Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 14

[lovesrain44]

 

Sam thought about the rhythm of their days, the rhythm of Dean that surrounded him. Every day became easier each time he woke up tucked beneath Dean’s chin, and all of it warmer than the chilly air in the room. Sometimes, when they got ready in the mornings, it was cloudy, with the wind whipping the trees with grey slaps. Other times, like this morning, it was raining hard, the rain speckling the windows in one long sheet.

And inside, whether he was in line to go to the dining hall or working in the laundry (always nice when the day was especially damp), Dean was at his side. Nobody threatened to take him away. Sam figured that the rest of his life could pass this way and he wouldn’t mind. As long as he had Dean.

But it was starting to make Sam wonder, if Dean was doing so well, and he seemed so much more normal than everyone else, why was he sticking around? He could see there was something Dean wasn’t telling him, he just wished sometimes he knew, just knew, the truth so he could keep Dean from looking like Sam had punched him in the stomach. Yes, just like he was looking right now.

“Earth to Sam,” said Dean.

They were in line to go somewhere, his breakfast was sitting in his stomach like a solid ball of glue. And Dean had been saying something as they walked along. Now Dean was waving his hand in front of Sam’s face to get his attention.

“Just don’t let Randy get to you,” Dean said.

“Randy?”

“Mr. Pointy Fingers,” said Dean as the line came to a halt in front of an open door. The orderly started pulling patients out of the line to go in the room that Sam recognized was the group therapy rom. Now he understood why Dean was telling him this. “We have Group, remember?”

Sam nodded, and it was clear now. Greer had come by their table during breakfast and said something about a schedule change. Group and art therapy on the same day and if anyone felt overwhelmed or needed something to keep them calm, they should say so.

Of course, Dean would never need additional meds and Sam wanted to be like him. So as they went in and sat down, he made up his mind to not ask. But he stuck close to Dean and sat next to him and didn’t look at Pointy Fingers. Though it did make him smile as he thought of Dean’s earlier imitation of Randy, how he’d stiffened and pointed and accused. Dean even had the voice down almost pat.

Dr. Baylor came in just as all the patients were still adjusting in their chairs. Dr. Baylor, in his white coat and glasses, holding his clipboard in his hand, sat next to Randy. Randy smiled huge, gloating as he looked over the group to make sure they noticed how special he was, wiggling and simpering. Sam looked away, and felt Dean’s body trying to hold in a bray of laughter, and this made Sam smile.

Except Dr. Baylor was looking right at him.

“Well, Sam,” he said, making that quirky smile with his mouth. “You seem like you’re in a happy mood today. What has happened to make you so happy?”

Sam’s whole body jerked like Dr. Baylor had snuck up on him. Normally Dr. Baylor asked a question in general, or prompted discussion by a statement of his own. But Sam had been smiling for apparently no reason and now he was getting noticed.

“Well, Sam?”

“Uh,” said Sam, starting to sweat.

Randy was glaring at Sam, hard, because, of course, Dr. Baylor’s discussion went in a circle, usually starting with the person on his right. Mr. Pointy Fingers had been usurped. His glare was hard and angry and drilled into Sam like spears. It felt exactly like that, one spear coming out of each eye, like he-

Dean jabbed an elbow at Sam. He wanted Sam to stop staring and start talking.

“I think it’s nice that Randy gets to sit where he wants,” said Sam. His voice sounded strong in his ears, not like his own voice at all.

Randy looked a little startled, his narrow face clouding up as his eyebrows drew together.

“It’s nice that he gets to sit exactly where he wants,” continued Sam.

“What a pleasant observation,” began Dr. Baylor.

“Because otherwise,” said Sam, looking right at Randy, “there’d be no end of his whining and bitching and pointing.”

One of the men in the circle laughed outright, a rusty squeezed laugh, but it let Sam know that, yes, he’d gotten it right, right on the money. He didn’t dare look at Dean who was shaking and almost leaning against Sam as if for support and the strength not to giggle. He was even holding his breath, Sam could feel it. But he kept his own expression passive, enjoying Randy’s open-mouthed response, his tongue flapping loose and making him look very stupid.

For a moment, Dr. Baylor looked like he didn’t know what to say and it occurred to Sam that mental patients properly on their meds out not to have quite so much backbone and what had possessed him? Dean hadn’t said it was a secret, exactly, but as he was taking fewer meds, Sam knew that it should be: no one was supposed to find out about the meds. Showing off like that only brought them more notice than Dean wanted.

Sam shrank back down in his seat, trying to appear small, but it was too late.

“One day,” said Randy, “and you’re already planning it, you want to catch me when there’s no one else around.”

"Now, Randy,” said Dr. Baylor. He was busy writing something on his clipboard.

"You’ll take my pants off and stick it in me and when you pull it out, I’ll be bleeding.”

“Hey,” said Dean, sitting forward, “that’s enough out of you.”

“I’ll be bleeding and they’ll find me that way, lying on the floor!” Randy’s voice was rising to a scream. “And then they’ll take me to the infirmary, and they’ll have to-”

“Randy,” said Dr. Baylor. He put his hand on Randy’s arm. “You need to calm down, now.”

“I’ll probably have VD or HD or something and they’ll have to put something in my ass. It will sting, and I’ll cry in front of the doctors-”

Now Randy was standing up, walking over to Sam with his hands in fists. Sam shrank back, and Dr. Baylor was standing up too, to press the red button, but by the time the door swung open, Randy was on him, swinging away. Only his aim wasn’t very good, and Dean was there, hauling Randy off him.

“I’ll have VD, and I won’t be able to put my pants back on because the doctor will put something up me, with a little light, and the light will burn and all because-”

The orderly came over and yanked Randy back up, hands tight on Randy’s arms with the same technique that Greer used.

“Because you couldn’t keep it in your pants!”

The sound of the word pants echoed down the hall as Randy was dragged off and Sam gripped the edge of the metal seat so hard it felt like he was cutting his palms open. But if he didn’t hold on, he would shake so hard, he would have to stand up. And then the orderly would come for him, and then they would find out-

Dr. Baylor waited till the door slammed closed and they couldn’t hear Randy’s shouts anymore. He wasn’t looking at Sam, and that was okay by Sam, because one look through those glasses, one note on that damn clipboard, and Sam knew he would start crying. He’d screwed up. Again.

“Randy is upset today,” said Dr. Baylor. “He will get the help he needs, so shall we continue with Group?”

“What about Sam?” asked Dean, loud. “Randy comes at him like that and you’re all let’s get on with Group? What about Sam?”

Dr. Baylor put down his clipboard, resting it on his knees, and looked at Dean. Then he looked at Sam. Then he looked at Dean again.

“Sam looks fine to me. He looks calm and ready to continue with some productive conversation, don’t you agree?”

Sam could feel Dean looking at him and everything was so jumbled in his mind that he couldn’t look at Dean. Dean reached out to pat Sam’s thigh, his palm was hot, just for a second, and Sam wished it could stay there. Wished they could be in bed right now, with Dean’s heartbeat beneath his cheek, Dean’s hands, warm along his back. But instead he felt cold as he ground his teeth together, and nodded. He had to come across as being fine. If he wasn’t fine, that would start Dr. Baylor thinking about why Sam might not be fine. Then they would look at why Dean was fine, and then they’d tell Dean he had to leave the hospital without Sam. And all because Sam couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He didn’t look at Dean for the rest of Group. Couldn’t even hear for the buzzing in his ears.

*

After Group was over, an orderly came to the door, and Sam could hear them discussing the rain, and how no one could go outside because it was raining too hard. As Sam stood up, Dean was right there, close enough to whisper to Sam.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. He walked and got into line and tried to pretend that he was. “Randy scares me.”

“Randy’s a freak,” said Dean.

That almost made Sam feel better but not quite.

The line led them to one of the Day rooms, and as Sam stepped over the threshold, he saw that Randy was there, sitting at one of the tables by the window. He was hunched over in the chair, and it look like he’d been crying.

“What gives? No Treatment?” asked Dean, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Guess not,” said Sam. He couldn’t figure out if he thought Randy should have been strapped down for hours or not, but seeing him there made Sam’s head feel dizzy.

“Hey,” said Dean, tugging on his sleeve. “Speed puzzles.”

Sam wasn’t interested, but he followed Dean anyway. Dean led them to the back of the room, right past Randy’s chair. Randy looked up at them, glowering, his mouth a thin, white line. Then, before Sam could blink, Dean bent down and grabbed a fistful of Randy’s shirt with one hand, and with the other, he punched him hard, in the stomach. Randy bent forward with a breathy, damp gasp of air, and Dean bent low, his mouth by Randy’s ear. Sam couldn’t move.

“You talk to my-you talk to Sam, you look at Sam, you even think about looking at Sam and I will pound you so hard the blood will come out your ears as well as your ass, you get me?”

Randy whimpered and tried to pull away, squirming. Shocked, Sam’s mouth fell open, and he looked around the room, but it was crowded and the two orderlies were by the door, talking about something and not even paying attention to anything else.

“You get me, Mr. Pointy Fingers? I’m sick of your shit, your sick accusations, so you stop making them, or you’ll be dead with your body rotting in the basement. And no one will care.”

Dean let Randy go with a sharp push, and then stood up and kept on walking like nothing had ever happened. Randy slunk down in his chair as Sam passed him, and Sam knew that he’d never seen anything scarier. Well, the monsters of course, they were scary, but not like this. Up close and personal and almost out of control. Almost because Dean looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. As to why, it was obvious. He was protecting his Sam, he was protecting him.

As they sat down and Dean started picking out a totally new puzzle, Sam felt his chest jerking up and down, like he couldn’t get enough air. He grabbed the edge of the table, and now it shook too, the puzzle pieces skittering.

“Hey,” Dean said, looking up. He put the box down. He glanced over at Randy who was crying and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine.”

“He’s going to tell, Dean. He’s going to tell, and-”

Dean shook his head, and pushed out his lower lip. “So he tells? Who’s going to believe him?”

“They’ll believe him, they’ll listen and-”

Now Dean stopped fiddling with the puzzle box. He leaned forward over the table like he was going to reach out and pat Sam’s cheek. He didn’t, but Sam was hoping that he would, because Dean’s hands were always soothing. Except when they were punching some poor, crazy person. But Dean had that expression that seemed to say he wanted Sam to listen, so Sam did.

“They’ll listen, but they’ll chalk it off to Randy’s drama. The guy loves to go to the infirmary; he gets tons of attention there. And trust me, I’ve got a clean record, no one will believe that I punched anyone. Okay? So just chill, and help me with this puzzle.”

Sam tried. He really did, but all he could manage was to pick up each piece and turn it over and over between his fingers as he watched Dean select an array of pieces and snap them together, one, two, three. He was cold, his arms felt like icicles and rubbing his hands up and down them didn’t help. At any second, someone was going to see that Randy was crying, and go over and ask him why. And then he would tell on Dean. But no one paid him any mind, and it was sad in a way that made Sam’s heart peel up at the corners in little curls. Just like that, because Randy was seriously troubled, and no one liked him, and now Dean had punched him, and now he was crying. And no one cared.

“Dean-”

“You feel sorry for him, and I’ll end you.”

This stopped Sam like nothing else. He could hear the phase in his head, like he’d heard it before, an echo before the echo. Someone had said it to him before, but he didn’t know who.

“I don’t feel sorry for him, exactly,” said Sam. “But it’s just not right. He’s in this place for a reason, so it’s wrong to-”

"Do you want me to end you?” asked Dean, not looking up, a little scowl across his mouth. His hands were busy on the puzzle, but Sam knew he was mad.

“No,” said Sam, his voice small. He kept rubbing his arms and couldn’t stop until one of the orderlies finally noticed and came over to Randy. After talking to him for a moment, the orderly helped Randy to his feet and walked him out of the room. Sam didn’t know where they were going or what Randy would say, but it was easier not to think about it when Randy wasn’t there.

“C’mon,” said Dean. “Help me with this. I’m always ahead, and it’s no fun when it’s not a contest.”

But Sam couldn’t help him. Not at the puzzle, and not during lunch, where Dean tried to distract him by complaining about the food, or by giving Sam his peaches, suddenly announcing that he didn’t like them out of a can. Which was a lie, Dean loved peaches. He knew that, the way he knew some other things, little things, the way how Dean held his fork pressed against his second to last finger, the way he curved his other arm around the tray like he was afraid someone would take it. The way his lower lip looked moist while he chewed, making everything he ate look somehow sinful and delicious, even though Sam knew perfectly well the food here was crap.

After lunch, they went to art therapy, and it was only when Dean grabbed his hands and pulled them back to his sides that Sam was able to stop rubbing his arms.

*

Miss Windle gave them instructions as they walked in the door. She wanted them to draw a person. She didn’t even give them time to start before she was already walking around, and Dean hated the way this made his chest feel. He couldn’t draw for nothing, and she wanted him to draw a person? After the redwood tree deal, he didn’t want her coming over and making any pointed observations.

Plus there was Sam, still shaken up by Randy, who Dean would cheerfully kill if it wasn’t making him feel so rotten already, punching some crazy guy who didn’t really know any better. Or maybe he did and saying stupid shit was the only way he could deal. Either way, someone needed to have dragged him into line, long ago, crazy or not. Dean just hoped his one punch did the trick, doing anything like that again would feel too much like beating up on someone littler than him. Exactly like it. It was just that-

Miss Windle stopped at their table, making small sounds at the fact that both of their papers were blank. As she walked off, Dean nudged Sam, wishing there was something he could do to get that glassy look out of Sam’s eyes, but there were too many people around. Besides which, the one or two things that would take that look away were something he shouldn’t be doing anyway. But Sam wasn’t looking at him as he picked up some blue chalk, so Dean picked up some brown chalk and went at it.

He drew a road that curved to the right, up and off the page. Then he remembered that Miss Windle would have something mean to say about that, so he picked up the black chalk (that Sam was completely ignoring) and drew a person on the road. It was more a stick figure than anything else, but it did look like a real person, someone walking up the road towards the distant horizon. What would that say about him when she came by? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

When he looked up, Miss Windle was coming back by. Dean realized that he had forgotten again to mind Sam and tell him to draw a duck or a kitten or something happy and simple, not what he had.

On one half of Sam’s paper there was a large blue man. He was all circles and odd lines, but he was most definitely a man, and he was very, very blue. There were little white lines coming out of him, no doubt lightning. And on the other half were two figures, one with dark hair, one with lighter hair. And even though it looked like the dark haired one was falling backwards, and the lighter haired one was floating off the page, it was easy to tell who they were supposed to be and what was happening: the djinn was attacking and Sam was protecting the other man. Him. Dean.

“And what is this, Sam?” asked Miss Windle. There was a smudge on her face of red chalk that looked like war paint.

Dean opened his mouth to start explaining it, but Sam was right there, talking. “This is me and my brother and I’m trying to protect him from the blue man. I mean, he’s dead, the blue man killed him, but this is what I wanted to do. I wanted to save him.”

“So this is a fantasy drawing, Sam. I clearly asked you to draw a person.”

“It’s not a fantasy,” said Sam. His chin jutted forward. Had Miss Windle been Dad, the line in the sand would surely have been drawn. “It’s real, it’s my feelings. When the blue man attacked, this is what I wanted to do, what I felt like doing.” He looked at her hard, like she was too stupid to get it. His voice said it, too.

Miss Windle might have been poorly paid art therapist but she was far from stupid. “You’ve entirely missed the focus of this exercise, Sam. Dr. Logan is not going to be happy about this.”

She took Sam’s drawing up, and never minding the swirl of chalk that came off it, she rolled it up quickly and held it out of Sam’s reach. It was evidence that Sam was still obsessing about the blue man, in spite of Dean’s assurances to Dr. Logan that the only thing Sam was obsessing about was soap, and that was harmless.

Dean took a breath. “I wanted to draw a blue man,” he said. “But Sam was hogging the blue chalk.”

“Excuse me?” asked Miss Windle.

“I wanted to draw a blue man,” said Dean, repeating himself loudly and clearly. “But there’s only one piece of blue chalk in the basket and Sam had it. I felt blue, I wanted to draw blue all over the place. A blue man, just like that.”

Sam stared at him with that funny furrowed brow of his that formed when he was totally confused. Everyone in the class was looking at him too.

“I didn’t have any blue chalk,” said someone. “Why didn’t I have any blue chalk?”

Someone else from the back of the room spoke up. “I can draw a blue man, I have two different shades of blue.”

“That’s not fair,” said the first man. “I know how to share, but he’s not sharing his blue.”

“Can I start over again?” said a man from the next table. “I didn’t really want to draw a rainbow.”

Miss Windle looked like she was going to explode. Her eyes were popping out and her mouth was screwed tight. “Greer!” she snapped.

Greer came and got them and hustled them all in line. As they walked down the hall, Dean didn’t laugh. He didn’t even really want to laugh, because it wasn’t really funny. They were in trouble, him and Sam, Sam for drawing what he felt and Dean for mocking Miss Windle. But the flicker in Sam’s green eyes felt good, washing over him like a balm. Like sunshine from a window that he might some day reach. Girly thoughts. He balled a fist and socked Sam gently in the shoulder.

Sam tipped his head and looked like he was trying not to smile. But he failed.

*

They were supposed to work in the yard, but it was still raining so hard, half of them got taken to the Day room and the other half went somewhere else. Dean grabbed up a table and a puzzle, and he went at it with Sam. Speed puzzles again. The murmur of the room hummed around them, and it was nice to be sitting with the rain pelting the windows, Sam at his side. Doing something that didn’t matter, but that kept them together, safe.

Someone came over and sat in one of the chairs at the table. Dean looked up. It was Greer.

“Blue man, Dean? What the hell were you playing at?”

Greer was looking at him like he knew everything, the unauthorized decrease in meds, the fact that Dean had his memory back, the fact that Sam had kissed him last night, and that Dean had given his brother a hand job. Dean couldn’t figure whether Greer was spying on them or not, whether he would carry tales back to Dr. Logan, but hell. The story was probably already in the doctor’s office by now, courtesy of Miss Windle.

Dean shrugged. “Everyone takes it so seriously. That’s how it becomes important. More important than it has to be. I figured, make a joke, make her see-”

Greer opened his mouth, and Dean realized he was almost laughing. “You do realize you’re just a patient here, don’t you, Dean?”

That was funny. Dean smiled back, but Sam just glowered. He didn’t seem to like any of the staff, no matter what, and although he didn’t act afraid of Greer, it would take a crowbar to get a word out of him at this point. Dean let him remain silent, didn’t encourage him.

“Yeah,” Dean said, “but you put a man in charge, and he starts taking responsibility.”

Looking at him for a moment, Greer nodded. “What about Randy? He was having a fit earlier today, and they’ve got him in Treatment now.”

Dean couldn’t make himself be upset at this, though Sam hung his head, and wouldn’t look up.

“He says you punched him,” said Greer.

Dean knew that Greer probably knew the whole story, how Randy was a little shit and always got his way, how Randy lashed out, and was probably acting out, and that somehow, he’d latched on Sam to express his issues. Or whatever. The fact that Greer wasn’t already hauling him off for the loony bin’s version of disciplinary action didn’t really tell Dean anything, other than the fact that Greer probably thought that maybe Randy had it coming.

“There won’t be any more punching on my ward,” said Greer, looking right at Dean.

Dean shook his head. That was his answer then. Yeah, Randy probably deserved it, and no, Dean better not try that again. He carefully refrained from saying something snotty, like he just better lay off of Sam, or there will be, because that would just be tempting fate. And as worked up as Sam was about Randy, Dean needed to be with Sam, not off in solitary somewhere. “There won’t be,” he said, finally.

Greer nodded, and stood up and strode off towards Bellows, who was trying to chew on the side of the TV.

Dean looked at Sam. “Score for my man Jack,” he said. Sam looked a little confused, but then he always did, not being a Jack Nicholson fan. “Never mind, here. Here’s a piece of snow. See this one? I’ll bet it goes. Right. Here.” He put the nondescript piece of white puzzle in the middle of the square of the frame Sam had made. “Perfect. Now hand me another piece.”

*

Sam felt like he was grinding his teeth together hard enough to turn them into powder. If he were to get his fingers trapped in there, he would be crushing his fingerbones in no time flat. He had an uncomfortably clear image of himself with blood and bits of bone coming out of his mouth. Then Dean stumbled on his heels and Sam knew that they were in their room, that the orderly was locking the door closed behind them, and that it was time to go to bed. The dull thudding feeling in his chest was confusing. Yesterday, he’d felt so clear and today it was like he was soaked in mud, moving in slow motion. It was just that Dean had been so-

Sam stopped mid-thought, watching Dean through the bathroom doorway as he brushed his teeth and ran a washcloth over his face, thinking how Dean seemed to want some distance. Once in a while, his eyes would flick to Sam’s and Sam could feel Dean tense up when he did this. Appraising the situation, and Sam, all at once. Then Dean did a small come here gesture with his head, tipping it away and drawing Sam to him.

Sam went, easing himself beside Dean at the sink, letting his hands follow what Dean’s hands had done, and let them create a solemn echo of motion and economy, part of who Dean was. Which is what made what happened in the Day room so-

“What’s up, Sam-I-Am?” asked Dean.

All of a sudden, Sam’s teeth clicked together and he knew that reference. Dr. Seuss. Knew all of the books, thin and worn, all bright red and blue with weird, furry people on the covers. He could hear the deep, burry voice, one of the voices in his head, reading the lines that rhymed. Heard the pages turn, like dusty secrets of a childhood of long ago.

He was Sam-I-Am. Sometimes people called him that. Like now. It was so powerful and clear, this memory, it hurt. He tried to keep from rubbing his head, but failed as his hand made an abortive attempt to stop and ended up knocking Dean in the shoulder, just as Dean was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dean turned to look at him, watching Sam with careful eyes as Sam finished up at the sink. Dean’s shoulders were wide, his arms strong, and his fists could form so fast. They would hurt if they punched, but at the same time, they had never hurt Sam. Had never done anything but hold him and pet him, keep him warm. Made him feel protected. As for Randy-

“I can see you thinking,” said Dean. He pushed past Sam as he walked out of the bathroom, his hands on Sam’s forearms, pulling as he went. But loose enough to let go if Sam even so much as twitched away. If he didn’t want it. Then Dean would let go. But Sam didn’t want that. Ever. So he went where Dean pulled, over to the dresser, taking off his shoes and socks, stripping down when Dean did, and pulling on his p.j.’s. Leaving the top button open. Like Dean did.

He watched Dean walk over to the bed to put his sneakers beneath the metal frame. Their bed, since Sam shared it now, and thought he might not have to ask out loud, or at all, Dean had never said no. Then Dean sat down and looked up at Sam and said, “Wipe your face, Sam.”

Sam did, obeying on some inner automatic control and his fingers found that his face was wet, and he’d been standing there crying. Not even knowing it. Everything felt so disconnected as if the face belonged to one body and the hand to another. He didn’t know any way to feel connected, there was such a huge gap-

Dean reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam’s shirt and pulled him close. There was a second of cold feet beneath Sam’s as he bumped into Dean. Dean splayed his thighs wide to make room for Sam. And then Sam felt his knees buckled and gracelessly slid down till they hit the floor.

He buried his face in the warm crook of Dean’s hip, sliding his arms wide to hold on to as much Dean as he possibly could. And then he cried, his eyes hot, Dean’s cotton p.j.’s soaking through, and Dean’s thigh beneath, a hard, calm surface against which he could push and push and push. Dean never moved, only his hand, cupping Sam’s head, moved, the other stroking along Sam’s back, slowly, slowly. Letting Sam cry. Not saying a word.

He kept petting Sam till Sam felt the thudding in his chest fade away, kept petting the curve of Sam’s head, moving the hair out of Sam’s eyes, stroking Sam’s cheek, pushing away the damp hair stuck to his skin with tears. Then Sam took a deep breath and he stayed like that, not crying now, but resting, breathing as Dean breathed. Gradually feeling the muscles in his back loosen as he let out a long, shuddering sigh.

How nice Dean smelled, warm and salty, and Sam thought about offering a bath to say thank you, or how he might touch Dean as Dean had touched him, how Dean would say no, how Dean stiffened up a bit now as he tugged on Sam’s shoulder. Just as Sam realized his mouth was open and that he could almost taste Dean through the thin, soaked cotton.

"Up,” said Dean, pulling, just as the chime sounded. They had two minutes before lights out, so Sam stood up, and wiped his eyes, and let Dean pull him onto the bed. He shut his eyes while the room was still lit and thought about that, all that white, and Dean’s green eyes, like searchlights, finding his and holding on.

He heard the click as the lights went out, the rustle of the sheets, the muffled thump as Dean arranged the pillows and blankets to his liking. Sam didn’t care about that; Dean’s arms folded around him and pulled him close and that was all Sam needed.

As the night settled around them, Dean took a breath. Sam felt Dean’s chest rise and fall beneath his cheek.

“So?” asked Dean. “It’s gotta be the meds, but-” he paused a second, his fingers rapping one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four along Sam’s arm. “It’s probably Randy.”

Sam nodded, his jaw rubbing against Dean’s chest.

“What if I was like Randy,” said Sam, the words coming slow as the thoughts built up in his head. “And I wanted to be the doctor’s pet because no one else liked me.”

He heard Dean open his mouth to say something. Something comforting but dismissive because, and Sam could already hear it in his head as Dean might say it, that he didn’t give a shit about Randy. Only about Sam. But to Sam the idea of being unloved and alone felt too familiar to be dismissed, and it made his stomach clench. So he hurried.

"Wait,” he said. “What if someone punched me, only I didn’t have a Dean to stand up for me or make me feel better. What if-”

Beside him in the bed, Dean was almost squirming. Sam could feel the hotness of his skin.

“I was only trying to get him to stop,” said Dean, “and he wasn’t going to unless-”

“I know,” said Sam. That part was true. But. “Punching him…” He trailed off, not quite sure how to put it. He could see Dean leaning down to grab Randy and how Randy had cowered away, and how no one else was watching out for Randy. And how Dean could really have hurt him. But then, Dean had been looking out for Sam, doing his best, taking care of the situation when Dr. Baylor had just glossed over it. So Dean was there for Sam. But no one was there for Randy. He didn’t want to tell Dean what to do. Or to take what Dean had tried to do for Sam and act like it had been an evil thing.

"Before you came,” Sam said now, petting the front of Dean’s shirt, “I was like Randy and when bad things happened, I was all alone.” It was starting to make sense in his head. “And seeing that today, it felt like it was happening all over again. To me.”

He stopped. Heard Dean make a low sound in his throat like he’d been trying to swallow and stopped. Then he gave Sam’s arm a pat on his bare arm that sounded stark in the darkness.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Dean said gruffly, “I feel like a complete shit now.”

“Don’t,” said Sam, realizing he meant it. “It was only one punch and then Greer was there-” He paused.

“Greer was just looking out for Randy,” said Dean.

“No,” said Sam. “Greer was looking out for you, to keep you out of trouble.”

Which he had been; the expression on his face told Sam that Greer was as tired of Randy as Dean was. And Greer had told Dean to stop and Dean said he would, and Dean never lied about anything, so everything was really under control. Sam’s stomach evened out and the tense wire running along his shoulders eased away.

“The little pipsqueak just better knock it off or I’ll just have to-Sam, you know-” Dean seemed to run out of words and took a deep breath and Sam took one likewise. It made him feel much better.

"He’s such a pervert,” Dean continued, “always talking about-well, it’s just whacked, is all.”

“Why does he?” Sam was glad to be over with telling Dean something so hard. He thought instead about Randy’s thin mouth moving as all that filth poured out of it.

“Because he never gets any and he misses it,” said Dean, sounding certain of himself.

“Why?” asked Sam. “Why would he miss it, it doesn’t sound any fun.”

Dean’s hand on his arm stilled. “Do you remember ever doing it?” he asked. “You wouldn’t if you never had but-” Dean stopped to laugh, the small chuckle coming from his chest, from someplace deep and quite, reminding Sam how Dean liked to do that. To laugh, to make a joke when things got serious. Or personal, come to that.

“Because it is fun, and it’s very naughty,” said Dean. And then another laugh, and Sam could almost hear Dean smiling as he said, “And it always makes the girls howl.”

“Why do they howl, Dean?” asked Sam.

“Because they like it,” said Dean, drawing his voice up on the word. “Or so they say.”

“Do guys like it?” Sam figured they must, or Randy wouldn’t be missing it.

Again. “So they say.”

Sam thought about this for a minute. Dean knew all about stuff that Sam couldn’t remember, even though Sam could remember some things that he thought Dean might not know. It would all balance out when his memory came back, and it made him realize how much he was looking forward to that time. On the road with Dean, in that car Dean had talked about a few times. His voice low and soft as he described a vehicle he referred to as her or my baby, his eyes shining. Only to go dim when he looked at Sam and realized that Sam had no recollection of the car in Dean’s memory. Sam did have a memory of a car, but it was his brother’s car.

He thought about Dean punching Randy to protect Sam. Not because he enjoyed doing it but because he had to, because no one else would stop Randy from being a jerk. Dean had seen that whenever Randy attacked Sam, Sam came apart. Dean seemed very focused on making sure Sam didn’t do that, that Sam was happy. With the suggestion to decrease their meds and the odd dandelion wish or the off-hand comment about getting out of the institution, the slow careful way he looked at Sam, seemed to want Sam with him when he went. Always. Standing like a flesh and blood barrier between Sam and anything that could hurt him.

Even Randy, the little pipsqueak. Randy who had thoughts about Sam sticking himself in Randy’s behind, because, as Dean suggested, Randy liked it and wanted to howl. Dean had said it was naughty, but in a way that made it sound good, too. His voice had taken on a low, burry texture when he’d talked about it. Like it felt good to think about it. Maybe it felt good to Dean like Dean’s hands felt good on Sam, good like Dean’s mouth opening for him. Sam wondered how it might go between him and Dean. If they did that.

“Dean?” he asked, in the silence.

“Mmmmmm?”

It sounded like Dean was almost asleep.

“What if you-” Sam stopped and waited while the words arranged themselves in his head like before. “What if we did that, what Randy is talking about, so maybe I could understand why it makes him so mad, because-”

“That’s taking empathy too far,” said Dean. An instant later, his arm was gone from around Sam’s shoulders and he practically shoved at Sam with both hands and rolled away to face the wall. Sam felt cold all over as the silence ticked in his head as he tried to trace what he’d said to piss Dean off.

“If it makes the girls howl, like you said,” he said, carrying on to Dean’s back, “then maybe you’d like it. Or maybe I’d-”

He stopped again, not quite sure how it would work in any specific way, as in who would be sticking what where, but he liked the feeling of it in his mind. The image it brought. Him and Dean, alone in their room in the near dark. Clothes off. Moving together, he could suddenly envision how they would move together, hot, close, the sheets wrinkled around them. Dean’s mouth against his ear. Dean’s scent all around.

“Maybe we’d like it,” he finished, reaching out to touch the long patch of grey that he knew was Dean’s back.

Dean sprung up in the bed like coils exploding, straight up in the dark.

“We’re not going to do that,” said Dean, pushing Sam’s hands off him. “Just no and no and no.”

Startled, Sam’s whole body jerked and he almost bit his tongue, “But you already-we already-”

“The holding,” said Dean, loud, “the holding-the-the everything else is one thing. But come the day, and it will come-I could never explain that away.”

Dean talked so fast Sam could hardly keep up.

“Explain to who?” Sam didn’t move from his position on the bed because he knew that if he did, Dean would fly out of the bed so fast the sheets would snap. “Explain to who? I’m already here and who else needs to know anyway?”

“Explain to you, you stupid jerk!” Dean poked him in the chest with a hard finger and then drew back. Sam could see his outline against the wall in the dark. Dean had buried his face in his hands.

Sam wanted to reach out to him. His hand got halfway there before it pulled back. “Whoever I’m going to be,” said Sam, keeping his voice low and careful, “I’ll understand.”

“No, you won’t.” Muffled. “Oh, you so won’t.”

With this violent reaction, Sam figured out that Dean was so worked up he might just keep saying no on principle.

He’d talked about it like he had done it, at least with women, and had liked it. And maybe, come the day, after they were out of here, and Sam had his memory back, and after Dean had given him a ride in his car, then Dean would want to go on doing whatever he’d been doing before he’d invited Sam on a road trip with him. An errand for my Dad, he’d said. The time for that errand was long passed, and surely Dean had something he needed to get back to. Some life that didn’t involve Sam.

It was a new thought and not a pleasant one.

Sam didn’t understand everything that was jumbling itself together in his head. Dean had been like a small storm in the Day room when he’d hit Randy. A glowing storm of hard muscle and his voice low and threatening, and all for Sam. Protecting Sam. It made Sam feel warm, deep in his belly, to feel that way, to be that protected. And maybe that was what other people felt like. People outside the hospital, people who had friends and family, people they touched and loved. Like Dean seemed to love Sam.

Dean had never said no to him before, had never denied him anything. But now, now that he’d said no to this, this seemingly pleasant thing, what else might he say no to? But that, really, even though Dean said he couldn’t explain it to whoever he was planning on explaining it to come the day, he never said he didn’t want it. And maybe that was the key.

“I can hear you thinking again, Sam,” said Dean, almost growling. He shifted in the bed, uncovering his face, though Sam could only see a slice of light on the side of Dean’s face. “You’re thinking so hard I can just about smell smoke, so just cut it out.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” said Sam. “I’m just tired.”

He felt Dean instantly respond to that, like he always did when Sam needed something. And it occurred to him that while he liked that, he rather wished that Dean would respond to him, to touch and stroke and pet him, just because he wanted to. Not because it was something he felt Sam needed. But yes, Dean was laying back down, on the pillow next to Sam’s pillow, a careful few inches between their bodies as Dean pulled up the sheet and the covers, settling them over Sam as he did for himself. As Dean did, as Dean always did, first Sam’s needs, and then his own. And even then, sometimes nothing for himself. Sam was amazed that he’d never seen it before.

“Sam,” said Dean. There was warning in his voice. “We’re not going to talk about this anymore.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“You hear me?”

“Yes,” said Sam. He guessed he knew the difference between hearing and agreeing as well as anybody. “Yes, I hear you.”

Apparently, Dean was tired too, or Sam thought that Dean would have caught on to what Sam wasn’t saying and elicit a promise from him out loud. He would make Sam say it word for word, we’re not talking about this anymore, and maybe he would make them spit shake on it, too. That seemed like something Dean would do. Or maybe it was something Sam had read it a book. Some book he’d read after the voice in his head had been done reading Dr. Seuss to him before he went to bed at night. In a small, musty room lined with fake wood paneling, and a little green fridge in the corner that hummed and whistled. Someone at a table nearby with the lamp on low as they sharpened a knife that glinted in the light. Sam remembered looking at the light, trying not to fall asleep because he liked watching his brother sharpen his knife. He remembered failing, but that was okay, because he’d felt safe and protected then, too. Safe enough to fall asleep.
Chapter 15


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