Supernatural: All Fired Up, This Soul [Part 2/2]
Back to Masterpost Ψ Back to Part One
Dean wakes up first. It’s not status quo by any stretch, but it’s nothing revolutionary. Sam is almost always the early bird, but on days like this, when Dean has a well deserved pounding in his head, it’s not so weird that he can’t sleep.
He stops. Thinks about it. Looks over at his brother. Sam. Sleeping next to him. Dean’s little brother, arm around his waist, lips resting against his neck, same as always for what feels like forever.
But not lately. Not since…
He hardly has time to reach for the motel waste basket before he’s throwing up everything he’s ever consumed. Once, twice, and then a few more times just for good measure.
Sam doesn’t wake up, doesn’t stir.
Dean stumbles out of bed as soon as he can manage it, finds his feet, and takes a defensive pose as he faces his sleeping brother. “Are you faking it?” he asks, voice soft. A whisper. Don’t wake him up, he’ll never go back to sleep.
There’s no answer, except for sheets rustling with Sam’s shallow breath.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you’re faking it,” he adds, louder this time, conversational. But he means it.
Sam doesn’t respond, and Dean finds himself clutching the toilet half a minute later, something entirely different from the alcohol bringing the bile out of him. This isn’t possible, and, when he wakes up from this, he’s going mad.
Sam’s where Dean left him when he comes back to the room, teeth brushed, water splashed on his face-Dean is still seeing things. He takes a seat by his brother and can’t help shaking him, waking him up; he has to know.
He can touch Sam, solid flesh.
Sam freezes as soon as Dean’s wake-up call registers. His eyes shoot open, dart around the room, but when Dean tries to lean into his field of vision, he shuts them tight, turns his head away quick as a whip.
“Sammy?”
“Go away,” he says.
“Sam, it’s…”
“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.”
Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to stop. He reaches out, steadies a hand on Sam’s face, tries to turn him back in his direction. “Sam, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s Dean, Sam.”
“I hate you,” Sam says. “Leave me alone.”
Dean shakes his head, doesn’t let it sink in. Sam doesn’t mean it; he’s just confused. Sam doesn’t mean it, he tells himself, over and over, believing it because he has to.
Sam takes a few gasping breaths and grabs at the blankets surrounding him, sits up and looks around the room, but he flinches when he reaches Dean, eyes shut again before he gets a chance to see him. He pulls his legs up to his chest and hides his face against them, rocking slightly.
Dean tries reaching out to soothe him, expects Sam to recoil, but he stills under the touch. “Okay?” Dean asks.
Sam spreads back out on the bed, burrowing under the covers. “You play dirty, I don’t like you.”
“What, Sam?”
“You play dirty,” he says. “Go get your brother. Please, I can’t again. I’m tired. Please, I’m so tired.”
Dean can imagine, considering Sam’s body hasn’t slept more than however many hours he got last night in over a year. Dean strokes a hand over the bit of Sam’s head poking out over the blanket and presses a kiss against his temple. Sam whimpers.
“Go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He pulls a chair up to his brother’s bedside and vows to sit right there until Sam is ready to rouse-even if it takes months. He falls asleep later that night, awakens after eight hours, and Sam is still sleeping. It goes on for three days.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam gets up at some point in the night, begins moving through the room like a ghost. Dean is asleep, but he hears the rustling after a while. Once he looks around, it’s obvious Sam’s been everywhere: kitchen, bathroom; he’s done everything he needs to do and is sitting on the floor by his bed, staring out at nothing.
Dean stands and kneels next to him, taking Sam’s hand. Sam turns his face away. “Hey, Sammy, you awake now?”
Sam laughs at him.
“You hungry?”
He shakes his head.
“You still tired? Want me to help you get back in bed?”
Another shake of his head, but his face stays turned away. Dean suddenly gets the irrational need to see his brother, and he tries to turn his face towards him. Sam lets Dean’s hand guide him, but his eyes are clenched shut.
“Hey, look at me.”
Sam sneers, doesn’t open his eyes.
“Please?”
He tries to push Dean away then, violent reaction followed by a wounded noise when Dean lets out a surprised cry. He sits on his bed and lies down, his back to Dean.
It’s better, Dean tells himself. Better than when Sam was in the pit suffering. This is better for Sam, no matter how miserable he seems. And Dean just has to think of what Sam was like when he first showed up in Lisa’s garage-yeah, it’s better for Dean, too. But that was so much easier to see than this. His brother, really his brother this time, and all the hurt he’s feeling because Dean couldn’t get him out fast enough.
It’s no wonder Sam hates him now. Dean deserves it.
“Alright, Sam,” he says. “I won’t try again, I promise.”
Sam makes a guttural sound.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam watches TV and cooks, can clean himself and dress and seems okay on first glance. He hasn’t uttered a word since the first morning, and he still won’t look at Dean. It causes Sam so much distress when Dean tries to get him to open his eyes that he finally gives up trying.
After a few days inside, Dean thinks maybe Sam just needs to get out, so he takes him to the diner down the road for a test run.
Sam stares at his menu. When the waitress asks him what he wants, he says nothing. Dean orders, hoping to buy him time, and waits for Sam again after.
“Should I come back?” the waitress asks.
Dean is about to say yes, but Sam grabs his wrist and squeezes it.
“What, Sammy?”
Sam presses his finger onto the menu, and Dean reads over the description. He smiles and orders for Sam, glad to finally be able to do something for his brother. Sam lifts his head from the menu, smiling too, but his damn eyes are still closed. It’s only when he looks at Dean. It could be so much worse; Dean has a lot to be thankful for. He’s got no right to feel sorry for himself.
They go right back to the motel after they eat, because Sam's cagey and making upset sounds, and he won't leave the room again after that. Dean spends most of the time they’re on lockdown doing research, trying to find some kind of ritual he could have accidentally stumbled into to get his brother’s soul back. Of course, he comes up with a remarkable pile of nothing.
Calling Castiel seems like the obvious next step, so he does that for longer than he wants to admit. Every day he prays or calls Castiel’s old number, and there isn’t even a voice mail blowing him off to say the angel is hearing him. Dean’s on his own, and the only hope he has left is Bobby. Maybe Bobby did something without telling Dean-didn’t want to get his hopes up, just in case it didn’t work.
Of course it was Bobby.
So he reluctantly packs up their things one day and shoves them in the trunk. Sam freaks out until he sees the Impala, and then the noises and the scrambling for the motel die out into perfect calm. He doesn’t put up another complaint for hours, just sits and stares out of the passenger seat, humming along with music he usually bitches about. Dean doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it, rolls with it like he has everything else for the last few days.
“We’re gonna go see Bobby,” he tells Sam after a few hours of uncharacteristic silence. “You remember Bobby, right?”
Sam makes a sound, which could mean yes or no, and Dean won’t fucking know because he’s not a goddamn mind reader. He tells Sam as much. It doesn’t make much of an impact, but Dean feels a little better.
After a few hours, Sam starts fidgeting. Dean’s been driving so long his eyes are starting to swim, just to keep Sam calm. He’s more than happy to jump on the chance to stretch his legs a little.
“What’s up, Sam?” he asks. “You hungry? Uncomfortable?”
Sam nods, eyes still trained away from Dean.
“Could you go for a piss? I could go for a piss.”
The sound Sam makes is almost a laugh, which is all Dean needs to keep going.
They pull over into one of those supermarket-restaurant hybrids you find if you drive long enough in the middle of nowhere. They take care of business and then head out into the store, where Sam starts grabbing shit off the shelf. It saves Dean the trouble of asking if he wants to sit down for dinner or just get snacks, at least.
There’s a long line, and Sam gets ancious pretty quickly. He starts making nervous noises and hides his face against Dean’s chest when he sees people staring at him. Dean soothes him as quietly as he can and turns to the first thing he sees to try and distract his brother.
“Doritos don’t make a full meal, Sammy,” Dean chastises, picking through the things Sam dumped into their cart. “No matter how many bags you buy.”
Sam obviously doesn’t answer, but Dean can feel the animosity pouring off of him, and that’s enough for now.
“Here, this’ll make it a healthy meal.” Dean digs the bag of Funyuns he’d dropped in out of the bottom and places them in Sam’s palm. Sam strokes a thumb over the picture on the front, makes a sad little sound. He stays mesmerized by the bag as Dean unloads the cart, until Dean hears him laugh unexpectedly and turns to find Sam looking down at his feet.
There’s a little girl pulling on his pant leg, and Sam kneels down to look at her, smiling the way he does when he sees dogs or ice cream cones or any of those other uncomplicatedly happy things you don’t get much of in Hell.
“Shelley, sweetie, leave the nice man alone,” the woman behind them in line says, reaching out for her daughter.
Sam lets the little girl take his hands and begin playing some version of patty cake with him. Sam laughs warmly and tries to keep up.
“It’s alright,” Dean says, smiling at the scene. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Which is a lie, of course, but Dean’s pretty sure no one is about to call him on it.
“No, of course not,” she says, returning the smile. “I just don’t want her bothering him.”
“He doesn’t look bothered.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. Her face shows that she knows it came out wrong before Dean snaps at her.
“There’s nothing wrong with him. That’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Of course,” she agrees, nodding at Dean apologetically. “There’s so much we can learn from them."
Dean sets his teeth too tight in his jaw. He’s tired of people treating his brother like an idiot, looking at him like he’s in denial when he insists otherwise. And, he gets it, the lady’s just trying to be nice. But if one more goddamn person tries that line on him, he’s going to snap. Dean is pretty sure it would be just as obnoxious if the assumptions she's making about Sam were even accurate.
He turns away from the mother, shoves money at the cashier, and drags Sam out with a bit too much force.
_______________________________________________________________
“Dean?” Bobby asks through the open slit in the door.
“In the flesh,” Dean answers. “Can we come in?”
Bobby shrugs and closes the door, sliding the chain and opening it all the way. Dean tugs Sam’s hand a little, and Sam moves forward obediently.
“You’re keeping him on an awful short leash these days,” Bobby says dryly.
“He’s back,” Dean says. “He’s got his soul.”
“What?” Bobby asks. “How’d you get it, boy?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Bobby shakes his head and turns his attention to Sam. A part of Dean thinks maybe Sam won’t look at him, either. Maybe it’s not just Dean. But Sam slowly blinks one eye open, then the other.
“Sam?” Bobby asks, obviously bracing himself for a handshake, a hug, something.
Sam grabs Dean’s arm and hides behind his body, head poking out to watch Bobby curiously.
“He…uh…?”
“I think so,” Dean answers. “Don’t really know yet. It’s only been about a week.”
“Well, shit. Come in,” Bobby says, leading the way. “Beer?”
“Something stronger?”
“After you tell me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby responds, leaning against his kitchen counter. “How’d it happen?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “It just…” He shrugs. “I wake up one day, he’s out cold.”
“Nothing happened the night before that could have done it?”
Dean smiles sheepishly. “I, uh, don’t really remember,” he says. “Had a few drinks before-”
“Dammit, Dean! You blacked out on how to rescue a soul from the deepest pit of Hell? It didn’t occur to you that, just maybe, that would be useful information? Especially considering how often you damn morons get stuck down there?”
Dean frowns, looks away. He’s not being entirely honest, but what he does remember isn’t useful. He’s not about to tell Bobby he grabbed Monster and called him Brother.
“I didn’t expect it to happen, man. No one left me a voice message.”
“Yeah, alright,” Bobby says grudgingly, waving a dismissive hand at Dean and finally ducking into the refrigerator for the beers he’d promised. “So what’s he like? Total mess?”
“He can hear you,” Dean points out. He pauses, scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, taking a long drink. “Sorry. Just. I think I should put him to bed and we’ll talk about it when I get back down, okay?”
Bobby nods and waits for Dean in the living room. He dives in immediately once he returns.
“He’s not as bad as I thought he’d be, I guess,” Dean starts. “Or at least, he doesn’t come off that way. He’s jittery, but he can do all the basic things for himself. He talked for a bit the first day, but it made no damn sense, and he’s done nothing but whimper since then. His nightmares are on an entirely new playing field. I’m pretty sure he’s hurting, but he won’t tell me.”
“Maybe he just needs time,” Bobby tries.
Dean scoffs and sits on the couch, eyes trained on his glass of whiskey instead of Bobby. It’s going to kill him to ask for help, to admit he may not be what Sam wants. “I don’t think it’s time he needs. I think it’s someone else.”
“Huh?”
“He lets me take care of him because he has to, but I don’t think he likes being near me. He won’t look at me, and…” Dean swallows hard. “I guess I just want you to try talking to him without me. See if you can get something out of him.”
“No way he’s talking to anyone if he’s not talking to-”
“Just try for me, okay?”
Bobby nods like he doesn’t like it, sets his bottle on his desk, and stands. He leaves the door slightly ajar as he enters so Dean can watch from the hallway. Sam’s sitting in bed, staring out like he tends to do when Dean isn’t distracting him.
“Hey, kid,” Bobby says gently.
Sam’s head turns in his direction, smiling for a moment before his eyebrows draw in. He looks around, confused, and moves away from the side of the room Bobby’s occupying.
“Mind if I sit?”
Sam nods.
“Alright, fair enough.”
Sam opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and Dean’s heart folds in his chest. Selfishly, he wanted to be wrong about this. Serves him right.
“You, uh. You wanna talk about anything, Sam?”
Sam closes his mouth then, gives Bobby a dangerous look.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d try.”
“Dean,” Sam says, his first word all over again. He starts fidgeting, and his voice goes up in pitch when he says it again. “Dean?”
“I figured as much,” Bobby answers, turning to the crack in the door Dean’s looking through. “Idjit.”
Dean pushes it so that he can walk in, and Sam of course closes his eyes as soon as he senses Dean approaching.
“Dean?”
Dean kneels in front of him, putting one hand on his knee; Sam’s anxious movements stop immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m here.”
“Don’t leave me alone with them,” he says.
Dean knows better than to ask who. “I won’t, Sam. It’s okay. I won’t leave you again.”
Sam’s lips tremble for half a second, then he stills them, nods, and says nothing more.
_______________________________________________________________
Later that night, Sam is sleeping, head on Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s running his fingers through his brother’s hair absently. The TV flickers on Sam’s face, and, in the soft glow, he looks happy. He’s not tossing and turning like he usually does asleep, which Dean really wants to take a little credit for.
“You know what we have to do, right?” Bobby asks reluctantly.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “That’s half the reason I came here. I’ve tried praying and it’s getting me jack, so I figured we have to summon the bastard.”
“Good,” Bobby says. “Thought I’d have to fight you on it.”
“I don’t like it,” Dean admits. “He’s not in good shape. But, at the same time, how are we going to know just how bad it is until we…?”
“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “So tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“First thing?”
Dean angles an apologetic look down at the man sleeping in his lap.
_______________________________________________________________
Castiel responds to the summon immediately, looking impressively annoyed. “What part of ‘fighting a war to control Heaven’ is so difficult to comprehend?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just points at Sam. He’s staring out in that unsettling way he has now, and he’s acting like he still hasn’t realized he’s been tied up.
“Are you trying to establish just how much of his soul he doesn’t have?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I think he got it back,” Dean says.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“How can you not be sure if you somehow managed to wrestle your brother away from two of the strongest creatures in creation?”
“It just kinda…happened.”
Castiel looks unimpressed.
“Look, will you just do your weird fisty thing and tell me what’s wrong with him?”
“So there is something wrong?”
“Of course there’s something wrong, Cas. I need you to tell me what so I can fix it.”
Castiel sighs but walks towards Sam. Dean comes up behind him, puts a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder and leans down to whisper. “Okay, Sammy. This is gonna hurt a little, but we’re gonna make you all better.”
Sam says nothing. Dean gives his shoulder one last squeeze, then gets out of Castiel’s way and takes a seat across the room next to Bobby. Dean’s instinct is to look away. He doesn’t think he can watch the timid Sam he’s been taking care of for the last week hurt after he’s already had to suffer so much. He’s so damn scared now, untrusting except of Dean…and now Dean is feeding him to this. No way it ends well.
Castiel puts the leather strap in Sam’s mouth and wastes no time, slipping in, feeling for his soul.
Sam doesn’t even blink. Somehow, it’s worse than if he were crying out-Dean doesn’t want to think about how much pain Sam’s been subjected to for something like this to not even register.
Castiel pulls away, and Sam laughs, looks Castiel dead in the eye. “Come on, Lucille. I know you can do better than that,” he says, taunting the damn angel. Taunting the damn angel he thinks is Lucifer.
Dean stands, and Castiel meets him in the middle of the room.
“Well?”
“His soul has returned.”
“And?” Dean leads.
Castiel shrugs. “And intact.”
“Completely intact?”
“Whatever is wrong with your brother is not in his soul. I suspect it has more to do with his body no longer knowing how to deal with what his soul has seen, been subjected to...” He looks back at Sam, a little sad. “Apparently become used to.”
“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says. “If his soul is okay, he’ll get better.”
“I did not say it was okay. I said it was intact. I can only imagine how far from okay it is. I can only measure physical damage.”
“So he might…?”
“I don’t know, Dean. I wish I had something else to tell you.”
Dean dodges a look over at his brother, who is engaged in a staring contest with Bobby. He figures he’s safe to try asking about the only damn idea he’s got left. “What about my soul?”
“What about it, Dean?”
“The angels are still buying. I can make a deal, have them fix Sam. Selling to Heaven has to be better than selling to Hell-”
From the other side of the room, Sam lets out a blood chilling scream. Dean, Bobby, and Castiel all turn their attention to him, and Sam begins thrashing in the chair, voice still deafening.
They run to him, Dean loosening his hands, Castiel standing in front of him, trying to calm. As soon as he’s free, Sam launches forward, grabs the front of Castiel’s trench coat and begins shaking it, big eyes looking up at him.
“Not him,” he says. “Not him. Look, I’m right here. I’m right here.” Sam grabs Castiel’s hand and forces him to reach out. “Hurt me. Not him, you can’t hurt him. I didn’t look-you know I didn’t look. You can’t hurt him.”
Castiel tilts his head, but Dean freezes. Everything clicks into place. “Sammy, is that why you won’t look at me?”
“Not you,” he says, averting his gaze, turning back to Castiel with the same pleading face. “He’s not fair like you. You can play with me, I’m right here. Don’t let him, Lucifer, please. I didn’t look.”
“Sammy, I’m not Michael. You’re not there anymore. That’s Cas, okay? Everything’s better.”
Sam ignores him completely, fingers loosening on Castiel, but expression no less desperate. “I’ll do anything if you make him stop. Please, make him stop.”
“Dean, please stop,” Castiel says dutifully.
“Really not funny,” Dean says, turning to Castiel, but the angel’s already disappeared. “Fuck.”
“No,” Sam says. “No, no, no, no.”
“Sam, no one is hurting me. They never hurt me. It wasn’t real. I wasn’t down there with you, remember? They were just trying to upset you, Sammy.”
“Not real,” he says softly. “You’re not real.”
“I am,” Dean promises. “Sam, look at me, man. I promise.”
“Not real.”
“Alright, Sam, close your eyes,” Dean says, defeated. “I’m gonna take you up to bed.”
Sam does as he’s told, follows Dean blindly.
_______________________________________________________________
“I hate this movie,” Sam says as Dean flips through the channels and finally finds something decent to watch. “Change it.”
Dean picks up the remote, thinks about it, and sets it down on the table next to his side of the couch. Sam can’t glare at him without looking, but it’s implied, and his lip juts out enough for Dean to see it out of the corner of his eye. It’s Sam’s pout, the one he always saved for Dean-not the one that belongs to Michael and Lucifer. It’s the best he can do, and Dean is happy to take it.
“Deal with it, bitch.”
Sam almost smiles. “That…you sound so much like him sometimes.”
“I am him,” Dean insists. The routine is starting to wear thin.
“Yeah, of course you are,” Sam replies indulgently.
Dean sighs and tries to hand Sam the remote, but Sam refuses it. “He wouldn’t have changed it,” Sam tells him. “Do you want me to pretend or not?”
Dean doesn’t know the answer at this point, so he makes an effort to focus his attention on the TV. It only takes a few minutes for Sam to start dozing with his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean listens to him breathe more than to the television, and he doesn’t notice he’s drifting, too, until Sam starts crying next to him.
He sighs and shakes his brother awake. “Hey, Sammy. Come on. Bedtime.”
Sam pushes him, murmurs something about Dean not being him, and opens his eyes, only to close them again immediately.
“Don’t touch me,” Sam says. “You’re not-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not Dean,” Dean says. “I get it.”
Sam frowns. “Stop it, that’s confusing.”
“Well, I fucking quit,” he answers. “What the hell do I have to do to convince you?”
Sam swallows. “Not fall apart the moment I look at you.”
“So look, Sammy. I’m right here. Just look at me, I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam picks at lint on the couch. “I stopped falling for that one decades ago,” says Sam. “It’s not going to be that easy, not again.”
“Easy,” Dean scoffs. “Nothing’s easy.”
“It was easy…I was easy. But I’m not looking, I don’t care how much better you’ve gotten at acting like him.”
“Never gonna look at me again, Sammy? You really think that’s gonna work?”
“No.” Sam pulls his legs onto the couch and starts rocking, same as he does every time he feels threatened. “No, I always cave.” He fists his hands in his hair. “I always hurt him.”
“Sam, it wasn’t really me. They didn’t hurt me. They only hurt you.”
“But not yet,” he says, like Dean hasn’t said a thing. “I’ve gone decades. I’ll go longer.”
It occurs to him that he may never see his little brother’s eyes again, and Dean hardly manages to keep it together. “Please look at me, Sammy. I swear I’m your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” Sam says, distracted. “That was just a nice dream I had once.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean hears something shatter, a loud cry from the bathroom, and his heart stops in his chest. Sam had been fine a few seconds ago when he’d passed by the door, trying not to be obvious in checking up on his brother.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, pushing the door the rest of the way open.
The mirror is in shards, half of them buried in his brother’s hand, and Sam is sitting on the bathroom floor, bleeding and making injured sounds.
“Fuck, Sam, what did you do?” Dean asks.
“I almost saw you,” he says, out of breath. “I almost looked at you in the mirror.” He smiles proudly, drawing his hand closer to his chest, almost hugging it. “I made it go away.”
“Sam, no,” Dean chastises. “Dammit, no no no, you could have really hurt yourself. You did really hurt yourself.”
Sam smiles, head falling back lazily, and raises his hand. “Nothing,” he says. “Don’t worry, Dean, I didn’t look.”
“I wish you would,” he snaps, taking Sam’s wrist and drawing the hand close enough to inspect. “This isn’t nothing.”
It’s not as bad as it looks. Dean knows how to judge wounds by now. This one won’t leave much damage; it’s not the end of the world. Dean can get the glass out, and Sam only got big pieces stuck where they’d just draw blood. Luckily, Sam didn’t hit any crucial arteries or veins and there’s nothing hard to fish out. Still, he’s more shaken up than Sam is, clutches his brother.
“Nothing,” Sam echoes.
Dean stands up, helping Sam to his feet. Eyes closed, Sam navigates his way out of the room, not cutting his feet on broken edges by pure luck. He sits on the bed and submits to Dean’s help, lets him bandage up the cuts almost as if it’s just for Dean’s sake.
“Who are you?” he asks as Dean wraps his hand in gauze.
“I’m your brother, Sam. It’s Dean.”
“No,” Sam says. “But you’re not like the angel, either. He’s not as good at pretending.” Sam’s lips shake. “I wish you weren’t so good at pretending.”
“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” Dean says bitterly.
Bobby tells Dean where to stick his apologies about the mirror, but he isn’t able to play off his concerns for Sam as easily as he dismisses the property damage.
Dean figures it’s better for everyone if Bobby doesn’t have to be a part of their mess, so they say their farewells and go back to wandering aimlessly the next day. It’s what they know, and the upheaval is somehow more soothing to both of them than staying centered.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up, feeling something moving over his skin. He opens his eyes, slowly comes to the realization that it’s Sam’s fingers touching him. Sam’s face is turned away, but the touch is smooth and intimate, and Dean flushes, remembering when Sam touching him was a regular thing.
“Sammy?” he says quietly, trying not to spook his brother. “What’re you doing?”
Sam tries to draw his hands away, but Dean catches his wrists.
“I was just…” he says, voice shaking. “I don’t remember what you look like.”
Dean brings Sam’s fingers to his lips, presses them to the tip of each one. “Sam…”
“Please, don’t ask me. I can’t help myself.”
Dean’s not really above it, not really above anything to get his brother back. He’s thought of trying dirty tricks, things Sam hadn’t even pulled when he had no soul-getting Sam so drunk he’d forget the instinct to look away or asking just after Sam wakes up from his nightmares, when he needs Dean there to comfort him.
Dean hasn’t resisted out of decency, just knows Sam will wake up the next day convinced it was a dream, another ploy to make him look, and it’ll make him stop trusting Dean all over again. Sam has to make the choice, Dean knows that instinctively, or it won’t stick. But Dean’s about an hour and a half from going crazy over this.
“Don’t look then,” he says despite himself. “Come here.” Dean moves over in bed, makes room for his brother to slide in. Sam hesitates. “Come on, Sammy. I could use a little help sleeping.”
Sam wraps around him for a few hours, and does it again every night after. He doesn’t scream as much when they’re together. Dean knows how to read his body language, can tell on instinct what to do to help his brother. He knows when Sam’s turned on, when he should back off for both their sakes. He knows when Sam’s scared, when he should draw his little brother in even closer. He knows when Sam’s far away, stuck somewhere awful where Dean can’t reach him, where Dean’s actions can’t reach him, and he can hold Sam however he damn well pleases.
It’s not the first time Dean’s had to live off table scraps.
Sometimes he wakes up, not because Sam’s having a nightmare, but because Sam’s not sleeping at all. He doesn’t talk much during the day, doesn’t give Dean enough to go on, but when he thinks Dean is asleep, he pours his heart out. Dean hears things he doesn’t really want to know.
“I don’t know why they’re letting me keep you,” Sam says gently one night, playing with the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “They never let us be like this. Better than when I look at you, sure, but this…this is…”
Sam presses his mouth to Dean’s back, and Dean has to fight every instinct to keep his muscles relaxed, not give it away that he’s wide awake.
“Look what they let me do to you, Dean.” He kisses Dean again. “I’m so close to happy,” he adds, like it’s the worst news he’s every delivered. “God, Dean, I’m getting used to this, and I’m so happy.” He wraps his arms around Dean and squeezes so tight Dean’s ribs ache on every inhale. “I’m so scared of what they’re gonna do to you when I finally fuck this up.”
Another night, Dean wakes up with Sam practically lying on top of him, arms and legs splayed out protectively. He’s promising to protect Dean, swearing he won’t let them get him. Dean reaches up and runs a hand up and down Sam’s thigh until Sam falls asleep, and Dean can push Sam to the side just enough to breathe.
“I had this dream,” he tells Dean more than once. “Not a nightmare. A dream. I don’t know why they let me dream. Maybe they can’t stop me. I don’t think they can. They would have stopped this one.”
Dean holds his breath so he doesn’t ask what it was about.
“I heard someone telling me you needed me, Dean. It sounded like…me,” he says with a wispy laugh. “And they sounded so worried-I was so worried about you that I followed them. I came back for you. They tried to stop me, but I couldn’t stay just because they wanted me to. It was more important to…” Sam yawns and presses his face to the crook of Dean’s neck. “It was a really good dream.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean gets sick; Sam takes care of him. It’s kind of pathetic, being knocked out by some common flu when Sam’s got Hell to deal with. But Sam seems to enjoy himself, smiles like a child the first time Dean wakes up to find soup waiting by his bedside-cold, but good-and Sam tells him he went out all on his own, just to get Dean something healthy.
Sam sits by his side for days, running his hand over Dean’s clammy forehead, until Dean is better and they go back to their usual roles. Still, it’s a relief to see Sam can take charge when he has to. Dean knows he can get better; the key is in Sam letting it happen.
On Dean’s birthday, he begs Sam to look, promises that’s all he wants. It’s not a surprise that it doesn’t work-Sam’s never been the one to give up everything on birthdays. Sam cries for hours that night, apologizes long after Dean’s let the subject drop, swears it’s better if he doesn’t do it. Dean hates himself a lot for bringing it up, feels like he’s being let off some hook when the clock strikes twelve and the damn day is finally over.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam sits, staring out at space, silent tears streaming down his face. Dean takes the spot next to him on the couch and rubs his thigh soothingly, trying to bring him back.
“Sammy,” he whispers against Sam’s ear.
“It hurts,” Sam says.
“What hurts?”
“They’re hurting me.”
“Shh, no, no it doesn’t. They’re gone now. They can’t hurt you.”
“Make it stop, Dean.”
“How, Sam? Tell me what to do.”
It feels wrong having to ask. Dean used to be good for something, used to know how to help Sam. He thinks back on the stupid, suicidal lengths he’s gone to in order to make sure Sam never hurt.
Sam laughs, but there’s not an atom of humor in it. “Dean wouldn’t have to ask. That’s how I know you’re not him.”
Dean bites his lip. Not good enough. He’s not good enough, and sometimes he’s pretty sure he’ll never be good enough. “Sam, I’ll do anything. But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Anything,” Sam murmurs. “Anything.”
“Come on, man. Come back, alright? The fucking angels can’t get you anymore.”
“If I look at you,” Sam says slowly, almost a teasing tone. “Will you let me kiss you?”
“A million times, Sam,” he promises. “Forever.”
Sam looks down at his lap, and Dean wonders if he gave the wrong answer. The thought makes him sick, because if Sam doesn’t want-if Sam never wanted…Dean never thought he was forcing his brother.
“Never again, Sam. Not if you don’t want me to, I won’t ever.”
Sam freezes. “You’ve never said that before.”
“What?”
“That’s…that’s what Dean would have…” Sam looks up, and Dean sees his eyelids fighting to stay closed. “I’ve been waiting years, and you never got that right.”
“Sam, open up.”
Sam does, immediately cries out and covers his face with his hands. “Oh God, what did I do?”
Dean pries his hands away, can’t help the smirk taking over his face. “Nothing, you idiot.”
Sam stops mid-freak out. He sits up, opens his eyes all the way, and stares at Dean like Dean has just sprouted a second head. Probably, Sam would be less surprised to see that.
He reaches out, presses his hand over Dean’s cheek, and in moments Sam is touching him all over with two big palms, inspecting for damage that doesn’t exist.
“You’re okay,” he points out.
“Well, relatively speaking.”
“You’re okay,” he says again, a little louder. Giddy. Dean hasn’t seen those dimples in…well, it feels like years.
“No shit, brainiac.”
Sam kisses him hard. It’s not even really a kiss, just mouth-on-lips, but Dean’s not complaining. He opens up to it, waits for Sam to deepen it, lets Sam choose when to pull away.
“You’re real,” he whispers, resting his forehead on Dean’s.
Dean’s perfectly content saying, “I told ya so.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wants to pretend he wasn’t naïve enough to think Sam will be okay just because he’ll look, but a part of him falls for the trap when he watches Sam finally let his muscles go. Dean realizes he’s been tensing them for weeks now. No wonder he’s been feeling phantom pains, Dean thinks.
Sam falls asleep that night before Dean does and is out cold through the night. Dean wakes up before him, goes out to get coffee and comes home to find Sam has rediscovered the creepy blank look Dean had kind of hoped they’d moved past.
Sam’s eyes dodge to him as soon as he’s through the door, and Dean inwardly heaves a sigh of relief. “Breakfast?” he offers.
“If this was all true,” Sam says without prologue, “the dreams were true, too, weren’t they?”
“I…what?”
“The nightmares, Dean. The nightmares I’ve been having. Please tell me they’re not real.”
“Hell, right? Lucifer and Michael? They’re gone, Sam, remember? It wasn’t ever real.”
“No. Not them. I thought it was them. I thought they were playing with me.”
“They were.”
“No, not if I’ve been here for months.”
“You’re just remembering-”
“Yes. Remembering.”
“Hell,” Dean finishes.
“No, not Hell.” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t have to be asleep to have that nightmare, Dean.”
Dean flinches.
“Did I come back? Was I really up here all that time?”
“Not you. No.”
Sam looks at his reaction and his face collapses. “Oh, God, I was.”
“Sam, you were down-”
“I really did those things.”
“No.” Dean rushes forward, placing the coffee forgotten on Sam’s bed stand and turning Sam to face him.
“I was proud of them.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“It was all me,” Sam says. “That’s who I really am. I’m gonna be sick.”
Dean brushes a thumb over Sam’s cheek, and Sam seizes his hands. “You shouldn’t touch me. I-I let them turn you.”
“Sam, I’m not saying it again.”
“You should hate me.”
“Dude.”
“And all those people before I even came to you-I killed those people.”
“I don’t wanna hear it, man.”
“Nice little old lady,” Sam says, voice weak. “I used her as bait.”
“Stop it.”
Sam stands up and runs to the bathroom, doesn’t show his face again for so long that Dean finally goes in after him. He finds Sam sitting up against the bathtub with one of their hunting knives in his hand. He’s looking down at the tip. He looks…like the fucking thing is trying to seduce him, and he’s just hardly resisting.
“Give me that right now,” Dean snaps.
Sam looks up at him. “I’m sorry, Dean. I thought I was a good person under everything. Turns out I’m even worse than we thought.”
“Don’t you start ‘we’-ing me, you little shit, give me the knife.”
“I don’t want to,” Sam says, looking at the weapon with enough fear for Dean to hope he won’t go through with it. Then he looks up at Dean with glossy eyes. “I’m supposed to get rid of monsters, right?”
“Sammy, think of what it’ll do to me.” He kneels next to Sam. “Think of your brother.”
Sam meets his eyes, steely look of determination, and the longest minute of Dean’s life passes before he drops the blade.
Dean snatches it away. “Don’t you ever-”
“You should want me dead,” Sam tells him.
“Look, Sam, that thing wasn’t you, okay? I spent months with it, and it was the farthest thing from you I’ve ever…”
Dean trails off, shocked by how much he means it. He pictures Lucifer wearing Sam’s face-even then there was an undercurrent of too much emotion. Even Lucifer had something driving him, instead of the cool, removed, dead expression Sam had worn all those months he was in Hell and Dean was stuck with his copy. Sam doesn’t want to hear that, of course, not after everything Lucifer’s done to him. But that doesn’t make the terrifying fact any less true.
“Take my word for it, alright? I know my brother when I see him.”
Sam takes a deep breath and collapses against Dean. “I don’t want to dream about him anymore, Dean.”
Dean rubs his hand on Sam’s back and kisses the crown of his little brother’s head. “We’ll get there,” he promises. “I’ll get you there eventually.”
“Promise,” Sam says. “Promise even if it’s not true.”
“It’s true, Sammy. You just gotta let it be.”
Sam nods against his chest. “I trust you,” he says. “I think I trust you.”
They take baby steps back to bed from the bathroom. They take baby steps through the memories, Sam telling Dean the things that keep him up at night, Dean countering with the times Sam did the right thing, even without a conscience to force him. They take baby steps through the next few weeks, until Sam can do just fine on his own, but neither of them sees the point of exploiting that. Back to the usual programming.
There are falls, too-so many Dean loses count-but Sam learns to walk again, improves every day. Eventually, Dean knows Sam will be as close to healthy as either of them has a chance of being. And if anything is worth working for, well, that’s fucking it.
End.
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Dean wakes up first. It’s not status quo by any stretch, but it’s nothing revolutionary. Sam is almost always the early bird, but on days like this, when Dean has a well deserved pounding in his head, it’s not so weird that he can’t sleep.
He stops. Thinks about it. Looks over at his brother. Sam. Sleeping next to him. Dean’s little brother, arm around his waist, lips resting against his neck, same as always for what feels like forever.
But not lately. Not since…
He hardly has time to reach for the motel waste basket before he’s throwing up everything he’s ever consumed. Once, twice, and then a few more times just for good measure.
Sam doesn’t wake up, doesn’t stir.
Dean stumbles out of bed as soon as he can manage it, finds his feet, and takes a defensive pose as he faces his sleeping brother. “Are you faking it?” he asks, voice soft. A whisper. Don’t wake him up, he’ll never go back to sleep.
There’s no answer, except for sheets rustling with Sam’s shallow breath.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you’re faking it,” he adds, louder this time, conversational. But he means it.
Sam doesn’t respond, and Dean finds himself clutching the toilet half a minute later, something entirely different from the alcohol bringing the bile out of him. This isn’t possible, and, when he wakes up from this, he’s going mad.
Sam’s where Dean left him when he comes back to the room, teeth brushed, water splashed on his face-Dean is still seeing things. He takes a seat by his brother and can’t help shaking him, waking him up; he has to know.
He can touch Sam, solid flesh.
Sam freezes as soon as Dean’s wake-up call registers. His eyes shoot open, dart around the room, but when Dean tries to lean into his field of vision, he shuts them tight, turns his head away quick as a whip.
“Sammy?”
“Go away,” he says.
“Sam, it’s…”
“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.”
Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to stop. He reaches out, steadies a hand on Sam’s face, tries to turn him back in his direction. “Sam, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s Dean, Sam.”
“I hate you,” Sam says. “Leave me alone.”
Dean shakes his head, doesn’t let it sink in. Sam doesn’t mean it; he’s just confused. Sam doesn’t mean it, he tells himself, over and over, believing it because he has to.
Sam takes a few gasping breaths and grabs at the blankets surrounding him, sits up and looks around the room, but he flinches when he reaches Dean, eyes shut again before he gets a chance to see him. He pulls his legs up to his chest and hides his face against them, rocking slightly.
Dean tries reaching out to soothe him, expects Sam to recoil, but he stills under the touch. “Okay?” Dean asks.
Sam spreads back out on the bed, burrowing under the covers. “You play dirty, I don’t like you.”
“What, Sam?”
“You play dirty,” he says. “Go get your brother. Please, I can’t again. I’m tired. Please, I’m so tired.”
Dean can imagine, considering Sam’s body hasn’t slept more than however many hours he got last night in over a year. Dean strokes a hand over the bit of Sam’s head poking out over the blanket and presses a kiss against his temple. Sam whimpers.
“Go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He pulls a chair up to his brother’s bedside and vows to sit right there until Sam is ready to rouse-even if it takes months. He falls asleep later that night, awakens after eight hours, and Sam is still sleeping. It goes on for three days.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam gets up at some point in the night, begins moving through the room like a ghost. Dean is asleep, but he hears the rustling after a while. Once he looks around, it’s obvious Sam’s been everywhere: kitchen, bathroom; he’s done everything he needs to do and is sitting on the floor by his bed, staring out at nothing.
Dean stands and kneels next to him, taking Sam’s hand. Sam turns his face away. “Hey, Sammy, you awake now?”
Sam laughs at him.
“You hungry?”
He shakes his head.
“You still tired? Want me to help you get back in bed?”
Another shake of his head, but his face stays turned away. Dean suddenly gets the irrational need to see his brother, and he tries to turn his face towards him. Sam lets Dean’s hand guide him, but his eyes are clenched shut.
“Hey, look at me.”
Sam sneers, doesn’t open his eyes.
“Please?”
He tries to push Dean away then, violent reaction followed by a wounded noise when Dean lets out a surprised cry. He sits on his bed and lies down, his back to Dean.
It’s better, Dean tells himself. Better than when Sam was in the pit suffering. This is better for Sam, no matter how miserable he seems. And Dean just has to think of what Sam was like when he first showed up in Lisa’s garage-yeah, it’s better for Dean, too. But that was so much easier to see than this. His brother, really his brother this time, and all the hurt he’s feeling because Dean couldn’t get him out fast enough.
It’s no wonder Sam hates him now. Dean deserves it.
“Alright, Sam,” he says. “I won’t try again, I promise.”
Sam makes a guttural sound.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam watches TV and cooks, can clean himself and dress and seems okay on first glance. He hasn’t uttered a word since the first morning, and he still won’t look at Dean. It causes Sam so much distress when Dean tries to get him to open his eyes that he finally gives up trying.
After a few days inside, Dean thinks maybe Sam just needs to get out, so he takes him to the diner down the road for a test run.
Sam stares at his menu. When the waitress asks him what he wants, he says nothing. Dean orders, hoping to buy him time, and waits for Sam again after.
“Should I come back?” the waitress asks.
Dean is about to say yes, but Sam grabs his wrist and squeezes it.
“What, Sammy?”
Sam presses his finger onto the menu, and Dean reads over the description. He smiles and orders for Sam, glad to finally be able to do something for his brother. Sam lifts his head from the menu, smiling too, but his damn eyes are still closed. It’s only when he looks at Dean. It could be so much worse; Dean has a lot to be thankful for. He’s got no right to feel sorry for himself.
They go right back to the motel after they eat, because Sam's cagey and making upset sounds, and he won't leave the room again after that. Dean spends most of the time they’re on lockdown doing research, trying to find some kind of ritual he could have accidentally stumbled into to get his brother’s soul back. Of course, he comes up with a remarkable pile of nothing.
Calling Castiel seems like the obvious next step, so he does that for longer than he wants to admit. Every day he prays or calls Castiel’s old number, and there isn’t even a voice mail blowing him off to say the angel is hearing him. Dean’s on his own, and the only hope he has left is Bobby. Maybe Bobby did something without telling Dean-didn’t want to get his hopes up, just in case it didn’t work.
Of course it was Bobby.
So he reluctantly packs up their things one day and shoves them in the trunk. Sam freaks out until he sees the Impala, and then the noises and the scrambling for the motel die out into perfect calm. He doesn’t put up another complaint for hours, just sits and stares out of the passenger seat, humming along with music he usually bitches about. Dean doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it, rolls with it like he has everything else for the last few days.
“We’re gonna go see Bobby,” he tells Sam after a few hours of uncharacteristic silence. “You remember Bobby, right?”
Sam makes a sound, which could mean yes or no, and Dean won’t fucking know because he’s not a goddamn mind reader. He tells Sam as much. It doesn’t make much of an impact, but Dean feels a little better.
After a few hours, Sam starts fidgeting. Dean’s been driving so long his eyes are starting to swim, just to keep Sam calm. He’s more than happy to jump on the chance to stretch his legs a little.
“What’s up, Sam?” he asks. “You hungry? Uncomfortable?”
Sam nods, eyes still trained away from Dean.
“Could you go for a piss? I could go for a piss.”
The sound Sam makes is almost a laugh, which is all Dean needs to keep going.
They pull over into one of those supermarket-restaurant hybrids you find if you drive long enough in the middle of nowhere. They take care of business and then head out into the store, where Sam starts grabbing shit off the shelf. It saves Dean the trouble of asking if he wants to sit down for dinner or just get snacks, at least.
There’s a long line, and Sam gets ancious pretty quickly. He starts making nervous noises and hides his face against Dean’s chest when he sees people staring at him. Dean soothes him as quietly as he can and turns to the first thing he sees to try and distract his brother.
“Doritos don’t make a full meal, Sammy,” Dean chastises, picking through the things Sam dumped into their cart. “No matter how many bags you buy.”
Sam obviously doesn’t answer, but Dean can feel the animosity pouring off of him, and that’s enough for now.
“Here, this’ll make it a healthy meal.” Dean digs the bag of Funyuns he’d dropped in out of the bottom and places them in Sam’s palm. Sam strokes a thumb over the picture on the front, makes a sad little sound. He stays mesmerized by the bag as Dean unloads the cart, until Dean hears him laugh unexpectedly and turns to find Sam looking down at his feet.
There’s a little girl pulling on his pant leg, and Sam kneels down to look at her, smiling the way he does when he sees dogs or ice cream cones or any of those other uncomplicatedly happy things you don’t get much of in Hell.
“Shelley, sweetie, leave the nice man alone,” the woman behind them in line says, reaching out for her daughter.
Sam lets the little girl take his hands and begin playing some version of patty cake with him. Sam laughs warmly and tries to keep up.
“It’s alright,” Dean says, smiling at the scene. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Which is a lie, of course, but Dean’s pretty sure no one is about to call him on it.
“No, of course not,” she says, returning the smile. “I just don’t want her bothering him.”
“He doesn’t look bothered.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. Her face shows that she knows it came out wrong before Dean snaps at her.
“There’s nothing wrong with him. That’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Of course,” she agrees, nodding at Dean apologetically. “There’s so much we can learn from them."
Dean sets his teeth too tight in his jaw. He’s tired of people treating his brother like an idiot, looking at him like he’s in denial when he insists otherwise. And, he gets it, the lady’s just trying to be nice. But if one more goddamn person tries that line on him, he’s going to snap. Dean is pretty sure it would be just as obnoxious if the assumptions she's making about Sam were even accurate.
He turns away from the mother, shoves money at the cashier, and drags Sam out with a bit too much force.
_______________________________________________________________
“Dean?” Bobby asks through the open slit in the door.
“In the flesh,” Dean answers. “Can we come in?”
Bobby shrugs and closes the door, sliding the chain and opening it all the way. Dean tugs Sam’s hand a little, and Sam moves forward obediently.
“You’re keeping him on an awful short leash these days,” Bobby says dryly.
“He’s back,” Dean says. “He’s got his soul.”
“What?” Bobby asks. “How’d you get it, boy?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Bobby shakes his head and turns his attention to Sam. A part of Dean thinks maybe Sam won’t look at him, either. Maybe it’s not just Dean. But Sam slowly blinks one eye open, then the other.
“Sam?” Bobby asks, obviously bracing himself for a handshake, a hug, something.
Sam grabs Dean’s arm and hides behind his body, head poking out to watch Bobby curiously.
“He…uh…?”
“I think so,” Dean answers. “Don’t really know yet. It’s only been about a week.”
“Well, shit. Come in,” Bobby says, leading the way. “Beer?”
“Something stronger?”
“After you tell me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby responds, leaning against his kitchen counter. “How’d it happen?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “It just…” He shrugs. “I wake up one day, he’s out cold.”
“Nothing happened the night before that could have done it?”
Dean smiles sheepishly. “I, uh, don’t really remember,” he says. “Had a few drinks before-”
“Dammit, Dean! You blacked out on how to rescue a soul from the deepest pit of Hell? It didn’t occur to you that, just maybe, that would be useful information? Especially considering how often you damn morons get stuck down there?”
Dean frowns, looks away. He’s not being entirely honest, but what he does remember isn’t useful. He’s not about to tell Bobby he grabbed Monster and called him Brother.
“I didn’t expect it to happen, man. No one left me a voice message.”
“Yeah, alright,” Bobby says grudgingly, waving a dismissive hand at Dean and finally ducking into the refrigerator for the beers he’d promised. “So what’s he like? Total mess?”
“He can hear you,” Dean points out. He pauses, scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, taking a long drink. “Sorry. Just. I think I should put him to bed and we’ll talk about it when I get back down, okay?”
Bobby nods and waits for Dean in the living room. He dives in immediately once he returns.
“He’s not as bad as I thought he’d be, I guess,” Dean starts. “Or at least, he doesn’t come off that way. He’s jittery, but he can do all the basic things for himself. He talked for a bit the first day, but it made no damn sense, and he’s done nothing but whimper since then. His nightmares are on an entirely new playing field. I’m pretty sure he’s hurting, but he won’t tell me.”
“Maybe he just needs time,” Bobby tries.
Dean scoffs and sits on the couch, eyes trained on his glass of whiskey instead of Bobby. It’s going to kill him to ask for help, to admit he may not be what Sam wants. “I don’t think it’s time he needs. I think it’s someone else.”
“Huh?”
“He lets me take care of him because he has to, but I don’t think he likes being near me. He won’t look at me, and…” Dean swallows hard. “I guess I just want you to try talking to him without me. See if you can get something out of him.”
“No way he’s talking to anyone if he’s not talking to-”
“Just try for me, okay?”
Bobby nods like he doesn’t like it, sets his bottle on his desk, and stands. He leaves the door slightly ajar as he enters so Dean can watch from the hallway. Sam’s sitting in bed, staring out like he tends to do when Dean isn’t distracting him.
“Hey, kid,” Bobby says gently.
Sam’s head turns in his direction, smiling for a moment before his eyebrows draw in. He looks around, confused, and moves away from the side of the room Bobby’s occupying.
“Mind if I sit?”
Sam nods.
“Alright, fair enough.”
Sam opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and Dean’s heart folds in his chest. Selfishly, he wanted to be wrong about this. Serves him right.
“You, uh. You wanna talk about anything, Sam?”
Sam closes his mouth then, gives Bobby a dangerous look.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d try.”
“Dean,” Sam says, his first word all over again. He starts fidgeting, and his voice goes up in pitch when he says it again. “Dean?”
“I figured as much,” Bobby answers, turning to the crack in the door Dean’s looking through. “Idjit.”
Dean pushes it so that he can walk in, and Sam of course closes his eyes as soon as he senses Dean approaching.
“Dean?”
Dean kneels in front of him, putting one hand on his knee; Sam’s anxious movements stop immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m here.”
“Don’t leave me alone with them,” he says.
Dean knows better than to ask who. “I won’t, Sam. It’s okay. I won’t leave you again.”
Sam’s lips tremble for half a second, then he stills them, nods, and says nothing more.
_______________________________________________________________
Later that night, Sam is sleeping, head on Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s running his fingers through his brother’s hair absently. The TV flickers on Sam’s face, and, in the soft glow, he looks happy. He’s not tossing and turning like he usually does asleep, which Dean really wants to take a little credit for.
“You know what we have to do, right?” Bobby asks reluctantly.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “That’s half the reason I came here. I’ve tried praying and it’s getting me jack, so I figured we have to summon the bastard.”
“Good,” Bobby says. “Thought I’d have to fight you on it.”
“I don’t like it,” Dean admits. “He’s not in good shape. But, at the same time, how are we going to know just how bad it is until we…?”
“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “So tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“First thing?”
Dean angles an apologetic look down at the man sleeping in his lap.
_______________________________________________________________
Castiel responds to the summon immediately, looking impressively annoyed. “What part of ‘fighting a war to control Heaven’ is so difficult to comprehend?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, just points at Sam. He’s staring out in that unsettling way he has now, and he’s acting like he still hasn’t realized he’s been tied up.
“Are you trying to establish just how much of his soul he doesn’t have?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I think he got it back,” Dean says.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“How can you not be sure if you somehow managed to wrestle your brother away from two of the strongest creatures in creation?”
“It just kinda…happened.”
Castiel looks unimpressed.
“Look, will you just do your weird fisty thing and tell me what’s wrong with him?”
“So there is something wrong?”
“Of course there’s something wrong, Cas. I need you to tell me what so I can fix it.”
Castiel sighs but walks towards Sam. Dean comes up behind him, puts a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder and leans down to whisper. “Okay, Sammy. This is gonna hurt a little, but we’re gonna make you all better.”
Sam says nothing. Dean gives his shoulder one last squeeze, then gets out of Castiel’s way and takes a seat across the room next to Bobby. Dean’s instinct is to look away. He doesn’t think he can watch the timid Sam he’s been taking care of for the last week hurt after he’s already had to suffer so much. He’s so damn scared now, untrusting except of Dean…and now Dean is feeding him to this. No way it ends well.
Castiel puts the leather strap in Sam’s mouth and wastes no time, slipping in, feeling for his soul.
Sam doesn’t even blink. Somehow, it’s worse than if he were crying out-Dean doesn’t want to think about how much pain Sam’s been subjected to for something like this to not even register.
Castiel pulls away, and Sam laughs, looks Castiel dead in the eye. “Come on, Lucille. I know you can do better than that,” he says, taunting the damn angel. Taunting the damn angel he thinks is Lucifer.
Dean stands, and Castiel meets him in the middle of the room.
“Well?”
“His soul has returned.”
“And?” Dean leads.
Castiel shrugs. “And intact.”
“Completely intact?”
“Whatever is wrong with your brother is not in his soul. I suspect it has more to do with his body no longer knowing how to deal with what his soul has seen, been subjected to...” He looks back at Sam, a little sad. “Apparently become used to.”
“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says. “If his soul is okay, he’ll get better.”
“I did not say it was okay. I said it was intact. I can only imagine how far from okay it is. I can only measure physical damage.”
“So he might…?”
“I don’t know, Dean. I wish I had something else to tell you.”
Dean dodges a look over at his brother, who is engaged in a staring contest with Bobby. He figures he’s safe to try asking about the only damn idea he’s got left. “What about my soul?”
“What about it, Dean?”
“The angels are still buying. I can make a deal, have them fix Sam. Selling to Heaven has to be better than selling to Hell-”
From the other side of the room, Sam lets out a blood chilling scream. Dean, Bobby, and Castiel all turn their attention to him, and Sam begins thrashing in the chair, voice still deafening.
They run to him, Dean loosening his hands, Castiel standing in front of him, trying to calm. As soon as he’s free, Sam launches forward, grabs the front of Castiel’s trench coat and begins shaking it, big eyes looking up at him.
“Not him,” he says. “Not him. Look, I’m right here. I’m right here.” Sam grabs Castiel’s hand and forces him to reach out. “Hurt me. Not him, you can’t hurt him. I didn’t look-you know I didn’t look. You can’t hurt him.”
Castiel tilts his head, but Dean freezes. Everything clicks into place. “Sammy, is that why you won’t look at me?”
“Not you,” he says, averting his gaze, turning back to Castiel with the same pleading face. “He’s not fair like you. You can play with me, I’m right here. Don’t let him, Lucifer, please. I didn’t look.”
“Sammy, I’m not Michael. You’re not there anymore. That’s Cas, okay? Everything’s better.”
Sam ignores him completely, fingers loosening on Castiel, but expression no less desperate. “I’ll do anything if you make him stop. Please, make him stop.”
“Dean, please stop,” Castiel says dutifully.
“Really not funny,” Dean says, turning to Castiel, but the angel’s already disappeared. “Fuck.”
“No,” Sam says. “No, no, no, no.”
“Sam, no one is hurting me. They never hurt me. It wasn’t real. I wasn’t down there with you, remember? They were just trying to upset you, Sammy.”
“Not real,” he says softly. “You’re not real.”
“I am,” Dean promises. “Sam, look at me, man. I promise.”
“Not real.”
“Alright, Sam, close your eyes,” Dean says, defeated. “I’m gonna take you up to bed.”
Sam does as he’s told, follows Dean blindly.
_______________________________________________________________
“I hate this movie,” Sam says as Dean flips through the channels and finally finds something decent to watch. “Change it.”
Dean picks up the remote, thinks about it, and sets it down on the table next to his side of the couch. Sam can’t glare at him without looking, but it’s implied, and his lip juts out enough for Dean to see it out of the corner of his eye. It’s Sam’s pout, the one he always saved for Dean-not the one that belongs to Michael and Lucifer. It’s the best he can do, and Dean is happy to take it.
“Deal with it, bitch.”
Sam almost smiles. “That…you sound so much like him sometimes.”
“I am him,” Dean insists. The routine is starting to wear thin.
“Yeah, of course you are,” Sam replies indulgently.
Dean sighs and tries to hand Sam the remote, but Sam refuses it. “He wouldn’t have changed it,” Sam tells him. “Do you want me to pretend or not?”
Dean doesn’t know the answer at this point, so he makes an effort to focus his attention on the TV. It only takes a few minutes for Sam to start dozing with his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean listens to him breathe more than to the television, and he doesn’t notice he’s drifting, too, until Sam starts crying next to him.
He sighs and shakes his brother awake. “Hey, Sammy. Come on. Bedtime.”
Sam pushes him, murmurs something about Dean not being him, and opens his eyes, only to close them again immediately.
“Don’t touch me,” Sam says. “You’re not-”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not Dean,” Dean says. “I get it.”
Sam frowns. “Stop it, that’s confusing.”
“Well, I fucking quit,” he answers. “What the hell do I have to do to convince you?”
Sam swallows. “Not fall apart the moment I look at you.”
“So look, Sammy. I’m right here. Just look at me, I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam picks at lint on the couch. “I stopped falling for that one decades ago,” says Sam. “It’s not going to be that easy, not again.”
“Easy,” Dean scoffs. “Nothing’s easy.”
“It was easy…I was easy. But I’m not looking, I don’t care how much better you’ve gotten at acting like him.”
“Never gonna look at me again, Sammy? You really think that’s gonna work?”
“No.” Sam pulls his legs onto the couch and starts rocking, same as he does every time he feels threatened. “No, I always cave.” He fists his hands in his hair. “I always hurt him.”
“Sam, it wasn’t really me. They didn’t hurt me. They only hurt you.”
“But not yet,” he says, like Dean hasn’t said a thing. “I’ve gone decades. I’ll go longer.”
It occurs to him that he may never see his little brother’s eyes again, and Dean hardly manages to keep it together. “Please look at me, Sammy. I swear I’m your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” Sam says, distracted. “That was just a nice dream I had once.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean hears something shatter, a loud cry from the bathroom, and his heart stops in his chest. Sam had been fine a few seconds ago when he’d passed by the door, trying not to be obvious in checking up on his brother.
“Sammy?” Dean asks, pushing the door the rest of the way open.
The mirror is in shards, half of them buried in his brother’s hand, and Sam is sitting on the bathroom floor, bleeding and making injured sounds.
“Fuck, Sam, what did you do?” Dean asks.
“I almost saw you,” he says, out of breath. “I almost looked at you in the mirror.” He smiles proudly, drawing his hand closer to his chest, almost hugging it. “I made it go away.”
“Sam, no,” Dean chastises. “Dammit, no no no, you could have really hurt yourself. You did really hurt yourself.”
Sam smiles, head falling back lazily, and raises his hand. “Nothing,” he says. “Don’t worry, Dean, I didn’t look.”
“I wish you would,” he snaps, taking Sam’s wrist and drawing the hand close enough to inspect. “This isn’t nothing.”
It’s not as bad as it looks. Dean knows how to judge wounds by now. This one won’t leave much damage; it’s not the end of the world. Dean can get the glass out, and Sam only got big pieces stuck where they’d just draw blood. Luckily, Sam didn’t hit any crucial arteries or veins and there’s nothing hard to fish out. Still, he’s more shaken up than Sam is, clutches his brother.
“Nothing,” Sam echoes.
Dean stands up, helping Sam to his feet. Eyes closed, Sam navigates his way out of the room, not cutting his feet on broken edges by pure luck. He sits on the bed and submits to Dean’s help, lets him bandage up the cuts almost as if it’s just for Dean’s sake.
“Who are you?” he asks as Dean wraps his hand in gauze.
“I’m your brother, Sam. It’s Dean.”
“No,” Sam says. “But you’re not like the angel, either. He’s not as good at pretending.” Sam’s lips shake. “I wish you weren’t so good at pretending.”
“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” Dean says bitterly.
Bobby tells Dean where to stick his apologies about the mirror, but he isn’t able to play off his concerns for Sam as easily as he dismisses the property damage.
Dean figures it’s better for everyone if Bobby doesn’t have to be a part of their mess, so they say their farewells and go back to wandering aimlessly the next day. It’s what they know, and the upheaval is somehow more soothing to both of them than staying centered.
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wakes up, feeling something moving over his skin. He opens his eyes, slowly comes to the realization that it’s Sam’s fingers touching him. Sam’s face is turned away, but the touch is smooth and intimate, and Dean flushes, remembering when Sam touching him was a regular thing.
“Sammy?” he says quietly, trying not to spook his brother. “What’re you doing?”
Sam tries to draw his hands away, but Dean catches his wrists.
“I was just…” he says, voice shaking. “I don’t remember what you look like.”
Dean brings Sam’s fingers to his lips, presses them to the tip of each one. “Sam…”
“Please, don’t ask me. I can’t help myself.”
Dean’s not really above it, not really above anything to get his brother back. He’s thought of trying dirty tricks, things Sam hadn’t even pulled when he had no soul-getting Sam so drunk he’d forget the instinct to look away or asking just after Sam wakes up from his nightmares, when he needs Dean there to comfort him.
Dean hasn’t resisted out of decency, just knows Sam will wake up the next day convinced it was a dream, another ploy to make him look, and it’ll make him stop trusting Dean all over again. Sam has to make the choice, Dean knows that instinctively, or it won’t stick. But Dean’s about an hour and a half from going crazy over this.
“Don’t look then,” he says despite himself. “Come here.” Dean moves over in bed, makes room for his brother to slide in. Sam hesitates. “Come on, Sammy. I could use a little help sleeping.”
Sam wraps around him for a few hours, and does it again every night after. He doesn’t scream as much when they’re together. Dean knows how to read his body language, can tell on instinct what to do to help his brother. He knows when Sam’s turned on, when he should back off for both their sakes. He knows when Sam’s scared, when he should draw his little brother in even closer. He knows when Sam’s far away, stuck somewhere awful where Dean can’t reach him, where Dean’s actions can’t reach him, and he can hold Sam however he damn well pleases.
It’s not the first time Dean’s had to live off table scraps.
Sometimes he wakes up, not because Sam’s having a nightmare, but because Sam’s not sleeping at all. He doesn’t talk much during the day, doesn’t give Dean enough to go on, but when he thinks Dean is asleep, he pours his heart out. Dean hears things he doesn’t really want to know.
“I don’t know why they’re letting me keep you,” Sam says gently one night, playing with the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “They never let us be like this. Better than when I look at you, sure, but this…this is…”
Sam presses his mouth to Dean’s back, and Dean has to fight every instinct to keep his muscles relaxed, not give it away that he’s wide awake.
“Look what they let me do to you, Dean.” He kisses Dean again. “I’m so close to happy,” he adds, like it’s the worst news he’s every delivered. “God, Dean, I’m getting used to this, and I’m so happy.” He wraps his arms around Dean and squeezes so tight Dean’s ribs ache on every inhale. “I’m so scared of what they’re gonna do to you when I finally fuck this up.”
Another night, Dean wakes up with Sam practically lying on top of him, arms and legs splayed out protectively. He’s promising to protect Dean, swearing he won’t let them get him. Dean reaches up and runs a hand up and down Sam’s thigh until Sam falls asleep, and Dean can push Sam to the side just enough to breathe.
“I had this dream,” he tells Dean more than once. “Not a nightmare. A dream. I don’t know why they let me dream. Maybe they can’t stop me. I don’t think they can. They would have stopped this one.”
Dean holds his breath so he doesn’t ask what it was about.
“I heard someone telling me you needed me, Dean. It sounded like…me,” he says with a wispy laugh. “And they sounded so worried-I was so worried about you that I followed them. I came back for you. They tried to stop me, but I couldn’t stay just because they wanted me to. It was more important to…” Sam yawns and presses his face to the crook of Dean’s neck. “It was a really good dream.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean gets sick; Sam takes care of him. It’s kind of pathetic, being knocked out by some common flu when Sam’s got Hell to deal with. But Sam seems to enjoy himself, smiles like a child the first time Dean wakes up to find soup waiting by his bedside-cold, but good-and Sam tells him he went out all on his own, just to get Dean something healthy.
Sam sits by his side for days, running his hand over Dean’s clammy forehead, until Dean is better and they go back to their usual roles. Still, it’s a relief to see Sam can take charge when he has to. Dean knows he can get better; the key is in Sam letting it happen.
On Dean’s birthday, he begs Sam to look, promises that’s all he wants. It’s not a surprise that it doesn’t work-Sam’s never been the one to give up everything on birthdays. Sam cries for hours that night, apologizes long after Dean’s let the subject drop, swears it’s better if he doesn’t do it. Dean hates himself a lot for bringing it up, feels like he’s being let off some hook when the clock strikes twelve and the damn day is finally over.
_______________________________________________________________
Sam sits, staring out at space, silent tears streaming down his face. Dean takes the spot next to him on the couch and rubs his thigh soothingly, trying to bring him back.
“Sammy,” he whispers against Sam’s ear.
“It hurts,” Sam says.
“What hurts?”
“They’re hurting me.”
“Shh, no, no it doesn’t. They’re gone now. They can’t hurt you.”
“Make it stop, Dean.”
“How, Sam? Tell me what to do.”
It feels wrong having to ask. Dean used to be good for something, used to know how to help Sam. He thinks back on the stupid, suicidal lengths he’s gone to in order to make sure Sam never hurt.
Sam laughs, but there’s not an atom of humor in it. “Dean wouldn’t have to ask. That’s how I know you’re not him.”
Dean bites his lip. Not good enough. He’s not good enough, and sometimes he’s pretty sure he’ll never be good enough. “Sam, I’ll do anything. But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Anything,” Sam murmurs. “Anything.”
“Come on, man. Come back, alright? The fucking angels can’t get you anymore.”
“If I look at you,” Sam says slowly, almost a teasing tone. “Will you let me kiss you?”
“A million times, Sam,” he promises. “Forever.”
Sam looks down at his lap, and Dean wonders if he gave the wrong answer. The thought makes him sick, because if Sam doesn’t want-if Sam never wanted…Dean never thought he was forcing his brother.
“Never again, Sam. Not if you don’t want me to, I won’t ever.”
Sam freezes. “You’ve never said that before.”
“What?”
“That’s…that’s what Dean would have…” Sam looks up, and Dean sees his eyelids fighting to stay closed. “I’ve been waiting years, and you never got that right.”
“Sam, open up.”
Sam does, immediately cries out and covers his face with his hands. “Oh God, what did I do?”
Dean pries his hands away, can’t help the smirk taking over his face. “Nothing, you idiot.”
Sam stops mid-freak out. He sits up, opens his eyes all the way, and stares at Dean like Dean has just sprouted a second head. Probably, Sam would be less surprised to see that.
He reaches out, presses his hand over Dean’s cheek, and in moments Sam is touching him all over with two big palms, inspecting for damage that doesn’t exist.
“You’re okay,” he points out.
“Well, relatively speaking.”
“You’re okay,” he says again, a little louder. Giddy. Dean hasn’t seen those dimples in…well, it feels like years.
“No shit, brainiac.”
Sam kisses him hard. It’s not even really a kiss, just mouth-on-lips, but Dean’s not complaining. He opens up to it, waits for Sam to deepen it, lets Sam choose when to pull away.
“You’re real,” he whispers, resting his forehead on Dean’s.
Dean’s perfectly content saying, “I told ya so.”
_______________________________________________________________
Dean wants to pretend he wasn’t naïve enough to think Sam will be okay just because he’ll look, but a part of him falls for the trap when he watches Sam finally let his muscles go. Dean realizes he’s been tensing them for weeks now. No wonder he’s been feeling phantom pains, Dean thinks.
Sam falls asleep that night before Dean does and is out cold through the night. Dean wakes up before him, goes out to get coffee and comes home to find Sam has rediscovered the creepy blank look Dean had kind of hoped they’d moved past.
Sam’s eyes dodge to him as soon as he’s through the door, and Dean inwardly heaves a sigh of relief. “Breakfast?” he offers.
“If this was all true,” Sam says without prologue, “the dreams were true, too, weren’t they?”
“I…what?”
“The nightmares, Dean. The nightmares I’ve been having. Please tell me they’re not real.”
“Hell, right? Lucifer and Michael? They’re gone, Sam, remember? It wasn’t ever real.”
“No. Not them. I thought it was them. I thought they were playing with me.”
“They were.”
“No, not if I’ve been here for months.”
“You’re just remembering-”
“Yes. Remembering.”
“Hell,” Dean finishes.
“No, not Hell.” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t have to be asleep to have that nightmare, Dean.”
Dean flinches.
“Did I come back? Was I really up here all that time?”
“Not you. No.”
Sam looks at his reaction and his face collapses. “Oh, God, I was.”
“Sam, you were down-”
“I really did those things.”
“No.” Dean rushes forward, placing the coffee forgotten on Sam’s bed stand and turning Sam to face him.
“I was proud of them.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“It was all me,” Sam says. “That’s who I really am. I’m gonna be sick.”
Dean brushes a thumb over Sam’s cheek, and Sam seizes his hands. “You shouldn’t touch me. I-I let them turn you.”
“Sam, I’m not saying it again.”
“You should hate me.”
“Dude.”
“And all those people before I even came to you-I killed those people.”
“I don’t wanna hear it, man.”
“Nice little old lady,” Sam says, voice weak. “I used her as bait.”
“Stop it.”
Sam stands up and runs to the bathroom, doesn’t show his face again for so long that Dean finally goes in after him. He finds Sam sitting up against the bathtub with one of their hunting knives in his hand. He’s looking down at the tip. He looks…like the fucking thing is trying to seduce him, and he’s just hardly resisting.
“Give me that right now,” Dean snaps.
Sam looks up at him. “I’m sorry, Dean. I thought I was a good person under everything. Turns out I’m even worse than we thought.”
“Don’t you start ‘we’-ing me, you little shit, give me the knife.”
“I don’t want to,” Sam says, looking at the weapon with enough fear for Dean to hope he won’t go through with it. Then he looks up at Dean with glossy eyes. “I’m supposed to get rid of monsters, right?”
“Sammy, think of what it’ll do to me.” He kneels next to Sam. “Think of your brother.”
Sam meets his eyes, steely look of determination, and the longest minute of Dean’s life passes before he drops the blade.
Dean snatches it away. “Don’t you ever-”
“You should want me dead,” Sam tells him.
“Look, Sam, that thing wasn’t you, okay? I spent months with it, and it was the farthest thing from you I’ve ever…”
Dean trails off, shocked by how much he means it. He pictures Lucifer wearing Sam’s face-even then there was an undercurrent of too much emotion. Even Lucifer had something driving him, instead of the cool, removed, dead expression Sam had worn all those months he was in Hell and Dean was stuck with his copy. Sam doesn’t want to hear that, of course, not after everything Lucifer’s done to him. But that doesn’t make the terrifying fact any less true.
“Take my word for it, alright? I know my brother when I see him.”
Sam takes a deep breath and collapses against Dean. “I don’t want to dream about him anymore, Dean.”
Dean rubs his hand on Sam’s back and kisses the crown of his little brother’s head. “We’ll get there,” he promises. “I’ll get you there eventually.”
“Promise,” Sam says. “Promise even if it’s not true.”
“It’s true, Sammy. You just gotta let it be.”
Sam nods against his chest. “I trust you,” he says. “I think I trust you.”
They take baby steps back to bed from the bathroom. They take baby steps through the memories, Sam telling Dean the things that keep him up at night, Dean countering with the times Sam did the right thing, even without a conscience to force him. They take baby steps through the next few weeks, until Sam can do just fine on his own, but neither of them sees the point of exploiting that. Back to the usual programming.
There are falls, too-so many Dean loses count-but Sam learns to walk again, improves every day. Eventually, Dean knows Sam will be as close to healthy as either of them has a chance of being. And if anything is worth working for, well, that’s fucking it.
End.
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