Fic - Square One
Title - Square One
Summary - After rebuilding a life from the tatters that were left behind, Sam and Dean's world is all about carefully scheduled routines. But then Sam has an accident and their lives are permanently changed forever.
Rating - PG13
Genre/Spoilers - Gen (Future/Curtain fic. AU after 6.22. I haven't seen season 7 yet so no spoilers).
Word Count - 3800
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co. I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - This was written for the Sam-focussed hurt/comfort fic challenge at ohsam for de_nugis's prompt which you can see in full here. I've never done a fic challenge before and apart from a few freak outs I've really enjoyed the experience. A huge thank you to scullspeare for betaing this and for being super supportive, to harrigan for the nudging and encouragement and finally to de_nugis for the wonderful prompt. I've tinkered and tweaked this, so any mistakes are all mine.
Square One
The wood stove is clanking, a cooling tick like an engine but that's not what wakes him each morning; it's the front door slamming as Sam leaves for and then returns from his morning run.
And today's no different, Dean hears Sam leave and then allows himself snooze under a mound of covers just like he always does. But when he bolts upright in bed to a silent cabin over an hour later, no heavy footsteps or bacon crackling in a frying pan, worry starts to chew on his intestines.
“Sam?” he yells, because even though the cabin is compact enough to hear the toilet flush from every single room, it's still pretty spacious.
Hauling back the blankets, Dean's socked feet slide on the pine floorboards as he jogs to the small table by the front door. But all the running gear that Sam sets up there every night is still missing; phone, keys, a bottle of water and the headlamp that Dean bought him last year for Christmas.
And Dean's used to the routines now, knows that Sam runs the seven miles around the lake every morning and every evening, rain or snow be damned.
But Sam's always back by 8 a.m.; he's never late.
And although it's been a while, a good seven months or maybe more since they hit a rough patch, Dean's heading down the narrow corridor to Sam's room.
Pushing open the door, Dean sees the crisp starched sheets of the perfectly made bed, the library of books stacked alphabetically on the two large bookshelves they found advertised in the paper, a few sketches of the lake and their cabin pinned on the wall and Sam's neatly written schedules and running times piled squarely on the edge of his desk in colour-coordinated files.
The door to the closet is closed. But Dean knows that doesn't mean it's empty.
Twisting the doorknob, the hinges creak as Dean pulls it open, his gut knotting as he mentally prepares himself for what he might see because it's always a confined space and he's still not sure if that's because the cage was small and Sam's re-living or because the cage was endless and Sam's hiding.
The closet is empty.
Dean goes into the hall and tries the linen closet but that's empty too and now that he's out of options the reality that Sam didn't make it home has him bolting back to his own room.
Shoving his feet into a pair of boots, he pulls on a coat and grabs his satellite phone from his nightstand before running out the front door, not bothering to lock it as his lungs puff clouds of white fog, his feet sinking into shin-high drifts of snow.
The sun's slowly rising, hovering low on the horizon of a cloudless sky as Dean's icy fingers press Sam's speed dial number, the phone glued to his ear. Dean turns left at the end of their driveway and onto the snow-trampled path that circles the lake and now that he's got some traction, he's sprinting.
The phone rings and rings and Dean lets it, ears alert for Sam's ring tone, his eyes scanning the stark white scenery that's so bright it's giving him a headache, adrenaline allowing him to pick up his speed.
“Sam!” he yells but he knows it's pointless, knows that if Sam's fallen, if he's down there, nothing can reach him.
Approaching the old boathouse, Dean follows the imprints of Sam's overpriced running shoes while freaking the hell out because Sam could have crammed himself into at least a dozen confined spaces that Dean's catalogued around the path.
That's when he sees a shower of crimson on the snow a couple of feet ahead. The last time Dean saw any blood was when he cut his finger chopping a carrot a few months ago.
“Sammy?” he shouts, feet sliding on a patch of ice as he follows the blood trail down a steep hill to the left of the path.
Sam's lying on his back in the snow, forearms and elbows propping up his upper body as he stares down blankly at his legs. And from this angle Dean can see his brother's face, the snowy white left cheek and bright red right, a ragged cut poking out from under Sam's hat. And like he's on a string, Dean's following Sam's eye-line down to his leg.
And the next thing Dean knows he's throwing himself down the hill, hands frantically grabbing overhanging tree branches, powdered snow dusting his head and shoulders as his boots slip on ice and slush.
He falls heavily onto his knees by Sam's side and it's not graceful and it isn't planned but he's here.
Dean's fingers slide over a warm, blood-slicked cheek as he cups his brother's face and drags Sam's gaze away from his leg so that their eyes meet.
“Front and centre, Sam,” he orders, staring at Sam's face for a sign that he's still in the real world.
Sam blinks lazily, his eyelids stalling before pulling slowly open.
“Dean?” Sam asks and it's all quiet and unsure, like the times when Sam can't remember anything but his brother's name.
“It's me, I'm here,” Dean says, knowing the drill for times like these when Sam's teetering on the edge of reality. Pulling up the sleeve of his coat, Dean shows Sam the thick red scar that runs down the length of his forearm and curls behind his elbow, a reminder of the last hunt they did, will ever do.
Sam nods and Dean watches as his brother's brain links the scar to after he escaped the cage, after the wall was built and after it was torn down, pulling their old life with it.
Then Sam's eyes open wide as they connect with Dean's blood-stained fingers, his breath stuttering.
“No Sam, you're not down there, remember?” Dean's fingers tighten around his brother's jaw. “Our cabin, Sam, think about our cabin and your job at the library with Cynthia and those riveting conversations you two have about pot roast recipes-”
“Yeah.” There's a few sharp breaths and a pause before Sam continues. “And my running routines, my sketches and building the wrap-around deck-”
“You got it,” Dean says because it's still a relief to see Sam 'get it', see him build the connection because while Sam can't remember much about the early days, Dean can. It still makes him jackknife in the middle of the night, cold sweat clinging like tacky blood to his skin. “It's a charmed life, but it's all ours.”
Dean takes a breath and lets his hands fall from his brother's face, fingers tapping his pockets for his his phone. “What happened, Sam?”
Sam's arms collapse, his head sinking into the snow as he battles against the hell memories for the real truth, fingers clawing into his skull like he's physically trying to dig for answers.
Calmly but firmly, Dean pulls Sam's hand away. “Just focus on your morning routine, step by step.”
And Dean knows that if he doesn't keep Sam tethered to this world, his brother will be locked in hell for hours, sometimes days while Dean wrings his hands and wonders what will happen if his little brother doesn't snap out of it.
Because Sam's the one who knows where the hidden stash of cookies is and how to use the coffee grinder and he's the one who remembers to pay the bills and file their taxes. And when Sam's gone he doesn't even know his own name.
“I was running,” Sam says, the top corner of his lip rising and if Dean was still a betting man he'd put money on the look on Sam's face being happiness, serenity. “And my time was good, considering the weather. I knocked 20 seconds of my morning run yesterday and then, I don't know, I was just down here.”
Dean's hand finally collides with the cold metal of his phone, fingers frantically pushing the speed dial for the clinic.
“There's ice on the path,” Dean says, holding the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Alan, it's Dean, I'm at Liberty Lake near the boathouse. I need you to drive here with your back board and kit.”
“Sure, Dean. What's going on?”
“Sam's had a fall. We need to get him back to the clinic, now,” Dean barks. “I think he might need a LifeFlight helicopter to the city.”
Dean can hear Alan's engine purr into life before he hangs up the phone. Dean's heart is thundering in his chest but he knows that Alan won't let them down. He's the only person Dean trusts with Sam now.
Keeping the satellite phone close, Dean looks at Sam's left leg, his stomach flipping. It's swollen at least twice its normal size from his kneecap down, and through the cotton of his brother's running pants, Dean can see unnatural bumps and dips where bones have broken and separated.
But it's the angle Sam's lower leg is twisted, his foot pointing in entirely the wrong direction that makes Dean skip a breath because this is bad, like life-changing bad.
“Shit, Dean, shit,” Sam says his eyes automatically tracking Dean's gaze to his mangled leg.
And Dean's about to tell Sam all kinds of bull like it's going to be OK, that it's not that bad and that they'll be both be fine but the spark behind Sam's eyes beats him to it, a lightning bolt of brimstone fire and then everything burns.
And just like that, Sam's gone.
Eyes open but not seeing, Sam's lying in the snow, his right hand curling and uncurling into a fist, his lips whispering strings of horrors that Dean doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to revisit.
And even though he hates himself for thinking it, there's a part of Dean that wants to run away, to jump into their new truck and keep driving, never to look back.
Because everything was good, it was all working. It had taken years of hard work, of making mistakes and picking up the pieces of his broken brother and starting from scratch, time and time again.
But they'd finally built something, a life and a home and it was solid and predictable but it was theirs. And for once in their lives, things were normal, or at least as normal as it gets for a Winchester.
And now one look at Sam, at his screwed-up leg and how the horrors of the cage ooze from every pore of his being, Dean know everything they've built is shot to shit. Everything.
And all Dean can do is stare at the pile of rubble that's left behind.
Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt, fear sticking like tar in his throat, stubborn tears clinging to his eyelashes. “Sam? I don't...I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"
XoXoX
The wood stove is clanking, a cooling tick like an engine but he's already wide awake when he hears the uneven gait of Sam's steps hobble down the corridor towards the front door.
Feeling bone weary, Dean drags himself out of bed, bare feet slapping on the floorboards as he rubs his fingers over sleep-crusty eyes.
Dean picks up the spare cane from the living room because he can't hear the thud of Sam's which means that his brother's forgotten that he needs it again. Sam's threshold for pain is higher since the wall came down. Dean doesn't need to know why.
But it still makes him uneasy that he's never seen any signs of pain on Sam's face. And he knows that you don't break your leg in over half a dozen places, permanently screw up your tibial nerve and have more metal in your leg than actual muscles and tendons and not feel anything.
And the pain must be somewhere; it just hasn't surfaced. Yet.
Dean's shadowing his brother from half a dozen steps behind as Sam heads outside. Stopping at the back of the wrap-around deck, Sam's gripping the railing like he's suddenly remembered that he can't walk the way he used to, a pair of old running sweats covering the scars on his legs.
Walking up next to his brother, Dean stands shoulder to shoulder but not touching. He can't tell if Sam's here or down there due to the meds that cloud his eyes and mask the flames of hell. Dean hasn't decided if that's a blessing or not.
“You need to sit down,” Dean says, wanting it to be more of a suggestion but it comes out an order and he's not sure what will happen as he rests the cane against the wooden railing in front of his brother.
But Sam doesn't blink, just pinches his lips and turns around. Hands gripping the railing that Dean stained a few days ago, Sam swings his bad leg and hobbles forward a step.
Dean follows and it's instinct really, it's what he was trained to do, has always done and now more than ever he knows he has to watch his brother's back.
Sam stops still, fingers squeezing the railing white-knuckle tight. “Back off, Dean!”
“I just want to make sure that-”
“Well don't! I don't need you to do anything!” Sam barks, breathing heavily, huge gasps that expand his chest, his gaze hovering around the deck like he's looking for an anchor to ground him.
Dean knows that look all too well.
“You're at our cabin,” Dean says, ripping himself a new one for not getting up earlier and sneaking into Sam's room, making sure he doesn't wander off like this. A week ago he found Sam flat on his back about half a mile into the path around the lake, dressed in his sweats and running shoes. His leg was so hot and swollen that Dean had to carry him back to the cabin and break at least half a dozen speed limits getting him to Alan at the nearest clinic.
Dean thought, or maybe hoped, they'd turned a corner since then. But apparently it's not about closets and small spaces any more.
“I know!” Sam snaps, the panic in his eyes tells Dean that that's a blatant lie but Sam's still limping his way to the three steps that lower the wrap-around deck to the driveway. “I know where I am, I-”
“Then where the hell are you going?” and now Dean's the one who's yelling and maybe he's being a dick or maybe he's just being a big brother, he really can't tell because things are so screwed up he can't think straight. But what he does know is that Sam can't go down the stairs on his own.
Turning around Dean grabs the cane and forces Sam's fingers to curl around the handle. “You want me to back off - then prove to me that I can!”
And Dean sees how his words punch through all of his brother's confusion, sees a part of Sam he hasn't seen in a while. He never thought he'd miss the bull-headed stubbornness but as Sam stands straight and rolls his shoulders, Dean realizes how much of that is his brother.
Sam takes a breath and nods, his fingers curling and uncurling around the cane as he looks at the lake and then their truck parked in the driveway. “This is our cabin?”
Dean ignores the question because he knows Sam's trying and that means more than anything else he can think of right now. “I finished the deck. And we talked about me ramping the stairs yesterday, remember?”
Sam nods, his hair falling into eyes and Dean's not sure he buys it. Sam can't remember much of anything these days and all Dean can do is hope it'll get better.
“I don't...it's just all so different.”
“I know,” Dean's tone is quiet, mournful.
Raking his knuckles over his forehead, Sam pinches his nose with his fingers and Dean never thought he'd miss the days when that meant a vision or demon blood withdrawal.
“I can't trust it,” Sam whispers. “I don't...am I really here?”
Scrubbing the back of his shaking hand over his mouth, Dean forces his lungs to inhale as he drops his gaze to the wood decking, bare toes standing on the point where Sam's woodwork on the deck stops and his own begins. Sam's section is perfectly measured and perfectly symmetrical, the joins meeting neatly; his own is more freehand and a little rough around the edges.
“See this, Sam?” Dean says, taking a step back and allowing his brother to see the join of their work in the wood. “It's just like my arm - another scar to remind us of who we are now, that this is our home, this is our life.”
Sam's studying the wood like it's an exam paper, his brow drawn in concentration.
“You with me?” Dean asks tentatively not sure whether to prepare to catch 200 plus pounds of little brother who doesn't know where or who he is or to back off and give him time to process everything.
“I need to run.” Sam gaze is still locked onto the grooves in the wood. “I need to.”
It's not the first time Dean's heard him say it and it won't be the last. It started when Sam woke up in hospital after the first surgery and only got worse when they heard the prognosis from not one, but a handful of specialists.
Despite the other surgeries that lay ahead, this is as good as it's going to get. Sam will never run again.
“I know you do,” Dean says, knowing that there's nothing he can do, nothing he can say to make it easier on his brother. Because he was there when Sam worked out that when he was running he could control where he went, how fast he'd go and when to stop and he was there when the power of that control brought his little brother back into the real world.
But now it's back to square one, back to the days of looking at his brother and seeing a stranger whom Dean can't understand and doesn't know how to help. Only now he has the added bonus of getting fired from his construction job that he practically had to beg for in the first place, just in time for the hospital bills that started to arrive a couple of weeks ago.
He hasn't even broached those subjects with Sam yet.
Looking over his shoulder Dean sees that Sam's standing on the scar in the wood, his breathing now matching Dean's own steady rhythm, a warm summer breeze curling over and around their skin.
“It's not that I don't trust you, Sammy,” Dean says around a lump the size of Texas in his throat. “It's just-”
“Kinda hard, too?” Sam's looking out at the lake, the wind blowing his hair from his eyes. “I get it, Dean. It's OK.”
“It's not. It's not OK.”
“But it will be,” Sam says looking over his shoulder at Dean, eyes misty and full of all the things that Dean's wants to say but can't because he's too chicken shit.
It falls quiet, the only sound coming from a couple of singing birds that Sam would know the names of and it's one of the many reasons they chose this cabin. Sam needs the quiet. Maybe they both do.
Looking at the lake, Dean's mind wanders to the days when they used to run the circuit around the lake together, making bets like the winner getting control of the remote for the rest of the day and how they used to talk about doing some work on the boathouse.
Dean dreams about it sometimes. Just him and Sam painting and weather-proofing until dusk, eating barbecued steaks and drinking beers on the dock under the stars. It's enough to keep him getting up in the morning.
“Maybe we could buy a boat?” Dean says with a shrug of a shoulder. “Something that needs some work and a little TLC. You could hit the books and fill your head with knots and we could work out a way for you to take her out, get some wind in that ridiculous hair of yours.”
Sam's standing statue still, his weight on his good leg, the muscles shaking from the strain as he looks at the lake like he's mourning something he's lost.
“OK,” Sam says quietly, his gaze sinking to the scar on Dean's arm before settling on the join in the wood where their handiwork meets, staring hard like he's waiting for it to explode into a thousand tiny shards. “You need it too, y'know.”
Dean frowns. “Come again?”
“You're not sleeping,” Sam says, knotting his fingers in the fabric of his pants, one of his new ticks. “You spend too much time worrying about me, about my leg, the cage-”
“Sam-”
“You need something for you, that's all yours.” Sam lifts his gaze, hand curling and uncurling around the handle of the cane. “I know it's hard. Especially when...when I'm not here.”
Dean looks at his brother, really looks and for a second he can believe that they'd rewound the last couple of years, that Sam never jumped into the cage, that Death hadn't dragged his shredded soul out and built the wall and Cas had never knocked it down.
This is the Sam he remembers, the Sam he thought he'd lost, the Sam he caught glimpses of before it would all disappear and they were back to the days when Dean would find his brother huddled in a closet holding fistfuls of his hair.
“You're my brother, Dean, my family,” Sam says, eyes boring so easily into Dean he has to grip onto the railing. “I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”
Dean dips his head, swallowing down a tide of emotions he's not ready to face before taking a deep breath and letting his eyes lock with the brother's. “I've always wanted to restore a boat.”
Sam snorts, cheeks full of dimples, looking at Dean like he's a superhero, the best big brother in the whole damn world, just like he used to when he was a knee-high kid.
And it feels good, feels like home.
The End
Summary - After rebuilding a life from the tatters that were left behind, Sam and Dean's world is all about carefully scheduled routines. But then Sam has an accident and their lives are permanently changed forever.
Rating - PG13
Genre/Spoilers - Gen (Future/Curtain fic. AU after 6.22. I haven't seen season 7 yet so no spoilers).
Word Count - 3800
Disclaimer - I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co. I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all standard disclaimers apply.
A/N - This was written for the Sam-focussed hurt/comfort fic challenge at ohsam for de_nugis's prompt which you can see in full here. I've never done a fic challenge before and apart from a few freak outs I've really enjoyed the experience. A huge thank you to scullspeare for betaing this and for being super supportive, to harrigan for the nudging and encouragement and finally to de_nugis for the wonderful prompt. I've tinkered and tweaked this, so any mistakes are all mine.
Square One
The wood stove is clanking, a cooling tick like an engine but that's not what wakes him each morning; it's the front door slamming as Sam leaves for and then returns from his morning run.
And today's no different, Dean hears Sam leave and then allows himself snooze under a mound of covers just like he always does. But when he bolts upright in bed to a silent cabin over an hour later, no heavy footsteps or bacon crackling in a frying pan, worry starts to chew on his intestines.
“Sam?” he yells, because even though the cabin is compact enough to hear the toilet flush from every single room, it's still pretty spacious.
Hauling back the blankets, Dean's socked feet slide on the pine floorboards as he jogs to the small table by the front door. But all the running gear that Sam sets up there every night is still missing; phone, keys, a bottle of water and the headlamp that Dean bought him last year for Christmas.
And Dean's used to the routines now, knows that Sam runs the seven miles around the lake every morning and every evening, rain or snow be damned.
But Sam's always back by 8 a.m.; he's never late.
And although it's been a while, a good seven months or maybe more since they hit a rough patch, Dean's heading down the narrow corridor to Sam's room.
Pushing open the door, Dean sees the crisp starched sheets of the perfectly made bed, the library of books stacked alphabetically on the two large bookshelves they found advertised in the paper, a few sketches of the lake and their cabin pinned on the wall and Sam's neatly written schedules and running times piled squarely on the edge of his desk in colour-coordinated files.
The door to the closet is closed. But Dean knows that doesn't mean it's empty.
Twisting the doorknob, the hinges creak as Dean pulls it open, his gut knotting as he mentally prepares himself for what he might see because it's always a confined space and he's still not sure if that's because the cage was small and Sam's re-living or because the cage was endless and Sam's hiding.
The closet is empty.
Dean goes into the hall and tries the linen closet but that's empty too and now that he's out of options the reality that Sam didn't make it home has him bolting back to his own room.
Shoving his feet into a pair of boots, he pulls on a coat and grabs his satellite phone from his nightstand before running out the front door, not bothering to lock it as his lungs puff clouds of white fog, his feet sinking into shin-high drifts of snow.
The sun's slowly rising, hovering low on the horizon of a cloudless sky as Dean's icy fingers press Sam's speed dial number, the phone glued to his ear. Dean turns left at the end of their driveway and onto the snow-trampled path that circles the lake and now that he's got some traction, he's sprinting.
The phone rings and rings and Dean lets it, ears alert for Sam's ring tone, his eyes scanning the stark white scenery that's so bright it's giving him a headache, adrenaline allowing him to pick up his speed.
“Sam!” he yells but he knows it's pointless, knows that if Sam's fallen, if he's down there, nothing can reach him.
Approaching the old boathouse, Dean follows the imprints of Sam's overpriced running shoes while freaking the hell out because Sam could have crammed himself into at least a dozen confined spaces that Dean's catalogued around the path.
That's when he sees a shower of crimson on the snow a couple of feet ahead. The last time Dean saw any blood was when he cut his finger chopping a carrot a few months ago.
“Sammy?” he shouts, feet sliding on a patch of ice as he follows the blood trail down a steep hill to the left of the path.
Sam's lying on his back in the snow, forearms and elbows propping up his upper body as he stares down blankly at his legs. And from this angle Dean can see his brother's face, the snowy white left cheek and bright red right, a ragged cut poking out from under Sam's hat. And like he's on a string, Dean's following Sam's eye-line down to his leg.
And the next thing Dean knows he's throwing himself down the hill, hands frantically grabbing overhanging tree branches, powdered snow dusting his head and shoulders as his boots slip on ice and slush.
He falls heavily onto his knees by Sam's side and it's not graceful and it isn't planned but he's here.
Dean's fingers slide over a warm, blood-slicked cheek as he cups his brother's face and drags Sam's gaze away from his leg so that their eyes meet.
“Front and centre, Sam,” he orders, staring at Sam's face for a sign that he's still in the real world.
Sam blinks lazily, his eyelids stalling before pulling slowly open.
“Dean?” Sam asks and it's all quiet and unsure, like the times when Sam can't remember anything but his brother's name.
“It's me, I'm here,” Dean says, knowing the drill for times like these when Sam's teetering on the edge of reality. Pulling up the sleeve of his coat, Dean shows Sam the thick red scar that runs down the length of his forearm and curls behind his elbow, a reminder of the last hunt they did, will ever do.
Sam nods and Dean watches as his brother's brain links the scar to after he escaped the cage, after the wall was built and after it was torn down, pulling their old life with it.
Then Sam's eyes open wide as they connect with Dean's blood-stained fingers, his breath stuttering.
“No Sam, you're not down there, remember?” Dean's fingers tighten around his brother's jaw. “Our cabin, Sam, think about our cabin and your job at the library with Cynthia and those riveting conversations you two have about pot roast recipes-”
“Yeah.” There's a few sharp breaths and a pause before Sam continues. “And my running routines, my sketches and building the wrap-around deck-”
“You got it,” Dean says because it's still a relief to see Sam 'get it', see him build the connection because while Sam can't remember much about the early days, Dean can. It still makes him jackknife in the middle of the night, cold sweat clinging like tacky blood to his skin. “It's a charmed life, but it's all ours.”
Dean takes a breath and lets his hands fall from his brother's face, fingers tapping his pockets for his his phone. “What happened, Sam?”
Sam's arms collapse, his head sinking into the snow as he battles against the hell memories for the real truth, fingers clawing into his skull like he's physically trying to dig for answers.
Calmly but firmly, Dean pulls Sam's hand away. “Just focus on your morning routine, step by step.”
And Dean knows that if he doesn't keep Sam tethered to this world, his brother will be locked in hell for hours, sometimes days while Dean wrings his hands and wonders what will happen if his little brother doesn't snap out of it.
Because Sam's the one who knows where the hidden stash of cookies is and how to use the coffee grinder and he's the one who remembers to pay the bills and file their taxes. And when Sam's gone he doesn't even know his own name.
“I was running,” Sam says, the top corner of his lip rising and if Dean was still a betting man he'd put money on the look on Sam's face being happiness, serenity. “And my time was good, considering the weather. I knocked 20 seconds of my morning run yesterday and then, I don't know, I was just down here.”
Dean's hand finally collides with the cold metal of his phone, fingers frantically pushing the speed dial for the clinic.
“There's ice on the path,” Dean says, holding the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Alan, it's Dean, I'm at Liberty Lake near the boathouse. I need you to drive here with your back board and kit.”
“Sure, Dean. What's going on?”
“Sam's had a fall. We need to get him back to the clinic, now,” Dean barks. “I think he might need a LifeFlight helicopter to the city.”
Dean can hear Alan's engine purr into life before he hangs up the phone. Dean's heart is thundering in his chest but he knows that Alan won't let them down. He's the only person Dean trusts with Sam now.
Keeping the satellite phone close, Dean looks at Sam's left leg, his stomach flipping. It's swollen at least twice its normal size from his kneecap down, and through the cotton of his brother's running pants, Dean can see unnatural bumps and dips where bones have broken and separated.
But it's the angle Sam's lower leg is twisted, his foot pointing in entirely the wrong direction that makes Dean skip a breath because this is bad, like life-changing bad.
“Shit, Dean, shit,” Sam says his eyes automatically tracking Dean's gaze to his mangled leg.
And Dean's about to tell Sam all kinds of bull like it's going to be OK, that it's not that bad and that they'll be both be fine but the spark behind Sam's eyes beats him to it, a lightning bolt of brimstone fire and then everything burns.
And just like that, Sam's gone.
Eyes open but not seeing, Sam's lying in the snow, his right hand curling and uncurling into a fist, his lips whispering strings of horrors that Dean doesn't want to hear, doesn't want to revisit.
And even though he hates himself for thinking it, there's a part of Dean that wants to run away, to jump into their new truck and keep driving, never to look back.
Because everything was good, it was all working. It had taken years of hard work, of making mistakes and picking up the pieces of his broken brother and starting from scratch, time and time again.
But they'd finally built something, a life and a home and it was solid and predictable but it was theirs. And for once in their lives, things were normal, or at least as normal as it gets for a Winchester.
And now one look at Sam, at his screwed-up leg and how the horrors of the cage ooze from every pore of his being, Dean know everything they've built is shot to shit. Everything.
And all Dean can do is stare at the pile of rubble that's left behind.
Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt, fear sticking like tar in his throat, stubborn tears clinging to his eyelashes. “Sam? I don't...I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"
XoXoX
The wood stove is clanking, a cooling tick like an engine but he's already wide awake when he hears the uneven gait of Sam's steps hobble down the corridor towards the front door.
Feeling bone weary, Dean drags himself out of bed, bare feet slapping on the floorboards as he rubs his fingers over sleep-crusty eyes.
Dean picks up the spare cane from the living room because he can't hear the thud of Sam's which means that his brother's forgotten that he needs it again. Sam's threshold for pain is higher since the wall came down. Dean doesn't need to know why.
But it still makes him uneasy that he's never seen any signs of pain on Sam's face. And he knows that you don't break your leg in over half a dozen places, permanently screw up your tibial nerve and have more metal in your leg than actual muscles and tendons and not feel anything.
And the pain must be somewhere; it just hasn't surfaced. Yet.
Dean's shadowing his brother from half a dozen steps behind as Sam heads outside. Stopping at the back of the wrap-around deck, Sam's gripping the railing like he's suddenly remembered that he can't walk the way he used to, a pair of old running sweats covering the scars on his legs.
Walking up next to his brother, Dean stands shoulder to shoulder but not touching. He can't tell if Sam's here or down there due to the meds that cloud his eyes and mask the flames of hell. Dean hasn't decided if that's a blessing or not.
“You need to sit down,” Dean says, wanting it to be more of a suggestion but it comes out an order and he's not sure what will happen as he rests the cane against the wooden railing in front of his brother.
But Sam doesn't blink, just pinches his lips and turns around. Hands gripping the railing that Dean stained a few days ago, Sam swings his bad leg and hobbles forward a step.
Dean follows and it's instinct really, it's what he was trained to do, has always done and now more than ever he knows he has to watch his brother's back.
Sam stops still, fingers squeezing the railing white-knuckle tight. “Back off, Dean!”
“I just want to make sure that-”
“Well don't! I don't need you to do anything!” Sam barks, breathing heavily, huge gasps that expand his chest, his gaze hovering around the deck like he's looking for an anchor to ground him.
Dean knows that look all too well.
“You're at our cabin,” Dean says, ripping himself a new one for not getting up earlier and sneaking into Sam's room, making sure he doesn't wander off like this. A week ago he found Sam flat on his back about half a mile into the path around the lake, dressed in his sweats and running shoes. His leg was so hot and swollen that Dean had to carry him back to the cabin and break at least half a dozen speed limits getting him to Alan at the nearest clinic.
Dean thought, or maybe hoped, they'd turned a corner since then. But apparently it's not about closets and small spaces any more.
“I know!” Sam snaps, the panic in his eyes tells Dean that that's a blatant lie but Sam's still limping his way to the three steps that lower the wrap-around deck to the driveway. “I know where I am, I-”
“Then where the hell are you going?” and now Dean's the one who's yelling and maybe he's being a dick or maybe he's just being a big brother, he really can't tell because things are so screwed up he can't think straight. But what he does know is that Sam can't go down the stairs on his own.
Turning around Dean grabs the cane and forces Sam's fingers to curl around the handle. “You want me to back off - then prove to me that I can!”
And Dean sees how his words punch through all of his brother's confusion, sees a part of Sam he hasn't seen in a while. He never thought he'd miss the bull-headed stubbornness but as Sam stands straight and rolls his shoulders, Dean realizes how much of that is his brother.
Sam takes a breath and nods, his fingers curling and uncurling around the cane as he looks at the lake and then their truck parked in the driveway. “This is our cabin?”
Dean ignores the question because he knows Sam's trying and that means more than anything else he can think of right now. “I finished the deck. And we talked about me ramping the stairs yesterday, remember?”
Sam nods, his hair falling into eyes and Dean's not sure he buys it. Sam can't remember much of anything these days and all Dean can do is hope it'll get better.
“I don't...it's just all so different.”
“I know,” Dean's tone is quiet, mournful.
Raking his knuckles over his forehead, Sam pinches his nose with his fingers and Dean never thought he'd miss the days when that meant a vision or demon blood withdrawal.
“I can't trust it,” Sam whispers. “I don't...am I really here?”
Scrubbing the back of his shaking hand over his mouth, Dean forces his lungs to inhale as he drops his gaze to the wood decking, bare toes standing on the point where Sam's woodwork on the deck stops and his own begins. Sam's section is perfectly measured and perfectly symmetrical, the joins meeting neatly; his own is more freehand and a little rough around the edges.
“See this, Sam?” Dean says, taking a step back and allowing his brother to see the join of their work in the wood. “It's just like my arm - another scar to remind us of who we are now, that this is our home, this is our life.”
Sam's studying the wood like it's an exam paper, his brow drawn in concentration.
“You with me?” Dean asks tentatively not sure whether to prepare to catch 200 plus pounds of little brother who doesn't know where or who he is or to back off and give him time to process everything.
“I need to run.” Sam gaze is still locked onto the grooves in the wood. “I need to.”
It's not the first time Dean's heard him say it and it won't be the last. It started when Sam woke up in hospital after the first surgery and only got worse when they heard the prognosis from not one, but a handful of specialists.
Despite the other surgeries that lay ahead, this is as good as it's going to get. Sam will never run again.
“I know you do,” Dean says, knowing that there's nothing he can do, nothing he can say to make it easier on his brother. Because he was there when Sam worked out that when he was running he could control where he went, how fast he'd go and when to stop and he was there when the power of that control brought his little brother back into the real world.
But now it's back to square one, back to the days of looking at his brother and seeing a stranger whom Dean can't understand and doesn't know how to help. Only now he has the added bonus of getting fired from his construction job that he practically had to beg for in the first place, just in time for the hospital bills that started to arrive a couple of weeks ago.
He hasn't even broached those subjects with Sam yet.
Looking over his shoulder Dean sees that Sam's standing on the scar in the wood, his breathing now matching Dean's own steady rhythm, a warm summer breeze curling over and around their skin.
“It's not that I don't trust you, Sammy,” Dean says around a lump the size of Texas in his throat. “It's just-”
“Kinda hard, too?” Sam's looking out at the lake, the wind blowing his hair from his eyes. “I get it, Dean. It's OK.”
“It's not. It's not OK.”
“But it will be,” Sam says looking over his shoulder at Dean, eyes misty and full of all the things that Dean's wants to say but can't because he's too chicken shit.
It falls quiet, the only sound coming from a couple of singing birds that Sam would know the names of and it's one of the many reasons they chose this cabin. Sam needs the quiet. Maybe they both do.
Looking at the lake, Dean's mind wanders to the days when they used to run the circuit around the lake together, making bets like the winner getting control of the remote for the rest of the day and how they used to talk about doing some work on the boathouse.
Dean dreams about it sometimes. Just him and Sam painting and weather-proofing until dusk, eating barbecued steaks and drinking beers on the dock under the stars. It's enough to keep him getting up in the morning.
“Maybe we could buy a boat?” Dean says with a shrug of a shoulder. “Something that needs some work and a little TLC. You could hit the books and fill your head with knots and we could work out a way for you to take her out, get some wind in that ridiculous hair of yours.”
Sam's standing statue still, his weight on his good leg, the muscles shaking from the strain as he looks at the lake like he's mourning something he's lost.
“OK,” Sam says quietly, his gaze sinking to the scar on Dean's arm before settling on the join in the wood where their handiwork meets, staring hard like he's waiting for it to explode into a thousand tiny shards. “You need it too, y'know.”
Dean frowns. “Come again?”
“You're not sleeping,” Sam says, knotting his fingers in the fabric of his pants, one of his new ticks. “You spend too much time worrying about me, about my leg, the cage-”
“Sam-”
“You need something for you, that's all yours.” Sam lifts his gaze, hand curling and uncurling around the handle of the cane. “I know it's hard. Especially when...when I'm not here.”
Dean looks at his brother, really looks and for a second he can believe that they'd rewound the last couple of years, that Sam never jumped into the cage, that Death hadn't dragged his shredded soul out and built the wall and Cas had never knocked it down.
This is the Sam he remembers, the Sam he thought he'd lost, the Sam he caught glimpses of before it would all disappear and they were back to the days when Dean would find his brother huddled in a closet holding fistfuls of his hair.
“You're my brother, Dean, my family,” Sam says, eyes boring so easily into Dean he has to grip onto the railing. “I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”
Dean dips his head, swallowing down a tide of emotions he's not ready to face before taking a deep breath and letting his eyes lock with the brother's. “I've always wanted to restore a boat.”
Sam snorts, cheeks full of dimples, looking at Dean like he's a superhero, the best big brother in the whole damn world, just like he used to when he was a knee-high kid.
And it feels good, feels like home.
The End