Fic: Lazarus Never Smiled
All right, I know I've been kinda AWOL lately. I got a job, worked for almost two months, then was let go very suddenly last Thursday due to budgetary reasons. *sighs* It's so very frustrating to be back pounding the proverbial pavement, especially in this economy. Plus this election season is making me so mad I've been having trouble concentrating enough to write. BTW, don't ask my opinion on things right now unless you want to hear a fiery profanity-laced rant.
Quick note: I finally figured out and fixed what was wrong with my computer. When I had the hard drive replaced, in reuploading the software it picked up a glitch that affected the wireless card, making it eat outgoing emails with file attachments. The tech guy had never seen anything like it. So if you sent me a fic to beta since June and didn't hear back from me, let me know. I looked over everything I was sent and sent them back, but now I'm not sure who actually received their fic back.
Okay, enough with my stuff. On to the fic! (If I can get the damn coding to quit screwing up).
Title: Lazarus Never Smiled
Rating: R for gore and language
Genre: gen with boy-cuddling
Beta: thehighwaywoman , who looked this over and knew exactly why this was bothering me, made suggestions to tighten it up, and generally made this a whole lot better. Thanks hon.
Summary: According to legend, Lazarus never smiled again after he rose from the dead.
Notes/disclaimer: Conceived after S3, meant to finish before S4 started, but obviously failed on that. Somewhat S4 canon-friendly, but no specific spoilers or mentions of new characters. Inspired partially by this lovely artwork by griseldajane . I own nothing, let alone Supernatural. No money is being made, and no copyright infringement intended.
Sam wasn't naive. Not anymore.
He lost a good deal of innocence at age nine, when he found out what his father really did and what happened to his mother. When he started hunting, he felt a bit more of it wither and die with every gunshot, every hurled bit of Latin. Any remaining shreds of naivete that stubbornly clung to him after watching Jess burn on the ceiling and finding his father dead on the hospital floor quickly disintegrated at the sound of Dean's quiet voice saying "One year," like a death knell. Knowing that he had died, that his brother had sold his sould and damned himself from Sam, had permanently erased the last vestiges of that optimistic college student wanting to be a lawyer and marry his girlfriend.
But even though Sam wasn't naive, that didn't mean he didn't hope.
Even in his darkest days, when evil seemed to swamp him on all sides, when he couldn't find a way out of the seemingly never-ending darkness, he still hoped. Hoped for a way out, to survive, to find a better life, to keep what he held dear close and safe. Hope and faith in his brother.
Despite the world's best efforts, Dean’s death, and Sam's despair, that hope never really died.
But while he may have hoped that everything would be okay after his brother crawled out of his grave, that Dean would be okay, Sam wasn't naive. He knew better. Okay, so maybe he had entertained the notion briefly when he realized Dean didn't remember anything between the hell hounds and waking up again. After all, he'd been in Hell -- the less he remembered, the better.
Still, six months after Dean was pulled out of hell, he wondered if his brother would ever be okay again, or if too much of him had been shredded away down in the Pit.
They were just lounging, between hunts, enjoying the weather, and suddenly a dog barked. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, face blanched bone-white as he whipped out his gun.
Sam barely managed to catch his arm before he could aim, and the shot went wild, up in the air instead of towards the collie and the girl walking it. Instantly screams erupted, moms scrambling to gather and protect confused and crying kids, people running. Dean struggled in Sam's hold, panic-dilated eyes wide as he panted for breath, muscles trembling.
Knowing that police were going to be swarming any minute and wanting to take his brother someplace far away from all the chaos, Sam hustled Dean back to the Impala and took off, heading for the freeway and not planning to stop until they crossed a couple state lines. For once Dean didn't bitch about Sam driving; just being in the Impala, his home, his baby, seemed to erase the last of the panic, and he slumped in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window, gun still clutched tightly in his lap.
Sam kept glancing over at him, anxious and concerned and pissed off, but silent. It wasn't until they crossed into Nevada that he broke the tense silence. "Dean . . ."
"I'm fine," came the expected flat response.
"Bullshit," Sam snapped, completely exhausted with worry and fed up with it. "You're not fine! You just fired at an innocent dog in a public park! You are nowhere fucking near fine!"
Dean shook his head stiffly, still unnaturally pale. Sam sighed heavily, trying to calm down. "Man, talk to me. What the hell just happened there? You completely freaked out."
Dean blinked, shook his head again, and finally let go of the gun to rub both hands over his face, looking totally worn out. "I don't know." Before Sam could do more than pull a bitchface, Dean repeated, "I don't know. Really." He let the quiet fill the car again, but Sam waited him out. Pensive, not defensive, was a good sign.
"The dog," Dean muttered, almost to himself, "that damn dog."
The barking . . . Hellhounds, Sam suddenly realized with a chill. He'd never heard them, but Dean had, for days before New Harmony. Barking and growling and howling had haunted him day and night, and he had seen them when they ripped him to pieces and dragged him down to Hell. No wonder he'd freaked out.
Now that Sam thought about it, this hadn’t even been the first time. Dean had gone stone-cold-still at the sound of distant barking before, but neither had acknowledged or pushed the issue. Just like with everything else on the growing list of Dean’s new idiosyncrasies.
Sam let the suffocating silence fill the car again and just drove, air between them thick with bad memories and inadequate words.
When they finally stopped for the night, Dean shut himself in the bathroom for a long time while Sam flipped through his journal uselessly. Notes and diagrams, translations and references, lists of monsters and spirits and how to waste them. Everything a hunter could use to hunt something and kill it . . . . or pull someone out of Hell.
But there was nothing on how to deal with the aftermath. Sam could exorcise a demon, but had no weapons against Dean's personal ones.
Dean wasn’t sleeping, at all. Not since Hell. He kept going until he collapsed of exhaustion, only to wake near-screaming a short time later.
What bothered Sam the most was that Dean never smiled anymore. Not and mean it. His eyes sometimes brightened, but the lips never quirked upward into a true smile.
Sam didn’t know what to do.
There was nothing in Dad's journal, and he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. This was Dean. It was - he’s -- too close to share. Or betray. This was his problem to solve. He was the one to take care of Dean this time. For once.
They still didn't speak as Sam got into bed and shut out the lights, leaving Dean sitting up on the bed with a couple books. Sam lay awake, not even pretending to sleep as he listened to Dean breathing in the bed next to his, long slow breaths relaxing but not quite dropping into the pattern of sleep. Sam grimaced at the dark ceiling. Great, sleepless nights for the both of them now. Good thing they weren't on a hunt.
This couldn't go on for much longer. Sam knew from experience just how badly insomnia screwed a mind and body up. It would only make the other problems worse.
Sam vaguely remembered one of Dad's old friends, a fellow Marine, whom they visited when Sam was about 10 to pick up some ammo. The guy had been jumpy, twitchy, with a dead-eye stare that creeped Sam out so much he'd tried to avoid him the whole visit. Even Dean had been well-behaved, quiet and careful not to make any sudden movements around him.
Afterward, he'd asked Dad what was wrong with his friend. John was quiet for a long time before he finally said softly, voice heavy, "War can do terrible things to a man. Some have a harder time leaving it behind. Others . . . never leave."
Sam rolled over, staring through the dark towards Dean, and had to fight to keep down a sudden hot surge of tears. He missed his brother. It was almost worse than those four terrible months after the hellhounds, because now Dean was within sight and reach, but Sam was just as frustrated and powerless to help him.
Somewhere in there, Sam drifted into a light doze, only to jerk away at a sharp breath from Dean. Apparently Dean had succumbed to sleep despite his best efforts, enough for the nightmares to take hold, albeit briefly. He was anything but asleep now, so tense he was nearly visibly trembling.
By the Winchester code Sam should have pretended he hadn't heard, hadn't woken, not acknowledge what Dean considered a weakness. That was how he was supposed to react, to preserve the status quo between them, no matter what else had happened. Repress, deny, ignore.
Sam squared his jaw and threw the covers back. Fuck that.
Dean started violently as Sam tugged back the sheets from under him, sending the books tumbling to the ground. "Sam, what the . . .?"
Sam shoved him down and climbed in next to him, ignoring Dean's protests and blocking the attempts to kick him out. Catching an elbow thrown at his face, he wrapped his arms tight around his brother, burying his face in the back of his neck and breathing in deeply.
"Sam," Dean growled, struggling futilely.
"Dean," Sam responded, not letting go. "I didn't bust my ass for months to pull yours outta hell just to lose you now."
Dean let out an aggravated sigh but, after one last twist, quit fighting. "You're not. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be a clingy girl."
"You need to sleep. So shut up and let me cuddle you, you macho bastard." That provoked a snort that could have been laughter, and Sam smiled, finally feeling sleepy. He just hoped Dean would feel safe enough to risk sleep again, with Sam there to drive the nightmares away.
After all, the reverse had worked when Sam was a kid. Turnabout was fair play.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Sharing a bed helped somewhat, but didn't exactly ease the nightmares. Dean did calm down faster after he woke, although he still fought to sleep as little as humanly possible and not suffer a complete nervous breakdown. Sam had to forcibly tuck him into bed a few nights just to make sure that didn't happen.
Sleeplessness was only a symptom of the bigger problem, however. According to what research he found, the only effective treatments for post traumatic stress disorder were antidepressants and psychotherapy, easing the emotional impact by making the patient confront the issues and learn to cope. Which would've been fine, but Sam saw two huge obstacles to that plan.
One, Dean didn't remember. At least not consciously.
Two, Dean was Dean. He'd rather chew his own arm off rather than have a heart to heart about his feelings. And that was on a good day.
Watching Dean cross the parking lot of the truck stop was painful. After initially freezing at the sound of chains clanking from under a semi, Dean pulled himself together and headed swiftly for the bathroom, avoiding every person and vehicle with a wide berth, shoulders hunched and cautious rather than his customary devil-may-care swagger. He flinched when a car door slammed shut and darted into the bathroom.
Sam bit his lip, running his thumb along the edges of his journal, hating the suffocating feeling of despair. He was at a total loss as to how to help Dean. If only they could get to the root of the problem . . . .
Root.
Wait . . . if he only remembered in his subconscious, in dreaming . . . .
Had he . . . ? Sam rushed around to the trunk, reflexively making sure no one was nearby before throwing it open and digging for the box of herbs. A shuffle of plastic bags, and Sam plucked up a baggie with a small measure of brown plant with a relieved smile. He knew he'd saved the last of the African Dream Root for a reason, though at rough guess there was one, maybe two doses left.
Well, if it came to that, he'd track some more down. He closed the trunk and stashed the baggie in his jacket just before Dean reappeared, hurrying back to the car. Sam slipped into the passenger seat and watched as Dean sank into the driver's seat with a quiet sigh, tension seeping from him into the well-loved seat.
A tiny pat of the dashboard before turning the key filled Sam with affection and no small amount of relief. There was at least one part of Dean that Hell hadn't managed to touch. Now Sam wanted to find the rest, find the remains of the brother he remembered. Maybe then he could fully accept the new Dean, this man who had suffered Hell for him.
Maybe then they could both find the peace they so desperately needed. Maybe then Sam could stop mourning his brother.
When they stopped for the night at another no-tell motel out in the middle of American nowhere, Sam volunteered to get food, and ducked out as Dean yelled, "Don't forget the extra onions!"
Foregoing the Impala, Sam walked over to the restaurant/convenience store/gas station two blocks over. A weary middle-aged waitress at the counter perked up when he flashed his aw-shucks grin complete with dimples, and started his order without fuss. As the smell of frying meat drifted from the kitchen, Sam wandered the aisles, picking up some supplies to restock their first aid kid and a bag of rock salt.
He paused for a while in front of the sleep aid section of the medicine aisle, comparing labels before choosing one to add to the pile. Finally he retrieved a 12 pack of Dean's favorite beer from the cooler and brought it all back up to the counter as the waitress finished boxing up their dinner, complete with two orders of peach cobbler, "on the house." Sam thanked her and left an extra tip with a smile, then lugged everything back to the motel.
Dean was sprawled out on his bed, idly clicking the remote at the cheap TV, showing no signs he had been up watching at the window for Sam's return as Sam knew he had been. He perked up at the sight of beer and food, taking the bag from Sam.
"Anything on?" Sam nodded at the fuzzy screen.
"Nah. Some crap reality shows, news. Doesn't even get porn." Dean didn't sound too miffed about it, digging in to the diner bag to pull out his burger with the works, making an appreciative noise at the peach cobbler.
Sam stepped into the bathroom to wash his hands and palm out a handful of sleeping pills, crushing them quickly with his pocket knife and brushing the coarse powder into the cap. Dean was fully engrossed in his food and didn't notice when Sam popped open two beers and dumped the crushed pills in one. He did notice when Sam waved the bottle under his nose, and with a muttered "Thanks" washed down his mouthful with a big gulp.
Sam didn't worry about Dean tasting the pills -- a month after his return, Dean confessed that the reason why he wasn't eating much was that everything tasted like fire and ashes. Sam thought it had possibly been getting better, judging by Dean's slowly recovering appetite, but Dean never mentioned it again or commented on the taste of food anymore. He hated that Hell had taken even that simple pleasure away from Dean.
Still, Dean ate the burger, fries, peach cobbler, and downed three beers while Sam ate his quietly, protecting his fries from Dean's filching fingers. After half an hour, the sleeping pills and full stomach were taking their toll as Dean's eyes drooped and his yawns increased in frequency. His head sagged towards his chest before he jerked himself up, clearly fighting the siren lure of sleep with all his might.
Shaking his head, Dean got up from the bed, probably trying to get to the bathroom to splash water in his face like many nights before. He only made it two steps before he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the bed. "Wha?" he muttered thickly, blinking hard to focus as he turned unsteadily to Sam. "Sam? Wha?" He wavered, tried again. "You . . . drugs?"
"Yeah, I did," Sam confessed, getting to his feet and approaching slowly, hands held out harmlessly. "Sorry Dean, but you need to sleep. You're exhausted."
Dean shook his head jerkily, eyes suspiciously bright. "No. No, no . . . not drugs. Please Sam, please no . . . not . . ."
"Why not?" Sam hated the twist in his stomach at Dean's terror.
"Can't wake up. Won't let me wake up . . . I'll be stuck there . . . with them. No . . . no, no, no, Sam, please, no! I can't . . ." Dean's agitated mumbles rambled off, and he lost his balance and slumped awkwardly onto the bed, fists clenching spasmodically.
Sam leaned over Dean and cupped his face in his hands, meeting his betrayed eyes steadily. "Dean, I'm here. Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." He leaned his forehead against his brother's as Dean's eyes fluttered shut. "It's okay," he whispered, "Wherever you go, I'll come get you."
Swallowing back his guilt, he held his brother until he was sure Dean was out, then lifted his legs onto the bed, removed his boots, and hoisted him further up the bed, arranging him a bit more comfortably. Gently he tucked a pillow under Dean's head and covered him with the bedspread, then got to work.
Sam cleaned up the remains of dinner as the coffeemaker heated the water. He wanted to wait until Dean had slipped fully into an REM cycle before joining him, let the dreams come naturally so he didn't manipulate them -- yet. He carefully plucked a few hairs from Dean's head and finished preparing the tea, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell.
As it steeped, he looked at his bed, opposite Dean, then at his slumbering brother and the empty space beside him on the queen bed. He'd planned to stay on his own bed, but right now, faced with dreamwalking through nightmares of Hell, Sam really didn't want to be alone. Besides, while physical contact didn't affect the dream root, it might help Dean.
Stripping down to sweats and his undershirt, Sam set the dream root tea on the nightstand and climbed in next to Dean. Dean didn't react, didn't even twitch; it was so different from what Sam had gotten used to from him since his return that he had to put his hand on Dean's chest just to reassure himself that he was still breathing, that his heart still beat.
Sam stared down at him for long minutes, almost feeling like he was seeing Dean for the first time. Dean had always been there, a constant presence in his life right from his earliest memories, and somewhere along the line Sam had taken that for granted. Even at Stanford, when they didn't talk for two years, there were times Sam was expecting to come back to his dorm room and find Dean lounging on his bed, complaining about the crappy caf food. Once they were back on the road together, they rarely spent more than a day out of each other's sight.
It was SamnDean, together always, one never far behind the other, might as well be attached at the hip. Until the unthinkable happened; even with a year to prepare, it had shaken Sam right down to his core to hold his brother dead in his arms. It had never seemed real until that moment, that Dean could just not be there. Those months without Dean, he'd felt like a ghost, half of himself ripped away, leaving the rest bloody and tattered, desperately searching for that missing piece.
Now, Dean was back, but not wholly, and Sam hurt. He couldn't take Dean's presence for granted anymore, not now he knew what it was like without him.
Gently he reached out and ran his fingertips over Dean's face, feeling, memorizing, seeing for the first time. If Dean was awake, he'd never allow it, so Sam soaked up every second of it greedily. The straight line of the nose, the cleft in the chin, the stubble-dusted cheeks, the full lips; the cheekbones, the delicate lashes, the soft eyelids, the thin crinkles of laugh lines; the worry lines, the near-invisible scars, the fragile dark circles under the eyes.
As Sam's fingers tickled his eyelashes, Dean moaned softly, brow furrowing. That small sound broke Sam out of his trance and he grimaced as he reached for the yellow tea, castigating himself for forgetting the whole purpose of drugging Dean, albeit briefly. He didn't want to leave Dean alone in his mind for too long without a chance of escape.
Dean had faced Hell for him. Now Sam would face it with him.
Holding his breath, Sam downed the fetid concoction as quickly as possible. It didn't taste any better than the last time.
And just like the last time, Sam wasn't aware of falling asleep. There was no transition between the two worlds of waking and dreaming; the next thing he knew, he was still in bed, but Dean wasn't beside him anymore.
For a second Sam's breath caught in his chest painfully, remembering those months, those endless months, both Trickster- and Hell-induced, when Dean was dead and Sam was alone. Throwing back the covers, he called out, "Dean!"
No answer. There had never been.
Panic momentarily gripped him, and he sat on the bed with his head in his hands, trying just to breathe and force himself to calm down. It was okay, it was just the dream root. He was in Dean's head, therefore Dean had to be somewhere around here. Since he wasn't in the motel room, Sam needed to try elsewhere.
Breathing out the last of his panic harshly, Sam got to his feet, determined. He could do this.
Walking over to the door, he yanked it open.
And stepped back in alarm when it opened out into nothingness.
Behind him was a crappy motel room, one of a million they'd stayed in over the years, a comforting if sad familiarity in their lives. Before him was a vast expanse of darkness -- wait, not total blackness. An eye-hurting greenish dimness, elusive tease of more light, enough to hallucinate in. And, Sam squinted to see, criss-crossed with a multitude of chains. Sam shivered; Dean was somewhere out there?
Out of the gloomy depths came a distance echoing scream, full of despair and agony. "Somebody help me! Sam!"
Sam swallowed hard, painfully, then stepped out of the motel room and closed the door behind him.
Navigating the chains took forever, the rough warped steel tearing at his skin, occasionally jerking out from under him as they swung abruptly. Twice Sam fell, body spinning in freefall before he caught himself painfully on other chains. He picked his way along mostly on feel, his eyes nearly useless; whenever his eyes began to adjust to the dimness, a flash of lightning blinded him, leaving him night-blind and blinking away spots.
The air was both icy cold and burning hot, stink of sulfur and rot suffocating in his lungs and skin, ringing with Dean's screams.
Sam gritted his teeth and kept going.
After an eternity, Sam made out a figure spread-eagled a little further below him. Dean. He hurried closer, eager to reach his brother, until details resolved out of the dimness and he froze in horror.
Huge serrated hooks tore through Dean's wrists and ankles, in his shoulder, side, and thigh, suspending him helpless in the void, muscle shredded and raw. Blood dripped erratically, winding from a few dozen other wounds scattered over his body. As Sam watched, another chain whipped in, a hook embedding itself in Dean's hip, the rough grate of metal on bone almost drowned out by Dean's yell.
"Dean!" Sam bellowed, trying to find a way down to him that wouldn't yank on the chains and cause him more pain. "Dean, I'm coming!"
Another hook sailed by Sam, unerringly finding Dean's unprotected belly and slicing it open, raw flesh gaping to flash teasing glimpses of pulsing organs. With a rattling, slithering clanking, a chain dropped down from nowhere, links caressing over Dean obscenely as it dipped into the deep wound and burrowed.
Dean let out a rough choked cry as more and more disappeared into his body, rooting, moving under the skin. It started to withdraw, dripping red. The end was wrapped around some yellowish tube -- Sam nearly retched. It had hooked to Dean's intestines, and was slowly pulling them out, unwinding, stretching them quivering taut farther and farther away into the darkness.
"Help!" Dean howled, rigid with pain and helplessness as he was slowly, excruciatingly eviscerated. "Somebody! Please!"
"Dean!" Sam yelled. "Dean!"
Dean didn't seem to hear him, tears barely cutting tracks through the blood and grime on his face. He sobbed, wrecked, despairing, alone.
That almost surprised Sam; so many demons wanted a piece of his brother, he'd been expecting to find a horde of them surrounding Dean, squabbling for a chance at him. But Dean's worst hell was something he couldn't fight or taunt, something he'd always feared -- being alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.
"Dean, I'm here!"
"Help me! Sam!" Another ragged scream as the chain from his side ripped away, tearing out a chunk of flesh and disappearing into the dark. The sudden unbalance had his body jerking against the chains, flinging arcs of blood into the gloom. A crack like a baseball bat split the air, and Sam ducked as a chain shot past him after breaking Dean's leg, leaving ragged bone fragments jutting through strips of raw muscle. "Help!"
Apparently something had gotten tired of his screaming. The next chain that whipped in out of nowhere first laid open several long slashes across his back, then wrapped around his neck and sank barbs into his mouth, effectively stapling it shut. Blood spurted, choking Dean, and he thrashed instinctively, wounds ripping larger and deeper.
"NO! DEAN!"
Chains rattled, moving, ready to inflict more pain, and Sam screamed, "STOP IT!"
Instantly everything froze, motionless. Sam stared around, then remembered. This wasn't real. Not anymore. He swallowed back bile; no wonder Dean never wanted to sleep, if this was what he remembered.
But if Sam could do a little dream weaving against Jeremy, maybe he could do it for Dean too.
Focusing on the chain he held, he imagined it lowering him to Dean's side. It quivered, then dropped obediently until Sam was within reach of his brother. "Dean, man, I'm here."
Concentrating, he ordered the chains to let Dean go. Gradually they pulled away from his flesh; as the last one came free, the chains disappearing into the gloom, Sam caught Dean.
Holding the ruined body against him, Sam worked the barbs out from his mouth, all the time murmuring, "I'm here Dean, I'm okay. It's okay, it's all a dream. I won't let them have you." He ran a gentle hand over his head; Dean flinched away minutely, sobbing brokenly through his ruined mouth, eyes gazing in unseeing terror up at his brother.
"Shhh, it's okay." Sam gathered him in his arms, feeling the slick blood and ragged flesh, the slippery tumble of intestines from his belly, jolting him with the memory of twice holding his brother's bloody corpse. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real. Fighting not to gag or sob, he focused instead on getting them out of there.
It was harder to change their surroundings than stopping something already in the environment. He had a new grudging appreciation of Jeremy's skills at dream weaving by the time the gloom around them lightened and receded, revealing the motel room they started out in. With extreme care Sam laid Dean out on the bed like he'd done in the real world, trying not to wince as Dean whimpered with every movement, blood quickly soaking the sheets.
Sam made to fetch their first aid kit, but stopped short. He kept forgetting that the rules in the dream world were bendable, that he could create the reality here. Taking a deep breath, Sam wet a washcloth and sat down on the bed next to Dean, swallowing hard as Dean weakly attempted to shift away from him. Tentatively he laid a hand on a small uninjured part of his arm.
"Dean, it's me. It's Sam. I'm okay, I'm gonna help you." He tenderly daubed at the blood on Dean's face, over the shredded lips, and thought about the skin sealing, healing. Wanting them to heal and disappear.
Nothing happened.
Sam frowned, tried again.
Still nothing. Blood continued to seep from seemingly everywhere, Dean curled tense and defensive away from him. Protecting himself.
Of course. This was still all in Dean's head. Figured his dreams would be just as stubborn as him. Affection warred with exasperation for his hard-headed brother, who in his pain apparently didn't recognize Sam at all.
"Dean," Sam murmured, continuing with his gentle ministrations as he tried to break through, "it's okay. You're safe now, I promise." Dean moaned, but turned slightly towards Sam's voice. "Dean, it's me, it's Sam. I'm going to help you. Trust me. Let me help you."
Gradually, as Sam kept up the reassurances, Dean relaxed, sanity creeping back into his eyes along with recognition. "Hey man," Sam smiled down at him as Dean blinked in dazed confusion. "Let me in, okay? Let me help you."
This time, when Sam tried healing the wounds, they knitted back together almost instantaneously, leaving unmarred skin. Spreading a warm hand over Dean's belly, he tried not to look as the viscera reeled back in to their proper place with a sucking slurp, and the bones snapped back into place. He mopped at the blood left behind, wet swipes revealing new pink flesh dotted with freckles. Sam couldn't help his no doubt goofy grin; he'd forgotten Dean had freckles.
In less than a minute, Dean lay on the bed panting slightly but unharmed, not a trace of Hell left on him. He looked up at Sam with growing relief, hope starting to flicker into his green eyes. "Sam?"
"Yeah Dean. It’s me." Sam offered him a hand up off the filthy bed, pulling him up next to him. Dean steadied himself with a hand on Sam's shoulder, not quite clinging. He glanced down at himself, then back up with a quizzical expression.
"You're asleep," Sam explained. "I had some leftover dream root."
"You're dream walking in my head?" Dean pursed his lips in brief annoyance, then sighed and relaxed. "So, you . . .?" He gestured back at the door.
"Yeah, I saw." At Dean's look, Sam glared back stubbornly. "I know you didn't want me to see that. Too damn bad."
Resigned, Dean shook his head. "Fine. Guess I should wake up now, huh?"
"No."
It was a split second decision, one Sam hadn't really thought about but knew instantly it was the right thing to do. Going to the door of the motel room, he yanked it open.
Fresh morning sunlight flooded through, bringing with it the scent of cut grass, road dirt, open fields, and spring air. Grinning, Sam stepped outside, tilting his face up towards the bright blue sky as he waited for Dean to join him.
Like a timid animal emerging from a burrow, Dean emerged from the motel room, blinking in the sunlight as he gaped at their surroundings. Instead of being tucked away on a cracked street in a dusty small town, they stood at the edge of a paved road in the middle of nowhere. The Impala sat gleaming in the sun right in front of them, pointing down the open road stretching to the horizon, lined by green fields and occasional stands of trees.
"Sam, what . . .?"
"You need to sleep," Sam said quietly. "I figure you might as well have some good dreams for a while."
Maybe then you can remember some of the good dreams, Sam thought but didn't dare speak aloud. Maybe you can remember something besides Hell. Maybe we can both find some peace.
Shoving those thoughts away before they dared escape from his mouth, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the car keys. Tossing them over to Dean, he suggested, "Wanna go see the Grand Canyon?"
Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, then his mouth twitched. Gradually, like the sun finally slinking out behind boiling-black storm clouds, his lips stretched upward into a smile, the first real smile Sam could remember since long before the hellhounds. "Sure Sammy. Sounds good."
Sam's breath caught on the lump in his throat, and he had to turn away and swallow hard as his eyes burned with threatening tears. Then he hurried to slide into the passenger seat next to Dean, his Dean.
With a squeal of tires and a rumble of rock guitars, Sammy and his big brother headed for the horizon.
*~*~*~*~*
Sam slowly blinked awake. Dean lay sleepy and pliant in his arms, breathing soft and steady but awake, surprisingly not scrambling out of Sam's hold.
Sam sighed, face tucked into the back of Dean's neck, Dean's hair tickling his face at the passage of air, Dean's scent filling his lungs as he inhaled deeply. "Hey," he murmured, squeezing gently as he nuzzled into the warm skin.
"Hey," Dean returned. A long comfortable silence fell between them before Dean asked, "Think we'll have to do that every night?"
"Dunno. Will if I have to."
Dean craned his neck around to give Sam a one-eyed glare. "You drugged me and went crawling around in my head. Bitch."
Sam just smiled. "You so deserved it. Jerk."
Yeah, I love you too.
Dean sighed, shifting minutely closer to Sam as he snuggled back into the pillow, body finally free of all the tension he'd carried for months. "Thanks," he whispered.
Sam just squeezed him a bit tighter in response, holding him close and safe as they both drifted back off to sleep.
Quick note: I finally figured out and fixed what was wrong with my computer. When I had the hard drive replaced, in reuploading the software it picked up a glitch that affected the wireless card, making it eat outgoing emails with file attachments. The tech guy had never seen anything like it. So if you sent me a fic to beta since June and didn't hear back from me, let me know. I looked over everything I was sent and sent them back, but now I'm not sure who actually received their fic back.
Okay, enough with my stuff. On to the fic! (If I can get the damn coding to quit screwing up).
Title: Lazarus Never Smiled
Rating: R for gore and language
Genre: gen with boy-cuddling
Beta: thehighwaywoman , who looked this over and knew exactly why this was bothering me, made suggestions to tighten it up, and generally made this a whole lot better. Thanks hon.
Summary: According to legend, Lazarus never smiled again after he rose from the dead.
Notes/disclaimer: Conceived after S3, meant to finish before S4 started, but obviously failed on that. Somewhat S4 canon-friendly, but no specific spoilers or mentions of new characters. Inspired partially by this lovely artwork by griseldajane . I own nothing, let alone Supernatural. No money is being made, and no copyright infringement intended.
Sam wasn't naive. Not anymore.
He lost a good deal of innocence at age nine, when he found out what his father really did and what happened to his mother. When he started hunting, he felt a bit more of it wither and die with every gunshot, every hurled bit of Latin. Any remaining shreds of naivete that stubbornly clung to him after watching Jess burn on the ceiling and finding his father dead on the hospital floor quickly disintegrated at the sound of Dean's quiet voice saying "One year," like a death knell. Knowing that he had died, that his brother had sold his sould and damned himself from Sam, had permanently erased the last vestiges of that optimistic college student wanting to be a lawyer and marry his girlfriend.
But even though Sam wasn't naive, that didn't mean he didn't hope.
Even in his darkest days, when evil seemed to swamp him on all sides, when he couldn't find a way out of the seemingly never-ending darkness, he still hoped. Hoped for a way out, to survive, to find a better life, to keep what he held dear close and safe. Hope and faith in his brother.
Despite the world's best efforts, Dean’s death, and Sam's despair, that hope never really died.
But while he may have hoped that everything would be okay after his brother crawled out of his grave, that Dean would be okay, Sam wasn't naive. He knew better. Okay, so maybe he had entertained the notion briefly when he realized Dean didn't remember anything between the hell hounds and waking up again. After all, he'd been in Hell -- the less he remembered, the better.
Still, six months after Dean was pulled out of hell, he wondered if his brother would ever be okay again, or if too much of him had been shredded away down in the Pit.
They were just lounging, between hunts, enjoying the weather, and suddenly a dog barked. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, face blanched bone-white as he whipped out his gun.
Sam barely managed to catch his arm before he could aim, and the shot went wild, up in the air instead of towards the collie and the girl walking it. Instantly screams erupted, moms scrambling to gather and protect confused and crying kids, people running. Dean struggled in Sam's hold, panic-dilated eyes wide as he panted for breath, muscles trembling.
Knowing that police were going to be swarming any minute and wanting to take his brother someplace far away from all the chaos, Sam hustled Dean back to the Impala and took off, heading for the freeway and not planning to stop until they crossed a couple state lines. For once Dean didn't bitch about Sam driving; just being in the Impala, his home, his baby, seemed to erase the last of the panic, and he slumped in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window, gun still clutched tightly in his lap.
Sam kept glancing over at him, anxious and concerned and pissed off, but silent. It wasn't until they crossed into Nevada that he broke the tense silence. "Dean . . ."
"I'm fine," came the expected flat response.
"Bullshit," Sam snapped, completely exhausted with worry and fed up with it. "You're not fine! You just fired at an innocent dog in a public park! You are nowhere fucking near fine!"
Dean shook his head stiffly, still unnaturally pale. Sam sighed heavily, trying to calm down. "Man, talk to me. What the hell just happened there? You completely freaked out."
Dean blinked, shook his head again, and finally let go of the gun to rub both hands over his face, looking totally worn out. "I don't know." Before Sam could do more than pull a bitchface, Dean repeated, "I don't know. Really." He let the quiet fill the car again, but Sam waited him out. Pensive, not defensive, was a good sign.
"The dog," Dean muttered, almost to himself, "that damn dog."
The barking . . . Hellhounds, Sam suddenly realized with a chill. He'd never heard them, but Dean had, for days before New Harmony. Barking and growling and howling had haunted him day and night, and he had seen them when they ripped him to pieces and dragged him down to Hell. No wonder he'd freaked out.
Now that Sam thought about it, this hadn’t even been the first time. Dean had gone stone-cold-still at the sound of distant barking before, but neither had acknowledged or pushed the issue. Just like with everything else on the growing list of Dean’s new idiosyncrasies.
Sam let the suffocating silence fill the car again and just drove, air between them thick with bad memories and inadequate words.
When they finally stopped for the night, Dean shut himself in the bathroom for a long time while Sam flipped through his journal uselessly. Notes and diagrams, translations and references, lists of monsters and spirits and how to waste them. Everything a hunter could use to hunt something and kill it . . . . or pull someone out of Hell.
But there was nothing on how to deal with the aftermath. Sam could exorcise a demon, but had no weapons against Dean's personal ones.
Dean wasn’t sleeping, at all. Not since Hell. He kept going until he collapsed of exhaustion, only to wake near-screaming a short time later.
What bothered Sam the most was that Dean never smiled anymore. Not and mean it. His eyes sometimes brightened, but the lips never quirked upward into a true smile.
Sam didn’t know what to do.
There was nothing in Dad's journal, and he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. This was Dean. It was - he’s -- too close to share. Or betray. This was his problem to solve. He was the one to take care of Dean this time. For once.
They still didn't speak as Sam got into bed and shut out the lights, leaving Dean sitting up on the bed with a couple books. Sam lay awake, not even pretending to sleep as he listened to Dean breathing in the bed next to his, long slow breaths relaxing but not quite dropping into the pattern of sleep. Sam grimaced at the dark ceiling. Great, sleepless nights for the both of them now. Good thing they weren't on a hunt.
This couldn't go on for much longer. Sam knew from experience just how badly insomnia screwed a mind and body up. It would only make the other problems worse.
Sam vaguely remembered one of Dad's old friends, a fellow Marine, whom they visited when Sam was about 10 to pick up some ammo. The guy had been jumpy, twitchy, with a dead-eye stare that creeped Sam out so much he'd tried to avoid him the whole visit. Even Dean had been well-behaved, quiet and careful not to make any sudden movements around him.
Afterward, he'd asked Dad what was wrong with his friend. John was quiet for a long time before he finally said softly, voice heavy, "War can do terrible things to a man. Some have a harder time leaving it behind. Others . . . never leave."
Sam rolled over, staring through the dark towards Dean, and had to fight to keep down a sudden hot surge of tears. He missed his brother. It was almost worse than those four terrible months after the hellhounds, because now Dean was within sight and reach, but Sam was just as frustrated and powerless to help him.
Somewhere in there, Sam drifted into a light doze, only to jerk away at a sharp breath from Dean. Apparently Dean had succumbed to sleep despite his best efforts, enough for the nightmares to take hold, albeit briefly. He was anything but asleep now, so tense he was nearly visibly trembling.
By the Winchester code Sam should have pretended he hadn't heard, hadn't woken, not acknowledge what Dean considered a weakness. That was how he was supposed to react, to preserve the status quo between them, no matter what else had happened. Repress, deny, ignore.
Sam squared his jaw and threw the covers back. Fuck that.
Dean started violently as Sam tugged back the sheets from under him, sending the books tumbling to the ground. "Sam, what the . . .?"
Sam shoved him down and climbed in next to him, ignoring Dean's protests and blocking the attempts to kick him out. Catching an elbow thrown at his face, he wrapped his arms tight around his brother, burying his face in the back of his neck and breathing in deeply.
"Sam," Dean growled, struggling futilely.
"Dean," Sam responded, not letting go. "I didn't bust my ass for months to pull yours outta hell just to lose you now."
Dean let out an aggravated sigh but, after one last twist, quit fighting. "You're not. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be a clingy girl."
"You need to sleep. So shut up and let me cuddle you, you macho bastard." That provoked a snort that could have been laughter, and Sam smiled, finally feeling sleepy. He just hoped Dean would feel safe enough to risk sleep again, with Sam there to drive the nightmares away.
After all, the reverse had worked when Sam was a kid. Turnabout was fair play.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Sharing a bed helped somewhat, but didn't exactly ease the nightmares. Dean did calm down faster after he woke, although he still fought to sleep as little as humanly possible and not suffer a complete nervous breakdown. Sam had to forcibly tuck him into bed a few nights just to make sure that didn't happen.
Sleeplessness was only a symptom of the bigger problem, however. According to what research he found, the only effective treatments for post traumatic stress disorder were antidepressants and psychotherapy, easing the emotional impact by making the patient confront the issues and learn to cope. Which would've been fine, but Sam saw two huge obstacles to that plan.
One, Dean didn't remember. At least not consciously.
Two, Dean was Dean. He'd rather chew his own arm off rather than have a heart to heart about his feelings. And that was on a good day.
Watching Dean cross the parking lot of the truck stop was painful. After initially freezing at the sound of chains clanking from under a semi, Dean pulled himself together and headed swiftly for the bathroom, avoiding every person and vehicle with a wide berth, shoulders hunched and cautious rather than his customary devil-may-care swagger. He flinched when a car door slammed shut and darted into the bathroom.
Sam bit his lip, running his thumb along the edges of his journal, hating the suffocating feeling of despair. He was at a total loss as to how to help Dean. If only they could get to the root of the problem . . . .
Root.
Wait . . . if he only remembered in his subconscious, in dreaming . . . .
Had he . . . ? Sam rushed around to the trunk, reflexively making sure no one was nearby before throwing it open and digging for the box of herbs. A shuffle of plastic bags, and Sam plucked up a baggie with a small measure of brown plant with a relieved smile. He knew he'd saved the last of the African Dream Root for a reason, though at rough guess there was one, maybe two doses left.
Well, if it came to that, he'd track some more down. He closed the trunk and stashed the baggie in his jacket just before Dean reappeared, hurrying back to the car. Sam slipped into the passenger seat and watched as Dean sank into the driver's seat with a quiet sigh, tension seeping from him into the well-loved seat.
A tiny pat of the dashboard before turning the key filled Sam with affection and no small amount of relief. There was at least one part of Dean that Hell hadn't managed to touch. Now Sam wanted to find the rest, find the remains of the brother he remembered. Maybe then he could fully accept the new Dean, this man who had suffered Hell for him.
Maybe then they could both find the peace they so desperately needed. Maybe then Sam could stop mourning his brother.
When they stopped for the night at another no-tell motel out in the middle of American nowhere, Sam volunteered to get food, and ducked out as Dean yelled, "Don't forget the extra onions!"
Foregoing the Impala, Sam walked over to the restaurant/convenience store/gas station two blocks over. A weary middle-aged waitress at the counter perked up when he flashed his aw-shucks grin complete with dimples, and started his order without fuss. As the smell of frying meat drifted from the kitchen, Sam wandered the aisles, picking up some supplies to restock their first aid kid and a bag of rock salt.
He paused for a while in front of the sleep aid section of the medicine aisle, comparing labels before choosing one to add to the pile. Finally he retrieved a 12 pack of Dean's favorite beer from the cooler and brought it all back up to the counter as the waitress finished boxing up their dinner, complete with two orders of peach cobbler, "on the house." Sam thanked her and left an extra tip with a smile, then lugged everything back to the motel.
Dean was sprawled out on his bed, idly clicking the remote at the cheap TV, showing no signs he had been up watching at the window for Sam's return as Sam knew he had been. He perked up at the sight of beer and food, taking the bag from Sam.
"Anything on?" Sam nodded at the fuzzy screen.
"Nah. Some crap reality shows, news. Doesn't even get porn." Dean didn't sound too miffed about it, digging in to the diner bag to pull out his burger with the works, making an appreciative noise at the peach cobbler.
Sam stepped into the bathroom to wash his hands and palm out a handful of sleeping pills, crushing them quickly with his pocket knife and brushing the coarse powder into the cap. Dean was fully engrossed in his food and didn't notice when Sam popped open two beers and dumped the crushed pills in one. He did notice when Sam waved the bottle under his nose, and with a muttered "Thanks" washed down his mouthful with a big gulp.
Sam didn't worry about Dean tasting the pills -- a month after his return, Dean confessed that the reason why he wasn't eating much was that everything tasted like fire and ashes. Sam thought it had possibly been getting better, judging by Dean's slowly recovering appetite, but Dean never mentioned it again or commented on the taste of food anymore. He hated that Hell had taken even that simple pleasure away from Dean.
Still, Dean ate the burger, fries, peach cobbler, and downed three beers while Sam ate his quietly, protecting his fries from Dean's filching fingers. After half an hour, the sleeping pills and full stomach were taking their toll as Dean's eyes drooped and his yawns increased in frequency. His head sagged towards his chest before he jerked himself up, clearly fighting the siren lure of sleep with all his might.
Shaking his head, Dean got up from the bed, probably trying to get to the bathroom to splash water in his face like many nights before. He only made it two steps before he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the bed. "Wha?" he muttered thickly, blinking hard to focus as he turned unsteadily to Sam. "Sam? Wha?" He wavered, tried again. "You . . . drugs?"
"Yeah, I did," Sam confessed, getting to his feet and approaching slowly, hands held out harmlessly. "Sorry Dean, but you need to sleep. You're exhausted."
Dean shook his head jerkily, eyes suspiciously bright. "No. No, no . . . not drugs. Please Sam, please no . . . not . . ."
"Why not?" Sam hated the twist in his stomach at Dean's terror.
"Can't wake up. Won't let me wake up . . . I'll be stuck there . . . with them. No . . . no, no, no, Sam, please, no! I can't . . ." Dean's agitated mumbles rambled off, and he lost his balance and slumped awkwardly onto the bed, fists clenching spasmodically.
Sam leaned over Dean and cupped his face in his hands, meeting his betrayed eyes steadily. "Dean, I'm here. Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." He leaned his forehead against his brother's as Dean's eyes fluttered shut. "It's okay," he whispered, "Wherever you go, I'll come get you."
Swallowing back his guilt, he held his brother until he was sure Dean was out, then lifted his legs onto the bed, removed his boots, and hoisted him further up the bed, arranging him a bit more comfortably. Gently he tucked a pillow under Dean's head and covered him with the bedspread, then got to work.
Sam cleaned up the remains of dinner as the coffeemaker heated the water. He wanted to wait until Dean had slipped fully into an REM cycle before joining him, let the dreams come naturally so he didn't manipulate them -- yet. He carefully plucked a few hairs from Dean's head and finished preparing the tea, wrinkling his nose at the foul smell.
As it steeped, he looked at his bed, opposite Dean, then at his slumbering brother and the empty space beside him on the queen bed. He'd planned to stay on his own bed, but right now, faced with dreamwalking through nightmares of Hell, Sam really didn't want to be alone. Besides, while physical contact didn't affect the dream root, it might help Dean.
Stripping down to sweats and his undershirt, Sam set the dream root tea on the nightstand and climbed in next to Dean. Dean didn't react, didn't even twitch; it was so different from what Sam had gotten used to from him since his return that he had to put his hand on Dean's chest just to reassure himself that he was still breathing, that his heart still beat.
Sam stared down at him for long minutes, almost feeling like he was seeing Dean for the first time. Dean had always been there, a constant presence in his life right from his earliest memories, and somewhere along the line Sam had taken that for granted. Even at Stanford, when they didn't talk for two years, there were times Sam was expecting to come back to his dorm room and find Dean lounging on his bed, complaining about the crappy caf food. Once they were back on the road together, they rarely spent more than a day out of each other's sight.
It was SamnDean, together always, one never far behind the other, might as well be attached at the hip. Until the unthinkable happened; even with a year to prepare, it had shaken Sam right down to his core to hold his brother dead in his arms. It had never seemed real until that moment, that Dean could just not be there. Those months without Dean, he'd felt like a ghost, half of himself ripped away, leaving the rest bloody and tattered, desperately searching for that missing piece.
Now, Dean was back, but not wholly, and Sam hurt. He couldn't take Dean's presence for granted anymore, not now he knew what it was like without him.
Gently he reached out and ran his fingertips over Dean's face, feeling, memorizing, seeing for the first time. If Dean was awake, he'd never allow it, so Sam soaked up every second of it greedily. The straight line of the nose, the cleft in the chin, the stubble-dusted cheeks, the full lips; the cheekbones, the delicate lashes, the soft eyelids, the thin crinkles of laugh lines; the worry lines, the near-invisible scars, the fragile dark circles under the eyes.
As Sam's fingers tickled his eyelashes, Dean moaned softly, brow furrowing. That small sound broke Sam out of his trance and he grimaced as he reached for the yellow tea, castigating himself for forgetting the whole purpose of drugging Dean, albeit briefly. He didn't want to leave Dean alone in his mind for too long without a chance of escape.
Dean had faced Hell for him. Now Sam would face it with him.
Holding his breath, Sam downed the fetid concoction as quickly as possible. It didn't taste any better than the last time.
And just like the last time, Sam wasn't aware of falling asleep. There was no transition between the two worlds of waking and dreaming; the next thing he knew, he was still in bed, but Dean wasn't beside him anymore.
For a second Sam's breath caught in his chest painfully, remembering those months, those endless months, both Trickster- and Hell-induced, when Dean was dead and Sam was alone. Throwing back the covers, he called out, "Dean!"
No answer. There had never been.
Panic momentarily gripped him, and he sat on the bed with his head in his hands, trying just to breathe and force himself to calm down. It was okay, it was just the dream root. He was in Dean's head, therefore Dean had to be somewhere around here. Since he wasn't in the motel room, Sam needed to try elsewhere.
Breathing out the last of his panic harshly, Sam got to his feet, determined. He could do this.
Walking over to the door, he yanked it open.
And stepped back in alarm when it opened out into nothingness.
Behind him was a crappy motel room, one of a million they'd stayed in over the years, a comforting if sad familiarity in their lives. Before him was a vast expanse of darkness -- wait, not total blackness. An eye-hurting greenish dimness, elusive tease of more light, enough to hallucinate in. And, Sam squinted to see, criss-crossed with a multitude of chains. Sam shivered; Dean was somewhere out there?
Out of the gloomy depths came a distance echoing scream, full of despair and agony. "Somebody help me! Sam!"
Sam swallowed hard, painfully, then stepped out of the motel room and closed the door behind him.
Navigating the chains took forever, the rough warped steel tearing at his skin, occasionally jerking out from under him as they swung abruptly. Twice Sam fell, body spinning in freefall before he caught himself painfully on other chains. He picked his way along mostly on feel, his eyes nearly useless; whenever his eyes began to adjust to the dimness, a flash of lightning blinded him, leaving him night-blind and blinking away spots.
The air was both icy cold and burning hot, stink of sulfur and rot suffocating in his lungs and skin, ringing with Dean's screams.
Sam gritted his teeth and kept going.
After an eternity, Sam made out a figure spread-eagled a little further below him. Dean. He hurried closer, eager to reach his brother, until details resolved out of the dimness and he froze in horror.
Huge serrated hooks tore through Dean's wrists and ankles, in his shoulder, side, and thigh, suspending him helpless in the void, muscle shredded and raw. Blood dripped erratically, winding from a few dozen other wounds scattered over his body. As Sam watched, another chain whipped in, a hook embedding itself in Dean's hip, the rough grate of metal on bone almost drowned out by Dean's yell.
"Dean!" Sam bellowed, trying to find a way down to him that wouldn't yank on the chains and cause him more pain. "Dean, I'm coming!"
Another hook sailed by Sam, unerringly finding Dean's unprotected belly and slicing it open, raw flesh gaping to flash teasing glimpses of pulsing organs. With a rattling, slithering clanking, a chain dropped down from nowhere, links caressing over Dean obscenely as it dipped into the deep wound and burrowed.
Dean let out a rough choked cry as more and more disappeared into his body, rooting, moving under the skin. It started to withdraw, dripping red. The end was wrapped around some yellowish tube -- Sam nearly retched. It had hooked to Dean's intestines, and was slowly pulling them out, unwinding, stretching them quivering taut farther and farther away into the darkness.
"Help!" Dean howled, rigid with pain and helplessness as he was slowly, excruciatingly eviscerated. "Somebody! Please!"
"Dean!" Sam yelled. "Dean!"
Dean didn't seem to hear him, tears barely cutting tracks through the blood and grime on his face. He sobbed, wrecked, despairing, alone.
That almost surprised Sam; so many demons wanted a piece of his brother, he'd been expecting to find a horde of them surrounding Dean, squabbling for a chance at him. But Dean's worst hell was something he couldn't fight or taunt, something he'd always feared -- being alone. Abandoned. Forgotten.
"Dean, I'm here!"
"Help me! Sam!" Another ragged scream as the chain from his side ripped away, tearing out a chunk of flesh and disappearing into the dark. The sudden unbalance had his body jerking against the chains, flinging arcs of blood into the gloom. A crack like a baseball bat split the air, and Sam ducked as a chain shot past him after breaking Dean's leg, leaving ragged bone fragments jutting through strips of raw muscle. "Help!"
Apparently something had gotten tired of his screaming. The next chain that whipped in out of nowhere first laid open several long slashes across his back, then wrapped around his neck and sank barbs into his mouth, effectively stapling it shut. Blood spurted, choking Dean, and he thrashed instinctively, wounds ripping larger and deeper.
"NO! DEAN!"
Chains rattled, moving, ready to inflict more pain, and Sam screamed, "STOP IT!"
Instantly everything froze, motionless. Sam stared around, then remembered. This wasn't real. Not anymore. He swallowed back bile; no wonder Dean never wanted to sleep, if this was what he remembered.
But if Sam could do a little dream weaving against Jeremy, maybe he could do it for Dean too.
Focusing on the chain he held, he imagined it lowering him to Dean's side. It quivered, then dropped obediently until Sam was within reach of his brother. "Dean, man, I'm here."
Concentrating, he ordered the chains to let Dean go. Gradually they pulled away from his flesh; as the last one came free, the chains disappearing into the gloom, Sam caught Dean.
Holding the ruined body against him, Sam worked the barbs out from his mouth, all the time murmuring, "I'm here Dean, I'm okay. It's okay, it's all a dream. I won't let them have you." He ran a gentle hand over his head; Dean flinched away minutely, sobbing brokenly through his ruined mouth, eyes gazing in unseeing terror up at his brother.
"Shhh, it's okay." Sam gathered him in his arms, feeling the slick blood and ragged flesh, the slippery tumble of intestines from his belly, jolting him with the memory of twice holding his brother's bloody corpse. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real. Fighting not to gag or sob, he focused instead on getting them out of there.
It was harder to change their surroundings than stopping something already in the environment. He had a new grudging appreciation of Jeremy's skills at dream weaving by the time the gloom around them lightened and receded, revealing the motel room they started out in. With extreme care Sam laid Dean out on the bed like he'd done in the real world, trying not to wince as Dean whimpered with every movement, blood quickly soaking the sheets.
Sam made to fetch their first aid kit, but stopped short. He kept forgetting that the rules in the dream world were bendable, that he could create the reality here. Taking a deep breath, Sam wet a washcloth and sat down on the bed next to Dean, swallowing hard as Dean weakly attempted to shift away from him. Tentatively he laid a hand on a small uninjured part of his arm.
"Dean, it's me. It's Sam. I'm okay, I'm gonna help you." He tenderly daubed at the blood on Dean's face, over the shredded lips, and thought about the skin sealing, healing. Wanting them to heal and disappear.
Nothing happened.
Sam frowned, tried again.
Still nothing. Blood continued to seep from seemingly everywhere, Dean curled tense and defensive away from him. Protecting himself.
Of course. This was still all in Dean's head. Figured his dreams would be just as stubborn as him. Affection warred with exasperation for his hard-headed brother, who in his pain apparently didn't recognize Sam at all.
"Dean," Sam murmured, continuing with his gentle ministrations as he tried to break through, "it's okay. You're safe now, I promise." Dean moaned, but turned slightly towards Sam's voice. "Dean, it's me, it's Sam. I'm going to help you. Trust me. Let me help you."
Gradually, as Sam kept up the reassurances, Dean relaxed, sanity creeping back into his eyes along with recognition. "Hey man," Sam smiled down at him as Dean blinked in dazed confusion. "Let me in, okay? Let me help you."
This time, when Sam tried healing the wounds, they knitted back together almost instantaneously, leaving unmarred skin. Spreading a warm hand over Dean's belly, he tried not to look as the viscera reeled back in to their proper place with a sucking slurp, and the bones snapped back into place. He mopped at the blood left behind, wet swipes revealing new pink flesh dotted with freckles. Sam couldn't help his no doubt goofy grin; he'd forgotten Dean had freckles.
In less than a minute, Dean lay on the bed panting slightly but unharmed, not a trace of Hell left on him. He looked up at Sam with growing relief, hope starting to flicker into his green eyes. "Sam?"
"Yeah Dean. It’s me." Sam offered him a hand up off the filthy bed, pulling him up next to him. Dean steadied himself with a hand on Sam's shoulder, not quite clinging. He glanced down at himself, then back up with a quizzical expression.
"You're asleep," Sam explained. "I had some leftover dream root."
"You're dream walking in my head?" Dean pursed his lips in brief annoyance, then sighed and relaxed. "So, you . . .?" He gestured back at the door.
"Yeah, I saw." At Dean's look, Sam glared back stubbornly. "I know you didn't want me to see that. Too damn bad."
Resigned, Dean shook his head. "Fine. Guess I should wake up now, huh?"
"No."
It was a split second decision, one Sam hadn't really thought about but knew instantly it was the right thing to do. Going to the door of the motel room, he yanked it open.
Fresh morning sunlight flooded through, bringing with it the scent of cut grass, road dirt, open fields, and spring air. Grinning, Sam stepped outside, tilting his face up towards the bright blue sky as he waited for Dean to join him.
Like a timid animal emerging from a burrow, Dean emerged from the motel room, blinking in the sunlight as he gaped at their surroundings. Instead of being tucked away on a cracked street in a dusty small town, they stood at the edge of a paved road in the middle of nowhere. The Impala sat gleaming in the sun right in front of them, pointing down the open road stretching to the horizon, lined by green fields and occasional stands of trees.
"Sam, what . . .?"
"You need to sleep," Sam said quietly. "I figure you might as well have some good dreams for a while."
Maybe then you can remember some of the good dreams, Sam thought but didn't dare speak aloud. Maybe you can remember something besides Hell. Maybe we can both find some peace.
Shoving those thoughts away before they dared escape from his mouth, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the car keys. Tossing them over to Dean, he suggested, "Wanna go see the Grand Canyon?"
Dean stared at Sam for a long moment, then his mouth twitched. Gradually, like the sun finally slinking out behind boiling-black storm clouds, his lips stretched upward into a smile, the first real smile Sam could remember since long before the hellhounds. "Sure Sammy. Sounds good."
Sam's breath caught on the lump in his throat, and he had to turn away and swallow hard as his eyes burned with threatening tears. Then he hurried to slide into the passenger seat next to Dean, his Dean.
With a squeal of tires and a rumble of rock guitars, Sammy and his big brother headed for the horizon.
*~*~*~*~*
Sam slowly blinked awake. Dean lay sleepy and pliant in his arms, breathing soft and steady but awake, surprisingly not scrambling out of Sam's hold.
Sam sighed, face tucked into the back of Dean's neck, Dean's hair tickling his face at the passage of air, Dean's scent filling his lungs as he inhaled deeply. "Hey," he murmured, squeezing gently as he nuzzled into the warm skin.
"Hey," Dean returned. A long comfortable silence fell between them before Dean asked, "Think we'll have to do that every night?"
"Dunno. Will if I have to."
Dean craned his neck around to give Sam a one-eyed glare. "You drugged me and went crawling around in my head. Bitch."
Sam just smiled. "You so deserved it. Jerk."
Yeah, I love you too.
Dean sighed, shifting minutely closer to Sam as he snuggled back into the pillow, body finally free of all the tension he'd carried for months. "Thanks," he whispered.
Sam just squeezed him a bit tighter in response, holding him close and safe as they both drifted back off to sleep.