To Live on One's Own Terms 4/5
To Live on One's Own Terms
Summary: The curse is broken. Maybe Sam is too. (Sequel to For Your Own Good)
A/N: Sorry for the wait. I got sick and my brain turned to mush for a few days.
Chapter Four
Sam, it turns out, has absolutely no idea what he wants to do.
They finish up at the diner - Dean leaves a hefty tip to thank the woman serving them for her kindness towards Sam - and return to the motel to figure out their next move but this is where they get stuck.
Sam doesn't know where he wants to go. Dean suggests heading to Bobby's salvage yard, tosses down Pastor Jim's place as a possibility, and floats the idea of just getting in the Impala and seeing where she takes them. Sam is quietly non-committal, shrugging indecisively. He grows steadily more distressed the more Dean tries to work an answer out of him, twisting his hands together and shrinking in on himself, no matter how calm and casual Dean tries to keep the conversation. When Sam's breathing starts to speed up, threatening tears, Dean drops it and turns on the TV. There's no rush. Sam can take time to sort out his head if he needs it.
They squash themselves onto the bed and watch terrible daytime television. Sam stretches out on his stomach with his head at the foot of the bed, rested on folded arms. He's still coughing every now and then but it doesn't sound as rough as it once did. Dean sits at the head of the bed, next to Sam's socked feet, and offers up his opinions on the scandalous actions of soap opera characters, whether or not he could make a passable imitation of the dish being prepared by an annoyingly perky TV chef, and which of the products being advertised looks the most enticing. Occasionally, Sam adds his own thoughts to the one-sided conversation but mostly he's quiet and distracted and sad.
They eat lunch at the diner, practically in silence. Sam picks at his food, slow and dreamy, and Dean leaves him alone with his thoughts. Sam will talk when he's ready, hopefully. Dean tries not to imagine a world where he has to press his brother to speak rather than beg him to shut up.
Sam doesn't get any more talkative as the day goes on. By late afternoon he's restless. He fidgets with the bottle of Gatorade Dean presses on him, peeling off the label and tearing it into confetti. He can't stay still, shifting around on the bed, sitting up, lying down. The TV doesn't hold his attention. By half past four, Sam is on his feet and pacing the room, running his hands over his short hair, tapping his fingers against his thighs.
“Bored?” Dean asks.
“No, it's not that.” Sam folds his arms across his chest, maybe in an effort to stop the nervous fidgeting. He grips his forearms in a desperate sort of self-hug. “It's just... I'm slacking off. I should be doing something.”
Fuck. Dean has to swallow a surge of anger. This isn't right. It's not fair. The curse is broken and John isn't even here but he's still messing with Sam's head. “You're allowed to slack off,” Dean soothes him. “It's fine.”
“It's not.” Sam shakes his head, a little frantically. His fingers are going to leave bruises on his arms, he's clenching them so tightly. “I can't just sit around. I have to do something.”
“You don't,” Dean insists, sitting up straight. Sam is shifting anxiously from one foot to the other and his breathing is growing choppy and distressed. “Sam, it's okay. You've been working so hard for so long; you deserve a break.”
“No, no, it isn't- It's not okay.” Sam's eyes dart to the door, like he wants to make a break for it. “It's- I can't shirk my responsibilities. I can't slack off. Someone will get hurt, or killed, or- something. I don't know, but it'll be bad.”
“Whoa, Sam.” Dean gets to his feet, hands raised in a mollifying gesture. His own heart is starting to race now, like Sam's panic is contagious.“That's not true. Bad things don't happen just because you don't practice Latin.”
Sam shakes his head again, desperate now. His nails are digging into his forearms. “You don't get it,” he accuses Dean angrily. “I have to- I need- You don't understand!”
“Okay, yeah,” Dean quickly concedes, because Sam is practically vibrating with frustration and agreeing with him seems like the fastest way to calm him down. “That's probably true.” He licks his lips, barely resisting the urge to drag Sam away from the door and force him into bed, something he's been doing since Sam was tiny and incapable of understanding that the cure for exhaustion is sleep. The kid just looks so damn small, standing there in his socks and sweats and baggy t-shirt, and young, and worn, and still kind of ill; really in no state to train.
Dean swallows his misgivings. “What do you want to do then?” he asks.
Sam is stunned into stillness. He frowns, faintly confused, as if it's only now occurring to him to want something, rather than waiting for someone else to give him something to do. He has to take a moment to think about it.
“Run,” he says finally. Cautiously. Almost defiantly. Like he's expecting to be told no. “I want to go for a run. I need to.”
Dean is disappointed but not surprised. He'd been holding on to a vague thread of hope that Sam would suggest something indoors, like memorising sigils or cleaning the weapons in the Impala's trunk, but he'd known that it was a long shot. Sam's daily runs have been such a constant that the oddity of his sudden inactivity even has Dean feeling on edge. He isn't really used to sitting around this much either, accustomed as he is to spending most of his time following leads for John, chasing up witnesses, or tracking down rare spell ingredients.
But the last thing he wants is Sam literally running himself back into the ground when he's only just stopped acting like an elderly asthmatic, coughing and wheezing and staggering about. Sam should be resting, drinking fluids and eating comfort foods. Sam should be enjoying the end of John's ridiculous rules and refusing to complete any of the tasks that were forced on him. He shouldn't be working himself into a panic over taking a few days off.
There is no way that Dean can refuse though. How could he? Sam hasn't made many requests since regaining the ability to speak up for himself and Dean sure as hell isn't going to be turning him down. In all honesty, Sam could ask for a pony right now and Dean would find a way to get him a damn pony.
“Okay, let's go for a run then.”
“Really?” Sam's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You're not gonna tell me that I'm being ridiculous and should be in bed?”
This is exactly what Dean wants to tell Sam. Instead, he shrugs. “Fuck it. You wanna run, let's run.”
So they go. They dig out their running shoes and head out to burn off some of Sam's nervous energy.
For a kid who could barely get out of bed a few days ago, Sam is fast. A lot faster than Dean expects him to be. Even with his longer stride, Dean has to push himself to keep up and even then Sam starts to pull ahead after a couple of blocks. Dean finds himself trailing a few paces behind, staring at the back of Sam's head and mourning the loss of his brother's long locks. He hardly recognises Sam from the back, with his hair shorn off, exposing his neck and his ears and the unfamiliar shape of his head. It's jarring. Like looking at a stranger.
Sam is different in other ways, too. John tried to turn him into someone else, and Dean is scared that maybe he succeeded. This Sam is brittle and bewildered, uncertain about how to act or what to do without instruction. He isn't the stubborn, opinionated teenager that used to speak his mind and moan about their workload and talk Dean into skiving off so they could do dumb fun things that John would disapprove of. Who could be broody and grumpy and annoying but also smiled easily and laughed at Dean's stupid jokes and made stupid jokes of his own and talked Dean's ear off about inane things like the life cycle of stars or the origins of Halloween.
God, what if this change is permanent? What if Dean has lost his little brother to their father's sorcery? He'll never forgive John. Or himself.
Dean grits his teeth and shoves aside the fatalistic thoughts. Sam will be okay. He just needs time. His hair will grow out and he'll remember how to be himself again.
Dean doesn't know how long they run for. He loses himself, for a while, in the sound of their feet slapping the pavement and the wind rushing past his ears, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. Eventually though, his lungs begin to burn and the sky starts to grey and Sam still hasn't turned back towards the motel. Dean glances up to inspect the clouds. They look heavy, looming threateningly above them.
“Hey!” he calls. “It's gonna rain. We should head back.”
Sam doesn't alter his path. He keeps going, like he doesn't hear Dean yelling after him, even though he certainly does. Dean lets it slide, even though he can feel a stitch forming in his side. (How many times did Sam run with a stitch in his side? With his lungs burning, his muscles screaming?) The clouds grows darker and the wind is gaining strength. A few minutes later Dean feels the first sprinkling of rain.
“Sam!” he tries again, raising his voice to be heard over the weather. “Let's turn around. We're gonna get drenched.”
Sam carries on. Dean doesn't know what to do. On one hand, he's sort of thrilled that Sam is being so deliberately disobedient. On the other hand, it'd be nice if Sam would be defiant in a way that doesn't endanger his health.
Dean jogs along, a few steps behind Sam - who barely seems winded at all, despite not being at full strength - and weighs his options. He could let Sam keep going, wait for him to wear himself out... but does Sam even remember how to recognise his own limits? What if he just keeps going and going until he drops?
The rain is getting stronger. Fat drops splatter the concrete and start to soak into Dean's clothes. The cold begins to work its way to his bones. He can't let Sam stay out in this. He'll end up with pneumonia or something.
“Sam!” Dean digs deep and finds a burst of speed, drawing level with his brother. Sam doesn't acknowledge him. He's focused on the road ahead, ignoring the rain and the wind and Dean. “Sam, we should go back,” Dean implores him.
“Fuck you,” Sam spits.
Ouch.
But also, Dean is relieved. This is good. Painful - Sam's sharp words are a stab to the gut - but good. More like the little brother he remembers. He's been expecting this. Hoping for it even. Waiting for Sam to shake off some of the shock and come at him for taking so long to figure things out. The desperate gratitude in the kid's eyes whenever Sam looks at him has been churning Dean's stomach.
Of course, Sam being Sam, he just has to pick the most inopportune time.
“You're gonna get sick again,” Dean tries pointing out, reasonably.
“Now you care,” Sam scoffs, nostrils flaring. He swipes rain out of his eyes.
“I always cared,” Dean protests, and, finally, Sam comes to a stop but only so that he can turn on Dean and shove him, hard. Dean actually stumbles back a step.
“Then why didn't you do anything!” Sam yells. His face crumples, dropping the steely demeanour, and he shoves Dean again. “Why did you just stand there and watch? Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you help me?”
Dean dodges a fist that comes at his face, then one aimed at his gut. He barely avoids a kick to the kneecap. He still has almost a foot on Sam but fuck, the kid is quick. And wily. He's making up for his lack of height by fighting dirty, faking rights and throwing lefts, ducking under Dean's outstretched arms to go for the kidneys, the soft flanks. He even aims a knee at the family jewels that Dean only just manages to knock aside. The rain isn't enough to hide the tears that are streaming down Sam's face.
“I'm sorry.” Dean barely blocks a jab at his throat. His own eyes fill. If only he could go back in time. If only he could stop John sooner. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
“I don't want you to be sorry!” Sam cries. His fist skims Dean's cheekbone. “I wanted you to do something!”
“I know.” Dean dodges a swinging arm. “I'm sorry.”
Sam lets out a frustrated growl and doubles his efforts to attack. Dean doesn't really try to stop him. He takes some glancing blows, blocking the ones that look really violent. What are a few bruised ribs in exchange for Sam's sanity? Obviously the kid needs to hit someone right now. Dean can take it. Anything Sam needs, he'll do it, right down to playing a punching bag.
Anyway, he deserves it.
Eventually though, Dean starts to worry that, just like with the running, Sam won't know when to stop. His blows get sloppier and more erratic and he's crying so hard Dean's not sure he can even see. The rain has soaked both of them to the skin and shows no sign of letting up. Neither does Sam. He just keeps going, like he's willing to beat Dean to a pulp or die trying, literally, and Dean is getting a little freaked out. Not because he thinks Sam is going to hurt him, but because Sam is surely going to hurt himself if he keeps this up.
So when Sam swings at him again, Dean surprises him by latching on to his wrist. He uses Sam's own momentum and a quick side-step to get behind his brother and pull him into a bear hug. He grabs Sam's other wrist and pins his arms to his chest.
Sammy is tough but he's also sixteen and kind of scrawny, and Dean is twenty and has all the bulk and muscle that goes with being an adult who hasn't been working himself into the ground. With his back pressed flat against Dean's chest and his wrists trapped in Dean's hands, Sam has no where to go. He screams and throws his head back, trying to smack Dean in the nose. He isn't tall enough. He tries to twist his hands free, jabbing elbows at Dean's stomach. Dean grips him tighter, pressing Sam's skinny arms against his sides where they can't do any damage. When Sam resorts to stamping on his feet, Dean hooks one of his legs around Sam's and brings them both to the ground, as gently as he can.
Sam swears at him. He struggles and scratches at Dean's hands, thrashing violently and slamming his head back against Dean's collarbone. Dean holds him tightly and apologizes over and over and promises that he's going to make everything better, that it's going to be okay, it's all going to be okay, until, finally, Sam gives up the fight. He goes limp, breathing heavily and maybe still crying, and maybe Dean is crying too because everything is so fucked but at least Sam is here and trying to beat the crap out of him. At least Sam is here.
They sit on the pavement in the rain for longer than is sensible, in an awkward kind of embrace that is half comfort half restraint, until they both calm down. When Sam starts to shiver Dean takes it as a cue to get moving again.
“I think we should take this chick-flick moment somewhere dry.”
Sam sniffs. He tugs one of his hands free - well, Dean releases it, warily - and scrubs at his face. “Okay,” he agrees.
They untangle themselves. Dean's foot has fallen asleep. He jiggles it vigorously. Sam waits, rubbing his arms in an effort to warm up. Without another word, they turn back to the motel. Falling into step with each other, they walk quickly, heads bowed against the rain.
“Sorry,” Sam says, after a while.
“Don't be,” Dean rubs surreptitiously at a bruise forming on his side. “I deserved it.”
“No, you didn't.” Sam shakes his head. “You didn't curse me. I'm not mad at you. Not really.”
“It's okay if you are,” Dean assures him, even as something loosens in his chest. He wouldn't blame the kid if he held this against him for the rest of forever but Sam sounds sincere. This fucking kid.
Sam sighs, deep and exhausted. He sweeps rainwater out of his eyes and runs a hand over his hair. “I want to hit Dad.”
Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his elbow. “Me too, Sammy.”
To Be Continued
A/N: Reviews get to hug Dean in the rain.