An Alternative to Self-Harm
An Alternative to Self-Harm
Summary: It's the first time Sam's been sick since escaping the cage and he's not handling it very well.
A/N: I love crazy Sam. Sequel to Genesis but, aside from a couple lines, can probably stand alone.
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“Dean, I can't do this. I can't. I'm going to freak out. I'm already freaking out. I don't know where I am.” Sam's voice is tight and desperate, fingers of one hand twisting in Dean's shirt while the other braces against the toilet bowl. Poor kid is trying so fucking hard but they've been kneeling on the bathroom floor for hours while Sam pukes his guts up (not literally, Dean had had to reassure Sam an hour earlier, when he'd made the colossal mistake of saying this out loud, not literally) and honestly, Dean's amazed that Sam's lasted this long without completely flipping his shit.
“It's okay, Sammy. You're with me.” He pushes the curtain of dark, sweat-damp hair out of the kid's face, touches his cheek and gently directs his head so they can make eye contact. “We're at Bobby's. You're sick, remember?”
Sam looks at him but only for a second before his gaze is skipping over his shoulder, at something behind him. Kid's been having trouble ignoring the hallucinations since his fever spiked. Sam shrinks into himself, shaking his head miserably. “No, it feels like Hell. Like it might be Hell. I don't know, Dean, I'm freaking out.”
Fuck. “Do you want me to get the book?”
“Yes. No. No, don't go anywhere.” Sam twists his fingers tighter into Dean's shirt, like he's afraid Dean will leave anyway.
Dean is not going any-fucking-where.
“Maybe later,” Dean suggests. “When Bobby gets back from the store, I'll get him to bring it to us, okay?
“They're getting closer,” Sam whispers, oblivious to Dean's suggestion. “Dean, I can't do this anymore. I'm going to throw up again. They're all... dripping.”
Dean hasn't pressed for details - why the fuck would he? - so he doesn't know what Sam's seeing but 'dripping' sounds bad. “It's okay. Don't look at them. They're not real.”
“I know,” Sam says uncertainly. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I know, at least. Are you sure it's not Hell? I feel so bad.”
“It's definitely not Hell,” Dean says firmly. “Just regular old sickness. You're-” Dean catches himself before he says 'burning up'. “You have a fever, that's all it is.”
Sam still has his eyes closed. He folds the arm not occupied by clutching Dean's shirt like a lifeline over the rim of the toilet and rests his forehead on it. “I haven't been sick for over a hundred years. It feels like I'm on fire. I'm not on fire, right? Fuck, I can't do this. I can't remember where I am.”
“Poor fucking kid.” Dean rubs his hand up and down Sam's back, feeling knobs of spine, the heat of fever through Sam's shirt. “You're not on fire. You're not in Hell. We're at Bobby's and you're sick. You'll feel better soon.”
Sam rolls his forehead along his arm and risks opening his eyes to peer up at Dean. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Dean confirms. “I think the worst of it might be over already. It's been a while since you last threw up. Do you want to go back to bed?”
“I don't know. My head's all messed up. I don't know anything anymore.” Sam pushes away from the toilet bowl and curls into Dean instead, letting his head drop wearily onto Dean's shoulder. “How long has it been since the beginning?”
“Almost a year.” Dean adjusts himself so that Sam can lean against him more comfortably, bracing himself against the wall.
“Almost a year and I'm still this fucking crazy,” Sam says.
“That's okay. I still like you.”
That makes Sam laugh a little. “I like you too. But I don't like being crazy.”
Dean walks his fingers along Sam's arm. Sam shifts a little to watch. It's been a thing lately; small, physical sensations seem to help keep Sam grounded when he's overloaded. The bathroom only seems quiet to Dean.
“You're not that crazy,” he says anyway.
“I'm seeing things,” Sam say, determinedly keeping his gaze on Dean's fingers. “I know they're not there but they are. That's pretty crazy.”
“It's not usually this bad, remember?” Dean's fingers stop at Sam's elbow, turn and march back towards his wrist. “You're sick.”
“No, I think...” Sam trails off. Something that isn't over by the shower manages to distract him and he tilts his head, listening. Dean taps his fingertips against Sam's arm.
“Do you have a knife?” Sam asks, looking back at Dean's fingers. “We should cut me. I think that would help.”
Dean's words stick in his throat. Sam is so sincere. He really thinks slicing himself up is a good idea. He wonders who convinced the kid of that and glares at the empty space by the shower, like that could somehow help, but he doesn't ask. He'd rather not know who the devil's wearing this time and he never knows how to handle it when he asks and Sam turns red and stops meeting his eye and starts muttering about how he knows it's just Lucifer messing with his head, not actually...
“Dean?” Sam asks, twisting a little to look up at him, confused and oblivious, all why aren't you answering do you have a knife or not?
“I don't think we should do that,” Dean finally manages to choke out.
“I really think we should,” Sam says seriously, the same way he used to say 'I really think we should check this out, Dean, it might be a case' or 'I really think you should pull back on the drinking, Dean, it's getting unhealthy' and Sam is really not supposed to think that there's comfort in pain, Sammy shouldn't feel better with a blade carving ladders in his arms just because it's so familiar, and most of all, Sam shouldn't phrase it like it's a god-damned group activity.
“That's because you are kind of crazy,” Dean admits.
“Oh.” Sam is quiet for a long moment, watching Dean's fingers walk up and down his arm. Sammy's skin's so freaking hot. Dean should really take his temperature again but last time it freaked the kid out and he was still holding it together pretty well back then, just couldn't handle the idea of having something in his mouth long enough to get a reading.
“Are you sure that's one of the crazy things?” Sam asks finally. He sounds sceptical. “It makes so much sense.”
“Only to crazy-Sam. Sane-Sam and sane-Dean don't think it makes sense.”
Okay, that's kind of a lie because Dean can follow crazy-Sam's train of thought. Sane-Sam has told him about the way his body feels wrong being whole after decades of nothing but pain in a way that makes so much hideous sense. Fucked up as it is, Dean does understand why Sam wants to cut himself up but no way in hell is he going to let the kid actually do it. They need to rebuild normal.
“I don't think sane-Sam exists,” Sam says quietly. His fingers are twitching and Dean can tell he's moments away from trying to use his nails on himself.
“Saner-Sam?” he suggests, taking Sam's hand and tracing his finger in circles around Sam's palm. “Listen, kid, if you hurt yourself, you're just gonna regret it when your fever goes down, because you'll remember that it makes me sad when you hurt yourself and then you'll be sad that you made me sad and probably want a chick-flick moment. And you know how I feel about those.”
“You love chick-flick moments.” Sam smiles drowsily and Dean lives for moments like this, when Sam teases him and smiles and reminds him that, crazy or not, it's still Sam, he's still here, right here in Dean's arms burning the fuck up at the moment but he's starting to wilt a little now, sliding a little closer to exhaustion, so maybe the kid is finally going to get some rest. With some luck, he might just sleep the rest of this illness off.
“We shouldn't cut me,” Sam says, like he's testing the phrase out. An unfamiliar concept.
“That's right. We shouldn't cut you.”
“Because I have a fever?”
“No, because I don't want you to hurt yourself. But you do have a fever. That's why you want to hurt yourself. The fever's playing tricks on you.”
“I don't like having a fever,” Sam says mournfully, pressing his face into Dean's shoulder. The thing not by the shower is still bothering him. “I keep forgetting where I am.”
“At Bobby's house,” Dean recites. “We've been here almost a year. You're with me.”
“I'm with you.”
“That's right.”
“Can we go to the Impala?” Sam asks, looking up at Dean with exhausted, fever-bright eyes. “I promise I won't throw up in it.”
Dean's not so sure but maybe the willingness to move is a sign that Sam's feeling a little better. “And I promise not to bitch too much if you do. Are you sure you don't want to just go to bed? It's a shorter walk.”
Sam shakes his head emphatically, then has to squeeze his eyes closed and clutch at Dean's sleeve when it makes him dizzy. This kid. “No. Want the 'pala.”
“Geez, you sound like you're two years old. How can I say no to that?”
Sam smiles without opening his eyes. “You weren't gonna say no.”
Dean grins. “That's true.” The Impala is a pretty awesome alternative to self-harm. “Are we going now?”
“Mmhm.” Sam peeks out from Dean's shoulder. Whatever's pretending to exist over by the shower must be being a real dick because Sam shies away from it. “Can I close my eyes though? Sometimes they don't follow me if I close my eyes.” Sam pauses, pushes a fist into his temple. “That sounds crazy. I'm so fucking crazy. I'm sorry.”
“Who gives a shit if it sounds crazy? You can do whatever you want, Sammy.”
“What about-”
“Apart from hurt yourself,” Dean amends quickly. “That's what crazy-Sam wants, not what you want. You want to go to the Impala, remember?”
Sam nods. “Yeah. I don't forget where I am in the Impala. It doesn't change into something else.”
“Of course it doesn't,” Dean agrees. “Close your eyes, Sam. I can get us there.”
The End