Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 11
It was really his job to take care of Sam, but that morning, everything was in reverse. They were awake and dressed before the door opened, but that was only because he’d felt Sam tugging on him, felt the cool air across his front as Sam pulled away, splayed the covers back. He only brushed his teeth because Sam handed him a toothbrush. He let Sam shave him.
When they got to the dining hall, he followed Sam, and could barely manage that. Sam dealt with the pill lady. He only remembered not to take the meds in the dining hall because Sam had shook his head. Sam got them their trays, found them a table. Sam opened his milk carton for him and pushed it towards him so he would drink. He took a swallow, and he realized he was watching Sam make and eat his oatmeal like a man on a desert island dying for water.
After a pause, Sam tipped his head and stopped. He pulled Dean’s oatmeal toward him and doctored it up. Then he picked up Dean’s spoon and dipped it in the bowl. Before he was even thinking it, Dean bent his head down and let Sam feed him, swallowing the cool, milky oatmeal and looking at Sam. Sam nodded, and continued feeding him like nothing had happened. Rubio had fed him before, Sam was feeding him now, what of it? Nothing.
Sam fed Dean all of his oatmeal before he ate his own, and then pushed the toast towards Dean. Dean ate the toast, and ignored the grey-colored eggs and soggy bacon, he only wanted more milk. Some of Sam’s oatmeal, too, but he wasn’t going to ask. Sam had finished anyway
Greer herded them into a line with some other patients, and led them down the hallway. When they stopped in front of an open doorway, he waved at them to go in through the door, and said, “Art therapy, gentlemen.”
Art therapy was held in a long narrow room that had a bank of sunny, almost normal looking windows. Well, except for the bars across all of them. There were tables and stacks of large squares of paper and boxes of chalk. It reminded Dean of school as he entered the room, the smell and the dust.
The therapy was run by a short little woman by the name of Miss Windle. She had a squinty little face and a fast way of talking and moving her hands. She was, except for her white apron, dressed all in brown from her sensible blouse to her flat, lace up shoes.
“Today,” she said, waving her hands around to point at the room, “we are going to do some diagnostic drawing, but don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.”
Some of the guys laughed a bit at this as Miss Windle nodded to have her assistant set everyone up at a table, and made sure that everyone had paper and chalk. Sam stuck by him as they found themselves a table like everyone else was doing. Then Sam grabbed the chalk, pale rose chalk, and brought it to his face. For a second, Dean thought he was going to eat it, but Sam only held it under his nosed and inhaled.
“You going to eat that?” asked Dean, just to be sure.
“No,” said Sam, smiling, putting the chalk back in the little metal tray. “It smells good though. Like I smelled it before.”
Dean was about to open his mouth to ask about school, and remind Sam of that, of all the chalk trays, all the chalk dust that had most likely gone into young Sam’s lungs, when Miss Windle showed up at their table. She looked up at them, her head craning back like she was looking at two very tall telephone poles.
“Everybody needs to draw a house. I don’t care what kind of house, but you must draw a house. Okay? Get started and have fun!”
Have fun, she said. Dean nodded till she went away. Sam was already busy at it, black chalk flying like he was conducting an orchestra. Dean wasn’t certain but the use of the word diagnostic might mean that someone would look at the art to see if it would help them figure stuff out about the patients.
“Draw a nice house, Sam,” said Dean. “Put in a sunrise. Or a puppy. Okay? Something happy.”
“Uh-huh,” said Sam, and Dean felt his headache return. He hoped it was the withdrawal from the meds and not a brain tumor. He had to get them out of there.
Dean picked up a piece of chalk, something that might have been dark brown but that didn’t have a label, from the little basket in front of him. He pulled it to his face to smell it like Sam had, inhaled the old-fashioned dusty smell, and thought that he liked it. Maybe because of Treatment yesterday that might have done something to his sense of smell, but it was a familiar smell, amongst all the others.
Sam was looking at him, a little smile there, in his eyes, as if he liked being the one to show Dean something, tell him something new. “The white ones are the best.” He held out one to Dean, and again, instead of taking it, Dean leaned in and smelled it in Sam’s hand. Could smell Sam’s skin, and thought that he felt better for it. Not so tired.
“Okay, now, boys, you start drawing.” This from Miss Windle, and Dean got to work, forgetting about Sam.
He drew a window. A little square window with four panes, the window that hadn’t been in the Treatment room. Not with the little half circles for pink curtains, nor the long yellow lines he made for the sun.
After a bit, Miss Windle, who had been wandering around the room, came up to him.
“What’s that Dean?”
“A window,” he said. He was starting to feel achy, felt the headache growing behind his eyeballs.
“It’s very high up, can you tell me why?” she asked.
“High up?” It wasn’t a real window; he didn’t know anything about art, and this certainly didn’t fall into the category by a long shot.
She pointed to the long yellow lines. “This is the sun coming in, and they make the window look like it’s high up on the wall, because the sun comes in such a long way.”
“It’s a window I can’t get to,” he said, not thinking.
But this made her happy. She nodded and smiled, her little head bobbing on her shoulders. “It’s important to have goals, Dean,” she said. Then she turned to Sam’s drawing.
When Dean looked over, his heart sank. He could barely focus on one thing at a time, but he should have paid closer attention. Sam had drawn a house with smoke coming out of all the windows, with a tree next to it that looked like it had long wavy hands for branches. Crap.
“Now this is interesting,” said Miss Windle, in a voice that meant that it was far, far too interesting to be normal. “Did you draw this from your dreams, Sam?”
Dean’s mouth popped open to supply the answer, but Sam was already talking. “No,” he said, “but that’s what I remember someone telling me, what happened the night my mom died.”
“She burned in a house fire?” asked Miss Windle.
“No,” said Sam. “I mean, yes there was a house fire, but she died because she was pinned to the ceiling and she bled out.”
“Pinned to the ceiling?” By the tone of her voice, Dean could tell she was still in the neighborhood of thinking that Sam meant something else by what he’d just said, something more sensible. “Pinned?”
Sam nodded. “By a demon. A yellow eyed demon.”
“Interesting,” said Miss Windle. She gave Dean’s drawing only a glance as she rolled up Sam’s drawing in her hand. “That is a very interesting event, Sam, and very colorful.”
Sam, mollified, nodded again, taking her words at face value. Dean felt his stomach start to pinch up. Interesting was not what you wanted to be in a state run mental institution.
“But,” she continued, “you have to understand that we don’t want you to draw anything imaginary. We want you to draw something real, something you remember.”
“This is real, my brother told me it was,” said Sam, starting to scowl, his voice rising as he struggled to make his point. To Dean, yes, the picture made sense and was absolutely true. To hospital staff, it was exactly the problem they were trying to cure. His earlier admonishment to draw something normal had fallen on unheeding ears, and now Sam was on the radar. Again. Because Dean couldn’t pay close enough attention, hadn’t insisted.
“It is not real, Sam,” she said, and Dean saw her look over to the orderly standing by the door. He was ready, in two seconds or less, to press the panic button. “People don’t die while pinned to their ceilings, it’s physically impossible and therefore imaginary. You do know what imagination is, don’t you, Sam?” Her voice was on the edge of threatening, but Sam ignored it.
“Of course I do,” he said, his chest rising, shoulders stiffening. He didn’t bother to mind his tone, or that he was talking to someone with authority over him, someone who could cause him trouble. Around them, the room grew a little quiet as someone of the patients began to eavesdrop. “I know what’s real and what’s not, and this is real. This is what happened, are you saying that I’m lying? That my brother was lying?”
Miss Windle’s mouth went thin. “I’m not saying that you’re lying, Sam, but that you are making it up. You’re confusing reality with some imaginary world in your head, and you need to stop. You need to understand why you need to stop, and you need to listen to me. Are you listening to me?”
The room round them was perfectly silent.
Sam opened his mouth and in another second, a long argument was going to come out of it. Dean applauded Sam’s growing a backbone, but as he towered over Miss Windle, it looked bad. She was much shorter than him, and if Sam made so much as a twitch in her direction, the orderly was going to press the panic button. He had a record of violence, and every staff member knew it.
Dean reached over to Sam’s sleeve and tugged on it, just enough to get Sam to realize where he was, to maybe think about what he was saying. The hard part would be to telegraph to Sam what not to say, without saying anything himself. He didn’t want the hospital to think he was coaching Sam in any particular direction. Because then they would start to look more closely at other ways Dean was influencing his roommate. And that Dean did not want.
Sam twitched and looked at Dean, brows drawn together as though for a second he didn’t quite recognize Dean. Then his jaw worked as Dean gave another tug and let go of the sleeve to pat Sam’s arm. He gave the slightest shake of his head and watched Sam shudder to a stop, right where he was standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Windle’s eyebrows go up in amazement, taking off like two brown birds, but he concentrated on Sam.
“Well?” asked Miss Windle.
Dean watched Sam struggle with the question, and Dean did as well. What was she asking, what did she want answered. Oh yes, are you listening.
“He’s listening,” said Dean. “I think he just got a little overwhelmed.”
“When I want an answer from you, Dean,” said Miss Windle, snapping, “I’ll direct it at you. In the meantime, Sam needs to listen. Otherwise, he’s going to get yanked out of art therapy, and Dr. Logan is going to hear about how uncooperative he’s being. Is that understood?”
In any other place, any, Dean would have barked out at her to leave Sam the hell alone. But they were locked in this room with the power-hungry art teacher, a muscled and attentive orderly at the door, a panic button, and miles of corridors between them and freedom. He needed to lock it down before he got them in more trouble than they could manage.
Beside him, Sam took a breath, and ducked his head down, trying to look small. He wasn’t insane, he could obviously figure out when he was cornered. Dean stayed close, watched Sam’s jaw work, watched him take a breath.
“I-I get confused,” said Sam. “Confused sometimes.” He cast a look at Dean, like he was throwing out a lifeline he very much hoped Dean would catch.
“It’s his first art therapy,” said Dean, ignoring the fact that it was his as well.
Miss Windle actually snapped her fingers at Dean. “Be quiet, Dean, and listen to me, both of you. Any more of this nonsense from either of you and there will be no more art therapy. This is a very important part of your therapy, but it’s a privilege for well-behaved and cooperative patients only. As for you, Sam,” she pointed her finger at him. “You be thinking about this for the next time, I do not want to see anything imaginary from you again, do you understand? Imagination’s fine, but not when you are having a problem telling the difference between the two. Do not make me talk to Dr. Logan about this, do you hear?”
A long pause grew as Sam looked at her, glaring even as he backed down, lowering his shoulders, tucking his hands behind him. “Yes,” he said, sounding like he was choking. “I’ll try.”
“There is no try,” said Miss Windle. “There is only do.”
She turned away, marching on her sharp little heels, and Dean tucked his head down and tried to swallow his smile, the bubble of a laugh that built hysterically in his throat at her pompous walk and the fact that she sounded pretty much like Yoda, only not as effective. The only thing that kept him from dissolving against Sam, muffling his yelps and snorts, was the look on Sam’s face. His were tilted downward at the corners, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout, and he seemed to be struggling, his body tight as he reached out with a finger to poke stiffly at the chalk on the table that had delighted him just moments before.
“It’s okay, Sam,” said Dean, as the sound level in the room rose a bit, as Greer came by to get them all, to put them in a line and to take them to their respective locations for the rest of the afternoon.
“Sam and Dean, in that line, you get to go outside.”
Dean got into the line, tugging Sam with him. It was some kind of gift getting to go outside, in the fresh air, where he could check out the walls and the gates and not feel like he was a rabbit trapped in a box. Even if it did result in wet socks and smelly feet. Plus, it would be a nice distraction for Sam, to get him thinking about something else other than some snotty, power hungry artsy-farsty therapist who hadn’t the first clue about how to be gentle with Sam.
“C’mon,” he said. “It’ll be okay, Sam, okay? Let’s go outside for a bit and forget about her.”
Sam nodded, his jaw stiff as he got in line beside Dean. “That wasn’t any fun,” he said.
“I don’t think it was supposed to be,” said Dean in return. “But hey, it’s better than digging ditches.”
*
Once outside, they picked up rocks, and weeds, and trash again, going in straggled groups most of the way around the hospital, their pale outfits showing up brightly against the green grass. The fence was white too, and Dean almost disappeared against it, as he ran his hands over it, like a desperate animal, checking the perimeter of his prison. He did want out, badly, Sam realized, though he’d not said anything since the dandelion wish. Would he leave when he had the chance, and then come back for Sam? Or would he march off to the horizon and forget Sam had ever existed?
On top of which, Miss Windle’s scolding was whirling around in his head. He knew she had power, enough to get him slapped into solitary, or even Treatment, and that was bad. Not just because he would be alone, but because he would be without his Dean. Dean who never forgot Sam was at his side, even when he was totally absorbed in the fence or bending to pick up trash. He looked a little drawn, even as he seemed to be enjoying the fresh air, and for a moment, Sam forgot Miss Windle. And remembered his promise to look after Dean. This new thought slid into place and Sam let the art therapy class fade into unimportance. Dean was what mattered here.
As he followed Dean, the metal bucket banged against his leg. The metal was cold and damp, and the handle ridged uncomfortably in his hand, leaving a mark. Every now and then he would bend down to pick up a scrap of anything that didn’t belong, a twig, a stone, a bit of cigarette paper. But really, this was a very nice lawn, which it should be, given the amount of time they spent working on it.
“Dean,” he said, to get Dean’s attention.
“Uh-huh?” Dean hunkered down, sitting on his heels as he dealt with a small clump of weeds. Sam settled down beside him, on his heels, too.
“You know, yesterday, when they were taking you off-”
Dean looked up at him, a little sharply, eyebrows scrunching together.
“I was scared, but then I heard you screaming for me-”
“I screamed?”
Sam ignored the startled jolt of Dean’s body, or the way his lips went thin. “Yeah, you screamed my name, I could hear it from the laundry room, and Neland said you-”
Dean went white and Sam realized that he’d been doing what he always did, carrying on, not paying attention to what was going on around him. He could hear a gruff, deep voice in his head, damnit, Sam, you’re not alone here, you’re part of a team, so pay attention, or you’ll find yourself dead, or worse yet, you’ll find your brother dead.
It was so clear, the voice, that for a second, Sam looked up and around, to see where it was coming from. Then he realized it was from in his head, and that he needed to do what it told him, or the look on Dean’s face, the pale distress, the thinned lips, would become permanent. It was Sam’s job to look after Dean till he recovered from Treatment, it was what he signed up to do.
Dean obviously didn’t like being weak, it was even worse having it thrown in his face the way Sam just did. But Dean still needed Sam. And Sam needed to figure out how to help him. How to forget himself for one damn minute, like he could hear the voice saying, and focus on Dean.
“Treatment is weird,” Sam said, idly pulling on some perfectly good grass. “It doesn’t hurt, not really, but, in your head, anything can happen. That’s what’s scary.”
Dean was watching him, eyes narrowed and dark, crouched down, his hands on the grass, speckled with green and motionless. He chewed on the corner of his mouth like he was trying to figure out what Sam was saying, and why. Sam realized he wasn’t making himself very clear.
“You’re so brave,” he said, thinking that it might make Dean feel shy to hear this out loud. “Braver than me, but Treatment takes the control out of your hands, so maybe you get more scared than I do because you’re not used to it, not being brave.”
It hadn’t come out the way he meant it, somehow, that Treatment might be harder for Dean than it was for him. And then he realized that going off their meds meant that whatever they’d given Dean to make him relax-
He leaned forward and touched Dean’s grass-stained fingers with his own cold ones. “We’re going off our meds,” he said. “They don’t know that, so they gave you as much in that shot as they normally would. That’s too much meds.”
Something in Dean’s eyes widened as he latched on to that, that it wasn’t just him, it was the imbalance of the meds. “It would be like twice as much crap as normal,” Dean said.
The smile he gave Sam, then, the soft, slow smile making its way to his eyes, made them bright, deep green like patches of grass in the shade. “Yeah,” he said now, not shaking off Sam’s hand. “You’re right.” He looked around like he was checking to make sure no one was coming by to tell them to get a move on. “Thanks for that, Sam.”
This was good. Sam’s chest filled with something that felt warm and steady. He’d said the right thing, made a difference. Had spelled it out to Dean and made Dean realize that it wasn’t his fault, that any weakness or the dullness that filled his head, simply wasn’t his fault. Dean seemed the type to take responsibility for everything, only know he knew better, because Sam had pointed it out to him.
Greer was coming close, and any second he was going to say something sharp, to bark out some order. Sam didn’t want the comfortable thing running through him to go away. He stood up and reached down to grab Dean’s hand and pull him to his feet. Dean seemed surprised at this, but let himself be pulled, his mouth working in a way that showed how he was trying not to smile.
“Get moving, boys,” was all Greer said as he walked past.
The sun came out from behind the clouds, shining on the white fence, reflecting up to their faces. For a second, it shone on Dean’s face, lighting it up, his eyes glittering like gems, his mouth, curved and soft. Sam thought he might want to kiss it some more, like he had the other night, to push into Dean’s warm mouth, and see what soft sounds of contentment he might wring from it, as Dean kissed him back.
For a second, he moved close, but then Dean gave him a shove with his elbow, turning away, his profile outlined against the white of the fence.
“You’re such a girl,” he said, but his voice was smiling and Sam didn’t really mind.
*
By the time there were led to their room, Dean was so tired, he forgot and took his sleeping pill. Sam spat his out in the toilet, where it left a little blue streak along the sides of the bowl.
“Shit,” said Dean, when he realized.
“What?” asked Sam, crowding in behind him, like he had been all day, attentive and there and insisting, his eyes watching Dean, and behind his eyes Dean could see Sam thinking of ways to be helpful, to take care of Dean. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have told Sam to knock it off hours ago. But, on the other hand, Sam had his back, like he always had, and this was good for Sam, made him feel confident as he looked out for Dean. So that was a good thing.
“I swallowed my pill,” he said, because that wasn’t a good thing.
“It was an accident,” said Sam, pushing forward. Dean could see the wavy reflection of Sam over his shoulder in the polished metal mirror. He felt Sam’s fingers circle around his arm. “You didn’t mean it.”
“Well, I’ll sleep anyway,” said Dean. He brushed his teeth, and listened to Sam brush his. As they changed into their p.j.’s, the anvils came down over his eyes. The room was too cold to relax properly, the two beds loomed, and the decision had to be made all over again.
“Can I sleep with you?” asked Sam. He took the pillow off the other bed, and the blanket too, taking over Dean’s job, spreading the blanket and folding back the sheet as he slipped off his shoes. “Can I?”
Dean nodded. Sleeping with Sam wasn’t the hardest part of his day, not by a long shot. He made Sam get on the inside, next to the wall, then pulled Sam close, liking the huff of Sam’s breath against his neck, curling like a scarf. The chime sounded and the lights went out and Dean knew he’d be asleep in minutes. Drugs were so stupid, but sometimes they came in handy.
“Can I tell you a story?” said Sam, his whispers tickling. Dean shivered.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling heaviness coming. “Story.”
“It’s a story about my brother, my brother who loved me more than anything.”
“More than anything?” asked Dean, his throat thick.
“I’m supposed to talk about him when I can, it’s therapeutic, but sometimes it’s hard to talk about him. And plus Dr. Logan doesn’t like hearing about my dad.”
“What?” Dean asked, trying to open his eyes. It was almost impossible. “Why?”
“She says he had issues, but this one time, I had borrowed this bike from the kid next door. It wasn’t stealing, but the kid said it was, and when the kid’s dad talked to my dad, well, he was pissed off. Only my brother said that he’d borrowed the bike. So my brother had to do chores for that guy for a week, raking and painting and stuff. The guy was mean, but my brother-”
Sam stopped and Dean could hear it in his voice, feel it in the tenseness of Sam’s body, snug against his own.
“My brother never said a word. He was the best brother-”
It wasn’t like a dam broke, more like the dam started leaking as Sam cried against his shoulder without a sound, moving in close so he could tuck his head low, like he was pressing his ear against Dean’s heart. Dean struggled to stay awake, tried to make his mouth move. Thinking how he wished he could tell Sam that he didn’t have to miss his brother, that his brother was alive, was right here-
“Your brother-” he said, knowing it was coming out mumbles, but he had to try. “Your brother loved you.”
“What?” asked Sam.
Dean tried to say it again, but mid-sentence he stopped, his mind already floating in the black.
Chapter 12
Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post