Blue Skies From Rain Part 4 - Chapter 19

[lovesrain44]

 

Outside of the window, through the bars, it was raining. Dean’s eyes were open but he didn’t realize it until they started to burn, staring at yet another window that he couldn’t get out of. And that he was facing another day of clouds pressing the sky, of white hallways and lines of men shambling from one pallid setting to the next. Orderlies and doctors standing by, watching everything and writing it down on their clipboards.

And he was in the bed. The night nurse must have found him on the floor and lifted him back in the bed, maybe even gotten some help. How the hell had Dean slept through that?

He sat up and shoved back the sheet and the cover. He felt like crap. His thigh was tender, his lip was swollen. He knew what was physically wrong with him and it was nothing a few more aspirin and a hot shower wouldn’t cure. The ache in his heart had no such easy solution.

The door opened without anyone knocking; it was the orderly with the morning supplies, the pills and a disposable razor. He’d even brought breakfast, which he placed on the stand next to the bed.

“Good to see you’re up, Dean, you need to get a move on.” As if Dean had been dawdling for hours.

“Got any aspirin?”

“No,” said the orderly. He handed Dean the paper cup of pills and one of water. When Dean didn’t take it, he put it on the stand next to the breakfast tray.  “Dr. Silvers says shower, shit, and shave, he didn’t say anything about aspirin. And you have a meeting with Dr. Logan as soon as you are ready, if not sooner.”

“I had aspirin last night,” Dean said, standing up.

The orderly looked at his chart. “That was a sleeping pill,” he said. “Which aspirin is contraindicated for. Take your meds, please.”

Dean glowered at the orderly as he left, but it saved him from having to pretend to take the pills. Fucking bastards had slipped a sleeping pill on him. He went to the bathroom and flushed the meds down the toilet, his hand shaking with anger. The breakfast could get cold for all he cared, he only wanted the milk anyway. He drank it down, standing there.

As he shaved, he didn’t let himself think about Sam. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to bide his time, but then, why was he biding it again? Because it was nice here? It was that no longer. They kept giving him and Sam drugs that they did not need, Treatment that wasn’t helping Sam get over his amnesia, and kept wresting control away the second either of them showed any improvement. He wanted to get them far away so that nobody could ever do that to them again. He had his plan to get them out, but he needed to fix things with Sam And he needed Sam to forgive him, even if he could never really forgive himself.

He tried not to look at his own eyes in the mirror, with the light glaring down from the single bulb. They weren’t Samless eyes this time, he had Sam even if Sam was half a hospital away. His lip throbbed as he pulled his mouth taut to shave across his chin; he concentrated on that instead. Then he hopped in the shower; it was nice to have a shower again, though it made him think of the bathtub in their room, and that was unproductive. He got out of the shower, forcing himself to not think about it. It wouldn’t help Sam if he, Dean, kept waffling back and forth.

Getting dressed, he realized he was shaking. There was no telling whether Dr. Logan would discover that Sam was no longer on his meds, nor how pissed off she’d be if she were to ever find out just who’d talked Sam into that. Or how pissed she’d be if she found out about the rest of it; he didn’t imagine places like this would look very kindly on what he and Sam were doing in their spare time.

The orderly who came to get him and take him to Dr. Logan’s office was Rubio. Dean wondered where the man had been, why Dean hadn’t seen him recently, but Rubio didn’t say anything and Dean didn’t want to ask. But it was an interesting choice in orderlies; had it been Greer or someone like him, it might mean that Dr. Logan was expecting some kind of trouble that only an orderly with Greer’s heft could handle.

As they walked down the hall all Dean could think about was Sam, who had been in Treatment all night. And Dr. Logan, who might decide that Dean was falling down on the job and that she needed to break up the experiment and take Sam away from him. His heart started to pound. For that reason only, they needed to get out; he didn’t want anyone ever having the power to do that, to take Sam from him, again.

By the time they got to Dr. Logan’s office, he was sweating dark circles under his armpits. Why the hell couldn’t crazy people get antiperspirant too?

Rubio knocked on the door and Dean heard Dr. Logan say, “Come in,” and when Rubio opened the door, she said, “You can wait outside, if you would. I think we’ll be alright here.”

Another good sign. If Dr. Logan felt she could handle the fallout, how much fallout was she expecting? Maybe not much.

He felt better until he stepped into the room, her office with the overloaded bookshelves, the sun banking off the windows, Dr. Logan sitting behind her desk. Because there was Sam, sitting in a thin unmatched chair, shoulders rolled forward, arms tight to his sides, hands clasped in his lap, his hair falling in his face. He didn’t look up when Dean came in. Dean stifled the urge to run to him and gather him in his arms and kiss him and whisper against Sam’s neck how sorry he was, so fucking sorry, and how it was all Dean’s fault. Sam needed care and he needed it right now.

“Have a seat, Dean,” said Dr. Logan, interrupting Dean’s thoughts, and Dean thought he saw Sam twitch at the sound of her voice, and then he was still.

Dean sat down, looking only at Sam though he knew, in the back of his head, that it would probably be a good idea, right about now, to give Dr. Logan his full attention, rather than give in to impulses that would only mess Sam up even more. But from where he sat he could see that Sam was pale, with a grey tinge to his skin that was the color of milk whey. There was a faint line of sweat along Sam’s jaw; Dean wanted Sam to look at him, wanted to touch him so badly, he almost reached out to him. But Dr. Logan’s voice interrupted him.

“Dean, did you hear any of what I said just now?”

Dean made himself sit up and look at her; it felt like he ripped a piece of himself off to look away from Sam.

“I need to talk about yesterday’s incident,” she said, her eyes observing him behind her glasses.

Dean nodded. Of course she did.

“Violence is not permitted in any case, and is of grave concern, especially considering Sam’s record-Dean, I need you to look at me.”

He’d not known that his attention had wandered, but his eyes had latched onto the red, twisting marks on Sam’s wrists and stayed there, while his stomach started to spike in on itself. They’d hurt Sam. But Dean had hurt him worse. Dean looked at Dr. Logan and swallowed.

“Dean, I find it interesting, considering your own personal state, that you’re more concerned about Sam than you are about yourself.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, no way he could really explain. Besides, she was wearing her most clinical expression through those dark-rimmed glasses of hers, it didn’t bode well for Dean trying for the sympathy vote.

“Lady, I’m fine,” he said. “What the hell did you guys give him, how long did you-”

He slammed his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to star hammering at her like that, but the little shake of her head had set him off.

Surprising him, she answered. “His usual course of meds, Thorazine, Flupentixol, and so on, and an extra sedative, he-”

She rattled on while he felt sick to his stomach, and guilty, knowing he’d handled it all wrong. They’d given Sam his full course of pills when he wasn’t used to that. He probably felt like shit. Dean’d fucked it up by taking away the one thing that seemed to help keep Sam calm, and then by taking away everything else. As Dean watched, Sam’s shoulders quivered, and he’d still not looked up. Without meaning to, Dean reached out to touch Sam’s wrist with his fingers. At the touch, Sam quivered but didn’t pull away.

“Dean,” she said, pulling his attention to her. “He had Treatment for a few hours and then spent the night in restraints, which is standard for violent patients who are out of control. You know that.”

He did, actually.

“This is my fault-”

“No, Dean, it’s not. Sam attacked you and it’s up to him to apologize so we can get closure and determine what to do next.”

Sam opened his mouth and lifted himself up a little bit, like he’d been coached for just this moment and was going to do exactly what was expected of him. So he could be the good and obedient patient he was always striving to be. Images slammed into Dean: Sam worrying about having one foot on the floor when the lights went out or scanning the dining hall when picking out tomato shits from his spaghetti, Sam coming to Dean’s bed because he was lonely and missed his brother so much he cried.

“No,” said Dean, clasping Sam’s wrist. “He doesn’t need to apologize to me for that. Ever.”

She might have been surprised by the forcefulness of his response, he didn’t know, but when he looked at her, she seemed confused, with her frowning mouth.

“It was my fault, that fight.” Dean felt his mouth tighten and he prepared himself to talk her down until she agreed with him.

She nodded and seemed prepared to listen, even if only to observe one more level of troublesome behavior from her patient, Dean Doe, for her clinical notebooks. Dean took a breath.

“I was messing around, roughhousing.” He circled Sam’s wrist with his fingers once and then made himself let go. “I was screwing around with the shovels and I think I scared him and he reacted, and then it got out of hand. He didn’t mean it.”

“Again, I find it interesting your level of concern and your willingness to shoulder the blame like this.”

She said it like there was something wrong with that, like maybe she expected Dean to crumble under the onslaught of her institutional psychobabble and point the finger at Sam.

Beside him, Sam took a sudden breath. “I hit him in the head.” His voice was whispering and low. Then he stopped to clear his throat as Dean watched, his heart racing. “Because he said-”

In two seconds, Dean was going to have a heart attack, right there in Dr. Logan’s office, because Sam was about to say out loud that it was because Dean said we couldn’t have sex any more, especially since we are going to escape soon.

Dean wasn’t sure which one would be the worse confession. He wanted to grab at Sam and shut him the hell up, but it wouldn’t do any good because then Dr. Logan would be even more curious about what Sam had to say. Maybe he could cover up whatever Sam said, put it down to mental confusion, fatigue, or whatever crap he could come up with. He realized he was griping the edges of his seat hard enough to make his fingers hurt. And that in another second, Dr. Logan’s attention was going to be alerted to that and move from Sam to Dean. Unclasping his fingers, he let them become fists in his lap.

“Because he wouldn’t let go of the damn shovel,” said Sam, finally. The last word ended on a pant, as if Sam had just come off of running a sprint. The corner of his eyes flicked in Dean’s direction. “So I’m not sorry I hit him, but I am sorry I hit him so hard.”

There was a little silence that followed this remark, and while he could tell it surprised Dr. Logan too, he wanted to stand up and cheer. Sam had just lied through his teeth in good old Winchester style; if anything was indicative that getting Sam off the meds was the right thing to do, this was. It had cost him a bit, but it had been very brave. But instead of cheering, Dean looked at Dr. Logan as he gave her his best solemn attentiveness.

“Just some roughhousing,” Dean said, adding to the mix.

“That got out of hand. I see.”

She got up from her desk to take off her glasses and look out of the window. Dean could hear Sam breathing a little hard and longed to walk him out the front door and outside to the fresh air and rain-dotted sunshine and never look back. But they were at least two locked doors away from that, and there was who knew how many orderlies along the way.

Sam still wouldn’t look at him. And in a minute, Dr. Logan was going to make a decision, was going to separate them, was going to take Sam away and punish him some more-

“Dr. Logan,” Dean began, desperation making his voice thick.

She turned to look at him, holding up her hand while she put her glasses back on. “Dean, I’m not unaware of your improved progress since we began this experiment, nor of your affection for Sam. Nor am I unaware that except for a bobble or two along the way and a marked dislike for tomatoes, that Sam has been improving as well-”

“He just needs more time, he-”

“And you need to know of my desire to have this experiment work. It’s good for patients, it’s good for morale, and documented correctly and repeated, it could bring in more funding from the state.”

For a second, he didn’t understand what she was saying, exactly. There was a small smile that might or might not be there on her face, he didn’t know.

“You just need to be sure that what happened yesterday doesn’t happen again.” Dr. Logan nodded and seemed satisfied with that.

Now Dean was totally confused. “What are you saying, that the experiment is okay, that we’ll keep doing it?’

For a minute she just looked at him, blinking through her black-rimmed glasses. Then she sat down with a little laugh, while Dean swallowed and wished he didn’t feel so slow. Wished he could just smack her right in her stupid, smiling face.

“You take your responsibilities seriously, I see. Yes, the experiment continues, with fair warning. No more outbursts, no more violence. We’ll also take Sam’s artwork about the blue man under consideration, because in spite of Miss Windle’s dire messages and warnings, I think he’s making progress there as well.”

Dean knew that his mouth had fallen open but he couldn’t help it. He would get to keep Sam, keep him close, keep looking out for him. Keep on planning to get out.

“Why don’t you boys go down to the laundry and work there for the morning?,” she said, smiling. “I know Laundry makes Sam calm and that’s what he needs today. I’ll let Neland know to take it easy, you know how picky he is.”

She stood and Dean stood up and then, slowly, like that was a signal and he’d been watching for it the whole time, Sam stood up. Head still down, hair hiding his face. Like he’d been looking out of the corners of his eyes, afraid and wound up and just on the verge of coming apart. If he’d not been pumped full of stuff he would have flipped and Dean would not have blamed him if he had.

Dean’s hands wanted to become fists, he wanted to smash out at something, not just for them fucking with Sam, for pulling him in all kinds of directions, for giving him meds that he didn’t need. Treatment he didn’t need. No, the worse part was the nerve, the fucking gall Dr. Logan had, to imagine that she had the right to say when he could or could not be with his own brother. She held the power, she held the keys, she controlled it all, and she could say yes or no to it any time she pleased. Now she was saying yes, tomorrow she could say no and there was nothing Dean could do to stop her. Sam was his, always had been, always would be, and he’d be GOD damned if this stupid bitch ever, ever had any say in that ever again.

“So, Dean,” she asked, her voice pleasant. “Are we good? Headed for Laundry, being cooperative and flexible?”

Dean was breathing hard. He almost punched her then, but beside him, still standing, head bowed, Sam twitched, his whole body tightening up, like he could feel the thrum of Dean’s nerves. That was bad, he didn’t want to upset Sam, Sam had been through enough. Dean made himself slow down, wiped his palms on his pants. He smiled, his face aching with it, eyes still burning like they were on fire.

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathy. “I didn’t like the infirmary so much, though.” Giving her that to chew on so she might ignore the rest of it.

“Oh?” she asked, but she was already looking at the files on her desk, like she was prepping for her next appointment.

“Yeah,” said Dean. He was already turning away, like he was totally distracted by the fun anticipation of folding towels. “It’s lonely there.”

“Well,” said Dr. Logan, bending to write something down on a pad. “See that you stay out of it next time.”

Dean vowed that he would. And walked beside Sam down the corridor toward the laundry room. He didn’t reach out to touch Sam or try to talk to him or get him to lift his head. But he walked close, so that his shoulder brushed Sam’s shoulder, so the warmth could grow between them in the cool air. Not close enough to feel Sam’s heartbeat, but close enough. Close enough for now.

*

They were in the laundry room, the hot air whirring around the dyers as they spun, the smell of soap tart in the air as the washers sloshed and whined under the weight of all those damp sheets and towels. Dean was there, and he was talking to Neland, who was trying to have two conversations at once, talking to someone about the hotels in Peoria while he was looking at Dean and Sam and reaching for his clipboard to update it. Neland hung up the phone.

Sam could feel Dean at his side, close like he had been as they’d walked down the corridor. Dean was strung tight, like one of Neland’s sheets through a wringer, pulled and pulled and soon the end would come and it would snap. And he was being quiet, not really touching Sam, but Sam knew. Could feel it. Dean was angry about before, when Sam wouldn’t listen to him, and who ended up taking the pills that Dean told him not to take. And while Sam had been in Treatment, who knows what Dean had been subjected to. And it was all Sam’s fault. He’d screwed up. Worse than that, he’d hurt Dean, who still had the marks of Sam’s fists on his fact, his mouth swollen, the side of his cheek darkened by a bruise. Sam didn’t want to look at that, so he kept his eyes on his feet. Yes. They were still there.

Someone tugged him to walk over to the folding table, and Sam let him. It turned out to be Dean, who was mad, but still taking care of him. Dean started folding towels, and nudged Sam to do the same. The laundry room was hot, and Sam’s stomach was starting to leap up and down, like a little man on a trampoline. Sam could picture him, laughing and leaping, and all the while his leaps got higher and higher. Sam tried to make his hands fold, but the towels felt too hot, too rough. His hands shook a bit, and he knew Dean was looking at them. In a second, he was going to get hauled out into the corridor for a stern yelling at. Maybe Dean would be the one to do the yelling. At least then Sam could get it over with.

Damp sweat broke out along Sam’s forehead. It was really so hot in the laundry room, not comfortably warm, but hot, like a greenhouse. There was no cool air, not even a sluggish breeze. Just the tight, still air, clinging to him. He could feel sweat along his hairline and the tumble of his stomach as the little man fell off the tramp. Maybe he broke his neck as he hit the floor. Sam’s stomach twisted at the thought of it.

“You okay?”

That was Dean’s voice. Sam knew it like he knew his own. It was low and concerned and Sam wondered when Dean was going to start the yelling. But he couldn’t reply back because then he would just start crying. And he felt pretty safe in guessing that it would just make everyone upset and get him taken away till he could remember how to behave appropriately in a laundry room. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at it. His skin glistened from the sweat. He wondered if it tasted like salt. Wondered if he should try tasting it.

“Hey, Neland,” said Dean, and Sam realized that Neland was standing right there and he’d never even heard him come up.

“What’s going on here? Why isn’t he folding towels?”

This was directed at Dean rather than himself, Sam realized. Because of course, Dean was in charge and Sam’s opinion didn’t matter. He remembered that from somewhere else, feeling that way. His brother standing there and saying where they were to go and when and how fast. Always behind the wheel.

This thought was snapped away as Dean touched his fingers to Sam’s arm. It felt like there was an electric current coming through those fingers right into Sam’s gut. For a second he wasn’t sure whether it felt good or bad, so he stayed still. Kept his feet planted. Swallowed.

“He doesn’t look so good,” said Neland, staring at Sam.

“He had Treatment,” said Dean. “And isolation and restraint and pills and crap.”

“Is he going to puke on my towels?” asked Neland, his voice rough, like it always was. It was a big responsibility, running a laundry room in a loony bin. Sam wanted to say something sarcastic and sharp, at the same time wondering where it came from, what words to say, and how to say them, to wound someone without even touching them.

“I don’t know,” said Dean. The pitch of his voice was worried, but Sam just stared at his feet. Swaying.

“Maybe he should take a break,” said Neland. “Take him to the Day room, I don’t want him throwing up here and getting that smell in my towels.”

Sam felt Dean hesitate.

“Go on,” said Neland. “I’ll call it down. Just walk fast, I don’t have anyone to spare to take you. Two minutes, okay?”

Dean pulled him and they walked. Fast. Sam knew the corridor they were in, sensed the fading smell and heat of the laundry room. He recognized the doorway to the Day room, the same one from before, now brightly lit by the sun coming through the streaky windows instead of being pelted by darkness and rainfall. An orderly met them at the door, and as they walked in, Sam focused on the tail of the phone cord, still swinging in lazy, slow arcs against the wall. The room was empty except for the three men at Sam and Dean’s speed puzzle from before, dressed in robes and slippers, the sash of the robes tied behind each of them in the exact precise knot, trailing behind them through the gaps in the chairs. Like mice tails.

“Hey,” said the orderly, holding his book to one side. “Have a seat. You’re with me. If he has to puke, do me a favor and grab a trashcan? The stuff they use, that Zorbitall, smells just as bad and lingers just as long. And no running around or screaming or I have to call or press the button. You guys know the drill, okay?”  The orderly nodded and then stopped talking and sat down and went back to reading just like that, like somebody had flipped a switch. The guys at the puzzle never even looked up.

Dean must have nodded or said yes, because he was pulling Sam away from the doorway, towards the windows under which someone had shoved one of the couches. The sun poured through the windows at an angle, flooding the floor, but leaving the couch in the shadow of the window ledge. The couch was old and covered in leatherette that was cracked in places.

Dean sat down on the couch and looked up at Sam. Sam looked at Dean because he knew he couldn’t look at his feet any more. Not when Dean was looking at him like that. With dark circles under eyes that glinted and were round and searched Sam’s face. Like he expected to find something there.

“Hey, Sam,” said Dean, his voice soft. There was something in the words that curled around the base of Sam’s spine.

“Come and sit down. Or, here, lay down.” Dean patted his thigh and Sam felt his eyebrows go up. “Come on now, get your head down. It’ll feel nice. I’ll hold real still. You have a nap, and then we’ll have lunch.”

Sam tried to hold his mouth still from trembling, but it was really hard to do that. Especially when Dean’s voice sounded so nice, and Dean’s hand reached out to cup the back of his elbow and tugged. Just a little. Soft, like a mouse’s whiskers. Sam thought about the mouse nest in the drain of the Treatment room, about the cold, slanted floor that was painted a dull, industrial grey. How they both knew what that room looked and smelled like. How Dean knew where he’d been, and didn’t look at all like he felt Sam deserved it.

“Sam,” said Dean, low. Sweet. Tugging.

Sam let himself be pulled down to the couch, confused still, sitting there for a moment. Letting Dean tug some more until his head was pulled down low enough so that his face was resting lightly on Dean’s thigh. Dean patted his shoulder, and Sam felt his whole body relax a little bit further. He swung his legs up, and tucked his shoulder against Dean’s leg, and let his head rest fully on Dean’s thigh. He let the heat of that soak up into him. Warm heat, bloodwarm heat, moving, like a current, like a river, ribbons of the scent of Dean, salt and soap, and hospital cotton soaking into him. Sam’s whole body did not fit on the couch, unless he scrunched up his knees a bit, and let his feet dangle. So he did that.

“Okay now?” asked Dean.

“Uh,” said Sam. Maybe it was, but it probably wasn’t. He wasn’t sure yet. Maybe when the room stopped moving and being so mean to him. “Dean.”

“Yeah?” Dean seemed to be leaning down towards Sam, his body cupping over Sam’s head, and if Sam looked up, he could see the edge of Dean’s face. But his neck hurt too much to do that, so he could only do it a second.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.

“For what? For getting upset? Forget about it. My timing was bad, I didn’t say-”

“I hit you,” said Sam, insisting on this. Getting it out as fast as he could. “I hit you with the shovel. I punched you. Your lip is swollen. Your face-”

“Look, Sam,” said Dean. He gave Sam’s arm a long, slow stroke with the palm of his hand. “We’re friends. We fight, okay? Sometimes we punch each other, but we’re still friends. You don’t remember, but I do. So trust me, okay?”

Dean, it seemed, wasn’t going to listen to Sam apologize about that. So he tried something else.

“And uh-”

“What?”

Sam screwed up his face tight so he wouldn’t cry. Maybe fights happened between them, like Dean said. It hadn’t been fun, but maybe it was okay. Dean had said something to him he didn’t like, so he’d lashed out, and Dean seemed to think that was pretty ordinary. But he had to tell Dean about the pills, because that was where he’d messed up. And he needed to tell Dean so that Dean could get mad and shout and then, hopefully, forgive Sam.

“I had to take the pills.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He already knew. He didn’t sound mad about it at all. “Dr. Logan said you had taken them. But why, Sam? No chance to palm them?”

“Uh, no.” Sam pressed his face into Dean’s thigh, and realized that the tears were trickling down his face without his realizing it. Dean’s pant leg was becoming soaked. “I tried to keep my mouth shut, but they used a tube.”

Dean jerked so hard, Sam’s head almost fell off his lap. “That’s the bruise on your mouth then,” said Dean. Flat, all the emotion ironed out of it. “Shit.”

Sam felt the motion of Dean’s arm and tilted his head back far enough to get a glimpse of Dean scrubbing at his eyes like he wanted to scrub them right out of his head.

“And the bandage on your arm?” asked Dean, taking his hand away from his face to look at Sam. His eyes sparked.

The bandage was the arm Sam was laying on, but Dean must have seen it, either in Dr. Logan’s office, or the hallway, or the laundry. It was half hidden by his sleeve, but Dean had seen it. Alert, as always, to everything that was about Sam.

“The first needle broke off,” he said. Sam remembered the stab of it, and the slit the razor made, the sting of the antiseptic. The orderlies in the Treatment room had ignored the bandage, Sam recalled now, letting him keep it on even as they’d wrapped the sheet around him. “So they had to cut out the tip.”

“How?” Dean asked this, his voice roughedged, like he really, really didn’t want to know the answer.

“With a razor,” said Sam. His arm throbbed a bit as if remembering too, but Sam didn’t want to think about it anymore. “Are you mad at me? I screwed up so bad, Dean-”

Dean’s hands were on him as if to shove him off, like he had that one night when Sam had suggested they have sex the way Randy was always talking about. But they didn’t. They grabbed bits of Sam and pulled him close, tucking around Sam’s shoulders, clasping his head. Petting him and touching him, and Dean’s stomach was making these jerky little movements.

“Dean, are you mad?” Sam asked again. His chest was aching with wanting the answer, with wanting Dean’s forgiveness.

For a second, Dean didn’t talk. Then his hands stilled, and then lifted. He heard Dean take a breath. Then the hands were on him again, Dean’s hands, stroking, long, careful strokes, along Sam’s shoulder and arm, pausing even to move along his neck. Sam sighed into this, feeling his eyes shut. That was better. Better now.

“No,” said Dean, swallowing. Hard. He swallowed again. So loud, Sam could hear his throat muscles working. “I’m mad at me. It’s my fault.”

“Dean-”

“Shut up, Sam, just for a minute. I screwed up. I didn’t look at it clearly, I didn’t think. When I said we couldn’t-that we were going to have to stop, I never meant for you to get upset. Okay, pissed, sure, but not so that they’d take you away, and strap you to that goddamned table. Shove a tube down your throat.”

Sam didn’t bother to tell Dean that there were two types of tubes and the other one went up your nose. That one didn’t hurt so much, just created a dull pressure at the back of your throat. Unless, of course, they left it in there too long. Then it ripped when they pulled it out, and the tube was dappled with blood afterwards. Sam’s throat had been sore for a few days. That had happened only the one time, but there’d been yelling, as two orderlies had stood over Sam’s bed where he was strapped down. And then Sam never saw one of the orderlies after that. But it was a story for another time. Or for never. Dean didn’t need to hear that.

There was a shift in weight on the couch and Sam opened his eyes as he felt the brush of Dean’s mouth on his temple, fingers pushing back his hair, the lips lingering. Dean’s mouth, swollen from having been punched by Sam’s fist, but soft. So soft.

Sam’s arm reached up, all by itself, finding the back of Dean’s neck to pull Dean’s head in close. Closer. Dean didn’t protest or pull back, didn’t stiffen up. Instead, his body shifted under Sam’s head, his thigh moving back, his ribs curling over Sam’s head. His mouth was right there, and though Sam’s mouth felt a little vague, he knew it when Dean’s mouth was on his, a feel of silky skin, Dean’s breath on his cheek. Sam tried to kiss back, his mouth fuzzy and numb, but Dean stayed poised there for a second, his thumb sweeping in front of Sam’s ear, like he was trying to push back Sam’s hair.

“I’m sorry too, anyway, even if you don’t think I should be.” Sam realized he was whispering. He cleared his throat.

Dean’s body felt different now, all around him, arms and legs and his belly, gurgling low against Sam’s ear. Different from the nights in the dark, or walking down the hall. It felt like Dean was circled all around Sam like it wanted to be there, had always wanted to be there. Sam felt himself slip inside of that circle, knowing the difference, knowing it wasn’t a physical circle, nothing he could draw for Miss Windle. But like the blue man and the vampires and the ghost, it was real. It was Dean. “I love you, Dean,” he said now, moving his mouth against Dean’s mouth. Waiting for Dean to snap back to how he’d been before, even five minutes ago. But Dean didn’t. He stayed close, shifting a little, but close.

“Well, okay,” Dean said against Sam’s skin, the curve of Sam’s cheek. “Okay. Okay.”

There was a sound in the hallway, footsteps on the floor like someone was coming into the Day room. And of course Dean had to sit up and lean against the couch, it must have been hard on his back to curl around Sam like that. He let the back of Dean’s neck go, his hand trailing on the curve of muscle there, letting Dean guide his arm to rest along his own side. But Dean was still there, in Sam’s mind, still curved around Sam. And no matter who was in the room, his hands were still on Sam. Still touching him. Petting his hair over and over until Sam fell asleep.

Chapter 20

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post