Away to Darker Dreams, Part Four
Missouri picks up before the first ring. "Dean," she says, and her voice is tired and subdued. "I've been waiting for you to call."
"Yeah... hey," Dean says, coughing into his sleeve. He checks on Sam, sees him sleeping restlessly, and slips back outside and into his car. "I know we've never met in person, but uh-"
"Shh, boy," Missouri says, cutting him off. "I practically know you already. And I know you want to get down to business, so let's do that, okay? How is your brother?"
Her voice is soft and musical, lilting slightly at the ends of her sentence, and Dean can see her in his mind's eye. She has a calming effect on him, and he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. "He's not good."
Missouri makes a sympathetic noise. Dean hears some sounds through the phone that remind him of a percolator. His stomach rumbles. He wishes he had some coffee of his own, good and black.
"And if I were here, I'd give you some," Missouri laughs. "Now, why don't you tell me more about Sam."
Dean swallows. "He has, um. He has visions, or at least he says so. First they were just dreams but he started gettin' 'em during the day. Bad shit that would come true. His girlfriend was killed the way our mom was."
"Oh, honey," Missouri says, "I'm so sorry. Have you ever seen him have a vision?"
"No, but I think I saw him get a nightmare. He said an evil man tries to get him to come with him. The visions give him migraines, he started takin' drugs for them and then panicked and ran. He's in a bad way right now."
"An evil man?" Missouri echoes, her voice hesitant. "A demon?"
"I think," Dean says, and stops, his throat feeling thick, his ears burning, "I think it's the thing that killed mom. I think it's talking to him."
"Dean," Missouri says, sounding like she's come to an important decision. "You and your brother and me have to have an important talk, okay? About that demon, about Sam. I think I can help him. Can you bring him here to Lawrence?"
"Lawrence? I--" Dean pales. Just a few days ago, he'd been willing to drive straight back to where he grew up so he could find Sammy, but now that he has him, the idea makes his heart race, his fear and weakness squeezing around it like a fist.
"It'll be fine, sweetheart," Missouri soothes, her voice like molasses and ambrosia. "I want to help Sam. But I have to see him to do that, okay? Can you bring him here?"
Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Yes. Yeah. Yeah, I can."
"Good, that's good," Missouri hums. "I'll see you two then, okay, Dean? I'm looking forward to meeting Sam."
"Okay." Dean nods to himself, looks at his bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror. "Thank you."
"Shush," Missouri says. "Bye, Dean."
"Bye."
Dean pockets his phone and takes a few deep breaths. He gets out of the car and does a few laps around it, breathing in the night air and listening to the dull murmur of a distant highway, the erratic chirping of a lone cricket, the muffled sound of a T.V. playing a few rooms down.
The familiar atmosphere grounds him and he makes his way inside. Sam is awake, still laying in bed, but this time curled up on his side, facing the doorway. He blinks up at Dean with shiny eyes, his lip wobbling. He curls his knees closer to his chest, the cuffed hand twitching.
He looks so young.
"Dean," he says, his voice pitched high and thready, a low whine. "Can I have more?"
Dean plops down onto his own bed, sighing. "Sammy, it hasn't even been twelve hours," he tells him, and he thinks back to Richard in his nice house with his nice clothes and the way he spoke about Sam, like he was just a doll to fuck. He has trouble thinking about Sam's life before Dean found him, his stomach getting too sick for him to keep a train of thought regarding Sam's sex work for too long. His lip curls.
Sam gives a huge shuddery breath and Dean turns back to him, watching how Sam's face shutters to a halt and shuts down, his eyes squeezing shut. Sam presses his face into the pillow and lets out a sob, his thin shoulders wracking.
Dean bolts upright, his heart singing in alarm for Sam. "Woah, hey..." he says, unsure, and hovers about for a moment before sitting down on Sam's bedside, Sam's knees at his back. He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder like he's touching cracked porcelain. "Sammy, it's okay."
Sam's body is still shaking when he turns his face up to Dean, and Dean can't even describe the heartbreak and desolation he sees written across Sam's features. No look like that should ever be on Sam's face. Sam's jaw, Sam's cheeks and nose and eyes and brow, they should all show innocence and understanding and love and selflessness, not any of this. Never this.
"That look on your face," Sam rasps, a tear shooting down his cheek. "I never wanted this. I never wanted you to look at me like I'm disgusting. I don't want to be a monster, Dean. I don't want you hate me. I don't want you to leave me." Sam's voice gets more and more strained the further he goes, his face turning red. His voice cracks across the last few syllables and he gasps raggedly, the sound of someone too exhausted to continue crying.
"Sam, I don't hate you," Dean says, swallowing thickly, his brows pushing together. He moves his hand up and down Sam's arm, rubbing his thumb in little circles on Sam's heated skin. "You're not disgusting. I get it, okay? I can't imagine what you've been through, but I get it. A normal person would've cracked way before you did. You're strong, Sammy. You can get through this."
"You don't know that for sure," Sam blinks tearily up at Dean, his eyes begging Dean to say otherwise.
Dean hates what the world has done to Sam. Anger and pure vitriol spill around inside him when he thinks of the thing that tore his family apart, that is now tearing Sam apart. He has to fix this. This can't go on any longer.
He wants to call his Dad so damn badly, like a scared kid running to get a parent. Yet something keeps holding him back. He loves his Dad, there's no question, but he doesn't want Dad to see Sam like this. After four years of separation, after the two of them had a screaming fight... Dad doesn't have a high opinion of sex workers. Dad thinks anything connected to the demon is evil.
A part of him wonders if Dad already knows.
He casts all his worries aside. It doesn't fucking matter. The only thing that matters is his little brother.
He pulls back the covers resting on Sam's waist and Sam's eyes narrow, but he doesn't move save his trembles, only watches Dean silently as Dean tosses off his jacket and climbs in beside Sam, pushing Sam's head under his chin and wrapping his arms around Sam. He reaches down and tosses the blankets back over the two of them.
He hears Sam's sharp intake of breath. A moment later, Sam's arm comes creeping around him, like a wary stray dog pulled toward the promise of food. "It's okay," Dean murmurs, breathing in the smell of Sam's hair, "this used'ta work when you had nightmares before, right? We'll fix it, Sam. I know it. Don't you worry about a thing."
Sam sniffles and presses his body against Dean, burying his nose in Dean's shoulder. He's not shaking quite so badly anymore, and his breathing gets less and less erratic with each passing moment.
"Thank you," Sam croaks, and Dean's heart warms in his chest.
"No problem," Dean whispers back. "Just get some sleep, Sammy. We're gonna go see a friend in the morning, okay? I've got a plan. Just rest. It'll all be better when you wake up."
Sam murmurs something against Dean's skin and goes boneless, trusting Dean's arms to keep him protected through the night. If anything's gonna try to come at Sam, it's gonna have to go through Dean first. Dean wishes he could fight with Sam's nightmares one-on-one, or hell, go up against the yellow-eyed bastard himself, no matter the consequences.
He listens to Sam's breaths going even and closes his eyes but doesn't allow himself to sleep. He's on guard duty protecting the most precious thing in his messed up little life.
No one fucks with what's Dean's.
Sam's a little pinker in the morning, his eyes a little more aware. Dean takes off the cuff to replace the bandages around his wrists. He finishes wrapping the wrist and picks up the cuffs from the nightstand, still warm from Sam's skin. He turns and puts them back into his duffel, making sure every action is clearly in Sam's line of sight.
Sam stays put on the bed, his hand up on the pillow as if the cuff is still there, hidden from sight. Sam's not usually obedient like this, like a patient, well-trained dog--Dean actually thinks "Sam" and "obedient" are antonyms, and the little puppy look Sam gives him right now makes him purse his lips and walk back over to Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Sam doesn't trust himself, that much is clear. But Dean does. He wants Sam to know that.
"I don't think you need those anymore, do you?" he asks, looking Sam in the eye.
Sam frowns, his eyes shooting between the bag and Dean's eyes. "Are you sure?" he finally asks, voice just barely above a whisper. He tentatively puts his injured hand in his lap, still looking up at Dean like Dean's got all the answers.
Dean nods. He doesn't trust his voice not to break, but he speaks anyway. "I'm sure," he murmurs, and steps away. He continues packing. He makes a point to turn his back to Sam, to not glance over his shoulder at him. He's proving that he trusts Sam. He doesn't have to watch his every move. Sam is his own free man, addict or not. Now that Dean knows the whole story and knows Sam wants help, he doesn't think Sam will hurl insults at him or leave for a quick fix.
They're both in too deep.
It takes a few solid minutes but Sam finally gets up and starts packing his own bag. He only has a backpack with a few changes of clothes, so it doesn't take long. He stands with his backpack slung over his shoulder, hovering near the motel door and watching Dean grab up various supplies from all over the room.
"You need help?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. "I'll be done in a minute," he says, tugging the med kit out from under the bathroom sink. "Can you put some bags in the car, though?"
"I-" Sam stops, wetting his lips. "Okay."
Sam opens the door in little precise movements and slips outside. The door shuts behind him.
Dean's legs want to scramble outside and Dean's mouth wants to yell after Sam, but he refuses both of them and packs the final bag, staring out at the motel room for one last moment.
The place isn't anywhere special, but no motel is. It's one of millions he's stayed in, a reproduction, similar in a billion different ways.
But here is where he got Sam back. Here is where he almost lost him.
He nods at the room. A little acknowledgement that no one else will ever see.
When he makes it outside, he sees Sam sitting in the passenger seat, reverently tracing the spines of the cassettes in his lap, and something in Dean's heart finishes healing, making him feel a little closer to whole again.
It's only a few hours to Lawrence. All Dean's told Sam about where they're going is that they're off to see a friend of Dad's in Lawrence, and Sam is understandably on edge. His jaw is tight and his eyes are sharp. The only things that gives away his true condition are the sweat beading around his neck, and the way his hand trembles like a leaf in the wind , gripped tight around the door handle.
Dean checks his watch. "Think you can make it a few hours before I give you some more?"
Sam's eyes widen. "Yeah, y-yeah, I'm okay."
Bullshit.
Dean eyes the milemarker they pass, poking out askew in the flat plains of Kansas. "Not much longer now, not by our standards."
"Okay." Sam's voice is clipped. "This friend of Dad's... how can she help?"
Dean thinks over his response for several seconds, Blue Oyster Cult filling up the silence. "She's a psychic," he admits, "and she knows a lot about the demon, about the work Dad's been doing. She said she can help."
"And you trust her?" Sam asks.
Dean grunts the affirmative. "If Dad says she's the real deal, so do I."
Sam stares out the passenger side window, his jaw ticking. Every time Dean risks a glance over at him, he sees cogs turning behind Sam's eyes. The kid's brain never shuts up.
It's a good, familiar sight. It makes everything a little more tolerable.
"Do you think she has dreams like I do?" Sam's voice is quiet.
The question catches Dean off guard. "I don't know," he admits, "I don't know anything about psychic stuff, Sammy. But she does, alright? S'why we're seein' her."
"Alright, alright, no more questions," Sam says.
Dean grins at him.
The silence they lapse into is just like every other backseat moment he shared with Sam before he left for Stanford. Road moments can't always be filled up with talk and jokes, and sometimes, the low song of the pavement under the wheels of Baby is more comforting than any two-story suburban home could ever be.
They have no need to speak.
It's been around four or five songs when Sam makes a choked, gasping noise, his hands flying to his temples.
Dean almost drives them off the highway in his alarm, turning to face his brother, righting the wheel as he does. "Sam, you okay? Sam?"
"God... no," Sam moans, his eyes scrunching up tight. "Not right now, not again."
Shit, a motherfucking vision. Dean was always curious about them, about proof, but he'd take doubt any day over seeing one in the flesh.
He watches Sam more than he watches the road. It's terrifying how fast his brother disintegrates before his eyes. A long strand of dark blood leaks out of Sam's nose.
Sam screams like an animal.
Dean cusses and roughly pulls the Impala to the side of the road, yanking the key out of the ignition. He devotes all of his attention to Sam, who has pulled his legs up onto the seat and is pressing himself into the corner, whimpering, bleeding from the nose and ears.
Dean has no fucking idea what to do. He doesn't know how he can save Sam from this, if he's able to at all. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Sam's spine goes rigid and his eyes go grey and murky-cloudy, like a blind man's. Sam's eyes flick back and forth, staring right through Dean at something only Sam can see. His mouth falls open, leaking a mix of saliva and blood.
Dean reaches forward and shakes Sam by the shoulders. "You're scaring me," he cries, his own eyes wide and wild. "Stop it, Sammy, stop it."
Sam gurgles and sways, hardly breathing, enraptured in whatever horrific stupid bullshit the demon has thrown at him this time.
Dean shakes him again. "Sam. Sam. Sam, c'mon, look at me. Can you hear me, buddy? Hey, look at me. You in there, Sam? Sam?"
Sam doesn't blink, his eyes going bright and red-rimmed. Dean reaches out and carefully shuts Sam's eyes for him, brushing his thumbs over the delicate lids.
Sam's eyes tilt right back open. The blood isn't slowing down. It's getting all over Sam's shirt and pants. Dean wonders if Jessica ever had to cart Sam to the hospital for blood loss. He doesn't know her, but he's simultaneously furiously jealous of her and so damn grateful Sam had her.
Sam makes a high, keening noise, like a deer in death throes. His eyes clear, fog dissipating, and he slumps forward into Dean's waiting arms. Dean curls Sam up against his chest, holding back the sob rising in his chest.
"Sam, you there?" Dean rasps, rocking Sam back and forth. "You back yet, Sammy?"
Sam doesn't respond, and Dean closes his eyes and clings to his baby brother, a shuddering breath slipping past his lips.
He sits there for ages. Sam is a dead, cold weight in his lap, something Dean never ever wanted to experience. He cooes to him periodically, pleading with his brother for a response, and never granted one.
Dean cries into Sam's shoulder and wishes his Dad were here to save both of them.
He doesn't know how long he sits there, his legs falling asleep, before a slight twitch and sighed exhale in his arms shoots him from half-awake, twilight misery to fully-fledged awareness.
"Sam?" he barks, shifting and straightening, loosening his hold on his brother. "You here?"
Sam groans, his hands reaching up and grabbing for purchase in Dean's shirt like a feeble old man trying to control his arthritic hands. Dean helps Sam up, reaching under Sam's armpits and hauling him up, setting him back against the door of the Impala, propping him in an upright position.
He’s alive. He’s okay. He’s got dried blood caking his face and he looks worse than dead, but he’s fucking breathing, thank fucking--
Dean curls his hands around Sam’s jaw, feeling for his pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there, and it gets stronger each second he cradles Sam’s head. His heart feels like it’s going to fucking explode and he’s still crying as he presses a kiss to Sam’s lips, holding it there, squeezing Sam’s clammy face with his hands.
He pulls back, his own heart set to racing. He didn’t even think. He just. Shit. He still can’t think. He needs to focus on Sam, who is still half-limp like a ragdoll against the door.
Sam's head lolls for a moment before he finds the strength to raise it, blinking slowly, his eyes never opening further than a squint. Dean imagines that with the migraine Sam's probably sporting, sunlight is hell. Dean reaches over and pops open the glove compartment, taking out his pair of sunglasses and sliding them onto Sam's slender face. He'd pass for hungover in public now, Dean muses.
"Sam?" Dean prods again, talking very quietly, keeping Sam's fragile head in mind, "I need you to tell me how you are."
"S'not good," Sam slurs after a pregnant pause, barely a whisper, putting a pin dropping to shame. "I need it, D'n, fuck, c'n hardly see."
Dean's heart races around a little harder in his chest. He can't imagine how much pain Sam must be in if the migraine is fucking with his vision, his speech. As much as he fucking hates it, he leaves Sam for a moment, going around to the trunk and reaching into the pocket sewn into the lining of his biggest duffel, pulling out a bottle of Oxycontin. He shakes out four pills, grabs a water bottle from the duffel, and slips back into the driver's seat, wrapping an arm around Sam's hunched shoulders. His anxiety pulls back just a fraction the moment he touches Sammy again.
"I think you need this," Dean sighs, looking at the cars passing them by as he drops the pills in Sam's palm, hot and slick with sweat. All those families going to and from place to place in happy little safe lives, completely unaware of the devastating tragedy unfolding in the car on the shoulder. Dean's not bitter, nope.
Sam taps him on the arm with his pointer finger. Dean turns to look down at Sam's purpled, sleepless-looking eyes, aimed at the water bottle. Right. Dean hands it over.
"Need any help?" he asks, watching Sam's fingers curl lethargically around the bottle.
Sam shakes his head. He takes all four at once. Dean dimly remembers reading that that was a shit idea, but it can't be anything worse than Sam's fucking visions, so he lets it slide. Sam downs about a third of the water bottle before capping it and dropping it to the floor.
Sam goes boneless again, but this time it doesn't scare Dean. Sam closes his eyes and shudders, his face still set in pain even with the pills kicking in and the sunglasses blocking out some light.
Dean flips down the sun visors. It does a little bit more good. Better than nothing.
on to part five