fic: the hot wind stirs
Apparently guilt is a wonderful motivator. Yes, I have managed to finish up the fic I started for ohsam's meme that was held awhile back. rainylemons, I am so, so sorry this is late. But it's done? Yay?
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen; Sam-POV; post season 5; majority written before s6 aired, so AU; angst.
Just for a kindly reminder, rainylemons' long ago prompt was, "Gen - Sam comes back from the pit afraid of fire. Seriously, seriously afraid of fire. Like waking in the night screaming, flinching away from a candle or lit match, suffering panic attacks afraid of fire. Really shitty time for some hunters with a bad impression of Sam to take to wanting to burn him alive. If you can get some Dean all backlit by flames description, smoldering with rage, and trying to coax Sam out of a burning whatever for me, you get my eternal love." So, I hope this fits. You deserve THAT, at the very least *headdesk*
the hot wind stirs
It's a regular salt-and-burn. Sam's on one side of the dug out grave, Dean on the other. It’s just the brief glint of flashlights on the ground and a full moon sliding across the sky, and Sam hears it, snick and rub of a match being lit.
He's fine, he is. Breath even and heart steady as he stares at the orange flame, the bright blue center. Dean grins as he drops the match, as heat wooshes over the gasoline, catching, sending tendrils licking up and up and up -
- then Dean's there, face shadowed and deep, orange red spiraling into the sky behind him. Sam can look up, up past Dean's face, and the sky seems black.
Up, he's looking upward, and only then does he realize he's on the ground, legs splayed, arms propping himself up.
"Dean," he says, and the words form like a question under the pop and crack of a burning corpse.
"Fuckin christ, Sam," and Dean bends, holds out an arm. "Come on, you okay?"
"It's okay," and his voice is hoarse, breaking open. "I'm fine."
Dean snorts, but helps Sam get to his feet, walks shoulder-to-shoulder all the way to the Impala.
**
The second time, it's a poltergeist and an electrical fire.
Sam freezes, sees the fire radiating from an outlet and crawling up the walls.
"I got him out, Sam!" Dean's voice is behind him, words tumbling out fast on adrenaline. "Sam!"
He can feel the heat pressing into him, high pitched shrieks curling over, pulsing with the smoke, and fuck - fuck it's moving out, inching closer and closer.
"What are you doing?" Dean's voice is close, hand on his shoulder closer, ripping him away from where he's stuck, heart rabbiting. "We have to get out of here," but Sam only moves when Dean drags him, screaming and cussing, out of the house.
**
"Okay," Dean says, and he's staring hard straight ahead, hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel. Sam can't look away. "We're going to have to work on this."
Sam can see the goosebumps break out on Dean's skin, the shiver of muscle under Dean's skin, before he turns the ignition over. Dean says, "you should have told me, but."
**
It's not the heat, Sam thinks. Not really. It's the sound - the crackling, the popping, and when it really gets going - the roar, subterranean and growing. Sometimes it sounds like dying, like breaking bones and the rush of blood leaving your body.
Sometimes it sounds like what wants to kill you.
It never really bothered him. Before. Dean was the pyro, yeah, but seeing it - Dean lit up with red and orange and glee - or even lighting a fire himself never bothered him. Never made him think twice.
Now he dreams about it, sweat slipping across his skin when he wakes on his own; slicking Dean's grip when his brother has to shake Sam awake, whisper, "okay, okay. Sam, wake up. It's okay."
He can smell it on himself, sweet/acrid and thick, oozing down the back of his throat until he can taste it, taste only that.
**
"You're okay?" They've been driving aimlessly for a week now. No case, nothing, not even heading to Bobby's - and Dean won't tell him why he's avoiding the place, Sam just knows he is.
Sam thinks Dean's offering him a break, but everything's tense, unsure. Sam's forgotten how to talk and Dean's never been good at it, but now they can't read each other, either. It leaves them fumbling and avoiding everything.
It was a mistake, Sam thinks, to drag Dean back to him after he escaped the Pit. Especially when he's not even sure why or how he got out. Especially now that he's useless.
But Dean's waiting, and Sam leans his head back, closes his eyes. "I'm fine," and doesn't mention the sparks hiding in the corners of his eyes, doesn't mention the shape of burning hands reaching for him.
**
They ease back into hunting. Sam almost rolls his eyes because nothing's different this time. They haven't solved anything.
Dean says, "library, Sam," and "I've got this," and Sam lets Dean shuffle him everywhere and nowhere; lets Dean go off and clear out whatever baddie is terrorizing the latest person or the latest town.
He tries not to think about how Dean does it, especially when Sam knows it'd take two people, at least, to make the plan they come up with work.
But then one day he doesn't have to imagine. He can see. Dean comes waltzing into the bar they agreed to meet in with some burly, flannel-clad guy in tow.
"Ray," Dean says when Sam turns back to him, mouth open slightly. "He's been helping me on this one. Thought - " Dean stops, lips sealed over teeth, and Sam glances at Ray. He thinks they all know this is going to go down hill fast.
He's really, really not wrong.
"Right," Sam snaps his mouth shut, twists on his seat while Dean and Ray sit down. Sam flags down the waittress and orders a pitcher of beer. "How'd it go?"
Ray smirks and Dean shifts uneasily as he spares the guy a glance before saying, "fine. Just had to get a little extra help. You know ... "
"Yeah, yeah," Sam nods hurriedly, looking over at the bar, anywhere but at Dean or Ray. "Fire break. I know."
Sam hears a snick to his right and feels a sudden heat that has him jumping, almost spilling out of his chair.
It's Ray, lighting a cigarette with an industrial-looking lighter, all metal and polished sheen, and he mumbles "fuck," feeling his gut twist and roll as the cigarette Ray's lighting burns bright red and fades into orange at the hotbox.
Sam pushes over the thin gold metal ashtray when Ray's hand lowers near his arm on the small table. Ray doesn't shift, and Sam's too aware of the small source of warmth near his skin.
Ray asks, "don't like fire much, Sam?" and Sam shrugs, eyeing him warily, wanting to get up, shove at the man and the look on his face.
"It's fine," and it's the default answer gritted out between the cigarette almost burning him and the pressure of Dean's thigh suddenly pushing into his.
"You're the Sam, though, ain't ya?" Sam doesn't know how to respond to that, to everything that's barely hidden under the words, so he shrugs and feels Ray's eyes watching every little movement. The man shouldn't be able to make him feel so out of place, so defenseless, but Sam's knocked off balance, anyway, staring hard away from all of them.
"What's that mean?" Dean's voice is dangerous, steel and razors, and Jesus, Sam doesn't think this is going to end well.
"Maybe we should go," Sam looks over at Dean, same deep hollows around his brother's eyes, too little sleep and too much worry.
“No,” Ray says, smarm and something else, just as Dean says “yeah” and starts standing.
Sam stands, too, breathing deep and even for once in the entirely bizarre evening. He can see the top of their waitress’s head as she hustles over to their table, pitcher icy and tall and three downturned glasses sitting on her tray.
“Don’t you want your beer?” Ray asks, and Sam sees the glint in Ray’s beady eyes. “I mean, if I don’t mind sittin at a table with hell’s own antichrist, why should you - ” and Sam can’t miss the emphasis, what it means, even as he fights the urge to say I’m not the antichrist; we met the antichrist in Nebraska, “why should you mind me?”
Dean snarls, “just shut the fuck up, man, and drink the goddamn beer,” and grabs Sam under the elbow to drag him out of the bar.
Sam says, “you can let go now,” because Dean’s just standing by the Impala’s passenger side, grip still tight and painful on Sam’s arm.
“Yeah, well, you can learn to stick up for yourself, Sam. Christ.” But Dean lets go, unlocks Sam’s door and stalks over to his.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and slips into his seat. Slotting into place, he thinks, and he tries to pretend he’s not expecting the bar door to bust open, spill out Ray, staggering and angry. He expects it, but for as long as it takes Dean to get the car into gear, it doesn’t happen. There’s only the mumble of music slipping through Sam’s cracked window, the quiet, dim parking lot.
“Yeah,” he says again, Impala dipping into loose-packed gravel as they leave the bar. Sam turns toward Dean. “He doesn’t have a partner or anything. Right, Dean?”
Dean looks over at him, face flickering in and out as they pass under street lights. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice low.
Sam’s heart sinks.
**
“Well, you know, I guess we had to expect this, right?” Sam’s stuffing everything into his carryall, pushing down the bulges to zip it closed. Dean stops moving around, stays a heavy pressure behind him in the bathroom. “I mean, with everything - “
“Sam, shut up.” Something slams closed and Sam jumps, hears the thump thump of Dean’s booted feet on the floor. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that psychos stay the fuck away from my little brother.” Dean comes up beside him, leans in and Sam can see his brother’s anger, even from the periphery. “I mean, with everything.”
**
Sam doesn’t say anything and they take off like someone’s riding their tail. He doesn’t know if Ray’s willing to put in the work like Gordon did, but he can’t say no, no they're safe, either.
“All it takes is a phone call, Sammy,” and then Dean faces straight, jacks the volume for the radio. And that’s it. Easy, Sam thinks, but the words dry up in his mouth, heat twists and coils in his stomach.
Please let it be this easy.
**
It’s not that easy, turns out. Some things just don't catch up right away. Sam really should remember that.
**
Dean bitches about rookie mistakes, and “just. Tryin something to get you - I don’t know. I don’t fuckin know.”
Sam laughs, sharp barks that leave his throat a little too soon. “I’m not. I’m not a girlfriend, Dean, I’m not gonna get jealous and - “ He throws up his hands, caught without words, too.
“I know,” Dean says, and Sam realizes they say that a lot. Always late, always when they don’t really have a clue. “I’m sorry.”
They say that a lot, too.
**
Dean manages to keep up the rants for two states, but they slow down. The world stops rushing by in green-brown blurs at 70 miles an hour, and Dean starts flirting with waitresses.
The lines around them ease and it makes Sam twitchy.
They end up getting separated on a case in rural North Carolina. Working a plain old haunting on a hundred acre plot, having to cleanse all the old half-collapsed buildings. The place has the smell of history, of pain and decay, and it’s one of those jobs where Sam feels worse for the supernatural than the human.
He has his iron and he has his rock salt, so when they see flickering, Sam's not surprised that Dean goes one way and Sam goes another.
He's not worried, gun braced in his hand, flashlight bright and steady above that.
They just need time, a little distance to finish the rituals and find the unconsecrated graves on the property (we can set the whole damn thing on fire, Sammy, set it up like dominoes and have a total dive-for-cover last minute.
They're people, Dean. People. Not entertainment.
Fuckin get a sense of humor, Sam, 'sall I'm sayin.
But Dean was looking, so Sam stood there and let his brother find it).
**
Sometimes, when the rate of injury's high or they can't solve a case to save their lives, Sam will think they really aren't cut out for the job.
Sometimes he thinks the Winchester name got away from them, morphed into something that doesn't have one damn thing to do with John or Dean or him.
Times like now, crumpled on a musty, dirty floor in an ancient plantation house, spitting blood from the rip in his mouth, Sam gets it.
They should probably quit while they're ahead.
Someone kicks at him, sends him rolling over onto his back. "Uh," he says, except it bruises something inside and the sound's higher pitched, crashing out of his mouth.
Sam tells himself that when the body in the room comes where he can get a look he's expecting it. Hell, the only surprise is the flannel's actually changed colors.
"Dean," he groans, and tries to move, but his hands are bound, stuck in the hollow of his back, tingling under his own weight.
"This'll be real quick," Ray says instead. "Just gonna make sure you ain't capable of startin another apocalypse, huh, son?" There's shuffling, the sound of things scraping, and
Sam tries not to panic, tries to breathe and think, but then Ray says, "I'll be nice, though. I'll knock you out again before the fun starts. You won't even have time to worry about that brother of yours."
And Sam starts knocking around, kicking out and scrabbling for purchase, for anything, and he says, "you're gonna wish you were dead. You're gonna - "
But Ray laughs, and something heavy comes crashing down, aching pain branching out from Sam's temple, over and over, until the blackness behind his eyes swells, swallows him up.
**
He breathes. In, out. In, out.
There's a dull ache in the back of his throat; there's a tingling, searing pain in his feet. His ears feel stuffed with cotton and needles.
The lights above him are bright and fluorescent; the sheets are starched stiff and they smell like too much bleach.
Dean's voice says, "hospital, Sammy," and Dean's hands pat at him, rest against his left hip.
Sam thinks, I know, I know.
His eyes close and he drifts. Dean's fingers against his skin are hot; they're strong against the thin skin and bone.
He drifts, but everything always circles back to the throb of pain, beat on beat on beat, and Dean keeping time with the rise and fall of Sam's chest.
**
"I'm thinkin 'name change,'" Dean says. Sam's propped up with pillows, and he stares at his raised, bandaged feet. He knows they're burned pretty bad under it all, scraped free of the bits of melted rubber that he'd apparently been admitted with, but for now they're swaddled with gauze, nothing he has to see, and Sam tries moving them for a moment.
Dean's face goes hard.
"Think that'll do it, though?" Sam asks. There's a cup of water on the bedside table, foggy, brittle plastic and foggy, fluoridated water. Sam wants it, but the fevers make him shake and tremble, like some kind of invalid or old man. He hates it when it happens after Dean leaves him, heads to the motel for sleep or to a diner for food. He hates it more when Dean sees.
"Fuck," Dean says, calm and clear, eyes steady and back on Sam's face. "No."
No. Sam knows that. Knows Bobby's advice, garbled out on speakerphone - go to ground, boys. And do it quick. Sam wants to say, let's get out, Dean. Let's just - just live for a little while.
There's blood and scars and nightmares that say they might have earned that, but Sam looks over at Dean, bruise-eyed and angry, busy making plans and scanning the local papers.
"We'll figure it out," Sam says, and presses back into the pillows. He lets the heat wash through him, leave him dizzy and sweaty. "It'll be okay."
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen; Sam-POV; post season 5; majority written before s6 aired, so AU; angst.
Just for a kindly reminder, rainylemons' long ago prompt was, "Gen - Sam comes back from the pit afraid of fire. Seriously, seriously afraid of fire. Like waking in the night screaming, flinching away from a candle or lit match, suffering panic attacks afraid of fire. Really shitty time for some hunters with a bad impression of Sam to take to wanting to burn him alive. If you can get some Dean all backlit by flames description, smoldering with rage, and trying to coax Sam out of a burning whatever for me, you get my eternal love." So, I hope this fits. You deserve THAT, at the very least *headdesk*
the hot wind stirs
It's a regular salt-and-burn. Sam's on one side of the dug out grave, Dean on the other. It’s just the brief glint of flashlights on the ground and a full moon sliding across the sky, and Sam hears it, snick and rub of a match being lit.
He's fine, he is. Breath even and heart steady as he stares at the orange flame, the bright blue center. Dean grins as he drops the match, as heat wooshes over the gasoline, catching, sending tendrils licking up and up and up -
- then Dean's there, face shadowed and deep, orange red spiraling into the sky behind him. Sam can look up, up past Dean's face, and the sky seems black.
Up, he's looking upward, and only then does he realize he's on the ground, legs splayed, arms propping himself up.
"Dean," he says, and the words form like a question under the pop and crack of a burning corpse.
"Fuckin christ, Sam," and Dean bends, holds out an arm. "Come on, you okay?"
"It's okay," and his voice is hoarse, breaking open. "I'm fine."
Dean snorts, but helps Sam get to his feet, walks shoulder-to-shoulder all the way to the Impala.
**
The second time, it's a poltergeist and an electrical fire.
Sam freezes, sees the fire radiating from an outlet and crawling up the walls.
"I got him out, Sam!" Dean's voice is behind him, words tumbling out fast on adrenaline. "Sam!"
He can feel the heat pressing into him, high pitched shrieks curling over, pulsing with the smoke, and fuck - fuck it's moving out, inching closer and closer.
"What are you doing?" Dean's voice is close, hand on his shoulder closer, ripping him away from where he's stuck, heart rabbiting. "We have to get out of here," but Sam only moves when Dean drags him, screaming and cussing, out of the house.
**
"Okay," Dean says, and he's staring hard straight ahead, hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel. Sam can't look away. "We're going to have to work on this."
Sam can see the goosebumps break out on Dean's skin, the shiver of muscle under Dean's skin, before he turns the ignition over. Dean says, "you should have told me, but."
**
It's not the heat, Sam thinks. Not really. It's the sound - the crackling, the popping, and when it really gets going - the roar, subterranean and growing. Sometimes it sounds like dying, like breaking bones and the rush of blood leaving your body.
Sometimes it sounds like what wants to kill you.
It never really bothered him. Before. Dean was the pyro, yeah, but seeing it - Dean lit up with red and orange and glee - or even lighting a fire himself never bothered him. Never made him think twice.
Now he dreams about it, sweat slipping across his skin when he wakes on his own; slicking Dean's grip when his brother has to shake Sam awake, whisper, "okay, okay. Sam, wake up. It's okay."
He can smell it on himself, sweet/acrid and thick, oozing down the back of his throat until he can taste it, taste only that.
**
"You're okay?" They've been driving aimlessly for a week now. No case, nothing, not even heading to Bobby's - and Dean won't tell him why he's avoiding the place, Sam just knows he is.
Sam thinks Dean's offering him a break, but everything's tense, unsure. Sam's forgotten how to talk and Dean's never been good at it, but now they can't read each other, either. It leaves them fumbling and avoiding everything.
It was a mistake, Sam thinks, to drag Dean back to him after he escaped the Pit. Especially when he's not even sure why or how he got out. Especially now that he's useless.
But Dean's waiting, and Sam leans his head back, closes his eyes. "I'm fine," and doesn't mention the sparks hiding in the corners of his eyes, doesn't mention the shape of burning hands reaching for him.
**
They ease back into hunting. Sam almost rolls his eyes because nothing's different this time. They haven't solved anything.
Dean says, "library, Sam," and "I've got this," and Sam lets Dean shuffle him everywhere and nowhere; lets Dean go off and clear out whatever baddie is terrorizing the latest person or the latest town.
He tries not to think about how Dean does it, especially when Sam knows it'd take two people, at least, to make the plan they come up with work.
But then one day he doesn't have to imagine. He can see. Dean comes waltzing into the bar they agreed to meet in with some burly, flannel-clad guy in tow.
"Ray," Dean says when Sam turns back to him, mouth open slightly. "He's been helping me on this one. Thought - " Dean stops, lips sealed over teeth, and Sam glances at Ray. He thinks they all know this is going to go down hill fast.
He's really, really not wrong.
"Right," Sam snaps his mouth shut, twists on his seat while Dean and Ray sit down. Sam flags down the waittress and orders a pitcher of beer. "How'd it go?"
Ray smirks and Dean shifts uneasily as he spares the guy a glance before saying, "fine. Just had to get a little extra help. You know ... "
"Yeah, yeah," Sam nods hurriedly, looking over at the bar, anywhere but at Dean or Ray. "Fire break. I know."
Sam hears a snick to his right and feels a sudden heat that has him jumping, almost spilling out of his chair.
It's Ray, lighting a cigarette with an industrial-looking lighter, all metal and polished sheen, and he mumbles "fuck," feeling his gut twist and roll as the cigarette Ray's lighting burns bright red and fades into orange at the hotbox.
Sam pushes over the thin gold metal ashtray when Ray's hand lowers near his arm on the small table. Ray doesn't shift, and Sam's too aware of the small source of warmth near his skin.
Ray asks, "don't like fire much, Sam?" and Sam shrugs, eyeing him warily, wanting to get up, shove at the man and the look on his face.
"It's fine," and it's the default answer gritted out between the cigarette almost burning him and the pressure of Dean's thigh suddenly pushing into his.
"You're the Sam, though, ain't ya?" Sam doesn't know how to respond to that, to everything that's barely hidden under the words, so he shrugs and feels Ray's eyes watching every little movement. The man shouldn't be able to make him feel so out of place, so defenseless, but Sam's knocked off balance, anyway, staring hard away from all of them.
"What's that mean?" Dean's voice is dangerous, steel and razors, and Jesus, Sam doesn't think this is going to end well.
"Maybe we should go," Sam looks over at Dean, same deep hollows around his brother's eyes, too little sleep and too much worry.
“No,” Ray says, smarm and something else, just as Dean says “yeah” and starts standing.
Sam stands, too, breathing deep and even for once in the entirely bizarre evening. He can see the top of their waitress’s head as she hustles over to their table, pitcher icy and tall and three downturned glasses sitting on her tray.
“Don’t you want your beer?” Ray asks, and Sam sees the glint in Ray’s beady eyes. “I mean, if I don’t mind sittin at a table with hell’s own antichrist, why should you - ” and Sam can’t miss the emphasis, what it means, even as he fights the urge to say I’m not the antichrist; we met the antichrist in Nebraska, “why should you mind me?”
Dean snarls, “just shut the fuck up, man, and drink the goddamn beer,” and grabs Sam under the elbow to drag him out of the bar.
Sam says, “you can let go now,” because Dean’s just standing by the Impala’s passenger side, grip still tight and painful on Sam’s arm.
“Yeah, well, you can learn to stick up for yourself, Sam. Christ.” But Dean lets go, unlocks Sam’s door and stalks over to his.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and slips into his seat. Slotting into place, he thinks, and he tries to pretend he’s not expecting the bar door to bust open, spill out Ray, staggering and angry. He expects it, but for as long as it takes Dean to get the car into gear, it doesn’t happen. There’s only the mumble of music slipping through Sam’s cracked window, the quiet, dim parking lot.
“Yeah,” he says again, Impala dipping into loose-packed gravel as they leave the bar. Sam turns toward Dean. “He doesn’t have a partner or anything. Right, Dean?”
Dean looks over at him, face flickering in and out as they pass under street lights. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice low.
Sam’s heart sinks.
**
“Well, you know, I guess we had to expect this, right?” Sam’s stuffing everything into his carryall, pushing down the bulges to zip it closed. Dean stops moving around, stays a heavy pressure behind him in the bathroom. “I mean, with everything - “
“Sam, shut up.” Something slams closed and Sam jumps, hears the thump thump of Dean’s booted feet on the floor. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that psychos stay the fuck away from my little brother.” Dean comes up beside him, leans in and Sam can see his brother’s anger, even from the periphery. “I mean, with everything.”
**
Sam doesn’t say anything and they take off like someone’s riding their tail. He doesn’t know if Ray’s willing to put in the work like Gordon did, but he can’t say no, no they're safe, either.
“All it takes is a phone call, Sammy,” and then Dean faces straight, jacks the volume for the radio. And that’s it. Easy, Sam thinks, but the words dry up in his mouth, heat twists and coils in his stomach.
Please let it be this easy.
**
It’s not that easy, turns out. Some things just don't catch up right away. Sam really should remember that.
**
Dean bitches about rookie mistakes, and “just. Tryin something to get you - I don’t know. I don’t fuckin know.”
Sam laughs, sharp barks that leave his throat a little too soon. “I’m not. I’m not a girlfriend, Dean, I’m not gonna get jealous and - “ He throws up his hands, caught without words, too.
“I know,” Dean says, and Sam realizes they say that a lot. Always late, always when they don’t really have a clue. “I’m sorry.”
They say that a lot, too.
**
Dean manages to keep up the rants for two states, but they slow down. The world stops rushing by in green-brown blurs at 70 miles an hour, and Dean starts flirting with waitresses.
The lines around them ease and it makes Sam twitchy.
They end up getting separated on a case in rural North Carolina. Working a plain old haunting on a hundred acre plot, having to cleanse all the old half-collapsed buildings. The place has the smell of history, of pain and decay, and it’s one of those jobs where Sam feels worse for the supernatural than the human.
He has his iron and he has his rock salt, so when they see flickering, Sam's not surprised that Dean goes one way and Sam goes another.
He's not worried, gun braced in his hand, flashlight bright and steady above that.
They just need time, a little distance to finish the rituals and find the unconsecrated graves on the property (we can set the whole damn thing on fire, Sammy, set it up like dominoes and have a total dive-for-cover last minute.
They're people, Dean. People. Not entertainment.
Fuckin get a sense of humor, Sam, 'sall I'm sayin.
But Dean was looking, so Sam stood there and let his brother find it).
**
Sometimes, when the rate of injury's high or they can't solve a case to save their lives, Sam will think they really aren't cut out for the job.
Sometimes he thinks the Winchester name got away from them, morphed into something that doesn't have one damn thing to do with John or Dean or him.
Times like now, crumpled on a musty, dirty floor in an ancient plantation house, spitting blood from the rip in his mouth, Sam gets it.
They should probably quit while they're ahead.
Someone kicks at him, sends him rolling over onto his back. "Uh," he says, except it bruises something inside and the sound's higher pitched, crashing out of his mouth.
Sam tells himself that when the body in the room comes where he can get a look he's expecting it. Hell, the only surprise is the flannel's actually changed colors.
"Dean," he groans, and tries to move, but his hands are bound, stuck in the hollow of his back, tingling under his own weight.
"This'll be real quick," Ray says instead. "Just gonna make sure you ain't capable of startin another apocalypse, huh, son?" There's shuffling, the sound of things scraping, and
Sam tries not to panic, tries to breathe and think, but then Ray says, "I'll be nice, though. I'll knock you out again before the fun starts. You won't even have time to worry about that brother of yours."
And Sam starts knocking around, kicking out and scrabbling for purchase, for anything, and he says, "you're gonna wish you were dead. You're gonna - "
But Ray laughs, and something heavy comes crashing down, aching pain branching out from Sam's temple, over and over, until the blackness behind his eyes swells, swallows him up.
**
He breathes. In, out. In, out.
There's a dull ache in the back of his throat; there's a tingling, searing pain in his feet. His ears feel stuffed with cotton and needles.
The lights above him are bright and fluorescent; the sheets are starched stiff and they smell like too much bleach.
Dean's voice says, "hospital, Sammy," and Dean's hands pat at him, rest against his left hip.
Sam thinks, I know, I know.
His eyes close and he drifts. Dean's fingers against his skin are hot; they're strong against the thin skin and bone.
He drifts, but everything always circles back to the throb of pain, beat on beat on beat, and Dean keeping time with the rise and fall of Sam's chest.
**
"I'm thinkin 'name change,'" Dean says. Sam's propped up with pillows, and he stares at his raised, bandaged feet. He knows they're burned pretty bad under it all, scraped free of the bits of melted rubber that he'd apparently been admitted with, but for now they're swaddled with gauze, nothing he has to see, and Sam tries moving them for a moment.
Dean's face goes hard.
"Think that'll do it, though?" Sam asks. There's a cup of water on the bedside table, foggy, brittle plastic and foggy, fluoridated water. Sam wants it, but the fevers make him shake and tremble, like some kind of invalid or old man. He hates it when it happens after Dean leaves him, heads to the motel for sleep or to a diner for food. He hates it more when Dean sees.
"Fuck," Dean says, calm and clear, eyes steady and back on Sam's face. "No."
No. Sam knows that. Knows Bobby's advice, garbled out on speakerphone - go to ground, boys. And do it quick. Sam wants to say, let's get out, Dean. Let's just - just live for a little while.
There's blood and scars and nightmares that say they might have earned that, but Sam looks over at Dean, bruise-eyed and angry, busy making plans and scanning the local papers.
"We'll figure it out," Sam says, and presses back into the pillows. He lets the heat wash through him, leave him dizzy and sweaty. "It'll be okay."