prompt fic: mouths of decadence
So, this was written for sasquatch_love's challenge, specifically prompt 134. chubby 12 year old Sam develops an eating disorder (requested by whatjuliewrites). It's maybe not exactly what she wanted, but hopefully it's close. Big, BIG thanks to taylor_serenil for helping with the sentence from hell, as well as corralling my love for semi-colons and generally making this readable. Of course, I'm a compulsive editor, so any remaining mistakes are mine.
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; gen; preseries (au), mostly, but spoilers for the pilot; h/c; dick!John; sick!Sam; remember: this deals with EATING DISORDERS, so if that's triggerish for anyone, don't read, please. 6-7, maybe, on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
Also, this thing weighs in at 6,683 words, and is the longest oneshot I've written to date. I'm so absurdly pleased by this, I don't even know. *g*
Mouths of Decadence
November, 2005
When Sam meets him it's with fists, feet, and smooth floor at his back that gives Dean everything he needs. He doesn't have to ask questions or say all the things he knows will piss off his brother.
Okay, well, he still manages to do that, but not for the reasons he was hoping to avoid. There’s not that awkwardness; he can feel weight and muscle and confidence stealing the air from his lungs, and it makes it easy to smile. He can mutter, "Get off me," wrap his own hand around the one Sam offers him, and use his brother's strength to haul himself off the floor.
And even when he starts in, Dad’s been on a hunting trip, when he sees Sam’s eyes narrow, sees the arm around Jess’s waist tighten then slip away, he still feels his relief bubbling up in his chest. It thrums through him, so that when Sam drags him outside - hissed whispers and only a finger’s width of space between them - he has to fight the grin tugging at his lips. Has to force his mind to focus on Sam’s words and Sam’s anger, so he doesn’t say you did it; you did it and I’m proud of you.
He manages it, though. Keeps all those words locked up behind his teeth, just says yeah, but I don’t want to, and watches Sam head back inside to pack a bag and tell his girl whatever lies he’s been saving up. He doesn’t miss Sam’s looks, or how he keeps his face tilted toward Dean. He thinks his brother has his own questions, ones like why or what or how. He just ignores them, though; what he told Sam was the truth. Dad is missing, has been missing, and Dean’s worried.
Dean needs his brother with him. Wants family to help find family. And if he wandered by the fridge on his way into Sam’s living room, if he saw the lunchmeat and cheese and dozens of other things, if he pictured Sam in the kitchen, orderly array of ingredients laid out beside him on the counter, and two different butter knives for the mustard and mayonnaise, well. It’s nobody’s business, anyway.
------
August, 1995
At 12 Sam isn’t fat. Dean knows this, so when his father says, “Goddamnit, boy, three more laps, and you shouldn’t be puffing,” to Sam, he wants to say something. Maybe it’s all right, to his little brother, who’s sweating and red-faced from more than exertion, or maybe shut the hell up to his dad, who’s already spinning on his heel and walking away even before Sam starts on his next lap.
No, Sam isn’t anywhere near fat, really. It just seems like lately his body’s storing everything that’s put inside it. Maybe a little chubby, Dean thinks, but it’s not like Sam’s eating all the time or cutting back on training, even though he bitches about it constantly. Dean knows he’s even joined the soccer team at school, because he picks him up at the field three days out of the week. So he knows it isn’t Sam’s fault, that little bit of extra weight that his dad seems to think is going to get them all killed on a hunt. Not the kid’s fault, and Dean really thinks their dad needs to lay off a bit until Sam’s body decides what the hell it’s trying to do.
He’s torn, because puberty or training or their dad is turning Sam into a brat, and Dean isn’t really looking for the kind of grief he’d get if he offered unsolicited concern. He knows that if he waits, if Sam gets upset enough to come to him, then he’s allowed to throw an arm around slumped shoulders, pull his baby brother to him for a moment, say Sam-I-Am, and let Sam spill everything.
He hasn’t sought Sam out, himself, in a long time; not since the last time he got bitched out from one end of their crappy rental to the other after cornering his brother about some fight he’d had at school. He shies away from pressuring Sam, tells himself he’s old enough to handle this on his own; he’ll get over it, and thinks he actually has a chance at convincing himself it's true.
So he reels himself in, turns and heads in the direction of the house, stripping his shirt off and wiping at the sweat trickling across his chest as he goes. August in South Carolina is hot and humid, even though the few trees in their neighborhood are already turning red and orange and dropping dead leaves to clutter drains and sewers.
It’s hot enough, at least, that he’s absurdly grateful for the weak curl of air brushing over him as he steps inside the house.
---
Their dad’s already left, and Dean is scraping out sweet peas over macaroni and cheese when Sam gets in. He looks up, sees the tension in Sam’s body, says, “why don’t you rinse off?” He isn’t surprised when his brother just snorts and heads into the bathroom. He thinks maybe a shower and food and their dad gone for the night will be enough to kick Sam out of his funk.
But Sam’s still stiff, so quiet that Dean can’t stop staring at him from the corner of his eye as he eats, fake cheese sharp and congealed against his tongue.
“Sam,” he says, sick of watching his brother try to spear the same rubbery pea for the hundredth time. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He just wants - ”
“He wants me to be you.” Sam rolls his eyes, throws his fork onto the chipped table. The underside of the tines clunk dully against the bowl. “I get it, Dean. Whatever.” Sam shoves his chair back, stands and mutters, “I’ve got a paper to write for history. ”
“The fuck,” Dean mutters, shoveling in his forkful of food and grimacing as the cold lump settles at the back of his throat.
------
Sometimes he sees Sam run hands over knobs and bumps of bone. Ribs, arms, face, legs. At first, Dean had thought that maybe it was reassurance; kind of a thank god, I’m alive deal, and considering what they did Dean didn’t think it was that weird at all. But he’s seen Sam press back into the hard, unforgiving material that makes up booth seats in the diner they frequent. His little brother pushing into it, arms braced on the table, muscles tense and pressed close to the surface of his skin. And Dean’s seen Sam shirtless; has seen the too obvious outline of Sam’s spine and tailbone, shifting and moving and painful to look at. He thinks that it has to hurt, when Sam’s bones collide with the worn fabric, the cheap stuffing. Or, at least, it’s uncomfortable.
But Sam won’t meet his eyes. Won’t respond to the quirk of Dean’s eyebrow that asks what’s going on, Sam? He just fiddles with his menu, eyes passing over descriptions and old pictures of unappetizing, greasy meals like he’s interested, like he’s going to order something besides ripped lettuce and slivers of carrots and radishes that make up a diner salad; like he’s not gonna say with lemons, please when their waitress asks about dressing, or have that small smile hiding in the corners of his lips, like he knows a secret that no one else does.
Sometimes Dean looks over at John. He wants to know if their dad notices anything (and even the thought makes him wince, because it’s been years, really, since John’s seen anything besides ghosts and monsters and charms and prayers). But he only sees John eyeing Sam with something close to approval, bright and happy, when Sam orders and picks at his food. When he starts disappearing into something too thin and stretched and cold, Dean thinks is this what you want? and he doesn't know who it's directed at, or if it even matters.
It’s at those moments that Dean’ll forget he loves John, worships him. He’ll forget everything but the swell of anger and frustration that makes the thought of beating the living shit out of him a good idea. So he tries - heart pounding and fists clenched tight under the scarred and stained table - not to include their dad in it.
It’s not surprising, then, that it seems like he spends every hour that isn’t a hunt with his eyes glued to his brother, constantly measuring his breaths and his movements, because it feels like if he doesn’t then he’d lose Sam. Turn to speak to him and have nothing at his side but space and air and silence that he’s never really wanted.
------
May, 1996
Toward the end of Sam's school year they're in Tennessee. John gets a call about a case. It's something he won't tell Sam about, and Dean isn't surprised, but then he won't tell Dean, and Dean's left biting his lips to keep from forcing the issue. After that, though, he has his hands full, because it's just another cheap apartment they're renting - faulty electrical wiring (and it's only that, Dean's made sure), sketchy water heater, and windows that jam shut no matter how much WD-40 they use on the rusty hinges.
Somehow Sam rekindles his absolute faith in Dean's abilities to fix anything. Before he knows it, Dean's racing around with tools he has no idea how to use. He bumbles around with them in vain attempts to fix faucets that seem to randomly spurt water and lights that only seem to work on Wednesdays after five o'clock. It's enough to make him give up, crash out on the couch and just wait. Every time he's about to, though, he feels puppy eyes on him, staring holes straight through his back. It doesn't take much after that to find himself trudging to the hardware store because maybe the sealant will work, but make sure the area is dry before applying it, and oh, look, we have these wonderful dehumidifiers right over here. He tries not to resent it.
When whatever John's hunting is handled, Dean's expecting a knock out, drag out fight, and he's not disappointed. Sam's wanting to stay, to at least get caught up with school work before moving and falling behind again (and Dean wonders why, when it's an endless pattern and nothing Sam does is gonna change that), and John's wanting to go whereever his newsclippings take him. Sam wins out eventually, and John makes the place his homebase, somewhere to come back to after hunts; Dean finds two part-time jobs and manages to keep a steady supply of sealant and liquid nails at hand.
It's in the middle of all this when he hears it from the closing shift cashier. She's a slightly older woman with two kids and an ear for gossip, who in a fit of desperation or boredom or something kept him an hour after he'd clocked out, just talking. It's on the first night of Sam's summer break, and Dean can't help but think the timing is fuckin perfect.
"I can't tell you what it means, hon," Laura says, helping him stock tomato sauce. "But have you heard about the attacks 'round here lately?"
"Oh," he says, pulling the front jars even with the shelf. "No, can't say I have."
"Wild dogs or coyotes or somethin'," and Dean can see her shudder and grin like she can't help it. "Crazy thing is, no one can find the packs, and if it is coyotes, hm. Well, I haven't heard 'em yippin, and believe me, I grew up with 'em roamin around, so I know what they sound like."
He nods, stacking empty crates on his cart before heading into the back room. "Anyone die?"
"So far, everyone who's been attacked. So make that 4 in the last three months?" She looks over at him and there's something written across her face that Dean can't read. "So, basically, just be careful, you and that brother of yours."
He brings it home to Sam, telling him what little he'd gleaned from Laura. Sam drums his fingers along the sofa's armrest and says, "Sure, Dean. I can start tomorrow, maybe use the library to look into anything, but. Shouldn't we let Dad know?"
"He's in fuckin South Dakota, workin' a rugaru case. I'm not interrupting that. If it's a werewolf, well, I've worked 'em with dad before. It'll be fine." Sam just grunts, but his face is soft, and Dean gets up to start supper.
After they figure it out (his name is Jacob Waller. He was attacked about a month before the first death, and he claimed what got him looked like a wolf or a hybrid. It's pretty standard, Dean), after Sam's soft I'm ready. I'll go with you, Dean'll come home after a late shift of stocking - too many cans and bags and bottles until Dean wants to punch somebody in the face just to relieve the monotony. Sometimes, when he drops into bed, Sam will wake up and crawl in beside him. As the clock ticks down to the full moon, Sam does it more and more often.
He's hesitant to touch, at first. Careful to keep space between them both, even on the small bed. But the intent, the purpose behind Sam's utter stillness, keeps Dean awake. Still, it's only when he reaches over, circles Sam's thin wrist with his own fingers, tips by the pulsepoint and the faint thumpthump of it, that Sam'll slide close enough that Dean can feel the graze of Sam's tee shirt against his bare skin.
He feels the heat of it on the night before the full moon - Sam, whispering into the skin of his neck, below his ear. Moist and clean and quiet, the faint trace of lips against him when Sam says, “What if I mess up? What if you die? I don't - just.”
It's easy, then, to slip his arms around his brother. Easy to sigh when his hands meet in the small of Sam's back, when he feels the edge of bone against his palm. Pressure to reassure, and he says, “It'll be fine. You'll see, Sammy. I'm good and you'll be there to watch my back, okay? I trust you.”
It isn't as easy to pretend not to hear the catch of breath or the quiet, hoarse sob before he feels dampness trail down, catch in the dip of his collarbones. But he does, because he isn't sure what Sam would say, what he would do, and his weight and the jab of long arms and legs is too familiar, too comforting, for Dean to want to give up.
---
In the end it's simple. Sam finds Jacob Waller's address and they track him easily for the week before the full moon. It's just one more step to sit outside his house, full moon painting everything in whites and grays and Dean knows what it means. So he just shifts the shot gun higher in his lap and waits with Sammy.
When they hear movement, quiet shuffling that gradually turns into the crashes and screams associated with the transformation, they're ready. By the time Dean busts the door down, Waller's fully changed, and it's a massive, black shape throwing itself at Dean. It's completely inhuman, and there's no hesitation when Dean points and shoots, dead center in the chest so that the spray sinks in deep, kills clean (and he's grateful, almost ready to cry with it, that Sam didn't have time to even aim the gun held in his hands. He thinks Sam already looks small and broken standing in the threshold with the moon at his back, and Dean can't imagine what shooting Waller would have done to his brother. Doesn't want to, doesn't have to, because they're fine, everything's fine).
------
He already knows he isn't taking Sam out on another case. Not now, when it's something their dad doesn't know about. Dean can't get Sam's eyes out of his head, sad and lost and a little confused, like he couldn't believe this was his life, killing things that were still human, sometimes. Dean doesn't want that for him, either, so when he hears about people getting sick or injured in ridiculous ways, he uses his spare time to hunt down the information, track the patterns to a new girl moved into town. Everything points to witch, and he's comfortable with that, can handle it on his own. Easy.
Sam brings it up at dinner one night. Says, "So, when are we going?" For a minute Dean's stuck staring at the fork twirling through and around Sam's fingers.
"Huh?" He shakes his head, looks up into his brother's face. "We aren't. I am."
"What are you talking about? I read your notes, Dean. This Amber girl is a witch, right, and I know I can help with that!"
It's true, Dean thinks. Witches can be pretty nasty, but they're human, and hunters don't kill people. Dean could probably drag Sam along and be okay, but he doesn't want to. Maybe if he limits it now it'll be easier for Sam, or for him. Either way, "No, Sam. You helped with a case once, and that's enough. I'm doing this one solo."
"Fuck you, y'know?" Dean's surprised at the acid in the words, in the way Sam half-throws his plate across the table so it skids dangerously close to the edge. "Fine."
When Sam storms out, Dean glares at the plate, vegetables pushed to the side and meat mangled into a brown mess; glares like it's to blame for Sam not eating, for the frustration that made him pick now to fight, like Dean hasn't had years to bulk up his defenses, like Sam had a chance in hell of winning the argument this time. Like the plate and everything on it is the reason Sam stormed out, floor still echoing with his footfalls.
It's only when Dean's about to break his own plate with the pressure from his fork that he thinks maybe it is.
---
Amber's actually a palm reader, according to the sign planted in the middle of her front yard. He gets inside as a walk-in and, considering he hadn't seen anyone enter or leave the whole time he'd staked the place out, he doesn't think she has the means to refuse a paying client. The first thing he notices is the spellbook lying closed on a small, circular table. Dean thinks she's either cocky or extremely naive to trust herself that much, but he settles down when she points to a chair, and sits through a reading; he can hear the routine of it in the tired cadence of her tone. When she's done, he says, “So my natural charm gives me the ability to manipulate space and time,” and he feels the laughter heavy in his chest; can’t help but smile down at her, easy to flirt, even if it’s with the baddie of the week.
“Well, you know,” Amber says, and her voice is suddenly warm and dark. “Less science fiction, really. It’s just an energy you have.” But he hears could have in the space around her words. He snorts, because typical.
He reaches over before she can protest and hefts the spell book in one hand, wanting it out of her reach before she decides to pull something. Worn, cracked pages flutter out from the spine’s weak binding. “Yeah,” he says as his other hand flicks open his lighter. “That’s not as reassuring as it could be.”
---
“How'd it go?” Sam looks tired under the harsh light of the bathroom, with just his head peering around the half closed door. Tired and old, with the florescent light riding the contours of his cheeks.
“Just a witch, Sammy.” Dean turns away, picks up the bar of soap and it spreads weird and thick over his dry hands. He hits the faucet's knob with his wrist, watches soap bubbles rise and burst on his skin as the cold water hits him. “Didn't even have a coven. She was just new and stupid. It was almost too easy.”
“Huh.” The way Sam says it makes Dean think he should be wearing armor or a kevlar vest. Something more sturdy than a thin tee shirt and pants. It's like Sam's trying to find something he lost, but Dean's little brother isn't the only one who can do mysterious, so Dean just slaps on a smile - plastic and so fake that it feels like it should rip his lips, leave them bloody - before turning his shoulders toward the door.
--------
“God, you're so fuckin anal,” Dean says. Their dad had come home for a while, brief rest before heading out on another case, but not before he'd managed to butt heads with Sammy (it's the most emotion Dean's seen from his brother for a long time, and he's almost happy, almost glad, it happened). As soon as their dad had pealed out of the driveway, Dean'd dragged Sam out of the house, pushed his brother to the ground and collapsed beside him, saying whatever you wanna do, Sammy. Right now, though, he's watching the dead-gray ash fall from the end of his cigarette, hotbox burning bright and red in the center.
“Shut up,” Sam mutters, and he's staring into the trees ahead of them, intent and angry, when Dean looks over. He doesn't want to see the clenched jaw, the hard lines or the faint tremors racing through his little brother's form, but he does. He does, and he just can't figure out what it means.
Maybe if he asked, he thinks, maybe Sam would tell him. but it's been a long time since Sam's come to him for anything (wide, sad eyes, small voice Dean. Dean, what - hurt and fear and the long shadow of his brother's back, too loud slap of bare feet on old, worn floorboards). So he doesn't try, figures that the slight press of his shoulder into Sam's might be enough, might tell Sammy you're not alone; I'm here; it's okay if Sam pays attention; if it's what Sam wants. It's better, at least, than hearing Sam snort, seeing the flicker of disbelief and disgust slip past Sam's face, into shoulders and neck and back until his brother's a stiff, unmoving line.
“You want,” Dean asks, holding the cigarette like a joint, squeezed between thumb and forefinger, filter held toward Sam. And he wouldn't, normally. Has chewed Sam out before, when he's caught him smelling like stale smoke and nicotine, but he kind of feels like he has to do something and this is the only thing he can give. Just this time, he thinks, even if he knows it doesn't change a thing.
“Yeah,” and Sam takes it, presses it to his lips. Dean can see the grimace when the filter touches, slightly warm and damp from Dean's mouth, but Sam pulls, so strong and sure that Dean can see the line of his throat working; can see the bland, calm look settle over his face as the nicotine hits him.
“Christ, Sammy.” He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't take his eyes off his brother even when Sam turns, looks at him like he knows something Dean doesn't, and Dean can feel something thick and unpleasant settle in his belly. Dean lets Sam finish the cigarette until it's only a limp, mangled mess (and Dean can smell the burn of it, deep and pungent, as the hotbox buries itself into the filter). Even after it's gone he doesn't turn away.
-------
December, 1996
It's maybe not the smartest idea Dean's ever had, but sometimes John gets easier to talk to after he's had a few beers or a shot of whiskey. It's like he drops the drill instructor routine and remembers that he's a dad. So when Dean wanders into the kitchen, sees John sitting at the table with a beer in front of him and the whiskey open on the counter, he drops into the chair across from him.
“Dad,” he says, and John's eyes are still clear, focused, when he lifts his head. Dean snakes his hand across the table, nudges the bottle just a little farther away from John. “Dad. I'm worried about Sam.”
“No. No. He's doing good,” and Dean hears the for once but he doesn't press that point, just fights the urge to throw the half empty beer across the small kitchen, and shakes his head. “I think he's finally getting it, Dean. Why we do this.”
Dean wants to curse in John's face, because it's obvious, so fuckin obvious to him, but no one else wants to see it. “No,” he says, and it's an echo of John. What is this, he thinks, what am I doing? “Sam isn't doing good, Dad. How can you even think he is?”
“He practices.” John says it like it's the answer to everything. Maybe for John it is, but Dean sees red. “His aim, his stamina, his focus -”
“And that's all!” Dean's voice is louder than he wants it, but he overcompensates and the next part comes out a hiss, “He just sleeps, after. All the time. He quit soccer -” and he hears John's snort, knows what it means. Dammit. Dammit. “He won't move. Barely gets up in time for school, and I know he's missed tests and shit, Dad. Teachers have called.”
“So?” And Dean sees John's hands reach for the bottle that has settled its way closer to Dean than not. “You quit school, too, Dean. Sometime's it's just not feasible.”
“Not Sam! Don't you get that? Sam isn't me, Dad. He likes all that stuff. Did. Trust me, something's wrong with him and I -” don't know how to handle it. Don't know if I can, or if you can. But you could try. For once, you could try. None of that makes it past his throat; and it's a good thing, because Dean knows that wouldn’t get John over on his side. Guilt has a way of making their dad shut down, withdraw, and that's not what Dean needs right now.
John looks at him. Dark eyes steady, curious, but Dean can't see the questions, so he just shifts nervously, tries not to pout when John raises the bottle to his lips and drains it in one go.
“Okay.” John says, and Dean breathes. “Okay. We'll talk about this tomorrow.” Like the late night is the reason Dean's being a hardass, so much more unreasonable than usual. “And Sam. Well, tomorrow. Let's see how it goes.”
Dean nods. Feels the spastic jerk in the shocks of pain racing down his back, but he gets up when his dad does; he doesn't need to look to hear John rummaging around in the fridge, looking for another beer. “You better,” he says, nearly chokes on it, but he clears his throat and tries again. “You better remember this when you're sober.”
He's expecting something - screaming or a fist or dead silence. But John just huffs and by the sound of it - because Dean can't bring himself to look, to see his dad - scrapes the chair back and resettles at the table.
“Fine,” he says, and he feels relief when he starts down the hall to his bedroom, when he can escape the bitter tang of beer already clouding the small room.
---
Dean had forgotten how bull-headed and righteous John can be when he's hungover. So what actually happens the next day is this:
Sam's sitting right beside Dean, and maybe it's not what he'd planned, but like hell he's going to back down. Sam'll have to hear it some time, anyway, so he just blurts it all out and hopes his dad remembers.
"I know," John says, nodding. "Sam, I think you're doing fine with your practice -"
Dean can't believe what he's hearing, and he feels the anger in the way heat spreads across his face. "Dad!"
“I was just trying to be nice,” and the way he says it lets Dean know that he means it. He feels his jaw clench, tries to fight the urge to pound the table or break whatever's in his reach. It's a close call.
“You know,” Sam breaks in, snarl twisting his face, “I’m not actually a 14 year old girl.”
“No,” Dean says, managing to simultaneously stomp the instep of Sam’s foot while glaring at his dad over the cereal box. “You’re a 13 year old boy, which makes this whole conversation that much worse.”
“Wow,” Sam says, and it startles Dean and John enough that they turn and look. “That wasn't sexist at all.”
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, hears John’s language! but doesn’t acknowledge it. “All I’m trying to say is that -”
“ - you think I have some food issues or something and that because I’m a guy that it’s worse than if I was a girl -”
“ - oh. Okay. I think there’s some bras in the attic you can burn while you’re at it.”
“We don’t have an attic, jerk, and unless there’s something you’re not telling us -”
“Boys!” John’s voice is loud, deep, and they both jerk in their chairs. Dean’s neck feels stiff when he turns toward their dad, but he manages to grit out sorry before turning back to Sam. His brother is refusing to look at him, though, and instead he’s breaking his toast into crumbs that sprinkle across his plate.
Bitch, Dean thinks and transfers his glare to the side of Sam's head. He isn't surprised when his brother pushes his chair back with a high pitched squeal of feet rubbing against warped linoleum. Isn't surprised when Sam leaves, having managed to avoid eating anything at all.
------
Sam collapses a week after their fight. John's sleeping off a late night, and Dean wanders outside to find his brother slumped on the ground. Dean's honest. He can admit that he's almost unsurprised to see it, but his voice is still too much like a scream when he calls Sam's name. He hits his knees when he finally reaches his brother, hands shaking as he turns him over. "Sam. Come on, man, wake up. Wake up. Jesus!" But his brother's not moving, not responding, and his pulse is fast and uneven. "Fuck!"
It's enough. People peek out of windows and look, and he yells til his throat's raw, til he's tasting blood at the back of his mouth, for an ambulance. Minutes later, Sam's not so still, but he's out of it. Dean clutches him close, hitches Sam's head up onto his shoulder and mutters, "thank you, thank you, thank you," when he catches the sound of sirens in the distance.
---
“I thought you said you weren’t a 14 year old girl,” Dean says. He watches the slight flutter of his brother’s eyelids, lashes sweeping up and down over pale cheeks.
“What are you talking about? Dean.” Sam’s forehead’s creasing, voice slurring with exhaustion and fear. “What. Where am I?” Hands twitch, movement aborted as it tugs on the IV line leading into the back of Sam’s hand. "Dean."
And he can’t. He can’t ignore the tremors in his little brother’s voice or the slitted eyes that blink and spread wetness, spiking eyelashes and making Sam’s tilted eyes seem huge and dark and young. Can’t stop the anger receding and can’t stop his body from leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting by Sam’s waist, hands grabbing his brother’s, long and slender, where they’re twisting around each other on his stomach, nervous fingers of his left hand digging at his right.
---
It's like John just stops. The doctor comes in, young face and vague eyes, holding her clipboard out before her like a weapon; she says From the lack of cracks and sores on your son's mouth and hands, I'd say he falls under the restricting type. Low caloric intake, excessive exercise, something along those lines. Does that seem likely? Dean thinks of Sam's training, how it was the only thing he would do in the weeks before his collapse, and nods furiously. His dad only clenches his jaw and looks out the little window of Sam's room; it's there (so neatly played out that Dean can pinpoint it, now - forever - because John isn't subtle, not even on his best days, about his sons) that he stops - barely interacts with Dean or Sam or the thousand and one nurses that come in on rotation, checking vitals and food logs and temperature.
He would call John on it, if Dean ever really left Sam's side - if he was okay with fighting where Sam could see, or if his brother wasn't one sharp word away from breaking apart. In the first few days when everything's new and confusing, Dean would have been thankful for the distraction, but he can't, because Sam; and after - when he's used to being Sam's cheerleader, when he doesn't even have to think twice about it before he's prodding and grinning and tugging his brother close - he doesn't have the energy to fight John's battles along with his own (with Sam's).
---
It seems that since Sam's doctor can't corner him in the hallway, away from John, she waits until their dad's gone on his millionth coffee run and corners Dean in the room. They're both staring out the window, awkward and quiet and he thinks that maybe she's really not supposed to be doing this or something [but she's young and idealistic or some other shit that kind of makes him want to roll his eyes]. A minute later, he's really wishing she hadn't come in, when she murmurs is there anything you want to tell me about Mr. Winchester?
"He's our dad." The doctor - Durning. Call me Jennifer, if you'd like - just glances over at him before turning her attention back to the window.
He's halfway expecting it - something along the lines of her muttered, "well, you wouldn't believe how much that doesn't matter here, sometimes." Dean thinks about replying, saying he's not like that. He'd never hurt Sam. But John hasn't done much of anything, lately, and Dean finds it easier to just let the defense go. They stay like that until the doctor shifts, sighing. "So, what do you know about your brother's condition?"
Dean feels a nervous smile tilt his lips - like he's back in school and trying to pull the right answer out of his ass - but he just leans farther into the wall and says, "He passed out because he was starving himself." And then he's quiet, because isn't that everything that matters?
"Well," the doctor says, when she finally focuses on Dean. "No. He collapsed because he was dehydrated and suffering from an electrolyte imbalance. You've heard that not drinking water can kill you quicker than not eating?" He nods and she grins, sharp and out of place. He has to fight the urge to back away when she leans closer like she's telling a secret. "It's true."
"And? What else?" Because he knows there's more - there's all the things he should have known and didn't. Doesn't. He can feel the confusion building behind his eyes, and he imagines that maybe it's a physical ache he can rub away.
"Like I said, he doesn't have any of the common signs of diuretic or laxative abuse, nor any indications of induced vomiting." Dean grimaces and manages not to say anything, but she still laughs like she knows what he's thinking. "You're right, but not for the reasons you think. Restrictors, like your brother -" she taps the window, idle clunkclunkclunk and Sam groans from the bed but doesn't wake up. "Are easier to help than, say, purgers with a diagnosis of anorexia nervosa. Doesn't mean it'll be easy for anyone involved, and there's some fear of secondary bulimia nervosa when he's prompted to actually eat. Generally, though, the prognosis is much brighter for them."
"Yeah. Okay." His throat closes and it takes a few tries before he can swallow without choking. "Did you tell my dad all this?"
"Mm. Thought you should know, too."
------
He's surprised the first time it happens. After the hospital, when he's busy getting Sam home and situated, John's on the outskirts of it all, getting restless. It leaves them debating whether or not John should hang around or go on the next case (and Dean says go, go - I've got this under control, and John does, packs and leaves without a backward glance), and whether or not Dean should make Sam talk or just leave him alone. He's torn between bringing it up, now, when he can control the outcome, and letting Sam get stronger, less breakable, before trying. So he's honestly not expecting anything like what happens when he starts weaning Sam off powders and vitamins and smoothies - things that are easy to track and watch - and on to real meals.
His brother is sitting there, plate untouched and fork grasped so tightly in his fist that his knuckles are white-peaked spikes on the backs of his hands. He's too quiet and too still and Dean says, "Sam. Sam, eat."
But Sam only looks at him, and Dean sees fear and anger and something that - if Dean didn't know any better - looks a lot like grief. "Sam," he says and he's putting his own fork down, slowly like Sam's a wounded animal that he's trying not to spook. "You have to."
Dean sees him shake his head - wild and messy with his too long hair dragging in his eyes. "I can't. Dean, I can't."
Dean's up quicker than he can even register, squatting down beside Sam, one hand braced on the edge of the table and one on the back of his brother's chair. "Come on. That was the deal. We get you back on track. We get you healthy again." He can't bring himself to say or you go, because Dean's seen the pamphlets for the few centers that deal with this shit. Had a doctor hand them to John, had John pass them over to him without even looking. Diets and counseling and weigh-ins and room checks. Part of Dean thinks that maybe it'd be good for Sam, but mostly he doesn't want to think about Sam away from him, alone. He doesn't want to think about failing, so he says, "Come on."
It's then that he sees it: the scattering of tears spilling over and resting on his brother's cheeks. "No," he says, and moves until he's balanced precariously on the tips of his toes while his hands frame Sam's pale, drawn face; he's careful, so careful, when he brings his brother's forehead down to rest against his own. Sam's tears drip onto his upturned face, and Dean can feel them spread like burns over his skin. "No, it'll be alright, okay? Just a little bit. For me."
And it shouldn't feel like Dean's biggest victory when Sam finally pulls away, one long fingered hand reaching out and snagging a piece of asparagus. But it does, and Dean can feel his face ache with the breadth of his smile.
------
December, 2005
Dean's almost expecting it after Jess. He barely even has an appetite after seeing flames and the hint of a body burning away on the ceiling, so he doesn't really push it in those first few days. But then Sam's face starts growing sharper and more foxlike - eyes more distracted and less likely to focus on Dean after nightmares and difficult cases.
He can't say he knows or can relate, because the only people that matter to him are still breathing, and even if John goes Dean thinks that he'd be fine just as long as Sam's safe (and he will be, because that's always been Dean's job and, close calls aside, he hasn't failed yet).
So he does the only thing he can (besides talking, which he's tried, but his efforts turn into lectures and Sam just waves them away). He goes out, orders the greasiest, most fattening things on the menu and brings them back to Sam. Plops them down and shoves forks and napkins at his brother.
Sam says, "it's not even like that," and Dean just nods. He says, "fine, alright? But I'm not eating all of this. It's stupid," and Dean kind of agrees so he just watches, each time, judging what he thinks is okay, and then letting Sam go. Sometimes he'll pick right along with Sam out of the same container, but never so much that he doesn't know just how much Sam gets. It's those times his brother looks the most at ease, and Dean finds himself - more often than not -pressing close to Sam at small motel tables and getting into fork fights over the same bit of fried ham or potato or casserole.
Maybe it's not everything it should be, but it's what Dean knows, and it gets them through.
A Sam piece for selected events from MoD: the fruit of the melancholy tree
And a timestamp: Can't Forget the Ills
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; gen; preseries (au), mostly, but spoilers for the pilot; h/c; dick!John; sick!Sam; remember: this deals with EATING DISORDERS, so if that's triggerish for anyone, don't read, please. 6-7, maybe, on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
Also, this thing weighs in at 6,683 words, and is the longest oneshot I've written to date. I'm so absurdly pleased by this, I don't even know. *g*
Mouths of Decadence
November, 2005
When Sam meets him it's with fists, feet, and smooth floor at his back that gives Dean everything he needs. He doesn't have to ask questions or say all the things he knows will piss off his brother.
Okay, well, he still manages to do that, but not for the reasons he was hoping to avoid. There’s not that awkwardness; he can feel weight and muscle and confidence stealing the air from his lungs, and it makes it easy to smile. He can mutter, "Get off me," wrap his own hand around the one Sam offers him, and use his brother's strength to haul himself off the floor.
And even when he starts in, Dad’s been on a hunting trip, when he sees Sam’s eyes narrow, sees the arm around Jess’s waist tighten then slip away, he still feels his relief bubbling up in his chest. It thrums through him, so that when Sam drags him outside - hissed whispers and only a finger’s width of space between them - he has to fight the grin tugging at his lips. Has to force his mind to focus on Sam’s words and Sam’s anger, so he doesn’t say you did it; you did it and I’m proud of you.
He manages it, though. Keeps all those words locked up behind his teeth, just says yeah, but I don’t want to, and watches Sam head back inside to pack a bag and tell his girl whatever lies he’s been saving up. He doesn’t miss Sam’s looks, or how he keeps his face tilted toward Dean. He thinks his brother has his own questions, ones like why or what or how. He just ignores them, though; what he told Sam was the truth. Dad is missing, has been missing, and Dean’s worried.
Dean needs his brother with him. Wants family to help find family. And if he wandered by the fridge on his way into Sam’s living room, if he saw the lunchmeat and cheese and dozens of other things, if he pictured Sam in the kitchen, orderly array of ingredients laid out beside him on the counter, and two different butter knives for the mustard and mayonnaise, well. It’s nobody’s business, anyway.
------
August, 1995
At 12 Sam isn’t fat. Dean knows this, so when his father says, “Goddamnit, boy, three more laps, and you shouldn’t be puffing,” to Sam, he wants to say something. Maybe it’s all right, to his little brother, who’s sweating and red-faced from more than exertion, or maybe shut the hell up to his dad, who’s already spinning on his heel and walking away even before Sam starts on his next lap.
No, Sam isn’t anywhere near fat, really. It just seems like lately his body’s storing everything that’s put inside it. Maybe a little chubby, Dean thinks, but it’s not like Sam’s eating all the time or cutting back on training, even though he bitches about it constantly. Dean knows he’s even joined the soccer team at school, because he picks him up at the field three days out of the week. So he knows it isn’t Sam’s fault, that little bit of extra weight that his dad seems to think is going to get them all killed on a hunt. Not the kid’s fault, and Dean really thinks their dad needs to lay off a bit until Sam’s body decides what the hell it’s trying to do.
He’s torn, because puberty or training or their dad is turning Sam into a brat, and Dean isn’t really looking for the kind of grief he’d get if he offered unsolicited concern. He knows that if he waits, if Sam gets upset enough to come to him, then he’s allowed to throw an arm around slumped shoulders, pull his baby brother to him for a moment, say Sam-I-Am, and let Sam spill everything.
He hasn’t sought Sam out, himself, in a long time; not since the last time he got bitched out from one end of their crappy rental to the other after cornering his brother about some fight he’d had at school. He shies away from pressuring Sam, tells himself he’s old enough to handle this on his own; he’ll get over it, and thinks he actually has a chance at convincing himself it's true.
So he reels himself in, turns and heads in the direction of the house, stripping his shirt off and wiping at the sweat trickling across his chest as he goes. August in South Carolina is hot and humid, even though the few trees in their neighborhood are already turning red and orange and dropping dead leaves to clutter drains and sewers.
It’s hot enough, at least, that he’s absurdly grateful for the weak curl of air brushing over him as he steps inside the house.
---
Their dad’s already left, and Dean is scraping out sweet peas over macaroni and cheese when Sam gets in. He looks up, sees the tension in Sam’s body, says, “why don’t you rinse off?” He isn’t surprised when his brother just snorts and heads into the bathroom. He thinks maybe a shower and food and their dad gone for the night will be enough to kick Sam out of his funk.
But Sam’s still stiff, so quiet that Dean can’t stop staring at him from the corner of his eye as he eats, fake cheese sharp and congealed against his tongue.
“Sam,” he says, sick of watching his brother try to spear the same rubbery pea for the hundredth time. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He just wants - ”
“He wants me to be you.” Sam rolls his eyes, throws his fork onto the chipped table. The underside of the tines clunk dully against the bowl. “I get it, Dean. Whatever.” Sam shoves his chair back, stands and mutters, “I’ve got a paper to write for history. ”
“The fuck,” Dean mutters, shoveling in his forkful of food and grimacing as the cold lump settles at the back of his throat.
------
Sometimes he sees Sam run hands over knobs and bumps of bone. Ribs, arms, face, legs. At first, Dean had thought that maybe it was reassurance; kind of a thank god, I’m alive deal, and considering what they did Dean didn’t think it was that weird at all. But he’s seen Sam press back into the hard, unforgiving material that makes up booth seats in the diner they frequent. His little brother pushing into it, arms braced on the table, muscles tense and pressed close to the surface of his skin. And Dean’s seen Sam shirtless; has seen the too obvious outline of Sam’s spine and tailbone, shifting and moving and painful to look at. He thinks that it has to hurt, when Sam’s bones collide with the worn fabric, the cheap stuffing. Or, at least, it’s uncomfortable.
But Sam won’t meet his eyes. Won’t respond to the quirk of Dean’s eyebrow that asks what’s going on, Sam? He just fiddles with his menu, eyes passing over descriptions and old pictures of unappetizing, greasy meals like he’s interested, like he’s going to order something besides ripped lettuce and slivers of carrots and radishes that make up a diner salad; like he’s not gonna say with lemons, please when their waitress asks about dressing, or have that small smile hiding in the corners of his lips, like he knows a secret that no one else does.
Sometimes Dean looks over at John. He wants to know if their dad notices anything (and even the thought makes him wince, because it’s been years, really, since John’s seen anything besides ghosts and monsters and charms and prayers). But he only sees John eyeing Sam with something close to approval, bright and happy, when Sam orders and picks at his food. When he starts disappearing into something too thin and stretched and cold, Dean thinks is this what you want? and he doesn't know who it's directed at, or if it even matters.
It’s at those moments that Dean’ll forget he loves John, worships him. He’ll forget everything but the swell of anger and frustration that makes the thought of beating the living shit out of him a good idea. So he tries - heart pounding and fists clenched tight under the scarred and stained table - not to include their dad in it.
It’s not surprising, then, that it seems like he spends every hour that isn’t a hunt with his eyes glued to his brother, constantly measuring his breaths and his movements, because it feels like if he doesn’t then he’d lose Sam. Turn to speak to him and have nothing at his side but space and air and silence that he’s never really wanted.
------
May, 1996
Toward the end of Sam's school year they're in Tennessee. John gets a call about a case. It's something he won't tell Sam about, and Dean isn't surprised, but then he won't tell Dean, and Dean's left biting his lips to keep from forcing the issue. After that, though, he has his hands full, because it's just another cheap apartment they're renting - faulty electrical wiring (and it's only that, Dean's made sure), sketchy water heater, and windows that jam shut no matter how much WD-40 they use on the rusty hinges.
Somehow Sam rekindles his absolute faith in Dean's abilities to fix anything. Before he knows it, Dean's racing around with tools he has no idea how to use. He bumbles around with them in vain attempts to fix faucets that seem to randomly spurt water and lights that only seem to work on Wednesdays after five o'clock. It's enough to make him give up, crash out on the couch and just wait. Every time he's about to, though, he feels puppy eyes on him, staring holes straight through his back. It doesn't take much after that to find himself trudging to the hardware store because maybe the sealant will work, but make sure the area is dry before applying it, and oh, look, we have these wonderful dehumidifiers right over here. He tries not to resent it.
When whatever John's hunting is handled, Dean's expecting a knock out, drag out fight, and he's not disappointed. Sam's wanting to stay, to at least get caught up with school work before moving and falling behind again (and Dean wonders why, when it's an endless pattern and nothing Sam does is gonna change that), and John's wanting to go whereever his newsclippings take him. Sam wins out eventually, and John makes the place his homebase, somewhere to come back to after hunts; Dean finds two part-time jobs and manages to keep a steady supply of sealant and liquid nails at hand.
It's in the middle of all this when he hears it from the closing shift cashier. She's a slightly older woman with two kids and an ear for gossip, who in a fit of desperation or boredom or something kept him an hour after he'd clocked out, just talking. It's on the first night of Sam's summer break, and Dean can't help but think the timing is fuckin perfect.
"I can't tell you what it means, hon," Laura says, helping him stock tomato sauce. "But have you heard about the attacks 'round here lately?"
"Oh," he says, pulling the front jars even with the shelf. "No, can't say I have."
"Wild dogs or coyotes or somethin'," and Dean can see her shudder and grin like she can't help it. "Crazy thing is, no one can find the packs, and if it is coyotes, hm. Well, I haven't heard 'em yippin, and believe me, I grew up with 'em roamin around, so I know what they sound like."
He nods, stacking empty crates on his cart before heading into the back room. "Anyone die?"
"So far, everyone who's been attacked. So make that 4 in the last three months?" She looks over at him and there's something written across her face that Dean can't read. "So, basically, just be careful, you and that brother of yours."
He brings it home to Sam, telling him what little he'd gleaned from Laura. Sam drums his fingers along the sofa's armrest and says, "Sure, Dean. I can start tomorrow, maybe use the library to look into anything, but. Shouldn't we let Dad know?"
"He's in fuckin South Dakota, workin' a rugaru case. I'm not interrupting that. If it's a werewolf, well, I've worked 'em with dad before. It'll be fine." Sam just grunts, but his face is soft, and Dean gets up to start supper.
After they figure it out (his name is Jacob Waller. He was attacked about a month before the first death, and he claimed what got him looked like a wolf or a hybrid. It's pretty standard, Dean), after Sam's soft I'm ready. I'll go with you, Dean'll come home after a late shift of stocking - too many cans and bags and bottles until Dean wants to punch somebody in the face just to relieve the monotony. Sometimes, when he drops into bed, Sam will wake up and crawl in beside him. As the clock ticks down to the full moon, Sam does it more and more often.
He's hesitant to touch, at first. Careful to keep space between them both, even on the small bed. But the intent, the purpose behind Sam's utter stillness, keeps Dean awake. Still, it's only when he reaches over, circles Sam's thin wrist with his own fingers, tips by the pulsepoint and the faint thumpthump of it, that Sam'll slide close enough that Dean can feel the graze of Sam's tee shirt against his bare skin.
He feels the heat of it on the night before the full moon - Sam, whispering into the skin of his neck, below his ear. Moist and clean and quiet, the faint trace of lips against him when Sam says, “What if I mess up? What if you die? I don't - just.”
It's easy, then, to slip his arms around his brother. Easy to sigh when his hands meet in the small of Sam's back, when he feels the edge of bone against his palm. Pressure to reassure, and he says, “It'll be fine. You'll see, Sammy. I'm good and you'll be there to watch my back, okay? I trust you.”
It isn't as easy to pretend not to hear the catch of breath or the quiet, hoarse sob before he feels dampness trail down, catch in the dip of his collarbones. But he does, because he isn't sure what Sam would say, what he would do, and his weight and the jab of long arms and legs is too familiar, too comforting, for Dean to want to give up.
---
In the end it's simple. Sam finds Jacob Waller's address and they track him easily for the week before the full moon. It's just one more step to sit outside his house, full moon painting everything in whites and grays and Dean knows what it means. So he just shifts the shot gun higher in his lap and waits with Sammy.
When they hear movement, quiet shuffling that gradually turns into the crashes and screams associated with the transformation, they're ready. By the time Dean busts the door down, Waller's fully changed, and it's a massive, black shape throwing itself at Dean. It's completely inhuman, and there's no hesitation when Dean points and shoots, dead center in the chest so that the spray sinks in deep, kills clean (and he's grateful, almost ready to cry with it, that Sam didn't have time to even aim the gun held in his hands. He thinks Sam already looks small and broken standing in the threshold with the moon at his back, and Dean can't imagine what shooting Waller would have done to his brother. Doesn't want to, doesn't have to, because they're fine, everything's fine).
------
He already knows he isn't taking Sam out on another case. Not now, when it's something their dad doesn't know about. Dean can't get Sam's eyes out of his head, sad and lost and a little confused, like he couldn't believe this was his life, killing things that were still human, sometimes. Dean doesn't want that for him, either, so when he hears about people getting sick or injured in ridiculous ways, he uses his spare time to hunt down the information, track the patterns to a new girl moved into town. Everything points to witch, and he's comfortable with that, can handle it on his own. Easy.
Sam brings it up at dinner one night. Says, "So, when are we going?" For a minute Dean's stuck staring at the fork twirling through and around Sam's fingers.
"Huh?" He shakes his head, looks up into his brother's face. "We aren't. I am."
"What are you talking about? I read your notes, Dean. This Amber girl is a witch, right, and I know I can help with that!"
It's true, Dean thinks. Witches can be pretty nasty, but they're human, and hunters don't kill people. Dean could probably drag Sam along and be okay, but he doesn't want to. Maybe if he limits it now it'll be easier for Sam, or for him. Either way, "No, Sam. You helped with a case once, and that's enough. I'm doing this one solo."
"Fuck you, y'know?" Dean's surprised at the acid in the words, in the way Sam half-throws his plate across the table so it skids dangerously close to the edge. "Fine."
When Sam storms out, Dean glares at the plate, vegetables pushed to the side and meat mangled into a brown mess; glares like it's to blame for Sam not eating, for the frustration that made him pick now to fight, like Dean hasn't had years to bulk up his defenses, like Sam had a chance in hell of winning the argument this time. Like the plate and everything on it is the reason Sam stormed out, floor still echoing with his footfalls.
It's only when Dean's about to break his own plate with the pressure from his fork that he thinks maybe it is.
---
Amber's actually a palm reader, according to the sign planted in the middle of her front yard. He gets inside as a walk-in and, considering he hadn't seen anyone enter or leave the whole time he'd staked the place out, he doesn't think she has the means to refuse a paying client. The first thing he notices is the spellbook lying closed on a small, circular table. Dean thinks she's either cocky or extremely naive to trust herself that much, but he settles down when she points to a chair, and sits through a reading; he can hear the routine of it in the tired cadence of her tone. When she's done, he says, “So my natural charm gives me the ability to manipulate space and time,” and he feels the laughter heavy in his chest; can’t help but smile down at her, easy to flirt, even if it’s with the baddie of the week.
“Well, you know,” Amber says, and her voice is suddenly warm and dark. “Less science fiction, really. It’s just an energy you have.” But he hears could have in the space around her words. He snorts, because typical.
He reaches over before she can protest and hefts the spell book in one hand, wanting it out of her reach before she decides to pull something. Worn, cracked pages flutter out from the spine’s weak binding. “Yeah,” he says as his other hand flicks open his lighter. “That’s not as reassuring as it could be.”
---
“How'd it go?” Sam looks tired under the harsh light of the bathroom, with just his head peering around the half closed door. Tired and old, with the florescent light riding the contours of his cheeks.
“Just a witch, Sammy.” Dean turns away, picks up the bar of soap and it spreads weird and thick over his dry hands. He hits the faucet's knob with his wrist, watches soap bubbles rise and burst on his skin as the cold water hits him. “Didn't even have a coven. She was just new and stupid. It was almost too easy.”
“Huh.” The way Sam says it makes Dean think he should be wearing armor or a kevlar vest. Something more sturdy than a thin tee shirt and pants. It's like Sam's trying to find something he lost, but Dean's little brother isn't the only one who can do mysterious, so Dean just slaps on a smile - plastic and so fake that it feels like it should rip his lips, leave them bloody - before turning his shoulders toward the door.
--------
“God, you're so fuckin anal,” Dean says. Their dad had come home for a while, brief rest before heading out on another case, but not before he'd managed to butt heads with Sammy (it's the most emotion Dean's seen from his brother for a long time, and he's almost happy, almost glad, it happened). As soon as their dad had pealed out of the driveway, Dean'd dragged Sam out of the house, pushed his brother to the ground and collapsed beside him, saying whatever you wanna do, Sammy. Right now, though, he's watching the dead-gray ash fall from the end of his cigarette, hotbox burning bright and red in the center.
“Shut up,” Sam mutters, and he's staring into the trees ahead of them, intent and angry, when Dean looks over. He doesn't want to see the clenched jaw, the hard lines or the faint tremors racing through his little brother's form, but he does. He does, and he just can't figure out what it means.
Maybe if he asked, he thinks, maybe Sam would tell him. but it's been a long time since Sam's come to him for anything (wide, sad eyes, small voice Dean. Dean, what - hurt and fear and the long shadow of his brother's back, too loud slap of bare feet on old, worn floorboards). So he doesn't try, figures that the slight press of his shoulder into Sam's might be enough, might tell Sammy you're not alone; I'm here; it's okay if Sam pays attention; if it's what Sam wants. It's better, at least, than hearing Sam snort, seeing the flicker of disbelief and disgust slip past Sam's face, into shoulders and neck and back until his brother's a stiff, unmoving line.
“You want,” Dean asks, holding the cigarette like a joint, squeezed between thumb and forefinger, filter held toward Sam. And he wouldn't, normally. Has chewed Sam out before, when he's caught him smelling like stale smoke and nicotine, but he kind of feels like he has to do something and this is the only thing he can give. Just this time, he thinks, even if he knows it doesn't change a thing.
“Yeah,” and Sam takes it, presses it to his lips. Dean can see the grimace when the filter touches, slightly warm and damp from Dean's mouth, but Sam pulls, so strong and sure that Dean can see the line of his throat working; can see the bland, calm look settle over his face as the nicotine hits him.
“Christ, Sammy.” He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't take his eyes off his brother even when Sam turns, looks at him like he knows something Dean doesn't, and Dean can feel something thick and unpleasant settle in his belly. Dean lets Sam finish the cigarette until it's only a limp, mangled mess (and Dean can smell the burn of it, deep and pungent, as the hotbox buries itself into the filter). Even after it's gone he doesn't turn away.
-------
December, 1996
It's maybe not the smartest idea Dean's ever had, but sometimes John gets easier to talk to after he's had a few beers or a shot of whiskey. It's like he drops the drill instructor routine and remembers that he's a dad. So when Dean wanders into the kitchen, sees John sitting at the table with a beer in front of him and the whiskey open on the counter, he drops into the chair across from him.
“Dad,” he says, and John's eyes are still clear, focused, when he lifts his head. Dean snakes his hand across the table, nudges the bottle just a little farther away from John. “Dad. I'm worried about Sam.”
“No. No. He's doing good,” and Dean hears the for once but he doesn't press that point, just fights the urge to throw the half empty beer across the small kitchen, and shakes his head. “I think he's finally getting it, Dean. Why we do this.”
Dean wants to curse in John's face, because it's obvious, so fuckin obvious to him, but no one else wants to see it. “No,” he says, and it's an echo of John. What is this, he thinks, what am I doing? “Sam isn't doing good, Dad. How can you even think he is?”
“He practices.” John says it like it's the answer to everything. Maybe for John it is, but Dean sees red. “His aim, his stamina, his focus -”
“And that's all!” Dean's voice is louder than he wants it, but he overcompensates and the next part comes out a hiss, “He just sleeps, after. All the time. He quit soccer -” and he hears John's snort, knows what it means. Dammit. Dammit. “He won't move. Barely gets up in time for school, and I know he's missed tests and shit, Dad. Teachers have called.”
“So?” And Dean sees John's hands reach for the bottle that has settled its way closer to Dean than not. “You quit school, too, Dean. Sometime's it's just not feasible.”
“Not Sam! Don't you get that? Sam isn't me, Dad. He likes all that stuff. Did. Trust me, something's wrong with him and I -” don't know how to handle it. Don't know if I can, or if you can. But you could try. For once, you could try. None of that makes it past his throat; and it's a good thing, because Dean knows that wouldn’t get John over on his side. Guilt has a way of making their dad shut down, withdraw, and that's not what Dean needs right now.
John looks at him. Dark eyes steady, curious, but Dean can't see the questions, so he just shifts nervously, tries not to pout when John raises the bottle to his lips and drains it in one go.
“Okay.” John says, and Dean breathes. “Okay. We'll talk about this tomorrow.” Like the late night is the reason Dean's being a hardass, so much more unreasonable than usual. “And Sam. Well, tomorrow. Let's see how it goes.”
Dean nods. Feels the spastic jerk in the shocks of pain racing down his back, but he gets up when his dad does; he doesn't need to look to hear John rummaging around in the fridge, looking for another beer. “You better,” he says, nearly chokes on it, but he clears his throat and tries again. “You better remember this when you're sober.”
He's expecting something - screaming or a fist or dead silence. But John just huffs and by the sound of it - because Dean can't bring himself to look, to see his dad - scrapes the chair back and resettles at the table.
“Fine,” he says, and he feels relief when he starts down the hall to his bedroom, when he can escape the bitter tang of beer already clouding the small room.
---
Dean had forgotten how bull-headed and righteous John can be when he's hungover. So what actually happens the next day is this:
Sam's sitting right beside Dean, and maybe it's not what he'd planned, but like hell he's going to back down. Sam'll have to hear it some time, anyway, so he just blurts it all out and hopes his dad remembers.
"I know," John says, nodding. "Sam, I think you're doing fine with your practice -"
Dean can't believe what he's hearing, and he feels the anger in the way heat spreads across his face. "Dad!"
“I was just trying to be nice,” and the way he says it lets Dean know that he means it. He feels his jaw clench, tries to fight the urge to pound the table or break whatever's in his reach. It's a close call.
“You know,” Sam breaks in, snarl twisting his face, “I’m not actually a 14 year old girl.”
“No,” Dean says, managing to simultaneously stomp the instep of Sam’s foot while glaring at his dad over the cereal box. “You’re a 13 year old boy, which makes this whole conversation that much worse.”
“Wow,” Sam says, and it startles Dean and John enough that they turn and look. “That wasn't sexist at all.”
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, hears John’s language! but doesn’t acknowledge it. “All I’m trying to say is that -”
“ - you think I have some food issues or something and that because I’m a guy that it’s worse than if I was a girl -”
“ - oh. Okay. I think there’s some bras in the attic you can burn while you’re at it.”
“We don’t have an attic, jerk, and unless there’s something you’re not telling us -”
“Boys!” John’s voice is loud, deep, and they both jerk in their chairs. Dean’s neck feels stiff when he turns toward their dad, but he manages to grit out sorry before turning back to Sam. His brother is refusing to look at him, though, and instead he’s breaking his toast into crumbs that sprinkle across his plate.
Bitch, Dean thinks and transfers his glare to the side of Sam's head. He isn't surprised when his brother pushes his chair back with a high pitched squeal of feet rubbing against warped linoleum. Isn't surprised when Sam leaves, having managed to avoid eating anything at all.
------
Sam collapses a week after their fight. John's sleeping off a late night, and Dean wanders outside to find his brother slumped on the ground. Dean's honest. He can admit that he's almost unsurprised to see it, but his voice is still too much like a scream when he calls Sam's name. He hits his knees when he finally reaches his brother, hands shaking as he turns him over. "Sam. Come on, man, wake up. Wake up. Jesus!" But his brother's not moving, not responding, and his pulse is fast and uneven. "Fuck!"
It's enough. People peek out of windows and look, and he yells til his throat's raw, til he's tasting blood at the back of his mouth, for an ambulance. Minutes later, Sam's not so still, but he's out of it. Dean clutches him close, hitches Sam's head up onto his shoulder and mutters, "thank you, thank you, thank you," when he catches the sound of sirens in the distance.
---
“I thought you said you weren’t a 14 year old girl,” Dean says. He watches the slight flutter of his brother’s eyelids, lashes sweeping up and down over pale cheeks.
“What are you talking about? Dean.” Sam’s forehead’s creasing, voice slurring with exhaustion and fear. “What. Where am I?” Hands twitch, movement aborted as it tugs on the IV line leading into the back of Sam’s hand. "Dean."
And he can’t. He can’t ignore the tremors in his little brother’s voice or the slitted eyes that blink and spread wetness, spiking eyelashes and making Sam’s tilted eyes seem huge and dark and young. Can’t stop the anger receding and can’t stop his body from leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting by Sam’s waist, hands grabbing his brother’s, long and slender, where they’re twisting around each other on his stomach, nervous fingers of his left hand digging at his right.
---
It's like John just stops. The doctor comes in, young face and vague eyes, holding her clipboard out before her like a weapon; she says From the lack of cracks and sores on your son's mouth and hands, I'd say he falls under the restricting type. Low caloric intake, excessive exercise, something along those lines. Does that seem likely? Dean thinks of Sam's training, how it was the only thing he would do in the weeks before his collapse, and nods furiously. His dad only clenches his jaw and looks out the little window of Sam's room; it's there (so neatly played out that Dean can pinpoint it, now - forever - because John isn't subtle, not even on his best days, about his sons) that he stops - barely interacts with Dean or Sam or the thousand and one nurses that come in on rotation, checking vitals and food logs and temperature.
He would call John on it, if Dean ever really left Sam's side - if he was okay with fighting where Sam could see, or if his brother wasn't one sharp word away from breaking apart. In the first few days when everything's new and confusing, Dean would have been thankful for the distraction, but he can't, because Sam; and after - when he's used to being Sam's cheerleader, when he doesn't even have to think twice about it before he's prodding and grinning and tugging his brother close - he doesn't have the energy to fight John's battles along with his own (with Sam's).
---
It seems that since Sam's doctor can't corner him in the hallway, away from John, she waits until their dad's gone on his millionth coffee run and corners Dean in the room. They're both staring out the window, awkward and quiet and he thinks that maybe she's really not supposed to be doing this or something [but she's young and idealistic or some other shit that kind of makes him want to roll his eyes]. A minute later, he's really wishing she hadn't come in, when she murmurs is there anything you want to tell me about Mr. Winchester?
"He's our dad." The doctor - Durning. Call me Jennifer, if you'd like - just glances over at him before turning her attention back to the window.
He's halfway expecting it - something along the lines of her muttered, "well, you wouldn't believe how much that doesn't matter here, sometimes." Dean thinks about replying, saying he's not like that. He'd never hurt Sam. But John hasn't done much of anything, lately, and Dean finds it easier to just let the defense go. They stay like that until the doctor shifts, sighing. "So, what do you know about your brother's condition?"
Dean feels a nervous smile tilt his lips - like he's back in school and trying to pull the right answer out of his ass - but he just leans farther into the wall and says, "He passed out because he was starving himself." And then he's quiet, because isn't that everything that matters?
"Well," the doctor says, when she finally focuses on Dean. "No. He collapsed because he was dehydrated and suffering from an electrolyte imbalance. You've heard that not drinking water can kill you quicker than not eating?" He nods and she grins, sharp and out of place. He has to fight the urge to back away when she leans closer like she's telling a secret. "It's true."
"And? What else?" Because he knows there's more - there's all the things he should have known and didn't. Doesn't. He can feel the confusion building behind his eyes, and he imagines that maybe it's a physical ache he can rub away.
"Like I said, he doesn't have any of the common signs of diuretic or laxative abuse, nor any indications of induced vomiting." Dean grimaces and manages not to say anything, but she still laughs like she knows what he's thinking. "You're right, but not for the reasons you think. Restrictors, like your brother -" she taps the window, idle clunkclunkclunk and Sam groans from the bed but doesn't wake up. "Are easier to help than, say, purgers with a diagnosis of anorexia nervosa. Doesn't mean it'll be easy for anyone involved, and there's some fear of secondary bulimia nervosa when he's prompted to actually eat. Generally, though, the prognosis is much brighter for them."
"Yeah. Okay." His throat closes and it takes a few tries before he can swallow without choking. "Did you tell my dad all this?"
"Mm. Thought you should know, too."
------
He's surprised the first time it happens. After the hospital, when he's busy getting Sam home and situated, John's on the outskirts of it all, getting restless. It leaves them debating whether or not John should hang around or go on the next case (and Dean says go, go - I've got this under control, and John does, packs and leaves without a backward glance), and whether or not Dean should make Sam talk or just leave him alone. He's torn between bringing it up, now, when he can control the outcome, and letting Sam get stronger, less breakable, before trying. So he's honestly not expecting anything like what happens when he starts weaning Sam off powders and vitamins and smoothies - things that are easy to track and watch - and on to real meals.
His brother is sitting there, plate untouched and fork grasped so tightly in his fist that his knuckles are white-peaked spikes on the backs of his hands. He's too quiet and too still and Dean says, "Sam. Sam, eat."
But Sam only looks at him, and Dean sees fear and anger and something that - if Dean didn't know any better - looks a lot like grief. "Sam," he says and he's putting his own fork down, slowly like Sam's a wounded animal that he's trying not to spook. "You have to."
Dean sees him shake his head - wild and messy with his too long hair dragging in his eyes. "I can't. Dean, I can't."
Dean's up quicker than he can even register, squatting down beside Sam, one hand braced on the edge of the table and one on the back of his brother's chair. "Come on. That was the deal. We get you back on track. We get you healthy again." He can't bring himself to say or you go, because Dean's seen the pamphlets for the few centers that deal with this shit. Had a doctor hand them to John, had John pass them over to him without even looking. Diets and counseling and weigh-ins and room checks. Part of Dean thinks that maybe it'd be good for Sam, but mostly he doesn't want to think about Sam away from him, alone. He doesn't want to think about failing, so he says, "Come on."
It's then that he sees it: the scattering of tears spilling over and resting on his brother's cheeks. "No," he says, and moves until he's balanced precariously on the tips of his toes while his hands frame Sam's pale, drawn face; he's careful, so careful, when he brings his brother's forehead down to rest against his own. Sam's tears drip onto his upturned face, and Dean can feel them spread like burns over his skin. "No, it'll be alright, okay? Just a little bit. For me."
And it shouldn't feel like Dean's biggest victory when Sam finally pulls away, one long fingered hand reaching out and snagging a piece of asparagus. But it does, and Dean can feel his face ache with the breadth of his smile.
------
December, 2005
Dean's almost expecting it after Jess. He barely even has an appetite after seeing flames and the hint of a body burning away on the ceiling, so he doesn't really push it in those first few days. But then Sam's face starts growing sharper and more foxlike - eyes more distracted and less likely to focus on Dean after nightmares and difficult cases.
He can't say he knows or can relate, because the only people that matter to him are still breathing, and even if John goes Dean thinks that he'd be fine just as long as Sam's safe (and he will be, because that's always been Dean's job and, close calls aside, he hasn't failed yet).
So he does the only thing he can (besides talking, which he's tried, but his efforts turn into lectures and Sam just waves them away). He goes out, orders the greasiest, most fattening things on the menu and brings them back to Sam. Plops them down and shoves forks and napkins at his brother.
Sam says, "it's not even like that," and Dean just nods. He says, "fine, alright? But I'm not eating all of this. It's stupid," and Dean kind of agrees so he just watches, each time, judging what he thinks is okay, and then letting Sam go. Sometimes he'll pick right along with Sam out of the same container, but never so much that he doesn't know just how much Sam gets. It's those times his brother looks the most at ease, and Dean finds himself - more often than not -pressing close to Sam at small motel tables and getting into fork fights over the same bit of fried ham or potato or casserole.
Maybe it's not everything it should be, but it's what Dean knows, and it gets them through.
A Sam piece for selected events from MoD: the fruit of the melancholy tree
And a timestamp: Can't Forget the Ills