The Glass Vial | Chapter Four
Chapter Four: Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back
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Masterpost
It’s been 27 days since Sam’s wall was destroyed, and Dean’s been keeping patient, and helping Sam through every tiny thing. The nightmares have reached a tolerable level, and although progress might be slow, it’s still progress.
They’re sitting in the kitchen, debating whether Tomb Raider or The X-Men is better when Sam’s eyes grow wide, his jaw snaps shut and he freezes in his seat.
“Sammy?” Dean says softly, trying to remain patient, thinking through the steps that he’s learnt from trial and error.
Sam continues to stare ahead, his leg nervously bouncing up and down beneath the table as his breathing begins to quicken.
“Cold cold cold cold,” he murmurs, repeating over and over, and Dean lifts the mugs of coffee off the table and puts them on the counter, out of the way of any potential flailing limbs, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Sam.
“You’re not there, Sam. You’re at Bobby’s. You’re safe.”
Sam’s eyes snap to Dean’s and he lets out a small squeak, breaking his mantra. “Bobby’s?”
“Look around you, man,” Dean says, trying to keep calm and not let the panic show in his voice. This is the first slip-up of non-lucidity and thinking he’s still in the cage that he’s had in a little while. It’s been almost five days, and that was his longest record yet. “Come on, what do you see?”
Sam takes a big gulp of air as if he’s starved for it and slowly lets his eyes trace around Bobby’s kitchen. “Sink. Cups. Mugs.”
“That’s right, Sammy. It’s just a kitchen. You’re out.”
“I’m out.”
Dean nods a few times and Sam reaches his hand out, grips Dean’s jacket tight and continues to scan the room. “Bobby’s.”
“Just Bobby’s.”
Sam nods, meets Dean’s eyes and gulps, hands leaving Dean’s jacket and moving to fiddle with his wristband.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t apologize,” Dean says. He glances towards the clock and sees it’s already midday. He’d been planning to drive into Sam, maybe take Sam along, but one slip-up in a day tends to lead to more, and maybe it’s too soon.
It takes a little while for Sam to come back to normal after he’s had one of those episodes where he thinks he’s still below, and Sam is jittery for the rest of the day. Dean gets fed up of Sam apologizing, and makes him sit on the couch, wrapped up in a large blanket with warm milk in a flask in front of the TV.
“What do you wanna watch, Sammy?” Dean says, kneeling down to turn on the television and grabs the remote. He flicks through the channels until he lands on something seemingly harmless, just a gardening show that’s showing close-ups of hedgehogs.
Behind him Sam makes a small murmuring sound and Dean sighs. He turns around and asks again and Sam gives a little shrug without looking.
“I’ll leave it on this,” Dean says, and stands up, and drops the remote next to Sam on this couch. He gives his shoulder a quick squeeze and walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and pops open a can of beer.
“Watch your liver, boy,” Bobby says, walking into the kitchen, clutching a book with a broken spine.
Dean huffs a laugh. “You can talk, old man.”
“Yeah, yeah, quit your yapping,” he says, sitting down at the kitchen table. “And get me a beer.”
Dean smiles to himself, shakes his head, and gets out another can. He sits down next to Bobby and hands it to him.
“You wanna talk about it?” Bobby asks after a long moment. Dean takes a slow sip from his drink to prolong answering and then shakes his head.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t give me that crap.” Bobby’s sharp tone makes Dean look up and Bobby shakes his head at him. “Your brother is about twenty cards short of a full deck, you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in an actual bed in weeks and you’ve been cooped up in this house with nothing to do. On top of that, you lost Cas.”
Dean clears his throat and looks away. “Sam’s getting better. And I don’t care about the other stuff.”
Bobby shakes his head at him and Dean turns back. “Seriously. I mean, I went for a drive with Sam the other week. It feels nice to not have to be anywhere anymore.”
“To not hunt?” Bobby asks, his tone disbelieving.
Dean doesn’t expect what comes out of his mouth, but he’s more surprised to find it’s true. “Yeah. I mean, last time, with Lisa, it didn’t work. It was like I was faking it every day. But this is easier, this is something that doesn’t break my bones or get us running for our asses through the woods.”
Bobby stares at him for a long moment before answering. “Good,” he says finally, and his tone is much softer than Dean would have expected. “Because Sam needs you right now, and he’s not going to be able to hunt for a long time, Dean.”
“I know that,” Dean says quietly, and looks through the open door at Sam where he’s sits on the couch, eyes locked on the television. “He’s a mess, but he’s still my brother. I’m not leaving him.”
“You’re loyal to a fault, kid,” Bobby says, but he’s smiling and Dean finds himself matching it. They ease into a comfortable silence, Bobby flicking through the old book on his lap and Dean drinking his cool beer. It finally hits him that, whatever is going on out there, finally, finally, they’re safe.
***
“Hey, shit,” Randall says. “Fuck -- Martin, look what I’m seein’ here. I don’t fuckin’ believe it. It’s Sam Winchester!”
Sam freezes, and as much as it wants to, he can’t move. Can’t can’t can’t. It’s like he’s stuck again, restrained to the spot, and he’s finding it difficult to breathe. The old hunter is staring down at him, manic grin on his face, and suddenly everything is so cold and so bright. He’s not sure what he was thinking about before, only that he’s been pulled out of his sense of comfort like being thrown into an ice-cold lake, and it’s sharp and chilling.
“I don’t...”
Randall walks towards him and there’s a man shadowing him, taller but quieter, more pacified. His eyes are sharp and assessing and Sam draws his eyes away, stares down at lap and he pinches the back of his hand.
“Last I heard you got sucked down into Hell with the devil, jesus! You Winchesters have got nine lives!”
The gears in Sam’s mind suddenly come to a jarring halt, and everything is too bright, too loud and he sinks back, trying to hide himself, but he can’t see and Lucifer is laughing.
He’s always laughing. Sam’s blood drips drips from his skin and it never stops, pouring from his flesh, coating Michael’s long fingers as he thrusts his hand into Sam’s chest. At the beginning it wasn’t like this, but there’s only so long an Archangel can be kept in a confined space before it starts to get bored. It’s worse when the two of them work together, their graces slicing into him, wrapping him and crushing him, bones popping and cracking one by one, until he can feel sharp chunks falling from his mouth.
Lucifer is sticking his entire arm down his throat and pulling, slowly, so fucking slowly at his intestines, and it’s hours before they’re all the way out, and Lucifer shoves them back in. Sam can taste the flesh and the blood and his insides, and his throat is too raw and mouth too full to scream out.
There’s nothing but the pain. Sometimes it isn’t Lucifer, doesn’t feel like Lucifer. Sometimes it’s John, and sometimes it’s Mary. Sometimes it’s Jess, and then, sometimes, it’s Dean.
Those are the times it hurts the most.
It’s not Lucifer wearing a Dean mask. It’s Dean, and it talks and walks and acts like Dean, and it laughs like him, and cuts and slices and stabs like Dean.
He suddenly can’t breathe, and he’s choking, and everything is bright, the lights are flashing, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
“Come on, Sam.”
He’s suddenly feeling very heavy and everything looks out of place and foreign. There’s shouting and he’s being shaken, and he sinks back and it’s warmer, and there’s a blurred movement in front of him.
“Don’t you ever fucking talk to him.”
It’s Dean, it’s Dean, and he’s not sure what he’s doing here, and he scratches at his arm, tries to use to pain to anchor himself to the here and now. He’s out, it’s okay, he’s out.
Dean is talking in that low, eerie-calm of his, and Sam watches as the older hunter mutters an apology and pulls Randall away with a tight grip on his shoulder. Sam tries to count his breaths--
in, out, in out
--and now Dean is kicking at the kitchen chair and running a hand over his mouth.
“Son of a bitch, if I ever see that asshole again--”
“Hey,” Bobby says, voice sharp and controlled, quieter than Dean’s but it still makes him look over, and is stern enough to cut into the screaming echoes of Sam’s mind. “Keep it together.”
As if they’re using the same words but having an entirely different conversation altogether, they both look over to where Sam sits on the couch, and he continues to scratch at his arm, just that little bit more to keep himself free.
“Sam, jesus,” Dean says, and walks over and sits down next to him. “Don’t... Can I look at your arm?”
His tone is suddenly softer, and Sam feels himself nodding before he really knows why because he trusts Dean, and this Dean never hurts him. He looks down at his arm as Dean gently takes it between his hands and there’s blood, and scratches, and blood caked under the fingernails of his other hand and it’s all his blood, like it always is.
Bobby walks over to them and places the first aid box on the floor by Dean’s feet, and mutters something about doing some research before walking away, casting a worried glance over towards them. Sam feels alert to every detail suddenly, like it’s all too bright, and can feel every dab of cloth on his bleeding forearm.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says, and Sam’s not sure if he’s talking to him or maybe to himself. “Why’d you do this, huh?”
“Hurts,” Sam says, and Dean huffs out a breath, and Sam can see just the small upward twitch at his mouth.
“Yeah, doesn’t take your Stanford-brain to figure that out.”
Dean says it with a smile and Sam feels he’s able to think more clearly, the pain stabilizing him.
“Makes it easier,” Sam says, trying to put the words together in the right way for it to make sense. “To remember. To keep here.”
Dean glances up at him then, his hands stilling where they clean Sam’s arm, and he picks up a bandage without saying anything and starts to wrap it around the wound. Sam watches as it covers up all the red, and then it’s just white gauze covering his forearm and Dean is tying it into a tight knot.
“That should hold,” he says.
“Thanks,” Sam says, and he suddenly realizes what happened, that he’d been triggered back to that place and he feels weak for it. “‘M sorry.”
“Don’t need to be,” Dean says tiredly, and sits back on the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry that asshole even got near to you, man.”
“No, it’s okay. I can... I can talk about it,” Sam says, and wipes the sweaty palms of his hands over his jeans. “Just... with you, I can. You get it. They look at me like I’m a freak.”
Dean looks over at him and he smiles, just a little. “We’re both freaks, brother. Been to Hell and back.”
"Do you miss it?" Sam suddenly hears himself blurt out. He thinks of salt, graves, broken bones and the Impala in the middle of the night, cheap hotels and greasy diner food. Sam never wanted this life, not really, but Dean always had. "Hunting, I mean?"
Dean is quiet. It's enough of an answer for Sam, enough of a confirmation, until he says, "No, actually. I don't. I can still drive my baby, and I can still eat burgers every day. But without the dying." He bumps Sam with his shoulder and says, "Better, right?"
Sam nods and feels himself smile.
"I mean, I can even play dress-up and ask people questions if I wanted to. That's not weird. Kinky, maybe."
Sam laughs and shakes his head. "I don't wanna hear anymore."
“Don’t hate, Sammy. It’s a natural, fun thing.”
Sam rolls his eyes and settles back into the back of the couch as Dean turns on the television with the remote, and pulls a blanket down, dropping it on Sam’s lap. Dean keeps his eyes on the screen as he says, “You know. So you don’t get cold.”
“Thanks,” Sam says quietly, and Dean looks at him for a brief moment and goes back to the television. Sam smiles to himself and burrows beneath the blanket, letting the sounds of the TV lull him to sleep.
***
Dean gets through two episodes of Dr Sexy MD, with Sam sleeping beside him, before he gets up and wanders into the kitchen for some food to eat. He’s rummaging through the cupboards, thinking it’s maybe time for a food run, when Bobby walks in, clears his throat, and stops beside him.
Not one for the formalities, Bobby says, “Look, boy, maybe you two need to think about settling down. It ain’t doing him no good being surrounded by books about monsters and weapons and people coming back and forth talking about hunts all the damn time.”
Dean pauses in his search and glances towards Sam through the open door. “He’s doing fine. Look at him.”
“You want your brother to get better, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Bobby, it’s just--”
“It just ain’t nothing, Dean. It’s hunting, or it’s Sam.”
It’s Sam. It’s always Sam.
It’s enough to get Dean to finally realize that Sam isn’t going to get better anytime soon, and maybe they’ve been cooped up at Bobby’s just that little bit too long.
That weekend, Dean goes into town to get a newspaper, scours for any apartments and goes into an internet cafe to see if there’s any local houses they can afford. The next day he’s meeting up with the owner of the apartment block, Mark Jefferson, and is being shown around. There are two small bedrooms, a living room with a kitchenette, and a spacious bathroom. One of the bedrooms has an en-suite bathroom with just a toilet and shower, and there’s a tiny room that Mr Jefferson says can be used as a study, just big enough to squeeze a desk and a small couch in there.
Dean puts the first monthly rent down from a bag of hustling money kept in the trunk of the Impala, and the next day, they’re packing up whatever they have at Bobby’s and getting ready to leave.
Despite what Bobby said, the whole thing being Bobby’s idea more-or-less, he seems reluctant to let them go.
“You boys will call if you need anything, won’t you?” he says, one hand on Sam’s arm, the other around the neck of a bottle of beer.
“Sure we will. We’ll come see you every weekend, won’t we, Sammy?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, giving Bobby a hug, his long arms wrapping all the way around his body. “We’ll see you soon, Bobby. And thanks. For everything.”
Sam pulls back and Bobby is looking between them with fond expressions. “You don’t need to thank me for nothing. I’m just glad you boys are okay.”
Dean nods at him, and gives the keys to Sam, who walks around to the passenger’s side and slips in. Dean hears Sam fiddling with the radio before he speaks.
“You sure you two are gonna be okay?” he asks.
Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and gives a reassuring smile. “I got some money, and I’m gonna get a job.”
“And Sam?”
Dean’s thought about that, wondered how he can leave Sam alone, but he’s going to find a way to make it work. “He’s getting better, he’ll be fine. And if I ever can’t find someone to be there, I’ll bring him here. It’s only twenty minutes away.”
“You watch out for him,” Bobby says, coming forward, and pulling Dean into a hug. Dean reciprocates, bringing his arms around.
“Always do.”
Bobby pulls back, but doesn’t let go just yet, keeping him at arm’s length. “You look after yourself, too. Promise me that.”
“I promise. Now let me go, old man, I wanna settle in before it gets dark.”
***
The first night in their new apartment, Sam feels a little unsure. He sits next to Dean on the old couch, and they watch late-night TV, Dean drinking a few bottles of beer and Sam drinking from a mug of hot milk. It’s comfortable, and it’s warm (Sam wears a thick hoodie just to be sure) and Dean seems pretty happy.
“You like it here, Sam?” he asks, in the middle of a cereal commercial.
“Yeah, Dean. I do.”
Dean stares at him, and then he seems to accept Sam’s answer because he grins and says, “Good. I like it, too.”
They’re silent again, before Sam says, “It’s just. How are we going to pay for it?”
“You don’t need to worry about that, Sammy,” Dean says, and finishes off the rest of his beer in two gulps, before putting it on the small table that sits in front of them. “I’ve already put down the rent for this month.”
“After,” Sam says, fiddling with the band around his wrist. “After this month?”
“I’m going to get a job,” Dean says. Dean’s eyes go wide and he says hastily, “Not hunting. A proper job. One with regular income, you know?”
Sam nods, and turns to look out the window, a pillow case draped across the top until they get curtains.
“What is it, Sam?” Dean asks, shuffling a little closer. “You okay?”
“It’s stupid,” Sam mutters softly. And it is. He knows it’s ridiculous.
“No, man,” Dean says, elbowing him gently. “Tell me.”
“I mean, I know I can’t work. I know that. But what about when it’s just me here? I don’t. Sometimes I forget.”
He doesn’t need to tell Dean what it is he forgets. Where he is, what’s real and what’s not, that he’s out. Dean already knows.
“Look at me, man.”
Sam does, reluctantly.
“Stop worrying,” Dean says simply. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, you know that, right?”
Dean pauses and Sam nods before he continues.
“So don’t think I haven’t been thinking about that. We’ve got a whole month to settle in before I get a job, and it will only be part-time, at least to start with. Remember what we decided at the beginning. Baby steps, yeah? And I can get someone to come and check on you while I’m at work, just in case. Whatever you need, man.”
He feels sort of embarrassed at the thought of someone having to check in on him, but feels reassured all the same.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, and Dean smiles at him, kicking his feet up on the table.
“Good,” Dean says. They settle back into watching the television, and after the 11‘o’clock news they get ready for bed. It’s the first time they’ve slept in a separate room since then and Sam tells himself it’s going to be okay, that Dean’s only a room away and nothing bad will happen.
He slips beneath the new covers and relaxes into the soft mattress. It might be new, but the apartment feels warm, and he can hear the sounds of Dean snoring through the wall, and it’s enough to keep him feeling safe as he drifts to sleep.
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