FIC: Empty Shells
Missing scene/tag for 5x14 "My Bloody Valentine."
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some slightly gory imagery
Characters: Sam, Dean, a tiny bit of Castiel and Bobby
Word count: 2,876
Summary: This time is different. This time, it wasn't Sam's fault. This time, Dean won't let his brother go through it alone.
Disclaimer: not mine, obviously.
Empty Shells
This time is different. There’s no need to trick Sam into entering the panic room, because he knows what has to be done. He goes straight to the bed and sits down, head hanging so his hair hides his eyes.
“There’s water on the table,” Dean says, because he doesn’t want to leave just yet.
“Yeah,” Sam responds softly, and then adds, even quieter, “M’sorry.”
“Not your fault, Sammy.”
It’s an automatic response to Sam’s apology, an attempt to ease the guilt Dean knows his brother’s feeling. Sam looks up, finally, his pupils too big for the brightness of the room.
“Dean…” I’m sorry. I messed up. I’m scared. Please don’t leave me.
Dean hears all the things Sam doesn’t say and he walk closer, sits beside his little brother so their shoulders are just touching.
“I’m not leaving just yet, Sam.”
Some of the tension in Sam’s body dissipates, because even after everything he’s still a little brother reaching out for his big brother when things get too much, and Dean’s pretty sure that coming off a forced demon blood high counts as “too much.”
“I didn’t want it, I swear I didn’t,” Sam mumbles suddenly.
“What?”
“He s-said Famine took a craving and made you rabid f-for it,” Sam stammers out, and Dean can see the sheen of sweat on his face, “B-but I wasn’t craving it, D-dean, I swear.”
“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, because Sam’s shivering and sweating and his eyes aren’t seeing Dean anymore, “Sammy, I’m sorry.”
Dean gives Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he gets up, because he doesn’t want to be here when the hallucinations really take over, and the heavy door closes behind him just as the screams start. Bobby hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word and heads back upstairs, because he knows Dean needs space to breathe, because that’s Sammy on the other side of the door screaming his lungs out. Castiel has no such knowledge and he stands right there, watching Dean trying to drink away his guilt and Dean can’t tell if there’s any disapproval in his gaze because it’s Cas, and Cas doesn’t show his feelings on his face. Maybe he doesn’t even know how to. And Sam just keeps yelling.
“Dean! Help me, please!” and his voice chokes off with something that sounds like a sob and then another scream.
“Sam just has to get it out of his system,” says Castiel, and Dean nods, and walks away, because he knows that but it’s breaking his heart to just stand there and listen.
He stands in the yard, the shells of cars long past their prime surrounding him, and maybe that’s all Dean is now - broken, twisted, empty. And when he pleads to God help me, there’s no answer, no sign that he’s being heard at all, and his eyes are filling with tears.
That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean.
In a burst of fiery anger Dean throws his half-empty bottle of whiskey as hard as he can, watches it smash against the already dented side of a car, and shatter into hundreds of pieces.
You're not hungry, Dean, because inside, you're already...
The anger drains out of him and he’s left feeling empty, alone…
Dead.
Dean drops his hand against the roof of the Impala, the cool metal soothing in its familiarity. Sam’s screams still echo in his ears, desperate and scared, and Dean wishes he hadn’t thrown his whiskey away. This isn’t Sam’s fault, but he’s still locked in the panic room, alone and terrified and Dean’s stomach clenches at the thought. Last time, Sam had chosen to drink demon blood. This time, Sam was forced into it by a desperate hunger he couldn’t control. Dean remembers the fear in Sam’s eyes as he stood unsteadily in the doorway of the bathroom.
I think it got to me, Dean. I think I'm hungry for it...
Dean turns back to the house. He’s not going to leave Sam to suffer alone this time.
***
Sam wakes slowly, feeling sweat drying cold against his skin. His head’s pounding and his mouth is dry. He’s lying on the bed in the panic room, and Dean’s gone.
“He’s angry with you, Sam,” says Alastair, and Sam flinches, forcing his eyes to focus on the jug of water he desperately needs.
His knees buckle when he tries to stand, and he ends up on the floor.
“He’s ashamed of you,” Alastair says, and laughs, “You’re lying to yourself, Sam, and you’re not fooling Dean.”
Sam grits his teeth, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek against the bed. He knows Alastair is just a hallucination. Sam remembers screaming about it before, and he swallows, and his throat hurts. He hears the sound of the door opening behind him, but he doesn’t bother looking up. He knows it’s not real.
*****
Dean closes the door behind him. Sam’s motionless, kneeling on the floor, his upper body supported by the bed. His eyes are closed.
“Sam?” he says softly, not wanting to freak Sam out.
He’s close enough to see the shiver run through Sam’s body.
“S’ok, Sammy, it’s just me.”
Sam doesn’t respond, just seems to curl tighter, and there’s just the softest catch in his breath. Dean approaches slowly. Sam’s been quiet for a while now, and Dean can’t leave him alone any longer, because this isn’t Sam’s fault. But Sam refuses to look at him.
“Sam, c’mon, come out of it,” Dean says, not caring that he’s pleading and begging again.
Sam’s mumbling something, too hoarse and quiet for Dean to hear, so he takes two more steps and then he can hear it, and his heart skips a beat.
“Not real, s’not real, s’not real, not real, s’not…” Sam’s saying, over and over, desperately.
It’s instinct that makes Dean grab his brother’s shoulder, squeeze gently, start rubbing his back.
“I’m real, Sam, trust me,” he says, “I’m real.”
Sam wrenches away, scrambling backwards until he hits the wall, his eyes glazed.
“Sammy, don’t,” and Dean’s voice breaks, because it feels like he’s losing Sam and it was a bad, bad idea to open that door again.
Castiel said not to. He said to wait, because no way was it over so soon. And Dean hadn’t listened. And now his heart is breaking because he has no idea how to comfort Sam if his brother doesn’t even believe he’s real.
“Sam, you gotta believe me.”
Sam shivers, pulling his knees up to his chest, tucking his chin down so his forehead rests against the worn denim.
“Don’t… I can’t…” Sam stutters, breathing rapidly.
Dean takes that as a cue to move closer, slowly. Sam glances up, and then his eyes dart across the room, stopping at the water Dean left on the table.
“Please…” Sam whimpers, running his tongue across his lips.
“You’re thirsty?”
Relief floods through him. Dean quickly fills the cup and passes it to Sam, who hesitantly takes it. His hands shake, nearly spilling the water, and Dean’s glad he only filled it halfway. Sam drinks greedily, spilling water down his chin.
“Easy, dude,” Dean cautions.
Sam’s hands tremble so bad he drops the cup, and Dean rests his hand gently against Sam’s shoulder. Heat radiates off him and his shirt is damp with sweat.
“Dean, I can’t do this,” Sam pants, clawing at Dean’s arm.
Dean’s hand now grips Sam’s shoulder tight, like he can transfer his own strength into Sam.
“Yes, you can, you have to,” he says, trying to make his voice strong and commanding but it comes out frantic.
Sam lets out a sound scarily close to a whimper, like a frightened puppy and he’s clinging to Dean with both hands.
“Can’t,” he repeats, voice rasping and croaky from the screaming he did earlier, “M’not strong enough.”
Dean catches Sam’s wrists, looks into his too-wide eyes.
“You are, Sam, you have to be. We’ll get through this, just hang in there, alright?”
Sam’s gritting his teeth, lips pressed together, but he nods.
“Alright. Alright. That’s good. Let’s get you back to bed, huh?”
He helps Sam to his feet, steadies him as he rides out the wave of dizziness, and then guides him to the bed. Sam’s legs are all wobbly, like cooked noodles, and he stumbles, nearly dragging Dean with him to the floor again before they reach the bed.
“Easy,” Dean mutters as Sam lies down, too long for the mattress.
He keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he feels the exact moment the shivers turn into a full-blown seizure.
*****
It’s like an itch he can’t scratch, a feeling of wrongness all over his body, making him shiver and sweat and his mind races, screaming at him because he knows what he needs to make it all go away. Dean’s holding him down, and he’s talking in a voice that’s urgent and soothing at the same time, and then there’s click of the handcuffs they use to tie him down. There’s darkness swirling around him, or maybe it’s in him, because he drank demon blood and it’s in him and he can’t fight it, no matter how hard he tries. There’s laughter, dark and mocking, and Sam feels his body shuddering, twisting, pulling against the restraints, and he can’t control himself, and his heart’s pounding faster and louder until it drowns out everything else, even Alastair’s laughter, and then suddenly he’s limp and panting and Dean’s brushing strands of hair off his damp forehead.
“Sam, you with me?” he’s asking, and his other hand is warm and real against Sam’s chest.
“Yeah,” is all Sam can say, because his throat feels raw and his mouth is dry again.
Every muscle in his body is aching. His head’s pounding worse than before.
“You’re ok, you’re ok. I’m gonna take these off, alright? Get you some more water. Something for the pain, maybe? Just lie still for a minute.”
Dean’s rambling as he takes the cuffs off, thumb gliding over the reddened skin on Sam’s wrists. Sam just lies still and quiet, because he’s just so tired. The itch hasn’t gone away, but it’s dulled by exhaustion. Dean’s arm is across Sam’s back now, and he’s sitting up, and there’s a cup pressed against his lips.
“Drink, Sammy,” says Dean, and Sam does.
Then he lies down again, closes his eyes, and lets exhaustion take over.
*****
Time passes, in a hazy, disconnected way like he’s feverish. He can’t tell if he’s awake or dreaming or hallucinating, and everything blurs together. One minute Jess is there, and then it’s Dean, and somehow he’s lying on the floor and Dean’s washing his face with a wet cloth, and then Dean’s across the room and it’s Alastair slicing him open from chest to belly button. And he’s screaming again, and his voice is nearly gone, and it’s Dean’s hands on his shoulders, chest, face, I’m here, Sammy, you’re safe, it’s not real.
“Dean, help me,” Sam cries out, because nothing’s making sense and he feels like he’s losing his mind.
Dean pulls him upright, lets him lean against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. His arms are strong across Sam’s back.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, soothing and protective and Sam clings to him desperately, “I’m right here, Sam, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you, not this time, I promise.”
The insanity recedes, slowly, edging back from his mind and Alastair’s gone silent at last, and Sam hiccups a sob that’s muffled by Dean’s shirt.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright, Sammy,” Dean rambles again, like he always does when he’s worried about Sam, “You still seein’ things?”
“No,” but Sam keeps his eyes closed just in case.
“Alright, ok, that’s good,” Dean says, “Think you can get up? The bed’s gotta be more comfortable than the floor.”
Dean moves like he’s going to stand up, and Sam panics, losing his grip on Dean’s shirt and the darkness is back. There are voices, not Dean’s, and the floor tilts under him, sending him crashing against it, and it’s Azazel this time, you’re special, Sammy, and Jake stabbing the knife into his back, and pain floods through him, making everything flash white and red and black, and then Dean’s voice cuts through his confusion.
“Sam! Hey, come back to me, man. Don’t do this!”
He’s back in Dean’s arms, still on the floor, and Dean’s holding him too tight and Sam doesn’t even care.
“Come on, Sammy, talk to me. Don’t make me tie you down again. Sam?”
“M’here,” Sam croaks, “D-don’t… don’t lemme go, Dean.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t,” Dean says, his own voice rough with emotion.
Sam swallows, and his breath is hard and fast against Dean’s neck. The next time Dean suggests they move to the bed, he keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s fingers are tangling in front of Dean’s shirt. Sam lets his hand drift down to Dean’s knee as he lies down and Dean sits beside him, barely able to fit because the bed is so narrow, and Dean’s hand rests on his chest.
“That ok?” he asks, and Sam nods, “You want more water?”
“M’ok.”
“Alright.”
And Dean stays there until Sam falls asleep again.
*****
It’s driving him crazy, watching Sam suffer. Even sleeping, Sam’s still not settled, and he keeps moaning softly, eyes rolling under closed lids.
“No, no, please, don’t, I can’t…” Sam whimpers repeatedly.
And Dean rubs Sam’s chest gently.
“Easy, Sammy, I’m still here,” he says.
Sam sighs and relaxes again, only to start over five minutes later. He wakes briefly, sometimes lucid, sometimes screaming about fire and no, please stop. Touch seems to soothe him, at least temporarily, and Dean rubs Sam’s arms until his own hands are tingling, trying to get Sam to stop yelling. Eventually Sam goes still and quiet and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. As hard as this has been for him, he can’t believe he let Sam go through this alone last time. There’s silence now, except for their breathing and the soft whirring of the blades in the roof.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
*****
Consciousness comes back slowly, and the first thing Sam’s aware of is a hand on his arm, and then he hears Dean’s voice.
“…know you’re in there somewhere, Sammy. Cas says it’s over, you’re clean, so... you can wake up now, and everything’s gonna be fine.”
His eyes feel sticky when he forces them open, and everything blurs and there are two Deans, but then the world slams back into focus.
“Sam? You with me?” Dean stares intently into Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam says, slow and hoarse, and immediately Dean’s helping him sit up and offering him water.
It feels wonderful, like he hasn’t drunk in ages. The cool liquid seems to clear his head, and he looks over at Dean. Dean’s got dark rings under his eyes and stubble that says he hasn’t shaved in a while. He looks exhausted, but there’s relief in his green eyes.
“How long?” Sam asks, and he knows Dean will understand.
“Four days,” says Dean, sounding weary.
Sam tries to sort through the memories, but it’s all a foggy mess of pain and fire and blood and Dean holding him as he screamed.
“You stayed with me? That whole time?” he has to know.
“Most of it,” he says.
A rush of shame floods through Sam, because as comforting as Dean’s presence was during his withdrawal, he hates that his brother saw him at his lowest point.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
Dean can’t meet his gaze.
“I just… I couldn’t let you go through this alone. Again. It wasn’t your fault, man, and I…”
Sam’s hand trembles as he reaches for Dean’s arm.
“Dean…”
Dean watches Sam’s hand as it reaches his arm, then his head snaps up.
“You need to eat, Sammy,” he says, changing the subject, “You strong enough to get upstairs or should I get Bobby to bring something down for you?”
Sam’s too tired to get the conversation back.
“I can walk,” he says, and he’s pretty sure he can, but his knees buckle when he tries to stand.
Dean catches him.
“Sam?”
“I’m ok, just… just give me a minute.”
His legs eventually stop feeling like jelly and he pushes Dean’s hands away.
“You good?” Dean asks, his hands hovering, ready to catch him again.
“Yeah.”
Sam makes it upstairs and by then his head’s spinning, but Dean’s right beside him the whole time. Bobby almost smiles when he seems them.
“Good to see you up, Sam.”
“Couch,” says Dean, and steers Sam towards it, “Sit.”
“M’not a dog, Dean,” Sam responds, but his heart’s not really in it.
He sits down on the couch and lets Dean bring him water and sandwiches and then, when Sam’s eyes start to close, a pillow and a blanket.
“Get some sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam’s already relaxing into the couch, warm and content.
“’n’ you too, Dean…” Sam mumbles.
He vaguely feels a hand on his forehead that feels like Dean’s, and his brother replies an affirmative, and then Sam’s out.
END
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: some slightly gory imagery
Characters: Sam, Dean, a tiny bit of Castiel and Bobby
Word count: 2,876
Summary: This time is different. This time, it wasn't Sam's fault. This time, Dean won't let his brother go through it alone.
Disclaimer: not mine, obviously.
Empty Shells
This time is different. There’s no need to trick Sam into entering the panic room, because he knows what has to be done. He goes straight to the bed and sits down, head hanging so his hair hides his eyes.
“There’s water on the table,” Dean says, because he doesn’t want to leave just yet.
“Yeah,” Sam responds softly, and then adds, even quieter, “M’sorry.”
“Not your fault, Sammy.”
It’s an automatic response to Sam’s apology, an attempt to ease the guilt Dean knows his brother’s feeling. Sam looks up, finally, his pupils too big for the brightness of the room.
“Dean…” I’m sorry. I messed up. I’m scared. Please don’t leave me.
Dean hears all the things Sam doesn’t say and he walk closer, sits beside his little brother so their shoulders are just touching.
“I’m not leaving just yet, Sam.”
Some of the tension in Sam’s body dissipates, because even after everything he’s still a little brother reaching out for his big brother when things get too much, and Dean’s pretty sure that coming off a forced demon blood high counts as “too much.”
“I didn’t want it, I swear I didn’t,” Sam mumbles suddenly.
“What?”
“He s-said Famine took a craving and made you rabid f-for it,” Sam stammers out, and Dean can see the sheen of sweat on his face, “B-but I wasn’t craving it, D-dean, I swear.”
“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, because Sam’s shivering and sweating and his eyes aren’t seeing Dean anymore, “Sammy, I’m sorry.”
Dean gives Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he gets up, because he doesn’t want to be here when the hallucinations really take over, and the heavy door closes behind him just as the screams start. Bobby hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word and heads back upstairs, because he knows Dean needs space to breathe, because that’s Sammy on the other side of the door screaming his lungs out. Castiel has no such knowledge and he stands right there, watching Dean trying to drink away his guilt and Dean can’t tell if there’s any disapproval in his gaze because it’s Cas, and Cas doesn’t show his feelings on his face. Maybe he doesn’t even know how to. And Sam just keeps yelling.
“Dean! Help me, please!” and his voice chokes off with something that sounds like a sob and then another scream.
“Sam just has to get it out of his system,” says Castiel, and Dean nods, and walks away, because he knows that but it’s breaking his heart to just stand there and listen.
He stands in the yard, the shells of cars long past their prime surrounding him, and maybe that’s all Dean is now - broken, twisted, empty. And when he pleads to God help me, there’s no answer, no sign that he’s being heard at all, and his eyes are filling with tears.
That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean.
In a burst of fiery anger Dean throws his half-empty bottle of whiskey as hard as he can, watches it smash against the already dented side of a car, and shatter into hundreds of pieces.
You're not hungry, Dean, because inside, you're already...
The anger drains out of him and he’s left feeling empty, alone…
Dead.
Dean drops his hand against the roof of the Impala, the cool metal soothing in its familiarity. Sam’s screams still echo in his ears, desperate and scared, and Dean wishes he hadn’t thrown his whiskey away. This isn’t Sam’s fault, but he’s still locked in the panic room, alone and terrified and Dean’s stomach clenches at the thought. Last time, Sam had chosen to drink demon blood. This time, Sam was forced into it by a desperate hunger he couldn’t control. Dean remembers the fear in Sam’s eyes as he stood unsteadily in the doorway of the bathroom.
I think it got to me, Dean. I think I'm hungry for it...
Dean turns back to the house. He’s not going to leave Sam to suffer alone this time.
***
Sam wakes slowly, feeling sweat drying cold against his skin. His head’s pounding and his mouth is dry. He’s lying on the bed in the panic room, and Dean’s gone.
“He’s angry with you, Sam,” says Alastair, and Sam flinches, forcing his eyes to focus on the jug of water he desperately needs.
His knees buckle when he tries to stand, and he ends up on the floor.
“He’s ashamed of you,” Alastair says, and laughs, “You’re lying to yourself, Sam, and you’re not fooling Dean.”
Sam grits his teeth, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek against the bed. He knows Alastair is just a hallucination. Sam remembers screaming about it before, and he swallows, and his throat hurts. He hears the sound of the door opening behind him, but he doesn’t bother looking up. He knows it’s not real.
*****
Dean closes the door behind him. Sam’s motionless, kneeling on the floor, his upper body supported by the bed. His eyes are closed.
“Sam?” he says softly, not wanting to freak Sam out.
He’s close enough to see the shiver run through Sam’s body.
“S’ok, Sammy, it’s just me.”
Sam doesn’t respond, just seems to curl tighter, and there’s just the softest catch in his breath. Dean approaches slowly. Sam’s been quiet for a while now, and Dean can’t leave him alone any longer, because this isn’t Sam’s fault. But Sam refuses to look at him.
“Sam, c’mon, come out of it,” Dean says, not caring that he’s pleading and begging again.
Sam’s mumbling something, too hoarse and quiet for Dean to hear, so he takes two more steps and then he can hear it, and his heart skips a beat.
“Not real, s’not real, s’not real, not real, s’not…” Sam’s saying, over and over, desperately.
It’s instinct that makes Dean grab his brother’s shoulder, squeeze gently, start rubbing his back.
“I’m real, Sam, trust me,” he says, “I’m real.”
Sam wrenches away, scrambling backwards until he hits the wall, his eyes glazed.
“Sammy, don’t,” and Dean’s voice breaks, because it feels like he’s losing Sam and it was a bad, bad idea to open that door again.
Castiel said not to. He said to wait, because no way was it over so soon. And Dean hadn’t listened. And now his heart is breaking because he has no idea how to comfort Sam if his brother doesn’t even believe he’s real.
“Sam, you gotta believe me.”
Sam shivers, pulling his knees up to his chest, tucking his chin down so his forehead rests against the worn denim.
“Don’t… I can’t…” Sam stutters, breathing rapidly.
Dean takes that as a cue to move closer, slowly. Sam glances up, and then his eyes dart across the room, stopping at the water Dean left on the table.
“Please…” Sam whimpers, running his tongue across his lips.
“You’re thirsty?”
Relief floods through him. Dean quickly fills the cup and passes it to Sam, who hesitantly takes it. His hands shake, nearly spilling the water, and Dean’s glad he only filled it halfway. Sam drinks greedily, spilling water down his chin.
“Easy, dude,” Dean cautions.
Sam’s hands tremble so bad he drops the cup, and Dean rests his hand gently against Sam’s shoulder. Heat radiates off him and his shirt is damp with sweat.
“Dean, I can’t do this,” Sam pants, clawing at Dean’s arm.
Dean’s hand now grips Sam’s shoulder tight, like he can transfer his own strength into Sam.
“Yes, you can, you have to,” he says, trying to make his voice strong and commanding but it comes out frantic.
Sam lets out a sound scarily close to a whimper, like a frightened puppy and he’s clinging to Dean with both hands.
“Can’t,” he repeats, voice rasping and croaky from the screaming he did earlier, “M’not strong enough.”
Dean catches Sam’s wrists, looks into his too-wide eyes.
“You are, Sam, you have to be. We’ll get through this, just hang in there, alright?”
Sam’s gritting his teeth, lips pressed together, but he nods.
“Alright. Alright. That’s good. Let’s get you back to bed, huh?”
He helps Sam to his feet, steadies him as he rides out the wave of dizziness, and then guides him to the bed. Sam’s legs are all wobbly, like cooked noodles, and he stumbles, nearly dragging Dean with him to the floor again before they reach the bed.
“Easy,” Dean mutters as Sam lies down, too long for the mattress.
He keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he feels the exact moment the shivers turn into a full-blown seizure.
*****
It’s like an itch he can’t scratch, a feeling of wrongness all over his body, making him shiver and sweat and his mind races, screaming at him because he knows what he needs to make it all go away. Dean’s holding him down, and he’s talking in a voice that’s urgent and soothing at the same time, and then there’s click of the handcuffs they use to tie him down. There’s darkness swirling around him, or maybe it’s in him, because he drank demon blood and it’s in him and he can’t fight it, no matter how hard he tries. There’s laughter, dark and mocking, and Sam feels his body shuddering, twisting, pulling against the restraints, and he can’t control himself, and his heart’s pounding faster and louder until it drowns out everything else, even Alastair’s laughter, and then suddenly he’s limp and panting and Dean’s brushing strands of hair off his damp forehead.
“Sam, you with me?” he’s asking, and his other hand is warm and real against Sam’s chest.
“Yeah,” is all Sam can say, because his throat feels raw and his mouth is dry again.
Every muscle in his body is aching. His head’s pounding worse than before.
“You’re ok, you’re ok. I’m gonna take these off, alright? Get you some more water. Something for the pain, maybe? Just lie still for a minute.”
Dean’s rambling as he takes the cuffs off, thumb gliding over the reddened skin on Sam’s wrists. Sam just lies still and quiet, because he’s just so tired. The itch hasn’t gone away, but it’s dulled by exhaustion. Dean’s arm is across Sam’s back now, and he’s sitting up, and there’s a cup pressed against his lips.
“Drink, Sammy,” says Dean, and Sam does.
Then he lies down again, closes his eyes, and lets exhaustion take over.
*****
Time passes, in a hazy, disconnected way like he’s feverish. He can’t tell if he’s awake or dreaming or hallucinating, and everything blurs together. One minute Jess is there, and then it’s Dean, and somehow he’s lying on the floor and Dean’s washing his face with a wet cloth, and then Dean’s across the room and it’s Alastair slicing him open from chest to belly button. And he’s screaming again, and his voice is nearly gone, and it’s Dean’s hands on his shoulders, chest, face, I’m here, Sammy, you’re safe, it’s not real.
“Dean, help me,” Sam cries out, because nothing’s making sense and he feels like he’s losing his mind.
Dean pulls him upright, lets him lean against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. His arms are strong across Sam’s back.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, soothing and protective and Sam clings to him desperately, “I’m right here, Sam, I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you, not this time, I promise.”
The insanity recedes, slowly, edging back from his mind and Alastair’s gone silent at last, and Sam hiccups a sob that’s muffled by Dean’s shirt.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright, Sammy,” Dean rambles again, like he always does when he’s worried about Sam, “You still seein’ things?”
“No,” but Sam keeps his eyes closed just in case.
“Alright, ok, that’s good,” Dean says, “Think you can get up? The bed’s gotta be more comfortable than the floor.”
Dean moves like he’s going to stand up, and Sam panics, losing his grip on Dean’s shirt and the darkness is back. There are voices, not Dean’s, and the floor tilts under him, sending him crashing against it, and it’s Azazel this time, you’re special, Sammy, and Jake stabbing the knife into his back, and pain floods through him, making everything flash white and red and black, and then Dean’s voice cuts through his confusion.
“Sam! Hey, come back to me, man. Don’t do this!”
He’s back in Dean’s arms, still on the floor, and Dean’s holding him too tight and Sam doesn’t even care.
“Come on, Sammy, talk to me. Don’t make me tie you down again. Sam?”
“M’here,” Sam croaks, “D-don’t… don’t lemme go, Dean.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t,” Dean says, his own voice rough with emotion.
Sam swallows, and his breath is hard and fast against Dean’s neck. The next time Dean suggests they move to the bed, he keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s fingers are tangling in front of Dean’s shirt. Sam lets his hand drift down to Dean’s knee as he lies down and Dean sits beside him, barely able to fit because the bed is so narrow, and Dean’s hand rests on his chest.
“That ok?” he asks, and Sam nods, “You want more water?”
“M’ok.”
“Alright.”
And Dean stays there until Sam falls asleep again.
*****
It’s driving him crazy, watching Sam suffer. Even sleeping, Sam’s still not settled, and he keeps moaning softly, eyes rolling under closed lids.
“No, no, please, don’t, I can’t…” Sam whimpers repeatedly.
And Dean rubs Sam’s chest gently.
“Easy, Sammy, I’m still here,” he says.
Sam sighs and relaxes again, only to start over five minutes later. He wakes briefly, sometimes lucid, sometimes screaming about fire and no, please stop. Touch seems to soothe him, at least temporarily, and Dean rubs Sam’s arms until his own hands are tingling, trying to get Sam to stop yelling. Eventually Sam goes still and quiet and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. As hard as this has been for him, he can’t believe he let Sam go through this alone last time. There’s silence now, except for their breathing and the soft whirring of the blades in the roof.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
*****
Consciousness comes back slowly, and the first thing Sam’s aware of is a hand on his arm, and then he hears Dean’s voice.
“…know you’re in there somewhere, Sammy. Cas says it’s over, you’re clean, so... you can wake up now, and everything’s gonna be fine.”
His eyes feel sticky when he forces them open, and everything blurs and there are two Deans, but then the world slams back into focus.
“Sam? You with me?” Dean stares intently into Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Sam says, slow and hoarse, and immediately Dean’s helping him sit up and offering him water.
It feels wonderful, like he hasn’t drunk in ages. The cool liquid seems to clear his head, and he looks over at Dean. Dean’s got dark rings under his eyes and stubble that says he hasn’t shaved in a while. He looks exhausted, but there’s relief in his green eyes.
“How long?” Sam asks, and he knows Dean will understand.
“Four days,” says Dean, sounding weary.
Sam tries to sort through the memories, but it’s all a foggy mess of pain and fire and blood and Dean holding him as he screamed.
“You stayed with me? That whole time?” he has to know.
“Most of it,” he says.
A rush of shame floods through Sam, because as comforting as Dean’s presence was during his withdrawal, he hates that his brother saw him at his lowest point.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
Dean can’t meet his gaze.
“I just… I couldn’t let you go through this alone. Again. It wasn’t your fault, man, and I…”
Sam’s hand trembles as he reaches for Dean’s arm.
“Dean…”
Dean watches Sam’s hand as it reaches his arm, then his head snaps up.
“You need to eat, Sammy,” he says, changing the subject, “You strong enough to get upstairs or should I get Bobby to bring something down for you?”
Sam’s too tired to get the conversation back.
“I can walk,” he says, and he’s pretty sure he can, but his knees buckle when he tries to stand.
Dean catches him.
“Sam?”
“I’m ok, just… just give me a minute.”
His legs eventually stop feeling like jelly and he pushes Dean’s hands away.
“You good?” Dean asks, his hands hovering, ready to catch him again.
“Yeah.”
Sam makes it upstairs and by then his head’s spinning, but Dean’s right beside him the whole time. Bobby almost smiles when he seems them.
“Good to see you up, Sam.”
“Couch,” says Dean, and steers Sam towards it, “Sit.”
“M’not a dog, Dean,” Sam responds, but his heart’s not really in it.
He sits down on the couch and lets Dean bring him water and sandwiches and then, when Sam’s eyes start to close, a pillow and a blanket.
“Get some sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam’s already relaxing into the couch, warm and content.
“’n’ you too, Dean…” Sam mumbles.
He vaguely feels a hand on his forehead that feels like Dean’s, and his brother replies an affirmative, and then Sam’s out.
END