Take Me in Your Arms 2/2
Take Me in Your Arms
Summary: The sleeping Dean Sam wakes up to looks marginally better than the previous version.
Chapter Two
XXX
The sleeping Dean Sam wakes up to looks marginally better than the previous version. His face has blossomed into a spectacular array of purples and greens but he's showered and changed into fresh clothes. A hint of white bandage peeks out from under his shirt where the bullet wound has obviously been tended to. There's no trace of the oozing blood and Dean looks like he'll be okay, eventually. Sam lets himself breathe a sigh of relief.
Then he looks down at himself and the relief vanishes. Someone's stripped him of his button down shirt and bandaged the burnt binding symbol on his right arm but the track marks on his left are a glaring reminder that this isn't over. He feels dirty, like he's still covered in the blood of the hunter he killed, infected by Meg's presence even now that she's gone, stained from the inside out.
Sam throws off the blanket that's been tossed over him and stands, stumbling into the coffee table when his legs immediately turn to rubber beneath him. He resists the frustrated growl that wants to tear out of his throat - it's almost as if his body still isn't his - but, even though he's barely made a sound, Dean's awake and on his feet before he's fully processed what woke him. He looks around a little wildly before his eyes land on Sam.
“Hey, what are you doing up?” he asks, crossing the space between them in two steps and grabbing Sam's arm, trying to guide him back onto the couch.
“No,” Sam protests, panic rising in his throat as he tugs his arm away. “No, I need- I have to take a shower.”
Dean examines him for a quick moment, eyes searching, and thankfully seems to recognise that this is important. (This is really important.)
“Okay,” he says. “Go take a shower. I'll get you some clean clothes.”
The panic's still simmering as Dean lets him go but he manages to stop himself from sprinting to the bathroom the way it's urging him to. It doesn't make sense but some desperate part of him feels like if he can just take a shower, he can somehow scrub all the memories of this from his mind, let them swirl down the drain and be erased.
Sam turns the water on as hot as it will go and leans against the sink, just for a moment, to look in the mirror. It's strange seeing himself in his eyes, almost as unrecognisable as he was when Meg was in control. He wonders, briefly, whether all victims of possession feel this... detached afterwards. Then he turns away quickly, strips off his clothes and steps under the water, banishing all thoughts of Meg from his mind.
A few minutes later, he hears the bathroom door open. Dean, bringing him clothes.
“You all right in there?” his brother asks through the shower curtain.
“Yeah, I'm-” Sam's throat closes over the word 'fine'. “Yeah.”
There's a pause where it's obvious Dean wants to say something helpful but can't think what. Finally, he just says, “Okay. I brought your toothbrush and stuff.”
“Thanks,” Sam manages to say, in a tone that might almost be normal.
Dean hesitates a moment longer, during which Sam mentally begs him not to say anything else, not yet, and then Sam hears the bathroom door close behind his brother.
He stays in the shower until the water runs cold and then a little longer, just so he can put off facing Dean and Bobby and maybe a tiny bit because his skin still doesn't feel right and he's still hoping that the water might magically wash the wrong away. Finally, he has to concede defeat.
He recognises the clothes Dean's brought him as an attempt at comfort; soft sweatpants and a light blue t-shirt Jess used to steal to sleep in sometimes, a hooded sweatshirt that covers the track marks he's trying to ignore.
It's getting harder and harder to ignore them though. They itch, there's a headache slowly forming in his temples, a growing restlessness as his body starts to tingle with anxious need. He doesn't know how long it's been since that last hit - too long, his mind supplies traitorously - but he's pretty sure this feeling is only the beginning.
He steps out of the bathroom reluctantly, already missing the sanctuary of silence he'd found within. Now he has to go talk to Dean and Bobby, the idea of which brings every humiliating memory to mind. A powerful burst of hatred for Meg pulses in his chest and he has to swallow down bile that has nothing to do with withdrawal as he walks slowly down the hall.
Sam finds Dean and Bobby in the kitchen, talking quietly over coffee. He pauses in the doorway, suddenly unsure of what to say or do, and feels shame crawl up his back. He wishes he hadn't cried last night.
“Sam.” Bobby notices him first. He pushes his chair back and crosses the kitchen to pull Sam into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, hug. “It's good to see you again, kid.”
“It's good to see you too, Bobby,” he says in return. It's true. Even though he's embarrassed, Bobby reminds him of safety, an extra level of security that right now, he kind of feels like he needs. He doesn't doubt that Bobby played an integral role in exorcising Meg.
“You up for coffee?” Bobby asks as he pulls back from the embrace to hold him at arms length and look him over. His eyes linger on Sam's arm, as if he can see the needle marks through the fabric, and his face creases deeply with concern but he only says, “I'll get some fresh bandages for that burn.”
Sam nods. “Yeah, okay.” He sits down beside Dean and studies the table while Bobby pours him a cup, murmuring a thanks when it's placed in front of him. Bobby goes off in search of his first aid kit and silence reigns in the kitchen. Sam takes a sip of his coffee, setting it down carefully. His hands are starting to shake.
“I'm just gonna say it,” Dean says finally, decisively. “That crap Meg shot you up with has gotta be leaving your system by now, so how do you want to handle it?”
Sam stares at him uncomprehendingly. The extent of his plans ended when he decided to stop hiding in the bathroom.
“I could find some more, wean you off of it,” Dean explains, sounding pained by his own suggestion. “Going cold turkey sounds like a real bitch so-”
“No,” Sam cuts in. He might have no idea what to do but he's definitely not going to do that. “I don't want any more.”
A shudder runs through him that makes a lie of his words. Dean pauses.
“Sammy, me and Bobby won't think any less of you. This isn't your fault,” he says gently. “You don't have to do it the hard way.”
“That's not...” Sam shakes his head. Maybe that's part of it but it's definitely not the main part. If he takes more, it would be like letting Meg win. “That's what she wants, Dean. I can't... I can't let her make me do what she wants anymore.”
Dean takes a deep breath, searching Sam's face. Sam's not sure what his face shows but he doesn't want Dean to see it. He takes another sip of coffee as an excuse to look away.
“Okay,” Dean says, sounding very much like it's not okay, but none of this is okay so Sam ignores it. “But if you change your mind-”
“Don't let me.” Sam laughs a little hysterically, feeling panic bubble up against the need that's already constricting his skin. “I know you're trying to make this easier for me but... it's not going to get better until everything she put in me is gone. I need it gone, Dean.”
XXX
Sam sleeps for a while after a breakfast he doesn't want that Dean practically tries to spoon-feed him, wakes up in a cold sweat that turns hot the moment he pulls the blankets up. His head aches. Dean brought his stuff in so he drags his laptop onto the bed and types in 'heroin withdrawal' before he decides that he'd rather not know and pushes it away. He's restless now that he's awake, hyper aware of the track marks itching on his arm. Traitorously, his thoughts drift to what Dean said earlier, about getting more. He'd feel better if he had more...
There's a light knock on the door and Dean pokes his head in without waiting for an answer.
“You're awake.” Dean takes his consciousness as an invitation and sits down on the edge of Sam's bed. “How are you feeling?”
Sam shrugs. Dean looks him up and down.
“Kinda crappy, huh?”
“I guess,” Sam confirms. The pain in his head is growing tighter, and Dean's looking at him with far too much pity. He twists his fingers in the bedsheets and tries to think of something to say that isn't get me more, I changed my mind.
“Do you need anything? I can get you...” Dean falters a little, “anything you want. Painkillers or something. Water?”
Sam shakes his head, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he'll tell Dean exactly what he wants.
Dean runs a hand down his face, wincing a little when his fingers brush the bruises Sam's fists put there.
“Sorry,” Sam says, “about...” He gestures vaguely at the purples and greens spread over his brother's face, the bullet wound in his shoulder.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “What are you apologizing for? You had nothing to do with it.”
“I know, but...” But it doesn't feel like it. Those bruises still match his knuckles, the bullet came from a gun in his hand. That hunter is still dead and Sam still remembers the warm spray of his blood.
Dean leans in closer. “It wasn't you, Sammy. Nothing that happened is on you. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Sam says, because Dean will never let it go if he says anything else. Dean studies him suspiciously but thankfully drops the subject.
“You're shivering. Do you need more blankets?”
“No. I'm not cold.”
“Oh.” Dean casts his eyes around the room for something else to say. “Movie marathon?” he asks, gaze landing on Sam's laptop.
Sam accepts gratefully. Maybe he just needs a distraction.
XXX
Sam dozes off sometime during the second Die Hard feeling like he's coming down with a really bad 'flu and wakes up during the fourth feeling like he's been hit by a truck. Everything hurts. All his bones and muscles and joints ache and his stomach is cramping. He loses track of the movie playing in the background of his agony, loses track of everything other than the pain and the desperate desire to ask Dean for more, furious at himself for even thinking about it. He huddles down under the blankets like he has to physically restrain himself and wraps his arms around himself to try to keep from shaking.
Dean soothes him with gentle hands and soft words and the occasional vicious description of what he plans to do to Meg once he tracks her down. Sam's always been kind of amused by the way Dean can flip from tender to deadly in a heartbeat, can make a violent threat sound comforting, even if it's only empty words when it comes down to the here and now. In the here and now, it's hard to be amused but it's comforting nonetheless. It's Dean. Battered and a little worse for wear but here, alive and with him and there's no Meg gatecrashing the party.
Just heroin.
A particularly savage cramp has him choking out a moan through gritted teeth and immediately there's a cool wash cloth against his forehead, fingers carding gently through his hair, Dean's voice.
“It's gonna be okay, Sam. You're so fucking brave, Sammy, so fucking strong. You're gonna be okay.”
Sam doesn't feel brave or strong. He feels wrecked. This is worse than he thought it would be. He had hoped, because Meg hadn't been dosing him for long, that the withdrawal would be mild. Maybe this is mild compared to a long term user. Who knows? All he knows is that this is horrible. Worse than horrible. This is the worst he has ever, ever felt so far in his whole life. It feels like it will go on forever. It feels like it already has gone on forever. His teeth are chattering and his bones feel like ice, tight and brittle beneath his skin, and the worst thing about it is that he knows how to make it stop. He knows exactly what he needs to make it all go away, at least for now, and now is all he can think about. Now is a million different kinds of awful and he would feel so, so much better if he even had a little bit, just enough to take the edge off...
“Hey.” Dean's on his knees beside the bed, his face in front of Sam's. “You can do this, Sammy. You got this. Just a little longer.”
Sam shakes his head miserably. “Feels like I'm dying,” he moans. He doesn't care if he's being dramatic.
“You're not dying,” Dean says firmly. He grasps Sam's hand, squeezes gently. “Just getting all that crap out of your system. Then you'll be fine. It'll be over soon, I promise.”
It feels like a lie. Dean promises a lot of things.
“You didn't kill me,” Sam says, forcing himself to meet Dean's eye so his brother can see the accusation. “When you thought I killed that hunter, you still didn't kill me.”
Dean doesn't look away. “I never thought you killed that hunter, Sam. I knew it wasn't you.”
“What if it had been?” Sam whispers. What if he really does turn? What is he supposed to do if Dean won't take him out?
“It won't be.” Dean sounds so certain but how can he be so sure when Sam doesn't even know? How can Dean make promises like that?
“How do you know? Dad said...”
Dean blows out a sigh, leaning back a little. He wrings the wash cloth out in the bowl of water on the night stand in what Sam can tell is a deliberate move to break eye contact. Sam lets his eyes fall closed, allowing his brother the moment he needs to gather his thoughts. Everything to do with Dad is still an open wound for Dean, one Sam tries not to poke at too much, but Dean isn't the only one with Dad's last words hanging over his head and if Dean's so sure that every thing's going to be okay then the least he can do is tell Sam how.
Sam opens his eyes again when he feels the wash cloth smoothing his hair back from his face, the cool water a blessed relief against the feverish heat of his skin. Dean is incredibly gentle.
“Sam, when Dad said I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you.”
Sam frowns. He already knows what Dad said; that Dean might have to put him down like a rabid dog. How is this helping?
Dean must see the confusion in his eyes because he sighs again, only this time he manages to make it sound like 'Sam, you're such a moron'. “If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna save you.”
END