Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 10

[lovesrain44]

 

After lunch, when they were in line to go somewhere, Dean didn’t know exactly where, he got pulled out of line to go see Dr. Logan. He didn’t know the orderly who was escorting him, and it happened to fast for him to protest. All he had was once glimpse of Sam’s eyes going wide and scared, and he looked around for Greer, anyone, to take care of Sam, to keep him calm. It was all going to go to hell pretty fast if when Sam wasn’t calm, someone figured out that he was on half meds and start to wonder why. God damn this place.

Dr. Logan waved him in, and Dean was heartily sick of her earnest smile and that damn white lab coat. Why did she need one anyway? It wasn’t like she was in a lab. Full of ill humor, Dean sat in the chair she motioned to and crossed his arms across his chest. Maybe he should just give in and call Bobby, or even Ellen, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for them to find out.

“So?” she asked, sitting down, pert, smiling. “Everything going well, no talk of blue men or anything? No going on about vampires and zombies?”

Dean considered this, and made himself shrug, thought it made his shoulders hurt and his neck tighten. “He seems a little obsessed with not touching the soap, but other than that-”

Dr. Logan laughed a little, making Dean pause as he grew hot with irritation. It wasn’t at all funny that Sam had been given a phobia about soap by the very people who were supposed to help him. But he needed to give Dr. Logan something to make her back off, to let her know things were cool, that Dean was handling it, that Sam was getting better. “He seems a whole lot calmer than he was in that hallway, and-”

Now she interrupted him. “Yes, exactly!” This seemed to excite her a great deal. “It’s not revolutionary, what we’re doing, but I’ve never done it, and it’s interesting to watch it unfold, how Sam responds to you, how good you are with him.”

“You’re watching?” He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was.

“All the time. I mean, we don’t have security cameras except at the outside doors, but the orderlies monitor the patients, I get records of med intake and reactions. How much you eat for lunch.”

“The food sucks,” he said without thinking.

“It’s institutional food, with plenty of nutrition, even if it’s not homemade.” She wrinkled her nose a bit and nodded, eyes sparkling in a way that made her look attractive.

He still hated her, he decided. He tried to give her a smile, and maybe he succeeded, because she nodded and turned to the file on her desk.

“I’ve got some interesting news, for you Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Since you’re so much better, and I can see Sam making strides every day, there will come a time when you’ll want to leave to go back to your people. Since you can’t remember who you are, I made a call and sent over your files to have them entered in the database.”

“The database?

“Yes, for missing persons, to see if anyone is missing you. I mean, it’s not country-wide at this point, not all police stations are hooked up yet, but we got your names out there, and your descriptions, a description of the car, so we’ll see if anyone recognizes you. It’s a long shot, but-”

“Database?” His mouth went suddenly dry, and his lungs felt out of air. He should have known this was coming. If he’d been all the way off his meds, he knew he would be able to handle this better. As it was-

“Sure. All kinds of agencies hook up with it, police, local news stations, hospitals, even the FBI is hooked up.”

Fucking hell. Henriksen. He’d be on them so fast-

Dean didn’t realize he was standing, but he could see her face go white as her mouth opened wordless. He was reaching for her, moving over the desk, grabbing her by the lapels of her fucking white jacket, wanting to shake her, to scream at her that that was the stupidest thing she could ever have done. He had her, had her neck tight in his fingers, the papers on her desk went flying and there was a buzzing sound as she pulled back. Over balanced, Dean fell against the desk. He could smell something citrus, could hear her talking over the buzz in his head. He pushed back and got up, stumbled to the wall, holding his head, realizing his mouth was open and he was talking.

You shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that, you shouldn’t have done that.

-He should have called someone, Bobby, Ellen, hell, even Jo, even her, the first day. The very first day, but it was too late. They were stuck behind walls and doors for which there was no key. Henriksen had a car, he could get there by plane. Fast. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind, no doubt at all, that Henriksen watched all the lists, the bulletins. Had reports made for him of anyone even faintly resembling the Winchesters. And after the bank job? He’d be merciless.

Dean went for the door, and his hand was on the handle, when it snapped open and two orderlies flew in. The grabbed both his arms, and Dr. Logan said something to them that he couldn’t hear, the buzzing got louder, and they shot him full of something before he could protest, pushing him up against the wall. He felt the needle go in, felt whatever had been in the syringe soak into every muscle and fiber and like an insidious snake, pulled at him. Pulled his head down, and his shoulders down, and he could hardly breathe.

He shrieked as they dragged him down the hall, his slip-on sneakers falling off at the least friction, his socked feet giving him no grip whatsoever. His screams for Sam bounced off the slick walls, and came back to slam him in the face. He pulled, but the orderlies' hands held him tight, and the walls seemed to narrow as they turned down a corridor, a new one, with overly bright bulbs and a wooden door at the end that loomed towards him like it wanted to grab him.

The door led to a room that had no windows. There was a row of light bulbs overhead that reflected off the metal slabs that had leather straps hanging off them. There was a pile of sheets on a table, and hoses hanging in circles on the wall. Dean took this in with a snap, wanting to scream so loud he felt the blood was going to come pouring out of his throat. But all that came out was a high-pitched wail as the orderlies stripped him down to his bare skin, tossing everything in a pile, and then hauling him onto a table.

They rolled him in a sheet, his arms pinned at his sides, then they took one of the hoses down from the wall. For a second, they held it there above him, one metallic eye, and then the water came streaming out. They soaked the sheet around him, he could feel it oozing in, first lukewarm, and then icy cold. All over, coating him in the icy water, like he was trapped in a deep, damp freeze. Then they strapped him to the table with the leather straps, too tight over the chest and knees, locking him immobile. Then they turned off the lights. Then they left him.

He was alone. But worse, Sam was alone.

He stared, blinking into the darkness for one long minute. His arms ached from the cold, his toes were trapped at an odd angle. Folds of cloth pinched his left hip. Then he started to shiver, but couldn’t move enough to keep him warm. Above him the nothingness expanded, like a noisome grey blanket intent on swallowing him. But it had no texture, no sound. And beyond the low, dull grit of cement, no smell.

He couldn’t even wiggle to adjust his neck, the muscles started screaming at him, but then, it faded away like his body had been cut off. He almost couldn’t feel a thing, but his mind knew that he couldn’t move. His mouth tried making sounds behind the plastic clamp, but it came out an ineffectual hum. And still the darkness grew.

The worst of it was his thoughts of Sam that spun around and around, in a loop that started just as soon as it was ended. He couldn’t stop it. Sam on his own, Sam freaking out because where was Dean and who was going to look after him? Who was going to be nice to him, and touch him and hold him like he liked it? No one. There would be no one, and Sam would flip. He might cry, with his mouth screwing up to try and keep from crying, confused and alone and not wanting to be hurt. Or maybe he might start growling and biting and shoving people in dryers and then the hospital would really get mad, and they might decide that a lobotomy was, really, the best course of action. And then they would do it, and all because Dean couldn’t keep a cool head, and it would be all his fault.

Part of him thought I’m in Treatment, and the rest of him kept screaming as Sam’s face faded in and out of his mind’s eye, Sam’s name one long, hollow, empty echo in his ears.

*

They took Dean away, but nobody seemed to notice.

Sam stopped. His mouth fell open as he watched Dean walk off, calmly, like nothing was wrong. But it was so sudden, so scary, because if they could just make Dean go away like that, with only one glance of those green eyes to say goodbye, then they could do anything, absolutely anything they wanted.

The orderly and Dean turned the corner and then Dean was gone.

Sam let the line go on without him, and just as it got to the back door, someone opened it and he could see that the patients were going outside.

Shaking, his hands clenched and unclenched along his thighs. His heart pounded hard against his chest, about to explode. It wasn’t just that there was no way he was going to be able to go outside without Dean. He didn’t know where Dean was, where he was in the vast warren of the hospital, and maybe Dean was already-

The thought of Dean being gone yawned in front of him right there in the hallway, a large, black mouth, with teeth and nasty spit, a forever chasm of no Dean.

His palms were sweating as he stood and saw the patients gathering on the lawn as the door swung shut and for a moment he was alone, by himself, with no one watching him. He felt prickles of something sharp and electric racing up the back of his legs, spiraling up his spine, along his ribs.

He had to find Dean.

He turned on his heel. But the hallway stretched out in front of him, the end of it wavering like a shiny beige snake; he shut his eyes as fast as he could. He was shaking, he felt dizzy. He was marooned there, couldn’t go outside, couldn’t walk down the hall to find Dean. Wasn’t any use to anybody, stupid, stupid Sam. His eyes were hot and thumping, like someone was waving a lit candle behind them, and he couldn’t feel his toes.

Someone came up and touched him, and Sam swung with his fists, eyes still closed, baring his teeth, taking a deep breath. It hitched in his throat, and it wasn’t enough, his lungs were burning, and the hands pressed him against the wall.

“Sam,” said the voice. Sam didn’t recognize it. He tried to lurch away, but the hands held him, and the voice called for someone else to help him. “Sam what are you doing in the hallway by yourself? You should be outside.”

He opened his eyes. It was an orderly he didn’t know, maybe he’d seen him in the dining hall, but he didn’t know him.

Sam’s mouth opened wide, he felt the moisture on his lip, wondered if he was spitting as he breathed, wondered how long before they knocked him out and dragged him off for Treatment. He wasn’t supposed to have outbursts anymore, he was supposed to-

“What’s wrong, Sam?” the orderly asked, in a voice that was low enough so that Sam had to lean forward to hear it. Like he was listening to a secret.

“Can’t find Dean,” said Sam, quivering. He so desperately wanted to make somebody understand so they would take him to Dean. “Dean’s not here and the sky is too big to be alone.”

The orderly held him there a moment while someone else came closer, and as Sam looked up, he saw it was Greer. Greer had Dr. Logan’s ear, whatever he told her she would believe. Sam started to shake.

“What’s up, Rubio?” asked Greer, coming close but not touching Sam. Sam felt the sweat pool under his arms and along the backs of his knees. His upper lip was hot but he couldn’t wipe it because his arms were being held down. He shut his mouth, and tried to breathe through his nose but it was coming out in a whistle.

“Says he doesn’t want to go outside without Dean,” said Rubio, looking at Greer, his grip on Sam’s arms loosening a bit.

Sam twitched his arms away and moved back, but as Greer took a step closer, Sam realized there was no way he could run fast enough and it would look bad. It would make Dr. Logan mad. And then she might never give Dean back to him. He wanted Dean back so much, the emptiness of being without Dean was starting to shred him from the inside out. Little, whirring blades, slicing into soft parts of him, taking him apart, shred by painful shred, making him bleed.

He pressed himself against the cool of the wall, letting it soak into him, and tried to breathe slow. But it was hard, so hard, without Dean.

“What’s going on, Sam?” asked Greer, like Sam had merely paused in some task or other and only needed mild prodding to get going again. “You don’t like the rain?”

“Shouldn’t I get someone?” asked Rubio, stepping back to let Greer handle it. “I’ve seen this guy’s file.”

“We’re not going to have an outburst, are we, Sam?” asked Greer. He put a hand on Sam’s arm, and though Sam’s whole side twitched, he let it stay. Greer was big and strong and scary.

“I want Dean,” said Sam as slowly and clearly as he could, the buzz in his head turning to a high-pitched rattle that sounded like hail against a window. “I can’t go outside without Dean, where’s Dean?”

Greer made a small sound in his throat, and nodded at Sam. “Okay. We’re okay. Dean just went for a meeting with Dr. Logan, and no one told you. He should be right back. How ‘bout you work in the laundry room till he gets here.”

“Laundry?” Sam asked, his voice rising. “Without Dean?” He couldn’t go anywhere without Dean.

“It’s either that or go outside, Sam, I can’t just leave you here in the hall.”

“I could wait by the office where he is, I could-”

“That’s not how it works. You can’t just hang around, you need to be productive, okay? So which is it? Outside or Laundry?”

Sam couldn’t think, but he forced himself to come to a skittering halt because he knew that Greer would make up his mind for him if he didn’t make it up himself and then he might never see Dean again. The edges of his skin felt numb, his jaw line aching as though it had taken a blow. His hands flexed of their own volition and Greer seemed to take it as a signal. He let Sam go.

“Sam?” asked Greer.

“Laundry,” said Sam. He felt like he was telling someone something he shouldn’t and Dean wouldn’t like that. Would he understand why Sam had given in? “Tell Dean I went to Laundry.” The laundry room was safe and dry and closer to Dean, even if Neland hated him.

“I’ll take you there,” said Greer. “Rubio, go and let Edgerton know where I am.”

Rubio went off and Greer led Sam down the hall. He felt like someone was poking him, over and over, because Dean wasn’t there. He’d gotten so used to him being there and Greer was walking fast like he had someplace else to be; Sam kept up as best he could, feeling shaky, like someone was running an electric current through him. Panting. Desperate. By the time they got to the laundry room, Sam was seeing black spots in front of his eyes.

Neland was at the door, frowning as usual. “Rubio just called,” he said, not moving out of the way.

“You have to take him,” said Greer. “I’ve got yard duty and we’re short, and I don’t have time to babysit.” He gave Sam a slight tug on his arm.

Sam jerked his arm away, he didn’t want Greer touching him, he wanted Dean.

“He’s a handful already,” said Neland.

“Deal with it,” said Greer, letting go of Sam.

Neland sighed and stepped aside, and for a moment, as Greer was already walking away, Sam felt the empty echo of being in the laundry room without Dean. He shifted from foot to foot, blinking, trying to clear his vision. The washers were going at full bore and he recognized the table where he and Dean had worked that morning. There were some of the towels that they had folded, still along the table’s edge. He moved towards it, without thinking, maybe some of Dean would still be there.

“Hang on,” said Neland. “Wash your hands first.”

Sam didn’t want to do this, not without Dean. His knees quivered as he tried to decide whether to do what Neland said, or to start slamming things with his fists. Then he heard it. A loud thump and a crash from the other end of the corridor, like a door had been slammed open. Then there was a long wail. He felt someone along his spine jump, alive and stinging and then he realized he heard a name. His name.

“Sam!”

Sam moved towards the door. It was Dean.

“Saaaaaaaaaaaaaam!”

There was another thud, sounding metallic and thick that echoed down the hallway. And then nothing. Not a single sound. Sam’s muscles bunched in his legs as he started to take off- Dean needed him-but he felt something on his arm and looked down.

“You take off and so help me, I press that button.”

Everything came to a sharp halt. It was Neland. Neland was touching him, threatening him. Neland could do anything he wanted, including reporting to Dr. Logan that Sam had disobeyed him. Sam felt the buzz in his ears, behind his eyeballs, still agitated with that electric current he could barely focus, but he knew Neland was scowling. The sound of the dryers crawled over him, like flies with bloody feet. He clamped his hands over his ears. He needed to save Dean, he needed to run-

Neland’s assistant came up.

“Looks like he’s starting to spin,” the assistant said. “Should I get Greer? He’s too big for us to take down if he goes nuts.”

“I don’t need that jarhead to help me keep order in my own laundry room,” said Neland with some acid. “Just keep those washers going because we’re behind as usual. Damn morons.”

Now the assistant was gone and it was just him and Neland. Other patients worked among the tables, folding or moving towels and sheets from the washers into the dryers, just as peaceful as could be. Except that Sam’s throat closed up, and he was breathing hard like he was about to start screaming and Neland wasn’t moving out of the way of the path to the door.

Dean’s scream for him joined the buzz in his head. And Neland looked like he hated him, really hated him.

“Take a step back, Sam, and listen up.”

Sam tried to hunch down, sweating all over, not liking the feel of towering over Neland without Dean at his side to balance him out. Like a big, dumb, stupid moron of no use to anybody. And somewhere, Dean was still screaming.

“Sam, you listening to me?”

Sam tried to do as he was told, tried to look at Neland while he was talking, but his eyes kept going to the doorjamb, judging the amount of space between him and the hallway. How fast he would have to move to get past Neland.

“You are here on sufferance, Sam,” said Neland. “One wrong move and you’ll be yanked out of here so fast your head will spin. If it isn’t spinning already. You got me?”

Dean. He wanted Dean. “Dean,” he said. His throat ached.

Neland stepped up close to Sam’s body, looking at Sam with his eyes blazing, like he didn’t care that Sam outweighed him by pounds and inches. He was way too close, but Sam was too startled to move away.

“Half you guys are faking it, and I can see it in your eyes that you understand every single word that I’m saying. You can’t fool me, you got that?” Neland was practically growling. “You guys need less coddling and more following the rules. You stay in this room, and you will see Dean. Mess with me, and you’ll see the bottom end of a black pit, so deep they will never find you. You get me?”

For a moment, all Sam could do was stare. He felt pretty sure that Dr. Logan would not approve of Neland’s tone, or his threatening stance, but Sam got it. More clearly than if it had been spelled out for him. He had two options, one of them did not include getting his Dean back. He shook his head, very clearly saying no, pressing his spine straight. If Dean had been dragged off somewhere, when he came back, as Neland was inferring he would, then Sam needed to be ready.

“Where’s Dean?” he asked, trying to stay calm, to breathe slow.

Neland paused, and Sam could see him looking at the laundry room, full of busy, content patients, at the distance to the door, and then back at Sam. Up at Sam, who was a good foot or so taller than Neland, who seemed to be weighing something in his mind, behind his eyes.

“I can check,” said Neland. Then he pointed his finger at Sam. “I will. But you move from this spot, so help me God-”

Sam shook his head almost violently. He wasn’t going to move, not for anything, if only he could find out where Dean was. What had happened to him. Why he’d been screaming for Sam. Sam’s brain felt like it was a one way track, and couldn’t turn left or right till he found out.

Neland stepped toward the phone on the wall, keeping his eyes on Sam the entire time. From across the room, the assistant orderly was watching too, near the dryers along the wall, and Sam stood still. Still as a statue, a game he remembered from when he was young, when his brother would pick him up and toss him across the grass, and Sam would land and freeze, and his brother would pace and pretend to fret as he tried to guess what Sam was. It always took him forever, and eventually, Sam realized that his brother drew it out for fun. And would guess badly so that he would have to pick Sam up and toss him again, and again, and again-

On the phone, Neland was talking to someone, nodding. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll keep him here till then.” Then he hung up. And came over to Sam.

“He had an outburst in Dr. Logan’s office,” said Neland quickly, as if saying the words fast would hurt less. “I don’t know what about, but he’s been taken to Treatment. He’ll be released later tonight. You,” he jabbed Sam in the gut with a pointed finger, “need to mind me till then, and do as you’re told, and eat your supper, and take your pills, and then-”

Treatment? The scream in Sam’s head pitched high and fast and he opened his mouth to let it out. But Neland poked him in the stomach again, hard, making Sam’s mouth snap shut. He blinked.

“You do as I say, Sam,” said Neland. “You stay calm and don’t make me press the panic button, and then you’ll see Dean.”

“I’ll see Dean.” Sam said this with finality, he didn’t care what Neland thought of it. He would give them until after supper. If he didn’t see Dean then, he would bite someone. Maybe kill them. He didn’t care.

Neland looked like he wanted to jab Sam again, but didn’t. “All you morons are alike,” he said. “Always in your own heads.” Then he shook his head slowly. “Oh, forget it. Just wash your hands and get to folding. I don’t even care, you hear me? I just don’t care.”

Sam did as he was told, numb all over, spine feeling like it had been jimmied by something, stiff, fused together. His hands under the hot water felt disconnected, his arms all akimbo as he dried his hands off. Dean was in Treatment, Dean would be released later. Until then, Sam was on his own. Left to drift through the halls of the hospital, without an anchor, without anything.

But that wasn’t the important part. Dean was in Treatment, and Sam knew how that was. How it was supposed to help and calm you, but how it wound you up tighter than a power coil, wires wrapped around the center of you and shot through with cold and helplessness. If Dean was like him, the immobility would be the worst part, far worse than the icy water, or the darkness. The holding still, not being able to move. And your arms, Sam knew you couldn’t lift your arms, and sometimes they shot you full of stuff that made you groggy for hours and hours and hours. Sometimes even the whole next day. You couldn’t do anything at that point, and you belonged at the mercy of the hospital. And all because you couldn’t control your fear or terror. Or screams.

He didn’t remember Dean ever telling him that he’d had Treatment, or if he had, how he’d gotten through the aftermath. Dean was strong, sure, and brave, and could smile in spite of anything. But Sam knew that this would knock him on his ass, that afterwards, he would be limp and sad. And if Sam went off half-kilter, there would be no one who would care. Oh, sure, the orderlies would take care of him, but they would ignore what was going on inside his head, the turmoil which Treatment was supposed to cure but which instead made everything worse. Sam knew that, in spite of what Dr. Logan had told him time after time: Treatment helps, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

Sam took a deep breath and went to the table that he and Dean had shared that morning, in those hours before lunch. Where they’d folded towels, elbow to elbow, Dean’s eyes becoming unfocused as he zoned out, thinking about something else. But never so far that it felt like he’d forgotten Sam at his side.

He started folding towels. He remembered Dean, cleaning up pee from the floor, and Sam had never said thank you. Dean, making him special oatmeal, making sure Sam ate. Dean making a wish on the dandelion, his cheeks puffing up, exaggerated, Sam could see now, his eyes, green fire, watching Sam as he made his wish. Listening to Sam’s stories, holding him close in the cold dark.

He would be good. He would work, and then he would eat his supper, and when he got his Dean back, he would take good care of him. Like Dean had taken care of him. Even if Dean peed or threw up or protested at the care, like Sam sometimes felt like doing, he would be brave, like Dean was brave, and he would make sure Dean knew he wasn’t alone. Because Treatment made you feel alone, in the dark, with no one to hear you.

Sam looked over at Neland, who was standing there with a clipboard in his hands, counting towels. Neland might not like Sam, he’d made a promise and all Sam could do was hope he would keep it.

Sam made himself fold towels, all afternoon, without taking a single water break.

When the supper chime came, Sam was ready. He stood in line by himself, without his Dean. He walked down the hall without talking to anybody. He took his pills from the pill lady and put most of them in his pocket. She never noticed, she was busy with her clipboard. Sam even ate his supper, ate it all, even the slippery carrots, which he wasn’t much fond of. He liked his fried in butter, not boiled in salt. But he ate them anyway, even if there was no Dean there to convince him that they were good for him.

When supper was over, he took his tray up all by himself, saw Greer across the room. Greer nodded at him as if he knew exactly why Sam was behaving himself. Sam didn’t care. All that mattered was getting back to Dean.

When he was taking his tray up to the counter, an orderly came up to him. It was Rubio from before, Sam felt proud that he recognized him.

“Okay?” asked Rubio, as if they’d been having a conversation all along, and he was looking for confirmation from Sam.

“Okay,” said Sam, not really sure what he was agreeing to.

Rubio took him down the hallway, but not towards the Day room, which was usually what happened after supper. No, Rubio took him down the hallway where the rooms were, down the hallway to their room, and Sam had just a second to wonder why when Rubio stopped in front of the door and took out a chain of keys.

“Dr. Logan says, here you go. Have a good night, Sam.”

Rubio unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Sam could see the lights were on and that someone was in the bathroom. It was Dean.

Dean.

Sam didn’t even feel the door shut behind him. Because Dean was there.

*

Dean didn’t know how long he was there. Floating, and landing, floating and smashing, seeing flickers of light where there could be none, and jolts of pain from parts of his body that wanted to move but couldn’t.

Hours. Faces above him. Beside him. Coming at him. Loops and whorls of color out of the blackness like stabs from curved knives. Something swooping, like wings, dipping down to stab with feathers that turned into blades. Flies buzzing, bloody feet touching his face, unable to twitch away. The blue man with lightning in his hands. Sam’s blue man, there in the room with him.

Sam.

Sam.

Sam.

Hours. Darkness. And no Sam.

He felt someone’s hand on his face, felt like he was going to throw up and shit his pants all at once. Except he had no pants. There was light coming from behind the fingers of the hand. Other hands, eased away the leather straps, twirling off the cotton sheet, stiff in places, dried in others, warmed from his skin. He let someone help him sit up, naked and boneless.

“Close your eyes,” he heard Greer’s voice say.

So he did. The light came through his lashes, and there was Greer’s hand, he knew that hand, on his arm, making him get down from the table.

“There now, not so bad. You’ve had Treatment before, it always helps.”

Dean wanted to kill someone, but he couldn’t make his arms move. Could only stand, with his eyes closed as a veritable stranger made him put his underwear on one leg at a time, He opened his eyes to take a peek, Greer was bending over to pick them up, and he saw Dean looking at him. Dean felt sick, but Greer was only businesslike, helping Dean finish getting dressed, helping him with his pants and a shirt. Where were his socks and sneakers? Greer helped him put them on. He put a hand on Greer’s shoulder to steady himself.

“’t time is it?” He voice sounded like it had been filtered through gravel.

“Past supper,” said Greer. “You’ll be more hungry in the morning anyhow.”

With a firm hand, Greer made Dean walk down the hall, and Dean had to concentrate on stepping, looking at his feet, seeing Greer’s feet, the low gleam of wax on the floors, the ooze of sunset and night’s darkening outside the bank of windows as they passed them.

“Sam,” he said. He couldn’t make his tongue function to get the rest of the question out.

“He’s fine. He didn’t want to go outside without you, so we put him back in laundry with Neland. He kept asking for you. He’s fine.”

Dean wanted Sam so bad, he thought he was going to die.

They reached the room, and Greer came in with him, handed him a tablet from the bottle in his hand. A cup of water from the sink. Dean took the pill and the water in his mouth, and made himself not swallow the pill. The water tasted good, a bit metallic as the coating of the pill melted.

“Get some rest, Dean,” said Greer. “Just go to bed, and in the morning you’ll feel like a new man.”

Dean wanted to glare at Greer, though he had a feeling that not a single muscle in his face was moving. The door shut behind him, and Dean spit out the pill before he could swallow it, watching the toilet rush with water, needing to pee. He remembered Sam talking about wetting himself after Treatment, so he unzipped his fly and pulled himself out to pee.

Just at that moment, the door opened, and in Sam flew, right up to Dean’s side, stepping back only a little. Dean wanted to shove him away, but he only peed and washed his hands, and tried to tamp down his irritation.

“Dean,” said Sam. Breathless.

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” said Dean, low. Growling as he pushed past Sam into the main room. He’d wanted Sam but now that Sam was here, nearby, he wanted nothing but more silence. His head on the pillow. Alone.

“Are you okay, are you okay, Dean? Talk to me, please, talk-”

Dean shoved Sam off with an elbow, his heart a runaway train, black rage pushing through his skin. Sam stumbled back, and with a grunt, Dean shoved him again, against the bed, making him fall to his knees. Then he reached down and grabbed Sam by his cotton shirt, pulling him up so he could scream in his face.

“You fucking touch me and I will kill you, I’ll fucking kill you-”

Sam didn’t try to get away, though the whites of his eyes were round and hard, he touched the back of Dean’s hands with his own, and tried to catch Dean’s eyes, but Dean wasn’t looking, couldn’t look, wasn’t going to look-

“Dean,” said Sam, his voice low. Soft. “You’re hurting me.”

This stopped him. Stopped him so hard, he toppled off his feet and onto his knees, banging hard on the hard floor, kneebones ringing, his ribs sliced by the edge of the mattress. And Sam was there, his hands on Dean’s face, eyes rounded with concern, and gentle, so gentle, his thumbs brushing beneath Dean’s eyes, across the top of his cheekbones, over and over. Coming away, glinting with damp.

Christ.

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry….”

“’m not,” said Dean, his mouth thick around the words. He wasn’t. But he could taste the salt as it slipped into his mouth. Felt the fist in his throat. “Not.”

“It’s okay, don’t cry, I’m here, I’ll stay here with you.”

Sam leaned in, lips touching Dean’s cheekbone right below his eye. He could feel the flutter of Sam’s eyelashes as he kissed again, and then again. Kissing the tears away like he was soaking them up.

Something kicked in Dean’s stomach “Hey. Knock it off.” He tried pushing Sam’s hand away, his face, almost ineffectual. Then he got to his feet lumbering, tilting. He only wanted to be in the bed, with his head on a pillow, a real pillow. He wanted to lie there till the floating feeling went away, and the darkness wrapped him. He only wanted to sleep.

Sam got to his feet too, standing to one side, watching Dean get into the bed, his eyes worried, bright.

Dean kicked off his sneakers, and couldn’t be bothered with changing into pajamas or pulling down the sheets and the blanket. He lay back, sighing from his soul as his neck felt the cotton of the pillow. Closed his eyes.

He could feel Sam getting in beside him, pulling the cotton sheet and the rough thin blanket down beneath Dean’s body and over them both. Sam was so close, almost on him, his hip hooked over Dean’s hip. It felt almost good, like there was the chance of an anchor there, to hold him down, to keep the wild winds at bay.

“You come’ere,” he said. Grunting as he reached over and pulled Sam fully on top of him like another blanket. A living breathing one. Sam didn’t protest. He came willingly, settling on top of Dean like he’d always been there, weaving his thighs in and out of Dean’s thighs, the warmth of his body springing into Dean like a surprise. The weight of him solid and good as Sam’s arms curved up around each side of Dean’s head. He could feel Sam’s fingers in his hair. Holding him down.

“You want me to kiss you some more?”

He opened his eyes a little to see Sam there, so close, those green eyes bright with care and worry, wanting only to do something that Dean might need. Wanting to find out what that was. Wanting only to give.

Dean opened his mouth to say no, because that was too much, brothers didn’t do that, Winchesters didn’t do that, but Sam was there, his mouth moist on Dean’s forehead and that was okay. On his cheek, a small kiss, also okay. Sam’s lips were warm, and the swimmy feeling in Dean’s head was going away to a far off finish line in someone else’s race, and he didn’t care where.

A kiss to his other cheek, equally warm, sweet, tender. Then, Sam’s eyes adoring, on his mouth, and there wasn’t enough room to pull back or time to close his mouth against Sam’s. He tasted Sam, mind moving back a little even as he dipped his chin, and opened his mouth to let Sam in. The dampness of tongue touching his lips, the stream of breath from Sam’s nose crossing his skin, petting it. Sam’s mouth opening, and the swirl of heat between them.

His eyes closed, and his whole body shuddered like a hard bore engine coming to a sudden stop. Weight slammed into him, delicious and heavy, Sam’s body all around him, that mouth, sweet and wide, pushing into him, he shouldn’t be liking it. Shouldn’t relax into it. Did.

Sam pulled away a bit, his mouth near Dean’s as he whispered, “You sleep now, get some rest. Treatment is bad, but you sleep good. And in the morning, I’ll be here. Okay? Dean?”

The voice faded. Maybe Sam was talking maybe he wasn’t. But he was there, heaving and weighing Dean down. Keeping him from floating away on the nothingness. Sam. He loved Sam. He always had. That wasn’t a bad thing, but the kisses-

Chapter 11

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post