Culpable 3/?

[wallflowerlady]

Summary: Dean was hurt because Sam had been careless, and now Sam had to get on with what needed to be done. Now was not the time to give in to his own aches and pains. Pre-season, hurt/ sick! Sam, minor hurt/ major angst! Dean, angst! John.
Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Would I be writing fanfiction if SPN belonged to me?

Part 2



Sam had never really felt comfortable in the dark.

In their line of work, he couldn’t afford to be afraid of it. Too many nights were spent in graveyards, abandoned houses, forests and other lightless places for him to indulge in fear. But those same graveyards, abandoned houses and forests had instilled in him an awareness that the monster in the shadows was more than likely to be real. Other children were assured that the bogeyman couldn’t possibly be hiding in the closet; Sam was given a firearm and told to shoot the creature.

There were nasties out there, and they liked the dark as much as Sam did not.

His eyes darted around now as he gulped water from his bottle. Faint streaks overhead showed where the dawn was gathering itself together for the new day, but the light was too tentative to make any impact on the deep shadows which still blanketed the town. Very few people were awake, most still enjoying the last few moments of sleep before the day snatched their rest away. Sam thought longingly of the motel room and the bed he had left. It was lumpy, none too clean, and overfull of older brother, but right now it seemed like heaven.

He screwed the lid back onto his water bottle and sighed deeply.

Stop being so self-pitying, Sam Winchester. You brought this on yourself.

This was the third morning in a row that he’d been woken before five. It was the third morning since the disastrous harpy hunt. Apart from the cut on his temple, Dean was almost fully recovered, eating greasy burgers and fries with no apparent ill-effects and casually flirting with the daughter of the motel owner. Even the monstrous headache that had kept him in bed for the first day had subsided.

Dean is fine.

Sam repeated the words to himself, for a moment relaxing in the relief of that knowledge. He knew only too well how dangerous head injuries could be, but Dean appeared to have escaped any complications.

It was the single positive thought in the wretchedness of his mind.

He’d had arguments with his father before. The last few years seemed actually to be one long succession of arguments, mostly about hunting versus schoolwork. Sam didn’t like them, would rather have had a peaceful relationship with his father where they agreed on most things, but he’d grown used to their stormy interactions. They would yell at each other, his father would issue commands and Sam would slam doors, and then it would blow over and they’d come to an uneasy truce until the next time.

This was different. Sam had never known his father to stay angry for so long.

It’s not even anger, as such. Anger I could handle. But I don’t know what to do with this.

Every morning, when he was woken by his father’s hand firmly shaking his shoulder, he glanced at the green eyes so like his own and hoped that his father would have backed down. Relaxed. But every morning he was greeted by the same unyielding expression.

The heat of his father’s rage was far easier to deal with than his cold relentlessness.

True to his word, John Winchester had implemented a rigid training program more strenuous than any Sam had known before. Sam had to complete a five mile run and sparring practice before school. On his return at the end of the day, there was more running and fitness training, as well as weapons training. Before he went to bed, there were rituals to memorise and Latin to practise.

Somehow, in between all of this, he still had to complete his homework.

Dean had noticed the new regime. Sam had returned yesterday evening from his ten mile run and while finishing in the shower had overheard his father and brother talking about it. Dean’s voice had been questioning. But he hadn’t remonstrated. He hadn’t argued with his father, or tried to defend Sam in any way.

Somehow that was the worst part.

It wasn’t that Sam felt that he deserved to be defended. He knew it was his own fault, that he’d been supremely careless and deserved punishment. And it wasn’t even as if the punishment was unreasonable. He could do with extra training.

But if Dean didn’t defend him, it meant he agreed with their father. It meant he also felt Sam had been careless, and that he needed punishment.

It meant that he blamed Sam for his own injuries.

Sam swallowed at the thought.

He’d always looked up to his older brother. He’d always wanted to be as capable as Dean.

He wanted Dean’s approval, even more than he wanted his father’s.

Dean’s blame hurt. Bitterly.

Well, he should blame me. I am the one who got him hurt, after all. I was careless. I got distracted. If I’d been concentrating, the harpy wouldn’t have surprised me and I would have shot her and Dean would have stabbed her and we’d all be fine. So I totally deserve all of this.

The words looped in his head, over and over, pounding into his consciousness with the rhythm of his feet on the ground when he ran.

Guil-ty guil-ty guil-ty...

He pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning on. He still had a mile to go before he reached the motel, and there was an unfinished history essay waiting for him there. He’d tried to finish it last night after the Latin and the two new banishment rituals he’d had to memorise, but his father had turned the light out. Sam had retreated to the bathroom and worked some more in an uncomfortable crouch on the grimy tiles. He’d woken an hour later, huddled and stiff, his cheek mashed against the now crumpled essay.

Despite his good intentions, his body just wasn’t able to keep up with everything he was requiring of it.

As he moved, the familiar pain wrenched through his abdomen.

He’d somehow expected that it would have subsided. It had been three days, after all. But it wasn’t improving. If anything, the discomfort was worse, with his torso complaining bitterly every time he moved incautiously. It made the extra exercise far more demanding than it should have been. He was in good shape, and fit, and a five mile run would normally have presented no difficulties. This morning, though, he’d already been forced to stop three times.

He bent forward slightly, his arm across his middle, and waited until the pain had subsided to a dull ache. This was a bad one. He swallowed back the sudden nausea.

Just one more mile.

You’re so weak, Sam. Suck it up and get going. Dean would never let a few bruises slow him down.

Just one more mile.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to start running again.

****************************************************

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sam was glad at the end of the school day.

He hadn’t managed to finish the history essay. His teacher had not been pleased, and Sam had lost ten percent of the grade for the assignment.

Normally that would have bothered him considerably. This time, though, he had just nodded and accepted the penalty. He was too tired to care, his mind too lethargic to make a fuss. The ache in his abdomen was constant now, draining the meagre store of energy that remained after too much activity and too little rest. He had almost fallen asleep in math class, and had called down the wrath of the math teacher on his head for not paying attention.

He knew what was waiting for him when he got home. His father’s anger disguised as inflexible discipline. His brother’s detachment. A ten mile run followed by target practice and more Latin, late into the night until his father decided he’d done enough.

For a moment he wondered what would happen if he refused. If he said he was feeling sick, and was exhausted, and couldn’t manage the training.

Yeah, that would go down well.

Dad would think I was trying to get out of it. That I was making excuses. He’d think I was just looking for sympathy.

I must just try to get the run done more quickly tonight, and then the Latin. Oh, and the target practice.

Then I need to read that chapter for Social Studies, and finish the character study for English, and do those analytical geometry problems. And I really should start studying for the biology quiz on Friday.

His shoulders slumped at the prospect of all that he still had to do.

I’m so tired.

I’m just so tired.

I can’t do it all...

“I’m not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It’ll be no more than you deserve.”

John Winchester’s words from three days ago hit him with almost physical force. This was what he’d been talking about, then. There would be no sympathy to be had from that quarter.

You deserve it, Sam. It’s your own stupid fault, so suck it up and get on with it.

Dean’s the one who was really hurt. Stop making such a girly fuss over a few bruises. Tiredness never killed anyone.

His father was not in the room when he arrived back at the motel. Dean was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, idly watching television. He looked up briefly as Sam came in.

“Hey dude. School okay?”

“Yeah.” Sam dropped his book bag on the floor beside the bed and stripped off his outer shirt. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sam, I’m fine.” Sam had his back to his brother but he could hear the eye roll.

He’s still mad at me.

His lip quivered, and he clamped his teeth down on it.

Dean thinks I’m a loser anyway. I’m not going to cry in front of him.

“I... uh... I’m going for a run.” It took all his will-power to keep his voice steady.

Dean’s voice stopped him at the door.

“Sam? You okay?”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“I’m fine.” He kept his back to his brother.

If I admit how tired I am he’ll think I’m trying to get out of this. He’ll know how weak I am.

“You sure?”

For a moment Sam thought he could hear real concern in Dean’s voice. For a moment he could almost imagine Dean’s face, the casual teasing half-grin and the serious worried eyes. The urge to admit what he was feeling was overwhelming. Dean would say he was a girl, and call him “princess” and “Samantha”, and force him into bed, after a nice hot shower, and maybe even bring him soup, and just generally hover -

Get real, Sam!

The daydream shattered.

Dean blames me. He’s not exactly going to go all mother hen on the irresponsible little brother who almost got him killed.

“Sam?”

“I’m okay, Dean. Really.”

Sam suddenly didn’t want to be there. He could feel his brother’s eyes boring into his back, eyes which undoubtedly held disapproval, anger, censure.

Not you too, Dean. I can’t bear it from you too.

Without looking back he escaped, hurrying away across the pitted parking lot towards the road.

********************************************************

Sam straightened painfully, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but somehow his stomach had managed to find contents to reject.

Three times.

I feel... awful.

He shuddered, swallowing back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him again, and took a tentative sip of water.

Just enough to take away the taste. Please stay down this time.

He still had eight miles to go. The first two had taken almost an hour. Sam knew, without a doubt, that he would not be able to do the rest.

Even the thought of walking back to the motel was demoralising.

But when I go back, Dad will ask if I did them all, and I’ll have to tell him I didn’t, and then he’ll be angry, and maybe he’ll make me go out and do them anyway, and I still have to do the Latin and the rituals, and my math and English and other homework, and Dad and Dean will think I’m weak, and they’ll carry on blaming me and they’ll never trust me.

I just feel so sick...

I have to do them.

Come on, Sam. Don’t be such a girl.

I have to do them.

Dean wouldn’t let stomach flu - or whatever - hold him back.

I have to do them.

Foot followed leaden foot. Around him the darkness stole softly down, leaching away the warmth of the day, but he barely noticed. Everything he had was focused on the ground, the road ahead, the next step that took him that infinitesimal distance closer to the end of what was swiftly becoming torture.

Havetodothemhavetodothemhavetodothem...

He was staggering dizzily when he finally reached the motel again. His mind was a blur and his vision fading in and out. He wanted nothing more than to collapse. He wanted to curl up on his bed and just let go.

Can’t...

Have to do the Latin and rituals and homework...

Dad’ll think I’m weak...

Mustn’t let them see.

That thought was clear in the haze that was his mind.

Dad’ll think I’m making excuses. He’ll think I’m trying to get out of the punishment. He can’t know. He mustn’t know.

Suck it up, Sam.

Suck it up.

It’s nothing. You’re okay.

Suck it up.

Dimly he knew that he couldn’t go into the room the way he was right then. He was barely able to stand, let alone behave as if nothing was wrong. He leant against the corner of the building, looking vaguely along the row of doors to where the Impala was parked outside their room. Fluorescent light fell from the naked bulb above the motel room door, splashing onto the hood. The black shine was mesmerising.

He found himself staring stupidly.

Impala...

Dean’s car.

I drove it.

Dean let me drive it.

It grew bigger and bigger, looming in his vision, and then abruptly shrinking again until it was nothing but a pinpoint of gleaming black.

Can’t stand here...

Can’t stay here forever.

Forever.

Go inside.

Latin rituals homework target practice.

Walk down there... to the car... to the door.

Foot up.

Down.

Other foot.

Updownupdownupdown.

So bright...

Impala...so bright... shiny...

He was almost asleep, leaning drunkenly against the wall.

His head tilted. One cheek smacked against the unforgiving brick, and the unexpected sensation tugged at consciousness that was slipping. His body shuddered involuntarily, the resultant pain pushing back the fuzzy darkness.

One arm wrapped around his middle and he breathed heavily through his nose, still leaning against the wall but straightening a little.

Come on. Come on.

I can’t go to sleep now.

Have to do homework. Have to do Latin.

Maybe I’ll get off the target practice ‘cause it’s already dark.

Walk to the door and go inside.

Just have to make it to bedtime.

The thought of bed was a spur that drove him away from the wall and towards the door. He staggered a little, giddy. The paving undulated beneath his feet.

Bed. Just have to make it to bedtime.

Come on, Sam. Pull yourself together. Don’t be so weak.

It was his father’s voice in his head, his father’s disapproval, and it gathered together the tattered shreds of resolution. His teeth clenched.

Fight it, Sam.

Fight the pain.

Fight the fatigue.

You can’t rest now.

Later, but not now.

He reached the door, swallowed back the ever-present nausea, and went in.

“You’re late.” His father was sitting at the table, his back to the door, papers spread around him. “It’s too dark to practise shooting now. You’ll have to fit it in after your run tomorrow morning.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Sam was vaguely pleased when his voice came out sounding normal.

Can’t let him see. Can’t let him know.

“Shower and be out in five minutes. I want to hear those rituals you learned last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean was sitting on the bed, as he had been when Sam had left. Sam saw him shift position.

“You okay, dude?”

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to his brother. Dean knew him too well. If he let him see his face, Dean would know.

“Sammy?”

The childish nickname was almost his undoing.

No, I’m not... I feel so sick... help me, Dean...

“Sam.” His father had turned. Sam looked up and met his father’s gaze.

“I’m not having you whining and complaining when you get yourself hurt because of your carelessness. It’ll be no more than you deserve.”

John Winchester’s face was impassive, but his eyes were stern. Sam read no concern in the green depths.

Dad will just blame me more if I admit I’m feeling sick. He’ll think I’m weak.

I’m careless and irresponsible and selfish, but I’m not going to be weak.

He’ll think I’m trying to get out of the extra training. He’ll think I’m trying to manipulate him. To get sympathy so he’ll back down.

Dad’ll be angry with me if he finds out I got hurt as well.

“I’m okay. I’m fine.”

***************************************************************

Gonna be sick.

Need to...

Gonna throw up.

The room was dark. Beside him Dean was breathing heavily, fast asleep.

Can’t throw up in the bed. Dean ‘ud kill me.

Need to get to the bathroom.

He slithered from under the bedclothes. The shadows shifted, rocking as he straightened too quickly.

Sick... feel so sick...

The bathroom was only a few feet away but he almost didn’t make it. Shivering, unsteady on bare feet that prickled as they met the cold tiles, he pushed the door shut behind him and almost collapsed in front of the porcelain bowl.

Acid burned his throat.

Mustn’t make a noise.

They mustn’t hear.

He retched, over and over, losing the little dinner he’d managed to force down but unable to stop even when that was gone. He coughed, heaved a deep shuddering breath, and dropped his head forward again as his stomach convulsed.

He’d been sick before, of course. There’d been many nights like this, crouched over a toilet bowl in some rundown motel or seedy apartment.

But he’d never done it alone.

There had always been a hand on his shoulder, a firm grip, Dean’s palm rubbing comforting circles on his back.

Tears stung his eyes, of weakness, loneliness and pain.

His stomach quietened, still uneasy but not actively heaving. He rested his head against the cold porcelain.

So tired.

Wanna sleep.

The bed he had left beckoned. Warm... comforting. Soft pillows cradling his aching head. His exhaustion tempted him to just stay where he was. The hardness of the grimy tiles drove him to make a herculean effort to move.

He dragged himself up, leaning heavily on the basin, and rinsed his mouth. He was so thirsty. He wanted to take great gulps of the liquid, feel it washing down his burning throat, refreshing him. He knew he was probably dehydrated. But he also knew it wouldn’t stay down.

Refreshing going down. Just nasty coming back up.

His face in the mirror was white, light and shadows in stark contrast creating planes and angles.

I look sick.

Good thing Dad can’t...

Dad can’t -

His hands clenched suddenly on the rim of the basin.

It had been hurting before, but nothing like this. The pain was a steel rod drilling through his middle.

His back curled, hunching, a completely involuntary move against the sudden onslaught. Breath hitched, rasping between suddenly gritted teeth. Sweat was beading on his forehead.

It had never hurt like this.

He had never hurt like this.

This was pain on a whole new level. This was agony beyond his experience, frightening, terrifying in its intensity.

Dizziness swayed him, sent him sliding down onto the tiles. His arms were wrapped around his midriff. Somehow he was lying on his side, back pressed against the bath, curled into a fetal position. Darkness dotted the edge of his vision, narrowing hazily.

The pain was living, an entity. It was there with him, around him, in him.

He was drowning in the pain.

A jagged moan broke from him, a strangled whimper of agony.

“Dean...”
Tbc

Part 4