The Devil Inside Ch5
Title: The Devil Inside
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort - DeanWhump!
Content: R for violence and swearing.
Length: 5/5 Complete!
Summary: Sam wants his brother back...be careful what you wish for.
Chapter 5
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*
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One minute he was there. Then he was gone.
Sam jumped up onto the window sill, suddenly aware of movement behind him.
“He’s just had his meds,” the Nurse shouted after him. “He won’t function much longer.” With her words ringing in his ears, Sam jumped down from the window and sped off after Dean. The scream of the unit alarm dimming with distance.
Dean ran through the compound and athletically jumped up onto a wire fence. It trembled with his weight. Sam kept his focus on him - watched him jump down and barrel down the main road before careering across four lanes of traffic.
On the road - Sam negotiated the same traffic, horns blasting, brakes screeching, his mind racing as to how far this super charged Demon could actually run with a bleeding wrist, bare feet and a gut full of medication.
Across some rough ground and over a wall. Down a railway embankment and across another highway - Sam ripped off his jacket and carried on running. In his line of sight - he could see Dean stumble and fall. This spurned him on. Dean got up - staggered down another hillside and onto another highway. A huge articulated truck sounded it’s horn - smoke from tires - and Dean pulled back to avoid contact - but the accumulated speed overwhelmed his intentions - and he ran right into the side of the rig.
Sam gasped at the sight of Dean spinning back from the truck and spiralling into a sickening tangle of arms and legs. The Artic slid to halt. The driver jumped out and ran back towards Dean. Sam slid, scrambled and stumbled his way down the hillside towards him, a trail of dust and rubble in his wake.
“I didn’t hit him!” the driver yelled at Sam, his face stricken with fright.
“It’s OK. I saw what happened...” He assured him. He approached his brother - Dean’s eyes closed, his body limp, and bloodied. His left side covered in the blood from his wrist, his feet filthy and raw.
“No, no, no...no,” Sam droned into himself.
The truck driver swallowed hard.
“Is he dead?” the truck driver wheezed.
Sam placed a trembled hand against Dean’s jugular. “Um...I don’t think so..”
Late afternoon traffic continued to pass them - apathetic onlookers getting their gory eyeful of the incident. There was no escape from them.
Sam looked up to see the Impala suddenly yaw into the side of the road and park right beside them.
Bobby was here.
*
*
Dean was a ragdoll.
His head lolled back, his arm swayed limply as Sam carried him towards the old bed in the corner. The smell from the mattress assaulted his nostrils as he spent time positioning Dean’s head and attended to his wrist. Bobby dumped the medical bag at his feet, and stood open mouthed at the sight before him.
“My God, Sam...”
“I know,” Sam returned softly.
The hasty exorcism had gone well, but the shell the demon had left them, was fragile and broken. The energy it took to exorcise his brother had left Sam weakened and frail for a moment, but sitting in the back of the Impala, with Dean’s weight on his knees, had afforded him some time to recover.
Then they’d crossed over two states at break neck speed to evade any pursuers from the psych unit. The derelict farm house they’d come across was secluded enough, but painfully remote given the serious circumstances they now found themselves in. The stop gave Sam a good chance to assess all of Dean’s injuries though, and plan their next move.
“Are you sure the truck didn’t hit him?” Bobby asked.
“No...he ran into the side of it - he was beginning to stagger anyway. The drugs probably...”
“And the blood loss,” Bobby added gruffly. He frowned and turned back towards the car.
Sam grimaced at the ragged edges of the wrist laceration. Poised with the needle - he worked fast to close it and bind it tight. Bobby had been careful to wash and dress Dean’s feet, while Sam concentrated on cleaning and examining his bruised and battered face. A quick glance at the tattoo revealed a single burn strike, slicing the motif clean down the middle, the scar tissue emphasising the breach.
Warm water soothed Sam’s hands as he smoothed his brother’s face and neck with the cloth. He looked gaunt, muscle starved - a throw back to his teenage years when he’d turned gangly and fresh faced after a growth spurt. He was Sam’s big brother then. He was Sam’s big brother now.
Three hours later, and the slightest sigh from Dean had Sam sitting by his side and resting a hand on his face. Willing some kind of response. A lame batting of his hand, a groan of rejection...anything would be better than this.
“Dean,” he whispered, his mouth suddenly dried with anticipation.
No response.
Maybe the exorcism didn’t work. Maybe he’d damaged him somehow. Maybe the Demon had left a sick little calling card. A ‘I was here, now watch him slip away, you pathetic bastards.’
“Bobby?” he shouted over his shoulder - his fears reaching a personal peak.
Bobby appeared in the doorway.
“What if he doesn’t respond? What if he doesn’t recognise me? He didn’t even know me back at the unit...” Sam blurted.
“Sam - “
“Maybe there’s brain damage...I mean, maybe he was sick anyway, before that bastard took him over - ”
“Sam,” Bobby rested a comforting hand onto Sam’s shoulder. An affectionate squeeze.
Sam immediately seemed to understand the gesture. He lowered his head and raked a hand through his hair. The boy was over wrought. Exhausted in his efforts to get his brother back. Bobby had seen it before. A steely determination to get his brother back that broke his heart to have to witness again.
“Give it another hour. The boy’s been ridden into the ground for the past...”
“Ten months and ten days,” Sam finished for him.
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“...Ten months and ten days,” the voice said.
It even sounded like Sam. A tired, weary Sam.
Dean brushed the thought away. The claustrophobic fog that hung around him never seemed to fade or clear. It was like walking through sand - heavy legs dragging - not actually getting anywhere.
And it hurt.
Everything hurt.
But then, he’d gotten used to that over time. Soon the incessant, drilling pain in his head would return. The start of his punishment.
He turned his head to the left.
Towards the wall.
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Sam’s back ached. His right leg shook, incessantly.
A cold cup of coffee at his left foot remained untouched. Bless Bobby and his fatherly instincts.
He checked dressings. Covered over the ones that had bled through. Left the dry ones well alone.
It didn’t matter what he did, there was no response.
Sam sighed. Placed a warm hand on Dean’s chest.
“Open your eyes. Dean...come on, man.”
Long eyelashes flickered for a beat.
Sam blinked. A sudden stillness enveloping him. For if he moved, it might stop.
“Dean...can you hear me?”
An age before his eyes cracked open. A hitch in his breath.
Sam froze in the moment - waiting for the reaction.
His eyes closed again. A frown.
A knot in Sam’s throat, a gnawing, pulling ache in his heart. He imagined Dean going postal in the rickety confines of the farmhouse. But the Devil inside him was gone...there should only be Dean left...and not much of that either. He realised he was hardly breathing, as he waited for his brother to open his eyes again.
“Dean. You’re free,” he began. “It’s gone...and you’re safe. Just...just open your eyes.” He curled his hand around Dean’s as if transferring the energy his brother needed to wake up.
His eyes opened again. Half-mast at first. He looked up, as if something should be there, but wasn’t.
“Hey,” Sam whispered.
Dean blinked up at the wall. Faded flowery wallpaper, peeling and limp.
Sam watched him focus.
“Dean.”
Dean’s eyes slid over to the source of the voice, and remained there for the longest time.
“Welcome back,” he said softly.
Dean opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. Eyebrows drawn down, as if concentrating.
“Sam?”
“Yes,” he answered with confidence. Recognition at last.
A gentle squeeze of his hand and the slightest twitch of his mouth. A sudden tremble of his lip and Deans eyes were suddenly brimmed with tears that rolled down past his temple and onto the make shift pillow Sam had fashioned for him.
Sam fought not to tear up too.
“You’re here,” Dean croaked.
“No, you are here. We’re in Ohio. We got him out. He’s gone...and you’re safe now.”
“That’s...great,” he whispered. The hand firm in Sam’s. More tears, and Dean pushed his head to the side. A weak attempt to hide. Sam felt a sudden rush of embarrassment for him, and pulled back . He tried to concentrate on finding some painkillers Bobby had supplied, while his brother quietly fell apart beside him on the aged and dirty bed.
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He slept.
Like the proverbial log. But it didn’t matter to Sam because he was Dean. His Dean. And he was back.
10 months and 14 days didn’t matter so much anymore. Nor did the dishevelled interior of their temporary home. Bobby had closed up the windows from the relentless draft that coursed through their broken panes. He’d raided the charity shops in the nearest hick town and brought back thick fluffy blankets for them all.
Another twelve hours saw Dean making tentative moves to get up.
“Need to pee...” he simply announced, and he set his jaw and braced himself to rise to elbow height before Sam was beside him - a supporting arm at his back.
Sitting upright, as wonderful as it was to see, was an objective too far, as he slumped gracelessly against Sam’s chest - his head falling against Sam’s collar bone. Dried lips apologising wordlessly.
“You’re too weak just now - it’s too soon, man,” Sam braced himself against Dean’s weight. Hugged him tight. One of Dean’s hands flopped over Sam’s knee.
“If you eat and drink something - then we can do the bathroom trip. I promise.” He hated the cajoling twang his voice sent out. Like a father bribing his child.
“’Kay,” was all he said.
Then Bobby took over. Hot coffee on a spoon to begin with. Then beef tea bread. Then something from a jar, not a kick in the ass off baby food, Sam suspected, but Dean never complained.
Instead he averted his gaze and made eye contact with his brother - when his head was still too heavy to lift and he had to rest it back on the pillow, in between feeds.
*
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The candles flickered cheerfully - the dim light offered a warmer glow to the otherwise bare, wooden floored house. From the other room, Bobby’s gentle snores signalled a certain acceptance that they were safe. That no one would find them.
Propped up against a bundle of blankets and overcoats - Dean watched his brother as he pottered about the room, cleaning his gun - sorting out clothes, clean and otherwise for Dean to change into.
“When did you first know?” Dean suddenly said quietly.
“What?” Sam dug deep into the hold-all for the mate of a clean sock he’d discovered. A rare find.
He stopped digging. This quiet time in the company of his brother, just the two of them, seemed too precious to disturb with cruel memories and bitter recriminations.
He shook his head. But, Dean waited.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he mumbled finally. He recalled trying to put his own jumbled, crazed and manic actions into some kind of order after Meg had possessed him. His out pourings of remorse and utter guilt hard for Dean to hear. So, he’d given up.
A further silence and Dean appeared to take the hint.
“I smell like shit.”
“Ah...no, that’s the bed I think.” Sam smiled as he bundled a clean pair of socks together and dumped them onto the shirt and jeans he’d pulled out.
“You came after me...when I told you not too.” Dean said firmly.
This one needed to be answered.
“You forget,” He said softly. “I stopped doing what you tell me when you came back from hell, remember? Even an Angel told me to stop doing what I was doing...and I did it anyway,” Sam admitted bitterly. He clenched his jaw at the memory.
A quick snap shot of events span through both boy’s minds in the shared silence that followed. Of lies, and insults, and violence and distrust and failure and guilt.
“I remember,” Dean replied. “I also remember telling you once... that nothing bad would ever happen to you, as long as I was still around.”
Sam nodded with a frown. Aware that Dean was watching him.
“You did the right thing, Dean. If you hadn’t gotten away when you did - we probably would’ve killed each other, and the Devil inside you would’ve won. I just found you at the right time...when he was compromised by drugs.”
Another silence. The candles flickered gentle shadows at the walls.
A single sniff saw Sam turning to glance at Dean.
“Dude. I smell like shit. “
Sam cracked a smile.
“It’s the softest place in the house, but... I could rig up a bed on the floor if you’d prefer.” He offered, suddenly energised with the task ahead of him.
Dean nodded in gratitude.
He let his head rest back on the wall and closed his eyes as the sound of his little brother, moving around the room again, lulled him back into another restful nap.
THE END
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