We Three Kings 3/3
Four weeks Dean drank himself unconscious every night. He'd told his little brother never to come back and, as far as he seemed to be concerned, his brother had washed his hands of him.
Apparently, without Sam, Dean could find no reason to maintain a working liver.
Night after night, Cas had sat up until early morning, ensuring his boyfriend made it through his drunken sleep, praying, for once, that the phone wouldn't ring, or a knock wouldn't come at their front door, because he was confident, if it did, that it meant Sam was dead.
His own focus had been shot, fear for both the Winchesters encompassing his every thought. He had dreaded hearing of a tall, brunette John Doe being admitted to the emergency room, without insurance or family. He had put in alerts at all the local hospitals that he should be contacted regarding anyone who remotely fit Sam's description.
He had feared leaving Dean alone. Had feared even more that the drinking would spiral out of control. He hinted as much, tried to remind Dean that this was what led both their fathers astray, and, for the first time ever, saw his boyfriend's fist raised in his direction.
"You hit me and I'll leave you," he had warned. "You hit me and you'll be him."
It may have been low to invoke John Winchester. But, in that moment, grief-stricken and lost and drunk and enraged, Dean had never been closer to his father.
Dean's fist had, slowly, uncurled. He'd let out a heart-broken sob and staggered away, chanting "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over and over. Cas had waited less than a minute before moving forward to hold him. Dean had cried in his arms for so long Cas had feared he'd pass out.
Together, they had dumped the rest of the alcohol in the house down the sink.
The night after, they had made love slowly and sweetly, re-learning, re-trusting. Cas had held Dean tight, all through the following few painful nights.
And then, the phone had rung. Doctor Alan Montgomery, from Rosemount Rehabilitation Center. Sam Winchester had appeared asking for full-time residency.
Cas had informed him that all charges should be billed to him.
Now
Sam managed some eggs and dry toast. Dean ate like he’d been starved for days. Cas was surprised how hungry he was himself-food had been the farthest thing from their minds, and not just because Sam had spent most of the night vomiting.
After breakfast, the Winchesters did the dishes while Cas checked his voicemail. Fortunately, he hadn’t missed anything urgent, though he made a few notes for tests and medications to adjust on shift. Dean came out of the kitchen, Sam trailing along behind, a little too close.
“I’m gonna get Sammy in the shower,” he said. Sam made a disgusted face.
“I can get a shower on my own, you freak.”
“Well I've got to get these sheets changed and they aren't enough for a full load. Cas, you got laundry?”
“In the bathroom basket.”
“On it.” Dean eyed his brother warily. Sam made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped, swayed. Dean was already bounding up behind him and instantly gripped his shoulders.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He took two more steps and swayed backward.
“Sam!”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re gonna take us both down these stairs, you big idiot.”
Sam grabbed at his chest, his breathing speeding up. Cas realized he was having palpitations-an all too common side effect.
“Dean,” he cautioned. The elder Winchester rolled his eyes.
“Alright, bro. Easy does it. C’mon, we got this.”
Sam reached out a shaky hand and grabbed at Dean’s shirt. Dean, ever the big brother, got an arm around him and helped him the rest of the way up the steps, talking softly at the top. A few minutes later he heard the shower turn on, and Dean’s footsteps going between the bathroom, their room, and the guest room. He hesitated before putting in a call to Alan, Sam’s PCP, and debated leaving a message for Missouri before deciding it was best for Sam to make that call-not because he was scared of her retribution, no sir-and set about stripping the sheets off the fold-out.
Dean appeared, swearing under his breath, an armful of dirty laundry threatening to spill out of his arms. “Dumbass won’t admit he’s dizzy as hell.”
“I can’t imagine where he learned such aberrant resistance to support.”
“Screw you. I gave him baths and changed his diapers. He doesn’t get to have pride with me.”
“I imagine he’s feeling a lot of embarrassment right now.” Cas followed behind Dean in order to open the washer, bedding in his own arms.
“Christ, Cas. I heard what you said, man, and I’m trying to believe in him and all that, but I want him to be able to tell me when he needs me.”
“He called you from Rosemount. He calls, faithfully, daily. You know how very much he relies on you.”
As if on some sick cue, he heard a crash above them. Dean had already dumped in his share of the laundry, and practically knocked Cas backwards into the dryer in an effort to get to the stairs. Cas was close behind him, but Dean waved him off as he pounded on the bathroom door and bellowed “Sammy?”
A beat. Then: “Dean.”
It was weak, ashamed, defeated. Dean went in and shut Cas out. He returned downstairs and had just started the washer when the phone rang.
“It’s Cas,” he sighed.
“Cas, Alan Montgomery.”
“Alan. Thank you for calling back so quickly.”
“I had Sam on my charts this morning. The clinic says he went home with you and Dean?”
“Yes. He’s stable, though a little weak right now.”
“Normally I’d call bull looking at all this. But lucky for you, those three idiots who dumped their stash in the shaker cooked up their own little cocktail, got sick, and wound up on our doorstep this morning. They said by the time they made it down to grab it Sam had already eaten a bunch. It was pretty potent stuff.”
“We discovered that last night.”
It was Alan’s turn to sigh. “Sam really has been trying. He has a bad habit of trying to dumb down how bad his symptoms are though. I imagine he also tries to dumb down his cravings.”
“We’ve noticed.” Cas smiled affectionately. “I’m afraid it runs in the Winchester family.” Alan barked a laugh.
“Well, that’s Missouri’s territory, and I learned long ago not to step near it. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Alan.”
“Thank you. Can’t say I’m sad to have his bed empty.”
Cas hung up. Dean came stomping down the stairs a moment later, looking ready to punch something.
“He fell,” he growled, stalking toward the kitchen. “We got icepacks?”
“Freezer. He hit his head?”
“Of course. Felt dizzy, got out of the shower, dropped like a drunken brick. But get this-pulled on his pajama bottoms before he let me in.”
Cas lost his battle with a smile. Dean glared at him. “Don’t you start.”
“I’m sure you’d be all too happy to let Sam and I assist you while you lie on the floor, soaked and stark naked.”
“Shut it.”
“I can bring up some Gatorade and he can stay up there and rest.”
“He doesn’t want to. He also says that he thinks the steam should have triggered the smoke detectors, so I guarantee we’re going to have to do checks this afternoon. There’s no way we’re going to get him to stay up there until we go to bed.”
Cas lowered his voice. “Alan said the three from Sam’s house have been admitted. They confirmed his story.”
Dean stopped on his way to the stairs. “What’d they dump?”
“Heroine. A fairly strong batch, according to Alan.”
“God.” Dean’s face twisted in sudden grief. Cas crossed the room and touched his boyfriend’s arm. “Cas-”
“He’s going to be alright,” he said firmly. “He can come here, Dean. He can live here. He just needs to say the word.”
Dean squeezed his hand, hard. Then took up off the stairs, ice in hand and determination on his face.
Then
Sam had called from Rosemount, voice shaky and hoarse and all-too clearly in early withdraw.
"Cas?" he had gasped.
"Hey," Cas had smiled, hoping warmth carried into his voice. "Don't worry, I've given the full steam ahead. Billing it to my insurance."
"They're--they're gonna--lock me down." Cas could hear the younger man's terror. "I'm--I'm already--sick."
"It isn't fun," Cas had soothed. "It's hell, in fact. But it passes, Sam. And when you come out the other side, we will be there."
Sam's breath had hitched. "Cas...please...tell me. Does...does Dean...does he hate me?"
"No. Sam--"
"Will he--can he--ever--"
"We're coming down," Cas had said firmly. "Sit tight."
Dean had nearly crawled out of skin on the drive down to the clinic. Sam had been in the admittance waiting room, body already shaking and sweaty with early withdrawal, sneezing, crying, and scratching at his arms and legs. He took one look at Dean and staggered to his feet, stumbling forward like a damaged creature in one of the brothers' beloved sci-fi movies.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had sobbed. Dean had wrapped him in his arms and Sam had promptly sneezed on his brother's coat.
"Shhhh," Dean had murmured, closed his eyes and layed a hand on the back of Sam's dark, dirty head. "It's okay, Sammy."
"Dean...don't...I shouldn't...I'm--"
"I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Dean had pulled back and gripped the sides of his younger brother's head, brushed tears with his thumbs, offered him a half-smile.
"I'm scared," Sam had gasped.
"Just a day or two. And it'll be out of you. And we'll be here, every day if we can. And you can call. And when you're all cleaned up, you can come home."
Sam had sneezed again. "You'll--let--me?"
Dean had drawn a deep breath. "I never should have said what I did. I won't give up on you. You fight and I will fight with you. You just got to do this. I know you can, Sammy."
"I--wish--" Sam's voice had broke. His body had convulsed. Dean had guided him to a sofa and sat with his hands on his biceps. "Wish--you--could--be there."
"Me too," Dean had pulled his brother back against his chest, laying his chin on the top of his head. "Me too, buddy." Sam had sobbed against him. "Shhh," Dean had whispered, rocking them slightly, "it's okay. It's gonna be okay."
"I...miss you...so...much..."
"I gotcha," Dean had murmured, a single tear escaping. "I'm here."
Cas had retreated toward the nurse's station, letting the brothers alone.
"Here for Winchester?" a doctor had asked.
"Yes. I'm Dr. Cas Morgan."
"Alan Montgomery, Sam's PCP." He had glanced toward the waiting room. "Glad you guys made it down. We've got to move him in ten."
"He's not a bad kid," Cas had pleaded.
"Been in this business twenty-some years. I can tell the rotten apples from the good." He had handed Cas a copy of a folder. "If you want to look. We're going to cross treat him. The alcohol's bad, but I wouldn't say he's physically hooked. Still, we're going to keep a close eye." He had glanced to the brothers in the waiting room. "It's not fun, but it's not fatal," he said gently. "He came on his own, no signs of withdrawal. Said he had to get clean. That's way better than the court ultimatums most people show up with."
"I'd like to be kept up to date with his charts."
"We can do that."
"He lost two girlfriends and his father in two years."
"I understand."
"The first died in a fire. A freak electrical thing in their ceiling. He was out studying."
"Doctor--"
"Their father was an alcoholic. Their mother died when they were children. Their father beat them."
"As I said--"
"He had a full ride to school. He wanted to be a lawyer. He had an interview for law school two days before his girlfriend burnt to death in her sleep."
"Doctor, please--"
"Cas. My name is Cas. His name is Sam. His brother is Dean. Their names were Jess and John and Madison. And--"
"Cas," the had doctor guided him into the hallway, a gentle hand on his arm. "Listen. I can't heal him emotionally. Any of them. But every man and woman who comes through that door and is assigned to me gets the very best physical treatment I'm able to provide. It's going to be hard, but I'm going to make it as easy as I can. And when he's well, I will help oversee his psychological counseling. Be available for follow-ups. Advise on his meds." He had squeezed Cas's arm. "working late nights with addicts is one of the least glamorous tracks in our profession. No one chooses this path unless they've loved someone whose been lost down it."
Cas had felt his chest hitch. Hadn't realized he'd started crying. Behind him, he had heard Sam cry out as Dean's voice rose.
"Take care of him," he managed. Alan squeezed his arm and moved into the waiting area. He said something too low for Cas to hear, and Sam nodded as Dean helped him to his feet. The doctor stepped respectfully away and Cas watched as Dean leaned close, brushing his brother's tears with his thumbs, fixing unruly hair behind his ears, and then pulling him down to press a quick kiss on his brow. Sam clutched at him desperately, burying his face in his brother's neck for a moment, before slowly releasing him and making his way to Alan, pausing only at the double doors to stare back at Dean, lips and body shaking, tears streaming down his face. Dean gave his warmest, most accepting smile, the first one Cas had ever fallen in love with. Sam looked toward him, than back at his brother, clearly trying to draw strength. Dean nodded in his brother's direction. Sam shuddered, a sob escaping, before looking toward Alan and disappearing behind the doors.
Cas and Dean had cried together on the bench seat of the Impala, knowing that, inside, Sam would soon be screaming for them.
Now
After Dean got Sam sorted, the brothers ended up back on the sofa. Dean was sitting up once more, but Sam dutifully took his valium, curled up by his elder brother’s hip, and drifted off to sleep. Cas switched the laundry to the dryer and, when it buzzed, brought the still-warm clothes to Dean, for the two of them to fold.
“When Sam wakes up, he should call Missouri,” Cas murmured.
“Dude, she’s going to fry him up and eat him for breakfast.”
“Just because you’re scared of Missouri doesn’t mean Sam is.”
“I’m not scared of anyone or anything.”
“Then how about we visit my parents this summer?”
Dean made a face. “Low blow, dude.” Cas smiled and finished folding his shirt.
“You got to go in tonight?”
“I do.” He looked back toward the sleeping Sam. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
Cas looked from his sleeping friend, to Dean’s warm, worried look, and smiled. “Think I’m good.”
Then
The first few weeks after Sam's withdrawal, he was so physically and emotionally depressed he barely spoke. He refused to leave his bed for meals or groups or for morning meds, and wound up on a glucose line and suicide watch.
"The anti-depressants will take some time to kick in," Missouri, Sam's primary therapist, assured them. "When they do, they'll probably need adjusting. Sam's altered his entire chemistry. His body ain't gonna let him forget it overnight."
Dean called her a host of abominable words on the drive home, but one week later Sam had stood in the waiting area, looking thin and pale and exhausted and sick, but standing. He had attempted to eat a semi-normal dinner with them and attempted a bit of small talk, and Dean grumbled a little less about Missouri and her "psycho-babble."
The doctors had adjusted and readjusted and reissued Sam's medication in an effort to combat the worst of the depression, anxiety, and withdrawal, and as a result Sam's emotions became firecrackers: you never knew what color you're going to get, and when, but when you get it, it's wild and hot and goes on longer than you imagined it could last. Some nights Sam had woken them sobbing so hard he almost can't breathe, unable to voice anything but "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over and over. Other times it was his obsessive checks, or he'd flown into a rage about lock-down and wanted them to come get him. He had called convinced his nightmares were premonitions and begged them not to drive, or go to work, or go to the grocery store until he deems it safe. He called heartbroken about Jess, Madison, and his father. He called manic and laughing over things that make no sense.
And then depression would hit and he wouldn't call at all.
They had learned to deal. They take turns on Sam's checks, double-team him in his rages, let Cas take the lead explaining the science behind his nightmares, let Dean take the lead on anything involving their father. The nights Sam called crying too hard to speak Cas spoons Dean while his boyfriend hums rock ballads to his devastated brother, letting the gentle, deep voice sooth them all. And when he gets depressed, they went to the ward and sat on his bed and took turns holding him until he managed to get on his feet.
Now
When Sam woke once more, he stumbled blearily into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and emerged to shyly, sweetly, ask if they minded if he helped himself to the Gatorade.
“Dude,” Dean said, “we only keep that shit in the house for you. Dr. Evil here wouldn’t let it past the front door otherwise.”
“God forbid I attempt to moderate your brother’s sugar and red-meat intake,” Cas said. Sam smiled.
“Cas, you should know to pick your battles.”
“If I can’t eat a hamburger and a slice of pie, I don’t want to live to be a hundred anyway,” Dean sniped. “Besides, Cas isn’t that concerned with your well-being. He wants you to call Missouri.”
Sam shrugged. “I need to. She’ll want to know about this. I should call Alan too.” Cas grinned. Dean glared at him. “You’re still afraid of her?”
“I’m not afraid of anything!”
“He said he’d visit my parents,” Cas said.
“Does he intend to fly there? Don’t think so.”
“Fine," Dean snapped. "Do you want me to call Missouri?”
“No, I will. She’s paid to be nice to me.” Sam stepped into the kitchen, a little slowly, a bit shaky, but pretty good nonetheless. Dean sighed and looked to Cas, who gave him a reassuring smile.
“He’s doing very well,” he said.
“Thanks to you.”
“Dean.”
“I mean it, Cas. You don’t have to do this.”
“He’s family,” Cas said, feeling his own nerves hum at the sudden fear of rejection. Dean seemed to understand, reached over and rubbed his thumb lightly over Cas’ knuckles.
“All joking aside-if you want me to meet the parents I will. But I’m not flying there.”
Cas felt a sudden, sharp sadness. “I don’t,” he mumbled. “It’s not worth it.” Dean cocked an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” he asked--slowly, defensively.
“It’s not you.”
“That is the oldest, most clichéd line in the book of I-want-to-dump-yous. What do you mean?”
“I mean...your definition of family is Sam. And his is you. You try to be better for one another. Try to understand and support one another. That’s not my family, Dean. You and Sam are my family now.”
“They’ll always be your family, Cas,” Dean said softly. “You’re of them, from them. Just like I’m of and from an abusive, alcoholic prick. So’s Sam. You can’t outrun it.”
Cas glanced to the kitchen, hear Sam begin to speak into the phone. “I know I can’t,” he murmured. “But I’d rather run with people who care.”
Dean reached across the space between them and lightly rubbed his shoulder. “Dude...did you just quote ‘Sex and the City?’”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m pretty sure you just did.”
“I’ve never even watched it.”
“I’m gonna look it up. If you quoted Carrie Bradshaw we are breaking up.”
“I never-” Cas frowned. “Wait--how would you know if I did?”
“I know my pop culture.”
“You know not only what show I may have quoted, but which character, by first and last name, I may have inadvertently plagiarized from?”
“I watch ‘Talk Soup.’”
“You are not cheating on me with those four. I won’t allow it.”
“So any other four are game?”
“Of course. I’m a liberal man.”
Dean laughed. From the kitchen, they heard Sam laugh too. “You’re the biggest dork. Lucky for you, I like dorks.”
“Lucky for me, I like terrible pickup lines.”
Then
When Sam had finally emerged from his nearly immobile depressive state, he had rocketed into an equally crippling anxious one.
The doctors had shown them a chart of mental illness and indicated that anxiety was hovering above depression in terms of severity, but Dean and Cas had to question it.
Sam had called them multiple times a day, in severe distress. He had been constantly convinced that they were in danger, or were about to be. He had woken them in the night, nearly hyperventilating, demanding that Dean get up and check that all their windows were locked--and he wanted the phone next to the lock so he could hear the click and be sure--or that the smoke detectors had good fresh batteries, or that the gas on their stove was firmly turned off. He had begged Cas to check Dean's heart rate, his temperature, blood-pressure, pupils, feel his glands, take vitamins, and report back numerically on all his findings before repeating the examination on himself.
At first they tried to talk him down, spending sometimes hours on the phone assuring and placating and calming before ultimately following Sam's obsessive instructions to get him to relax. Eventually they gave up even trying to negotiate and tried to assuage his fears as quickly as possible. They got used to finding each other carrying a stool and holding the phone up next to the smoke-detectors so Sam could hear the test, or clicking the locks on the windows and doors (Sam claimed he could hear the difference), and, on more than one occasion, Cas had found Dean on his back under the Impala in the middle of the night, assuring Sam that their cars had solid brake lines and full oil and no, the engines were not going to spontaneously combust the next time they went to turn them over.
Yes, Dean and Cas were healthy. Yes, Dean and Cas were safe. Yes, Dean and Cas were going to be there when he woke up, and the day after that, and the day after that.
Sam still called.
Now
“Missouri said she heard from the clinic that the other three were admitted,” Sam reported, settling down on the sofa bed, Gatorade in hand.
“That’s it?” Dean scoffed.
“She also said it’s good she heard from them first, because she wouldn’t have believed a word out of my damn fool mouth otherwise.”
Cas smiled. For many people, Missouri's take-no-prisoners style may be perceived as offensive, but the Winchesters appreciated her tough-love. And, to those like Sam, who tried hard, he had seen her warm, maternal side. She deeply cared about her clients, and she showed great pride in Sam's efforts.
"She wants to see me first thing Monday. She said she'd get Alan to get in touch with my boss."
"I'll take you in," Dean said.
"Thanks." Sam looked down a bit shyly. "Both of you. I really...I didn't think I could do it yesterday."
Cas glanced at Dean. "Sam...we discussed yesterday the possibility of you coming to live here."
"No." Sam shook his head. "I mean...thank you. I know you'll let me come here. But I'd be a burden."
"Sammy--"
"No, Dean, I would. You need your space, and I..." he swallowed, hard. "I've sat back and let you fix my life way for way too long. You need to let me try and fix my own."
"I hate you being around all those other addicts all the time."
"They're not all bad news, though. I've made friends. This is just a slip. I'll be better. I swear. I didn't mean to. It won't happen again. I can--"
"Calm down," Dean soothed. "We're not mad. We trust you."
Sam didn't answer. Dean waved him over, patting the sofabed next to him. Sam glanced between the two of them, as if ensuring that they weren't luring him into a brawl, then took a seat besides his brother.
"Thank you," Sam murmured.
"You can always come here."
"I know." He shoved his brother playfully. "Quit being a girl. There's a game on in ten minutes."
"Dumbass bitch," Dean grumbled, winking at Cas. Cas grinned back. Dean was the only one in the world who could make a line of swear words sound like a love poem.
Then
To have said Sam emerged good as new was a lie.
Sam wasn’t new. And he wasn’t good. He was thin and pale and sick and depressed and facing so much emotional and physical work it seemed impossible he'd ever be back to normal.
But, he was clean of all things illegal. And--if you counted certain pills and booze--many legal, yet abused, things.
Missouri, who had led both Sam’s private, individual sessions, and the family therapy for the three of them, broke the news that Sam would be admitted to a halfway house. Dean had reacted badly.
“He can come live with me,” he’d argued.
“With us,” Cas had echoed.
“With us,” Dean had snapped.
“He can,” Missouri had agreed. “He’s indicated to me his choice is a halfway house.”
“There’s no reason for that. He’s sober. He should come home.”
“It’s his choice, Dean.”
“He’s proven he can’t make good choices!”
“Ah," Missouri had said. "So, going to school? Dating Jessica? Coming here? Staying clean? They were all bad choices?"
“Trying coke? Drinking himself sick? Living on the street?” Dean had mocked.
From the corner, Sam had, finally, raised his voice. “You’re both right,” he said, soft, ashamed, and, when he raised his head, his eyes were wet. “I know. But, Dean...I’ve lied, and stolen, and cheated you. You finally have a life, now. With someone who’s devoted, just to you. And a home that’s all yours. And I...I don’t trust myself. I need to stay with people who get it.”
“I get it,” Dean had snapped.
“You don’t,” Sam had said, face softening. “I know you want to. I know how hard you try. But you can’t, Dean. And that’s okay. I don’t want you to. I want...you and Cas. Together. Without having to worry about me. Please?”
“A bunch of addicts in one house can keep you from using?” Dean had nearly shouted.
“No one can keep me from using but me, Dean,” Sam had said sadly, “I know we don’t have any reason to, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to trust me. And I’m going to need you to try and do that too.”
Dean's face had fallen. "Sammy...I do."
"You don't. You shouldn't. I haven't earned it. I've wrecked it. But...I can't do this without you."
Cas had tried very, very hard to keep his tears in check. Dean had done the same.
Now
Dean made them lunch-dry toast for Sam, turkey with tomato and lettuce and fat-free mayonnaise for Cas, and roast-beef and cheese for himself.
They ate quietly in front of the television, Sam pressed close to his brother, Cas pressed close to them both so they could all fit on the sofabed.
Sam polished off a large Gatorade and started in on another before falling asleep, head on Dean’s shoulder.
The elder Winchester gently eased him down until he was relaxed on the mattress, settling on the pillows himself, resting his cheek on his brother’s head.
Cas finished his sandwich, leaned back against the cushions, and felt his own eyelids begin to drift downward.
Then
Sam had walked them to the parking lot. Dean had gripped his brother in a fierce hug, voice low and raspy with emotion.
“I’ll have your back, no matter what,” he had murmured. “But if you need to, you come to me. You hear me? After all this, Sammy, please. Come to me.”
Sam had nodded. “I will, Dean,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll need to.”
Now
Cas had to be at the hospital in three hours.
Sam was sleeping: calmly, peacefully, without any shakes.
Dean was stretched flat on the bed against him, a drowsy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
So many years on hellishly long shifts had taught Cas to adapt, and he thought what the hell and slid down beside the two Winchesters, accepting the blanket Dean tossed over the three of them, scooting a little closer to Sam's broad back.
Dean reached over his brother's body to entwine his fingers with Cas'.
Cas squeezed back.
In that moment, Sam was their brother and their child and their best friend in one, and they were lovers and brothers and parents at the same time, and maybe it is the most screwed up thing in the world, that three grown men are lying in one bed, with multiple roles and responsibilities, and maybe everyone can't be saved, and maybe everyone will label them co-dependent and entangled and reject them, but right then they're three people who love and need one another, and they're a family, and it's enough.
Part I Part II
Apparently, without Sam, Dean could find no reason to maintain a working liver.
Night after night, Cas had sat up until early morning, ensuring his boyfriend made it through his drunken sleep, praying, for once, that the phone wouldn't ring, or a knock wouldn't come at their front door, because he was confident, if it did, that it meant Sam was dead.
His own focus had been shot, fear for both the Winchesters encompassing his every thought. He had dreaded hearing of a tall, brunette John Doe being admitted to the emergency room, without insurance or family. He had put in alerts at all the local hospitals that he should be contacted regarding anyone who remotely fit Sam's description.
He had feared leaving Dean alone. Had feared even more that the drinking would spiral out of control. He hinted as much, tried to remind Dean that this was what led both their fathers astray, and, for the first time ever, saw his boyfriend's fist raised in his direction.
"You hit me and I'll leave you," he had warned. "You hit me and you'll be him."
It may have been low to invoke John Winchester. But, in that moment, grief-stricken and lost and drunk and enraged, Dean had never been closer to his father.
Dean's fist had, slowly, uncurled. He'd let out a heart-broken sob and staggered away, chanting "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over and over. Cas had waited less than a minute before moving forward to hold him. Dean had cried in his arms for so long Cas had feared he'd pass out.
Together, they had dumped the rest of the alcohol in the house down the sink.
The night after, they had made love slowly and sweetly, re-learning, re-trusting. Cas had held Dean tight, all through the following few painful nights.
And then, the phone had rung. Doctor Alan Montgomery, from Rosemount Rehabilitation Center. Sam Winchester had appeared asking for full-time residency.
Cas had informed him that all charges should be billed to him.
Now
Sam managed some eggs and dry toast. Dean ate like he’d been starved for days. Cas was surprised how hungry he was himself-food had been the farthest thing from their minds, and not just because Sam had spent most of the night vomiting.
After breakfast, the Winchesters did the dishes while Cas checked his voicemail. Fortunately, he hadn’t missed anything urgent, though he made a few notes for tests and medications to adjust on shift. Dean came out of the kitchen, Sam trailing along behind, a little too close.
“I’m gonna get Sammy in the shower,” he said. Sam made a disgusted face.
“I can get a shower on my own, you freak.”
“Well I've got to get these sheets changed and they aren't enough for a full load. Cas, you got laundry?”
“In the bathroom basket.”
“On it.” Dean eyed his brother warily. Sam made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped, swayed. Dean was already bounding up behind him and instantly gripped his shoulders.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He took two more steps and swayed backward.
“Sam!”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re gonna take us both down these stairs, you big idiot.”
Sam grabbed at his chest, his breathing speeding up. Cas realized he was having palpitations-an all too common side effect.
“Dean,” he cautioned. The elder Winchester rolled his eyes.
“Alright, bro. Easy does it. C’mon, we got this.”
Sam reached out a shaky hand and grabbed at Dean’s shirt. Dean, ever the big brother, got an arm around him and helped him the rest of the way up the steps, talking softly at the top. A few minutes later he heard the shower turn on, and Dean’s footsteps going between the bathroom, their room, and the guest room. He hesitated before putting in a call to Alan, Sam’s PCP, and debated leaving a message for Missouri before deciding it was best for Sam to make that call-not because he was scared of her retribution, no sir-and set about stripping the sheets off the fold-out.
Dean appeared, swearing under his breath, an armful of dirty laundry threatening to spill out of his arms. “Dumbass won’t admit he’s dizzy as hell.”
“I can’t imagine where he learned such aberrant resistance to support.”
“Screw you. I gave him baths and changed his diapers. He doesn’t get to have pride with me.”
“I imagine he’s feeling a lot of embarrassment right now.” Cas followed behind Dean in order to open the washer, bedding in his own arms.
“Christ, Cas. I heard what you said, man, and I’m trying to believe in him and all that, but I want him to be able to tell me when he needs me.”
“He called you from Rosemount. He calls, faithfully, daily. You know how very much he relies on you.”
As if on some sick cue, he heard a crash above them. Dean had already dumped in his share of the laundry, and practically knocked Cas backwards into the dryer in an effort to get to the stairs. Cas was close behind him, but Dean waved him off as he pounded on the bathroom door and bellowed “Sammy?”
A beat. Then: “Dean.”
It was weak, ashamed, defeated. Dean went in and shut Cas out. He returned downstairs and had just started the washer when the phone rang.
“It’s Cas,” he sighed.
“Cas, Alan Montgomery.”
“Alan. Thank you for calling back so quickly.”
“I had Sam on my charts this morning. The clinic says he went home with you and Dean?”
“Yes. He’s stable, though a little weak right now.”
“Normally I’d call bull looking at all this. But lucky for you, those three idiots who dumped their stash in the shaker cooked up their own little cocktail, got sick, and wound up on our doorstep this morning. They said by the time they made it down to grab it Sam had already eaten a bunch. It was pretty potent stuff.”
“We discovered that last night.”
It was Alan’s turn to sigh. “Sam really has been trying. He has a bad habit of trying to dumb down how bad his symptoms are though. I imagine he also tries to dumb down his cravings.”
“We’ve noticed.” Cas smiled affectionately. “I’m afraid it runs in the Winchester family.” Alan barked a laugh.
“Well, that’s Missouri’s territory, and I learned long ago not to step near it. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Alan.”
“Thank you. Can’t say I’m sad to have his bed empty.”
Cas hung up. Dean came stomping down the stairs a moment later, looking ready to punch something.
“He fell,” he growled, stalking toward the kitchen. “We got icepacks?”
“Freezer. He hit his head?”
“Of course. Felt dizzy, got out of the shower, dropped like a drunken brick. But get this-pulled on his pajama bottoms before he let me in.”
Cas lost his battle with a smile. Dean glared at him. “Don’t you start.”
“I’m sure you’d be all too happy to let Sam and I assist you while you lie on the floor, soaked and stark naked.”
“Shut it.”
“I can bring up some Gatorade and he can stay up there and rest.”
“He doesn’t want to. He also says that he thinks the steam should have triggered the smoke detectors, so I guarantee we’re going to have to do checks this afternoon. There’s no way we’re going to get him to stay up there until we go to bed.”
Cas lowered his voice. “Alan said the three from Sam’s house have been admitted. They confirmed his story.”
Dean stopped on his way to the stairs. “What’d they dump?”
“Heroine. A fairly strong batch, according to Alan.”
“God.” Dean’s face twisted in sudden grief. Cas crossed the room and touched his boyfriend’s arm. “Cas-”
“He’s going to be alright,” he said firmly. “He can come here, Dean. He can live here. He just needs to say the word.”
Dean squeezed his hand, hard. Then took up off the stairs, ice in hand and determination on his face.
Then
Sam had called from Rosemount, voice shaky and hoarse and all-too clearly in early withdraw.
"Cas?" he had gasped.
"Hey," Cas had smiled, hoping warmth carried into his voice. "Don't worry, I've given the full steam ahead. Billing it to my insurance."
"They're--they're gonna--lock me down." Cas could hear the younger man's terror. "I'm--I'm already--sick."
"It isn't fun," Cas had soothed. "It's hell, in fact. But it passes, Sam. And when you come out the other side, we will be there."
Sam's breath had hitched. "Cas...please...tell me. Does...does Dean...does he hate me?"
"No. Sam--"
"Will he--can he--ever--"
"We're coming down," Cas had said firmly. "Sit tight."
Dean had nearly crawled out of skin on the drive down to the clinic. Sam had been in the admittance waiting room, body already shaking and sweaty with early withdrawal, sneezing, crying, and scratching at his arms and legs. He took one look at Dean and staggered to his feet, stumbling forward like a damaged creature in one of the brothers' beloved sci-fi movies.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had sobbed. Dean had wrapped him in his arms and Sam had promptly sneezed on his brother's coat.
"Shhhh," Dean had murmured, closed his eyes and layed a hand on the back of Sam's dark, dirty head. "It's okay, Sammy."
"Dean...don't...I shouldn't...I'm--"
"I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Dean had pulled back and gripped the sides of his younger brother's head, brushed tears with his thumbs, offered him a half-smile.
"I'm scared," Sam had gasped.
"Just a day or two. And it'll be out of you. And we'll be here, every day if we can. And you can call. And when you're all cleaned up, you can come home."
Sam had sneezed again. "You'll--let--me?"
Dean had drawn a deep breath. "I never should have said what I did. I won't give up on you. You fight and I will fight with you. You just got to do this. I know you can, Sammy."
"I--wish--" Sam's voice had broke. His body had convulsed. Dean had guided him to a sofa and sat with his hands on his biceps. "Wish--you--could--be there."
"Me too," Dean had pulled his brother back against his chest, laying his chin on the top of his head. "Me too, buddy." Sam had sobbed against him. "Shhh," Dean had whispered, rocking them slightly, "it's okay. It's gonna be okay."
"I...miss you...so...much..."
"I gotcha," Dean had murmured, a single tear escaping. "I'm here."
Cas had retreated toward the nurse's station, letting the brothers alone.
"Here for Winchester?" a doctor had asked.
"Yes. I'm Dr. Cas Morgan."
"Alan Montgomery, Sam's PCP." He had glanced toward the waiting room. "Glad you guys made it down. We've got to move him in ten."
"He's not a bad kid," Cas had pleaded.
"Been in this business twenty-some years. I can tell the rotten apples from the good." He had handed Cas a copy of a folder. "If you want to look. We're going to cross treat him. The alcohol's bad, but I wouldn't say he's physically hooked. Still, we're going to keep a close eye." He had glanced to the brothers in the waiting room. "It's not fun, but it's not fatal," he said gently. "He came on his own, no signs of withdrawal. Said he had to get clean. That's way better than the court ultimatums most people show up with."
"I'd like to be kept up to date with his charts."
"We can do that."
"He lost two girlfriends and his father in two years."
"I understand."
"The first died in a fire. A freak electrical thing in their ceiling. He was out studying."
"Doctor--"
"Their father was an alcoholic. Their mother died when they were children. Their father beat them."
"As I said--"
"He had a full ride to school. He wanted to be a lawyer. He had an interview for law school two days before his girlfriend burnt to death in her sleep."
"Doctor, please--"
"Cas. My name is Cas. His name is Sam. His brother is Dean. Their names were Jess and John and Madison. And--"
"Cas," the had doctor guided him into the hallway, a gentle hand on his arm. "Listen. I can't heal him emotionally. Any of them. But every man and woman who comes through that door and is assigned to me gets the very best physical treatment I'm able to provide. It's going to be hard, but I'm going to make it as easy as I can. And when he's well, I will help oversee his psychological counseling. Be available for follow-ups. Advise on his meds." He had squeezed Cas's arm. "working late nights with addicts is one of the least glamorous tracks in our profession. No one chooses this path unless they've loved someone whose been lost down it."
Cas had felt his chest hitch. Hadn't realized he'd started crying. Behind him, he had heard Sam cry out as Dean's voice rose.
"Take care of him," he managed. Alan squeezed his arm and moved into the waiting area. He said something too low for Cas to hear, and Sam nodded as Dean helped him to his feet. The doctor stepped respectfully away and Cas watched as Dean leaned close, brushing his brother's tears with his thumbs, fixing unruly hair behind his ears, and then pulling him down to press a quick kiss on his brow. Sam clutched at him desperately, burying his face in his brother's neck for a moment, before slowly releasing him and making his way to Alan, pausing only at the double doors to stare back at Dean, lips and body shaking, tears streaming down his face. Dean gave his warmest, most accepting smile, the first one Cas had ever fallen in love with. Sam looked toward him, than back at his brother, clearly trying to draw strength. Dean nodded in his brother's direction. Sam shuddered, a sob escaping, before looking toward Alan and disappearing behind the doors.
Cas and Dean had cried together on the bench seat of the Impala, knowing that, inside, Sam would soon be screaming for them.
Now
After Dean got Sam sorted, the brothers ended up back on the sofa. Dean was sitting up once more, but Sam dutifully took his valium, curled up by his elder brother’s hip, and drifted off to sleep. Cas switched the laundry to the dryer and, when it buzzed, brought the still-warm clothes to Dean, for the two of them to fold.
“When Sam wakes up, he should call Missouri,” Cas murmured.
“Dude, she’s going to fry him up and eat him for breakfast.”
“Just because you’re scared of Missouri doesn’t mean Sam is.”
“I’m not scared of anyone or anything.”
“Then how about we visit my parents this summer?”
Dean made a face. “Low blow, dude.” Cas smiled and finished folding his shirt.
“You got to go in tonight?”
“I do.” He looked back toward the sleeping Sam. “He’ll be fine.”
“Will you?”
Cas looked from his sleeping friend, to Dean’s warm, worried look, and smiled. “Think I’m good.”
Then
The first few weeks after Sam's withdrawal, he was so physically and emotionally depressed he barely spoke. He refused to leave his bed for meals or groups or for morning meds, and wound up on a glucose line and suicide watch.
"The anti-depressants will take some time to kick in," Missouri, Sam's primary therapist, assured them. "When they do, they'll probably need adjusting. Sam's altered his entire chemistry. His body ain't gonna let him forget it overnight."
Dean called her a host of abominable words on the drive home, but one week later Sam had stood in the waiting area, looking thin and pale and exhausted and sick, but standing. He had attempted to eat a semi-normal dinner with them and attempted a bit of small talk, and Dean grumbled a little less about Missouri and her "psycho-babble."
The doctors had adjusted and readjusted and reissued Sam's medication in an effort to combat the worst of the depression, anxiety, and withdrawal, and as a result Sam's emotions became firecrackers: you never knew what color you're going to get, and when, but when you get it, it's wild and hot and goes on longer than you imagined it could last. Some nights Sam had woken them sobbing so hard he almost can't breathe, unable to voice anything but "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over and over. Other times it was his obsessive checks, or he'd flown into a rage about lock-down and wanted them to come get him. He had called convinced his nightmares were premonitions and begged them not to drive, or go to work, or go to the grocery store until he deems it safe. He called heartbroken about Jess, Madison, and his father. He called manic and laughing over things that make no sense.
And then depression would hit and he wouldn't call at all.
They had learned to deal. They take turns on Sam's checks, double-team him in his rages, let Cas take the lead explaining the science behind his nightmares, let Dean take the lead on anything involving their father. The nights Sam called crying too hard to speak Cas spoons Dean while his boyfriend hums rock ballads to his devastated brother, letting the gentle, deep voice sooth them all. And when he gets depressed, they went to the ward and sat on his bed and took turns holding him until he managed to get on his feet.
Now
When Sam woke once more, he stumbled blearily into the bathroom, washed his face and hands, and emerged to shyly, sweetly, ask if they minded if he helped himself to the Gatorade.
“Dude,” Dean said, “we only keep that shit in the house for you. Dr. Evil here wouldn’t let it past the front door otherwise.”
“God forbid I attempt to moderate your brother’s sugar and red-meat intake,” Cas said. Sam smiled.
“Cas, you should know to pick your battles.”
“If I can’t eat a hamburger and a slice of pie, I don’t want to live to be a hundred anyway,” Dean sniped. “Besides, Cas isn’t that concerned with your well-being. He wants you to call Missouri.”
Sam shrugged. “I need to. She’ll want to know about this. I should call Alan too.” Cas grinned. Dean glared at him. “You’re still afraid of her?”
“I’m not afraid of anything!”
“He said he’d visit my parents,” Cas said.
“Does he intend to fly there? Don’t think so.”
“Fine," Dean snapped. "Do you want me to call Missouri?”
“No, I will. She’s paid to be nice to me.” Sam stepped into the kitchen, a little slowly, a bit shaky, but pretty good nonetheless. Dean sighed and looked to Cas, who gave him a reassuring smile.
“He’s doing very well,” he said.
“Thanks to you.”
“Dean.”
“I mean it, Cas. You don’t have to do this.”
“He’s family,” Cas said, feeling his own nerves hum at the sudden fear of rejection. Dean seemed to understand, reached over and rubbed his thumb lightly over Cas’ knuckles.
“All joking aside-if you want me to meet the parents I will. But I’m not flying there.”
Cas felt a sudden, sharp sadness. “I don’t,” he mumbled. “It’s not worth it.” Dean cocked an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” he asked--slowly, defensively.
“It’s not you.”
“That is the oldest, most clichéd line in the book of I-want-to-dump-yous. What do you mean?”
“I mean...your definition of family is Sam. And his is you. You try to be better for one another. Try to understand and support one another. That’s not my family, Dean. You and Sam are my family now.”
“They’ll always be your family, Cas,” Dean said softly. “You’re of them, from them. Just like I’m of and from an abusive, alcoholic prick. So’s Sam. You can’t outrun it.”
Cas glanced to the kitchen, hear Sam begin to speak into the phone. “I know I can’t,” he murmured. “But I’d rather run with people who care.”
Dean reached across the space between them and lightly rubbed his shoulder. “Dude...did you just quote ‘Sex and the City?’”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m pretty sure you just did.”
“I’ve never even watched it.”
“I’m gonna look it up. If you quoted Carrie Bradshaw we are breaking up.”
“I never-” Cas frowned. “Wait--how would you know if I did?”
“I know my pop culture.”
“You know not only what show I may have quoted, but which character, by first and last name, I may have inadvertently plagiarized from?”
“I watch ‘Talk Soup.’”
“You are not cheating on me with those four. I won’t allow it.”
“So any other four are game?”
“Of course. I’m a liberal man.”
Dean laughed. From the kitchen, they heard Sam laugh too. “You’re the biggest dork. Lucky for you, I like dorks.”
“Lucky for me, I like terrible pickup lines.”
Then
When Sam had finally emerged from his nearly immobile depressive state, he had rocketed into an equally crippling anxious one.
The doctors had shown them a chart of mental illness and indicated that anxiety was hovering above depression in terms of severity, but Dean and Cas had to question it.
Sam had called them multiple times a day, in severe distress. He had been constantly convinced that they were in danger, or were about to be. He had woken them in the night, nearly hyperventilating, demanding that Dean get up and check that all their windows were locked--and he wanted the phone next to the lock so he could hear the click and be sure--or that the smoke detectors had good fresh batteries, or that the gas on their stove was firmly turned off. He had begged Cas to check Dean's heart rate, his temperature, blood-pressure, pupils, feel his glands, take vitamins, and report back numerically on all his findings before repeating the examination on himself.
At first they tried to talk him down, spending sometimes hours on the phone assuring and placating and calming before ultimately following Sam's obsessive instructions to get him to relax. Eventually they gave up even trying to negotiate and tried to assuage his fears as quickly as possible. They got used to finding each other carrying a stool and holding the phone up next to the smoke-detectors so Sam could hear the test, or clicking the locks on the windows and doors (Sam claimed he could hear the difference), and, on more than one occasion, Cas had found Dean on his back under the Impala in the middle of the night, assuring Sam that their cars had solid brake lines and full oil and no, the engines were not going to spontaneously combust the next time they went to turn them over.
Yes, Dean and Cas were healthy. Yes, Dean and Cas were safe. Yes, Dean and Cas were going to be there when he woke up, and the day after that, and the day after that.
Sam still called.
Now
“Missouri said she heard from the clinic that the other three were admitted,” Sam reported, settling down on the sofa bed, Gatorade in hand.
“That’s it?” Dean scoffed.
“She also said it’s good she heard from them first, because she wouldn’t have believed a word out of my damn fool mouth otherwise.”
Cas smiled. For many people, Missouri's take-no-prisoners style may be perceived as offensive, but the Winchesters appreciated her tough-love. And, to those like Sam, who tried hard, he had seen her warm, maternal side. She deeply cared about her clients, and she showed great pride in Sam's efforts.
"She wants to see me first thing Monday. She said she'd get Alan to get in touch with my boss."
"I'll take you in," Dean said.
"Thanks." Sam looked down a bit shyly. "Both of you. I really...I didn't think I could do it yesterday."
Cas glanced at Dean. "Sam...we discussed yesterday the possibility of you coming to live here."
"No." Sam shook his head. "I mean...thank you. I know you'll let me come here. But I'd be a burden."
"Sammy--"
"No, Dean, I would. You need your space, and I..." he swallowed, hard. "I've sat back and let you fix my life way for way too long. You need to let me try and fix my own."
"I hate you being around all those other addicts all the time."
"They're not all bad news, though. I've made friends. This is just a slip. I'll be better. I swear. I didn't mean to. It won't happen again. I can--"
"Calm down," Dean soothed. "We're not mad. We trust you."
Sam didn't answer. Dean waved him over, patting the sofabed next to him. Sam glanced between the two of them, as if ensuring that they weren't luring him into a brawl, then took a seat besides his brother.
"Thank you," Sam murmured.
"You can always come here."
"I know." He shoved his brother playfully. "Quit being a girl. There's a game on in ten minutes."
"Dumbass bitch," Dean grumbled, winking at Cas. Cas grinned back. Dean was the only one in the world who could make a line of swear words sound like a love poem.
Then
To have said Sam emerged good as new was a lie.
Sam wasn’t new. And he wasn’t good. He was thin and pale and sick and depressed and facing so much emotional and physical work it seemed impossible he'd ever be back to normal.
But, he was clean of all things illegal. And--if you counted certain pills and booze--many legal, yet abused, things.
Missouri, who had led both Sam’s private, individual sessions, and the family therapy for the three of them, broke the news that Sam would be admitted to a halfway house. Dean had reacted badly.
“He can come live with me,” he’d argued.
“With us,” Cas had echoed.
“With us,” Dean had snapped.
“He can,” Missouri had agreed. “He’s indicated to me his choice is a halfway house.”
“There’s no reason for that. He’s sober. He should come home.”
“It’s his choice, Dean.”
“He’s proven he can’t make good choices!”
“Ah," Missouri had said. "So, going to school? Dating Jessica? Coming here? Staying clean? They were all bad choices?"
“Trying coke? Drinking himself sick? Living on the street?” Dean had mocked.
From the corner, Sam had, finally, raised his voice. “You’re both right,” he said, soft, ashamed, and, when he raised his head, his eyes were wet. “I know. But, Dean...I’ve lied, and stolen, and cheated you. You finally have a life, now. With someone who’s devoted, just to you. And a home that’s all yours. And I...I don’t trust myself. I need to stay with people who get it.”
“I get it,” Dean had snapped.
“You don’t,” Sam had said, face softening. “I know you want to. I know how hard you try. But you can’t, Dean. And that’s okay. I don’t want you to. I want...you and Cas. Together. Without having to worry about me. Please?”
“A bunch of addicts in one house can keep you from using?” Dean had nearly shouted.
“No one can keep me from using but me, Dean,” Sam had said sadly, “I know we don’t have any reason to, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to trust me. And I’m going to need you to try and do that too.”
Dean's face had fallen. "Sammy...I do."
"You don't. You shouldn't. I haven't earned it. I've wrecked it. But...I can't do this without you."
Cas had tried very, very hard to keep his tears in check. Dean had done the same.
Now
Dean made them lunch-dry toast for Sam, turkey with tomato and lettuce and fat-free mayonnaise for Cas, and roast-beef and cheese for himself.
They ate quietly in front of the television, Sam pressed close to his brother, Cas pressed close to them both so they could all fit on the sofabed.
Sam polished off a large Gatorade and started in on another before falling asleep, head on Dean’s shoulder.
The elder Winchester gently eased him down until he was relaxed on the mattress, settling on the pillows himself, resting his cheek on his brother’s head.
Cas finished his sandwich, leaned back against the cushions, and felt his own eyelids begin to drift downward.
Then
Sam had walked them to the parking lot. Dean had gripped his brother in a fierce hug, voice low and raspy with emotion.
“I’ll have your back, no matter what,” he had murmured. “But if you need to, you come to me. You hear me? After all this, Sammy, please. Come to me.”
Sam had nodded. “I will, Dean,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll need to.”
Now
Cas had to be at the hospital in three hours.
Sam was sleeping: calmly, peacefully, without any shakes.
Dean was stretched flat on the bed against him, a drowsy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
So many years on hellishly long shifts had taught Cas to adapt, and he thought what the hell and slid down beside the two Winchesters, accepting the blanket Dean tossed over the three of them, scooting a little closer to Sam's broad back.
Dean reached over his brother's body to entwine his fingers with Cas'.
Cas squeezed back.
In that moment, Sam was their brother and their child and their best friend in one, and they were lovers and brothers and parents at the same time, and maybe it is the most screwed up thing in the world, that three grown men are lying in one bed, with multiple roles and responsibilities, and maybe everyone can't be saved, and maybe everyone will label them co-dependent and entangled and reject them, but right then they're three people who love and need one another, and they're a family, and it's enough.
Part I Part II