about things to remember: keep him hydrated. Give him lower doses and make sure to lock up the drugs. Let him sleep. Be kind. Maybe check him in somewhere, gotta get fake insurance for that. And, underlined three times, in capital letters: HELP HIM.
He starts when he hears a gasp, spinning in his chair and standing up in one motion. He stares over at Sam, who is sitting up straight, his skin shiny and red with sweat. He's staring at nothing, his eyes wide and blank, his mouth hanging open.
"No," he moans like a plaintive child, "no, I won't do that. You can't make me. No." His eyes roll up into his head.
He starts trembling so hard Dean swears he's actually vibrating. "Sammy?" he asks, creeping closer, mentally cataloguing where every weapon in the room is, "Sammy, you okay?"
"Don't make me do it," Sam sobs, crying with white eyes, moving slowly from side to side like a pendulum, "I'm not. I'm not a monster."
Alright, Dean's heard enough. His heart is going to fucking implode if he has to listen to any more of Sam's keening. Does Sam think he's a monster? Who's forcing him to do what? Oh god. So many awful images rise up into Dean's brain and he pushes them away by rising into action, leaping forward and grabbing Sam by the shoulders. He sits on the edge of the bed and roughly shakes Sam, trying to look him in the eye but only a tiny ring of hazel is visible, no pupil. He shakes him even harder and Sam's head bounces back and forth like a dead man's. He can hear the handcuff rattling and scraping against the bedpost, trying to keep Sam back. Dean wants to vomit. "Sam, wake up!" he finally screams, his fingernails digging into Sam's overheated, pallid skin.
Sam screams hoarsely and his eyes slump shut. He goes limp in Dean's arms, falling forward, his chin bouncing against Dean's shoulder. Dean curls his arms around him and squeezes his eyes shut tight, running his hands up and down Sam's back, damp with sweat. He mumbles little comforting nothings into Sam's ear, rocking them back and forth, his chest and throat tight, his eyes burning. Sam doesn't move for several beats, and when he does, it's all at once, in a burst of energy, his fingers finding purchase in Dean's shirt and shoving him away.
Dean goes off easily, not one to poke a bear. He stands up, backing away, eyes locked on Sam's. Sam stares back, gasping for breath, his free hand curled into a fist in his lap. Dean sees a spot of blood where the cuff around the other one of his wrists has begun to chafe.
"What the hell was that?" Dean croaks, heart pounding. "I've never seen you have a dream like that."
"Just a nightmare," Sam whispers, but his eyes don't believe his mouth, so haunted and hollow. "That's all. Just a nightmare." Dean isn’t sure which of them Sam is trying to convince.
Dean wants to call bull, but it's a rare moment that Sam isn't angry, and he doesn't want to change that. He thinks of his notes. Be kind. Help him.
"Do you want more water?" he asks instead, backing up and sitting down on the edge of his own bed. "I can grab some food, too."
Sam sighs. "Yeah," he says quietly, "and I gotta piss."
"I'll let you go, but then you're coming right back here," Dean says, using his Dad voice. "There are no windows in the bathroom. I'm going to clean the cut on your wrist, but then you gotta go right back to cuffs, Sammy. I'm sorry."
Sam's face is blank, devoid of emotion or expression. "Sure," he says.
Dean hopes to god he didn't break Sam's spirit, but maybe Sam's just trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He was always real good at doing that in pool and poker games.
Dean lopes forward, slipping the key out of seemingly nowhere. Sam's eyes hadn't tracked it, didn't know Dean had kept it in a pocket on the inside of his shirt. If he got too close with the key on him, Sam might be able to grab it without his notice. No, not even might, he definitely would. That's another thing Dean's gotta keep on his mind.
He unchains Sam and watches him go into the bathroom, listens to the sounds through the shitty motel door. Sam comes out a few minutes later looking a little more alive. Dean gets out the med kit and sits Sam down on the bed, cleaning out the long slice on Sam's wrist and padding it with shitloads of gauze, all the way around, so the cuff won't do any more damage. He re-cuffs Sam, who is silent and cooperative throughout all of Dean's ministrations.
"Okay," Dean says, clapping his hands together and standing up. He grabs Sam a water bottle from his duffel, opens it and hands it to Sam. Sam drinks it. Good. "I'll grab us some breakfast, how does that sound? You still like sugar on your pancakes?"
Sam doesn't respond. He stares down at his lap. He's shivering again, twitching every so often. Dean intends to soften Sam up with good ol' grub, but after, he has to ask the hard questions.
He doesn't have to think about that now.
"I'll be back in ten," Dean says, grabbing his coat and keys and heading out the door. He pauses, his hand on the cool metal of the scratched door knob. "Please... be here when I come back."
With that, he slips out, breathing in a much-needed burst of fresh air.
Dean comes back in eleven minutes, each second silently ticking down in his head, and each second over ten ramping his anxiety up with each mile left to drive back the motel that may or may not house his baby brother.
Sitting in the parking lot, he practices his smiles in the rearview mirror, taking a moment to calm his heart, his hands. Sam will still be there. He can do this. They'll both be okay. They'll be just fine. Sam will get back to school without a hitch, Dean will report back to Dad with only good news. Or something. Some fairytale ending, god, please.
He freezes his face into a brotherly, cheesy smile, making sure his eyes crinkle and his teeth show. He hefts the to-go bag in one hand and unlocks the door with the other, striding in and whistling a nameless tune. He tries not to collapse in relief when he sees Sam's legs still on the ratty motel bed, crossed at the ankle. Sam's awake, staring listlessly at him. His eyes look redder and shinier than before.
"Breakfast, Winchester style," he crows, plopping down onto his own bed, the springs creaking. He pulls out his french toast and bacon, setting them on the comforter beside him. For Sam, he got some fruit side thing with pineapples n' shit, and some sugared-to-hell pancakes. He sets everything down in Sam's lap, presses a plastic fork into Sam's free hand when he doesn't react.
"Coffee's in the car," he says, finding it harder with each passing moment to stay cheery. "You want some? I got you a bullshit vanilla latte thing."
Sam's eyes flick up to Dean and back down to his lap. He nods, his hair falling into his face.
Okay, good sign, Dean thinks. He's back in a flash with two steaming cups of joe. Sam holds out his hand, balancing his trays in his lap, and Dean gives him the creamy one.
They eat in silence. They being the operative word. Sam's almost done with his pancakes, and he pecks at the fruit every so often. At least he's not cramming it in like it's the last meal he'll get for awhile, like he did at the diner. It might be progress. Or Dean's stupidly hopeful imagination.
Dean finishes before Sam. He stays quiet and still, waiting for Sam to eat his last few bites. Sam takes shaky sips from the coffee, almost spills it all over his lap a couple of times. With a pancake and four strawberries left, he pushes the trays off of his lap and to the side, leaning over and setting the empty coffee cup on the nightstand.
Dean stands, leaning forward to grab up all of Sam's shit. He hardly has any time to react.
One moment he's just fine, and the next his shirt is being yanked so hard he loses his balance, sprawling all over Sam's bony knees. A cold hand shoves its way down his shirt, feeling, groping for something.
Oh, motherfucker. Sam's trying to get at the key to the cuffs.
"It's not there anymore," Dean wheezes, his throat sore after being assaulted by Sam's elbows. "You won't find it."
Sam drops him with a huff, and Dean slumps to the ground, vision blurring. He stays on his hands and knees for a moment, gathering himself. A tear drops. No, fuck you. He mashes a hand against his eye. This is so fucking stupid, he curses internally, unable to make himself angry at Sam. What did either of us do to deserve this?
He sits up, leaning back on his haunches. He stares up at Sam. Sam stares back. Dean doesn't blink, doesn't shy away. Just looks and looks and looks.
Sam breaks first, his face caving in on itself, his eyes scrunching up and his lip wobbling. He turns away from Dean, breathing raggedly, biting his lip. "I have to do it," he rasps, "you'd never understand."
"You never even try," Dean spits, unable to help himself, "you gotta trust me, Sammy. You can trust me, you know that. I swear to god I'm not mad. Just... talk to me."
Sam shakes his head, frowning and staring up at the ceiling. His face is splotchy. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. He shakes his head again, more roughly.
Dean sighs, slumping and falling back against the carpet. He stands up slowly, cleaning up the pancake and fruit debris from the carpeting. He sweeps everything onto trays and dumps it all into the trashcan in the corner. He washes his hands. He makes Sam wait.
on to part three