Supernatural: Consider the Hairpin Turn [2/3]
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PART TWO
It's not the pain that wakes him. It's the screaming.
Sam's been getting torn apart for almost two hundred years and wasn't exactly a stranger to injury before then. He can sleep through a little torture. But the yelling-the yelling is just too much. His throat aches, on top of everything, from the strain. The sound echoes off the walls even louder as it bounces back on him. It's endless. He can't stop it, not with how much everything hurts, but he's sure it's only making things worse.
The smell of sulfur is overwhelming, but that's not new either.
Sam is surrounded by bright orange fire and thick black smoke, and he knows better than to ask the figure at the end of his bed for help. He doesn't know if it's Michael or Lucifer, but it's wearing Dean. Oh God, Sam let them have Dean.
He claps a hand over his mouth to make the shouting stop. The salt in his tears burns his face as much as the flames do. Not that this is news to Sam. He's more demon than they are, and they never forget to remind him of that. He takes a few noxious breaths before attempting to speak. "Don't," he manages. "Please don't. Don't hurt me anymore."
It takes a step closer to him, walking around Sam, and it's not until the angel does that that Sam realizes he's in a bed. Not on a rack. Not dangling from hooks. Not spread out over a mile, aching to put his parts back together but unable to move. Just a plain white bed with clean sheets. Sam doesn't even want to imagine what that means.
The hand that reaches out for him doesn't attack, it brushes across his cheek slowly instead. Too slowly. Too close to sweetly. Sam whimpers and tries to pull away. "It's okay, Sammy, shh."
"No," Sam tells it. "Not this. Please, not this. Please, please."
Sam tries to fight; his muscles are all atrophied from lifetimes in the pit. Everything hurts too much to move, the angels wouldn't have it any other way. But Sam had one good thing, and they could never touch it before. Not Dean, he wants to beg, but he can't say that out loud. Can't let them know how well this is going to work.
"Hey, it's okay. Sam, it's okay," he says, sounding painfully like Sam's brother would at a moment like this. Of course it's going to be convincing, but Sam's not going to be convinced. He's still got some shred of brain buried somewhere. "It's all gonna be better now."
Sam's heart, if he still has one, if it's not sitting in some archangel's stomach at the moment, breaks at that. Sam had a dream that he was out of here. Dean brought him out, pulled him from what Sam was never good enough to save Dean from, and there was open air and running water and there was Dean. Sam had moral scruples over what his body did while he was away, because life was painless, and he had time and clarity of mind to worry about little luxuries like that. The funny thing is, for some reason Sam had actually thought it was real.
They tried to warn him. Told him every day. There's no escape from Hell. Not for us and not for you. But he fell for this one. They'd gotten him good. He almost wants to congratulate them.
"Sam, say something."
Sam blinks and realizes he's been staring at space for so long he's begun to see through the fire. That's never happened before. The walls are made of thick metal, they look exactly like a room he'd done time in back on Earth. Sam almost laughs. He'd thought that room was hellish then, could hardly imagine being trapped anywhere worse. Sam really didn't know what problems were before all this started. He'd had it made.
"Please say something."
"Water," Sam says. That's all he can think to say, even though he knows it's the wrong answer and he's only going to get taunted for it. "I need water."
The monster at his bedside lifts his head gingerly, one hand cupping the back as he brings something to Sam's lips. This has happened before; Sam's ready for the taste of blood or the burn of acid or whatever this thing is about to drown him in. What he's not ready for is the chill of ice water that slides down his throat pleasantly. He's not ready for the tiniest curve of Dean's lips as he grabs the cup greedily and swallows the rest in one long sip.
"Now if you could just do that with whiskey, you'd be a real man."
Sam looks up at Dean's face and can't find the trace of a threat in it. He's not looking hard enough, maybe. He really doesn't want to. "Don't," Sam says, his throat much clearer now. "Don't do this, please."
Dean-Lucifer, Michael, not Dean-draws even closer to Sam, a stung expression on his face. Sam flinches, pulls himself back on the bed, putting as much distance between them as he can.
"You can't do that to me, Sam. I can deal with anything you throw at me, but I can't deal with you acting like I'm gonna hurt you. I'm your brother, man. You can't be scared of me. It's not allowed." Sam swallows hard and relaxes a little as Dean pulls his blanket up, avoiding looking him in the eye. "We're gonna…we're gonna work through it, okay? But you gotta take this much at face value. Because I'm not gonna be able to help if you-I need some help here, too."
Sam stares at the man standing over him, searches his face and his eyes and the trembling at the edge of his mouth, and knows. This is his brother; nothing can mimic him so perfectly. "Dean," Sam says, the one syllable breaking on a sob. "Dean, don't let them get you. They're coming, any moment now. Please, please don't let them."
Dean must not know where he is, because he doesn't startle or hide or run from Sam's side. Sam can't imagine how he could miss the fire surrounding them or the burning stench of sulfur or the taste from the uranium the angels leave behind when they attack. It can't be loyalty. Even Dean can't be willing to stay with Sam through what those angels are going to do.
"Shh," Dean says, sitting next to Sam's pillow on the mattress. "Shh, Sammy, no one's gonna get either of us, okay? You're safe, I've got you."
Sam shakes his head. There's no way Sam busted out, and that means Dean is really here with him. In Hell. Because obviously everything needed to get worse.
"Dean, no. You can't be here." Sam tries to shove him away, as if it's his proximity to Sam that's responsible. Maybe it is. Maybe Dean came here for him. God, what an idiot. "You can't be here. Leave. You have to leave. Before they come, Dean. Don't let them get you."
"Sam, listen to me. We are not in Hell. This is not Hell. Sammy," Dean places a hand on Sam's cheek and forces eye contact, "Sammy, look, it's safe. Everything is safe."
Sam grabs for Dean, and he feels solid. Sturdy. Dean's safe, and no one is hurting him, and no one is going to hurt Sam as long as his brother sits right here and shields him. Sam closes his eyes tight and opens them again. The flames die away completely. The smell of sulfur subsides into salt and rust and that Bobby Singer scent Sam is frankly getting sick of. For a moment he thinks all of his organs are exactly where they're supposed to be.
"Really?" he asks. "I'm not in Hell?"
Dean smiles weakly and pushes a hand over Sam's clammy forehead. "You're not in Hell."
Sam trusts Dean. Just because his name is Sam Winchester, and there's not a vein in his body, or a thought in his mind, or a single piece of his tattered excuse for a soul that knows how not to.
"I'm tired," he whispers, pressing his face into the fabric of his brother's shirt.
Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam's head. "No," he says. "No, you've been sleeping. Stay awake, Sam. Please, stay awake with me."
"I'm tired, Dean," Sam says again. "I don't want to feel like this anymore."
Dean takes a long minute before he responds, and even through the ringing in his ears, Sam can hear how shaky Dean's voice is. "No, it's okay," Dean says. It sounds anything but. "You're gonna sleep it off, and you'll feel fine in a few hours. Nothing happened, okay? Nothing happened to you. It's just in your head, you'll remember when you wake up."
Sam falls asleep against his brother's heartbeat.
_______________________________________________________________
Where Sam is, if any of this can be believed, is the panic room under Bobby's house. The same place he's been stuck a thousand times before, but this time the door is open, letting the stifling air out, and Sam isn't lying in or strapped to a cot as he sweats and hallucinates and cries for help. Not that this makes it any better, but at least it's an effort.
The cot is pulled up right next to Sam's bed, and Sam suspects that the indent on it is now shaped more like Dean than himself. Every time he asks why they're down there, Dean smiles thinly and says, "no angels" before changing the subject. Sam asks the question even more often than he forgets the answer. He's willing to bet anything that "no angels" are the two most beautiful words he's ever heard in his life.
Sam is in a nice bed, a big white one with the fat pillows Dean always used to claim as rightfully his under big brother's law. There's a monitor by the side, a bunch of tubes going in every direction as they snake away from Sam. Sam doesn’t feel the urge to ask if Dean stole them from a hospital. It's not like he doesn't know the answer. It's not like he doesn't appreciate it, wrong means of acquisition be damned.
It's almost pleasant for the first few days. Sam can't do much more than sleep and wake up from his nightmares, and every time he thinks he's waking up in Hell. Anywhere is welcoming when he realizes that's not the case.
Still, he doesn't like it. He never has, and even knowing Dean has nothing but Sam's well-being in mind can't erase that stupid, petty, childish part of him-or maybe it's plain instinct. The room isn't welcoming to him. Sam tells himself it's because he has bad memories here, but Sam has nothing but bad memories, and the worst of them are far, far away from the panic room or anything on Earth. There's just no warm welcome for demons here; maybe Sam is human enough to get through the door, but he'll never be human enough not to feel how much the walls hate him.
"Hey, champ," Dean says, walking in with his arms full of plates, beers tucked under. He stirs up the air around him, shakes Sam out of his thoughts, and almost makes him forget he's unhappy. There's a bright look on Dean's face that Sam almost can't tell is an act. "Hungry?"
Sam closes his eyes and reminds himself that the sharp teeth in his brother's mouth are only in his head. This is not Hell. Not Hell, and Dean is not the devil, and there's no reason for him to feel like he's covered in lava except that he expects it. That works sometimes-it works now. Dean is normal when he looks again, and after a few grudging moments, Sam's skin stops boiling. "Yeah, I guess."
"Brought some sandwiches," Dean says. "And booze, of course." He grins and pauses by the bed, waiting for Sam to take the drinks and free up his arms. Sam does, hissing at the sharp pain that comes with the cold bottles on his skin. Too drastic a change from the heat, but Dean had no way to know that. It's not really hot, you idiot, he reminds himself again. That didn't really hurt.
Sam sets the beer down next to him, propped against his pillow, and accepts the sandwich Dean holds out to him. He watches Dean dig in before taking a bite, chewing slowly as the food turns to ash on his tongue. "What's in this?" he asks, picking at the sandwich.
"Ham and cheese," Dean says, looking up with another smile. "Is it good? I put extra mayo, like you used to like when you were a kid. I know you never let yourself indulge anymore, but I figure you've been eating out of a tube for a while, you must be starving."
Sam forces himself to swallow. "Oh," he says. "I thought it was-" my intestines "-something else."
Dean's face falters just a bit. "You don't like it? I can make another one."
Sam shakes his head. He's pretty sure anything he tries right now will taste about the same. "It's great. Thanks, Dean."
Dean grins again, setting his drink on the floor and reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. "No problem."
"You're in a good mood," Sam observes. "Something happen I should know about?"
"You're awake," Dean says simply. "I was starting to think you…" He shrugs. "Just glad you're up. And okay. You seem okay. I didn't think-well, who gives a shit what I thought, right? I was wrong."
Okay. Sam seems okay. He looks out over Dean's shoulder and tries to count the demons waiting on the other side of the room. There must be about 40 or 50 of them. But they're not real, and Sam seems okay. Dean needs him to.
Dean sits up, his eyebrows drawing together. He looks behind him and then back at Sam. "Sammy? You with me?"
"Yes," Sam says, fixing his eyes on Dean. "Yes, I'm okay."
Dean looks at Sam too closely and nods too slowly. Sam can read the skepticism in his expression, but instead of calling him out, Dean smiles again. "Yeah," he says. "You're fine."
Sam feels a nice rush of relief. Dean is pretending, too. That's good, that sounds about right. Sam can do that. "So," he says, scratching at his brain for some kind of conversation topic. Ideally, he would go for something light at a time like this, but then again, it's him and Dean. "What happened with Cas?"
Dean's eyes shift away from Sam. "He…got them." He looks back at Sam. "He got the souls."
Sam lets out a long breath. "Shit."
"Yeah," Dean replies, the word vibrating with laughter. "Shit sounds about right."
"How?"
"I don't know, really. After he," Dean swallows hard, "after he knocked down your wall, we lost track of him for a few hours and by the time we saw him again, he was…" Dean shakes his head. "Something else, man. Not Cas. He said he was God."
"Wow," Sam says, trying to imagine their little angel sidekick half baked on souljuice. "So is he a nice God?"
Dean lifts an eyebrow, smirking at Sam. "I'd say no. First thing he did was nuke the crap out of Raphael-"
"No surprise there," Sam says. "They weren't exactly best friends."
"Then he told me and Bobby to bow down and 'profess our love onto him' or else."
"Yikes."
Dean smiles just a little. "Yeah. Yikes."
"How'd you get away?" Sam asks.
Dean averts his eyes.
Sam's jaw drops. "What? Seriously?"
"Sam-"
"After everything we've been through? After all the shit we've done just so we didn't have to be some angel's bitch, you're on your knees just because Cas says so?"
"Sam, you don't-"
But Sam's not listening. He's shaking with rage and the kind of disappointment he should be too old for. "I went to Hell, Dean. To avoid that. How could you just-? I thought we were willing to die for that. Both of us."
"You think I did it because I was scared to die? You really think I wouldn't have told him where to stick it if it had been on me?" Dean is yelling now. At Sam, and Sam thinks he sees his brother's eyes welling up, and very suddenly, he feels like crying too. "You were here alone, Sam. And I didn't know when you were gonna wake up, but I knew what you'd be dealing with when you did. And I didn't…I couldn't, Sammy. Wasn't gonna leave you alone because I was too stubborn to..."
Sam sets his plate on his lap and reaches out, taking Dean's chin in his hand and forcing his brother to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I wasn't thinking."
Dean shakes his head, refusing to hold the gaze. "I knew you'd be disappointed. I knew it was wrong but I couldn't."
Sam watches Dean, shame seeping through him, making him feel twice as heavy. "I should have been there," he says. "I should have been there to help you stop him, Dean. Instead I was..."
Happy. While Dean was facing death and sacrificing himself and needing Sam's help, Sam was playing house. And he made Dean feel guilty.
"Sam, you couldn't help that you were-"
"Yes, I could. I should have been there."
"It doesn't matter. He'd already gotten into purgatory by the time we reached him. You couldn't have stopped him. All it would have done was gotten us all killed faster."
"At least we would have gone in together," Sam says, punching the sheets lightly. "And with a little dignity."
"Never had much dignity to begin with, Sammy," Dean answers warmly, taking Sam's hand and smoothing it out. Sam looks up at him, sees a tiny smile at the corner of his brother's mouth. "You remember that time in high school when I-"
"I've spent the last decade trying to forget." Sam shakes his head. "And now the mental picture is as vivid as the day it happened. Thanks for nothing, asshole."
Dean grins, pushing his thumb over Sam's pulse. "The skirt really was pretty liberating, though."
Sam laughs a little, and Dean seems to take some strength from that. He sits up and his grip on Sam's hand loosens. Sam manfully resists the urge to pull him back.
"Anyway, that's that. Cas has been stirring up all kinds of trouble since then, but he's stayed pretty clear of us. Bobby's been trying to track him, find a way to put a stop to it."
"And you?"
Dean smiles weakly, avoids the question. "It started out with irregular weather, just like Lucifer. Tornadoes, a few earthquakes. Droughts in Seattle, blizzards in Arizona. But it's getting worse. More obvious. More dangerous, too."
"Cas did all that?"
"I'm telling you, it's not Castiel anymore, Sam. Last month, a volcano popped up out of nowhere, wiped Las Vegas clean off the map. Cas was never that-"
"Last month?" Sam asks. "I've been out for a month?"
Dean barks a laugh and lets go of Sam altogether. He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Sammy, you've been out a whole lot longer than that."
Sam swallows hard, stares down at his hands on the white sheet. "How long?"
"It doesn’t matter," Dean says. "You don't need to worry about it right now, okay? Let's just take it one thing at a time."
Sam thinks of the way time blurred together for him and Dean in that dream world, and his heart seizes up. God, it felt like forever in there, a whole lifetime. Dean's been ignoring Castiel's threat for Sam's sake. Going against every instinct, everything Dad taught them or Dean cared about so he could sit here and tell Sam to wake up. It could have been one month or nine or years. Dean's got gray in his hair Sam swears wasn't there before. "How long, Dean?" he insists. "How long have I been in here?"
"Six months," Dean says after a pause. Sam feels his eyebrows drawing together, and Dean must guess what he's staring at, because he looks up and touches his fingers to his temples. "It's been a rough six months."
Six months of his life Sam is never getting back. "I don't want to be in here anymore," Sam says, sitting up and pushing the covers away. The machine by his bed begins to beep out of control, and Sam tries to tug the tubes and needles out. The plate Sam had been balancing falls to the floor and shatters, most of Sam's sandwich going with it. It's joined by another less than half a minute later when Dean reacts.
Dean leaps to his feet and pushes Sam back, restraining him until he's taken a few breaths. "Jesus, do you see why I didn't wanna tell you?" Dean looks Sam over, begins to carefully restore everything to its correct setting.
"I don’t need my heart rate monitored, Dean," Sam snaps, but he doesn't try to remove the tubes again. "I need to get out of this room."
"Shh," Dean says. "That's fine, Sam. That's okay. We can do that. But you gotta take it easy, at least until we know how…"
Sam nods and holds his arm out so that Dean can unhook the hospital equipment the right way, trying his best to stay still and calm. He hates this room. He hates it so much, and just the idea that he's spent more time here than he has almost anywhere on Earth is making him sick.
"Hey, Sam. You there?"
Sam realizes Dean's shaking him and blinks until he can focus his attention on his brother. His feet are dangling off the side of the bed, and he looks down to discover that Dean has finished taking all the tubes out.
"Do you think you can walk okay?"
Sam has no fucking idea, but he nods the affirmative and waves Dean away as he plants each of his feet on the ground. Everything seems to be working, so he pushes off and finds that he can stand.
Dean holds an arm out and backs up, ready to catch Sam if necessary. Sam scowls, puts in the token protest about how he's not an idiot and can walk without Dean helping him, and secretly feels as shocked as Dean looks when he makes it all the way to the door without incident.
"Good, see?" Dean says brightly, patting Sam on the back. "You're just fine."
Sam decides not to mention that every step feels like sharp teeth sinking into his feet, dragging him down.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam stays in the guest room upstairs at Bobby's for three days and two nights. The house has been covered in as much anti-angel mojo as Dean and Bobby have managed to dig up since Sam went to Lala Land, but Dean still doesn't seem to think it's as safe as the panic room. Which makes no fucking sense. That room is only built to stop demons, and Sam is pretty sure Dean knows as well as he does that any Godproofing they've found is for shit, anyway. If Castiel wants to get at Sam, Castiel will get at Sam. Sam's taking comfort in the fact that he's kind of small potatoes for Castiel to bother worrying about at this point.
He turns over, the blankets suffocating him until he wakes up enough to shake the nightmare away, remember that he's safe now. Dean is sitting on the other bed, a shotgun in his lap, his face resting in both his hands. He looks exhausted.
"Dean," Sam says. "Why don't you go to sleep?"
"You don't scream, you know. Not like I did when I got back."
Sam sits up a little, pressing his palms into his eyes to try to keep his headache from building. "What are you talking about?"
"When you have nightmares. You just lie there, all still. It's quieter than when you were in the coma even. You look…"
"Dead?" Sam offers.
"Shut up, Sam."
"It's what you were thinking." Sam laughs a little. "Anyway, shouldn't me being quiet make it easier for you to sleep?"
"What if you have a nightmare and I don't wake up?" Dean asks, his words rushed.
"I'll live," Sam replies. "Probably."
Dean shakes his head. "Just need some coffee," he says, standing up and swaying on his feet.
Sam reaches out, and Dean pauses in the doorway to hear him out. "I'm awake now. You can go to bed for a few hours. I won't go anywhere."
"I'm good. Bobby should be home tomorrow. I'll sleep then."
"Look, man, I get it, I do. But you're kind of a worthless babysitter like this, and you're stressing me the fuck out. Just sleep."
Dean bites his bottom lip. "I can't, Sam. All right? I literally can't."
"What do you mean you can't? Lie down. You're so zapped I'm sure you'll be out before your head hits the pillow."
"Bobby did a spell in the panic room. Like a dreamcatcher, I guess. It was supposed to protect you from nightmares originally, but you weren't really dreaming, so." Dean shrugs. "It helped me. Every time I try falling asleep up here, I end up right back in Hell."
"You haven't dreamed about Hell in years," Sam points out.
"It's not my Hell I'm having nightmares about," he answers, meeting Sam's eyes. "Point is, I don't know the spell, and I can't sleep without it. So until Bobby gets back, all I'm going to do is scare us both and be exhausted either way. I'd rather at least stay on guard."
Sam frowns. "I'm sorry I made you move me up here, Dean, I didn't know."
"Don't apologize. You weren't happy in there. You're priority. I'm not anywhere near as-"
"I get it. I'm probably not in good shape." Dean snorts, and Sam reflects on everything his brother's just told him. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you mean I wasn't really dreaming?"
"You weren't in your dreamscape. I checked a few times." When Sam's only response is to look confused, Dean continues, "After we got away from Cas, the first thing I tried was that dream root crap. Thought maybe I could get in your head, find out what the holdup was. But you weren't there. There wasn't anything, it was just a dorm room with Jessica's picture on the desk." Dean looks guilty for a moment. "Anyway, I didn't feel right poking around in your head if you weren't there, so I left."
"Weird," says Sam. "I was definitely dreaming. I guess it was, I dunno, deeper in my head or something."
Dean nods absently, his jaw tightening. "Were they bad dreams, Sam?"
Sam thinks of their quiet little house and Dean pressing their lips together and all those years without Hell and almost wants to cry. "They were beautiful."
"Oh," Dean says. He tries to smile. "That's good."
"I didn't want to wake up," Sam adds, wishing he could take it back when Dean's smile slips a little.
"Why did you?"
Sam shrugs. "You asked me to."
"But you're glad you did?" Dean's eyes widen. "You're glad because it wasn't real, right?"
"Yeah," Sam lies. "Of course."
Dean smiles again, a real smile for the first time since Sam woke up. "It's all gonna be better soon, Sam. You'll be fine after a few days. And I'll never let anything get you again."
Sam thinks maybe Dean really can protect him, but that isn't enough to turn time back and get rid of Lucifer and Michael. It can't make them stop hurting Sam any more than it can put him back together. Nothing exists that can. Sam is Humpty Dumpty sitting in a frying pan, there's nothing his brother's admirable efforts can do about that. He smiles anyway, for Dean's sake.
_______________________________________________________________
"So he's awake, huh?"
"Sure is," Dean replies, sounding more than a little smug. Sam thinks maybe Dean's hand is on his thigh, too, only Lucifer ripped that leg off an hour ago, so Sam can't really feel it.
"How's he, uh, is he okay?" Bobby asks.
Everything they say comes to Sam through a filter. He can hear it, on some level he can even follow it, but he's impressed at how calm they are. Dean's been bleeding out for 45 minutes, and Bobby's right side got chewed off by a hellhound the moment he walked through the door. They must be stronger than him. All Sam can think about is his leg.
"It's touch-and-go right now. Sometimes he's fine. Sits and talks to me like he never left." Dean's fingers begin to rot off as Sam stares down at them, and Sam thinks it's a shame. He used to do a lot of good with those hands. "There's nightmares, of course, though he won’t tell me about them. Sometimes he just starts screaming while he's in the middle of something. Can't leave him alone for a damn minute-yesterday I caught him holding one of your steak knives to his chest like it was the only good thing he'd seen in years." There's a long pause, and Dean's hand tightens, making Sam wonder if maybe his leg is still there after all. "And sometimes you can just tell he's far away."
Something snaps in front of Sam's face, and Sam shakes his head, focusing on his brother's hand waving in front of him. "Hey, Sam. You with me?"
Sam looks over at Dean, nodding. Dean points to Bobby and Sam tries to smile as he turns to face the other man. He must not be doing it right, because Bobby looks away immediately, avoiding both Sam and Dean's eyes. "Welcome back, Sam," Bobby says, clearly upset. "Good to see you're...awake."
"There's good news," Sam tells him reassuringly. He's been here the longest; Dean and Bobby are depending on him to tell them how to deal with it. "The angels will fix that once you've bled to death. It's not that bad after a while."
Bobby's face contorts. Confusion, or disbelief, or maybe he's mad at Sam. He probably thinks Sam is lying. Sam doesn’t know really, reading faces is hard. The angels and their demons don't have expressions, just bloodthirsty little smiles.
Dean laughs like it's a joke. "No one's bleeding to death today, Sam."
Sam smiles. Dean never used to be an optimist. It's kind of cute, but Sam has to stamp it out before Lucifer does. Lucifer won’t be gentle about it. "Shh, Dean, it's okay. You don't have to lie to me."
"Sammy, come on. We talked about this, remember? You're not in Hell."
"No, of course not," Sam murmurs. He holds his eyes shut and opens them, and his leg is just fine and Bobby is fine and, best of all, everything except for the look on Dean's face seems to be okay, too. "Oh," he says, still a little out of it. "I'm not."
"No, no you're not." Dean jostles Sam's thigh playfully. "I've got you. You're fine."
"I'm fine," he says. "Bobby, don't worry. Dean says I'm fine."
Bobby frowns. He's not as good at pretending as Dean is. Sam resents him a little for that. "You both look tired," he says, standing up. "I'll go cast that spell on the room."
Bobby leaves quickly, like Sam's something to get away from. Sam pushes closer to Dean, hides his face against his brother's shirt. "What'd I do wrong?"
Dean puts one hand in Sam's hair and says nothing.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam never sees what he expects in the mirror. Sometimes it's better, sometimes Sam's convinced his skin is burning, so Dean takes him to see that he's imagining it. The reflection, while thinner than he remembers being, and certainly closer to yellow than he used to be, is not on fire or missing body parts or any of the other horrible things he's anticipating.
But there are days like this, days when Sam just wants to wash his face and go to sleep, when he ends up looking at himself through one eye and can see the other dangling down against his cheek in the glass.
He lets out a shout, and Dean is through the door in seconds, holding Sam up, one hand on his chest, the other circling on his back. "Sammy, hey. What's going on?"
Sam points to his reflection, but Dean only glances for a second before turning back to Sam.
"Sam, listen to me. Look closer, okay? There is nothing wrong with you." He reaches up to pull Sam's hand away from his face and squeezes Sam's fingers. "You look good, Sam. Well, you know, as good as you can."
Sam stares down at his brother, at the worry written all over his face and tries not to think about another time and place, when Dean used to look at Sam in the mirror with dark eyes and tell him he was beautiful. Sam reaches out, runs a finger along his brother's jaw and lets out a long breath. "Promise me," he says. "If I fall asleep again, Dean, don't make me wake up."
Dean slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder. "Let's go see what's on TV."
Sam holds onto the sink, glares at Dean in the mirror. "Promise, Dean. You have to promise."
Dean's shoulders slump a little as he sighs. "Yeah, Sam. I promise."
Sam's surprised by how much he looks like he means it.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam feels the difference now that it's been pointed out. Something washes over him when he walks into the bedroom, finds Dean already out cold after days without sleeping. It's nothing strong enough to pinpoint, but it's there. A loosening of his too-tense muscles, a slight fog in his mind, clouding out some of the Hell and making him too intent on sleep to remember to be scared of it. Bobby's ritual did wonders for the atmosphere, and Sam wonders as he passes by Dean toward his own bed if maybe it'll work on him like it's supposed to. Sure, he had nightmares in the panic room when he first woke up, but Hell was fresh then. Now? Feeling the spell work on him, watching Dean turn in his bed, smack his lips like a child, and mumble something with a happy sound? Sam can't imagine it won't work on him, too.
It's easy enough to fall asleep. It's easy enough to think it worked, because Sam doesn't go to Hell in his nightmare, Sam goes to the one place in the world he can't imagine Hell touching. Sam goes home, to his and Dean's white suburban house and their green lawn and a big, round moon shining off his and Dean's cars. Sam goes home, and now Dean knows not to wake him. Now Sam can keep this forever, and forget real because real means Hell and watching his brother fade a little more everyday Sam's not better.
If he looked closely, turned his head just a little to the right, Sam would have caught a warning. He would have seen the blue shutters on his windows hanging loosely, the only thing out of place in an otherwise idyllic picture. But Sam averts his eyes quickly enough to convince himself he imagined it and doesn't look again. Nothing is out of place here, not ever. Sam is safe.
He hesitates at the door, unsure of whether to knock or not. He aches to see Dean-not his brother Dean, maybe, but his Dean, who will smile better than Sam's ever seen anyone smile and tug him down for a kiss-on the threshold, asking Sam where the hell he's been and why he left just as dinner was ready. But he also wants to surprise him, find Dean sprawled out on the couch or standing in the kitchen having a glass of water and be the one to kiss Dean first. The door is open, just a crack, when Sam gets there, so that settles the debate.
He pushes it open slowly, quietly. The house is dark, except for the moonlight-suddenly a little too bright. It shines on every surface, eerie, highlighting a scene too terrible for even Sam to accept. Every single thing in the room has been torn apart, thrown out of place, broken. The couch is bleeding white stuffing onto the floor. Sam steps forward and hears a crack, looks down to find a framed picture under his shoe. Sam sees only the corner of it, it's him on the edge of the Grand Canyon, happy, and Sam remembers what the rest should look like, the part hidden under his foot. His arm around Dean; Sam looks away, doesn't want to know if the picture is still the same underneath.
This can't be happening, he tells himself. This is home and home is safe and Hell does not come here. There's a voice scratching along the edge of this assertion, the half of him that remembers that he blew it-this is still in his head and now Hell is everywhere. Sam pushes that voice down.
He calls out his brother's name and gets no response. No scream or cry for help, no monster laughing before attacking; Sam breathes a little easier. But there's no echo of his name back, no obnoxious big brother pride in Dean's voice. Do you like my redecorating? Scared you, didn't I? You're such a girl sometimes, Sammy. There's no response at all, so Sam braces himself and heads for the stairs.
As soon as he reaches the top, he sees the faint glow of a lamp from their room, knows it's the one on Dean's side of the bed. He's come home to this a thousand times before. Sometimes he runs late at work, and Dean always waits up for him. His heart leaps to his throat and he rushes to the room to find his brother.
The relief he feels when he finds Dean propped up in bed with a book sitting ignored in his hands, his eyes closed, makes Sam want to cry. But that might wake Dean up, and Dean would make fun of him for it, and everything is going to be okay now, so things like that have to start mattering again.
Sam walks to the side of the bed his brother is waiting on and shakes him, trying to wake him up. Dean doesn't stir. Sam sees something wet on his neck and reaches out to touch it. Dean's eyes shoot open as soon as Sam's fingers make contact, and his neck suddenly rips, a river of blood pouring out as Dean reaches for Sam with terror in his eyes. He tries to say something, but he can't talk through the slit in his throat. Sam tries to jump back, but Dean holds him with a steely grip.
"Dean," Sam says. "Oh God, oh God, Dean."
Dean continues to choke on-fuck, on his own blood. Sam picks their quilt up, presses it to his brother's throat, as if it's going to help now to soak up the blood. At the rate Dean is draining, he should have been dead before Sam ever got home.
Finally, the quilt pressed to Dean's wound, he manages to force out two words. "Why, Sam?" Dean asks, eyes fixed on Sam's and Sam wants to turn away, just knows he's going to be sick, but he's compelled to stare back at his brother. "Why did you do this to me, Sam? Why?"
"I didn't mean to," Sam says, as if that's going to make it any better. "Dean, I didn't mean to."
"Why Sam?"
Sam starts awake, pulled into Dean's chest, rocking back and forth. "Sammy, wake up. Sam, shh, it's okay. Just a nightmare. It's just a nightmare."
Sam lashes out, terrified, and Dean lets go, sitting back with a stung expression. Sam stares at his throat-clean, white, unmutilated. The sheets are not soaked in blood, just hot tears from where Sam's face was pressed into his pillow case. Sam reaches for him, presses a finger to Dean's throat and sobs out in relief. "Dean," he says. "Dean."
"It's okay, Sam. You're okay now."
"I'm not." Sam shakes his head and pushes Dean away when he tries to wrap his arm around Sam again. "You couldn't just leave me alone? I was safe. Why didn’t you leave me alone?"
Dean stops dead, freezes and stares at Sam, and Sam knows he'll want to apologize for this when the sun is up tomorrow and it's too late to take it back, but right now he means it. "I didn't know," Dean finally responds, his voice cracking the same as Sam's. "I wish I'd known, I'd-just tell me what to do. Sam, tell me how to make up for it."
Sam wonders which of the two answers that rush to his mind (kiss me, kill me) would break Dean's heart faster. He finally lets Dean get closer, curls up against his brother's chest and mumbles, "I just want to go home, Dean. That's all I want."
Dean sits quietly for a long time, hand moving over Sam's back unconsciously, and then suddenly he pats Sam and smiles when Sam looks up at him. "C'mon," he says. "Grab your pillow and the blanket if you want."
"Where're we going?" Sam asks.
"Home," Dean says. "Or something like that."
He grabs one of Sam's hands and pulls sheets off the bed with the other, and Sam takes his pillow as instructed, follows Dean blindly. They go downstairs, creep out of Bobby's house, and then Dean lets go of Sam, reaches for the pillow instead and tucks it under his arm once Sam's handed it over.
He walks right up to the Impala and unlocks it with one hand, the other piled high with the things they stole off Sam's bed. Dean crawls in, leaving Sam standing outside, still completely fucking lost. "Dean, what're you-?"
Dean comes back out a moment later and motions Sam forward. The pillow is tucked up on one door, the blanket laid out under it in a makeshift bed. Sam stopped being able to sleep comfortably in the backseat 15 years ago, but Dean is grinning wide like it's a great idea, anyway.
"I don't fit," Sam says, taking a tentative step forward. "Can we go back inside, Dean? It's…" Creepy, Sam thinks. Bobby's yard is nothing but rusting skeletons as far as the eye can see, and in the dark the edges all look too sharp.
Dean gets out of the car, frowning slightly, and walks right up to Sam. "Sam, try it for me, okay?"
Sam lets Dean guide him forward, but as soon as he's relaxing into the car, his heart seizes up. He can't go back to sleep, he's not ready to face what he'll see again. He tries to sit up and Dean holds him down, palm pressed flat against Sam's chest. "I can't, don't make me."
Dean sighs. "Sam, you've hardly slept in weeks."
There's a reason for that, but Sam knows he doesn't need to say as much. Anyway, he's hopeless. Dean gives him one big brother look and Sam is easing down onto his pillow, letting Dean tuck the blanket around him. He's sure he'll regret it, but he nods anyway and watches Dean smile just a bit as he closes the door.
Outside, Sam can see him drawing something in chalk on the car's windows, some sigil Sam's seen scribbled on every wall since he woke up. Sam knows that means something, that Dean wouldn't draw on the Impala for just anyone, but he can't think straight enough to really get it. The chalk makes a clacking sound against the window and Sam is so tired and all he can worry about is Dean leaving him out here. But when the sound stops, the door to the driver's seat opens and Sam feels Dean squeeze his hand once he's gotten in.
Dean starts the car, music playing low, and as soon as it's driving, Sam remembers all the years he spent like this, sleeping while Dad drove them across the country and Dean sat up in the passenger's seat with a map open on his lap. It's a warm memory, stronger than Hell, and Sam doesn't know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up the next morning parked on the side of the road, Dean's head thrown back as he snores. Sam realizes he'd forgotten until then what it feels like to have a good night's sleep.
Bobby calls Dean's cell about an hour after Sam wakes up. Dean manages to go right on snoozing through the hair metal blasting from his phone, so Sam decides he needs the sleep, swipes the phone and steps out of the car to answer it.
Dean's just waking up when Sam is getting back into the Impala fifteen minutes later, gives Sam a side glance as he wipes his mouth. "Why'd you steal my phone, sticky fingers?"
Sam laughs at him, hands it back. "Bobby called."
Dean makes an amused noise. "Guess he was wondering where the hell we got to," Dean says, yawning halfway through so Sam only knows what he says on instinct.
"Yeah. Said I didn't know where we were but that we were okay."
"Mmm," Dean says, opening and closing his eyes a few times. "What'd he say to that?"
"That we're idjits."
"No surprise there," Dean says with a quiet chuckle. "God, I wish I'd parked next to a Starbucks."
"Where are we, anyway?"
"Somewhere in Iowa. Near Missouri, I'd bet."
"Jesus, Dean," says Sam. "You drove all the way to Missouri?"
Dean sits up, patting at his jeans for his keys. "I said near."
"What the hell'd you do that for?"
"I meant to turn around after an hour or so but," Dean shrugs, "it was working. You seemed to be okay, and I guess I lost track of time."
"Hmm," Sam replies.
Dean sticks the keys in the ignition and the car begins to sing quietly as it turns on. "Guess we should get back to Bobby's, then."
Sam fidgets. "I told Bobby we're not coming back."
Dean stops before he finishes pulling the car back onto the road. "You told Bobby what?"
"I checked and our duffels are still in the back. Nothing at Bobby's we'll really miss, not unless we don't do laundry for like a month."
"Yeah, but Sam, we have nowhere else to sta-"
"I wanna hunt," Sam says, voice as firm as he can manage.
Dean blinks a few times. "Okay, what?"
"You know. Saving people? Hunting things?"
"Don't be cute," Dean replies. He starts driving again, just to keep himself busy, Sam's willing to bet. "I…look, no offense, Sam, but are you crazy?"
"Yes? Obviously?"
Dean aims a flat look at him. "Not funny."
"Not trying to be."
"We can’t hunt," Dean says, like that's that.
"I can't hunt, you mean. You don't think I can handle it."
Dean hesitates, finally slams a hand on the steering wheel. "Goddamn it, Sam. You can't, okay? You can't wash your face without freaking out, what makes you think it's a good idea to go chasing after monsters?"
"You're the one who keeps saying I'm okay, Dean."
Dean's fingers tighten, go from pink to white on the steering wheel as the blood drains out. "You're getting there," he says, and maybe Sam was too busy being convinced it wasn't true all the other times to hear how much Dean doesn't believe it, either. He can hear it now.
"I think it'll help."
"Based on what?"
Sam smiles. "I don't know. Based on last night, I think. All I do know is I fell asleep thinking I wanted to die." Dean flinches, but Sam stays steadfast. "And I woke feeling like maybe I have a shot at functioning again. I think it's 'cause I remembered what it was like before."
"Taking a nap in a car is not the same thing as-"
"Yeah, I fucking know that, Dean. I'm not stupid just because I'm missing a few marbles."
"I didn't say that," Dean says softly, turning to look at Sam with a pleading look. "C'mon, Sammy, you know I didn't-"
Sam sighs, sitting back, laughing a little on the inside, because he never thought he'd miss the days when Dean would have responded to an open invitation like I'm not stupid with all the malicious enthusiasm of a ten-year-old bully. "Dean, please?"
Dean looks pointedly at the road and his shoulders tense to betray his easy expression. "Yeah, all right, Sam. But one thing goes wrong-one little thing-and I am driving both of our asses back to Bobby's."
Sam grins. "Great. I got us a case while I was on the phone."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Everyone's against me," he murmurs. But he almost sounds happy when he adds, "Give me the run down, you stubborn brat."
_______________________________________________________________
The hunt goes well. Or just about as well as a hunt can go at this point. It's a standard salt and burn, and they hit a snag five minutes after the ghost shows up, but it's not because the ghost scares Sam. They haven't since he was still a kid, hell, that's the whole reason they chose this hunt to begin with. Training wheels. If a ghost is too much for Sam to handle, anything will be.
But it's not the ghost. It's when the ghost gets too close, and Sam hits a cold spot. He should have thought of this, he's been hunting his whole life, he knows what happens when a ghost gets close. There's no excuse for just how much this never crossed his mind.
She's advancing on him, pasty-faced smile of glee when she sees Sam frozen with fear. She must think it's her he's scared of. She must think she's won. Hell, Sam is pretty sure for a moment that she has.
He pulls it together in time. Stoops to pick up the shotgun he dropped, fires rock salt into her chest, and runs across the room to where Dean is flattened by furniture to pick his brother up off the floor. Dean's breathing is labored, and he looks terrified, but from the way he's staring at Sam, it's not because of his own pain.
"Come on, we have to get that hair sample and burn it," Sam says as soon as he's sure Dean's on his feet and good to move around a bit.
Dean grabs the shoulder of Sam's jacket and tugs him back. "Sam-"
"We'll talk about it after the ghost is dead, okay?"
Sam doesn't give Dean a chance to answer, so the conversation ends with a long, ragged sigh as Dean begins to follow him.
They waste the spirit pretty soon after, and Sam buys a little time by pretending to fall asleep in the car. But as soon as they're in the motel, Dean locks the door and turns to Sam with a sorry expression.
"We're going back to Bobby's," he says.
"No, Dean. We're not." Sam watches Dean sit, lowering himself slowly. He lifts his shirt just enough for Sam to see the cut slicing up the side of him and curses under his breath.
"You froze, Sam. You froze. Some D-list vengeful spirit's coming at you and you freak out. I'm sorry but you're not ready for this."
"It wasn't the spirit, Dean."
"Oh?" Dean asks, wincing as he tries to stand up. "Then what was it?"
Sam gestures for Dean to stay still, and Dean rolls his eyes before obeying. "I have it under control," he says.
Dean watches him as he digs through Dean's duffel for first aid, a half-furious, half-amused smile on his lips. "Yeah, you were just admiring how pretty she was."
"She was cold," Sam says, pulling a chair up next to Dean's and sitting. Dean tugs his shirt off, angling his body so Sam will be able to put in stitches. Sam gets to work and adds quietly, "Lucifer was cold, too."
Sam feels Dean's breath stutter under his fingers, but he's not sure if it's a reaction to the needle or to what Sam said. They're both quiet while Sam patches Dean up. Sam thinks of saying something to break the silence, wishes he'd thought to turn the TV on before they started this. Instead it's awkward, and Sam can see Dean's brain going into overdrive even as he tries to school his features.
It's not until Sam pours the last shot of alcohol over the stitches and Dean stands up that either of them says anything.
"You're sure this is what's best for you, Sammy?" Dean asks. "It doesn't have to be."
"Dean," Sam answers, "go brush your teeth."
ON TO PART THREE
OR
BACK TO MASTERPOST
PART TWO
It's not the pain that wakes him. It's the screaming.
Sam's been getting torn apart for almost two hundred years and wasn't exactly a stranger to injury before then. He can sleep through a little torture. But the yelling-the yelling is just too much. His throat aches, on top of everything, from the strain. The sound echoes off the walls even louder as it bounces back on him. It's endless. He can't stop it, not with how much everything hurts, but he's sure it's only making things worse.
The smell of sulfur is overwhelming, but that's not new either.
Sam is surrounded by bright orange fire and thick black smoke, and he knows better than to ask the figure at the end of his bed for help. He doesn't know if it's Michael or Lucifer, but it's wearing Dean. Oh God, Sam let them have Dean.
He claps a hand over his mouth to make the shouting stop. The salt in his tears burns his face as much as the flames do. Not that this is news to Sam. He's more demon than they are, and they never forget to remind him of that. He takes a few noxious breaths before attempting to speak. "Don't," he manages. "Please don't. Don't hurt me anymore."
It takes a step closer to him, walking around Sam, and it's not until the angel does that that Sam realizes he's in a bed. Not on a rack. Not dangling from hooks. Not spread out over a mile, aching to put his parts back together but unable to move. Just a plain white bed with clean sheets. Sam doesn't even want to imagine what that means.
The hand that reaches out for him doesn't attack, it brushes across his cheek slowly instead. Too slowly. Too close to sweetly. Sam whimpers and tries to pull away. "It's okay, Sammy, shh."
"No," Sam tells it. "Not this. Please, not this. Please, please."
Sam tries to fight; his muscles are all atrophied from lifetimes in the pit. Everything hurts too much to move, the angels wouldn't have it any other way. But Sam had one good thing, and they could never touch it before. Not Dean, he wants to beg, but he can't say that out loud. Can't let them know how well this is going to work.
"Hey, it's okay. Sam, it's okay," he says, sounding painfully like Sam's brother would at a moment like this. Of course it's going to be convincing, but Sam's not going to be convinced. He's still got some shred of brain buried somewhere. "It's all gonna be better now."
Sam's heart, if he still has one, if it's not sitting in some archangel's stomach at the moment, breaks at that. Sam had a dream that he was out of here. Dean brought him out, pulled him from what Sam was never good enough to save Dean from, and there was open air and running water and there was Dean. Sam had moral scruples over what his body did while he was away, because life was painless, and he had time and clarity of mind to worry about little luxuries like that. The funny thing is, for some reason Sam had actually thought it was real.
They tried to warn him. Told him every day. There's no escape from Hell. Not for us and not for you. But he fell for this one. They'd gotten him good. He almost wants to congratulate them.
"Sam, say something."
Sam blinks and realizes he's been staring at space for so long he's begun to see through the fire. That's never happened before. The walls are made of thick metal, they look exactly like a room he'd done time in back on Earth. Sam almost laughs. He'd thought that room was hellish then, could hardly imagine being trapped anywhere worse. Sam really didn't know what problems were before all this started. He'd had it made.
"Please say something."
"Water," Sam says. That's all he can think to say, even though he knows it's the wrong answer and he's only going to get taunted for it. "I need water."
The monster at his bedside lifts his head gingerly, one hand cupping the back as he brings something to Sam's lips. This has happened before; Sam's ready for the taste of blood or the burn of acid or whatever this thing is about to drown him in. What he's not ready for is the chill of ice water that slides down his throat pleasantly. He's not ready for the tiniest curve of Dean's lips as he grabs the cup greedily and swallows the rest in one long sip.
"Now if you could just do that with whiskey, you'd be a real man."
Sam looks up at Dean's face and can't find the trace of a threat in it. He's not looking hard enough, maybe. He really doesn't want to. "Don't," Sam says, his throat much clearer now. "Don't do this, please."
Dean-Lucifer, Michael, not Dean-draws even closer to Sam, a stung expression on his face. Sam flinches, pulls himself back on the bed, putting as much distance between them as he can.
"You can't do that to me, Sam. I can deal with anything you throw at me, but I can't deal with you acting like I'm gonna hurt you. I'm your brother, man. You can't be scared of me. It's not allowed." Sam swallows hard and relaxes a little as Dean pulls his blanket up, avoiding looking him in the eye. "We're gonna…we're gonna work through it, okay? But you gotta take this much at face value. Because I'm not gonna be able to help if you-I need some help here, too."
Sam stares at the man standing over him, searches his face and his eyes and the trembling at the edge of his mouth, and knows. This is his brother; nothing can mimic him so perfectly. "Dean," Sam says, the one syllable breaking on a sob. "Dean, don't let them get you. They're coming, any moment now. Please, please don't let them."
Dean must not know where he is, because he doesn't startle or hide or run from Sam's side. Sam can't imagine how he could miss the fire surrounding them or the burning stench of sulfur or the taste from the uranium the angels leave behind when they attack. It can't be loyalty. Even Dean can't be willing to stay with Sam through what those angels are going to do.
"Shh," Dean says, sitting next to Sam's pillow on the mattress. "Shh, Sammy, no one's gonna get either of us, okay? You're safe, I've got you."
Sam shakes his head. There's no way Sam busted out, and that means Dean is really here with him. In Hell. Because obviously everything needed to get worse.
"Dean, no. You can't be here." Sam tries to shove him away, as if it's his proximity to Sam that's responsible. Maybe it is. Maybe Dean came here for him. God, what an idiot. "You can't be here. Leave. You have to leave. Before they come, Dean. Don't let them get you."
"Sam, listen to me. We are not in Hell. This is not Hell. Sammy," Dean places a hand on Sam's cheek and forces eye contact, "Sammy, look, it's safe. Everything is safe."
Sam grabs for Dean, and he feels solid. Sturdy. Dean's safe, and no one is hurting him, and no one is going to hurt Sam as long as his brother sits right here and shields him. Sam closes his eyes tight and opens them again. The flames die away completely. The smell of sulfur subsides into salt and rust and that Bobby Singer scent Sam is frankly getting sick of. For a moment he thinks all of his organs are exactly where they're supposed to be.
"Really?" he asks. "I'm not in Hell?"
Dean smiles weakly and pushes a hand over Sam's clammy forehead. "You're not in Hell."
Sam trusts Dean. Just because his name is Sam Winchester, and there's not a vein in his body, or a thought in his mind, or a single piece of his tattered excuse for a soul that knows how not to.
"I'm tired," he whispers, pressing his face into the fabric of his brother's shirt.
Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam's head. "No," he says. "No, you've been sleeping. Stay awake, Sam. Please, stay awake with me."
"I'm tired, Dean," Sam says again. "I don't want to feel like this anymore."
Dean takes a long minute before he responds, and even through the ringing in his ears, Sam can hear how shaky Dean's voice is. "No, it's okay," Dean says. It sounds anything but. "You're gonna sleep it off, and you'll feel fine in a few hours. Nothing happened, okay? Nothing happened to you. It's just in your head, you'll remember when you wake up."
Sam falls asleep against his brother's heartbeat.
_______________________________________________________________
Where Sam is, if any of this can be believed, is the panic room under Bobby's house. The same place he's been stuck a thousand times before, but this time the door is open, letting the stifling air out, and Sam isn't lying in or strapped to a cot as he sweats and hallucinates and cries for help. Not that this makes it any better, but at least it's an effort.
The cot is pulled up right next to Sam's bed, and Sam suspects that the indent on it is now shaped more like Dean than himself. Every time he asks why they're down there, Dean smiles thinly and says, "no angels" before changing the subject. Sam asks the question even more often than he forgets the answer. He's willing to bet anything that "no angels" are the two most beautiful words he's ever heard in his life.
Sam is in a nice bed, a big white one with the fat pillows Dean always used to claim as rightfully his under big brother's law. There's a monitor by the side, a bunch of tubes going in every direction as they snake away from Sam. Sam doesn’t feel the urge to ask if Dean stole them from a hospital. It's not like he doesn't know the answer. It's not like he doesn't appreciate it, wrong means of acquisition be damned.
It's almost pleasant for the first few days. Sam can't do much more than sleep and wake up from his nightmares, and every time he thinks he's waking up in Hell. Anywhere is welcoming when he realizes that's not the case.
Still, he doesn't like it. He never has, and even knowing Dean has nothing but Sam's well-being in mind can't erase that stupid, petty, childish part of him-or maybe it's plain instinct. The room isn't welcoming to him. Sam tells himself it's because he has bad memories here, but Sam has nothing but bad memories, and the worst of them are far, far away from the panic room or anything on Earth. There's just no warm welcome for demons here; maybe Sam is human enough to get through the door, but he'll never be human enough not to feel how much the walls hate him.
"Hey, champ," Dean says, walking in with his arms full of plates, beers tucked under. He stirs up the air around him, shakes Sam out of his thoughts, and almost makes him forget he's unhappy. There's a bright look on Dean's face that Sam almost can't tell is an act. "Hungry?"
Sam closes his eyes and reminds himself that the sharp teeth in his brother's mouth are only in his head. This is not Hell. Not Hell, and Dean is not the devil, and there's no reason for him to feel like he's covered in lava except that he expects it. That works sometimes-it works now. Dean is normal when he looks again, and after a few grudging moments, Sam's skin stops boiling. "Yeah, I guess."
"Brought some sandwiches," Dean says. "And booze, of course." He grins and pauses by the bed, waiting for Sam to take the drinks and free up his arms. Sam does, hissing at the sharp pain that comes with the cold bottles on his skin. Too drastic a change from the heat, but Dean had no way to know that. It's not really hot, you idiot, he reminds himself again. That didn't really hurt.
Sam sets the beer down next to him, propped against his pillow, and accepts the sandwich Dean holds out to him. He watches Dean dig in before taking a bite, chewing slowly as the food turns to ash on his tongue. "What's in this?" he asks, picking at the sandwich.
"Ham and cheese," Dean says, looking up with another smile. "Is it good? I put extra mayo, like you used to like when you were a kid. I know you never let yourself indulge anymore, but I figure you've been eating out of a tube for a while, you must be starving."
Sam forces himself to swallow. "Oh," he says. "I thought it was-" my intestines "-something else."
Dean's face falters just a bit. "You don't like it? I can make another one."
Sam shakes his head. He's pretty sure anything he tries right now will taste about the same. "It's great. Thanks, Dean."
Dean grins again, setting his drink on the floor and reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. "No problem."
"You're in a good mood," Sam observes. "Something happen I should know about?"
"You're awake," Dean says simply. "I was starting to think you…" He shrugs. "Just glad you're up. And okay. You seem okay. I didn't think-well, who gives a shit what I thought, right? I was wrong."
Okay. Sam seems okay. He looks out over Dean's shoulder and tries to count the demons waiting on the other side of the room. There must be about 40 or 50 of them. But they're not real, and Sam seems okay. Dean needs him to.
Dean sits up, his eyebrows drawing together. He looks behind him and then back at Sam. "Sammy? You with me?"
"Yes," Sam says, fixing his eyes on Dean. "Yes, I'm okay."
Dean looks at Sam too closely and nods too slowly. Sam can read the skepticism in his expression, but instead of calling him out, Dean smiles again. "Yeah," he says. "You're fine."
Sam feels a nice rush of relief. Dean is pretending, too. That's good, that sounds about right. Sam can do that. "So," he says, scratching at his brain for some kind of conversation topic. Ideally, he would go for something light at a time like this, but then again, it's him and Dean. "What happened with Cas?"
Dean's eyes shift away from Sam. "He…got them." He looks back at Sam. "He got the souls."
Sam lets out a long breath. "Shit."
"Yeah," Dean replies, the word vibrating with laughter. "Shit sounds about right."
"How?"
"I don't know, really. After he," Dean swallows hard, "after he knocked down your wall, we lost track of him for a few hours and by the time we saw him again, he was…" Dean shakes his head. "Something else, man. Not Cas. He said he was God."
"Wow," Sam says, trying to imagine their little angel sidekick half baked on souljuice. "So is he a nice God?"
Dean lifts an eyebrow, smirking at Sam. "I'd say no. First thing he did was nuke the crap out of Raphael-"
"No surprise there," Sam says. "They weren't exactly best friends."
"Then he told me and Bobby to bow down and 'profess our love onto him' or else."
"Yikes."
Dean smiles just a little. "Yeah. Yikes."
"How'd you get away?" Sam asks.
Dean averts his eyes.
Sam's jaw drops. "What? Seriously?"
"Sam-"
"After everything we've been through? After all the shit we've done just so we didn't have to be some angel's bitch, you're on your knees just because Cas says so?"
"Sam, you don't-"
But Sam's not listening. He's shaking with rage and the kind of disappointment he should be too old for. "I went to Hell, Dean. To avoid that. How could you just-? I thought we were willing to die for that. Both of us."
"You think I did it because I was scared to die? You really think I wouldn't have told him where to stick it if it had been on me?" Dean is yelling now. At Sam, and Sam thinks he sees his brother's eyes welling up, and very suddenly, he feels like crying too. "You were here alone, Sam. And I didn't know when you were gonna wake up, but I knew what you'd be dealing with when you did. And I didn't…I couldn't, Sammy. Wasn't gonna leave you alone because I was too stubborn to..."
Sam sets his plate on his lap and reaches out, taking Dean's chin in his hand and forcing his brother to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I wasn't thinking."
Dean shakes his head, refusing to hold the gaze. "I knew you'd be disappointed. I knew it was wrong but I couldn't."
Sam watches Dean, shame seeping through him, making him feel twice as heavy. "I should have been there," he says. "I should have been there to help you stop him, Dean. Instead I was..."
Happy. While Dean was facing death and sacrificing himself and needing Sam's help, Sam was playing house. And he made Dean feel guilty.
"Sam, you couldn't help that you were-"
"Yes, I could. I should have been there."
"It doesn't matter. He'd already gotten into purgatory by the time we reached him. You couldn't have stopped him. All it would have done was gotten us all killed faster."
"At least we would have gone in together," Sam says, punching the sheets lightly. "And with a little dignity."
"Never had much dignity to begin with, Sammy," Dean answers warmly, taking Sam's hand and smoothing it out. Sam looks up at him, sees a tiny smile at the corner of his brother's mouth. "You remember that time in high school when I-"
"I've spent the last decade trying to forget." Sam shakes his head. "And now the mental picture is as vivid as the day it happened. Thanks for nothing, asshole."
Dean grins, pushing his thumb over Sam's pulse. "The skirt really was pretty liberating, though."
Sam laughs a little, and Dean seems to take some strength from that. He sits up and his grip on Sam's hand loosens. Sam manfully resists the urge to pull him back.
"Anyway, that's that. Cas has been stirring up all kinds of trouble since then, but he's stayed pretty clear of us. Bobby's been trying to track him, find a way to put a stop to it."
"And you?"
Dean smiles weakly, avoids the question. "It started out with irregular weather, just like Lucifer. Tornadoes, a few earthquakes. Droughts in Seattle, blizzards in Arizona. But it's getting worse. More obvious. More dangerous, too."
"Cas did all that?"
"I'm telling you, it's not Castiel anymore, Sam. Last month, a volcano popped up out of nowhere, wiped Las Vegas clean off the map. Cas was never that-"
"Last month?" Sam asks. "I've been out for a month?"
Dean barks a laugh and lets go of Sam altogether. He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Sammy, you've been out a whole lot longer than that."
Sam swallows hard, stares down at his hands on the white sheet. "How long?"
"It doesn’t matter," Dean says. "You don't need to worry about it right now, okay? Let's just take it one thing at a time."
Sam thinks of the way time blurred together for him and Dean in that dream world, and his heart seizes up. God, it felt like forever in there, a whole lifetime. Dean's been ignoring Castiel's threat for Sam's sake. Going against every instinct, everything Dad taught them or Dean cared about so he could sit here and tell Sam to wake up. It could have been one month or nine or years. Dean's got gray in his hair Sam swears wasn't there before. "How long, Dean?" he insists. "How long have I been in here?"
"Six months," Dean says after a pause. Sam feels his eyebrows drawing together, and Dean must guess what he's staring at, because he looks up and touches his fingers to his temples. "It's been a rough six months."
Six months of his life Sam is never getting back. "I don't want to be in here anymore," Sam says, sitting up and pushing the covers away. The machine by his bed begins to beep out of control, and Sam tries to tug the tubes and needles out. The plate Sam had been balancing falls to the floor and shatters, most of Sam's sandwich going with it. It's joined by another less than half a minute later when Dean reacts.
Dean leaps to his feet and pushes Sam back, restraining him until he's taken a few breaths. "Jesus, do you see why I didn't wanna tell you?" Dean looks Sam over, begins to carefully restore everything to its correct setting.
"I don’t need my heart rate monitored, Dean," Sam snaps, but he doesn't try to remove the tubes again. "I need to get out of this room."
"Shh," Dean says. "That's fine, Sam. That's okay. We can do that. But you gotta take it easy, at least until we know how…"
Sam nods and holds his arm out so that Dean can unhook the hospital equipment the right way, trying his best to stay still and calm. He hates this room. He hates it so much, and just the idea that he's spent more time here than he has almost anywhere on Earth is making him sick.
"Hey, Sam. You there?"
Sam realizes Dean's shaking him and blinks until he can focus his attention on his brother. His feet are dangling off the side of the bed, and he looks down to discover that Dean has finished taking all the tubes out.
"Do you think you can walk okay?"
Sam has no fucking idea, but he nods the affirmative and waves Dean away as he plants each of his feet on the ground. Everything seems to be working, so he pushes off and finds that he can stand.
Dean holds an arm out and backs up, ready to catch Sam if necessary. Sam scowls, puts in the token protest about how he's not an idiot and can walk without Dean helping him, and secretly feels as shocked as Dean looks when he makes it all the way to the door without incident.
"Good, see?" Dean says brightly, patting Sam on the back. "You're just fine."
Sam decides not to mention that every step feels like sharp teeth sinking into his feet, dragging him down.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam stays in the guest room upstairs at Bobby's for three days and two nights. The house has been covered in as much anti-angel mojo as Dean and Bobby have managed to dig up since Sam went to Lala Land, but Dean still doesn't seem to think it's as safe as the panic room. Which makes no fucking sense. That room is only built to stop demons, and Sam is pretty sure Dean knows as well as he does that any Godproofing they've found is for shit, anyway. If Castiel wants to get at Sam, Castiel will get at Sam. Sam's taking comfort in the fact that he's kind of small potatoes for Castiel to bother worrying about at this point.
He turns over, the blankets suffocating him until he wakes up enough to shake the nightmare away, remember that he's safe now. Dean is sitting on the other bed, a shotgun in his lap, his face resting in both his hands. He looks exhausted.
"Dean," Sam says. "Why don't you go to sleep?"
"You don't scream, you know. Not like I did when I got back."
Sam sits up a little, pressing his palms into his eyes to try to keep his headache from building. "What are you talking about?"
"When you have nightmares. You just lie there, all still. It's quieter than when you were in the coma even. You look…"
"Dead?" Sam offers.
"Shut up, Sam."
"It's what you were thinking." Sam laughs a little. "Anyway, shouldn't me being quiet make it easier for you to sleep?"
"What if you have a nightmare and I don't wake up?" Dean asks, his words rushed.
"I'll live," Sam replies. "Probably."
Dean shakes his head. "Just need some coffee," he says, standing up and swaying on his feet.
Sam reaches out, and Dean pauses in the doorway to hear him out. "I'm awake now. You can go to bed for a few hours. I won't go anywhere."
"I'm good. Bobby should be home tomorrow. I'll sleep then."
"Look, man, I get it, I do. But you're kind of a worthless babysitter like this, and you're stressing me the fuck out. Just sleep."
Dean bites his bottom lip. "I can't, Sam. All right? I literally can't."
"What do you mean you can't? Lie down. You're so zapped I'm sure you'll be out before your head hits the pillow."
"Bobby did a spell in the panic room. Like a dreamcatcher, I guess. It was supposed to protect you from nightmares originally, but you weren't really dreaming, so." Dean shrugs. "It helped me. Every time I try falling asleep up here, I end up right back in Hell."
"You haven't dreamed about Hell in years," Sam points out.
"It's not my Hell I'm having nightmares about," he answers, meeting Sam's eyes. "Point is, I don't know the spell, and I can't sleep without it. So until Bobby gets back, all I'm going to do is scare us both and be exhausted either way. I'd rather at least stay on guard."
Sam frowns. "I'm sorry I made you move me up here, Dean, I didn't know."
"Don't apologize. You weren't happy in there. You're priority. I'm not anywhere near as-"
"I get it. I'm probably not in good shape." Dean snorts, and Sam reflects on everything his brother's just told him. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you mean I wasn't really dreaming?"
"You weren't in your dreamscape. I checked a few times." When Sam's only response is to look confused, Dean continues, "After we got away from Cas, the first thing I tried was that dream root crap. Thought maybe I could get in your head, find out what the holdup was. But you weren't there. There wasn't anything, it was just a dorm room with Jessica's picture on the desk." Dean looks guilty for a moment. "Anyway, I didn't feel right poking around in your head if you weren't there, so I left."
"Weird," says Sam. "I was definitely dreaming. I guess it was, I dunno, deeper in my head or something."
Dean nods absently, his jaw tightening. "Were they bad dreams, Sam?"
Sam thinks of their quiet little house and Dean pressing their lips together and all those years without Hell and almost wants to cry. "They were beautiful."
"Oh," Dean says. He tries to smile. "That's good."
"I didn't want to wake up," Sam adds, wishing he could take it back when Dean's smile slips a little.
"Why did you?"
Sam shrugs. "You asked me to."
"But you're glad you did?" Dean's eyes widen. "You're glad because it wasn't real, right?"
"Yeah," Sam lies. "Of course."
Dean smiles again, a real smile for the first time since Sam woke up. "It's all gonna be better soon, Sam. You'll be fine after a few days. And I'll never let anything get you again."
Sam thinks maybe Dean really can protect him, but that isn't enough to turn time back and get rid of Lucifer and Michael. It can't make them stop hurting Sam any more than it can put him back together. Nothing exists that can. Sam is Humpty Dumpty sitting in a frying pan, there's nothing his brother's admirable efforts can do about that. He smiles anyway, for Dean's sake.
_______________________________________________________________
"So he's awake, huh?"
"Sure is," Dean replies, sounding more than a little smug. Sam thinks maybe Dean's hand is on his thigh, too, only Lucifer ripped that leg off an hour ago, so Sam can't really feel it.
"How's he, uh, is he okay?" Bobby asks.
Everything they say comes to Sam through a filter. He can hear it, on some level he can even follow it, but he's impressed at how calm they are. Dean's been bleeding out for 45 minutes, and Bobby's right side got chewed off by a hellhound the moment he walked through the door. They must be stronger than him. All Sam can think about is his leg.
"It's touch-and-go right now. Sometimes he's fine. Sits and talks to me like he never left." Dean's fingers begin to rot off as Sam stares down at them, and Sam thinks it's a shame. He used to do a lot of good with those hands. "There's nightmares, of course, though he won’t tell me about them. Sometimes he just starts screaming while he's in the middle of something. Can't leave him alone for a damn minute-yesterday I caught him holding one of your steak knives to his chest like it was the only good thing he'd seen in years." There's a long pause, and Dean's hand tightens, making Sam wonder if maybe his leg is still there after all. "And sometimes you can just tell he's far away."
Something snaps in front of Sam's face, and Sam shakes his head, focusing on his brother's hand waving in front of him. "Hey, Sam. You with me?"
Sam looks over at Dean, nodding. Dean points to Bobby and Sam tries to smile as he turns to face the other man. He must not be doing it right, because Bobby looks away immediately, avoiding both Sam and Dean's eyes. "Welcome back, Sam," Bobby says, clearly upset. "Good to see you're...awake."
"There's good news," Sam tells him reassuringly. He's been here the longest; Dean and Bobby are depending on him to tell them how to deal with it. "The angels will fix that once you've bled to death. It's not that bad after a while."
Bobby's face contorts. Confusion, or disbelief, or maybe he's mad at Sam. He probably thinks Sam is lying. Sam doesn’t know really, reading faces is hard. The angels and their demons don't have expressions, just bloodthirsty little smiles.
Dean laughs like it's a joke. "No one's bleeding to death today, Sam."
Sam smiles. Dean never used to be an optimist. It's kind of cute, but Sam has to stamp it out before Lucifer does. Lucifer won’t be gentle about it. "Shh, Dean, it's okay. You don't have to lie to me."
"Sammy, come on. We talked about this, remember? You're not in Hell."
"No, of course not," Sam murmurs. He holds his eyes shut and opens them, and his leg is just fine and Bobby is fine and, best of all, everything except for the look on Dean's face seems to be okay, too. "Oh," he says, still a little out of it. "I'm not."
"No, no you're not." Dean jostles Sam's thigh playfully. "I've got you. You're fine."
"I'm fine," he says. "Bobby, don't worry. Dean says I'm fine."
Bobby frowns. He's not as good at pretending as Dean is. Sam resents him a little for that. "You both look tired," he says, standing up. "I'll go cast that spell on the room."
Bobby leaves quickly, like Sam's something to get away from. Sam pushes closer to Dean, hides his face against his brother's shirt. "What'd I do wrong?"
Dean puts one hand in Sam's hair and says nothing.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam never sees what he expects in the mirror. Sometimes it's better, sometimes Sam's convinced his skin is burning, so Dean takes him to see that he's imagining it. The reflection, while thinner than he remembers being, and certainly closer to yellow than he used to be, is not on fire or missing body parts or any of the other horrible things he's anticipating.
But there are days like this, days when Sam just wants to wash his face and go to sleep, when he ends up looking at himself through one eye and can see the other dangling down against his cheek in the glass.
He lets out a shout, and Dean is through the door in seconds, holding Sam up, one hand on his chest, the other circling on his back. "Sammy, hey. What's going on?"
Sam points to his reflection, but Dean only glances for a second before turning back to Sam.
"Sam, listen to me. Look closer, okay? There is nothing wrong with you." He reaches up to pull Sam's hand away from his face and squeezes Sam's fingers. "You look good, Sam. Well, you know, as good as you can."
Sam stares down at his brother, at the worry written all over his face and tries not to think about another time and place, when Dean used to look at Sam in the mirror with dark eyes and tell him he was beautiful. Sam reaches out, runs a finger along his brother's jaw and lets out a long breath. "Promise me," he says. "If I fall asleep again, Dean, don't make me wake up."
Dean slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder. "Let's go see what's on TV."
Sam holds onto the sink, glares at Dean in the mirror. "Promise, Dean. You have to promise."
Dean's shoulders slump a little as he sighs. "Yeah, Sam. I promise."
Sam's surprised by how much he looks like he means it.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam feels the difference now that it's been pointed out. Something washes over him when he walks into the bedroom, finds Dean already out cold after days without sleeping. It's nothing strong enough to pinpoint, but it's there. A loosening of his too-tense muscles, a slight fog in his mind, clouding out some of the Hell and making him too intent on sleep to remember to be scared of it. Bobby's ritual did wonders for the atmosphere, and Sam wonders as he passes by Dean toward his own bed if maybe it'll work on him like it's supposed to. Sure, he had nightmares in the panic room when he first woke up, but Hell was fresh then. Now? Feeling the spell work on him, watching Dean turn in his bed, smack his lips like a child, and mumble something with a happy sound? Sam can't imagine it won't work on him, too.
It's easy enough to fall asleep. It's easy enough to think it worked, because Sam doesn't go to Hell in his nightmare, Sam goes to the one place in the world he can't imagine Hell touching. Sam goes home, to his and Dean's white suburban house and their green lawn and a big, round moon shining off his and Dean's cars. Sam goes home, and now Dean knows not to wake him. Now Sam can keep this forever, and forget real because real means Hell and watching his brother fade a little more everyday Sam's not better.
If he looked closely, turned his head just a little to the right, Sam would have caught a warning. He would have seen the blue shutters on his windows hanging loosely, the only thing out of place in an otherwise idyllic picture. But Sam averts his eyes quickly enough to convince himself he imagined it and doesn't look again. Nothing is out of place here, not ever. Sam is safe.
He hesitates at the door, unsure of whether to knock or not. He aches to see Dean-not his brother Dean, maybe, but his Dean, who will smile better than Sam's ever seen anyone smile and tug him down for a kiss-on the threshold, asking Sam where the hell he's been and why he left just as dinner was ready. But he also wants to surprise him, find Dean sprawled out on the couch or standing in the kitchen having a glass of water and be the one to kiss Dean first. The door is open, just a crack, when Sam gets there, so that settles the debate.
He pushes it open slowly, quietly. The house is dark, except for the moonlight-suddenly a little too bright. It shines on every surface, eerie, highlighting a scene too terrible for even Sam to accept. Every single thing in the room has been torn apart, thrown out of place, broken. The couch is bleeding white stuffing onto the floor. Sam steps forward and hears a crack, looks down to find a framed picture under his shoe. Sam sees only the corner of it, it's him on the edge of the Grand Canyon, happy, and Sam remembers what the rest should look like, the part hidden under his foot. His arm around Dean; Sam looks away, doesn't want to know if the picture is still the same underneath.
This can't be happening, he tells himself. This is home and home is safe and Hell does not come here. There's a voice scratching along the edge of this assertion, the half of him that remembers that he blew it-this is still in his head and now Hell is everywhere. Sam pushes that voice down.
He calls out his brother's name and gets no response. No scream or cry for help, no monster laughing before attacking; Sam breathes a little easier. But there's no echo of his name back, no obnoxious big brother pride in Dean's voice. Do you like my redecorating? Scared you, didn't I? You're such a girl sometimes, Sammy. There's no response at all, so Sam braces himself and heads for the stairs.
As soon as he reaches the top, he sees the faint glow of a lamp from their room, knows it's the one on Dean's side of the bed. He's come home to this a thousand times before. Sometimes he runs late at work, and Dean always waits up for him. His heart leaps to his throat and he rushes to the room to find his brother.
The relief he feels when he finds Dean propped up in bed with a book sitting ignored in his hands, his eyes closed, makes Sam want to cry. But that might wake Dean up, and Dean would make fun of him for it, and everything is going to be okay now, so things like that have to start mattering again.
Sam walks to the side of the bed his brother is waiting on and shakes him, trying to wake him up. Dean doesn't stir. Sam sees something wet on his neck and reaches out to touch it. Dean's eyes shoot open as soon as Sam's fingers make contact, and his neck suddenly rips, a river of blood pouring out as Dean reaches for Sam with terror in his eyes. He tries to say something, but he can't talk through the slit in his throat. Sam tries to jump back, but Dean holds him with a steely grip.
"Dean," Sam says. "Oh God, oh God, Dean."
Dean continues to choke on-fuck, on his own blood. Sam picks their quilt up, presses it to his brother's throat, as if it's going to help now to soak up the blood. At the rate Dean is draining, he should have been dead before Sam ever got home.
Finally, the quilt pressed to Dean's wound, he manages to force out two words. "Why, Sam?" Dean asks, eyes fixed on Sam's and Sam wants to turn away, just knows he's going to be sick, but he's compelled to stare back at his brother. "Why did you do this to me, Sam? Why?"
"I didn't mean to," Sam says, as if that's going to make it any better. "Dean, I didn't mean to."
"Why Sam?"
Sam starts awake, pulled into Dean's chest, rocking back and forth. "Sammy, wake up. Sam, shh, it's okay. Just a nightmare. It's just a nightmare."
Sam lashes out, terrified, and Dean lets go, sitting back with a stung expression. Sam stares at his throat-clean, white, unmutilated. The sheets are not soaked in blood, just hot tears from where Sam's face was pressed into his pillow case. Sam reaches for him, presses a finger to Dean's throat and sobs out in relief. "Dean," he says. "Dean."
"It's okay, Sam. You're okay now."
"I'm not." Sam shakes his head and pushes Dean away when he tries to wrap his arm around Sam again. "You couldn't just leave me alone? I was safe. Why didn’t you leave me alone?"
Dean stops dead, freezes and stares at Sam, and Sam knows he'll want to apologize for this when the sun is up tomorrow and it's too late to take it back, but right now he means it. "I didn't know," Dean finally responds, his voice cracking the same as Sam's. "I wish I'd known, I'd-just tell me what to do. Sam, tell me how to make up for it."
Sam wonders which of the two answers that rush to his mind (kiss me, kill me) would break Dean's heart faster. He finally lets Dean get closer, curls up against his brother's chest and mumbles, "I just want to go home, Dean. That's all I want."
Dean sits quietly for a long time, hand moving over Sam's back unconsciously, and then suddenly he pats Sam and smiles when Sam looks up at him. "C'mon," he says. "Grab your pillow and the blanket if you want."
"Where're we going?" Sam asks.
"Home," Dean says. "Or something like that."
He grabs one of Sam's hands and pulls sheets off the bed with the other, and Sam takes his pillow as instructed, follows Dean blindly. They go downstairs, creep out of Bobby's house, and then Dean lets go of Sam, reaches for the pillow instead and tucks it under his arm once Sam's handed it over.
He walks right up to the Impala and unlocks it with one hand, the other piled high with the things they stole off Sam's bed. Dean crawls in, leaving Sam standing outside, still completely fucking lost. "Dean, what're you-?"
Dean comes back out a moment later and motions Sam forward. The pillow is tucked up on one door, the blanket laid out under it in a makeshift bed. Sam stopped being able to sleep comfortably in the backseat 15 years ago, but Dean is grinning wide like it's a great idea, anyway.
"I don't fit," Sam says, taking a tentative step forward. "Can we go back inside, Dean? It's…" Creepy, Sam thinks. Bobby's yard is nothing but rusting skeletons as far as the eye can see, and in the dark the edges all look too sharp.
Dean gets out of the car, frowning slightly, and walks right up to Sam. "Sam, try it for me, okay?"
Sam lets Dean guide him forward, but as soon as he's relaxing into the car, his heart seizes up. He can't go back to sleep, he's not ready to face what he'll see again. He tries to sit up and Dean holds him down, palm pressed flat against Sam's chest. "I can't, don't make me."
Dean sighs. "Sam, you've hardly slept in weeks."
There's a reason for that, but Sam knows he doesn't need to say as much. Anyway, he's hopeless. Dean gives him one big brother look and Sam is easing down onto his pillow, letting Dean tuck the blanket around him. He's sure he'll regret it, but he nods anyway and watches Dean smile just a bit as he closes the door.
Outside, Sam can see him drawing something in chalk on the car's windows, some sigil Sam's seen scribbled on every wall since he woke up. Sam knows that means something, that Dean wouldn't draw on the Impala for just anyone, but he can't think straight enough to really get it. The chalk makes a clacking sound against the window and Sam is so tired and all he can worry about is Dean leaving him out here. But when the sound stops, the door to the driver's seat opens and Sam feels Dean squeeze his hand once he's gotten in.
Dean starts the car, music playing low, and as soon as it's driving, Sam remembers all the years he spent like this, sleeping while Dad drove them across the country and Dean sat up in the passenger's seat with a map open on his lap. It's a warm memory, stronger than Hell, and Sam doesn't know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up the next morning parked on the side of the road, Dean's head thrown back as he snores. Sam realizes he'd forgotten until then what it feels like to have a good night's sleep.
Bobby calls Dean's cell about an hour after Sam wakes up. Dean manages to go right on snoozing through the hair metal blasting from his phone, so Sam decides he needs the sleep, swipes the phone and steps out of the car to answer it.
Dean's just waking up when Sam is getting back into the Impala fifteen minutes later, gives Sam a side glance as he wipes his mouth. "Why'd you steal my phone, sticky fingers?"
Sam laughs at him, hands it back. "Bobby called."
Dean makes an amused noise. "Guess he was wondering where the hell we got to," Dean says, yawning halfway through so Sam only knows what he says on instinct.
"Yeah. Said I didn't know where we were but that we were okay."
"Mmm," Dean says, opening and closing his eyes a few times. "What'd he say to that?"
"That we're idjits."
"No surprise there," Dean says with a quiet chuckle. "God, I wish I'd parked next to a Starbucks."
"Where are we, anyway?"
"Somewhere in Iowa. Near Missouri, I'd bet."
"Jesus, Dean," says Sam. "You drove all the way to Missouri?"
Dean sits up, patting at his jeans for his keys. "I said near."
"What the hell'd you do that for?"
"I meant to turn around after an hour or so but," Dean shrugs, "it was working. You seemed to be okay, and I guess I lost track of time."
"Hmm," Sam replies.
Dean sticks the keys in the ignition and the car begins to sing quietly as it turns on. "Guess we should get back to Bobby's, then."
Sam fidgets. "I told Bobby we're not coming back."
Dean stops before he finishes pulling the car back onto the road. "You told Bobby what?"
"I checked and our duffels are still in the back. Nothing at Bobby's we'll really miss, not unless we don't do laundry for like a month."
"Yeah, but Sam, we have nowhere else to sta-"
"I wanna hunt," Sam says, voice as firm as he can manage.
Dean blinks a few times. "Okay, what?"
"You know. Saving people? Hunting things?"
"Don't be cute," Dean replies. He starts driving again, just to keep himself busy, Sam's willing to bet. "I…look, no offense, Sam, but are you crazy?"
"Yes? Obviously?"
Dean aims a flat look at him. "Not funny."
"Not trying to be."
"We can’t hunt," Dean says, like that's that.
"I can't hunt, you mean. You don't think I can handle it."
Dean hesitates, finally slams a hand on the steering wheel. "Goddamn it, Sam. You can't, okay? You can't wash your face without freaking out, what makes you think it's a good idea to go chasing after monsters?"
"You're the one who keeps saying I'm okay, Dean."
Dean's fingers tighten, go from pink to white on the steering wheel as the blood drains out. "You're getting there," he says, and maybe Sam was too busy being convinced it wasn't true all the other times to hear how much Dean doesn't believe it, either. He can hear it now.
"I think it'll help."
"Based on what?"
Sam smiles. "I don't know. Based on last night, I think. All I do know is I fell asleep thinking I wanted to die." Dean flinches, but Sam stays steadfast. "And I woke feeling like maybe I have a shot at functioning again. I think it's 'cause I remembered what it was like before."
"Taking a nap in a car is not the same thing as-"
"Yeah, I fucking know that, Dean. I'm not stupid just because I'm missing a few marbles."
"I didn't say that," Dean says softly, turning to look at Sam with a pleading look. "C'mon, Sammy, you know I didn't-"
Sam sighs, sitting back, laughing a little on the inside, because he never thought he'd miss the days when Dean would have responded to an open invitation like I'm not stupid with all the malicious enthusiasm of a ten-year-old bully. "Dean, please?"
Dean looks pointedly at the road and his shoulders tense to betray his easy expression. "Yeah, all right, Sam. But one thing goes wrong-one little thing-and I am driving both of our asses back to Bobby's."
Sam grins. "Great. I got us a case while I was on the phone."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Everyone's against me," he murmurs. But he almost sounds happy when he adds, "Give me the run down, you stubborn brat."
_______________________________________________________________
The hunt goes well. Or just about as well as a hunt can go at this point. It's a standard salt and burn, and they hit a snag five minutes after the ghost shows up, but it's not because the ghost scares Sam. They haven't since he was still a kid, hell, that's the whole reason they chose this hunt to begin with. Training wheels. If a ghost is too much for Sam to handle, anything will be.
But it's not the ghost. It's when the ghost gets too close, and Sam hits a cold spot. He should have thought of this, he's been hunting his whole life, he knows what happens when a ghost gets close. There's no excuse for just how much this never crossed his mind.
She's advancing on him, pasty-faced smile of glee when she sees Sam frozen with fear. She must think it's her he's scared of. She must think she's won. Hell, Sam is pretty sure for a moment that she has.
He pulls it together in time. Stoops to pick up the shotgun he dropped, fires rock salt into her chest, and runs across the room to where Dean is flattened by furniture to pick his brother up off the floor. Dean's breathing is labored, and he looks terrified, but from the way he's staring at Sam, it's not because of his own pain.
"Come on, we have to get that hair sample and burn it," Sam says as soon as he's sure Dean's on his feet and good to move around a bit.
Dean grabs the shoulder of Sam's jacket and tugs him back. "Sam-"
"We'll talk about it after the ghost is dead, okay?"
Sam doesn't give Dean a chance to answer, so the conversation ends with a long, ragged sigh as Dean begins to follow him.
They waste the spirit pretty soon after, and Sam buys a little time by pretending to fall asleep in the car. But as soon as they're in the motel, Dean locks the door and turns to Sam with a sorry expression.
"We're going back to Bobby's," he says.
"No, Dean. We're not." Sam watches Dean sit, lowering himself slowly. He lifts his shirt just enough for Sam to see the cut slicing up the side of him and curses under his breath.
"You froze, Sam. You froze. Some D-list vengeful spirit's coming at you and you freak out. I'm sorry but you're not ready for this."
"It wasn't the spirit, Dean."
"Oh?" Dean asks, wincing as he tries to stand up. "Then what was it?"
Sam gestures for Dean to stay still, and Dean rolls his eyes before obeying. "I have it under control," he says.
Dean watches him as he digs through Dean's duffel for first aid, a half-furious, half-amused smile on his lips. "Yeah, you were just admiring how pretty she was."
"She was cold," Sam says, pulling a chair up next to Dean's and sitting. Dean tugs his shirt off, angling his body so Sam will be able to put in stitches. Sam gets to work and adds quietly, "Lucifer was cold, too."
Sam feels Dean's breath stutter under his fingers, but he's not sure if it's a reaction to the needle or to what Sam said. They're both quiet while Sam patches Dean up. Sam thinks of saying something to break the silence, wishes he'd thought to turn the TV on before they started this. Instead it's awkward, and Sam can see Dean's brain going into overdrive even as he tries to school his features.
It's not until Sam pours the last shot of alcohol over the stitches and Dean stands up that either of them says anything.
"You're sure this is what's best for you, Sammy?" Dean asks. "It doesn't have to be."
"Dean," Sam answers, "go brush your teeth."
ON TO PART THREE
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