Fic, Supernatural: Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall
Title: Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall
Rating: PG13, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Words: About 3000
Spoilers/notes: For Nightmare, sort of, but nothing particular past that, except Bobby existing. Takes place at some point during season 2. Idea from an old prompt in found_fic_spn and buffyaddict13 who has a thing for crazy!Sam.
Summary: A ghost gets her hands on Sam and the result pretty much sucks. Out loud, even, according to Dean.
...
It had been three days. Three fucking days of being stuck inside a motel room with his little brother who was being, so to speak, a lot less coherent than usual.
They were living off of delivered takeout and coffee - well, Sam didn’t get any coffee; Dean was pretty sure that caffeine wouldn’t exactly help matters with where Sam was at - and the very kind and very pretty maid named Christine had let herself be charmed into picking up a little stuff for them when Dean explained that his brother wasn’t well and couldn’t be left alone.
It was just supposed to be a spirit. A persuasive and pretty nasty one, but still just a regular spirit, that was what they’d gathered from the research. People suddenly appearing to be losing their minds, a few days later slashing their own throats. Mona Fredericks, twenty-nine, kept locked up in a basement her whole life by her own mother until one day she managed to get free and promptly slashing her own throat twenty-six years ago.
Salt ‘n burn. Straightforward job.
Straightforward job until Dean felt Sam being yanked from his side just as he was about to torch the bones, spinning around to see the fucking ghost with her hands on Sam’s head, his mouth open and face scrunched up with pain, and the spirit had looked over at Dean and smiled. And yeah, he’d finished the job but by that point Sam was already talking about how rats play by eating each other’s tails bit by bit, and Dean had known they were screwed. What he hadn’t known was how to fix it.
He still didn't.
He’d called Bobby, asked him if he’d ever come across anything like this. Asked him why Sam was still - not crazy, because Sam was not crazy - affected by her when she was gone, when Dean had burned her into nothingness, but Bobby didn’t have any answers to give, nor any reassurances. He didn’t know why, didn’t know if it would pass, didn’t know any more than Dean, and Dean wanted to shout at him over the phone, tell him he was supposed to have answers, supposed to be the experienced one with all the knowledge to set things straight, but knew it was useless. Bobby couldn’t do anything but promise he’d look into it and let Dean know if - when, as soon as - he found something, and tell him to look after Sam in the meantime.
Look after Sam. As if he’d ever done anything else. Didn’t do too well this time, though, did you?
But there wasn’t much else he could do. He couldn’t leave Sam alone, and he didn’t dare to let him outside the relative safety of the room, and so he spent the days searching the internet while listening to Sam talk, either to Dean or to the wall. One or the other didn’t always seem to make much of a difference to him, and half the stuff Dean figured the wall could make more sense out of than he could, anyway.
“The mirror, Dean.” Sam’s voice was worried, which really wasn’t a much of a change, and Dean really, really didn't want to know what was up with the mirror.
But he asked. He had to. Keep talking to him. Keep it normal. “What about it, Sammy?”
“The mirror’s not working.” There was a frown between Sam’s eyes and he was staring in the mirror above the bathroom sink as if it was supposed to hold some kind of answer but didn’t. At a different time Dean would have been snickering at Sam staring at himself like that and said something about beauty queens never being happy with what they’re seeing, but at a different time Sam wouldn’t be staring at himself like that in the first place, and at this point Dean was so far beyond finding the situation funny it wasn’t even - well, funny.
“What do you mean, it’s not working?” Dean asked tiredly. “It’s a mirror. It shows your freaky face. That’s what they do.”
But apparently that was not all there was to it, not according to Sam, because he was shaking his head. “No, no. No, that’s not - I don’t…” He trailed off. “Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“Can we stop?”
Dean leaned his head in his hands and breathed, he needed to breathe, just for a few moments, and before he could open his mouth to tell Sam that, yeah, sure, they could stop, they could stop whenever Sam wanted (please, Sammy, just stop this) there was a smash and the sound of glass shards hitting the floor and he was up and into the bathroom in less than a second, grabbing Sam by the arms and trying not to look at the blood.
“Goddamnit!” He hauled Sam out of the room, careful not to let him step on the broken glass and got him to sit down on the bed. The cuts on Sam’s hand weren’t deep, to his relief - no need for stitches, and so Dean settled for cleaning them and wrapping the hand. He didn’t say anything while working, teeth pressed hard together, and his hands were rough, but Sam didn’t complain.
How long was this going to go on? How long could he justify trying to wait it out? And Jesus, for how long could he take it?
He finished the wrapping and was really freakin’ thankful for the small favor of not having to stitch his brother up right now, because his hands were shaking so hard - because he was angry, that was why, he was so fucking pissed off - he wasn’t sure them with a needle would have been such a good idea. But anger was okay, it was good, anger he could deal with, so he latched onto it and finally barked at his brother, “Dude, what the hell was that about?”
“It wasn’t working,” Sam simply said. “I told you. Didn’t I? It didn’t… Dean?”
“What?” he growled.
“Can we stop?”
And that was it right there, the sheer hopefulness in his voice driving Dean to the edge, and he had to swallow hard before he could get the words out. “Yeah, Sammy. We’ll stop.”
Sam’s smile was big and shiny and not him at all, and Dean closed his eyes for a second against the wrongness of it.
“Look, man, it’s getting kinda late. Why don’t you get some sleep?” he suggested, praying inwardly Sam would do it and give him a few hours of… not peace and quiet, because Sam had been talking even in his sleep for the past nights and Dean didn’t harbor any hope that this night would be any different, but at least it’d be a few hours when he didn’t have to pretend that everything was all right. And he wanted to put the glass on the bathroom floor away. He didn’t really think Sam would start getting ideas of using any of the shards on himself (not really) with the ghost being gone and all, but you know. Just to be on the safe side.
Sam’s eyes widened and he stood up immediately, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no, no, Dean, we can’t, it’s not, there’s no time - I need to -“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy.” Dean stood with him, heart pounding, his hands on Sam’s arms again. “Hey, take it easy, okay? I thought we said we were gonna stop. We’re stopping, right? Getting some rest. Just -“
But Sam pulled away from him, restlessly moving around the room until he was standing with his back pressed against the opposite wall, muttering something about ice and it melting too fast. Dean sighed.
“Trust you to be worrying about the polar icecaps even now, you geek. Come on.” But when he took a step towards his brother Sam flinched away, suddenly looking close to panicked.
“No. No, you’re not him, you’re not…” He was pressing harder back into the wall now like he was trying to melt into it, watching Dean with frightened eyes, and all Dean could think was, God, no, please, not that, not that.
“Sam,” he started, but Sam squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at him, shaking his head again with the stubbornness of a frightened four year old telling himself that if he believed strong enough something wasn’t real, it wouldn’t be.
“No, you’re not - go away, you can’t - where’s - “
“Sam, listen to me, damn it!” He practically shouted the words before catching himself. Sam still wouldn’t look at him, but the stream of words stopped. “Look, I’m me, all right?” Dean said, trying to sound calm and now doing a pretty damn good job at hiding his own panic, he thought. “I promise, it’s me. I’ve been me all day, haven’t I? It was me earlier?”
Sam nodded reluctantly. “I think so,” he mumbled, but wasn’t looking convinced.
“Okay, so when would that have changed? I haven’t left the room, have I? It couldn’t have changed. It’s still me. I promise.” Sam, please. He was holding his hands out, trying to look as unthreatening as he possibly could, every fiber in his body begging Sam to listen, to believe him, to let this go.
His brother was staring at him now, still suspicious, not daring to believe him. Then suddenly, something like shrewdness crept into his eyes, and he studied Dean appraisingly for a few moments before asking, “Did we finish it?” and Dean had no idea what he was on about, again. Par for the course, really.
“What?”
“Did we finish it?” Sam repeated, slowly and deliberately, and Dean realized that this was the point where he needed to give the right answer without thinking about it. Well, hey, at least Sam was giving him a fifty percent chance.
“Yeah, man, we finished it.” He said it like it was the most evident thing in the world, praying he was getting it right, grateful that he’d always been a good liar. And grateful that it was apparently the right answer, thank fuck, because after what was likely just a few seconds but felt like hours Sam sagged, the tension flowed out of him and he finally looked at Dean with recognition in his eyes again.
“Okay?” Dean asked, cautiously taking another step towards him.
A nod. “Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, Dean, I just - I don’t know what -“ Sam looked thoroughly miserable now, and Dean ignored the painful clench in his chest at seeing his little brother like this. “It’s all… It’s yellow.” Sam waved his hand, an unfinished gesture that for some reason made Dean ache even more.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Let’s just - let’s get you some rest, huh?” This time Sam didn’t resist but let Dean lead him to the bed, and within minutes he was asleep.
The first thing Dean did was to take care of the mess in the bathroom before settling back on his own bed, watching his brother wincing in his sleep, worry lines creasing his forehead.
Christ, what wouldn’t he give for a night’s sleep? He was so freakin’ tired, which wasn’t that weird considering he’d been awake for three days straight, not daring to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time - there was no knowing what Sam might get up to. Blinking hard he turned the TV on, zapping between channels until he hit something that looked familiar. When he recognized it he switched away quickly, though, because Jack Nicholson rallying patients in Cuckoo’s Nest might be awesome, was awesome, but not now. Really not now.
Turned out that no matter what your reasons for staying awake were, coffee and worry could only keep the fatigue away for so long, and suddenly he found himself bolting up when he heard a gasp from the bed next to him. Sam was sitting up, hunched over with his back against the headboard, his head cradled in his hands and face pinched with pain.
He was mumbling through clenched teeth, and Dean could only catch snatches of it even though he was sitting right next to Sam on the bed without remembering having moved at all.
“Watch… No, watch… It’s behind… She’s gonna - no…”
Visions? Well, that was just fucking great. Just what they needed.
It went on and on, and Dean lost track of time while Sam grew more and more frantic, struggling against him and shaking, words and descriptions tumbling out of his mouth so fast Dean couldn’t keep up. He didn’t know when he’d started talking himself, but he was, he was babbling, babbling about everything and nothing trying to drown out Sam’s words, trying to reach through whatever fog was keeping him from Dean. Don’t do this, come on, snap out of it…
Then, just as sudden as it had begun it stopped, and Sam slumped against him. “Sam, you with me?” he asked after a little while, giving them both a minute to catch their breath. “Come on, say something. Tell me about the ice or the clouds or whatever. Sam.” Dean shook him slightly, willing him to move, talk, do something.
Finally, Sam stirred.
“Man, that sucked,” he whispered, voice hoarse and still a little breathless.
“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. Understatement of the year.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.” He braced himself; waiting to hear Can we stop? and readied himself for another few hours of humoring his talkative little brother. He wondered what subjects would be tackled tonight. Spoons, maybe. Spoons weren’t too bad. Just as long as Sam stayed away from eyes. That conversation - or monologue - had been seriously disturbing.
“What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“’What’? That.” A hand came into Dean’s field of vision, gesturing briefly at the disheveled head pressed against his shoulder. “I can't even remember, and it’s never been - not like that. Jesus, it felt like hours.”
Dean stiffened. “Sam?” he asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
A groan. “Besides the massive headache, yeah, I think so. We got any water?” Sam sat up and rubbed his hands across his face, stilling when he caught Deans look. “Dude, what?” He frowned. “Are you okay?”
Dean jumped up and moved to grab a bottle of water from the little fridge, turning off the TV as he went.
“Fine. Just tired.” He threw the bottle to Sam, who opened it and drank greedily while Dean watched him, just as greedily drinking in the sight of Sam looking and moving and sounding like, well, Sam. He wasn’t sure they were out of the woods just yet, but… Maybe.
He had to ask again, though, just to be on the safe side. “Sure you’re feeling okay?” Sam threw him a questioning glance. “Just, you know, it got pretty intense there for a while.” He sat down on his own bed again, studying his brother and looking for signs of - what? Crazy?
“I feel fine. Really.” Sam fiddled with the lid for a minute before asking, hesitantly, “Did I - did I get hurt or something? I mean, we were at the cemetery, but then, I don’t…”
Dean let out a breath. He wasn’t sure if Sam not remembering the past few days was a good thing or not, but decided it was. “She got her hands on you. You’ve been pretty out of it for a while.” He wondered if Sam would settle for that.
Although, of course he wouldn’t.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “A while?” When Dean didn’t answer, he asked again, “Dean, how long have we been here?”
“Three days.” He attempted to sound like it was nothing, but could still see the implications of it hitting Sam as his mouth fell open.
“Three days? I’ve been - “ He looked at Dean and something in his expression changed. Softened. Oh, hell no. That face did not come with good things. “Dean,” he started.
Dean had no intentions whatsoever of letting Sam finish whatever was coming after that. “Hey, you’re fine, I’m fine, we’re both fine, everything’s awesome.” A huff. “And it’s gonna be even more awesome if you let me go to bed now.” Sam looked doubtful and about to protest, but Dean beat him to it.
“Look, I’ll tell you all about the whole thing tomorrow, I swear, but I’m beat, man. I just wanna sleep for a bit. Can we - can it wait? Just a few hours?”
He didn’t like the pleading tone in his voice, or the way a please almost slipped its way in there, but the words worked.
“Sure,” Sam said, and he was frowning again, but Dean didn’t really mind because it was the usual, somewhat concerned Sam-frown, not the confused one he’d been wearing almost constantly earlier, and that was a vast improvement.
Even concerned Sam beat crazy-talking Sam by miles, no question.
Dean stretched out on the bed without even bothering to undress, turned off the lights and heard Sam crawl back under his own covers. Slowly, he felt his body starting to relax. Wondered why whatever had happened to Sam had stopped just like that, and then arrived at the conclusion that he didn’t care. They didn’t catch many breaks, but he’d take them when he could.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when Sam’s voice floated over to him. “Sorry about this, man.”
Dean suppressed a groan. “Sam, don’t go all guilt-tripping on me here. It’s not like you could help it.”
“Yeah, but, I mean, it must’ve… You kinda look like crap.”
He gave an involuntary snort. “Well, that makes two of us, then. I’d tell you to go look in the mirror, but someone smashed it.”
There was a pause. Then, “I smashed the mirror?”
“Yup.” After a few seconds he added, “Something about your hair not having enough volume.”
“Shut up.”
“Love to.” When there was no response but the silence, Dean turned onto his side. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I promise. Over waffles. Deal?”
He couldn’t see Sam’s smile in the darkness, but he could still hear it. “Yeah, okay. Deal. ‘Night.”
“’Night, Sammy.” Unsure of whether or not he actually wanted Sam to hear him, he mumbled, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
And before he knew it, he was asleep.
...
Rating: PG13, Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Words: About 3000
Spoilers/notes: For Nightmare, sort of, but nothing particular past that, except Bobby existing. Takes place at some point during season 2. Idea from an old prompt in found_fic_spn and buffyaddict13 who has a thing for crazy!Sam.
Summary: A ghost gets her hands on Sam and the result pretty much sucks. Out loud, even, according to Dean.
...
It had been three days. Three fucking days of being stuck inside a motel room with his little brother who was being, so to speak, a lot less coherent than usual.
They were living off of delivered takeout and coffee - well, Sam didn’t get any coffee; Dean was pretty sure that caffeine wouldn’t exactly help matters with where Sam was at - and the very kind and very pretty maid named Christine had let herself be charmed into picking up a little stuff for them when Dean explained that his brother wasn’t well and couldn’t be left alone.
It was just supposed to be a spirit. A persuasive and pretty nasty one, but still just a regular spirit, that was what they’d gathered from the research. People suddenly appearing to be losing their minds, a few days later slashing their own throats. Mona Fredericks, twenty-nine, kept locked up in a basement her whole life by her own mother until one day she managed to get free and promptly slashing her own throat twenty-six years ago.
Salt ‘n burn. Straightforward job.
Straightforward job until Dean felt Sam being yanked from his side just as he was about to torch the bones, spinning around to see the fucking ghost with her hands on Sam’s head, his mouth open and face scrunched up with pain, and the spirit had looked over at Dean and smiled. And yeah, he’d finished the job but by that point Sam was already talking about how rats play by eating each other’s tails bit by bit, and Dean had known they were screwed. What he hadn’t known was how to fix it.
He still didn't.
He’d called Bobby, asked him if he’d ever come across anything like this. Asked him why Sam was still - not crazy, because Sam was not crazy - affected by her when she was gone, when Dean had burned her into nothingness, but Bobby didn’t have any answers to give, nor any reassurances. He didn’t know why, didn’t know if it would pass, didn’t know any more than Dean, and Dean wanted to shout at him over the phone, tell him he was supposed to have answers, supposed to be the experienced one with all the knowledge to set things straight, but knew it was useless. Bobby couldn’t do anything but promise he’d look into it and let Dean know if - when, as soon as - he found something, and tell him to look after Sam in the meantime.
Look after Sam. As if he’d ever done anything else. Didn’t do too well this time, though, did you?
But there wasn’t much else he could do. He couldn’t leave Sam alone, and he didn’t dare to let him outside the relative safety of the room, and so he spent the days searching the internet while listening to Sam talk, either to Dean or to the wall. One or the other didn’t always seem to make much of a difference to him, and half the stuff Dean figured the wall could make more sense out of than he could, anyway.
“The mirror, Dean.” Sam’s voice was worried, which really wasn’t a much of a change, and Dean really, really didn't want to know what was up with the mirror.
But he asked. He had to. Keep talking to him. Keep it normal. “What about it, Sammy?”
“The mirror’s not working.” There was a frown between Sam’s eyes and he was staring in the mirror above the bathroom sink as if it was supposed to hold some kind of answer but didn’t. At a different time Dean would have been snickering at Sam staring at himself like that and said something about beauty queens never being happy with what they’re seeing, but at a different time Sam wouldn’t be staring at himself like that in the first place, and at this point Dean was so far beyond finding the situation funny it wasn’t even - well, funny.
“What do you mean, it’s not working?” Dean asked tiredly. “It’s a mirror. It shows your freaky face. That’s what they do.”
But apparently that was not all there was to it, not according to Sam, because he was shaking his head. “No, no. No, that’s not - I don’t…” He trailed off. “Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“Can we stop?”
Dean leaned his head in his hands and breathed, he needed to breathe, just for a few moments, and before he could open his mouth to tell Sam that, yeah, sure, they could stop, they could stop whenever Sam wanted (please, Sammy, just stop this) there was a smash and the sound of glass shards hitting the floor and he was up and into the bathroom in less than a second, grabbing Sam by the arms and trying not to look at the blood.
“Goddamnit!” He hauled Sam out of the room, careful not to let him step on the broken glass and got him to sit down on the bed. The cuts on Sam’s hand weren’t deep, to his relief - no need for stitches, and so Dean settled for cleaning them and wrapping the hand. He didn’t say anything while working, teeth pressed hard together, and his hands were rough, but Sam didn’t complain.
How long was this going to go on? How long could he justify trying to wait it out? And Jesus, for how long could he take it?
He finished the wrapping and was really freakin’ thankful for the small favor of not having to stitch his brother up right now, because his hands were shaking so hard - because he was angry, that was why, he was so fucking pissed off - he wasn’t sure them with a needle would have been such a good idea. But anger was okay, it was good, anger he could deal with, so he latched onto it and finally barked at his brother, “Dude, what the hell was that about?”
“It wasn’t working,” Sam simply said. “I told you. Didn’t I? It didn’t… Dean?”
“What?” he growled.
“Can we stop?”
And that was it right there, the sheer hopefulness in his voice driving Dean to the edge, and he had to swallow hard before he could get the words out. “Yeah, Sammy. We’ll stop.”
Sam’s smile was big and shiny and not him at all, and Dean closed his eyes for a second against the wrongness of it.
“Look, man, it’s getting kinda late. Why don’t you get some sleep?” he suggested, praying inwardly Sam would do it and give him a few hours of… not peace and quiet, because Sam had been talking even in his sleep for the past nights and Dean didn’t harbor any hope that this night would be any different, but at least it’d be a few hours when he didn’t have to pretend that everything was all right. And he wanted to put the glass on the bathroom floor away. He didn’t really think Sam would start getting ideas of using any of the shards on himself (not really) with the ghost being gone and all, but you know. Just to be on the safe side.
Sam’s eyes widened and he stood up immediately, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no, no, Dean, we can’t, it’s not, there’s no time - I need to -“
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy.” Dean stood with him, heart pounding, his hands on Sam’s arms again. “Hey, take it easy, okay? I thought we said we were gonna stop. We’re stopping, right? Getting some rest. Just -“
But Sam pulled away from him, restlessly moving around the room until he was standing with his back pressed against the opposite wall, muttering something about ice and it melting too fast. Dean sighed.
“Trust you to be worrying about the polar icecaps even now, you geek. Come on.” But when he took a step towards his brother Sam flinched away, suddenly looking close to panicked.
“No. No, you’re not him, you’re not…” He was pressing harder back into the wall now like he was trying to melt into it, watching Dean with frightened eyes, and all Dean could think was, God, no, please, not that, not that.
“Sam,” he started, but Sam squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at him, shaking his head again with the stubbornness of a frightened four year old telling himself that if he believed strong enough something wasn’t real, it wouldn’t be.
“No, you’re not - go away, you can’t - where’s - “
“Sam, listen to me, damn it!” He practically shouted the words before catching himself. Sam still wouldn’t look at him, but the stream of words stopped. “Look, I’m me, all right?” Dean said, trying to sound calm and now doing a pretty damn good job at hiding his own panic, he thought. “I promise, it’s me. I’ve been me all day, haven’t I? It was me earlier?”
Sam nodded reluctantly. “I think so,” he mumbled, but wasn’t looking convinced.
“Okay, so when would that have changed? I haven’t left the room, have I? It couldn’t have changed. It’s still me. I promise.” Sam, please. He was holding his hands out, trying to look as unthreatening as he possibly could, every fiber in his body begging Sam to listen, to believe him, to let this go.
His brother was staring at him now, still suspicious, not daring to believe him. Then suddenly, something like shrewdness crept into his eyes, and he studied Dean appraisingly for a few moments before asking, “Did we finish it?” and Dean had no idea what he was on about, again. Par for the course, really.
“What?”
“Did we finish it?” Sam repeated, slowly and deliberately, and Dean realized that this was the point where he needed to give the right answer without thinking about it. Well, hey, at least Sam was giving him a fifty percent chance.
“Yeah, man, we finished it.” He said it like it was the most evident thing in the world, praying he was getting it right, grateful that he’d always been a good liar. And grateful that it was apparently the right answer, thank fuck, because after what was likely just a few seconds but felt like hours Sam sagged, the tension flowed out of him and he finally looked at Dean with recognition in his eyes again.
“Okay?” Dean asked, cautiously taking another step towards him.
A nod. “Yeah. Sorry. Sorry, Dean, I just - I don’t know what -“ Sam looked thoroughly miserable now, and Dean ignored the painful clench in his chest at seeing his little brother like this. “It’s all… It’s yellow.” Sam waved his hand, an unfinished gesture that for some reason made Dean ache even more.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Let’s just - let’s get you some rest, huh?” This time Sam didn’t resist but let Dean lead him to the bed, and within minutes he was asleep.
The first thing Dean did was to take care of the mess in the bathroom before settling back on his own bed, watching his brother wincing in his sleep, worry lines creasing his forehead.
Christ, what wouldn’t he give for a night’s sleep? He was so freakin’ tired, which wasn’t that weird considering he’d been awake for three days straight, not daring to do more than doze for a few minutes at a time - there was no knowing what Sam might get up to. Blinking hard he turned the TV on, zapping between channels until he hit something that looked familiar. When he recognized it he switched away quickly, though, because Jack Nicholson rallying patients in Cuckoo’s Nest might be awesome, was awesome, but not now. Really not now.
Turned out that no matter what your reasons for staying awake were, coffee and worry could only keep the fatigue away for so long, and suddenly he found himself bolting up when he heard a gasp from the bed next to him. Sam was sitting up, hunched over with his back against the headboard, his head cradled in his hands and face pinched with pain.
He was mumbling through clenched teeth, and Dean could only catch snatches of it even though he was sitting right next to Sam on the bed without remembering having moved at all.
“Watch… No, watch… It’s behind… She’s gonna - no…”
Visions? Well, that was just fucking great. Just what they needed.
It went on and on, and Dean lost track of time while Sam grew more and more frantic, struggling against him and shaking, words and descriptions tumbling out of his mouth so fast Dean couldn’t keep up. He didn’t know when he’d started talking himself, but he was, he was babbling, babbling about everything and nothing trying to drown out Sam’s words, trying to reach through whatever fog was keeping him from Dean. Don’t do this, come on, snap out of it…
Then, just as sudden as it had begun it stopped, and Sam slumped against him. “Sam, you with me?” he asked after a little while, giving them both a minute to catch their breath. “Come on, say something. Tell me about the ice or the clouds or whatever. Sam.” Dean shook him slightly, willing him to move, talk, do something.
Finally, Sam stirred.
“Man, that sucked,” he whispered, voice hoarse and still a little breathless.
“Tell me about it,” Dean muttered. Understatement of the year.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.” He braced himself; waiting to hear Can we stop? and readied himself for another few hours of humoring his talkative little brother. He wondered what subjects would be tackled tonight. Spoons, maybe. Spoons weren’t too bad. Just as long as Sam stayed away from eyes. That conversation - or monologue - had been seriously disturbing.
“What the hell was that?”
“What was what?”
“’What’? That.” A hand came into Dean’s field of vision, gesturing briefly at the disheveled head pressed against his shoulder. “I can't even remember, and it’s never been - not like that. Jesus, it felt like hours.”
Dean stiffened. “Sam?” he asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
A groan. “Besides the massive headache, yeah, I think so. We got any water?” Sam sat up and rubbed his hands across his face, stilling when he caught Deans look. “Dude, what?” He frowned. “Are you okay?”
Dean jumped up and moved to grab a bottle of water from the little fridge, turning off the TV as he went.
“Fine. Just tired.” He threw the bottle to Sam, who opened it and drank greedily while Dean watched him, just as greedily drinking in the sight of Sam looking and moving and sounding like, well, Sam. He wasn’t sure they were out of the woods just yet, but… Maybe.
He had to ask again, though, just to be on the safe side. “Sure you’re feeling okay?” Sam threw him a questioning glance. “Just, you know, it got pretty intense there for a while.” He sat down on his own bed again, studying his brother and looking for signs of - what? Crazy?
“I feel fine. Really.” Sam fiddled with the lid for a minute before asking, hesitantly, “Did I - did I get hurt or something? I mean, we were at the cemetery, but then, I don’t…”
Dean let out a breath. He wasn’t sure if Sam not remembering the past few days was a good thing or not, but decided it was. “She got her hands on you. You’ve been pretty out of it for a while.” He wondered if Sam would settle for that.
Although, of course he wouldn’t.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “A while?” When Dean didn’t answer, he asked again, “Dean, how long have we been here?”
“Three days.” He attempted to sound like it was nothing, but could still see the implications of it hitting Sam as his mouth fell open.
“Three days? I’ve been - “ He looked at Dean and something in his expression changed. Softened. Oh, hell no. That face did not come with good things. “Dean,” he started.
Dean had no intentions whatsoever of letting Sam finish whatever was coming after that. “Hey, you’re fine, I’m fine, we’re both fine, everything’s awesome.” A huff. “And it’s gonna be even more awesome if you let me go to bed now.” Sam looked doubtful and about to protest, but Dean beat him to it.
“Look, I’ll tell you all about the whole thing tomorrow, I swear, but I’m beat, man. I just wanna sleep for a bit. Can we - can it wait? Just a few hours?”
He didn’t like the pleading tone in his voice, or the way a please almost slipped its way in there, but the words worked.
“Sure,” Sam said, and he was frowning again, but Dean didn’t really mind because it was the usual, somewhat concerned Sam-frown, not the confused one he’d been wearing almost constantly earlier, and that was a vast improvement.
Even concerned Sam beat crazy-talking Sam by miles, no question.
Dean stretched out on the bed without even bothering to undress, turned off the lights and heard Sam crawl back under his own covers. Slowly, he felt his body starting to relax. Wondered why whatever had happened to Sam had stopped just like that, and then arrived at the conclusion that he didn’t care. They didn’t catch many breaks, but he’d take them when he could.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when Sam’s voice floated over to him. “Sorry about this, man.”
Dean suppressed a groan. “Sam, don’t go all guilt-tripping on me here. It’s not like you could help it.”
“Yeah, but, I mean, it must’ve… You kinda look like crap.”
He gave an involuntary snort. “Well, that makes two of us, then. I’d tell you to go look in the mirror, but someone smashed it.”
There was a pause. Then, “I smashed the mirror?”
“Yup.” After a few seconds he added, “Something about your hair not having enough volume.”
“Shut up.”
“Love to.” When there was no response but the silence, Dean turned onto his side. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I promise. Over waffles. Deal?”
He couldn’t see Sam’s smile in the darkness, but he could still hear it. “Yeah, okay. Deal. ‘Night.”
“’Night, Sammy.” Unsure of whether or not he actually wanted Sam to hear him, he mumbled, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
And before he knew it, he was asleep.
...