The Glass Vial | Chapter Three - Part I
Chapter Three: Healing - Part I
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He suddenly feels like he’s floating, and not weighed down by a thousand ugly souls. The chilling, white light is fading, warming up, and he’s floating in the thick air. It’s the same, but different somehow. Everything is becoming clearer, the fog dissipating from everywhere.
He looks around, can still see streams of light, but it’s nicer. A little bit nicer. He prefers the dark, and he tries to move towards it as much as possible.
The red, glowing eyes that peek out from burnt, black, rotting skin, are clouded over today. That’s nice. He can breathe a little easier, and he isn’t choking on his own blood. He isn’t choking on anything.
The best part is he’s being left alone. He’s looked up --
up, up, too high to reach
-- and he’s looked down, but there’s no Lucifer and no Michael but he’s not really sure who there is or where he is. He has a small feeling he’s not even here anymore, but that can’t be right. He’s been here the longest. Why would he be anywhere else?
He sits on the ground, feeling lost. Maybe if he waits then someone will find him.
Maybe that person will be Dean. He remembers Dean more and more now, for longer and longer. He misses him.
Dean used to make him happy, but thinking about him now makes something cold shoot through him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been away, but it’s been a very, very long time. Can Dean even survive that long? He doesn’t think so.
But he wants to try. He wants to find Dean, and feel his warmth, and get out of the coldness.
He stands up and looks around. And suddenly, the place doesn’t feel that large. And it’s solid. It’s different.
He’s not there.
And he opens his eyes.
This time it’s bright, and everything is different colors and shades and there’s shadows and smells and sounds that aren’t pain.
It’s blurry and takes a little while to settle down.
“Dean?” he says. His voice sounds quiet and weak and it’s scratchy and he’s so thirsty. Then there’s a loud sound and a whoosh of color and there’s a face above him and he knows that face, of course he does, how could he ever forget--
“Sam?” the face says. It’s twisting and contorting and then he’s smiling and there is wetness on his eyes.
Sam wants to say something but there’s this sudden feeling running through him, and he hasn’t felt anything like this in years, decades, centuries.
“Sammy,” he says, and he sounds choked up but he’s still smiling.
“Dean,” Sam repeats, trying the word in his mouth, and he likes the way it sits on his tongue, heavy like it belongs there.
“You with me, Sam?” Dean asks.
Sam feels confused. Of course he is. He’s with Dean, and he’s staying. He would never leave Dean alone, not on purpose. Never.
“Yes,” Sam whispers, voice gravelly and croaky. “I’m here.”
Dean’s arms are wrapping around him and he can’t move and he doesn’t like that, not at all. But it’s nice to see Dean again, so he holds his breath and waits until Dean moves back.
There’s someone else standing there next to Dean now, and he recognizes him, he does.
“Bobby,” Sam breathes out, and Bobby smiles.
“Good to see you again, Sam.”
It’s a lot to understand all at once. He doesn’t want to believe it. What if he believes it and it’s not true?
“Am I out?” he asks, and he doesn’t like the way his voice shakes. Michael doesn’t like that either. He shuts his mouth closed tight until he gets an answer.
“Yes, Sammy, you’re out. I promise you, Sam.” Dean is still smiling down at him, but he looks different. Different to the last time he saw him. He has stubble and dark rings beneath his eyes, and he looks exhausted, but happy. Relieved.
And that’s how he knows, he knows, that this isn’t just a trick. It’s not more smoke and mirrors and cruel laughter and pain.
He’s out. He chokes out a sob and lets himself get held. Dean will glue the pieces back together. He knows that.
He’s out.
***
Dean doesn’t find it easy, trusting his faith in something. It’s just liquid, but he doesn’t know who it’s from or what it really is. All he can do is hope it works. Hope it helps Sam and doesn’t cause him any harm. He doesn’t like the risk, but it’s already helped more than he could have wished for.
He takes a scrap of paper, and scribbles ‘Thanks’ on it. He puts it on the doorstep, walks back inside, and when he looks again, it’s gone. He looks up into the sky and smiles.
“Dean?” Bobby calls from inside the house. “Wanna give me a hand with lunch?”
Dean gives one last glance around the scrapyard before closing the door and walking inside.
***
He’s out now. Not just out out, but outside. The wind is soft and cool and his hair is blowing around his face. He remembers things, little things like flashes, but he remembers and doesn’t understand. Everything is too much and too little and strange. It’s been a long, long time since he’s experienced this.
They’re walking through the woods and he knows Dean is behind him, just a few steps away, but he’s the one leading them as they walk through a field by trees. Trees, grass, sky. It’s all coming back like a flood.
He’s already tired. He remembers sleep, too. Dean tells him that’s all he’s being doing since he’s been back, but he’s not sure Dean is right. He can’t really remember sleep, and it was never an option down there. He can’t quite remember how it feels, only that he’s tired and he was in a bed earlier.
And now, suddenly, there’s wet. Cool droplets and the sky is darker and it makes something stir inside him, and he shivers.
“Sammy?” A voice.
He puts his palms out and the small droplets land on them. He watches. They don’t sting or burn, but they’re cold, and it’s like Lucifer is touching him, just gently, and he doesn’t like that. He whimpers a little, can’t help the sound that escapes.
“Hey, Sam.” A voice. It’s different from the rest.
He knows what he must do. Michael doesn’t like it and Lucifer enjoys it and it’s always a question of who is going to cause him more pain, who he can fend off the longest. He shuts his eyes tight and there’s a hand pulling him and he knows Lucifer has won.
But this time it’s different. “Hey, it’s okay.”
He’s being pressed up against something and his hands are clutching material and it’s warm. He opens his eyes and he’s looking down at the grass, and there are arms around him, and it feels okay. This is Dean. Dean.
“Come on, Sammy. We should get you inside.”
Sam pulls back and Dean looks like he’s unsure but reaches out and puts his hand around his wrist. It’s gentle and disconcerting but it shocks him back to the here and now, because Dean isn’t trying to break him, he’s trying to put him back together.
“Thanks, Dean,” he gets out, feeling breathless. “Sorry. I was.” He’s not sure what he was, where he was. “Lost. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says, and he’s walking back through the grass and the rain is still falling, but Dean is close and he keeps his eyes on him. He lets Dean be his anchor.
He sees the cars and the metal and the chalky ground and they’re back at the scrapyard. Through the door, into the hallway - shoes off, unzip coats - and he’s sitting down on the couch with a blanket around him.
This is different to the cage. He can leave, like today, but he much prefers it in here, with Dean and Bobby and the warmth. His eyes feel heavy and he guesses it’s had enough for today, so he lets Dean lead him into the soft bed, and shuts his eyes against the room. He remembers now that he must sleep, and that after, he’ll wake up.
He closes his eyes and hopes that’s how it still works.
***
The next morning, Dean walks outside and picks up the glass vial and slips it inside his pocket. It doesn’t come with a label this time, but it doesn’t need to. He walks out farther into the scrapyard and stands on the gravel and looks up into the sky.
“So, hey,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what you are, or what that liquid is, but... thanks? Thanks, I think. But if you could tell me who - what - the hell you are, that’d be nice. Just so I know I’m not feeding him poison here.”
There’s silence, and Dean huffs out a breath before heading back to the house. There’s a small glint of something shiny on the front step and Dean jogs over to see what it is.
He scrambles for the small card and picks it up. “Son of a bitch,” he murmurs under his breath.
In the center of the card is a cartoon dick with white wings and a halo. That’s all there is. Dean laughs despite himself and shoves the card in his pocket along with the vial. “Son of a bitch.”
He’s still smiling when he walks into the house.
Sam is sitting in the living room, a blanket around him, curled up on the couch. He walks past him into the kitchen, and gets a spoon, nodding at Bobby as he works around the kitchen, and walks back into the living room. He sits down besides Sam and reaches a hand out, gently resting it on his shoulder. Sam jumps at the contact and Dean smiles apologetically at him.
“Medicine, dude,” he says, taking the lid off of the vial and pouring some of the liquid onto the spoon. Sam sits up a little and takes the spoon from him without a word, and drinks it. He goes to lay down, his eyes closing, but Dean puts his hand on his arm again.
“Just a little bit more, Sammy,” he says, taking the spoon back and pouring more of the liquid on. Sam stares at it but doesn’t make any attempt to move. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
Sam meets his gaze and reaches for the spoon again, and Dean gives it to him. He brings it to his mouth with a shaking arm and swallows it down.
“Thanks,” he says, giving the spoon back.
“C’mon,” Dean says, standing up. “If you wanna crash, then why not do it on a soft bed.”
He helps pull Sam up off the couch, and gently leads him into the spare room. Sam gets into bed and Dean pulls the covers over him and leaves the door open behind him as he walks into the living room. Bobby is sitting at his desk with a sandwich and Dean waits ten minutes for Sam to fall asleep before going over.
“Look,” Dean says, pulling the card out of his pocket, and shoving it at Bobby. He pauses in his sandwich and watches with caution as Dean starts to pace the room. “I don’t know whether I should be thanking those assholes or getting ready to rip their wings off.”
Bobby stares down at the small card and then raises his eyebrows. “Angels?”
“I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was Gabriel. Looks like the kind of thing he’d do, right? The rest of the God squad aren’t that imaginative.” He stops pacing and looks over at Bobby, who’s still staring at the small card. “But - he’s dead. I mean, we were there when freaking...” He takes a deep breath and glances over to the open door where Sam is asleep, and says, “When you know who killed him.”
“It could be possible the big man brought him back again,” Bobby says carefully.
“Yeah, but. I mean why. And if Gabriel, why not--”
He stops himself and runs a hand over his face. “I dunno. It couldn’t get any messier, this whole thing.”
“You’re going to have to tell him,” Bobby says carefully, and Dean snaps his gaze to him and narrows his eyes. Bobby raises his hands and cocks an eyebrow at him. “Hey, don’t go shootin’ me. But he’s getting a little bit better every day, and sooner or later he’ll ask what it is you’re giving him. Wouldn’t it be better to just tell him?”
“And what, watch him go into another weird psychotic episode because I mentioned the A word? I dunno, I just don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“He’s going to ask, Dean,” Bobby says, putting the card on the desk and picking up his sandwich. “And you better know what you’re going to tell him.”
Dean wants to feel angry, wants to protest at the awful idea, but he knows that sooner or later Sam is gonna ask. The kid is smart, and he might as well get it of out the way.
“Fine,” he says, sitting down across from Bobby. “I’ll tell him if - when - he asks.”
Bobby doesn’t say anything, just watches as Dean slips the gun out of his jeans and starts to strip it and clean it. They sit in a comfortable silence until the sound of whimpering breaks through, sharp and heavy, and Dean walks into Sam’s bedroom, ready to try and comfort him.
***
Sam wakes to the sound of low music ringing out of the tinny radio in the kitchen. The door to his room is open and he glances around, trying to remember. It takes him a moment and then he realizes, and then he’s overwhelmed all over again and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push down the light and the screams and the cold.
He sits up, pulling the bed covers tight around him and glances at the brightness of the main room he can see through the open door.
“Dean?” he calls out, voice cracked and quiet.
The radio continues to play and there are footsteps, that stop and start again, but Dean isn’t there. There’s no Dean. His heart begins to race and he pulls the covers tighter around his body.
“Dean?” he calls out again, louder this time, and then the footsteps are faster and louder, and then Dean - a Dean, the Dean? - is standing in the doorway, a grin on his face.
“Hey, Sammy,” he says, and walks over towards him, his eyes soft. “Look at you, awake and talking.”
Sam glances up at him and doesn’t know what to say so he stays quiet. The Dean above him keeps smiling, even if something in his eyes changes a little.
“You feeling okay?”
It’s a hard question but it shouldn’t be. He never can tell when Lucifer wants him to say yes, and when he wants him to pretend.
The Dean sits down beside him on the bed, and the smile is gone now. “Sam? You with me?”
He pulls the covers even tighter around him, and the Dean puts his hand on Sam’s back. He jumps, and Dean pulls back like he’s been burned, and Sam knows, knows it’s the Dean.
“Dean,” he says again, and he sees as something like relief floods out of Dean’s body and he sags, smiling.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, softly. “It’s me. Let me go get you some water, and I’ll be back, okay?”
Dean doesn’t wait for Sam to answer and then he’s walking out of the room, and Sam stares into the dull light, his head feeling groggy and full, like it’s filled up with cotton wool. Dean walks back in and hands him a glass of water, and Sam worms a hand out from beneath the covers and takes it. He grips it tight and takes a few sips before Dean removes it from his hands again and puts it on the bedside.
“Got some medicine, okay?” he asks, and Sam nods, because it’s always easier to comply. When he fought or argued the pain would fizzle through his bones like electricity, and he can still feel the copper on his mouth from biting through his own tongue. The taste never leaves.
Dean holds up a spoon of silver liquid, and hovers it a few inches from Sam’s mouth. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and opens his mouth just enough for the spoon to fit between his lips, and then the liquid is slithering down his throat. It’s nothing like he expected and he opens his eyes to see Dean pouring some more liquid from a small glass vial onto the spoon again.
“This should help,” Dean says quietly, and holds the spoon up again.
“I can do it,” Sam says, and snakes his arm out of his blanket cocoon and takes the spoon before bringing up to his lips and swallowing it down.
Dean grins at him and holds out the vial. “Think you can drink the rest?”
Sam takes it and pours it into his mouth, and swallows it down. It takes smooth and clean and slightly warm, and he can feel as it slithers down inside his chest. Something about it is familiar, but it doesn’t feel bad and it doesn’t burn or make him bleed. Everything looks a little clearer, and it’s easier to concentrate on the little things.
“Good job, Sammy,” Dean says, picking the spoon and vial back up. He rolls it between his fingers once before slipping it into his jeans pocket. “Did you wanna get up now? You hungry? I’m cooking some bacon but I can do you some eggs or something.”
Sam swallows and tries to think of the right answer, but it’s still hard to remember what that is.
“Okay,” Dean says, looking chagrined. “Sorry. How about this - stay in bed longer or come to the kitchen?”
Sam looks down at the bed and it feels safe, but he doesn’t like to stay trapped in one place for too long. “Kitchen,” he says, and that seems to be the right choice, because Dean smiles at him and stands up.
“Come on then, dude,” he says, and Sam slowly starts to unravel himself from the covers. He gingerly gets out of bed, and Dean hovers in the doorway, before they both walk into the kitchen together. Dean whistles along to the new song on the radio, gives Sam a cheeky grin, and then starts to make breakfast. Sam lets out a slow breath. It’s a good day. Today is a good day and Dean is here and he’s out. Out.
***
Bobby gets back from town after they’ve eaten breakfast, and he’s carrying bags of salt, herbs and beer. He potters around the kitchen, and at midday the phones start ringing. Sam jumps at the first one, and it makes something tear inside Dean’s chest.
There’s a hunt a few miles away, and Dean is surprised to honestly feel okay with not going. He hands Bobby a few books but doesn’t ask much about it, just a few demons using humans for joyrides, and stays in the living room with Sam. By the fourth phone call Sam’s jittery and on edge, and Dean gives Sam his coat, helps him tie his shoes because his hands have begun to shake, and steers him towards the Impala, a bag of necessities slung over his shoulder. It will be good to get away from the house for a little bit, and for Sam to feel the comforting rumble of the Impala’s engine, the smell of leather and to watch the trees fly by.
Dean keeps the radio on low, and takes quick glances towards Sam every few minutes, but he looks okay even if he is deadly silent. He doesn’t drive into town, doesn’t think they’re quite ready for that yet, and instead drives beside fields and trees and down chalky country roads.
He stops after half an hour of driving and parks on a deserted stretch of road, before grabbing the bag of food and drink and gets out of the car. Through the window he notices as Sam snaps back to reality, looks around, tense, until he spots Dean walking around to his side and he relaxes visibly. He fumbles with his seatbelt and Dean opens the door for him, and he unfolds his giant limbs and clambers out.
It’s quiet here, the only sounds chirping birds, and Sam smiles softly as he glances around. Dean remembers when Sam was twelve and he’d bought him a secondhand guide on birds, and they’d spent the summer wading rivers, camping out and watching the stars. It’s cooler than summer, but the sun is shining, Sam’s in his coat, and he looks content enough to walk along and follow Dean down the path.
“I missed trees,” Sam blurts out, as if it’s the most normal sequitur in the world, and not just pulled from thin air.
Dean swallows hard, pushes down the way he wants to run back to the car and refuse point blank to participate in conversation whenever Sam mentions the Cage, and instead nods like he’s interested, and his insides aren’t churning.
“Birds,” Sam says, stopping in front of a tall oak.
Dean’s following the logic of the conversation, barely, and he smiles at the way Sam’s eyes follow the chirping birds that fly in and out of their nest.
“We can sit here and watch them, if you like,” Dean says, stopping beside him. “Eat some lunch.”
“Okay,” Sam says, pulling his gaze away and offering another smile. They sit down at the bottom of the tree and Dean pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to Sam, and a root beer for himself.
Sam’s looking at Dean like he wants to talk, and Dean knows this isn’t going to be good, but he can’t tear his eyes away.
“Are you alright, Sammy?” he asks, when Sam doesn’t initiate conversation. Sam glances up at the birds and back again before answering.
“I never thought I’d... this. I never thought I’d do this again,” he says softly, and just like that Dean’s mouth has gone dry and he swallows, his throat sharp like sandpaper. He hadn’t wanted to talk after Hell, but Sam has always been different, has always been so open about everything, and if he needs Dean to be there to listen, he can do that. Sure, he can.
“I mean, when I was soulless - sure. But it doesn’t feel the same, and it didn’t feel like that really happened. When the wall broke--”
When it was destroyed, Dean’s mind offers bitterly.
“--it was if I’d only just come out of the Cage. Everything still seems so... different. I didn’t remember it like this, you know?”
And there it is, the truth of the matter that makes Dean’s throat burn and struggle to keep listening. The fact that Sam has spent more time, well over double the time, in Hell than he has on Earth. He’s spent more time with Lucifer than he has with his own brother, and it’s a difficult thing to stomach, but something inside Dean screams to make it right.
“I do know, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam nods at him, and smiles, relieved, like it was something he was struggling to make Dean understand.
Sam looks off into the distance and Dean follows his gaze. They can see the Impala just a little way off, and the blue of the sky is visible in patchworks between the clouds. Dean looks back to see, just like that, something has changed in Sam’s expression and it’s like he’s just checked out.
“Sam?” he says, giving his shoulder a little nudge.
He doesn’t reply and Dean slaps his hand on his knee and Sam jumps and looks over at Dean, anxiety marking his features.
“You okay?” Dean asks, trying not to appear freaked out at how quickly Sam slipped from lucidity.
“Yeah,” Sam says, but his eyes are fixed in the distance, with that thousand-yard stare, and Dean glances over him again before taking another sip of his root beer. They sit in a comfortable silence and Dean hands him a sausage roll that he slowly eats, eyes never staying fixed on one point for long. It makes Dean feel nervous and he tells himself to breathe, that there’s no danger here.
Sam has only just started to eat meat again, and it can’t be warm, but it’s a start. Sam seems to jolt back to the here and now as the birds chirp above them and he looks a little startled, his eyes wide as he watches Dean and Dean feels something pang in his chest, and he hides it with a swallow of his drink.
“It was bright,” Sam says, eyes drifting down to the ground beneath them. “Bright enough to burn my eyeballs, but even without them I could see. I don’t know how. It’s like I became the light, and it hurt, Dean, it always hurt. He would use his real voice, and it’s like thunder and tornadoes and -- sparks. Like electricity.”
The air shifts and Dean sucks in a breath and puts down his drink, rubbing a hand over his face.
Dean feels the hate rise in him, the resentment. At everything and everyone who ever played a part in getting them to where they are today. The angels, the demons, the devil, Cas. That one still stings, because it was a betrayal, it was personal, and the damage is still costing them.
“I’m sorry, man,” Dean says quietly, and it sounds poor and pathetic, even to his own ears. “If I could fix it all I would. Never gonna forgive what that son-of-a-bitch did to you.”
Sam huffs a small laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s not Cas’ fault. I mean, he hurt me. Man, he hurt us both. But he’s dead, Dean,” he finishes softly. “Cas is dead.”
Dean remembers the way he disappeared in a burst of light, the way he had turned to Dean and apologized, told him he was sorry and in that moment Dean had believed it. Then Sam had fallen to the floor and they are where they are today, and Dean can’t forgive.
Dean starts to say something again, but Sam has drifted off, and he’s scratching slowly at his arms. He leans forward and puts his own hands over Sam’s to stop him and Sam whimpers quietly, and his eyes flicker around before they finally settle on Dean and he lets out a breath of relief.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, trying ignore the frantic beating in his chest whenever Sam is balancing between here and there. “You’re okay. Do you want to go back to Bobby’s?”
Dean waits patiently as Sam scans their surroundings again and then he nods, and Dean helps him get up off the floor and they walk slowly back to the Impala. Sam slips in the passenger seat and Dean can tell he’s drifted off once he shuts his own door, so he leans over and does Sam’s seatbelt for him.
Dean turns the radio on low to break up the silence and Dean starts to drive back home down the long, empty roads and starts counting the miles until they’re back at the salvage yard.
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