Fic: Running Up That Hill [7.13 Coda]
Title: Running Up That Hill
Author:
purplehrdwonder
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 3,260
Summary: [7.13 Coda] The days that Sam doesn’t go running are the bad days. The day after Emma is a bad day.
Spoilers: Through 7.13
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Title comes from the Placebo song.
Author’s Note: This ended up being much more experimental than intended when I sat down to write it. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about it, but it is what it is.
Running Up That Hill
The days that Sam doesn’t go running are the bad days.
The day after Emma’s death is a bad day.
Dean knows Sam thinks he’s off his game (maybe he’d frozen once or twice), that he’s drinking too much (Just ‘cause it kills your liver don’t mean it ain’t medicine), and that he can’t see anything in front of him except Dick friggin’ Roman (revenge is in the Winchester blood). But there’s always been one thing that could break through any depression or obsession, and that’s Sam himself. So Sam might not realize it, but Dean’s been paying attention and he’s noticed the patterns.
Sam drives late into the night, putting distance between them and Dean’s dead Amazon daughter (Sam’s dead Amazon niece). Dean’s doing his best not to think about it (her) or about Ben (or anything). It’s about three in the morning when Sam pulls their car of the week (god he misses his baby) down a side road to a house with a “Foreclosure” sign out front. Sam wordlessly grabs his bag from the trunk and heads for the darkened porch. Dean has to hurry to grab his own duffel and the weapons bag before Sam can finish picking the lock (watch out for Sammy). But Sam has the door open and is stepping inside just as Dean makes it up the steps.
It looks like a recent foreclosure since there is still furniture inside. That probably means electricity and running water, too. And since it’s out in the middle of nowhere, it’s probably bum-free (except for them). As far as off-the-grid accommodations go, Dean’ll count this one as a winner (god he misses the Bobby’s).
Sam doesn’t bother to do a sweep of the house (warning bell number one). Instead, he drops his bag in the living room and sits down on one of the two couches. He starts pulling off his boots, hair hanging over his face (kid needs a freaking haircut), keeping Dean from getting a read on his expression.
Huffing a frustrated sigh, Dean drops his bag by the other couch and does a quick sweep for himself. Upstairs-three bedrooms, two baths, entertainment room-is clear, as is the ground floor-kitchen, living room, dining room, half bath, laundry (nice house, doesn’t remind him of Lisa’s). By the time he gets back to the living room, Sam is curled up on the couch with his back to the room (to Dean). The kid isn’t asleep, though, judging by his breathing and the tension running through his body. He’s upset and Dean supposes he’s earned that, but the cold shoulder still stings more than he’d like to admit (“Just… don’t get killed”).
He could really use a drink.
Dean takes a gulp from Bobby’s replenished flask (never leave home without it) before settling onto the couch adjacent to the one Sam’s taken. He tells himself that things will be better tomorrow as he yanks his boots off with more force than probably necessary and wedges himself into the sofa cushions. He shuts his eyes and listens for his brother’s breathing to even out (watch out for Sammy).
When Dean wakes up, sun is streaming through the windows, but it’s the stillness that pulled him from a surprisingly deep sleep. He stretches and glances at the other sofa; he’s not surprised to find it empty. Considering the late night, it must be about time for Sam’s daily run. And if Sam needs an extra-long run today (running, always running from problems), well, Dean won’t blame him.
But it’s when Dean comes back from taking a leak and splashing some cold water on his face (vain attempt at sobriety) that he notices Sam’s phone on the coffee table. Sam always takes his phone on his runs, just in case of leviathan, Lucifer, or anything in between. Worry gnaws at his gut and he opens Sam’s duffel; his running clothes and sneakers are still there.
Dean straightens. If Sam’s not out for a run, then where the hell is he? Despite the crap he’s given Sam about his new diligent health routine, Dean’s actually glad for the positive effect it’s seemed to have on Sam’s state of mind (sanity). Sam’s head seems clearer after a long morning run-like he can outpace his memories and hallucinations, leaving them gasping for air and playing catch up until the next day when he’ll outdistance them again, each run enough to get through another day. It’s when he stops running that Hell catches up.
(Always running. Always tripping. Always falling. Always losing. Losing everyone.)
After clearing the lower level and finding the car still parked out front, Dean hurries up the stairs. He halts in the master bedroom’s doorway. Sam’s taken up residence on the king-sized bed (King or two queens? I bet. Antiquers?). He’s on his side facing away from the door and is curled tightly in on himself (big Sam, small ball, small target). And he’s making that small whimpering sound that sounds more like a wounded animal than anything human. Sam’s got hair plastered to his forehead from sweat and his entire body is taut as he twitches in his sleep.
The sight breaks Dean’s heart (only jagged pieces remain) because he knows what it means: Hell has caught up and today is going to be a bad day.
(Always falling. Always losing.)
The thing is, Sam’s suffered from nightmares since childhood, especially once he found out about the family business (saving people, haunting Sammy). They had gotten progressively worse after Jess (burning, someone is always burning). But before Hell, Sam would toss and turn in his sleep. He would flail violently in his nightmares and wake up screaming or crying.
But not anymore; there is no flailing on the rack, no way to turn in on yourself and hide. No, Hell is bearing all your insecurities, all your fears, shortcomings, and worst nightmares for everyone (Alastair, the Devil) to see and exploit (laughing, always laughing). Dean knows the sound Sam’s making all too well because he’d made it himself-and forced more souls than he could count to make it as well. For ten long (short) years, that broken sound had been music to his ears.
Dean feels sick to his stomach as he rounds the bed and kneels next to his brother. He moves to grab Sam’s shoulder to wake him when he notices the heat coming from his skin (someone’s always burning). With a frown, Dean instead puts a hand on his whimpering brother’s sweat-drenched forehead and pulls it back almost immediately. (Fever not fire.) Dean lets out a string of curses under his breath before grabbing Sam’s shoulder and shaking him gently.
“Sammy, hey.” No response. Dean shakes Sam’s shoulder again. “Sam, wake up. It’s just a nightmare.”
Sam makes a broken choking sound before jerking out of Dean’s grasp (breaks everything he touches), but his eyes blink blearily open. He shivers and it takes a long minute for his glassy, half-lidded eyes to track anything-even Dean, who is sitting still right in his line of vision.
“D’n?” he murmurs hoarsely.
“The one and only.” It would be a lame reply even if Lucifer didn’t use Dean’s face to torment Sam regularly. But Sam seems to take it for an assurance and he nods, eyes drooping shut again. Dean decides not to worry that Sam accepts his words so easily this time. Sam shivers and coils more tightly in on himself, a feat Dean hadn’t thought possible.
“Cold,” he whispers.
“You’ve got a fever,” Dean tells him, already looking for the best way to get Sam under the sheets (watch out for Sammy).
“He runs cold,” Sam mumbles, tucking his chin into his chest. Dean feels like he’s been punched at the words, but Sam’s caught in the throes of fever and doesn’t notice. “Always so cold. Except when he burns me.” Sam lets out a strangled laugh that ends in a moan. “He loves fire.” (So did Alastair.)
“Yeah I’ll bet,” Dean mutters darkly, wishing not for the first time that he could open the Cage up just to beat the twisted Grace out of the fallen angel for what he’s done (and is still doing) to Sam (who let him say yes? Who let him jump?).
Sam finally goes quiet and Dean manages to ease the bed sheets out from under him. He pulls the covers over his little (so small, so broken) brother and Sam trembles at the touch of fabric.
“Easy,” Dean tells him.
He waits at his side until Sam falls asleep, then heads down do the car. He grabs the med kit and frowns. They’re low on painkillers (but never pain). He takes the kit inside and wanders around the kitchen-no food left behind (no surprise). If Sam’s out of commission, then they’re going to need a few things to tide them over until (if) Sam recovers. But Dean has no idea where they stopped or if there’s any civilization close by. And the idea of leaving his delirious brother alone to check it out makes Dean feel ill himself. His first reaction is to call Bobby and he’s reaching for his phone before he remembers… (“It’s not Bobby.” “Why not?” “Because we want it to be!”)
Dean shakes himself and heads upstairs. Sam seems peaceful for the moment, though he’s shivering under the blankets despite the sweat on his forehead. Dean can’t bring himself to wake his brother when he seems to finally be getting some rest (no rest for the wicked), so he runs downstairs, grabs a sheet of paper and Sam’s phone. He leaves a short note next to the bed explaining where he’s gone with Sam’s phone and a glass of water and two of their last remaining painkillers.
He’s out of the door and in the car before he can change his mind (don’t think, don’t choke).
He doesn’t remember much in the way of anything on the way they came in, so he continues on the road they were on (keep driving, don’t look back). He’s on the road for about fifteen minutes when he comes across a shopping center and lets out a huge sigh of relief. He loads a cart up with Gatorade, bottled water, bland foods for Sam, and several packs of beer (medicine). Then he hits the drugstore and does some restocking of the med kit. The girl behind the register’s eyes widen slightly at the array of pills and bandages Dean drops in front of her but makes no comment as she rings him up. Dean pays in cash, though part of him would love to pay with a credit card as a big come-and-get-me to Dick Roman. (“Just don’t get killed.” No fake credit card on hand, anyway.)
By the time he gets back to the house, he’s been gone less than an hour but it feels like an eternity (time is funny in Hell). Once he’s lugged all the bags into the kitchen, he jogs upstairs. He’s hoped that no call from Sam meant that his brother had slept through Dean’s outing, but Winchesters never catch a break. The bed is empty when Dean enters the room and, for a moment, panic paralyzes Dean (like so many times before).
And then he hears the whimpering (music). He walks across the room and finds Sam wedged between a bookcase and the wall
(broken doll thrown into the corner). He’s got his knees up to his chest, his forehead on his knees, and his hands covering his ears. Every now and then he’ll shake his head and moan again. Dean bites his lip; he needs to reach out to his brother, to do something, but he doesn’t want to spook him, especially when he’s sick.
“Sammy,” he says, keeping his hands to himself. Sam flinches and tries to scoot back further into the wall, like he’s trying to melt into it (fade away). “Hey, easy bro. It’s me.”
“Not real.” Sam’s voice is muffled but Dean heard that loud and clear.
“I’m real, Sam,” Dean tells him. “I’m right here and I want to get you back to bed.”
Sam dry sobs at that and Dean tries not to think (he knows) about what that might mean. Instead, he puts a hand on Sam’s arm and grips harder when Sam recoils. Sam hisses but finally looks up. His eyes are still glassy and for a minute he’s looking over Dean’s shoulder and Dean knows Lucifer is in the room (bats in the belfry). Then Sam’s looking at Dean like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing-which, with a fever on top of hallucinations, he must not.
“Dean?”
Dean forces a smile. “Yeah, Sam. It’s me. The real me,” he clarified. (Will the real Dean Winchester please stand up?)
Sam glances over Dean’s shoulder again before focusing on Dean, though it’s clearly taking a lot of effort. A wave of pride for the kid washes over Dean and this time his smile might actually be real. (Can’t be sure; can’t remember what that feels like.)
Sam swallows. He’s shaking but he’s not making that horrible (beautiful) whimpering sound anymore. “You were gone,” he whispers.
“I left you a note,” Dean says, nodding toward the bedside table.
“Oh.” Sam deflates at that and Dean can’t help but feel he’s losing him (again and again and again).
“Hey, it’s okay. I just went on a supply run. I’m back now.”
Sam looks up again. “Back?”
“Back.”
“Won’t leave?” Sam’s voice is small and he shrinks back from Dean like he’s afraid of the answer.
“I won’t leave,” Dean replies as firmly as possible. He’s not going to let Sam go through this alone (watch out for Sammy).
Sam nods at that, and Dean takes it as a sign he can move his brother. Sam’s pliant as Dean carefully maneuvers him from the corner and back into bed. He covers Sam back up and turns for the doorway, but Sam’s hand grabs weakly onto his sleeve.
“Though y’weren’t leaving,” he whispers, slightly panicked.
Dean pats Sam on the arm. “Just going down to the kitchen, grab some supplies. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”
“Dean…”
Dean gently pulls Sam’s hand off his arm and grabs the pills he’d left. He helps Sam sit up so he can take them (like they’ll help) and urges him to drink some water before helping him lie back down. Sam’s eyes drift shut and Dean takes that as his cue to head downstairs. He grabs the med kit and the bags from the drug store and some bottles of Gatorade and water before coming back upstairs. Sam’s sleeping when Dean enters the room, so Dean heads into the bathroom and puts a towel under cool water from the faucet. He comes back out and puts the cloth on Sam’s forehead before settling in next to him on the bed. Sam seems to gentle at that, so Dean figures all he can do is wait now.
There’s a television in the room, but no cable so all he gets is snow. He curses under his breath and eventually heads downstairs and grabs Sam’s laptop (the Dick Roman search continues). He switches out cool towels every so often and when Sam comes to, Dean coaxes some water or Gatorade down his throat before his brother falls under (into the Pit) again. Hours stretch on and Dean feeds Sam some pills at sundown and again at sunup. And he waits (so much waiting, always for pain).
In those hours, Dean hears a lot. Sam whispers in his sleep-and a few times he comes to without any awareness of anything except Lucifer. Dean only hears Sam’s end of the conversation, but he gets the picture of what the Devil’s telling his brother pretty quickly.
“No. Not real.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Dean-”
“Right here, Sammy,” Dean breaks in, but Sam doesn’t hear him.
“He wouldn’t,” Sam whispers.
“No.”
“Won’t leave me.” At first Dean panics (Lucifer, never leaving). Then Sam speaks up again, and Dean’s stomach drops. “Stone number one.” Sam’s nearly slurring but Dean hears that. “D’n promised.”
“M’fault,” Sam mutters, “I know. Always m’fault.” And then he falls back asleep.
It doesn’t take Dean long to connect the dots between Sam’s chat with his hallucination and the conversation in the car the night before. Dean had just thought Sam was pissed about Emma and about the drinking and Bobby.
Sam sleeps on and Dean is left with his thoughts. Stone number one. Promised. Won’t leave me. Stone number one.
“She’s not yours. Not really.”
It hits Dean with all the subtlety of a two-by-four as he watches Sam sleep that while he might have been Emma’s father in the strictest sense, she would never be his in the way Sam was. Is. Always will be.
The beer (medicine) remains untouched in the kitchen downstairs.
It’s close to midnight on the second night when Dean goes to switch the cloth on his brother’s forehead that he realizes the fever has broken. Sam’s stopped shivering and seems to have settled into an uneasy but unfevered sleep.
Relieved, Dean finally lets himself fall asleep.
He dreams of Hell, of Alastair, and of Stull Cemetery.
And throughout it all, he hears Sam’s voice echoing in the background. (Stone number one. Promised. Won’t leave.) And that is the worst torture of all.
He wakes up slowly, like Alastair’s still got one demonic claw in his consciousness as he struggles toward the real world (like digging himself out of a grave). And when he finally manages to get his eyes open, (there’s no dirt) he blinks at the light on the ceiling. It’s day. He turns his head and finds Sam looking at him.
His brother looks wrecked-tired, haunted, and a bit wary-but his eyes are clear (Hellfire-free). It’s still Sam.
“Hey,” Dean says for lack of anything better.
“Hey,” Sam replies. He sounds as wrecked as he looks but still manages to look concerned. “You were dreaming. About Hell.”
Dean barely manages to cover a flinch. “That makes two of us,” he retorts.
Sam does flinch at that. “What happened?” he asks, recovering himself remarkably fast for someone who’s been out of it (in Hell) for days.
“You got sick after we stopped for the night. Fever,” Dean adds at Sam’s look. “You’ve been in and out for a couple of days now. Fever broke last night.”
“Oh.”
“How do you feel?”
Sam shuts his eyes. “Like He-shit,” he says, covering his slip.
Dean watches his brother (watch out for Sammy), has so many things he wants to say to him-that he gets it now and that he’s not going to leave him alone; that he didn’t know the hallucinations were this bad and Sam needs to tell him; that Sam can’t leave him…
But he says none of those things. Instead, he thinks about what Sam must see when he looks at Dean. He thinks about Sam’s stone number one being a crumbling, drunken, suicidal shell of a man. And he thinks about what Bobby would say about that.
Goddamn it, Dean. Idjit.
The breath catches in Dean’s throat, but there’s a strange measure of peace that comes with the words.
“Hey Sam,” Dean says after a while.
“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Next time you go for a run, I think I’ll come with.”
-fin-
Author:
purplehrdwonder
Rating: PG-13
Genre/pairing: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word count: 3,260
Summary: [7.13 Coda] The days that Sam doesn’t go running are the bad days. The day after Emma is a bad day.
Spoilers: Through 7.13
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Title comes from the Placebo song.
Author’s Note: This ended up being much more experimental than intended when I sat down to write it. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about it, but it is what it is.
Running Up That Hill
The days that Sam doesn’t go running are the bad days.
The day after Emma’s death is a bad day.
Dean knows Sam thinks he’s off his game (maybe he’d frozen once or twice), that he’s drinking too much (Just ‘cause it kills your liver don’t mean it ain’t medicine), and that he can’t see anything in front of him except Dick friggin’ Roman (revenge is in the Winchester blood). But there’s always been one thing that could break through any depression or obsession, and that’s Sam himself. So Sam might not realize it, but Dean’s been paying attention and he’s noticed the patterns.
Sam drives late into the night, putting distance between them and Dean’s dead Amazon daughter (Sam’s dead Amazon niece). Dean’s doing his best not to think about it (her) or about Ben (or anything). It’s about three in the morning when Sam pulls their car of the week (god he misses his baby) down a side road to a house with a “Foreclosure” sign out front. Sam wordlessly grabs his bag from the trunk and heads for the darkened porch. Dean has to hurry to grab his own duffel and the weapons bag before Sam can finish picking the lock (watch out for Sammy). But Sam has the door open and is stepping inside just as Dean makes it up the steps.
It looks like a recent foreclosure since there is still furniture inside. That probably means electricity and running water, too. And since it’s out in the middle of nowhere, it’s probably bum-free (except for them). As far as off-the-grid accommodations go, Dean’ll count this one as a winner (god he misses the Bobby’s).
Sam doesn’t bother to do a sweep of the house (warning bell number one). Instead, he drops his bag in the living room and sits down on one of the two couches. He starts pulling off his boots, hair hanging over his face (kid needs a freaking haircut), keeping Dean from getting a read on his expression.
Huffing a frustrated sigh, Dean drops his bag by the other couch and does a quick sweep for himself. Upstairs-three bedrooms, two baths, entertainment room-is clear, as is the ground floor-kitchen, living room, dining room, half bath, laundry (nice house, doesn’t remind him of Lisa’s). By the time he gets back to the living room, Sam is curled up on the couch with his back to the room (to Dean). The kid isn’t asleep, though, judging by his breathing and the tension running through his body. He’s upset and Dean supposes he’s earned that, but the cold shoulder still stings more than he’d like to admit (“Just… don’t get killed”).
He could really use a drink.
Dean takes a gulp from Bobby’s replenished flask (never leave home without it) before settling onto the couch adjacent to the one Sam’s taken. He tells himself that things will be better tomorrow as he yanks his boots off with more force than probably necessary and wedges himself into the sofa cushions. He shuts his eyes and listens for his brother’s breathing to even out (watch out for Sammy).
When Dean wakes up, sun is streaming through the windows, but it’s the stillness that pulled him from a surprisingly deep sleep. He stretches and glances at the other sofa; he’s not surprised to find it empty. Considering the late night, it must be about time for Sam’s daily run. And if Sam needs an extra-long run today (running, always running from problems), well, Dean won’t blame him.
But it’s when Dean comes back from taking a leak and splashing some cold water on his face (vain attempt at sobriety) that he notices Sam’s phone on the coffee table. Sam always takes his phone on his runs, just in case of leviathan, Lucifer, or anything in between. Worry gnaws at his gut and he opens Sam’s duffel; his running clothes and sneakers are still there.
Dean straightens. If Sam’s not out for a run, then where the hell is he? Despite the crap he’s given Sam about his new diligent health routine, Dean’s actually glad for the positive effect it’s seemed to have on Sam’s state of mind (sanity). Sam’s head seems clearer after a long morning run-like he can outpace his memories and hallucinations, leaving them gasping for air and playing catch up until the next day when he’ll outdistance them again, each run enough to get through another day. It’s when he stops running that Hell catches up.
(Always running. Always tripping. Always falling. Always losing. Losing everyone.)
After clearing the lower level and finding the car still parked out front, Dean hurries up the stairs. He halts in the master bedroom’s doorway. Sam’s taken up residence on the king-sized bed (King or two queens? I bet. Antiquers?). He’s on his side facing away from the door and is curled tightly in on himself (big Sam, small ball, small target). And he’s making that small whimpering sound that sounds more like a wounded animal than anything human. Sam’s got hair plastered to his forehead from sweat and his entire body is taut as he twitches in his sleep.
The sight breaks Dean’s heart (only jagged pieces remain) because he knows what it means: Hell has caught up and today is going to be a bad day.
(Always falling. Always losing.)
The thing is, Sam’s suffered from nightmares since childhood, especially once he found out about the family business (saving people, haunting Sammy). They had gotten progressively worse after Jess (burning, someone is always burning). But before Hell, Sam would toss and turn in his sleep. He would flail violently in his nightmares and wake up screaming or crying.
But not anymore; there is no flailing on the rack, no way to turn in on yourself and hide. No, Hell is bearing all your insecurities, all your fears, shortcomings, and worst nightmares for everyone (Alastair, the Devil) to see and exploit (laughing, always laughing). Dean knows the sound Sam’s making all too well because he’d made it himself-and forced more souls than he could count to make it as well. For ten long (short) years, that broken sound had been music to his ears.
Dean feels sick to his stomach as he rounds the bed and kneels next to his brother. He moves to grab Sam’s shoulder to wake him when he notices the heat coming from his skin (someone’s always burning). With a frown, Dean instead puts a hand on his whimpering brother’s sweat-drenched forehead and pulls it back almost immediately. (Fever not fire.) Dean lets out a string of curses under his breath before grabbing Sam’s shoulder and shaking him gently.
“Sammy, hey.” No response. Dean shakes Sam’s shoulder again. “Sam, wake up. It’s just a nightmare.”
Sam makes a broken choking sound before jerking out of Dean’s grasp (breaks everything he touches), but his eyes blink blearily open. He shivers and it takes a long minute for his glassy, half-lidded eyes to track anything-even Dean, who is sitting still right in his line of vision.
“D’n?” he murmurs hoarsely.
“The one and only.” It would be a lame reply even if Lucifer didn’t use Dean’s face to torment Sam regularly. But Sam seems to take it for an assurance and he nods, eyes drooping shut again. Dean decides not to worry that Sam accepts his words so easily this time. Sam shivers and coils more tightly in on himself, a feat Dean hadn’t thought possible.
“Cold,” he whispers.
“You’ve got a fever,” Dean tells him, already looking for the best way to get Sam under the sheets (watch out for Sammy).
“He runs cold,” Sam mumbles, tucking his chin into his chest. Dean feels like he’s been punched at the words, but Sam’s caught in the throes of fever and doesn’t notice. “Always so cold. Except when he burns me.” Sam lets out a strangled laugh that ends in a moan. “He loves fire.” (So did Alastair.)
“Yeah I’ll bet,” Dean mutters darkly, wishing not for the first time that he could open the Cage up just to beat the twisted Grace out of the fallen angel for what he’s done (and is still doing) to Sam (who let him say yes? Who let him jump?).
Sam finally goes quiet and Dean manages to ease the bed sheets out from under him. He pulls the covers over his little (so small, so broken) brother and Sam trembles at the touch of fabric.
“Easy,” Dean tells him.
He waits at his side until Sam falls asleep, then heads down do the car. He grabs the med kit and frowns. They’re low on painkillers (but never pain). He takes the kit inside and wanders around the kitchen-no food left behind (no surprise). If Sam’s out of commission, then they’re going to need a few things to tide them over until (if) Sam recovers. But Dean has no idea where they stopped or if there’s any civilization close by. And the idea of leaving his delirious brother alone to check it out makes Dean feel ill himself. His first reaction is to call Bobby and he’s reaching for his phone before he remembers… (“It’s not Bobby.” “Why not?” “Because we want it to be!”)
Dean shakes himself and heads upstairs. Sam seems peaceful for the moment, though he’s shivering under the blankets despite the sweat on his forehead. Dean can’t bring himself to wake his brother when he seems to finally be getting some rest (no rest for the wicked), so he runs downstairs, grabs a sheet of paper and Sam’s phone. He leaves a short note next to the bed explaining where he’s gone with Sam’s phone and a glass of water and two of their last remaining painkillers.
He’s out of the door and in the car before he can change his mind (don’t think, don’t choke).
He doesn’t remember much in the way of anything on the way they came in, so he continues on the road they were on (keep driving, don’t look back). He’s on the road for about fifteen minutes when he comes across a shopping center and lets out a huge sigh of relief. He loads a cart up with Gatorade, bottled water, bland foods for Sam, and several packs of beer (medicine). Then he hits the drugstore and does some restocking of the med kit. The girl behind the register’s eyes widen slightly at the array of pills and bandages Dean drops in front of her but makes no comment as she rings him up. Dean pays in cash, though part of him would love to pay with a credit card as a big come-and-get-me to Dick Roman. (“Just don’t get killed.” No fake credit card on hand, anyway.)
By the time he gets back to the house, he’s been gone less than an hour but it feels like an eternity (time is funny in Hell). Once he’s lugged all the bags into the kitchen, he jogs upstairs. He’s hoped that no call from Sam meant that his brother had slept through Dean’s outing, but Winchesters never catch a break. The bed is empty when Dean enters the room and, for a moment, panic paralyzes Dean (like so many times before).
And then he hears the whimpering (music). He walks across the room and finds Sam wedged between a bookcase and the wall
(broken doll thrown into the corner). He’s got his knees up to his chest, his forehead on his knees, and his hands covering his ears. Every now and then he’ll shake his head and moan again. Dean bites his lip; he needs to reach out to his brother, to do something, but he doesn’t want to spook him, especially when he’s sick.
“Sammy,” he says, keeping his hands to himself. Sam flinches and tries to scoot back further into the wall, like he’s trying to melt into it (fade away). “Hey, easy bro. It’s me.”
“Not real.” Sam’s voice is muffled but Dean heard that loud and clear.
“I’m real, Sam,” Dean tells him. “I’m right here and I want to get you back to bed.”
Sam dry sobs at that and Dean tries not to think (he knows) about what that might mean. Instead, he puts a hand on Sam’s arm and grips harder when Sam recoils. Sam hisses but finally looks up. His eyes are still glassy and for a minute he’s looking over Dean’s shoulder and Dean knows Lucifer is in the room (bats in the belfry). Then Sam’s looking at Dean like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing-which, with a fever on top of hallucinations, he must not.
“Dean?”
Dean forces a smile. “Yeah, Sam. It’s me. The real me,” he clarified. (Will the real Dean Winchester please stand up?)
Sam glances over Dean’s shoulder again before focusing on Dean, though it’s clearly taking a lot of effort. A wave of pride for the kid washes over Dean and this time his smile might actually be real. (Can’t be sure; can’t remember what that feels like.)
Sam swallows. He’s shaking but he’s not making that horrible (beautiful) whimpering sound anymore. “You were gone,” he whispers.
“I left you a note,” Dean says, nodding toward the bedside table.
“Oh.” Sam deflates at that and Dean can’t help but feel he’s losing him (again and again and again).
“Hey, it’s okay. I just went on a supply run. I’m back now.”
Sam looks up again. “Back?”
“Back.”
“Won’t leave?” Sam’s voice is small and he shrinks back from Dean like he’s afraid of the answer.
“I won’t leave,” Dean replies as firmly as possible. He’s not going to let Sam go through this alone (watch out for Sammy).
Sam nods at that, and Dean takes it as a sign he can move his brother. Sam’s pliant as Dean carefully maneuvers him from the corner and back into bed. He covers Sam back up and turns for the doorway, but Sam’s hand grabs weakly onto his sleeve.
“Though y’weren’t leaving,” he whispers, slightly panicked.
Dean pats Sam on the arm. “Just going down to the kitchen, grab some supplies. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”
“Dean…”
Dean gently pulls Sam’s hand off his arm and grabs the pills he’d left. He helps Sam sit up so he can take them (like they’ll help) and urges him to drink some water before helping him lie back down. Sam’s eyes drift shut and Dean takes that as his cue to head downstairs. He grabs the med kit and the bags from the drug store and some bottles of Gatorade and water before coming back upstairs. Sam’s sleeping when Dean enters the room, so Dean heads into the bathroom and puts a towel under cool water from the faucet. He comes back out and puts the cloth on Sam’s forehead before settling in next to him on the bed. Sam seems to gentle at that, so Dean figures all he can do is wait now.
There’s a television in the room, but no cable so all he gets is snow. He curses under his breath and eventually heads downstairs and grabs Sam’s laptop (the Dick Roman search continues). He switches out cool towels every so often and when Sam comes to, Dean coaxes some water or Gatorade down his throat before his brother falls under (into the Pit) again. Hours stretch on and Dean feeds Sam some pills at sundown and again at sunup. And he waits (so much waiting, always for pain).
In those hours, Dean hears a lot. Sam whispers in his sleep-and a few times he comes to without any awareness of anything except Lucifer. Dean only hears Sam’s end of the conversation, but he gets the picture of what the Devil’s telling his brother pretty quickly.
“No. Not real.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Dean-”
“Right here, Sammy,” Dean breaks in, but Sam doesn’t hear him.
“He wouldn’t,” Sam whispers.
“No.”
“Won’t leave me.” At first Dean panics (Lucifer, never leaving). Then Sam speaks up again, and Dean’s stomach drops. “Stone number one.” Sam’s nearly slurring but Dean hears that. “D’n promised.”
“M’fault,” Sam mutters, “I know. Always m’fault.” And then he falls back asleep.
It doesn’t take Dean long to connect the dots between Sam’s chat with his hallucination and the conversation in the car the night before. Dean had just thought Sam was pissed about Emma and about the drinking and Bobby.
Sam sleeps on and Dean is left with his thoughts. Stone number one. Promised. Won’t leave me. Stone number one.
“She’s not yours. Not really.”
It hits Dean with all the subtlety of a two-by-four as he watches Sam sleep that while he might have been Emma’s father in the strictest sense, she would never be his in the way Sam was. Is. Always will be.
The beer (medicine) remains untouched in the kitchen downstairs.
It’s close to midnight on the second night when Dean goes to switch the cloth on his brother’s forehead that he realizes the fever has broken. Sam’s stopped shivering and seems to have settled into an uneasy but unfevered sleep.
Relieved, Dean finally lets himself fall asleep.
He dreams of Hell, of Alastair, and of Stull Cemetery.
And throughout it all, he hears Sam’s voice echoing in the background. (Stone number one. Promised. Won’t leave.) And that is the worst torture of all.
He wakes up slowly, like Alastair’s still got one demonic claw in his consciousness as he struggles toward the real world (like digging himself out of a grave). And when he finally manages to get his eyes open, (there’s no dirt) he blinks at the light on the ceiling. It’s day. He turns his head and finds Sam looking at him.
His brother looks wrecked-tired, haunted, and a bit wary-but his eyes are clear (Hellfire-free). It’s still Sam.
“Hey,” Dean says for lack of anything better.
“Hey,” Sam replies. He sounds as wrecked as he looks but still manages to look concerned. “You were dreaming. About Hell.”
Dean barely manages to cover a flinch. “That makes two of us,” he retorts.
Sam does flinch at that. “What happened?” he asks, recovering himself remarkably fast for someone who’s been out of it (in Hell) for days.
“You got sick after we stopped for the night. Fever,” Dean adds at Sam’s look. “You’ve been in and out for a couple of days now. Fever broke last night.”
“Oh.”
“How do you feel?”
Sam shuts his eyes. “Like He-shit,” he says, covering his slip.
Dean watches his brother (watch out for Sammy), has so many things he wants to say to him-that he gets it now and that he’s not going to leave him alone; that he didn’t know the hallucinations were this bad and Sam needs to tell him; that Sam can’t leave him…
But he says none of those things. Instead, he thinks about what Sam must see when he looks at Dean. He thinks about Sam’s stone number one being a crumbling, drunken, suicidal shell of a man. And he thinks about what Bobby would say about that.
Goddamn it, Dean. Idjit.
The breath catches in Dean’s throat, but there’s a strange measure of peace that comes with the words.
“Hey Sam,” Dean says after a while.
“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Next time you go for a run, I think I’ll come with.”
-fin-