Blue Skies From Rain Part 2 - Chapter 8

[lovesrain44]

Dean stuck to the wall of the corridor, motioned with his chin for Sam to stick by him, and Sam did. It was a little odd to have Sam so biddable, but for the time being, that’s what he needed, a Sam who would do what he wanted and go with him when he asked.

The doors opened, and they all piled out, spreading out onto the damp, green grass, clouds blowing overhead like they had someplace better to be. It was on the edge of chilly, especially in the shade of the building, but the sun was nice. Greer divided the men into groups, putting Sam and Dean in the group near the side of the building, where the fence along the river ran at an angle.

“Rock duty, gentlemen,” he said. He pointed to the wheelbarrow sitting near the pale brick wall. “Rocks in the lawn are bad. Rocks in the wheelbarrow are good. Pick up the rocks and put them in the wheelbarrow. And no throwing. First man I catch throwing rocks will be in big bad trouble. Understood?”

“Big bad,” said someone, repeating this.

“Rocks?” asked Sam, looking at Dean, his mouth twisting into a frown, his eyes dubious.

With that expression, rock duty, instead of being calm and straightforward, seemed rather silly. He could see it in Sam’s face, the argument in that dark head about slave labor and patient rights. He was surprised that Sam hadn’t actually launched into his regular schpeel, but then, Sam wasn’t all Sam at the moment.

“Just pick ‘em up,” said Dean, demonstrating. “It’s better than being stuck in a room. With-” With windows too high to get out of, but he didn’t want to bother Sam with that. “It’s good exercise. You’ll sleep better.”

They stuck together, bending and picking up and carrying rocks to the wheelbarrow, Sam always one step behind him. Or beside him. It was good to breathe fresh air, very good. There was more color in Sam’s cheeks now, too, and that was always a good thing.

Along the side of the building, along the very edge of the wall, there was a line of pea gravel over the spot where the building and ground met. That was for drainage, Dean figured, poking at it with the toe of his damp sneaker.

“No, don’t take those,” said Greer.

Dean turned.

Greer pointed at a little rock sitting on top of the gravel. “I don’t know if the rocks walk at night, or what, but yeah, that little rock, take that, but leave the gravel, okay?”

Dean bent to pick it up, his heart hammering a little to find Greer so close, wondering how he’d managed to sneak up on Dean so quickly and quietly. Sam had shrunk behind Dean, so Dean was between him and Greer.

“Check all along the wall, you two,” said Greer, motioning with his hand. “I’ll keep an eye on you, okay, so pick up anything bigger than this.” He bent to hold up a little big of pea gravel, making Dean feel like Greer thought he was stupid. “Just keep along there, and pick the bigger stuff up.”

“Got it,” said Dean.

Greer walked off, his short hair bristling in the sunlight, the damp reaching halfway up his calves.

“C’mon, Sam,” said Dean.

Sticking close to the wall meant that they were more out of the wind, especially as they went along the south wall, where the wind was blocked off. The sound of the men talking or yelping or whatever it was that they’d been doing all along, an irritating jagged sound, was blocked off too. With the sun banking off the south wall, the stones and brick absorbing the heat, the air was warm and still. When they were out of range of Greer’s sharp eyes, Dean took a minute to lean against the brick. Sam joined him, tipping his head back. Closing his eyes like a cat, dozing.

They were silent for a minute. Dean figured they deserved it.

“You take good care of me,” said Sam, in the silence.

Dean flicked his eyes in Sam’s direction, the sun a little bright to see Sam’s expression clearly, but Sam’s head was still back against the wall, and he was calm and quiet. There was a thousand things Dean figured he could say to that, in response to such an outright comment like that, Sam’s voice full of affection, nothing hidden behind sarcasm or the duck blind of disinterest.

“Well, I try,” said Dean, finally.

He heard Greer shout, and figured they needed to get going, so he braced his heel against the wall and pushed himself forward. Only his heel found something that gave way, something slick that fell away with the slight pressure of his foot. Dean stepped back, and bent down. The something was a window, a narrow window with three panes, painted cream white like the rest of the building. It had blended in, thick with paint, painted a hundred times.

Dean pushed at it with his fingers. It swung in and he could see the room beyond, a storeroom of shelves and boxes. The window swung shut, but didn’t lock. Dean pushed it again as Sam hunkered down at his side. He could see into the room to the door, a wooden door with a glass window, with a number painted on backwards: 101. Easy. He stood up as the window swung shut again.

“It’s broken,” said Sam. “You going to tell Greer?”

“No,” said Dean. “And neither are you.”

“Why?”

“That’s the Sam I know,” said Dean, distracting him as they walked back towards Geer, their pockets full of little stones. “Always asking, why, why, why.”

“Is that what I do?” Sam asked this, hurrying to keep up with Dean’s quick strides,

“It’s what you do,” said Dean. “You’re always asking why.”

As they neared the group of patients working, their white and tan and blue outfits stark against the green lawn, Greer was waving with his hands, making the men line up. Behind him, Dean could see the gap in the still-unfinished fence that ran around the property. It was part stone wall, and part cement braces for the new fence, and part air. Still part air. And beyond that, the dip of land that led to the river, and the river that ran-

“Is that good?” asked Sam, looking at him, eyes intent on Dean’s.

“The best, Sam,” said Dean, thinking about the time of day and the direction of the sun, and figuring that the river probably ran from mostly north to south, wondered which direction Joliet was. He wouldn’t need a map, just the location of one town that he knew, because from there, he could figure out which direction they needed to go to get to Joliet where the Impala was. And from there, the open road, just him and Sam. Driving towards Sam’s memory.

*

At lunch, they sat at a table in the corner. Dean managed to grab extra cartons of milk for him and Sam, and he drank one down before even starting on his tuna sandwich and celery sticks. Sam drank his down too, wiping the milk from his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he let out a satisfied burp. When Sam had been little, he’d always had the best burps. Now, being so tall, his burps had real depth, not to mention style. Dean thought that it was a pity he had no burps in him, so they could have a burp war like when they were kids. Dean took a bite of sandwich, swallowing air with it, letting the air do its thing. Then he let out a small burp, nowhere near as elegant as Sam’s, making Sam smirk around his bite of celery.

“We worked outside today,” said Sam. Watching Dean.

“Huh?” Dean asked. Of course they’d worked outside today, they’d just come in and gone through the damn sock ritual, the hallway barely warmer than the air outside. “Yeah. So?”

“I’m all sweaty.” Dean watched Sam shrug and continue eating, as he let the words fall on the air. It took Dean a minute and then he got it, and Sam could see that he got it, because the movement of emotions across his face flickered like light on water, first one and then the other. Wanting something, not wanting it.

“Oh,” said Dean.

“I’m really not supposed to touch the soap,” Sam said, his elbows on the table as he concentrated on his sandwich.

Dean tucked into his sandwich, his posture echoing Sam’s, on the verge of saying something along the lines of we’ll see, and then wondered why he would do that. This was something Sam wanted, he had no memory of Dean, and if this made him happy, if a bath, for Christ’s sake, made him happy, then why not? This would be for Sam, that was what mattered. He could keep everything circumspect, deal with the fallout later. Now was what mattered. What was good for Sam now was what mattered.

“Okay,” he said. Watched Sam smile around his sandwich. Wondered how much hot water he was getting himself into, giving into that smile.

*

After supper, Greer took them to the Day room. Their puzzle from before had been taken over by three men who were allowed the excessive privilege of wearing loose striped robes over their cotton pants and shirts. Dean tugged on Sam’s sleeve, and they managed to grab two spots near the end of the couch. Playing on the TV, there was, of all things, a baseball game. Of course, it was spring, baseball was everywhere. And the Cubs were playing, even better. He’d never been a Cubs fan really, but they were in Illinois somewhere, so, this made sense.

They watched the game a bit, his shoulder rubbing up against Sam’s in a comfortable way. Every now and then Sam would bump his knees against Dean’s on purpose, and that was just fine. He liked the warmth of Sam’s body against his, liked feeling the slight push of Sam’s body as he breathed. Thought about thinking that Sam had been dead, wondered how he’d made it through that without drowning himself in the tub, or finding something to slice his wrists. Losing Sam again would bring that on without another second’s hesitation, so running away by himself was not an option. He had to take Sam with him or he wouldn’t go. Maybe he’d been wrong, maybe he should tell Sam about the plan, let him get used to the idea till all the meds were out of his system.

In the middle of his thoughts, Sam reached over to pat his thigh.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Sam.

“Doors,” he said, even though he was really thinking about escape plans. He realized it was too soon to tell Sam what he was thinking about.

“You should think about windows instead,” said Sam. He nodded as if quite sure of himself.

“Windows?” he asked. Dean slammed Sam with his shoulder, and mock rolled his eyes. Windows? What that hell could thinking about windows help? Windows were just as bad as doors, they were locked or too high up or had bars across them. Well, except for the one window in the basement. It was wide, wide open, and not so high up that two able-bodied men in desperate need of a way out couldn’t access it.

“Yeah,” said Sam. Dean could hear the smile in his voice.

The Cubs were losing, but that was nothing new, the men on the couch made good-natured catcalls, and Bellows reached up with his mouth to gnaw on the dial and the knobs till someone came to take him away.

There was a break in the game and the weather channel came on, showing, as Dean expected, a map of Illinois. But, specifically it showed a temperature grid overlaid over the city of Peoria. The dark haired man in the dapper suit spoke brightly about more rain, and the grass growing, and how a wet month promised a bright summer, yadda, yadda. Dean started to zone out, but just then, Bellows howled out something and pointed at the map the weatherman was gesturing to.

“Damnit, he’s seen it,” said someone.

“He can’t see,” said someone else. “He’s got the eyesight of a bat.”

“Get him out of there,” came a shout.

Bellows danced and pointed as he was pulled away, a little roughly, but then the game was about to start up again.

“What’s he pointing at?” asked Dean.

“Where we are,” one of the patients said. “It’s the highlight of his day, because he thinks they’re pointing him out.”

“Which is where?” asked Dean, the air in his throat a little tight.

“Bath,” said the guy, looking at him, like he felt sorry for Dean that Dean didn’t know this. “Southwest of Peoria about fifty miles. Fifty miles, right Bob?”

Someone grunted yeah, and that must be Bob, but Dean found himself staring at the screen, even though it was now again baseball, and no longer a map of the weather. He knew where they were, he fucking knew where they fucking were. It was such a good feeling, this small, tiny success, that he turned to Sam to share it, and found that Sam was already looking at him. Smiling back, a little puzzled, by the pull of his brow, but he patted Dean’s leg with something akin to pride.

“Told you thinking about windows would be better,” Sam said. “Windows trumps every time.”

“You’re so weird,” said Dean, his smile reaching inside of him.

“Isn’t that why you like me?” Sam pouted a little, looking worried, but maybe, by the whisper of a smile around his mouth, teasing too.

Dean nodded, feeling like a complete goofball doing it, a smiling idiot, and if anyone he knew could see him, they’d say he’d lost his mind. But losing that was nothing compared to finding Sam and sharing some dumb conversation, just like they always had. Getting the feeling that he was getting his brother back. It was like watching Sandy Koufax throw a curveball. Just like that, and just as perfect.

*

When they were led to their room that night, and dosed with meds to make them sleepy, and when the door was finally shut and locked behind them, Dean took his first deep breath of the day. He watched Sam stumble to one of the beds and sit down on it, back curled forward, hair falling against his temples. Four days of knowing Sam was alive was enough to make Dean feel almost ten feet tall and covered with hair, even though Sam was still thin, and had those damn circles under his eyes. He looked up at Dean and shrugged.

“It was nice being outside again,” he said, “but-”

“Didn’t you ever go outside before me?” asked Dean, bending forward to take off his shoes and slip them under the other bed. He sat on the bed across from Sam, drawing their knees in a parallel pairs, and tried not to stare, as he seemed to be doing so much of now, staring at Sam, drinking in all the things about Sam he’d taken for granted before.

Sam shrugged, so blank and calm about it that Dean felt a snap of despair.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The last time I went outside with you was the first time I remember doing it. But I do remember-”

And then, looking away, he shut his mouth, drawing it in that thin line Sam did when he had something to say but didn’t want to say it.

“Is this about the ghosts and stuff again?” Dean asked. None of that was even remotely normal, not to mention the blue man with the lightning hands. Maybe Sam needed to talk more about it, and get it out of his system so he wouldn’t slip up and go spilling the beans to Dr. Logan about it.

Sam stood up like he’d been ejected from the bed, going into the bathroom to flick on the light, and stood there in the doorway, one hand on the bare doorjamb. Dean got up to go to him, reaching out when he realized that Sam had started to shake, a white line of sweat dappling his upper lip.

“Please don’t ask me,” he said, his voice cracking, “because if Dr. Logan finds out, she’ll-and it’ll be more-”

Sam went white, spine curving down, one hand gripping the sink, his other bracing on his knee. The air in the bathroom went close and hard as he slipped down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, burying his head against the, the dark locks spilling against the pale cotton. Dean could smell Sam’s sweat, saw the glisten of skin on his neck.

“They’re going to find out I’ve been talking to you-”

“Sammy,” said Dean, bending down, bracing his knees on the cold linoleum. The smell of cleanser mixed with Sam’s sweat, and his own, leftover grit from the yard, the waft of the dining hall.

“Don’t tell her,” said Sam, whispering to his knees. Rocking. “You promised me no more Treatments, you promised. Dean. Please.”

Whatever drugs they had Sam on, probably something for what the doctors considered illusions, they weren’t helping with the real problem. You couldn’t give someone a drug to cure amnesia, and while you could give them something to help them forget, they were trying to make Sam forget the wrong thing. Whatever the Treatments were, that and the drugs, the wrong drugs, were going to make Sam go crazy before they did him any good.

“Hey,” said Dean, shifting on his knees. He tucked his head low, and leaned in. “I can keep a secret, you know that. I have, haven’t I?”

Hunching in his shoulders, Sam pushed himself away from Dean’s voice. As Dean looked at him, he realized that now was the time to try and talk Sam into stopping meds. He was so married to what he felt the hospital could do for him, he was bound to be resistant, but it would be better for him in the long run. He didn’t dare try and make them just run off and force Sam, or himself, to quit cold turkey. If they did, they’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere with either or both of them going into shock or having a heart attack.

“Sometimes,” said Dean, “the meds make us see things that aren’t there, right?”

“’posed to help,” said Sam, mumbling into his kneebones.

“Maybe sometimes the meds-” Dean stopped, reaching out to touch Sam with his fingertips. Wanting Sam to look at him. “Sometimes the meds make us think weird things? They do me, right? So what if we stopped taking them, you and me. Just stopped.”

“I don’t want to think about ghosts,” said Sam. “I don’t want to think about vampires. Dr. Logan says it’s unproductive.”

“Maybe,” said Dean, “the drugs are getting in the way of the truth. Why don’t we stop, and if the ghosts and vampires are still in your head, then we know the drugs aren’t helping. Then we can ask for different drugs. Okay?”

Finally Sam tipped up his head, looking from under his lashes at Dean. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does. If you are thinking the same thing whether or not you are on the meds, then it means the meds aren’t helping. It means we need different meds. We’ll tell Dr. Logan that you think so.” Dean planned to be far away and gone by the time the meds wore off, with no intention of telling Dr. Logan any damn fool thing like they’d been messing with their meds. Sam didn’t have to know, in this way he could protect Sam like he was supposed to. “I mean, we could try it for a couple of days, like an experiment, you know?”

Now Sam was pushing out his lower lip, thinking it through, being stubborn, but thinking it through. “An experiment?” He made it sound like it was something horrible, something to be feared.

“Yeah, like you and me. That’s an experiment, right? Dr. Logan wants to see if you being around me will make you better. And she’s already liking what she sees. Remember the conversation in the hallway?”

His heart was thumping, and his knees were starting to scream at him, but if he could get Sam to start weaning himself off the meds, then the withdrawal would go slower and not mess him up as much. He pushed away dark visions of him and Sam somewhere on the outskirts of Joliet and him having to call 911 because Sam was going into convulsions. Coma. Dying. No way. Not on his watch.

“What do you say,” he said. “Just for a little while. A few days.”

Sam was silent for a minute. Dean watched his shoulders relax, and the arms around his knees loosen. “Okay, but just for a few days.”

“That’s my Sam,” said Dean, smiling. This was going to work out just fine, if they could take it step by step. The first of which was cutting off their reliance on the meds. He gave Sam a pat that turned into a long strong down his arm.

“I smell,” said Sam, pushing himself up to his feet, to his full height. He looked down at Dean, who was still on his knees. “I can smell me.”

“I can smell you too,” said Dean, not thinking. But this made Sam smile and something flicker in his eyes like he was remembering similar comments from before. There’d been enough of them, the back and forth, the name calling, the putdowns, the current of joy beneath it all. You’re a jerk meant I love you in Winchesterspeak.

Sam held out his hand for Dean, and Dean could see he did this without thinking, pulling Dean to his feet like he’d done hundreds of times before. Like the body remembered what the brain could not.

“If I-” Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean sideways, the bulb in its casing of safety plastic turning his eyes a little dull, the color of sea mud. “If I have a bath, will you hold the soap for me again?” He seemed to lean forward like he wanted something, but didn’t know what. Like he was hungry for something. His long fingers twisted in the cotton of his pants.

Touch. Sam loved to be touched, though he would never ask for it. He’d been that way since he was small, sidling up to Dean when they stood in line waiting for a table, wanting to share a bed, not minding when they had to. Wanting his skin to be in contact with Dean’s skin till Dean wanted to shake him off with irritation, especially when Sam had gotten his growth spurt. It was like being taken over by a giant glom monster. Not that he had minded, but those had been stiff years between them. Especially since Dean knew he was content when Sam was in the same room. It was enough. Except now, Sam needed more.

He extended his fingers till he could touch the back of Sam’s arm, the contact creating a twitch in Sam’s skin, like a horse that senses you are near. Sam didn’t move away, and Dean spread his fingers to stroke, currying the fine hairs there as his palm circled around. “Okay,” he said. “But will you try the experiment with me?”

“How?” Sam had dipped his chin almost to his chest, eyes half closed like he was about to start purring.

“Take half,” said Dean. “Every pill they give you, just take half, and spit the rest out later. Then the next day, we’ll take half as much as half. Can you do that?”

Now Sam nodded, mouth open a little, thinking it through. His jaw worked around an idea. “Half,” he said. Then he looked at Dean. “Half of half of half. Sure.”

“Okay,” said Dean again. “I’ll hold your soap for you, and tomorrow we experiment. But it’s our secret.”

“Like the ghosts and the vampires,” said Sam, taking off his shoes and peeling off his shirt. “Except-” Muffled for a second by the cotton, his voice had that edge of doubt, and had this been any other where or any other when, Dean knew full and well that Sam would be listing the pros and cons of this particular venture, with no hesitating over the fact that this course of action was highly questionable, and madness besides-

“Look, Sam, if it doesn’t work, we’ll let Dr. Logan know, it’ll all be on the up and up, I promise.” He leaned forward to start the water full bore, feeling Sam edge closer so their thighs were touching. “We just want to be a little flexible about this, and I think it’ll work.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, watching Dean test the water as the tub filled up. He stripped to bare skin, like he had before, only this time, he was able to hang his clothes on the towel rack, crumpled but dry. Dean caught a glimpse of Sam’s ribs, the line of his spine, the hard line of hip leading across dark pubic hair into thigh as Sam got in the tub. There were no bubbles or suds, though the water turned a little grey as Dean grabbed the soap and tucked a washcloth under the water to wet it.

“Can’t you touch the soap even a little?” Dean asked, sudsing up the washcloth.

Sam shook his head, chin stubborn as the damp from the bath curled the ends of his hair. Dean figured that this bath thing would only last as long as they were in the hospital; although Sam liked to be touched, Dean had no doubt that if Sam could have predicted that he’d be asking for Dean’s help to bathe, he’d have taken his own gun and shot himself in the head with it. As would Dean himself. He would do this now, this intimate thing for Sam, and call it good.

It wasn’t too hard anyway, to take the soapy washcloth and against the back of Sam’s neck, or along his back and arms. To have him dip forward and use a bit of the soap in his hair and have Sam dip forward to rinse it out. To touch Sam and make sure he was alright. There were some bruises along Sam’s ribs, but the marks on his wrists had faded, and there were only a few injection spots on his left arm. Dean took inventory as Sam wasn’t looking, and except for being pale and thin, Sam seemed okay. Maybe stopping the meds would make him less pale, certainly a good, bloody steak wouldn’t hurt either.

“Wash the rest of you,” he said, handing Sam the washcloth.

“But-”

“I’m not handing you soap, here, just take it.”

Sighing as though Dean were being completely inconsiderate, Sam washed between his legs and his toes and behind his knees, sloshing water everywhere. The water was completely grey now; Dean reached forward, taking the washcloth with one hand as he pulled the plug with the other. “Out,” he said. “Towel. Dry.”

Sam got out of the tub, taking the towel and dripping all along Dean’s back as he hung the washcloth, the heat from his skin blazing along Dean’s side. “You going to have a bath too?” he asked from behind Dean. Dean could hear the friction of the towel on Sam’s skin.

“No, I’m good.”

“But you smell.”

Dean dipped his head down. Yeah. He smelled. He remembered being helped with a bath sometime shortly before he found out about Sam. Days ago. It was certainly time.

“Huh,” he said.

“Do you need some help? I can’t hold the soap but-”

“No, I’m good,” said Dean, putting the plug back in the drain. “You just go on to bed.”

“I can hold a soapy washcloth, I guess,” said Sam. “Good as anybody.”

Dean watched the tub fill up with water, not saying anything. Body curled forward, Sam was at his side, his towel wrapped around his middle.

“C’mon, Dean huh?”

It was just like when he was ten and wanted big brother to let him come to the park to hang out with the other kids from the motel, kids whose families were passing through, just like theirs. A cheap motel, not the best clientele, but at that point, Dean hadn’t cared. There had been the promise of pot from the kid in the Metallica t-shirt just like the one Dean had, and Dean had never smoked pot before.

Sam had been on the verge of whining, and they’d ended up staying home because what was good for him was not good for little brother. The kid in the Metallica t-shirt and the rest of his friends had been picked up by the cops not long after curfew; Dad had told them about it in the morning, and Sam had looked at Dean and not said a word, even though he knew perfectly well those were the kids Dean had been planning on leaving Sam alone for.

The memory flashed by; Sam was good for experiments, and good for not throwing Dean under a bus, but he was not meant to give Dean a bath.

“I’ll wash your neck for you,” said Sam, cajoling, like he was promising something good as he pulled on his p.j.’s.

“Oh, alright,” said Dean, sharp. He turned off the water and stood up to peel off his shirt. He meant to hang it on the rack, but Sam took it, and did this for him. Same with the pants and boxers, Sam was waiting by, like backstage dresser.

Sam wasn’t staring, so Dean tried not to mind that he felt crowded as he got into the tub. A bath wasn’t like a shower, a shower you stood in all action and manly. A bath you crouched in, all curved in and intimate, and the water barely came to his belly button, his cock bobbing to the top of the water like a piece of kelp. He took the soap and rolled it in the washcloth and handed it to Sam, who knelt down to take it.

Dean barely blinked the damp out of his eyes when he felt the cloth, warm at the back of his neck, sliding across skin like the rasp of a cat’s tongue. The water could be a lot warmer, but then, it could be a stranger doing this for him instead of his Sam. Sam used long strokes across Dean’s arms and back, behind his ears, across the front of his neck. Every so often he wet the cloth and handed it to Dean to soap up, and then carried on, a little hum under his breath he probably didn’t realize he was doing. It settled him, doing this for Dean, touching Dean calmed him, like being touched by Dean did.

“Dip,” said Sam and Dean obeyed, bending forward to dunk his hair in the water, his nose touching the surface of the water. Unexpectedly, he felt the curve of Sam’s palm against the back of his neck as he scooped water up over Dean’s scalp, the heat of fingers, the warmth of Sam’s hand, warmer than the water even, making Dean shiver.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, his voice clear, and Dean nodded. Dr. Logan’s experiment was a good one, taking care of Dean was good for Sam. There was strength in his question, in the even strokes of his hand through Dean’s hair, and in the fact, that for a second, he took up the soap from the edge of the bath and used it to lather up. A second later he put it back, making a little sound in his throat like he’d forgotten, but it had happened. In spite of all the strictures against it, Sam had picked up the soap. He continued to hum as he washed Dean’s hair and pushed his head down to rinse him off.

Then Dean took the washcloth, washing himself between his legs, and his toes, and the backs of his knees, not wanting Sam to take it in his head to do that, while Sam stayed by, his wrists resting on the edge of the tub. The front of his pajama top was splotched dark with water, but there was a new flush to his cheeks and although he looked tired, his eyes sparkled, no longer dull. That was that then. If touching and being touched did this? It was now Dean’s turn to be the glom monster, and to hell with what anybody thought about that. That was an awful lot of touching on order, but if it would help Sam, Dean would roll in it. He would become the Master Toucher, would do it at each opportunity.

“I’m done,” Dean said, pulling out the plug. The water slid away uncomfortably fast as he got out of the tub, and Sam stood up to grab the towel. Dean let himself be dried off, trying not to pull away as Sam crouched down to rub briskly along the length of Dean’s legs. Sam probably felt he was just helping, and never mind that the last person who had given Dean such a nice, friendly rubdown had been one Betty Ann of Duluth, Minnesota, and boy, had she known how to keep a man warm in the dead of winter, towel or no towel.

He looked down. Memories about Betty Ann were exactly the wrong ones to be having when your brother was on his knees in front of you, looking up from making sure each toe was dry. His cock certainly wanted to remember, though.

“Enough, Sam,” said Dean, looking away. “I’m dry enough now, thanks.”

Sam stood up, smirking a little as he hung the towel over the rack. But he didn’t say anything, which was good because Dean didn’t have any idea what he would have said. Why do you have an erection? Because you’re rubbing me down like that. Like that.

He got dressed in his p.j.’s, and they brushed their teeth. He reached out his hand and turned out the light in the bathroom, following Sam into the main room. He didn’t know what time it was but it was late enough so that the bones of his shoulders felt like they were melting. Tomorrow they would start talking half of whatever they were given, but until then, the potency of the sleeping pill was kicking in pretty fiercely.

Two feet from the bed, Sam stopped, bare feet skidding on the cool floor, and Dean bumped into Sam’s back. He was about to pull away, but remembering what he’d realized in the bathroom, he leaned into Sam for a minute, petting along the length of his ribs.

“Um,” said Sam.

Dean peered over Sam’s shoulder as he was looking at the beds. At the two beds. It was obvious what he wanted.

“I get to sleep on the outside,” said Dean. Instead of getting the Why? to which he would have to answer, Because I’m older, Sam only nodded, and hustled under the covers, the sheets crackling. He watched with his hands curved around the edges of the sheet as Dean grabbed the pillow and blanket from the other bed. “Now, just don’t drool on me, okay?”

Dean spread the blanket over Sam. Then, as Dean got into bed, Sam shifted away, so that he was leaning with his back against the wall. The wall was cold, painted with slick paint, and in less than a minute that cold could push through a man’s spine fast enough to hurt.

The chime sounded and the lights went out, and as Dean’s eyes adjusted to the near-dark, he moved his hips, and shifted his back. “Move away from the wall, here.”

It was dark, and this, taking Sam into his arms, was nothing he’d not done before a hundred times. Yes, Sam had been three, and five, and seven, not a hulking, fully grown going on 24 years old. But it was okay. Sam needed this, and Dean needed to give it to him.

He could feel Sam shiver, and the press of cold feet against his as Sam tucked in closer. He seemed to pause, then took a breath and tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin, pressing himself against Dean’s ribs. For a moment, he was cold, about to shiver, then his warmth combined with Sam’s and started to grow.

*

Sam liked the feel of Dean’s body against his, liked the smell of Dean, the curve of Dean’s arm around him. It wasn’t just that he was warmer, but he finally felt safe. Dean’s breath ruffled the top of his hair, and Sam made himself not wonder why Dean was so nice. Nor why he seemed to trust Sam absolutely. The thing with the broken window. Dean had distracted him a bit, but the point was obvious: No one must know the window was broken. It probably had to do with Dean wanting to get out of the hospital, he didn’t like it there. Sam didn’t like it either, though he liked being with Dean.

And then there were the pills. Dean’s argument had almost made sense, because the pills weren’t helping, and hadn’t been. The monsters and vampires were still there, even though the pills were supposed to make them go away. But what had convinced Sam in the end to do what Dean asked was the look on Dean’s face. He wasn’t asking Sam to do it to get back at Dr. Logan, or to cheat somehow. He wanted Sam to do it because it would be better for Sam. That’s what his face had said, with those green eyes looking at him, his lips between his teeth as he sucked them back a bit, worried and concerned.

So he’d agreed. He’d take half his pills, and then half of that, and then half of that. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be taking any pills at all. Maybe at that point the buzzing sound would go away. Better yet, maybe he’d get his memory back.

Dean shifted beneath him, adjusting his legs around Sam’s, turning his head on the pillow. He pulled Sam a little closer for a minute as he did this, and then, when he was still again, he didn’t quite let Sam go. That was okay by Sam. It was warmer when he could hear Dean’s heartbeat.

“Dean,” he said.

“Mmmmm?”

“You said we were on a road trip?”

“Yeah, we were.” Dean sounded sleepy.

“My brother and I used to take road trips. I remember us sitting in the back of this car, and that my dad sat in the front seat driving.”

“Oh?” Now Dean was more awake. He tilted his head until it was resting against Sam’s, perhaps to show he was listening.

“The wind was blowing rain against the car. We were driving down a highway as it was getting dark. My brother had just killed a werewolf,” he said. Then he waited. Waited for Dean to stiffen up and pull away, or to be shocked or something.

“When was this?” was all Dean asked.

“My brother was sixteen, I don’t know how old I was.”

“You were twelve,” said Dean over a yawn.

“How do you know?”

He could almost hear Dean thinking. “Because, like I told you, our families knew each other for years. That’s how I know you.”

A thousand questions sprung into Sam’s mind, he asked the most important one, though he knew Dean wouldn’t tell him.

“Did you know my brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

Now Dean sighed and pulled away a little, but it was just to move his shoulders. “I can’t tell you. Look, we’ve talked about this. Your memories have to come back on their own and that’s all there is to that, so stop asking.”

Sam shifted his body till his head was resting firmly on Dean’s chest. He listened to the thump thump of Dean’s heart, and tried to breathe slowly like Dean was doing. He wanted to do something to make Dean less irritated with him.

“Once,” he said slowly, “once, when I was little, my brother carried me on his shoulders and we went to the store on the corner. It wasn’t very far, I think we were staying in a motel, but he carried me on his shoulders all the way into the store and pretended I was tall and that he was invisible. We bought Sweet Tarts and Red Vines, but I had to use my hands, and pay for it at the counter. The lady laughed so hard she cried, and she gave us extra candy, and then she pinched my brother’s cheek.”

Dean seemed to laugh a little at this, there was a humph sound from his chest, and he patted Sam gently. “Yeah?” he asked. “Was it good candy?”

“Yeah. My brother let me eat most of it,” said Sam now. “I think I had been crying because my dad was gone. He was gone a lot, but my brother was always there.” Something started to choke up in his throat, making his eyes sting. “My brother was always there.”

“I did my best,” said Dean, soft. Almost as if he didn’t realize he was saying it aloud.

That didn’t make any sense. “What?” asked Sam.

“Your brother, I mean,” said Dean. “He did the best he could, it sounds like.”

“He did everything,” said Sam. His eyes were closing as hard as he tried keeping them open. Swallowing, he made himself not cry, because that made his breath come short, and that made him feel like he couldn’t breathe at all. Like he was dying. “He was the best brother.”

There it came, the dark, twisty coil of missing his brother, that choking sensation, like a fist had blocked his throat, like his lungs were being pressed upon by large boulders. He turned away from Dean, twisting into his pillow, trying to muffle the tight whistle in his throat trying to clamp his shaking hands between his knees. He knew the bed was shaking too, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it. In a minute, Dean was going to get up and start banging on the door for the orderly, in a minute-

From behind him, Dean moved, and Sam felt Dean’s knees behind his, felt Dean’s arm come under and around his waist like a warm band, felt Dean’s chin press gently on top of his shoulder, along his neck. The heat of Dean’s body, cupped around him from behind, eased into him, and then he heard Dean whisper, “Breathe when I breathe, just in and out, like I’m doing.”

Then Dean breathed slow and careful and easy, his chest pressing against the back of Sam’s ribs, his thighs flush with Sam’s thighs, one hand stroking Sam’s arm, up and down. Slowly. Slowly. The movement of his chest echoed Dean’s, and maybe even his heart was thumping in time with Dean’s heart. Little by little the coil eased, and the air in his lungs moved like it was supposed to, and Dean’s voice was in his ear.

“That’s better. You just sleep now. And in the morning, we’ll stop taking these stupid pills, okay?”

Sam nodded. He tried to say something like okay and thank you, but his mouth wouldn’t move. It opened like it was trying but then his eyes closed and the night came and he was asleep. With Dean’s arms all around him.

Chapter 9

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post