Arms Wide Open. Part Nine.
Part 9/13
Adjustments. [January 15th, 1999]
Sam.
The guards keep him in a room in a house. He wakes up on a bed, a real bed, and he rolls off it as soon as he opens his eyes. He never would have gotten on it by himself, he hopes that the guards know that, but even as he scrambles off it, the young one tries to grab him. He jerks back and instantly regrets doing so, but the guard just stares at him. He hasn’t done a mistake like this in years. He feels so panicked that his hands go for the calming routine of tracing his scars and he doesn’t even realize it. At some point, he does notice that it’s not working, though. He still wears the thick bandages where he scraped his hands open on the metal panel. They wrap tightly all around them, right over his fingertips too. So he can’t feel a thing. His breath quickens and his vision grays but his scars don’t help him this time, no matter how often he goes for them.
He must have blacked out again because the next time he blinks, the room is empty. He tries to make sense of this whole situation, but his head feels heavy and stupid. He honestly doesn’t remember climbing on a bed; he knows he’s not allowed on the furniture. Sara’s Box was the one exception, she always let him on the cot, no matter whether he was injured or not. And the bench in the Box-of-Pain was for education so he knows that doesn’t count. But he never, ever, would have dreamt of climbing up on a bed.
He retreats into the corner between wall and said bed and waits. The young guard doesn’t come back, but the old one does. He keeps talking to him as if he were a skittish bird and at first he thinks that’s odd. But then he gets it; these men must be scared of him. Not so odd then, he amends, they should be. He fears that they might think he was the one that killed the other guards and Sara. But he stays quiet until he is told to explain himself; he doesn’t want to make things worse.
The old guard checks on him regularly and keeps refilling a glass of water. At one point he brings him bread with stuff in between; most of it he doesn’t know. It doesn’t taste bad. And even if it would, he’d still eat it; he remembers those lessons to the day. It’s salty and sharp and fresh, wet and sweet, grainy and smooth; all at the same time. It’s really strange to chew and even worse to swallow it. But swallow he does and afterwards he is less hungry, although his stomach feels weird. He is given a blanket that’s softer than his old ones. It smells unfamiliar but good. A little later the guard pulls some cloth in front of the window so the room is cast in shadowy twilight. He relaxes a little and he can’t remember drinking this much in a single day, ever.
The door to the room stays open all the time and that has him on edge. It’s as if he can feel the rest of the house lurking behind the doorway. It’s too much space; he feels exposed, too close to things. During the night he has to become creative. He really needs to go from all the water he drank and he wishes he’d restrained himself. If anyone should know about gluttony, it’s him.
The guard hasn’t come back in a while. The house makes odd sounds, stuttering gurgling noises in the walls and a few times creaks or groans echo through the silence. He can’t hear the guards moving, though, and he thinks about what he knows about ghosts.
His bladder keeps distracting him; he wishes they’d given him a bucket. He could use the glass, of course, but there’s still water in it and he doesn’t know how long the old guard will keep supplying him with fresh one. Losing control and spoiling the carpet isn’t an option. He gets up and hesitantly takes a closer look at the room. Maybe they at least left him a bowl. He walks around the beds and lets out a sigh. He can’t believe his luck. There’s a small desk next to the door, a lamp and a mug stand on top of it and a few papers are spread between the two. A chair is in front of it and behind the chair, underneath the desk, he spots a bucket. It’s a small one and it doesn’t have a handle. A few crumpled up pieces of paper are inside and it’s made of metal, not of plastic, but it’s a bucket nonetheless. He empties it on the floor, smoothes out the paper and places it on the chair. Then he takes the bucket back into his corner.
He must have slept for some time, because when he opens his eyes, light filters through the window and the cloth. Curtains, he thinks out of nowhere. He sits up and stretches his limbs. He didn’t have his sleeping mat, but the floor itself was soft enough to be comfortable. His hands smart under their bandages and he frowns at them. When he looks up, he sees the guards standing in the corridor.
The old one is carrying another plate and the young one doesn’t look so good. He is pale and there are shadows underneath his eyes. He looks like he might have cried. Both of them keep staring at him and he wishes he could convince them that they don’t have to be afraid of him. They are right to be, though, and he lowers his eyes on the floor.
The old guard sets the plate to the ground, a few feet away from him, and he smiles at the empty plate he spots in the corner. Then he sees the bucket and frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. He picks up the empty glass.
“Would you like some more?” he asks, and shakes his head a second later. “I will get you some more,” he states and leaves the room. These guards are weird, he thinks before he reminds himself that it’s not his place to judge.
The young guard has stepped inside, has taken position next to the door, and stays silent. He keeps staring at him, though, with big, sad eyes. They are very green; he doesn't directly meet the guard's gaze, of course, but he still notices. The older one returns with yet another full glass of water and puts it down on the floor.
“Thank you,” he says and he means it.
The old guard walks back to the door and stops next to the other one. The older one is a little smaller, so when he looks at the young one with raised eyebrows, he has to tilt his head back. Then he elbows the young guard in the ribs. The young one sputters and glares at the old one. Really weird, he can’t help thinking again. His former guards never behaved like that. Finally, the young guard takes a step forward and focuses back on the corner and himself. “Sammy,” he says, “do you know where you are?”
They keep calling him that, Sammy, and it sounds strange to his ears. Not bad strange, just unfamiliar and his brain itches every time they do it. It is discomforting. He doesn’t know where he is, though, so he answers truthfully. “No.”
“You’re at Bobby’s.” The young guard points at the old one. “This is Bobby’s house. Do you remember Bobby?”
The guard sounds hopeful and he licks his lips before he bites down on the bottom one. The green eyes have become even bigger and they keep staring at him; he can almost physically feel them on his skin. The question surprises him. He looks at the old guard and once more tries to understand what’s going on. The only other guards he'd had are dead. He shakes his head. “No,” he says.
The guard shuts his eyes and looks crestfallen. Then he nods. When he focuses back on him, he sounds desperate. “And what about me, Sammy? Do you remember me?”
That sounds as if he should, so he doesn’t answer immediately. He takes in every detail; the worn jeans and the grey socks with a hole in them; the plain black shirt underneath another shirt, the second one with a pattern of red and blue and yellow squares; the broad shoulders and the muscled arms; the strong neck.
“Sammy. Look at me. Do you know who I am?” The guard’s voice is so low that he barely understands him.
Being given permission, he takes in the face, the red rimmed eyes that are swimming with tears now. The full lips that are being worryied on. The ears that are sticking out a little, but only if he concentrates on them. The not quite straight nose and the even skin. It’s a beautiful nose, he thinks, but nothing about the guard strikes him as familiar. He doesn’t want to disappoint the man, but there is not much worse than lying.
“No,” he says for the third time, “I’m sorry.”
The guard closes his eyes again and takes a shuddering breath. A single tear is rolling down his left cheek. It’s a strange, a marvelous thing to see. It’s perfect while it’s scary in its beauty. The old guard makes an indistinguishable noise and looks just as stricken. He must have done something terribly wrong.
“I’m Dean,” says the young guard now, “My name is Dean.” Once again, he says it as if that should convey more information than it does. The younger man opens his mouth and closes it again. Then he says, voice shaky, “I’m your brother, Sammy. Don’t you know that you have a br- brother?”
Something inside him snaps. He doesn’t know how they discovered it, but somehow they did. The guards know about his most precious, secret hope and now they’re trying to destroy it. He feels all the helplessness of the last few days clash into him, and his mind flashes to Sara, dead, on the floor. He feels the void inside of him fill up with something hot and painful and dreadful. He doesn’t notice that tears of his own are dropping to the floor. He gets to his feet, he takes a deep breath, and he steps forward. He narrows his eyes on the old guard and he doesn’t stop although he sees the sudden gleam of a knife in the man’s hands. He takes a second step, makes himself as tall as he can and puts all of that searing-horrible-agonizing feeling into his voice. “You’re no brother of mine.”
They will kill him for this, but right now he doesn’t care. If he needs to spend the rest of eternity in the pits of hell, so be it. His only friend is dead. Sara is dead. She is dead dead dead and now they are trying to take the last good thing from him and he won’t let them. It’s not pride or madness or insubordination that has him standing up to them. This goes down to a much deeper level. It’s the primal instinct of survival that has him lashing out. He might not be sure if that brother of his is imaginary or not. He might not be real and he might never come for him. But he knows that if he loses this piece of himself, if he lets them take it away from him, he might as well be dead already. He needs his brother; needs him as much as breathing or more.
Two days later he is more confused than he ever was. They didn’t kill him. There wasn’t even Pain and that scares him. He doesn’t understand this new system; he doesn’t know what the guards want him to do. He sticks to what he knows and hopes they will start teaching him soon. The old guard continues to bring him food and water and sometimes disgustingly sweet drinks that taste of things he doesn’t have words for. He keeps getting sick, but he knows better than to disobey so he eats and drinks up. Or he should know better, at least. He still doesn’t understand what came over him when he stepped up to the young guard. But he is more afraid of himself now than he ever was. He tries to look especially nonthreatening whenever the young guard enters the room. Which he does often because he’s the one who’s taking care of his injured hands since they apparently don’t have a kitsune for that.
Both guards keep checking the bucket, and he wishes he would stop being sick but he can’t fight it. On the third day the young guard hands him a glass of water and hesitates before handing over the plate. He closes his eyes and wishes for a second that they’d leave him with the bread, like when he was in the Box, and keep all the fancy stuff for themselves. He gawks at the plate when the guard nudges him with it. It’s as if he read his mind; there’s nothing on it but plain bread.
That evening, the young guard says, “Come with me, Sammy,” and they leave the room. The house is brightly lit and he squints his eyes against the uncomfortable sting. The guard leads him through a corridor and down a long stairwell. His fingers trail the banister before he remembers that he’s not supposed to touch things. The sensation of the smooth and oddly warm surface underneath his fingertips makes him smile, though. They walk down another stairwell and stop in front of a grey metal door. The guard opens it with a metallic creak and motions for him to go inside.
The first thing he notices is that there are no corners. The room is completely round. A cot stands in the middle of it and a few things line the wall; shelves, tables, a chair, and a sink. A big picture of a wet woman hangs on the wall and she is almost naked. His cheeks burn and he averts his eyes. He notices the smell next. This room smells of metal, exactly like his Box. A constant flap-flap sound irritates him for a moment, but he sees the shadows of steady movement on the floor and looks up. A symbol decorates the ceiling and behind it rotating metal blades are responsible for the sound. Light shines through the symbol and the blades, but the room is cast in twilight all the same - there are no windows.
“This is the panic room,” the guard says from the door, “we think it’s best if you stay here for now. It’s completely secure.”
Finally, he thinks and can’t hold back a small, relieved sigh. It probably took the guards a while to get organized, but now they have a room for him that’ll keep them safe. Despite being round, it is so similar to his Box that he immediately feels at ease in it. He takes a deep breath of the metal tinged air and smiles.
Dean.
Sam throws up whatever they give him. First they chalk that up to the new environment and all the excitement, but on day three Dean is seriously worried. He knows that Bobby has noticed too, because they both take turns emptying the bucket. That’s another thing. When they’d talked to Sammy that first morning at Bobby’s, the kid had turned the wastebasket into a chamber pot. And he keeps using it as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.
After Dean had calmed himself from the devastating confirmation that Sammy indeed had no idea who they were, they’d talked about it. Bobby suggested just pointing the kid towards the bathroom. But Dean insisted on letting him use the bucket. The kid obviously is used to that and Dean is all for stability in Sam’s life. He has started reading the one book on trauma that Bobby has dug up from somewhere so he knows they have to get Sam adjusted to his new surroundings very carefully and gradually to avoid further harm.
When they talk about the fact that the kid upchucks everything from sandwiches to ham and eggs to freaking garden salads, they come to the same conclusion. Bobby pries the details about the boy’s former eating routine out of him without distressing him overly much and when he passes that information along, Dean throws his cup of coffee against the kitchen wall. They agree to stick to Sammy’s old meal schedule for now and to slowly introduce him to other food. So they stock up on plain bread, broth, apples, and bottled water and Bobby shoves a broom and a mop into Dean’s hands so he can clean up the mess.
They also decide to get the kid into the panic room before he can get used to the upstairs bedroom overly much. It’s not as if he were sleeping in the beds, anyway. They still haven’t heard from Cas and they haven’t made progress on the demon front either. So, if Dean wants his little brother to be as safe as possible, the panic room it is. The move is spectacularly uneventful. He leads Sammy to the basement and the kid takes the change of location in stride. He examines the room and he doesn’t seem to be put out by its lack of light or fresh air. In fact, after having eyed his surroundings, his shoulders seem to lose a little of their tension. Dean can tell, he has taken the role of big brother back on as if he never did anything else. Which, if he takes into account the years he spent with the Sammyshadow, he actually hasn’t. This is better, though - it’s real. So he watches his brother closely and knows that getting him here was the right thing to do.
He leans against the doorframe and says, “This is the panic room, we think it’s best if you stay here for now. It’s completely secure.” Sammy doesn’t react, as usual, but the ghost of a smile is on his lips. Dean is right there with him.
That day, Sam finally stops being sick. He looks worse than when they found him, though, pale and thinner than can be healthy. Also, the kid is rank. That’s why Dean suggests a shower before dinner. What he isn’t prepared for is the way the kid goes rigid with tension. He thinks it might be because of the way to the bathroom, back up the stairs in this house he isn’t used to. Also, Sammy doesn’t trust them. Or, to be more precise, he trusts them to the point that he doesn’t try to evade being harmed by them. If anything, the kid’s bout of sickness has taught him that. It’s weird, that much Dean knows. But he tries to make all this as easy as possible for Sammy. That’s why half an hour later he carries a bucket of warm water, soap, shampoo, a bowl and two towels down to the basement. Sam looks so surprised that Dean lets lose a small laugh. “You don’t have to go upstairs to shower,” he explains, “you can clean yourself up here.”
Sammy eyes the supplies suspiciously but he doesn’t move. Dean’s gaze falls on the bandages that still cover his brother’s hands. “Do you need help with this?” Sam throws him a startled glance with these huge eyes and Dean clarifies, “With your hands, buddy. Can you wash yourself or do you need help with it?”
Sam lowers his gaze. “I can do it.”
“Good,” Dean says and turns around. “I have some things to take care of, upstairs. I’ll be awhile. Take your time.” He halfway closes the door and heads for the kitchen. The last thing he needs is for Sammy to think they are perving on him while he gets cleaned up.
He helps Bobby prepare dinner and they eat while talking in low voices. About Sammy, of course, but Bobby doesn’t seem to be bothered by Dean’s single mindedness of late. When they are done and Bobby waves him away from the dishes, Dean beams at him. “Thanks, Bobby,” he says, claps the older man on the shoulder and grabs Sammy’s dinner - a slice of bread, half an apple, and a bottle of water. If he ever gets his hands on that fucking demon overlord, there’ll be hell to pay.
Downstairs, he knocks on the door of the panic room to let the kid know that he’s back. “Are you decent, Sammy?” A moment of silence passes.
“I don’t know,” the kid says finally. Huh.
“Are you wearing clothes?”
“No?”
“Are you- why not?”
“Uh. Am I supposed to wear the old ones?” Oh. His mind flashes to the shabby trousers and the sweater stained with sweat and vomit.
“Oh. Sammy, sorry. No, of course not. Uh. Wait a minute, I’ll get you something of mine.” He leaves food and water on the floor and sprints up to the living room.
“Where’s the fire?” Bobby asks and follows him to Dean’s duffel on the couch.
“Clothes,” Dean groans, “he doesn’t have any.”
“Balls!” Yeah, pretty much.
Dean upends the duffel onto the couch and digs through his clothes. He grabs the tightest shirt he can find, the newest pair of boxers he owns, and a pair of sweats with a cord so Sam can adjust them to his skinny waist. He also takes a pair of socks although he’s not sure the kid will wear them. Apparently he’s used to living barefoot. Then he stares at his sweaters that are all at least twice the size of Sam. Bobby has followed his gaze and smacks him on the shoulder. “Wait a second!” Then he’s gone and after a few moments Dean hears him rummaging upstairs.
A triumphant “Ha!” echoes down and then Bobby is back in the living room and hands over something small and brown. It’s one of Dean’s old hoodies. The young hunter’s eyebrows creep up into his hair as he takes it. Bobby coughs.
“You must have left it here some point. I just never got to throwing it out.” Dean would almost believe that weren’t it for the slight flush that’s creeping up the other man’s cheeks.
“Suuure,” he says.
“Shut up. Idjit.”
Dean makes his way downstairs again and carefully sidesteps the food on the floor.
“Sammy? I have some clothes for you. Can I come in?”
“Yes.” Sam’s voice sounds even smaller than usual. Dean opens the door and carries the clothes over to the table next to his brother. He pointedly does not look at the kid that is standing half naked on the cold floor. Sam is wrapped in the towels, one underneath his arms and one across his waist, and he is shivering with the cold. Great. If he ends up with pneumonia that will be the rotten cherry on top of their pile of crap.
“I got you one of everything, but you don’t have to wear it all.” He puts the clothes down and realizes that he forgot to bring new bandages. “Take what you want and leave the rest,” he rephrases because he is nothing but a quick study, especially when it comes to Sammy. “I’ll go get some bandages and then we’ll take care of your hands. Do they still hurt?”
He makes a grabby motion at his brother’s hands and Sammy obediently lets him have a look at them. Dean freezes. The kid’s hands look better, the scratches and abrasions have closed and there’s no sign of infection. But this is the first time he sees the kids bare arms. Scars are crisscrossing the delicate white skin; different sizes, shapes, and colors. Most of them are faint lines of silver, but some are of an angry red that speaks of fire. His gaze travels upwards and more and more scars mark their way to the kids shoulders. At least one of Sam’s collarbones must have been broken and set badly. Dean whole heartedly thanks the fact that he is used to con his way through life. He keeps his face carefully blank and lowers his gaze. The nightmarish sight continues on the kids shins. His baby brother is covered in scar tissue. Dean raises his head and looks Sam straight in the eye.
“Your hands look good, Sammy.” It’s not a lie, he thinks. “I’ll get the bandages now.”
Upstairs it’s Dean that is losing his dinner that night.
The look that he got at the kid’s body had strengthened his suspicion that his brother’s pain threshold is above average. He decides that night to not let anything like that sneak up on him again. He can’t afford it, not when it’s about Sammy. Who knows what he already missed with the vastness that is Sam’s acceptance of agony.
During the first couple of weeks, Dean watches Sammy. Not in a creepy way, of course. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for the kid and clearly, Sam needs time to adjust so Dean is fine with giving him some space. But he hasn’t seen the his brother in years and keeping tabs on Sammy has always been his job. Also, he likes taking care of him, always has. It fills him with pride and satisfaction to know that the kid is safe because of him. Sammy never noticed how closely Dean monitored him when they were younger and he doesn’t now. It’s like putting on a well worn pair of shoes. You might have forgotten what they feel like on your feet, but they fit as snuggly as ever. So, Dean watches him. And he quickly becomes an expert on all things Sam. Sure, the kid has changed, but the tells are still there. Not as pronounced as they used to be, but if he looks long enough, he sees them clear as day - and Dean has nothing but time.
He catalogues every twitch, every change in voice and posture, and all the hundreds of times the kid hesitates or stays silent. Not because he is indifferent but because he is confused, as Dean realizes. Confused and terrified. Sam must have left his comfort zone so far behind that it’s not even a dot on the horizon anymore. Dean debates briefly whether it might be better to go a little harder on the kid to lessen the differences, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t care whether it takes a year or ten to break through to him. They’ll get there and he’ll be there every step of the way.
The most distinctive thing about Sammy is that he’s careful. Apart from his little outburst on the first day, he never acts impulsively. If he is confronted with a problem or a choice he thinks the possible consequences of his actions through. All of them, as it appears. But Dean doesn’t complain; they are making progress on that front, albeit slow. Sammy might not be answering yet, but at least he isn’t trying to melt into the background anymore when encountering an either-or choice. His face keeps betraying him, though. Dean can spot the mix of fear and anxiousness, now that he knows what to look for.
Things change considerably when the books arrive that Bobby ordered, big, heavy tomes with small print and no pictures. They bear scary titles like ‘Psychology. A compendium.’, ‘The inner war after the war. References for survivors’, ‘A guide to torture through the ages’, ‘Trauma and its consequences’, ‘Torture and suffering: a window to the soul’, or ‘Abuse - how to overcome the scars’. Dean steadily works through them all. Normally he pretends to suck at research to get out of it. But not this time. With Sammy as his single focus he devours chapter after chapter, takes notes, crossreferences, calls doctors and surprised authors, and orders more books. Bobby jokes that this is the most invested he’s ever seen him, that not even the Impala gets that much attention, but Dean doesn’t laugh. This is serious shit and it happened to Sammy. There’s nothing funny about it.
It’s frustrating as hell, too. Usually it goes like this: He reads a chapter only to realize afterwards that he didn’t understand a word. It takes him half a day to translate the information into English. When he understands the theory, he stares at the book in disbelief. Because that’s it; that’s all there is, theories about cause and effect that lead to certain issues. No fucking advice on what he is actually supposed to do, just a bunch of jibberjabber that leaves him with an itchy brain. So he invents his own approach. The next day, he reads another chapter and the whole cycle repeats itself.
He learns for example, that traumatized people often can’t ask for help because most of them don’t know that they feel ashamed or guilty in the first place. That adds to the strain and makes the whole situation worse, of course. But to support Sammy he doesn’t always need to go for the big gestures, the small ones are just as important. Scientists theorize that many victims of torture don’t realize that they have a basic, deep seated need for others to acknowledge that their trauma exists. So to help Sammy, Dean is supposed to actively observe what has happened to him. Of course, he has no idea how to do that. He decides to start with the scars and take it from there.
The next time he brings Sammy fresh clothes, he doesn’t shy away from the marks on his skin. He doesn’t try to ignore them either. It takes him a lot of effort and he destroys another mug in the process, but he learns to let his emotions show on his face - to a certain degree. He clearly can’t break down in front of the kid. He practices every day and after a while their routine becomes oddly comforting for him. So what if Sammy’s skin has opened up a couple of times? Dean is a hunter and wears enough scars of his own. Their wounds are healed, their skin has closed. They aren’t any less human for it.
A thing he doesn’t have a handle on yet is dealing with his own fuckload of problems. Because the books insist that, to help Sammy deal with this shit, Dean is supposed to sort himself out first. Otherwise he could subconsciously avoid or reject Sammy. Without realizing it, of course. That’s the best thing about all this too, no doubt. Apparently neither Dean nor Sammy nor anybody else knows how screwed up they really are. Dean just hopes these fancy doctors didn’t make all that up. Otherwise heads will be rolling. Anyway. Now he ought to deal with his problems, how great is that? He’ll try, of course he will; this is for Sammy. But he’s known about hunting since he was seven. He got his first gun at eleven. He suffered his first trauma when he was four - although the world knows Dean Winchester doesn’t to trauma, so isn’t that just perfect. Honestly. The things he is willing to do for Sammy.
In the end, it’s worth it. Little by little Dean figures out how to behave around Sammy without making things worse. They’re not even at coaxing him out of his shell yet, but at least it’s something. He does what the books tell him - or at least what he guesses they do. He’s Sammy’s rock without smothering the kid. He’s there when he’s having a bad day or week. He sleeps on a second cot in the basement, right outside the panic room. He talks to Sam even if their conversations never lose their monologueing quality.
They have setbacks on a daily basis and progress is painful, for all of them. If they’d go any slower, they’d be moving backwards. But every time Sam tells him whether he’d prefer an apple or an orange for dinner, Dean mentally fistbumps the world. The one big thing that’s still looming over his head is how to stimulate the kid’s sense of self preservation. But he’ll figure it out. Big brother is back.
Castiel is back, too. In March. They haven’t heard from the angel in more than two months, and one day he pops into the kitchen as if there’s nothing to it. Dean is in the basement, naturally, but at Bobby’s alarmed shout he charges in, gun drawn, barely five seconds later.
“Hello, Dean,” the angel says.
“Hello?” Dean sputters. “Hello!? Cas! You’ve been gone for ages, man. Where were you. Are you ok?”
“Oh,” Cas says and tilts his head.
“Oh?” Dean echoes, “Oh!? What- what?”
“Well this is getting old fast,” Bobby grumbles and turns back towards a pot that’s simmering on the stove.
“What?” Ok, so no Pulitzer for him, but seriously, what?
“I am sorry. You seem to have worried.” The angel stares at him and after several weeks of absence, Dean is reminded of how alien Castiel is. His piercing glare is eerie.
“Of course we worried,” Dean says, “You fucking exploded into a white light when you took that demon sonovabitch out.”
“Idjit,” Bobby supplies helpfully and puts the pot of chili on the counter.
“I did not explode. One probably could postulate that on a multidimensional level the energetic quality of higher celestial wavelengths can trans-”
“Cas!”
“Yes, Dean.”
“What happened?”
“I was just telling you, the wavele-”
“Less syllables, smartass,” Bobby chimes in. The angel’s gaze zones into the distance; he seems to ponder that for a while. Bobby fills three bowls with chili and takes a seat.
“I guess I exploded into a white light,” the angel finally says and Bobby groans.
Dean smirks. “Welcome back, Cas. Have some of Bobby’s chili.”
Castiel nods and pulls over one of the bowls. He takes a spoonful of the caustic dish and frowns. “This is- interesting.”
Bobby snorts. “Sure is. Have at it.”
Cas puts his spoon down and peers at the bowl. Dean grins and half expects the thing to catch fire, but a snarky comment dies a quick death on the tip of his tongue at the angel’s next words.
“I have come to know some of what those demons did. I saw some when I send them back to hell,” the angel says, “And then I inquired about it.”
“You- you know what happened to Sammy?” Dean lets his spoon sink into the bowl. That would definitely help them understand the kid. But he doesn’t think that he’s ready to hear this. He might not ever be. Castiel doesn’t meet their eyes.
“Not many of the details, unfortunately.” Dean huffs a short breath of relief. “But I have seen the overall picture in those demons’ minds. Sam’s very foundations of feeling human have been shaken. I fear that he has suffered a lot of mental trauma well before they started inflicting physical pain on him.” Both hunters stare at Castiel, Dean with a grim expression and a nod, Bobby with wide eyes and slack-jawed.
“Trauma is a serious thing,” the angel continues, unperturbed, “Not to be taken lightly even if triggered just by a single incident of overwhelming quality. I fear that Samuel has experienced that initial incident as well as prolonged suffering through continued dubiety and a great number of smaller breakdowns. In adults, that would be enough to cause serious long term damage. Starting at a very young age, the brain deals different with this kind of strain. But his condition likely was already weakened before-” The angel actually squirms in his seat. “Before he had to deal with the physical pain. Torture,” he clarifies. “So he experienced a massive, staggered process of inflicted trauma.”
The angel looks up from his bowl. Bobby is openly gawking and Dean shakes his head. Castiel sounds exactly like that one scientist, the guy with the double name from Belgium. Dean has hated that book with unwavering passion since page one. “Dude! Dubiety?” Castiel misses the point and nods.
“So how come he isn’t a shivering mess in the corner right now?” Dean has spent hours wondering about that fact. Not that he’d want Sam to be any worse than he is - his brother already has more than enough on his plate - but Sammy has adjusted to his uprooting very quickly. That’s part of the reason for why Dean suspects all those scientists might spin a bunch of crap to gold.
“I cannot say. Whatever the reason, we have to consider ourselves very lucky for it.”
“Yeah, of course, man. We are. Lucky.” He knows it’s true, he does. But when Dean thinks about how Sammy doesn’t dare move because he has to pick the green or the blue sweater, he feels like adding a big fat stain of chili to the coffee stains on the kitchen wall.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bobby says and smacks his spoon on Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the bowl. Dean blinks at the spoon and purses his lips, then he looks at the angel.
“Did you see- Do you know what happened to Sammy? Has he been in that container for all this time?” Castiel looks even more uncomfortable now.
“I don’t know. I would need to physically touch Samuel for that, to search his memories. But I feel his discomfort at my proximity so I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Yeah. Uhm. His memories.” Dean hesitates. He fucking hates talking about this. “He doesn’t remember me. Or Bobby,” Dean adds with an apologetic glance towards the older hunter, “He doesn’t know the house either. This is the closest thing he ever had to a home, and he just- he simply-” Dean’s voice falters and now it’s Bobby’s turn to be suspiciously entranced by his bowl of chili.
“Yes,” Castiel says, somber, “I guess he somehow managed to shut out whatever might have kept him from surviving.” That, Dean doesn’t get. “Memories like this,” the angel explains, “Of a happy place or of his family, they could have been too painful for him to keep when confronted with his new reality. You have to understand, years of mental and physical pain can break the strongest mind.” Of course, Dean wants to say, I know that. He doesn’t blame Sammy for forgetting or repressing or whatever. He just needs to know how to reverse it. But Castiel isn’t done yet.
“He really doesn’t remember you?” Five words. Each of them a kick to his gut, a breath he can’t take - he’s already down and being counted out. Dean shakes his head, shrugs, hesitates, and nods. He has no words; a bullet to the head would be more comfortable than this.
“My guess would be that his mind created a world that made sense to protect him from insanity. Somewhere he could feel safe because he could accept the status quo as inevitable. Also, we would do well not to underestimate the wretchedness of hell’s denizens. They might have resorted to measures such as brainwashing for the fun of it.” At Dean’s murderous glance he adds, “Not that I would think of such a thing as enjoyable.”
Dean swallows. “So,” he says, “how do we undo it? It’s not- permanent, right?”
Castiel.
The young hunter looks distressed and the angel wishes he had a better answer for him. “I do not know that either. I’m sorry. The human mind and soul remain mysterious to me. You are wondrous creatures.” Dean doesn’t look satisfied and Bobby rolls his eyes at him. Castiel has missed interacting with these two. “The only way to maybe find answers would be for me to search within his mind and soul. But I would not recommend this. It could aggravate his condition further and he might become lost to us in the process.”
Castiel is a little sorry to say so. He’d like to help Dean get to the bottom of this. He’s seen how much it pains the older brother not to be of more help to Sam. And chances are, if he touched the boy’s mind and delved into his memories, he could free the shackled ones. But it’s true what he said, there is a risk to it. More so since a certain power surrounds the boy. Nothing strong and nothing evil per se, as far as the angel can tell. But definitely something worth keeping an eye on.
He has thought about touching Sam when he is unseen, just as he does with Dean and Bobby. It is such an easy way to procure information and it doesn’t take much, just a feather light, fleeting touch here or there. The angel has gotten used to the intimacy of their shared minds months ago and they’re never disturbed by it; he sees to that. But sometimes, the boy’s gaze flickers into his direction when he reaches out for Dean’s or Bobby’s mind. That always makes Castiel feel as if he swallowed something heavy and unpleasant. He is sure that Sam doesn’t actually look at him, but the boy seems to be overly sensitive to the presence of the preternatural - even on other plains than the one humans reside in.
“Aggravate his condition, huh,” Dean says, “Well aren’t you a well of happy news today.”
“I’m sorry, Dean. I wish I had more positive information to share.” He honestly does.
“I know, Cas. We all do.” Dean sighs and starts eating the lukewarm chili.
The angel stays visible for the evening and ponders how far this strange new feeling of loyalty goes - to humans, nonetheless. Maybe he should talk to them about the dangers of force fed demon blood. But although he hasn’t touched Sam yet and thus doesn’t know for sure, nothing of the boy’s power speaks of hell to him. No traces of sulfur are discernible around him. No screaming echoes up from the pit when Castiel gets close. The barrier the kid projects doesn’t flicker with the foul pattern of demonic energy.
Cas is curious about that barrier; he suspects that it is some kind of shield that Sam is unaware of projecting. It wouldn’t protect him from an honest angelic attack, of course. But where it bends the edges of this plain and leaks into the next, the air is thrumming with power. He wonders whether this is what keeps the brothers from reconnecting; their bond could have been severed down to the most basic levels. If that were the case, both of them will continue to suffer as long as Sam upholds this shield. But then, it could also be that the truth of reality has been buried too deep in the boy’s mind to resurface on its own again. Maybe it is a mix of these two plus yet to be specified factors - humans, wondrous creatures indeed.
Whichever it is, until their bond is restored both boys remain lost, both of them agonize. Castiel already knows that it pains him to see Dean Winchester suffer. He is surprised to notice that the same thing is true for the boy with the demon blood.
go back (part eight) || Masterpost || continue (part ten)
Adjustments. [January 15th, 1999]
Sam.
The guards keep him in a room in a house. He wakes up on a bed, a real bed, and he rolls off it as soon as he opens his eyes. He never would have gotten on it by himself, he hopes that the guards know that, but even as he scrambles off it, the young one tries to grab him. He jerks back and instantly regrets doing so, but the guard just stares at him. He hasn’t done a mistake like this in years. He feels so panicked that his hands go for the calming routine of tracing his scars and he doesn’t even realize it. At some point, he does notice that it’s not working, though. He still wears the thick bandages where he scraped his hands open on the metal panel. They wrap tightly all around them, right over his fingertips too. So he can’t feel a thing. His breath quickens and his vision grays but his scars don’t help him this time, no matter how often he goes for them.
He must have blacked out again because the next time he blinks, the room is empty. He tries to make sense of this whole situation, but his head feels heavy and stupid. He honestly doesn’t remember climbing on a bed; he knows he’s not allowed on the furniture. Sara’s Box was the one exception, she always let him on the cot, no matter whether he was injured or not. And the bench in the Box-of-Pain was for education so he knows that doesn’t count. But he never, ever, would have dreamt of climbing up on a bed.
He retreats into the corner between wall and said bed and waits. The young guard doesn’t come back, but the old one does. He keeps talking to him as if he were a skittish bird and at first he thinks that’s odd. But then he gets it; these men must be scared of him. Not so odd then, he amends, they should be. He fears that they might think he was the one that killed the other guards and Sara. But he stays quiet until he is told to explain himself; he doesn’t want to make things worse.
The old guard checks on him regularly and keeps refilling a glass of water. At one point he brings him bread with stuff in between; most of it he doesn’t know. It doesn’t taste bad. And even if it would, he’d still eat it; he remembers those lessons to the day. It’s salty and sharp and fresh, wet and sweet, grainy and smooth; all at the same time. It’s really strange to chew and even worse to swallow it. But swallow he does and afterwards he is less hungry, although his stomach feels weird. He is given a blanket that’s softer than his old ones. It smells unfamiliar but good. A little later the guard pulls some cloth in front of the window so the room is cast in shadowy twilight. He relaxes a little and he can’t remember drinking this much in a single day, ever.
The door to the room stays open all the time and that has him on edge. It’s as if he can feel the rest of the house lurking behind the doorway. It’s too much space; he feels exposed, too close to things. During the night he has to become creative. He really needs to go from all the water he drank and he wishes he’d restrained himself. If anyone should know about gluttony, it’s him.
The guard hasn’t come back in a while. The house makes odd sounds, stuttering gurgling noises in the walls and a few times creaks or groans echo through the silence. He can’t hear the guards moving, though, and he thinks about what he knows about ghosts.
His bladder keeps distracting him; he wishes they’d given him a bucket. He could use the glass, of course, but there’s still water in it and he doesn’t know how long the old guard will keep supplying him with fresh one. Losing control and spoiling the carpet isn’t an option. He gets up and hesitantly takes a closer look at the room. Maybe they at least left him a bowl. He walks around the beds and lets out a sigh. He can’t believe his luck. There’s a small desk next to the door, a lamp and a mug stand on top of it and a few papers are spread between the two. A chair is in front of it and behind the chair, underneath the desk, he spots a bucket. It’s a small one and it doesn’t have a handle. A few crumpled up pieces of paper are inside and it’s made of metal, not of plastic, but it’s a bucket nonetheless. He empties it on the floor, smoothes out the paper and places it on the chair. Then he takes the bucket back into his corner.
He must have slept for some time, because when he opens his eyes, light filters through the window and the cloth. Curtains, he thinks out of nowhere. He sits up and stretches his limbs. He didn’t have his sleeping mat, but the floor itself was soft enough to be comfortable. His hands smart under their bandages and he frowns at them. When he looks up, he sees the guards standing in the corridor.
The old one is carrying another plate and the young one doesn’t look so good. He is pale and there are shadows underneath his eyes. He looks like he might have cried. Both of them keep staring at him and he wishes he could convince them that they don’t have to be afraid of him. They are right to be, though, and he lowers his eyes on the floor.
The old guard sets the plate to the ground, a few feet away from him, and he smiles at the empty plate he spots in the corner. Then he sees the bucket and frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. He picks up the empty glass.
“Would you like some more?” he asks, and shakes his head a second later. “I will get you some more,” he states and leaves the room. These guards are weird, he thinks before he reminds himself that it’s not his place to judge.
The young guard has stepped inside, has taken position next to the door, and stays silent. He keeps staring at him, though, with big, sad eyes. They are very green; he doesn't directly meet the guard's gaze, of course, but he still notices. The older one returns with yet another full glass of water and puts it down on the floor.
“Thank you,” he says and he means it.
The old guard walks back to the door and stops next to the other one. The older one is a little smaller, so when he looks at the young one with raised eyebrows, he has to tilt his head back. Then he elbows the young guard in the ribs. The young one sputters and glares at the old one. Really weird, he can’t help thinking again. His former guards never behaved like that. Finally, the young guard takes a step forward and focuses back on the corner and himself. “Sammy,” he says, “do you know where you are?”
They keep calling him that, Sammy, and it sounds strange to his ears. Not bad strange, just unfamiliar and his brain itches every time they do it. It is discomforting. He doesn’t know where he is, though, so he answers truthfully. “No.”
“You’re at Bobby’s.” The young guard points at the old one. “This is Bobby’s house. Do you remember Bobby?”
The guard sounds hopeful and he licks his lips before he bites down on the bottom one. The green eyes have become even bigger and they keep staring at him; he can almost physically feel them on his skin. The question surprises him. He looks at the old guard and once more tries to understand what’s going on. The only other guards he'd had are dead. He shakes his head. “No,” he says.
The guard shuts his eyes and looks crestfallen. Then he nods. When he focuses back on him, he sounds desperate. “And what about me, Sammy? Do you remember me?”
That sounds as if he should, so he doesn’t answer immediately. He takes in every detail; the worn jeans and the grey socks with a hole in them; the plain black shirt underneath another shirt, the second one with a pattern of red and blue and yellow squares; the broad shoulders and the muscled arms; the strong neck.
“Sammy. Look at me. Do you know who I am?” The guard’s voice is so low that he barely understands him.
Being given permission, he takes in the face, the red rimmed eyes that are swimming with tears now. The full lips that are being worryied on. The ears that are sticking out a little, but only if he concentrates on them. The not quite straight nose and the even skin. It’s a beautiful nose, he thinks, but nothing about the guard strikes him as familiar. He doesn’t want to disappoint the man, but there is not much worse than lying.
“No,” he says for the third time, “I’m sorry.”
The guard closes his eyes again and takes a shuddering breath. A single tear is rolling down his left cheek. It’s a strange, a marvelous thing to see. It’s perfect while it’s scary in its beauty. The old guard makes an indistinguishable noise and looks just as stricken. He must have done something terribly wrong.
“I’m Dean,” says the young guard now, “My name is Dean.” Once again, he says it as if that should convey more information than it does. The younger man opens his mouth and closes it again. Then he says, voice shaky, “I’m your brother, Sammy. Don’t you know that you have a br- brother?”
Something inside him snaps. He doesn’t know how they discovered it, but somehow they did. The guards know about his most precious, secret hope and now they’re trying to destroy it. He feels all the helplessness of the last few days clash into him, and his mind flashes to Sara, dead, on the floor. He feels the void inside of him fill up with something hot and painful and dreadful. He doesn’t notice that tears of his own are dropping to the floor. He gets to his feet, he takes a deep breath, and he steps forward. He narrows his eyes on the old guard and he doesn’t stop although he sees the sudden gleam of a knife in the man’s hands. He takes a second step, makes himself as tall as he can and puts all of that searing-horrible-agonizing feeling into his voice. “You’re no brother of mine.”
They will kill him for this, but right now he doesn’t care. If he needs to spend the rest of eternity in the pits of hell, so be it. His only friend is dead. Sara is dead. She is dead dead dead and now they are trying to take the last good thing from him and he won’t let them. It’s not pride or madness or insubordination that has him standing up to them. This goes down to a much deeper level. It’s the primal instinct of survival that has him lashing out. He might not be sure if that brother of his is imaginary or not. He might not be real and he might never come for him. But he knows that if he loses this piece of himself, if he lets them take it away from him, he might as well be dead already. He needs his brother; needs him as much as breathing or more.
Two days later he is more confused than he ever was. They didn’t kill him. There wasn’t even Pain and that scares him. He doesn’t understand this new system; he doesn’t know what the guards want him to do. He sticks to what he knows and hopes they will start teaching him soon. The old guard continues to bring him food and water and sometimes disgustingly sweet drinks that taste of things he doesn’t have words for. He keeps getting sick, but he knows better than to disobey so he eats and drinks up. Or he should know better, at least. He still doesn’t understand what came over him when he stepped up to the young guard. But he is more afraid of himself now than he ever was. He tries to look especially nonthreatening whenever the young guard enters the room. Which he does often because he’s the one who’s taking care of his injured hands since they apparently don’t have a kitsune for that.
Both guards keep checking the bucket, and he wishes he would stop being sick but he can’t fight it. On the third day the young guard hands him a glass of water and hesitates before handing over the plate. He closes his eyes and wishes for a second that they’d leave him with the bread, like when he was in the Box, and keep all the fancy stuff for themselves. He gawks at the plate when the guard nudges him with it. It’s as if he read his mind; there’s nothing on it but plain bread.
That evening, the young guard says, “Come with me, Sammy,” and they leave the room. The house is brightly lit and he squints his eyes against the uncomfortable sting. The guard leads him through a corridor and down a long stairwell. His fingers trail the banister before he remembers that he’s not supposed to touch things. The sensation of the smooth and oddly warm surface underneath his fingertips makes him smile, though. They walk down another stairwell and stop in front of a grey metal door. The guard opens it with a metallic creak and motions for him to go inside.
The first thing he notices is that there are no corners. The room is completely round. A cot stands in the middle of it and a few things line the wall; shelves, tables, a chair, and a sink. A big picture of a wet woman hangs on the wall and she is almost naked. His cheeks burn and he averts his eyes. He notices the smell next. This room smells of metal, exactly like his Box. A constant flap-flap sound irritates him for a moment, but he sees the shadows of steady movement on the floor and looks up. A symbol decorates the ceiling and behind it rotating metal blades are responsible for the sound. Light shines through the symbol and the blades, but the room is cast in twilight all the same - there are no windows.
“This is the panic room,” the guard says from the door, “we think it’s best if you stay here for now. It’s completely secure.”
Finally, he thinks and can’t hold back a small, relieved sigh. It probably took the guards a while to get organized, but now they have a room for him that’ll keep them safe. Despite being round, it is so similar to his Box that he immediately feels at ease in it. He takes a deep breath of the metal tinged air and smiles.
Dean.
Sam throws up whatever they give him. First they chalk that up to the new environment and all the excitement, but on day three Dean is seriously worried. He knows that Bobby has noticed too, because they both take turns emptying the bucket. That’s another thing. When they’d talked to Sammy that first morning at Bobby’s, the kid had turned the wastebasket into a chamber pot. And he keeps using it as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.
After Dean had calmed himself from the devastating confirmation that Sammy indeed had no idea who they were, they’d talked about it. Bobby suggested just pointing the kid towards the bathroom. But Dean insisted on letting him use the bucket. The kid obviously is used to that and Dean is all for stability in Sam’s life. He has started reading the one book on trauma that Bobby has dug up from somewhere so he knows they have to get Sam adjusted to his new surroundings very carefully and gradually to avoid further harm.
When they talk about the fact that the kid upchucks everything from sandwiches to ham and eggs to freaking garden salads, they come to the same conclusion. Bobby pries the details about the boy’s former eating routine out of him without distressing him overly much and when he passes that information along, Dean throws his cup of coffee against the kitchen wall. They agree to stick to Sammy’s old meal schedule for now and to slowly introduce him to other food. So they stock up on plain bread, broth, apples, and bottled water and Bobby shoves a broom and a mop into Dean’s hands so he can clean up the mess.
They also decide to get the kid into the panic room before he can get used to the upstairs bedroom overly much. It’s not as if he were sleeping in the beds, anyway. They still haven’t heard from Cas and they haven’t made progress on the demon front either. So, if Dean wants his little brother to be as safe as possible, the panic room it is. The move is spectacularly uneventful. He leads Sammy to the basement and the kid takes the change of location in stride. He examines the room and he doesn’t seem to be put out by its lack of light or fresh air. In fact, after having eyed his surroundings, his shoulders seem to lose a little of their tension. Dean can tell, he has taken the role of big brother back on as if he never did anything else. Which, if he takes into account the years he spent with the Sammyshadow, he actually hasn’t. This is better, though - it’s real. So he watches his brother closely and knows that getting him here was the right thing to do.
He leans against the doorframe and says, “This is the panic room, we think it’s best if you stay here for now. It’s completely secure.” Sammy doesn’t react, as usual, but the ghost of a smile is on his lips. Dean is right there with him.
That day, Sam finally stops being sick. He looks worse than when they found him, though, pale and thinner than can be healthy. Also, the kid is rank. That’s why Dean suggests a shower before dinner. What he isn’t prepared for is the way the kid goes rigid with tension. He thinks it might be because of the way to the bathroom, back up the stairs in this house he isn’t used to. Also, Sammy doesn’t trust them. Or, to be more precise, he trusts them to the point that he doesn’t try to evade being harmed by them. If anything, the kid’s bout of sickness has taught him that. It’s weird, that much Dean knows. But he tries to make all this as easy as possible for Sammy. That’s why half an hour later he carries a bucket of warm water, soap, shampoo, a bowl and two towels down to the basement. Sam looks so surprised that Dean lets lose a small laugh. “You don’t have to go upstairs to shower,” he explains, “you can clean yourself up here.”
Sammy eyes the supplies suspiciously but he doesn’t move. Dean’s gaze falls on the bandages that still cover his brother’s hands. “Do you need help with this?” Sam throws him a startled glance with these huge eyes and Dean clarifies, “With your hands, buddy. Can you wash yourself or do you need help with it?”
Sam lowers his gaze. “I can do it.”
“Good,” Dean says and turns around. “I have some things to take care of, upstairs. I’ll be awhile. Take your time.” He halfway closes the door and heads for the kitchen. The last thing he needs is for Sammy to think they are perving on him while he gets cleaned up.
He helps Bobby prepare dinner and they eat while talking in low voices. About Sammy, of course, but Bobby doesn’t seem to be bothered by Dean’s single mindedness of late. When they are done and Bobby waves him away from the dishes, Dean beams at him. “Thanks, Bobby,” he says, claps the older man on the shoulder and grabs Sammy’s dinner - a slice of bread, half an apple, and a bottle of water. If he ever gets his hands on that fucking demon overlord, there’ll be hell to pay.
Downstairs, he knocks on the door of the panic room to let the kid know that he’s back. “Are you decent, Sammy?” A moment of silence passes.
“I don’t know,” the kid says finally. Huh.
“Are you wearing clothes?”
“No?”
“Are you- why not?”
“Uh. Am I supposed to wear the old ones?” Oh. His mind flashes to the shabby trousers and the sweater stained with sweat and vomit.
“Oh. Sammy, sorry. No, of course not. Uh. Wait a minute, I’ll get you something of mine.” He leaves food and water on the floor and sprints up to the living room.
“Where’s the fire?” Bobby asks and follows him to Dean’s duffel on the couch.
“Clothes,” Dean groans, “he doesn’t have any.”
“Balls!” Yeah, pretty much.
Dean upends the duffel onto the couch and digs through his clothes. He grabs the tightest shirt he can find, the newest pair of boxers he owns, and a pair of sweats with a cord so Sam can adjust them to his skinny waist. He also takes a pair of socks although he’s not sure the kid will wear them. Apparently he’s used to living barefoot. Then he stares at his sweaters that are all at least twice the size of Sam. Bobby has followed his gaze and smacks him on the shoulder. “Wait a second!” Then he’s gone and after a few moments Dean hears him rummaging upstairs.
A triumphant “Ha!” echoes down and then Bobby is back in the living room and hands over something small and brown. It’s one of Dean’s old hoodies. The young hunter’s eyebrows creep up into his hair as he takes it. Bobby coughs.
“You must have left it here some point. I just never got to throwing it out.” Dean would almost believe that weren’t it for the slight flush that’s creeping up the other man’s cheeks.
“Suuure,” he says.
“Shut up. Idjit.”
Dean makes his way downstairs again and carefully sidesteps the food on the floor.
“Sammy? I have some clothes for you. Can I come in?”
“Yes.” Sam’s voice sounds even smaller than usual. Dean opens the door and carries the clothes over to the table next to his brother. He pointedly does not look at the kid that is standing half naked on the cold floor. Sam is wrapped in the towels, one underneath his arms and one across his waist, and he is shivering with the cold. Great. If he ends up with pneumonia that will be the rotten cherry on top of their pile of crap.
“I got you one of everything, but you don’t have to wear it all.” He puts the clothes down and realizes that he forgot to bring new bandages. “Take what you want and leave the rest,” he rephrases because he is nothing but a quick study, especially when it comes to Sammy. “I’ll go get some bandages and then we’ll take care of your hands. Do they still hurt?”
He makes a grabby motion at his brother’s hands and Sammy obediently lets him have a look at them. Dean freezes. The kid’s hands look better, the scratches and abrasions have closed and there’s no sign of infection. But this is the first time he sees the kids bare arms. Scars are crisscrossing the delicate white skin; different sizes, shapes, and colors. Most of them are faint lines of silver, but some are of an angry red that speaks of fire. His gaze travels upwards and more and more scars mark their way to the kids shoulders. At least one of Sam’s collarbones must have been broken and set badly. Dean whole heartedly thanks the fact that he is used to con his way through life. He keeps his face carefully blank and lowers his gaze. The nightmarish sight continues on the kids shins. His baby brother is covered in scar tissue. Dean raises his head and looks Sam straight in the eye.
“Your hands look good, Sammy.” It’s not a lie, he thinks. “I’ll get the bandages now.”
Upstairs it’s Dean that is losing his dinner that night.
The look that he got at the kid’s body had strengthened his suspicion that his brother’s pain threshold is above average. He decides that night to not let anything like that sneak up on him again. He can’t afford it, not when it’s about Sammy. Who knows what he already missed with the vastness that is Sam’s acceptance of agony.
During the first couple of weeks, Dean watches Sammy. Not in a creepy way, of course. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for the kid and clearly, Sam needs time to adjust so Dean is fine with giving him some space. But he hasn’t seen the his brother in years and keeping tabs on Sammy has always been his job. Also, he likes taking care of him, always has. It fills him with pride and satisfaction to know that the kid is safe because of him. Sammy never noticed how closely Dean monitored him when they were younger and he doesn’t now. It’s like putting on a well worn pair of shoes. You might have forgotten what they feel like on your feet, but they fit as snuggly as ever. So, Dean watches him. And he quickly becomes an expert on all things Sam. Sure, the kid has changed, but the tells are still there. Not as pronounced as they used to be, but if he looks long enough, he sees them clear as day - and Dean has nothing but time.
He catalogues every twitch, every change in voice and posture, and all the hundreds of times the kid hesitates or stays silent. Not because he is indifferent but because he is confused, as Dean realizes. Confused and terrified. Sam must have left his comfort zone so far behind that it’s not even a dot on the horizon anymore. Dean debates briefly whether it might be better to go a little harder on the kid to lessen the differences, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t care whether it takes a year or ten to break through to him. They’ll get there and he’ll be there every step of the way.
The most distinctive thing about Sammy is that he’s careful. Apart from his little outburst on the first day, he never acts impulsively. If he is confronted with a problem or a choice he thinks the possible consequences of his actions through. All of them, as it appears. But Dean doesn’t complain; they are making progress on that front, albeit slow. Sammy might not be answering yet, but at least he isn’t trying to melt into the background anymore when encountering an either-or choice. His face keeps betraying him, though. Dean can spot the mix of fear and anxiousness, now that he knows what to look for.
Things change considerably when the books arrive that Bobby ordered, big, heavy tomes with small print and no pictures. They bear scary titles like ‘Psychology. A compendium.’, ‘The inner war after the war. References for survivors’, ‘A guide to torture through the ages’, ‘Trauma and its consequences’, ‘Torture and suffering: a window to the soul’, or ‘Abuse - how to overcome the scars’. Dean steadily works through them all. Normally he pretends to suck at research to get out of it. But not this time. With Sammy as his single focus he devours chapter after chapter, takes notes, crossreferences, calls doctors and surprised authors, and orders more books. Bobby jokes that this is the most invested he’s ever seen him, that not even the Impala gets that much attention, but Dean doesn’t laugh. This is serious shit and it happened to Sammy. There’s nothing funny about it.
It’s frustrating as hell, too. Usually it goes like this: He reads a chapter only to realize afterwards that he didn’t understand a word. It takes him half a day to translate the information into English. When he understands the theory, he stares at the book in disbelief. Because that’s it; that’s all there is, theories about cause and effect that lead to certain issues. No fucking advice on what he is actually supposed to do, just a bunch of jibberjabber that leaves him with an itchy brain. So he invents his own approach. The next day, he reads another chapter and the whole cycle repeats itself.
He learns for example, that traumatized people often can’t ask for help because most of them don’t know that they feel ashamed or guilty in the first place. That adds to the strain and makes the whole situation worse, of course. But to support Sammy he doesn’t always need to go for the big gestures, the small ones are just as important. Scientists theorize that many victims of torture don’t realize that they have a basic, deep seated need for others to acknowledge that their trauma exists. So to help Sammy, Dean is supposed to actively observe what has happened to him. Of course, he has no idea how to do that. He decides to start with the scars and take it from there.
The next time he brings Sammy fresh clothes, he doesn’t shy away from the marks on his skin. He doesn’t try to ignore them either. It takes him a lot of effort and he destroys another mug in the process, but he learns to let his emotions show on his face - to a certain degree. He clearly can’t break down in front of the kid. He practices every day and after a while their routine becomes oddly comforting for him. So what if Sammy’s skin has opened up a couple of times? Dean is a hunter and wears enough scars of his own. Their wounds are healed, their skin has closed. They aren’t any less human for it.
A thing he doesn’t have a handle on yet is dealing with his own fuckload of problems. Because the books insist that, to help Sammy deal with this shit, Dean is supposed to sort himself out first. Otherwise he could subconsciously avoid or reject Sammy. Without realizing it, of course. That’s the best thing about all this too, no doubt. Apparently neither Dean nor Sammy nor anybody else knows how screwed up they really are. Dean just hopes these fancy doctors didn’t make all that up. Otherwise heads will be rolling. Anyway. Now he ought to deal with his problems, how great is that? He’ll try, of course he will; this is for Sammy. But he’s known about hunting since he was seven. He got his first gun at eleven. He suffered his first trauma when he was four - although the world knows Dean Winchester doesn’t to trauma, so isn’t that just perfect. Honestly. The things he is willing to do for Sammy.
In the end, it’s worth it. Little by little Dean figures out how to behave around Sammy without making things worse. They’re not even at coaxing him out of his shell yet, but at least it’s something. He does what the books tell him - or at least what he guesses they do. He’s Sammy’s rock without smothering the kid. He’s there when he’s having a bad day or week. He sleeps on a second cot in the basement, right outside the panic room. He talks to Sam even if their conversations never lose their monologueing quality.
They have setbacks on a daily basis and progress is painful, for all of them. If they’d go any slower, they’d be moving backwards. But every time Sam tells him whether he’d prefer an apple or an orange for dinner, Dean mentally fistbumps the world. The one big thing that’s still looming over his head is how to stimulate the kid’s sense of self preservation. But he’ll figure it out. Big brother is back.
Castiel is back, too. In March. They haven’t heard from the angel in more than two months, and one day he pops into the kitchen as if there’s nothing to it. Dean is in the basement, naturally, but at Bobby’s alarmed shout he charges in, gun drawn, barely five seconds later.
“Hello, Dean,” the angel says.
“Hello?” Dean sputters. “Hello!? Cas! You’ve been gone for ages, man. Where were you. Are you ok?”
“Oh,” Cas says and tilts his head.
“Oh?” Dean echoes, “Oh!? What- what?”
“Well this is getting old fast,” Bobby grumbles and turns back towards a pot that’s simmering on the stove.
“What?” Ok, so no Pulitzer for him, but seriously, what?
“I am sorry. You seem to have worried.” The angel stares at him and after several weeks of absence, Dean is reminded of how alien Castiel is. His piercing glare is eerie.
“Of course we worried,” Dean says, “You fucking exploded into a white light when you took that demon sonovabitch out.”
“Idjit,” Bobby supplies helpfully and puts the pot of chili on the counter.
“I did not explode. One probably could postulate that on a multidimensional level the energetic quality of higher celestial wavelengths can trans-”
“Cas!”
“Yes, Dean.”
“What happened?”
“I was just telling you, the wavele-”
“Less syllables, smartass,” Bobby chimes in. The angel’s gaze zones into the distance; he seems to ponder that for a while. Bobby fills three bowls with chili and takes a seat.
“I guess I exploded into a white light,” the angel finally says and Bobby groans.
Dean smirks. “Welcome back, Cas. Have some of Bobby’s chili.”
Castiel nods and pulls over one of the bowls. He takes a spoonful of the caustic dish and frowns. “This is- interesting.”
Bobby snorts. “Sure is. Have at it.”
Cas puts his spoon down and peers at the bowl. Dean grins and half expects the thing to catch fire, but a snarky comment dies a quick death on the tip of his tongue at the angel’s next words.
“I have come to know some of what those demons did. I saw some when I send them back to hell,” the angel says, “And then I inquired about it.”
“You- you know what happened to Sammy?” Dean lets his spoon sink into the bowl. That would definitely help them understand the kid. But he doesn’t think that he’s ready to hear this. He might not ever be. Castiel doesn’t meet their eyes.
“Not many of the details, unfortunately.” Dean huffs a short breath of relief. “But I have seen the overall picture in those demons’ minds. Sam’s very foundations of feeling human have been shaken. I fear that he has suffered a lot of mental trauma well before they started inflicting physical pain on him.” Both hunters stare at Castiel, Dean with a grim expression and a nod, Bobby with wide eyes and slack-jawed.
“Trauma is a serious thing,” the angel continues, unperturbed, “Not to be taken lightly even if triggered just by a single incident of overwhelming quality. I fear that Samuel has experienced that initial incident as well as prolonged suffering through continued dubiety and a great number of smaller breakdowns. In adults, that would be enough to cause serious long term damage. Starting at a very young age, the brain deals different with this kind of strain. But his condition likely was already weakened before-” The angel actually squirms in his seat. “Before he had to deal with the physical pain. Torture,” he clarifies. “So he experienced a massive, staggered process of inflicted trauma.”
The angel looks up from his bowl. Bobby is openly gawking and Dean shakes his head. Castiel sounds exactly like that one scientist, the guy with the double name from Belgium. Dean has hated that book with unwavering passion since page one. “Dude! Dubiety?” Castiel misses the point and nods.
“So how come he isn’t a shivering mess in the corner right now?” Dean has spent hours wondering about that fact. Not that he’d want Sam to be any worse than he is - his brother already has more than enough on his plate - but Sammy has adjusted to his uprooting very quickly. That’s part of the reason for why Dean suspects all those scientists might spin a bunch of crap to gold.
“I cannot say. Whatever the reason, we have to consider ourselves very lucky for it.”
“Yeah, of course, man. We are. Lucky.” He knows it’s true, he does. But when Dean thinks about how Sammy doesn’t dare move because he has to pick the green or the blue sweater, he feels like adding a big fat stain of chili to the coffee stains on the kitchen wall.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bobby says and smacks his spoon on Dean’s white-knuckled grip on the bowl. Dean blinks at the spoon and purses his lips, then he looks at the angel.
“Did you see- Do you know what happened to Sammy? Has he been in that container for all this time?” Castiel looks even more uncomfortable now.
“I don’t know. I would need to physically touch Samuel for that, to search his memories. But I feel his discomfort at my proximity so I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Yeah. Uhm. His memories.” Dean hesitates. He fucking hates talking about this. “He doesn’t remember me. Or Bobby,” Dean adds with an apologetic glance towards the older hunter, “He doesn’t know the house either. This is the closest thing he ever had to a home, and he just- he simply-” Dean’s voice falters and now it’s Bobby’s turn to be suspiciously entranced by his bowl of chili.
“Yes,” Castiel says, somber, “I guess he somehow managed to shut out whatever might have kept him from surviving.” That, Dean doesn’t get. “Memories like this,” the angel explains, “Of a happy place or of his family, they could have been too painful for him to keep when confronted with his new reality. You have to understand, years of mental and physical pain can break the strongest mind.” Of course, Dean wants to say, I know that. He doesn’t blame Sammy for forgetting or repressing or whatever. He just needs to know how to reverse it. But Castiel isn’t done yet.
“He really doesn’t remember you?” Five words. Each of them a kick to his gut, a breath he can’t take - he’s already down and being counted out. Dean shakes his head, shrugs, hesitates, and nods. He has no words; a bullet to the head would be more comfortable than this.
“My guess would be that his mind created a world that made sense to protect him from insanity. Somewhere he could feel safe because he could accept the status quo as inevitable. Also, we would do well not to underestimate the wretchedness of hell’s denizens. They might have resorted to measures such as brainwashing for the fun of it.” At Dean’s murderous glance he adds, “Not that I would think of such a thing as enjoyable.”
Dean swallows. “So,” he says, “how do we undo it? It’s not- permanent, right?”
Castiel.
The young hunter looks distressed and the angel wishes he had a better answer for him. “I do not know that either. I’m sorry. The human mind and soul remain mysterious to me. You are wondrous creatures.” Dean doesn’t look satisfied and Bobby rolls his eyes at him. Castiel has missed interacting with these two. “The only way to maybe find answers would be for me to search within his mind and soul. But I would not recommend this. It could aggravate his condition further and he might become lost to us in the process.”
Castiel is a little sorry to say so. He’d like to help Dean get to the bottom of this. He’s seen how much it pains the older brother not to be of more help to Sam. And chances are, if he touched the boy’s mind and delved into his memories, he could free the shackled ones. But it’s true what he said, there is a risk to it. More so since a certain power surrounds the boy. Nothing strong and nothing evil per se, as far as the angel can tell. But definitely something worth keeping an eye on.
He has thought about touching Sam when he is unseen, just as he does with Dean and Bobby. It is such an easy way to procure information and it doesn’t take much, just a feather light, fleeting touch here or there. The angel has gotten used to the intimacy of their shared minds months ago and they’re never disturbed by it; he sees to that. But sometimes, the boy’s gaze flickers into his direction when he reaches out for Dean’s or Bobby’s mind. That always makes Castiel feel as if he swallowed something heavy and unpleasant. He is sure that Sam doesn’t actually look at him, but the boy seems to be overly sensitive to the presence of the preternatural - even on other plains than the one humans reside in.
“Aggravate his condition, huh,” Dean says, “Well aren’t you a well of happy news today.”
“I’m sorry, Dean. I wish I had more positive information to share.” He honestly does.
“I know, Cas. We all do.” Dean sighs and starts eating the lukewarm chili.
The angel stays visible for the evening and ponders how far this strange new feeling of loyalty goes - to humans, nonetheless. Maybe he should talk to them about the dangers of force fed demon blood. But although he hasn’t touched Sam yet and thus doesn’t know for sure, nothing of the boy’s power speaks of hell to him. No traces of sulfur are discernible around him. No screaming echoes up from the pit when Castiel gets close. The barrier the kid projects doesn’t flicker with the foul pattern of demonic energy.
Cas is curious about that barrier; he suspects that it is some kind of shield that Sam is unaware of projecting. It wouldn’t protect him from an honest angelic attack, of course. But where it bends the edges of this plain and leaks into the next, the air is thrumming with power. He wonders whether this is what keeps the brothers from reconnecting; their bond could have been severed down to the most basic levels. If that were the case, both of them will continue to suffer as long as Sam upholds this shield. But then, it could also be that the truth of reality has been buried too deep in the boy’s mind to resurface on its own again. Maybe it is a mix of these two plus yet to be specified factors - humans, wondrous creatures indeed.
Whichever it is, until their bond is restored both boys remain lost, both of them agonize. Castiel already knows that it pains him to see Dean Winchester suffer. He is surprised to notice that the same thing is true for the boy with the demon blood.
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