So Many Different Sammys to Call Home
Title: So Many Different Sammys to Call Home
Summary: Dean gets weird when Sam isn't okay. Sometimes he does stupid things. It's the Season 2 finale.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 2, cool?
Wordcount: 6,115
Author's Note: Sammyverse, title is from Death Cab's "You are a Tourist." This obviously comes just before One Hundred Percent Pure Sam, with just some plot stuff in the middle.
The first few days after Sam left for Stanford, Dean was kind of weird.
He chalked it up to Sam not being there, to not being able to turn to his right and instantly see someone to poke or tease or wink at. Because obviously that was a change, and it would make sense that that would need some getting used to, right? Except he'd done three days without Sammy before, no problem, while he was on one hunt and John and Sam were on another, but whatever. This was different. Fine. The distance totally explained why Dean was locking the keys in the car and forgetting his clothes in the washing machine and taking fifteen minutes to decide whether he wanted waffles or pancakes. Yeah, those were totally normal signs of separation anxiety. Cool.
It wasn't until four fucking years later when Sam finally told him that he'd eaten a peanut at orientation and been really fucking sick those first few days that Dean realized that he has a fucking pattern of behavior, that Sam isn't the only damn psychic here, because whenever Sam's away from him and gets sick--from the time when he had pneumonia at eight and Dean walked around all day with his clothes inside out, to when Sam was wheezing in that fucking cage and Dean had to hold up his hands to tell left from right--Dean gets weird.
Dean gets caught up in stupid and pointless thoughts.
So when he and Bobby are charging down the highway with that image of the bell still seared in his mind and Dean suddenly starts getting all the fuck worried that he doesn't know where Sam's scarf is and he's going to be picking up Sam and he won't have his scarf and Sam will be upset, that's when Dean knows that Sam's not doing well.
**
Which is why when he screams Sam's name and hears Sam scream back, harsh and hoarse and desperate, and then Sam is staggering towards him with his hand clamped to his shoulder, Dean is relieved.
He thinks, okay, Sam looks like hell, but he's alive and he's coming towards me and he's here here here and Dean's about to charge towards him, he is, but he just needs a fucking second. He needs to stand by the car and close his eyes and yell Sam's name over and over like he's running to him but he needs to stand the fuck still. He needs a second.
Because you'd think that after twenty-three (holy fucking shit twenty-four it's Sam's birthday Dean is going to wrap him up in the world's biggest blanket and his fucking scarf and blow out the candles for him and Sam is going to make fun of him and Dean is going to fuck with Sam's hair and say make all the wishes make all the fucking wishes Sammy) years of Sam Dean would have gotten used to feeling every damn thing every fucking time he looks at this kid, but no, it's been two days and Dean's been shaking like he's in fucking withdrawal and this fucking kid, Dean just needs a second. (Dean was never meant to be in love okay?)
And then he opens his eyes and takes that first step forwards just as he sees someone rising up behind Sam, and then he's running and shouting and he's too fucking slow, he fucking hesitated, he broke every single damn rule as far as Sam is concerned and Sam's name is pulled out of his throat over and over as that glint of metal disappears into Sam's back.
Sam drops to his knees and spits blood and the first thing Dean was going to do to him when he reached him was check his breathing but not like this, no no no no not like this.
He skids to the ground in front of Sam and gathers him up and whispers, "Hey, SamSam, hey hey hey buddy you breathe okay I'll do the rest don't worry no worrying, Sam, okay? Not allowed to worry this time," and he's never seen Sam this color, not ever, and Dean wants to look at him (Dean is supposed to watch Sam and if Sam is going then Dean has to fucking watch) but Sam's dropping his forehead to Dean's shoulder and spitting up blood and not breathing, he's not breathing, and Dean presses his hand against the hole in Sam's back and no no fuck. He doesn't know how to fix this.
He hears Bobby yelling for him and feels Sam's heart stop and he buries his face in the back of Sam's neck and whispers wake up wake up wake up because this is the part of the nightmare where Sam rubs his back and teases him for screaming or John puts his hand on his shoulder or hands him a glass of water and passes him the phone so he can call Sam. This is the part where Dean gets Sam back.
Any minute now.
Any minute now.
Sam is so heavy.
Sam isn't wheezing.
Any minute now.
**
Bobby's pulls Sam off his shoulder and Dean's on his feet, backing up so quickly he almost falls. Bobby's whispering to Sam and feeling for a pulse and Dean isn't going to watch this, so he throws up instead, hands on his knees.
Bobby doesn't come to him, thank fucking God.
When Dean picks his head up, air shuddering in and out of him, Bobby is still feeling around Sam's neck, like maybe his pulse is still there, just somewhere funny, and he'll find it if he keeps looking.
"He's dead, Bobby."
Bobby doesn't take his eyes off Sam. "Let's bring him inside, get a look at him."
"He's dead."
Bobby gets his hands under Sam's arms and starts to haul him up and Jesus fuck Sam just hangs there like clothes.
"Dean." Bobby finally looks at him. "You've got to give me a hand here, kid."
"He..."
"He's your brother, and he's too heavy for me, and I need a hand." Bobby softens. "Come on, boy."
The alternative is dragging Sam across the ground (in the dust).
The alternative is leaving Sam out here (in the cold).
He picks up Sam's feet and feels his legs still warm through the denim (chubby four year-old legs wrapped around his waist, cold skinny legs sticking off the ends of hospital beds, strong muscular legs beating him in races across beaches and cemeteries and to the doors of grocery stores) and he locks his hands behind Sam's knees because Sam's knees won't do that on their own and he carries his brother.
**
When Sam was little, they carried him everywhere.
Sam grew fast and by the time he was three he was sort of past hand-held size, but that didn't stop John and Dean from hauling him around on their hips and their backs and cradled to their chests until he was like six or some shit because Sam was this wheezy thing who got hives from touching tables in diners and slept coughing into their stomachs.
But then Sam kept fucking growing, and he kept wheezing and kept getting hives and kept coughing but started bringing home As and shooting targets and teaching Dean dirty jokes he'd never fucking heard of, where do kids learn this shit? He hauled Dean over his shoulder when Dean broke his leg without breaking a sweat. He sewed up cuts in Dean's side.
He held him the fuck together after John died.
But sometimes he'd go blue and one time it was him who broke his ankle and sometimes he had seizures when his fevers were high and then Dean would carry him.
It's no problem.
Sometimes he carries Sam.
Today he's carrying blood and flannel and this can't be Sam because Sam isn't this fucking heavy.
Today he's carrying a load of bones.
**
They bring his Sammy to the nearest of these fucking shacks and set him down on a mattress that Dean would never, ever let Sam sleep on, filthy and dusty and horrible, and he accidentally wonders how Sam survived here and then he feels something crash (stab) in the back of his brain and he sinks down to a chair beside the bed and sits there and doesn't look at Sam.
Bobby fusses over by the bed for a minute and them comes around and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean shakes him the hell off and Bobby mumbles something about giving him some time alone with Sam.
When he leaves the room, Dean digs around Sam's pocket and finds his inhaler and takes a hit on it, just to feel something. It makes him cough and tastes like his little brother's laugh.
**
Giving him some time alone with Sam.
What a fucking time for it, because Jesus, Dean's wanted some time alone with Sam for as long as he can remember. He's wanted the world to shut up and let him play Spit with him, and he wanted Stanford to have breaks more often so he could steal his kid for the week, damn it, and he wanted John to stop fussing about whatever the fuck and let them share a bed and for Bobby to stop giving them sideways glances when they fell asleep on each other's shoulders and for Sam's asthma to stop goddamn intruding on their vacations and drunken arguments and 3-AM talks.
And this? This is Dean's time alone with Sam?
No, this is Dean's alone with Dean, and this was never supposed to happen.
This was the fucking point of you, Sam.
And God fucking damn it were you great at it.
**
Dean waits until Bobby comes back with alcohol before screaming at him to fuck off, because this isn't going to be pretty and Sam is the only one who gets to see him break down, okay? He can't remember the last time he cried in front of anyone else, and he really can't remember the last time Sam did because fuck if Sam's allowed to get vulnerable and wheezy in front of other people, that's just not the fuck okay.The first time he saw Sam cry in front of Jess he had to sit on his hands to keep from slapping the kid or grabbing his chin and barking at him to shut the fuck up, because sad Sam, hurt Sam, fragile Sam is just Dean's and here he is lying here like a fucking sacrifice and this isn't for Bobby to see, okay? These aren't anybody else's Winchesters.
They aren't fucking legends anymore, okay?
**
"Dad and I used to call Sam-time."
He's drunk as all fuck, fucking sue him, and he has his chin on the edge of the mattress and he's playing with the cuff of Sam's jacket.
Dean's seen a lot of dead people and what they say about them just looking like they're sleeping isn't fucking true for some of them. Some of them are instant cold rubber, and it just fucking figures that Sam would be one of the pretty ones.
But he's only been dead five hours, he's only just now going cold.
Dean pinches Sam's blue finger between his.
"Don't be with Dad," Dean whispers, even though he knows there's no way his kid would ever be in Hell, no fucking way, so where did you go, Sammy? "Sam-time Sam-time Sam-time fucking Sam-time, come be with me." The bottle's empty. He sets it on the ground. He doesn't throw it. This isn't a movie. He isn't angry.
Angry is a feeling, and Dean doesn't understand feelings without Sam.
So he just cries, because crying doesn't have to make sense and crying doesn't mean anything if Sam's not here to fix it.
"God fucking damn it, Sammy, it should have...you could live without me, you know that? I give you all this shit but...but see, you did that, you did Stanford and...and I waited for you. Like you were the one out at war, you know? I waited for you because you were my little fucking soldier, Sammy. How the fuck do I wait now? What am I waiting for, someone to kill me? Someone fucking kill me."
He shoves his hand in his hair. "Where are you, Sam? Where the fuck do you go?" He touches that cold goddamn cheek. "Fuck, baby, where are you? Do you want to come back? Are you scared? Don't be scared. Please don't be fucking scared, okay? God, it hurt. You died and it hurt and I am so so fucking sorry. Shit. Sam. Sam. Don't be scared."
Dean looks away and breathes out and clasps both his hands around one of Sam's. "Bobby left, can you believe that? I yelled at him to leave and he just...God. You know what you would have done, if I'd ask you to leave? You remember when Dad died and you thought we were doing okay and then I'd freak out on you out of fucking nowhere, tell you I hated you and you were making it worse and why wouldn't you go away?
"You'd shake me. You remember? You grabbed me by shoulders and shook me like I was a baby you were trying to kill." He laughs or cries or something. "You'd shake me hard a few times and then grab my face in your hands and say shut the fuck up, you pathetic lying piece of shit and then you'd hug me so hard I thought my eyes would goddamn pop out, and I made so much fucking fun of you, remember? And then...and then you cried about it on the phone to Bobby. I heard you that time. How worried you were about me. You fucking cried and I stood there and eavesdropped, and fuck, you just wanted your Dad, didn't you?" Dean swallows nothing over and over. "I just want my Sam, okay? Fuck, Sammer, I don't know to do this without you. I...don't know what there is to do without you."
He laughs and pushes his hand into his forehead. "God, you would give such a better speech. You couldn't even let me win this one."
He watches Sam's face and imagines he'll see a hint of movement behind his eyes, like he does when Sam's knocked out on respirators, lying there looking like he's all dead except for these little twitches under oxygen-starved skin.
"You haven't breathed in so long, Sammy. I'm using all the fucking air without you."
He holds Sam's hand to his forehead and breathes out.
"Holy shit," he whispers. "What do I do with all this fucking love now? Where does it fucking go?"
**
Four minutes later, he's in the car.
**
The demon runs her tongue over her teeth and says, "I can't believe it took you this long."
Dean picked a hell of a time to get so, so tired, but he just doesn't know if he can do this right now. The back and forth with a demon, the negotiations, the quick thinking, the snide comments. He stares at the ground and feels his eyes keep leaking.
He gets weird when he's way from Sam and Sam isn't okay, and this is probably the point when Dean should be thinking something deep about loss or about Sam or about why the fuck wars don't end but all he's thinking is that he misses his brother. He just misses him.
He brings his right hand up to grip his left shoulder and kicks at the ground.
"Aw," the demon says. "Poor broken Dean. They finally got you this time, huh? We always knew you didn't like when we stuck pins into poor little Sammy, but if we'd known taking your toy away altogether would make you this desperate...well."
Dean huffs out a breath and digs his nails into his shoulder. "Let's skip the foreplay."
"Awww, that doesn't sound like the Dean we've all come to know and love."
"You've made a hundred fucking thousand of these deals, I know you have. You bring Sam back, ten years from now I'm hellhound food. Come on. Fucking kiss me."
She laughs. It's high and sharp (and Sam's laugh is this low rumble, this shake, it's always so fucking calm).
"You know," she says. "Usually we have to talk people into it. Tell them that Hell won't be all that bad. That ten years is a long time. That whole speech."
"I don't need a fucking speech."
"That's exactly it, Dean. So why would we give you such a good deal?"
His stomach is hot again. "Fuck. Fuck. You bitch."
"Yeah, yeah. And honestly, I'm surprised you didn't have a few more requests."
"What?"
"Well, how would you feel about fewer years for you and more years for Sammy?" She takes a few steps forwards. "How long is Sam really going to live if we bring him back? Come on, Dean, let's be honest. That kid's got a clock ticking over his head and he always has."
"You guys have fucking plans for him."
"Yeah, we did, until he went and proved he wasn't worthy of being Azazel's favorite. We've got a new leader now. Sam's off somewhere not breathing just like he was always meant to."
Dean pukes up alcohol and spit and the demon laughs.
"So here's what I'm wondering," she says. "How many years is it worth to you if we bring back Sam without asthma?"
Dean looks up.
How many years is it worth to him?
It's worth every fucking one, of course. What kind of a question is that?
Sam breathing? Sam not getting up in the middle of the night scared and in pain? Sam not reliant on meds that make him shaky and sleepless? Sam without the big fucking weakness that they're both afraid's going to fuck up a hunt every single time? Sam without hospital stays and meals he can't catch his breath to eat and Sam without that constant nagging worry that tries to drown his kid. (Sam can't breathe.) (Sam is dead.)
"See, this?" the demon says. "This is negotiation."
"Bring him back healthy."
"For how many years?"
"Ten." He'd be an idiot not to try, come on. But he isn't surprised when she laughs. "Eight."
"Keep going."
"Seven. Six."
"It's a fucking missile launch."
"Jesus fuck, how many?"
"One."
Dean swallows.
One year.
One year with happy, healthy, breathing Sam, and fifty more years for Sam and his clear lungs.
One year of a bright, unwheezy laugh, and an eternity of hearing it in his head.
**
It's not Dean's first deal, you know?
He sits by Sam's hospital bed and says, "If you keep breathing, you won't have to be intubated."
You think this is the most depressing deal he's ever made? What the fuck ever.
**
"Okay," Dean says.
She takes a step forwards, breathes sulfur into his mouth, and then says, "Wait. One more thing."
Sam Sam Sam he was so close he could practically taste him (yeah, he said it, fuck you).
She says, "I want you to beg."
**
And that's how Dean ends up on his knees in the dust of a crossroads while a demon eggs him on and he chokes out how scared he is and how Sam is too fucking sick and this is ridiculous and how the fuck are they expected to deal with this and Sam would fucking kill him and isn't that a hilarious sentiment for the day?
Later Dean is going to need to take a hundred showers to try to wash this off of him, but there is pride and there is Sam.
So.
Dean would lick her fucking shoes if he had to.
It sounds like it should be an issue for him, but it's just not.
When she laughs at him and tells him she was never really fucking considering fixing Sam's lungs, that she'll be bringing him back exactly as fucked-up as before and Dean gets one year, one year of coughing and wheezing and fuck Sam is going to cry and Sam is going to hurt and Sam is going to die but Sam is dead and this is the only way, this is the only fucking way, it should be an issue, but he's off the ground and his lips are on hers before it can be.
And it's not until he's in the car that it hits him.
Because holy fucking shit, what the fuck did he just do.
He just decided to make Sam do what he couldn't.
He just pulled Sam out of whereverthefuck--maybe somewhere nice?--and into this shithole of a world where his body's trying to fucking crap out on him half the time and his brother's going to leave him alone to fight an impossible war.
He has to make this right. He has to...
Okay.
Got it.
He's not going to die.
Suddenly everything's okay. Good. He's holding onto this harder than the fucking steering wheel.
He won't die. Sam's smart as all fuck. Sam will get him out of this.
Perfect.
Nothing to worry about.
Time to get to Sam.
**
He flies through the door of the little shack so fast he has to steady himself on the door and there he is, sitting on the side of the bed, red-eyed and red-nosed with stuffed-up breathing Dean can hear across the room and Jesus fucking Christ he could not be more Sam, he just could not fucking be.
"Sammy."
Sam looks up and pants a little and says, "Hey, where were--" and Dean crosses the room in two steps and drops to his knees (to his dirty fucking knees) on the floor and wraps himself around Sam's neck.
Sam draws in a sharp breath and says, "Oh, hey," and puts his hands on Dean's back and they're big and warm and they move.
He's not breathing well.
Dean buries his face in Sam's stupid sweaty hair and clutches his shoulders and mumbles, "You okay?" He turns his face and presses his forehead next to Sam's ear. "Sammy, you okay?"
He makes the mistake of giving Sam this rough kiss on the temple which makes Sam freak out a little and say, "Am I dying? Shit, am I dying?"
"No, shut up, you're not dying." He gives Sam a quick squeeze and pulls away a little. "Okay. Okay." He cups Sam's jaw in his hand. He's a little hivey. "Okay."
"Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy."
He hunches over, wincing, arms around his ribs. "Do you have my inhaler?"
"Oh. Fuck. Shit." He claps his pockets and pulls it out. "Sorry. Fuck."
"S'kay, just--"
"Here, I've got it, okay? Let me do it?"
Sam nods and watches Dean shake the inhaler, and he breathes at the right time when Dean holds it to his lips. Dean goes to rub his back but Sam breathes in sharply and says, "No don't," because yeah, the kid's fucking hurting, the kid just got stabbed.
Sam works on breathing for a little while and then says, "Hell of a place to leave me to recover, y'know?"
"I know, it's dirty as fuck in here. Let's get you out."
And then Sam looks up with these wide eyes and says, "Why'd you leave me?"
Dean doesn't know what the fuck to say, then his eyes see a bit of blue fabric on the chair.
Sam's scarf. It must have been in the car. Bobby must have brought it in before he left.
Dean picks it up and wraps it around Sam's neck. "I was looking for this. I knew you'd want it when you woke up. God, you were fucked up, kid."
Sam sinks down into his scarf and rubs it over his mouth and says, quietly, "Hard to breathe."
"I know. Let's get out of here. You hungry?"
"Yeah."
He helps Sam up. "Me too."
**
He wants to just find a nice hotel room and put Sam to bed with washcloths on his face and baby that poor chest and get a good look at his fucking back because it's Sam's birthday, okay, but there's thing called the end of the fucking world going on so they're at some diner and Sam's picking at macaroni and cheese and asking the waitress if the cake has nuts and he's wheezy, he's so fucking wheezy.
"You feel okay?" Dean asks, quietly, once the waitress has left (and been totally unhelpful, no cake for them).
Sam shakes his head just a little and Dean's chest hurts.
"Not I just ate something that's trying to kill me not okay, right?" The fundamental rules apply, etc.
Another headshake, thank God. "Just asthma. No big deal." He paws at his chest and looks up at Dean. "So Yellow-Eyes has Jake. This is bad."
"Yeah, I know. Bobby's on it. We have time to eat."
Sam rubs his forehead. "You can't be nice to me just because it's my birthday."
"That's not why. Fuck your birthday. Like I'm going to commemorate another year of you driving me crazy."
Sam doesn't smile. "Then why?"
He's looking at Dean in the way he doesn't like. That way that reminds him of the downsides of having a genius kid.
Dean lowers his voice. "You were really hurt, Sam. You were...bleeding like crazy and passing out on my shoulder and you stopped breathing, okay? It was..." He swallows and tilts his head up for a second.
"Shit, Dean."
"It was my worst fucking nightmare and I just need you to eat."
And Sam shovels three forkfuls into his mouth and chews and swallows and then vaults around to Dean's side of the booth and he's breathing hard from moving that fast and shit he's got to be in pain but he's just squeezing the shit out of Dean whispering fucking shit like, "I'm never going anywhere I'm here I'm okay I love you way too much to explain" and Dean is nauseated and scared and obsessed with his kid.
Then Sam pulls away just a little, keeps touching him, and says, "Okay, Dean, now tell me why you left me there," and now he's just nauseated.
(Not really. He's still obsessed with his kid, and that is the fucking point.)
He kisses Sam's forehead and says, "Go back to your side before people get ideas."
"Seriously, again with the kissing? You promise I'm not dying?"
"Go back to your side. We need to talk."
**
Sam doesn't get it, but when Dean looks at him, he sees every fucking age that Sam's ever been, from the little baby, this really little thing that used to sleep in the tiny half-crib attached to the motel bed while John hugged Dean into his chest and they stayed awake listening to the baby try to breathe, to the toddler who laughed too hard at fucking knock-knock jokes to the kid learning to read to the thirteen-year-old sleeping on his lap on long drives to the seventeen-year-old blinking back tears in a hospital bed to the twenty-three-year-old with his big hands on Dean's shoulders after John died. Dean sees them all at the same time.
Twenty-four years of Sam all at once.
**
He doesn't want to tell him, and it seems fucking cruel to spring this on him when he's having so much trouble breathing over there, but that's not how Sam works.
Sometimes, when Sammy was a kid, when he was that snot-nosed toddler, they'd try not to tell him stuff. It was for his own fucking good, you know? Sam didn't need to know that John could have died every time he left the motel room, because when Dean was Sam's age he was picking the crust off grilled cheese sandwiches and kissing his mom goodnight and begging her to name the baby Helicopter Arithmetic Winchester, okay? Sam didn't have to hear about monsters. Sam didn't have to hold a gun.
Except Sam and those big eyes (Sam the fucking empath) and it was like he knew, from the time he was fucking three, when he was being lied to, and those tiny little lungs would just shut the fuck down.
Sam has to talk. Dean's seen him purple in ER waiting rooms squeezing out, "This is okay this is okay this is fine" because Sam has to talk.
So they told him everything.
And so now Dean reaches across the table and taps his fingernail against Sam's and says, "Okay. All right. Jake whatever...he knew what he was doing. He had this big fucking knife and he severed your spinal cord."
Sam blinks and rubs the base of his throat. "Shit," he says, quietly.
"Yeah."
"How did you--"
"We didn't."
Sam swallows. "I died."
Dean puts his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.
Sam's voice is soft and choked. "Dean. What did you do?"
"I didn't have any fucking choice, Sam. You had to come back. I couldn't..."
"Why?"
"Because there was nothing the fuck else that could have happened, Sam! There were no fucking...pages left in the fucking story when you weren't there. Because...because I can't care about anything else like I...you know? Okay? Because you're the reason I give a shit whether anyone saves the goddamn world and because no one's ever been in love with living like Sam motherfucking Winchester and I can't care about a world where that doesn't mean something."
"How long?"
"Six hours."
"No, don't give me that shit, you know what I'm asking. How long until they drag you away?"
"You need to breathe. Shit."
"Fuck. How long? Five years?"
Shit.
"One year?" Sam whispers.
Dan must nod, because Sam looks to the side suddenly and swallows and then squeezes his eyes shut.
"Shit. Oh, Sammy."
And then Dean feels both Sam's feet lock around one of Dean's legs under the table, just holding him there, and he thinks of the dead weight of Sam's legs and says, "I didn't have any fucking choice, Sammy," and Sam nods and whispers, "I know."
But then Sam looks at him and says, "I'm in love with living because you're here, you know?"
"I know. Look. We're going to get me out of this."
"Dad left us this way, Dean. I can't...fucking take this."
"We're going to get me out."
"It's a fucking eternity, Dean. They'll hurt you. They'll...I don't think you get to just sleep through it like tubes down the throat."
"You were dead, Sam, okay? It wasn't a fucking...that word you used that time you made the werewolf metaphor."
"Abstract," Sam says, quietly.
"Yeah. It wasn't a fucking abstract. It was my little brother on a filthy mattress not fucking coughing, okay?"
Sam pushes his palms into his eyes.
Dean says, "If it's any consolation, I know how you're feeling right now."
"God, shut up, Dean," Sam whispers, and then he grabs Dean's hands and breathes like shit for a while.
**
In the car, Sam leans his cheek against Dean's shoulder all fucking tentatively, like he thinks Dean is going to push him off.
"Are you going to be okay without me down there?" Sam says.
"Hey. We're getting me out of this, remember? We just screwed over some demons into bringing you back for free. You'll see."
"Because you couldn't do six hours without me today. That's pretty pathetic, Dean."
"I can't believe you're teasing me."
Sam turns his head and gives Dean this little kiss on the shoulder.
Because Dean is dying.
"You want my scarf?" Sam says.
"What?"
"Here, you'll like it." Sam takes it off and winds it around Dean's neck. "Smells like me."
"Why the fuck would I want something that smells like you?" Dean says, and hunkers down so deep into it that he can barely see the road.
Sam wheezes quietly and looks out the window. "You think I'll get you out of this?"
"Hey, if you don't, I have a whole eternity to be pissed at you."
"Teasing me..."
"Jesus fuck, I missed you."
Sam looks at him and smiles all sadly. "See, I know."
"Yeah."
Sam gives this wheezy little sigh.
Dean says, "You know, you keep trying to die on me all the damn time. This is kind of only fair."
Sam does this laugh cough sob hybrid and then he's leaning forwards and putting his face in his hands and saying, "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I can't yet."
"Hey. Okay." He slides his hand back and forth between Sam's shoulder blades and ignores the little shudder, because, yeah, it hurts, but Sam needs this. "That's fine."
"Tell me how I'm going to save you."
"You'll read all the fucking books, obviously."
Sam coughs out a laugh, this time without the sob, so, okay, progress. "All the books."
"Every single damn one. You'll figure it out, Sam."
"You going to help?"
"That's what I'm here for." He swallows and chews the inside of his cheek. "Sammy..."
"No. Don't."
"Listen. You don't need me, okay?"
"Yes I do."
"No. You used to, so we're in this fucking habit of...but the truth is, you have this breathing thing down, and when it gets really bad, you just need help, you know? You need someone to get you to the hospital, but there are these things called ambulances--"
Sam shakes his head hard. "we can't do this. We supposed to be talking about getting you out."
"But you'd be okay, you know that?"
"I have to start breathing, you know? Every day."
"That doesn't even make sense. It's not like brushing your teeth."
"It kind of fucking is, and it's just...I hear you breathing in the next bed."
"So get a dog."
"I fucking hate you."
"You know what I want to talk about?"
"Saving the world?"
"Fuck no. Steel yourself. It's sappy as all fuck."
"So's everything you say, and I don't think you even notice most of the time."
"Yeah, well."
"Yeah, well. Is that a comeback?"
"I want to talk about being the only fucking person in the world with you in their passenger seat right now, and how I would have sold my soul for that."
Sam is quiet, save that shitty breathing, and after a second he grabs Dean's hand and twists it up and pinches his fingertips and then he clears his throat and says, "Yeah, that's some sappy bullshit right there."
"Helicopter Arithmetic," Dean mumbles, and Sam laughs with his head thrown back.
"Is saying that your version of hand twisting?" Sam says.
"Yeah. Except you totally said the thing back in the restaurant."
"Because you were going to cry."
"Fuck you, you're the crier here. You're crying right now."
"Yeah, well."
Dean laughs and watches Sam dab at his face and says, "You're the ugliest fucking thing when you cry."
"I know, but I can pass it off as I'm dying of allergies. Ugh."
Dean flinches, and Sam reaches over and touches his cheek. "Sorry," he says.
"No, don't, you're fine." Dean clears his throat. "Crying is contagious."
"Allergies."
"Yeah, allergies are contagious."
Sam nods a little and shakes his inhaler. "You want a hit?"
"I took one when you were...yeah."
"Seriously?"
"It didn't help me breathe."
"Yeah, it'll do that sometimes."
"You doing okay?"
Sam shrugs. "We have a world to save. Not exactly like we have time for a drive-by ER visit."
"Yeah."
"I'll be fine." He holds up a hand quickly. "That's not an admission of any long term...fine-ness. I reserve the right to fall completely apart if you die. And I will. So. We're saving you."
"You got it."
Sam looks at him and smiles. It's this different smile. It's old.
And Dean sees every age on this kid.
He sees twenty-four and facing this whole new enemy. He sees thirty and still kicking major monster ass. He sees forty-five and finally locking eyes with a tired beautiful woman on the other side of the bar who kisses his scars and makes him feel young. He sees fifty-two and raising a kid all the fuck out of this business. He sees seventy-one and tired and on oxygen all the time and reading all the books.
Dean doesn't know if he's there.
It doesn't really matter.
Sam falls asleep against Dean shoulder and Dean takes the scarf off and winds it back around Sammy. Sam clings to it with one hand and Dean with the other.
Sam is the fucking story, is the thing.
He drives them off to save the world and listens to Sam wheeze in his sleep and feels the heat of Sam's cheek and learns the fucking thing by heart.
Summary: Dean gets weird when Sam isn't okay. Sometimes he does stupid things. It's the Season 2 finale.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through season 2, cool?
Wordcount: 6,115
Author's Note: Sammyverse, title is from Death Cab's "You are a Tourist." This obviously comes just before One Hundred Percent Pure Sam, with just some plot stuff in the middle.
The first few days after Sam left for Stanford, Dean was kind of weird.
He chalked it up to Sam not being there, to not being able to turn to his right and instantly see someone to poke or tease or wink at. Because obviously that was a change, and it would make sense that that would need some getting used to, right? Except he'd done three days without Sammy before, no problem, while he was on one hunt and John and Sam were on another, but whatever. This was different. Fine. The distance totally explained why Dean was locking the keys in the car and forgetting his clothes in the washing machine and taking fifteen minutes to decide whether he wanted waffles or pancakes. Yeah, those were totally normal signs of separation anxiety. Cool.
It wasn't until four fucking years later when Sam finally told him that he'd eaten a peanut at orientation and been really fucking sick those first few days that Dean realized that he has a fucking pattern of behavior, that Sam isn't the only damn psychic here, because whenever Sam's away from him and gets sick--from the time when he had pneumonia at eight and Dean walked around all day with his clothes inside out, to when Sam was wheezing in that fucking cage and Dean had to hold up his hands to tell left from right--Dean gets weird.
Dean gets caught up in stupid and pointless thoughts.
So when he and Bobby are charging down the highway with that image of the bell still seared in his mind and Dean suddenly starts getting all the fuck worried that he doesn't know where Sam's scarf is and he's going to be picking up Sam and he won't have his scarf and Sam will be upset, that's when Dean knows that Sam's not doing well.
**
Which is why when he screams Sam's name and hears Sam scream back, harsh and hoarse and desperate, and then Sam is staggering towards him with his hand clamped to his shoulder, Dean is relieved.
He thinks, okay, Sam looks like hell, but he's alive and he's coming towards me and he's here here here and Dean's about to charge towards him, he is, but he just needs a fucking second. He needs to stand by the car and close his eyes and yell Sam's name over and over like he's running to him but he needs to stand the fuck still. He needs a second.
Because you'd think that after twenty-three (holy fucking shit twenty-four it's Sam's birthday Dean is going to wrap him up in the world's biggest blanket and his fucking scarf and blow out the candles for him and Sam is going to make fun of him and Dean is going to fuck with Sam's hair and say make all the wishes make all the fucking wishes Sammy) years of Sam Dean would have gotten used to feeling every damn thing every fucking time he looks at this kid, but no, it's been two days and Dean's been shaking like he's in fucking withdrawal and this fucking kid, Dean just needs a second. (Dean was never meant to be in love okay?)
And then he opens his eyes and takes that first step forwards just as he sees someone rising up behind Sam, and then he's running and shouting and he's too fucking slow, he fucking hesitated, he broke every single damn rule as far as Sam is concerned and Sam's name is pulled out of his throat over and over as that glint of metal disappears into Sam's back.
Sam drops to his knees and spits blood and the first thing Dean was going to do to him when he reached him was check his breathing but not like this, no no no no not like this.
He skids to the ground in front of Sam and gathers him up and whispers, "Hey, SamSam, hey hey hey buddy you breathe okay I'll do the rest don't worry no worrying, Sam, okay? Not allowed to worry this time," and he's never seen Sam this color, not ever, and Dean wants to look at him (Dean is supposed to watch Sam and if Sam is going then Dean has to fucking watch) but Sam's dropping his forehead to Dean's shoulder and spitting up blood and not breathing, he's not breathing, and Dean presses his hand against the hole in Sam's back and no no fuck. He doesn't know how to fix this.
He hears Bobby yelling for him and feels Sam's heart stop and he buries his face in the back of Sam's neck and whispers wake up wake up wake up because this is the part of the nightmare where Sam rubs his back and teases him for screaming or John puts his hand on his shoulder or hands him a glass of water and passes him the phone so he can call Sam. This is the part where Dean gets Sam back.
Any minute now.
Any minute now.
Sam is so heavy.
Sam isn't wheezing.
Any minute now.
**
Bobby's pulls Sam off his shoulder and Dean's on his feet, backing up so quickly he almost falls. Bobby's whispering to Sam and feeling for a pulse and Dean isn't going to watch this, so he throws up instead, hands on his knees.
Bobby doesn't come to him, thank fucking God.
When Dean picks his head up, air shuddering in and out of him, Bobby is still feeling around Sam's neck, like maybe his pulse is still there, just somewhere funny, and he'll find it if he keeps looking.
"He's dead, Bobby."
Bobby doesn't take his eyes off Sam. "Let's bring him inside, get a look at him."
"He's dead."
Bobby gets his hands under Sam's arms and starts to haul him up and Jesus fuck Sam just hangs there like clothes.
"Dean." Bobby finally looks at him. "You've got to give me a hand here, kid."
"He..."
"He's your brother, and he's too heavy for me, and I need a hand." Bobby softens. "Come on, boy."
The alternative is dragging Sam across the ground (in the dust).
The alternative is leaving Sam out here (in the cold).
He picks up Sam's feet and feels his legs still warm through the denim (chubby four year-old legs wrapped around his waist, cold skinny legs sticking off the ends of hospital beds, strong muscular legs beating him in races across beaches and cemeteries and to the doors of grocery stores) and he locks his hands behind Sam's knees because Sam's knees won't do that on their own and he carries his brother.
**
When Sam was little, they carried him everywhere.
Sam grew fast and by the time he was three he was sort of past hand-held size, but that didn't stop John and Dean from hauling him around on their hips and their backs and cradled to their chests until he was like six or some shit because Sam was this wheezy thing who got hives from touching tables in diners and slept coughing into their stomachs.
But then Sam kept fucking growing, and he kept wheezing and kept getting hives and kept coughing but started bringing home As and shooting targets and teaching Dean dirty jokes he'd never fucking heard of, where do kids learn this shit? He hauled Dean over his shoulder when Dean broke his leg without breaking a sweat. He sewed up cuts in Dean's side.
He held him the fuck together after John died.
But sometimes he'd go blue and one time it was him who broke his ankle and sometimes he had seizures when his fevers were high and then Dean would carry him.
It's no problem.
Sometimes he carries Sam.
Today he's carrying blood and flannel and this can't be Sam because Sam isn't this fucking heavy.
Today he's carrying a load of bones.
**
They bring his Sammy to the nearest of these fucking shacks and set him down on a mattress that Dean would never, ever let Sam sleep on, filthy and dusty and horrible, and he accidentally wonders how Sam survived here and then he feels something crash (stab) in the back of his brain and he sinks down to a chair beside the bed and sits there and doesn't look at Sam.
Bobby fusses over by the bed for a minute and them comes around and puts his hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean shakes him the hell off and Bobby mumbles something about giving him some time alone with Sam.
When he leaves the room, Dean digs around Sam's pocket and finds his inhaler and takes a hit on it, just to feel something. It makes him cough and tastes like his little brother's laugh.
**
Giving him some time alone with Sam.
What a fucking time for it, because Jesus, Dean's wanted some time alone with Sam for as long as he can remember. He's wanted the world to shut up and let him play Spit with him, and he wanted Stanford to have breaks more often so he could steal his kid for the week, damn it, and he wanted John to stop fussing about whatever the fuck and let them share a bed and for Bobby to stop giving them sideways glances when they fell asleep on each other's shoulders and for Sam's asthma to stop goddamn intruding on their vacations and drunken arguments and 3-AM talks.
And this? This is Dean's time alone with Sam?
No, this is Dean's alone with Dean, and this was never supposed to happen.
This was the fucking point of you, Sam.
And God fucking damn it were you great at it.
**
Dean waits until Bobby comes back with alcohol before screaming at him to fuck off, because this isn't going to be pretty and Sam is the only one who gets to see him break down, okay? He can't remember the last time he cried in front of anyone else, and he really can't remember the last time Sam did because fuck if Sam's allowed to get vulnerable and wheezy in front of other people, that's just not the fuck okay.The first time he saw Sam cry in front of Jess he had to sit on his hands to keep from slapping the kid or grabbing his chin and barking at him to shut the fuck up, because sad Sam, hurt Sam, fragile Sam is just Dean's and here he is lying here like a fucking sacrifice and this isn't for Bobby to see, okay? These aren't anybody else's Winchesters.
They aren't fucking legends anymore, okay?
**
"Dad and I used to call Sam-time."
He's drunk as all fuck, fucking sue him, and he has his chin on the edge of the mattress and he's playing with the cuff of Sam's jacket.
Dean's seen a lot of dead people and what they say about them just looking like they're sleeping isn't fucking true for some of them. Some of them are instant cold rubber, and it just fucking figures that Sam would be one of the pretty ones.
But he's only been dead five hours, he's only just now going cold.
Dean pinches Sam's blue finger between his.
"Don't be with Dad," Dean whispers, even though he knows there's no way his kid would ever be in Hell, no fucking way, so where did you go, Sammy? "Sam-time Sam-time Sam-time fucking Sam-time, come be with me." The bottle's empty. He sets it on the ground. He doesn't throw it. This isn't a movie. He isn't angry.
Angry is a feeling, and Dean doesn't understand feelings without Sam.
So he just cries, because crying doesn't have to make sense and crying doesn't mean anything if Sam's not here to fix it.
"God fucking damn it, Sammy, it should have...you could live without me, you know that? I give you all this shit but...but see, you did that, you did Stanford and...and I waited for you. Like you were the one out at war, you know? I waited for you because you were my little fucking soldier, Sammy. How the fuck do I wait now? What am I waiting for, someone to kill me? Someone fucking kill me."
He shoves his hand in his hair. "Where are you, Sam? Where the fuck do you go?" He touches that cold goddamn cheek. "Fuck, baby, where are you? Do you want to come back? Are you scared? Don't be scared. Please don't be fucking scared, okay? God, it hurt. You died and it hurt and I am so so fucking sorry. Shit. Sam. Sam. Don't be scared."
Dean looks away and breathes out and clasps both his hands around one of Sam's. "Bobby left, can you believe that? I yelled at him to leave and he just...God. You know what you would have done, if I'd ask you to leave? You remember when Dad died and you thought we were doing okay and then I'd freak out on you out of fucking nowhere, tell you I hated you and you were making it worse and why wouldn't you go away?
"You'd shake me. You remember? You grabbed me by shoulders and shook me like I was a baby you were trying to kill." He laughs or cries or something. "You'd shake me hard a few times and then grab my face in your hands and say shut the fuck up, you pathetic lying piece of shit and then you'd hug me so hard I thought my eyes would goddamn pop out, and I made so much fucking fun of you, remember? And then...and then you cried about it on the phone to Bobby. I heard you that time. How worried you were about me. You fucking cried and I stood there and eavesdropped, and fuck, you just wanted your Dad, didn't you?" Dean swallows nothing over and over. "I just want my Sam, okay? Fuck, Sammer, I don't know to do this without you. I...don't know what there is to do without you."
He laughs and pushes his hand into his forehead. "God, you would give such a better speech. You couldn't even let me win this one."
He watches Sam's face and imagines he'll see a hint of movement behind his eyes, like he does when Sam's knocked out on respirators, lying there looking like he's all dead except for these little twitches under oxygen-starved skin.
"You haven't breathed in so long, Sammy. I'm using all the fucking air without you."
He holds Sam's hand to his forehead and breathes out.
"Holy shit," he whispers. "What do I do with all this fucking love now? Where does it fucking go?"
**
Four minutes later, he's in the car.
**
The demon runs her tongue over her teeth and says, "I can't believe it took you this long."
Dean picked a hell of a time to get so, so tired, but he just doesn't know if he can do this right now. The back and forth with a demon, the negotiations, the quick thinking, the snide comments. He stares at the ground and feels his eyes keep leaking.
He gets weird when he's way from Sam and Sam isn't okay, and this is probably the point when Dean should be thinking something deep about loss or about Sam or about why the fuck wars don't end but all he's thinking is that he misses his brother. He just misses him.
He brings his right hand up to grip his left shoulder and kicks at the ground.
"Aw," the demon says. "Poor broken Dean. They finally got you this time, huh? We always knew you didn't like when we stuck pins into poor little Sammy, but if we'd known taking your toy away altogether would make you this desperate...well."
Dean huffs out a breath and digs his nails into his shoulder. "Let's skip the foreplay."
"Awww, that doesn't sound like the Dean we've all come to know and love."
"You've made a hundred fucking thousand of these deals, I know you have. You bring Sam back, ten years from now I'm hellhound food. Come on. Fucking kiss me."
She laughs. It's high and sharp (and Sam's laugh is this low rumble, this shake, it's always so fucking calm).
"You know," she says. "Usually we have to talk people into it. Tell them that Hell won't be all that bad. That ten years is a long time. That whole speech."
"I don't need a fucking speech."
"That's exactly it, Dean. So why would we give you such a good deal?"
His stomach is hot again. "Fuck. Fuck. You bitch."
"Yeah, yeah. And honestly, I'm surprised you didn't have a few more requests."
"What?"
"Well, how would you feel about fewer years for you and more years for Sammy?" She takes a few steps forwards. "How long is Sam really going to live if we bring him back? Come on, Dean, let's be honest. That kid's got a clock ticking over his head and he always has."
"You guys have fucking plans for him."
"Yeah, we did, until he went and proved he wasn't worthy of being Azazel's favorite. We've got a new leader now. Sam's off somewhere not breathing just like he was always meant to."
Dean pukes up alcohol and spit and the demon laughs.
"So here's what I'm wondering," she says. "How many years is it worth to you if we bring back Sam without asthma?"
Dean looks up.
How many years is it worth to him?
It's worth every fucking one, of course. What kind of a question is that?
Sam breathing? Sam not getting up in the middle of the night scared and in pain? Sam not reliant on meds that make him shaky and sleepless? Sam without the big fucking weakness that they're both afraid's going to fuck up a hunt every single time? Sam without hospital stays and meals he can't catch his breath to eat and Sam without that constant nagging worry that tries to drown his kid. (Sam can't breathe.) (Sam is dead.)
"See, this?" the demon says. "This is negotiation."
"Bring him back healthy."
"For how many years?"
"Ten." He'd be an idiot not to try, come on. But he isn't surprised when she laughs. "Eight."
"Keep going."
"Seven. Six."
"It's a fucking missile launch."
"Jesus fuck, how many?"
"One."
Dean swallows.
One year.
One year with happy, healthy, breathing Sam, and fifty more years for Sam and his clear lungs.
One year of a bright, unwheezy laugh, and an eternity of hearing it in his head.
**
It's not Dean's first deal, you know?
He sits by Sam's hospital bed and says, "If you keep breathing, you won't have to be intubated."
You think this is the most depressing deal he's ever made? What the fuck ever.
**
"Okay," Dean says.
She takes a step forwards, breathes sulfur into his mouth, and then says, "Wait. One more thing."
Sam Sam Sam he was so close he could practically taste him (yeah, he said it, fuck you).
She says, "I want you to beg."
**
And that's how Dean ends up on his knees in the dust of a crossroads while a demon eggs him on and he chokes out how scared he is and how Sam is too fucking sick and this is ridiculous and how the fuck are they expected to deal with this and Sam would fucking kill him and isn't that a hilarious sentiment for the day?
Later Dean is going to need to take a hundred showers to try to wash this off of him, but there is pride and there is Sam.
So.
Dean would lick her fucking shoes if he had to.
It sounds like it should be an issue for him, but it's just not.
When she laughs at him and tells him she was never really fucking considering fixing Sam's lungs, that she'll be bringing him back exactly as fucked-up as before and Dean gets one year, one year of coughing and wheezing and fuck Sam is going to cry and Sam is going to hurt and Sam is going to die but Sam is dead and this is the only way, this is the only fucking way, it should be an issue, but he's off the ground and his lips are on hers before it can be.
And it's not until he's in the car that it hits him.
Because holy fucking shit, what the fuck did he just do.
He just decided to make Sam do what he couldn't.
He just pulled Sam out of whereverthefuck--maybe somewhere nice?--and into this shithole of a world where his body's trying to fucking crap out on him half the time and his brother's going to leave him alone to fight an impossible war.
He has to make this right. He has to...
Okay.
Got it.
He's not going to die.
Suddenly everything's okay. Good. He's holding onto this harder than the fucking steering wheel.
He won't die. Sam's smart as all fuck. Sam will get him out of this.
Perfect.
Nothing to worry about.
Time to get to Sam.
**
He flies through the door of the little shack so fast he has to steady himself on the door and there he is, sitting on the side of the bed, red-eyed and red-nosed with stuffed-up breathing Dean can hear across the room and Jesus fucking Christ he could not be more Sam, he just could not fucking be.
"Sammy."
Sam looks up and pants a little and says, "Hey, where were--" and Dean crosses the room in two steps and drops to his knees (to his dirty fucking knees) on the floor and wraps himself around Sam's neck.
Sam draws in a sharp breath and says, "Oh, hey," and puts his hands on Dean's back and they're big and warm and they move.
He's not breathing well.
Dean buries his face in Sam's stupid sweaty hair and clutches his shoulders and mumbles, "You okay?" He turns his face and presses his forehead next to Sam's ear. "Sammy, you okay?"
He makes the mistake of giving Sam this rough kiss on the temple which makes Sam freak out a little and say, "Am I dying? Shit, am I dying?"
"No, shut up, you're not dying." He gives Sam a quick squeeze and pulls away a little. "Okay. Okay." He cups Sam's jaw in his hand. He's a little hivey. "Okay."
"Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy."
He hunches over, wincing, arms around his ribs. "Do you have my inhaler?"
"Oh. Fuck. Shit." He claps his pockets and pulls it out. "Sorry. Fuck."
"S'kay, just--"
"Here, I've got it, okay? Let me do it?"
Sam nods and watches Dean shake the inhaler, and he breathes at the right time when Dean holds it to his lips. Dean goes to rub his back but Sam breathes in sharply and says, "No don't," because yeah, the kid's fucking hurting, the kid just got stabbed.
Sam works on breathing for a little while and then says, "Hell of a place to leave me to recover, y'know?"
"I know, it's dirty as fuck in here. Let's get you out."
And then Sam looks up with these wide eyes and says, "Why'd you leave me?"
Dean doesn't know what the fuck to say, then his eyes see a bit of blue fabric on the chair.
Sam's scarf. It must have been in the car. Bobby must have brought it in before he left.
Dean picks it up and wraps it around Sam's neck. "I was looking for this. I knew you'd want it when you woke up. God, you were fucked up, kid."
Sam sinks down into his scarf and rubs it over his mouth and says, quietly, "Hard to breathe."
"I know. Let's get out of here. You hungry?"
"Yeah."
He helps Sam up. "Me too."
**
He wants to just find a nice hotel room and put Sam to bed with washcloths on his face and baby that poor chest and get a good look at his fucking back because it's Sam's birthday, okay, but there's thing called the end of the fucking world going on so they're at some diner and Sam's picking at macaroni and cheese and asking the waitress if the cake has nuts and he's wheezy, he's so fucking wheezy.
"You feel okay?" Dean asks, quietly, once the waitress has left (and been totally unhelpful, no cake for them).
Sam shakes his head just a little and Dean's chest hurts.
"Not I just ate something that's trying to kill me not okay, right?" The fundamental rules apply, etc.
Another headshake, thank God. "Just asthma. No big deal." He paws at his chest and looks up at Dean. "So Yellow-Eyes has Jake. This is bad."
"Yeah, I know. Bobby's on it. We have time to eat."
Sam rubs his forehead. "You can't be nice to me just because it's my birthday."
"That's not why. Fuck your birthday. Like I'm going to commemorate another year of you driving me crazy."
Sam doesn't smile. "Then why?"
He's looking at Dean in the way he doesn't like. That way that reminds him of the downsides of having a genius kid.
Dean lowers his voice. "You were really hurt, Sam. You were...bleeding like crazy and passing out on my shoulder and you stopped breathing, okay? It was..." He swallows and tilts his head up for a second.
"Shit, Dean."
"It was my worst fucking nightmare and I just need you to eat."
And Sam shovels three forkfuls into his mouth and chews and swallows and then vaults around to Dean's side of the booth and he's breathing hard from moving that fast and shit he's got to be in pain but he's just squeezing the shit out of Dean whispering fucking shit like, "I'm never going anywhere I'm here I'm okay I love you way too much to explain" and Dean is nauseated and scared and obsessed with his kid.
Then Sam pulls away just a little, keeps touching him, and says, "Okay, Dean, now tell me why you left me there," and now he's just nauseated.
(Not really. He's still obsessed with his kid, and that is the fucking point.)
He kisses Sam's forehead and says, "Go back to your side before people get ideas."
"Seriously, again with the kissing? You promise I'm not dying?"
"Go back to your side. We need to talk."
**
Sam doesn't get it, but when Dean looks at him, he sees every fucking age that Sam's ever been, from the little baby, this really little thing that used to sleep in the tiny half-crib attached to the motel bed while John hugged Dean into his chest and they stayed awake listening to the baby try to breathe, to the toddler who laughed too hard at fucking knock-knock jokes to the kid learning to read to the thirteen-year-old sleeping on his lap on long drives to the seventeen-year-old blinking back tears in a hospital bed to the twenty-three-year-old with his big hands on Dean's shoulders after John died. Dean sees them all at the same time.
Twenty-four years of Sam all at once.
**
He doesn't want to tell him, and it seems fucking cruel to spring this on him when he's having so much trouble breathing over there, but that's not how Sam works.
Sometimes, when Sammy was a kid, when he was that snot-nosed toddler, they'd try not to tell him stuff. It was for his own fucking good, you know? Sam didn't need to know that John could have died every time he left the motel room, because when Dean was Sam's age he was picking the crust off grilled cheese sandwiches and kissing his mom goodnight and begging her to name the baby Helicopter Arithmetic Winchester, okay? Sam didn't have to hear about monsters. Sam didn't have to hold a gun.
Except Sam and those big eyes (Sam the fucking empath) and it was like he knew, from the time he was fucking three, when he was being lied to, and those tiny little lungs would just shut the fuck down.
Sam has to talk. Dean's seen him purple in ER waiting rooms squeezing out, "This is okay this is okay this is fine" because Sam has to talk.
So they told him everything.
And so now Dean reaches across the table and taps his fingernail against Sam's and says, "Okay. All right. Jake whatever...he knew what he was doing. He had this big fucking knife and he severed your spinal cord."
Sam blinks and rubs the base of his throat. "Shit," he says, quietly.
"Yeah."
"How did you--"
"We didn't."
Sam swallows. "I died."
Dean puts his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.
Sam's voice is soft and choked. "Dean. What did you do?"
"I didn't have any fucking choice, Sam. You had to come back. I couldn't..."
"Why?"
"Because there was nothing the fuck else that could have happened, Sam! There were no fucking...pages left in the fucking story when you weren't there. Because...because I can't care about anything else like I...you know? Okay? Because you're the reason I give a shit whether anyone saves the goddamn world and because no one's ever been in love with living like Sam motherfucking Winchester and I can't care about a world where that doesn't mean something."
"How long?"
"Six hours."
"No, don't give me that shit, you know what I'm asking. How long until they drag you away?"
"You need to breathe. Shit."
"Fuck. How long? Five years?"
Shit.
"One year?" Sam whispers.
Dan must nod, because Sam looks to the side suddenly and swallows and then squeezes his eyes shut.
"Shit. Oh, Sammy."
And then Dean feels both Sam's feet lock around one of Dean's legs under the table, just holding him there, and he thinks of the dead weight of Sam's legs and says, "I didn't have any fucking choice, Sammy," and Sam nods and whispers, "I know."
But then Sam looks at him and says, "I'm in love with living because you're here, you know?"
"I know. Look. We're going to get me out of this."
"Dad left us this way, Dean. I can't...fucking take this."
"We're going to get me out."
"It's a fucking eternity, Dean. They'll hurt you. They'll...I don't think you get to just sleep through it like tubes down the throat."
"You were dead, Sam, okay? It wasn't a fucking...that word you used that time you made the werewolf metaphor."
"Abstract," Sam says, quietly.
"Yeah. It wasn't a fucking abstract. It was my little brother on a filthy mattress not fucking coughing, okay?"
Sam pushes his palms into his eyes.
Dean says, "If it's any consolation, I know how you're feeling right now."
"God, shut up, Dean," Sam whispers, and then he grabs Dean's hands and breathes like shit for a while.
**
In the car, Sam leans his cheek against Dean's shoulder all fucking tentatively, like he thinks Dean is going to push him off.
"Are you going to be okay without me down there?" Sam says.
"Hey. We're getting me out of this, remember? We just screwed over some demons into bringing you back for free. You'll see."
"Because you couldn't do six hours without me today. That's pretty pathetic, Dean."
"I can't believe you're teasing me."
Sam turns his head and gives Dean this little kiss on the shoulder.
Because Dean is dying.
"You want my scarf?" Sam says.
"What?"
"Here, you'll like it." Sam takes it off and winds it around Dean's neck. "Smells like me."
"Why the fuck would I want something that smells like you?" Dean says, and hunkers down so deep into it that he can barely see the road.
Sam wheezes quietly and looks out the window. "You think I'll get you out of this?"
"Hey, if you don't, I have a whole eternity to be pissed at you."
"Teasing me..."
"Jesus fuck, I missed you."
Sam looks at him and smiles all sadly. "See, I know."
"Yeah."
Sam gives this wheezy little sigh.
Dean says, "You know, you keep trying to die on me all the damn time. This is kind of only fair."
Sam does this laugh cough sob hybrid and then he's leaning forwards and putting his face in his hands and saying, "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I can't yet."
"Hey. Okay." He slides his hand back and forth between Sam's shoulder blades and ignores the little shudder, because, yeah, it hurts, but Sam needs this. "That's fine."
"Tell me how I'm going to save you."
"You'll read all the fucking books, obviously."
Sam coughs out a laugh, this time without the sob, so, okay, progress. "All the books."
"Every single damn one. You'll figure it out, Sam."
"You going to help?"
"That's what I'm here for." He swallows and chews the inside of his cheek. "Sammy..."
"No. Don't."
"Listen. You don't need me, okay?"
"Yes I do."
"No. You used to, so we're in this fucking habit of...but the truth is, you have this breathing thing down, and when it gets really bad, you just need help, you know? You need someone to get you to the hospital, but there are these things called ambulances--"
Sam shakes his head hard. "we can't do this. We supposed to be talking about getting you out."
"But you'd be okay, you know that?"
"I have to start breathing, you know? Every day."
"That doesn't even make sense. It's not like brushing your teeth."
"It kind of fucking is, and it's just...I hear you breathing in the next bed."
"So get a dog."
"I fucking hate you."
"You know what I want to talk about?"
"Saving the world?"
"Fuck no. Steel yourself. It's sappy as all fuck."
"So's everything you say, and I don't think you even notice most of the time."
"Yeah, well."
"Yeah, well. Is that a comeback?"
"I want to talk about being the only fucking person in the world with you in their passenger seat right now, and how I would have sold my soul for that."
Sam is quiet, save that shitty breathing, and after a second he grabs Dean's hand and twists it up and pinches his fingertips and then he clears his throat and says, "Yeah, that's some sappy bullshit right there."
"Helicopter Arithmetic," Dean mumbles, and Sam laughs with his head thrown back.
"Is saying that your version of hand twisting?" Sam says.
"Yeah. Except you totally said the thing back in the restaurant."
"Because you were going to cry."
"Fuck you, you're the crier here. You're crying right now."
"Yeah, well."
Dean laughs and watches Sam dab at his face and says, "You're the ugliest fucking thing when you cry."
"I know, but I can pass it off as I'm dying of allergies. Ugh."
Dean flinches, and Sam reaches over and touches his cheek. "Sorry," he says.
"No, don't, you're fine." Dean clears his throat. "Crying is contagious."
"Allergies."
"Yeah, allergies are contagious."
Sam nods a little and shakes his inhaler. "You want a hit?"
"I took one when you were...yeah."
"Seriously?"
"It didn't help me breathe."
"Yeah, it'll do that sometimes."
"You doing okay?"
Sam shrugs. "We have a world to save. Not exactly like we have time for a drive-by ER visit."
"Yeah."
"I'll be fine." He holds up a hand quickly. "That's not an admission of any long term...fine-ness. I reserve the right to fall completely apart if you die. And I will. So. We're saving you."
"You got it."
Sam looks at him and smiles. It's this different smile. It's old.
And Dean sees every age on this kid.
He sees twenty-four and facing this whole new enemy. He sees thirty and still kicking major monster ass. He sees forty-five and finally locking eyes with a tired beautiful woman on the other side of the bar who kisses his scars and makes him feel young. He sees fifty-two and raising a kid all the fuck out of this business. He sees seventy-one and tired and on oxygen all the time and reading all the books.
Dean doesn't know if he's there.
It doesn't really matter.
Sam falls asleep against Dean shoulder and Dean takes the scarf off and winds it back around Sammy. Sam clings to it with one hand and Dean with the other.
Sam is the fucking story, is the thing.
He drives them off to save the world and listens to Sam wheeze in his sleep and feels the heat of Sam's cheek and learns the fucking thing by heart.