Sammy Under Seige
Title: Sammy Under Siege
Summary: Three weeks after Sam gets back from Hell, they are barely, barely keeping their heads above water. They're not ready for this.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through Season 5. Discussion of rape.
Wordcount: 7,793
Author's Note: Sammyverse. This one come several months before A Sam is Just a Sam, and it'll show you a little about how we got there.
It might be the worst sound Dean's ever heard.
He was gone for three damn minutes, jogging out to the vending machine (on the other side of the fucking motel, what the fucking fuck, architects, Sammy does not do well alone). He was getting Sam some orange juice (it's all he'll drink this week, it's fine) to have with the breakfast he ordered in, but now he's back and Sam's not at the table, Sam's gone, and then from the bathroom he hears it. It's the most fucking broken he's ever heard his brother's voice.
"Oh no oh no oh no. This is bad. Oh no. Oh no."
Each little whimper hurts like a stab wound.
He drops the juice and the key and in two steps he's at the door to the bathroom where his little brother is wrapped up in his own arms like he hasn't been since the day they got him back, fuck, fuck, Dean was gone for three minutes and this kid who barely stand the basic fucking sensations of everyday existence managed to himself some kind of stomach flu and oh, God, this is going to be hard. Fuck.
"Hey, Sammy? You okay if I come over?"
Sam shakes his head, still hidden in his arms. "Sorrysorrysorryno."
"Hey. Don't apologize." He leans against the sink, gives the kid half a minute, and then says, "How about if I come over but don't touch?"
Sam hesitates, then gives him a small nod, and Dean's there in a fucking instant, and God is it hard not to touch when Sam's radiating heat, when he's shivering, fuck, how did he get sick this fast?
"I know," Dean says softly. "I know, you're so freaked out. I know. You know where you are?"
He gets a heavy nod. He's been so fucking good at this. Maybe it's just because they've stayed in one place (leaving would mean bringing Sam outside, and the few times they've done that--because sometimes Sam needs sunlight, needs it right he fuck now ohmyGodDeanplease--have been short and controlled, and until they have a definite place to move to, until a fucking house finally appears in the goddamn paper, it's just not worth the risk) but it's still fucking impressive that he doesn't freak out and think he's in the Cage (except it means the Cage was unmistakably, unabashedly more horrible than this, and even though Dean knows that, of course he knows that, he hates that even when he's this fucking scared Sam doesn't forget how far this is from Hell). Or maybe Sam's just a superhero, whatever, but he says, "Oregon. Th-three Rivers. Motel room. You. D-Dean," he clarifies.
"That's right. Good. Okay, Sam, we're fine."
He's taking these shitty little breaths and they're getting faster and faster. "Dean."
"I know. You're pretty sick. How about you unfold a little so I can clean you up?"
"I don't want to let go fall apart get lost."
They're not just getting faster. They're getting worse. Shit.
"Sammy, hey, you know I won't let that happen. You're barely breathing, dude. We've got to fix this."
"Mouth feels...no I don't like it oh no oh no."
"Sammy." Dean risks a hand in his hair. Sam stiffens but doesn't freak out, okay, good. "You're okay. You're just--" and then he carefully twists Sam's hair in his hand and pulls him up a little and holy fucking shit he's covered in hives. Covered. Fucking. Covered.
Holy goddamn shit shit shit shit this is bad.
"Oh my God. Sam. Oh God." Oh fucking shit this is horrible.
Sam can't handle this right now. He just can't. And Dean, fuck, Dean, he's thisclose to throwing in the towel and holding Sam and let him die from whothefuckknowswhat that food was safe and just send him right up to Jess and let her deal with this, because fuck, fuck, this is so outside of what's okay for Sam right now, Jesus, he had to ask permission to touch the kid and now he's going to stab him in the goddamn leg.
He lays Sam down on his back and whispers, "I'm sorry Sammy I'm sorry" while he unzips the kid's pants and tugs them past his knees.
Sam, fucking superhero, barely pays attention. He's too busy pawing at Dean's hand for attention and saying, "Dean, I can't breathe can't breathe oh no."
Dean digs through the First Aid kit and says, "I'm going to fix it. I need you to cling on, okay?" That's what they've been calling it.
(Sanity is Sam's cloth monkey mother now.)
(Dean is the wire one with the fucking EpiPen.)
He yanks a towel off the rack and hands it to Sam for him to squeeze in his fists and Sam pulls and pushes on it like a kitten and gasps when Dean slams the needle into his thigh.
"You know what this is," Dean says, holding it in, waiting the ten fucking seconds. He runs his other hand up and down Sam's calf, trying to soothe him while his muscles lock and unlock, God, Sam. "We've done this before. You know what this is. This isn't pain from down there. This is normal. We've done this. You know what's going on. Stay with me, Sam."
"It's too much it has to stop I need--"
"I know, and as soon as this is done I'm going to make this room so fucking dark and you can wear those big headphones and I'll make sure the sheets are cold and you can curl up and I won't touch you and you can check completely out. I promise. You've just got to hold for on for right now. You've got to work with me here."
Sam claws at his towel and his hair while Dean eases the needle out and massages the medicine in. "Okay, Sammy. All done. You're so fucking brave."
He is, and that's so fucking distracting that it takes Dean almost thirty seconds to realize he isn't any better.
Oh God. "Skin's on fire, Dean," Sam whispers, and he wheezes and wheezes and wheezes.
**
Four fucking EpiPens (and that's all, folks) and the reaction's slowed but hasn't stopped and all the Benadryl in the world isn't going to fix this. Pre-Hell, Dean would have been holding Sam's hand in an ambulance and teasing him about the oxygen mask right about now.
But this is Post-Hell, and Sam can't handle an oxygen mask and God, an ambulance? No no no, but Dean's baby brother is dying all over the floor, and there just is no other option, and no, he's not going to subject Sam to the bright lights and the sirens, no fucking way, but he still has to load him into the car and bring him into noise and crowds and echoey hallways and sick people and needles and hands on him and oh, God.
Oh God.
**
And Dean never, ever thought he'd wish this, but fuck does he wish the kid would just check out, would get overwhelmed and drop out right the fuck now, because he can't take this, he can't, nobody could. Nobody else could fucking get out of bed with the shit that's been done to Sam, okay, and you're telling them he's supposed to weather the worst reaction he's had in God knows how long, five years at least, and keep his shit together when there's sunlight blasting through the car windows and the heat won't turn on fast enough and every single thing hurts the hives that are all the fuck over him? No, this isn't okay, this poor fucking kid, how the fuck is he still goddamn conscious?
He's against the window, shocky and upset, clawing at his skin when God, Sam, the last thing you need is more sensation right now, Jesus, fuck. He reaches one hand over and grabs both of Sammy's and locks them in his lap.
"No scratching. Just breathe, okay?"
"Hurts."
"I know. I know you're hating this, but you're doing so well."
"D-dark room when it's over?"
"Yes. Dark room, no noise, ice cream if you want it." That part is a complete lie, because fuck if this kid is eating anything but sugar and rice cakes for three days until Dean can figure out what the hell caused this.
Sam wrenches his hands free and covers his ears as a car passes by and that's fine, that's fine. Dean presses his over Sam's eyes.
A realization hits Dean right as he pulls into the parking lot, way too fucking late, and he almost turns right the fuck around and brings them home, he really does.
They're going to touch his chest.
**
The ER is packed, but the triage nurse is way too fucking nice and she looks at Sam and takes his pulse and says he's not in immediate danger but she knows he's so uncomfortable and they have to wait but just a little while, they're ahead of a bunch of people, let her know if it gets worse, you're going to be find, sweetpea, they're going to take such good care of him, and it's all very sweet but Sam's not crying because of a fucking allergic reaction, okay? Like, have you fucking met Sam?
He's crying because the ER is packed and the triage nurse took his pulse and they're going to have to wait and because there are announcements over the loudspeaker and there's a kid screaming a few seats down and there are creepy dolls on the floor and the ceiling's way too high and people are walking too fast and moving too suddenly and he doesn't like the white coats, they're too bright and clean, but there are germsgermsgermsgerms everywhere and a baby's wailing and there's a guy with a cough in the corner that's definitely asthmatic, and that's unacceptable, and there are people bleeding, bleeding, fuck, and it's hot in here from the breath of a hundred strangers and someone walks by in high-heels that click on the linoleum and the doors sound like rain when they open (it rained last week and Sam wouldn't stop crying until it stopped and Dean sat still and held him and prayed to God there wouldn't be thunder) and and there are nurses fucking laughing behind the counter and people saying numbers too fast for Sam to track and in some drastically unfair addition to all of this there's a flickering light right above their heads that's not flickering on any rhythm, no, it's just spasming on and off and what the fucking fuck, how is Sam supposed to deal with that, and Jesus Dean can't believe it's only been three weeks and he already knows what's bad for Sam (but really he can't believe that it's been three weeks and the world hasn't figured out how the fuck to slow down and shut up and cradle the boy who fucking saved it).
Within a minute of sitting down, he gets a lapful of enormous baby brother, and yeah, that's fine. He hoists Sam's legs up on the other seat and spreads his legs enough so that Sam can sink down between them and crush himself against Dean's collarbone. It's so much touching, way more than Sam wants when he's this upset, but it's Dean so even if it sucks, it's Okay, and the rest of this is just so so so so so Not Okay.
Dean shrugs out of his jacket and pulls it over Sam like a blanket. "How you doing, kiddo?" he whispers in Sam's ear.
Sam is babbling quietly in Enochian, and, ugh, okay, so Sam's reached this level of upset, the kind he usually only gets to when someone burns popcorn a few rooms down or Dean says he'll be back in five minutes and then isn't, and it's completely fine when it's just the two of them but it's just going to be a barrel of laughs to explain to the doctors.
But that's not Sammy's problem, so it's fine.
He whispers, "Good boy, sweet boy," in Sam's ear and then covers it and guides Sam into his neck.
He holds him while the chanting turns to wheezing and then to sobs that almost knock him to the floor and then to whistling, breathless screams.
He kisses his temple and tries to pretend this is as bad as it's going to get.
**
It's maybe half an hour until their name is called, and by then Sammy's a sweaty, itchy mess with a wheeze that's really getting scary. There's no way Dean's making him walk, but he isn't sure he can carry him that far.
He can't think of anything particularly traumatic about a wheelchair, so he nods when a nurse asks him if they need one. Sure enough, Sam handles it, and fuck if he isn't trying to pull himself together now that the nurse is here, trying to put on the same brave face John coaxed him into as a kid--don't let 'em see you cry, Sammy, crying's just for us.
The nurse helps Sam onto the exam table and takes his blood pressure and the cuff is tight and sticky and Not Okay but Sam closes his eyes and is a fucking champion, and while the nurse watches the meter, Dean whispers out everything important--asthmatic, allergic to this drug and this drug and this drug, we don't know what he's reacting to, ate something, thought it was all safe, PTSD, anxiety, anxiety, anxiety.
"We can get him something," she says, and she's already getting stuff out for an IV. "To help him calm down. You're going to be just fine, sweetie. I know this is rough."
Sam looks at Dean, checking if this is okay, and Dean gives him a nod and tries to smile. Sam does the same to the nurse. Good boy.
"He reacts to, uh, Paxil and shit. Stuff."
"This would be a benzo, probably, maybe Klonopin? I'll ask a doctor and we'll see if we can pull up records for him."
"I don't think..." Dean starts, and then just shrugs, because it's easier to let her find out on her own that there's no paper trail on the kid and his fake name than to try to think of an explanation. He's just really not up to bullshitting tonight. "Yeah, please, give him something."
She wipes Sam's hand with some alcohol and Dean says, "This is going to be tough on him, I think," and she nods and lets Dean move in and grip his other hand. Sam watches Dean and doesn't flinch when the needle goes in. Doesn't really seem to notice it.
If Dean were an idiot, he'd think that's a good sign.
The nurse attaches Sammy to fluids and steroids and praises him and then she's on her way, and Dean immediately gets Sam lying down and pulls a chair up to the bed.
"You poor fucking thing," he says. "What did you eat before it happened? The toast? Some of the eggs?"
"I wasn't even going to come today," Sam says, and yeah, Dean's not going to get any real answers out of him for a little while.
"Yeah? That's okay." He brushes Sam's hair off his forehead and plays with the pulse ox on his finger. "I know, this is so completely overwhelming. I can't imagine how this feels to you right now."
"Colors," he says, softly.
"Yeah. Do you want to close your eyes?"
"It's too loud."
"Not sleep. Just close your eyes."
"It's too loud in my head." He pushes his face into the shitty hospital pillow. "It's bouncing off all the colors and I'm seeing things and my skin rubbedrawstrippeddown."
"I know, kiddo. You let me know if you think of anything I can do, okay?"
"Go home," he says miserably.
"As soon as we can, I promise."
"Don't want to die, don't want to go back home."
"Oh. Shit. Sam, you're not going back there. Not that home. Okay? You're staying with me. We're glued together, remember?"
(Sam's second day back, he needed silence and to feel everything, so Dean put glue on his fingers and let him play with it and helped him glue his fingertips to the back of Dean's hand.)
Sam sneezes and says, "Dark room? Blankets?" He's getting progressively more anxious. "Our room? Not his room?"
"Absolutely."
"What if we can't find it?"
"I can find it. I've got this. You just need to hang in there a little longer. Do you want oxygen? I don't know why they didn't give you oxygen."
"Because there isn't any."
"No, there is. Hey. It's okay. God, Sammy, please don't cry. There's oxygen, I fucking swear."
"I couldn't even see where I was going." He's crying. Fuck.
"That's okay."
"And then I wasn't going anywhere."
"Sammy."
"Everything exploded like stars except they're so far away, it all happened a hundred years ago," and then he's a fucking mess, he's done, and Dean rests his hand on his back and listens to his baby break down.
**
So breaking down is one thing, but then they give Sam a fucking roommate, a teenager with a broken leg and a loud friend, and he's just panicking and flinching every time one of them makes a noise and Dean's about to get up and beat the shit out of them except Sammy has a death grip on his hand and then the doctor comes in and he's gentle with Sam, he really fucking is, but he has to check his pulse and he rests a hand on Sam's chest and really it's not his fault Dean knows that but that's really the last straw for his Sammy and he's backing up so fast, feet hitting the bars on the side of the bed, IV pulled out of his hand and bleeding and this isn't breaking down, this is losing it with a side of asthma attack and this is Dean's Not Okay.
He's trying to scream but he doesn't have the air, and he's looking at Dean with these desperate eyes that say can you scream for me? and Dean is about to because God if you'd told Dean when he woke up this morning that four hours later he'd be dragging his baby brother into something so fucking Not Okay he would have had you fucking salted and burned for even dreaming up this kind of torture for his baby, and then he's on Sam's one side and the nurse is on the other and they're not saying anything important because what the fuck is there even to say, they're just keeping up the litany of "It's okay Sam it's okay okay okay" and the doctor slides the IV back in and gives Sam Klonopin, thank fucking God.
**
It makes Sam sleepy and sad, which is fine. Dean sits at the bottom of the bed and pets Sam's feet (yeah shut--you know what, don't even shut up if you don't want to, Dean really, really does not give a shit) and every once in a while wraps a hand around his calf and squeezes.
He's definitely alert and aware but you wouldn't know it from the nonsense pouring out of his mouth, which is also fine. A lot of the time Dean's able to pick out meanings from behind stuff Sam says, but he's pretty sure "Swimming in the Atlantic down under a river with bees and guitar," doesn't have any hidden significance, even if Sam says it in that grave voice with his nose running.
"You need anything, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head. His pulse ox is showing improvement and the hives are going down and this might actually be okay, except Dean kind of needs to punch something.
"You know where you are?" he tries.
"Frogs and crayons, why won't you come back?"
Dean laughs a little. "Fair enough."
Laughing gets him a small teary smile.
"You're my favorite."
"Caribou."
"Oh, God, Sam. Caribou. I love you, kiddo."
**
Sam's falling asleep, now, God bless Klonopin. They really should get some of this at home, and Dean's halfway through thinking that when he realizes that doesn't have to be a joke. Maybe half the dose he's getting now, hell, maybe a fucking quarter judging by the gibberish and those heavy, slow blinks, but Sam should be on some kind of medication, and how the fuck did it take Dean this long to realize that? Hang on, Sammy, Dean will help, it'll be okay. Dean's got this. Dean has all of this under control, okay? And the truth is, they're doing really, really well.
Sam's really scared of being fixed because he doesn't think he can handle what's in his head if he isn't allowed to fall apart a little, but Dean isn't trying to fix him. He's just trying to give him tools. And Sam's taking them and mastering them and sometimes he falls apart and it's all unbelievably okay.
Lately Sam's been trying to talk about Hell, and it's hard. For Dean.
I see no point in living but to see you go on. It's a quote, Dean can't remember from where.
Go on, Sammy.
Go on.
You talk about Hell and you talk in gibberish and you cry in your hospital bed and you cling to whatever the fuck you feel like clinging to.
I can't go on. I'll go on.
That's a quote too. From a play he helped Sam study for school.
For Sam.
Sam. Dean plays with his hair. You be as okay as you want.
**
He's almost asleep when the teenagers through the curtain start making loud jokes about the bedpan, crashing it around, and Sam startles and whimpers and yep, that'll do it.
He comes up to Sam's head and says, "You okay if I head over there? I have some asses that need kicking."
"Through the clouds." Sam sighs a little and nods. "Do everything in its own time."
"It's ass-kicking time, I'm pretty sure."
"I trust you."
"You are perfect, okay?"
"Noooooo."
"Trust me."
"It's incredibly hard in this case," Sam says, and Dean bursts out laughing and wraps him in this enormous hug.
**
"Hey." He tries to keep his voice low, because he hasn't yelled around Sam yet, and he thinks it'll probably be even harder for Sam to deal with when it's in Dean's voice. Dean's supposed to be safe, damn it. "I've got a sick little brother here. You mind knocking it down a few notches?"
"He's got a fractured femur!" The (soon-to-comatose) friend jostles the shoulder of the broken guy in the bed. "Guy's gonna be out for months. Least I can do is keep him entertained."
"Wow, okay, I can open this curtain and keep him entertained with the size of the hives on the kid over there, if need be. Or the wheeze in his chest, that's pretty exciting. Just shut the fuck up. He's trying to sleep and you assholes are bothering him."
The guy in the bed says, "We'll try to keep it down," and Dean's about to nod and let it drop (actual asskicking = blood, blood = Not Okay) except the friend says, "By the sound of your brother over there, I don't think there's anything that wouldn't bother him. Maybe splurge for a single if you don't want to share the room with someone who isn't up to your standards."
"Next word's going to be your last."
"Oooh, look at this tough guy, Tyler."
Dean left his gun in the car.
Hmm. That might work.
"You keep it down," he says, "Or I will get my fucking gun out of the car and I'll give you something to yell about."
His mouth snaps shut.
If Dean could find anything but the ramblings of his crazy little brother funny anymore, he might have smiled.
**
The nurse suggests ice chips (he's not dehydrated, they're pumping him full of saline but his mouth is dry and bothering him--not in a panicked way, in a bitchy Old-Sammy way that ends up making them both grin like idiots) but that's not going to work, so Dean takes hot water from the coffee machine and dunks a lot of ice in it and sits by the bed stirring it until it reaches a good temperature. Sam lies there looking nervous.
"What's up, kid?"
"Allergic."
"To water? Uh-uh. Not even you."
He rubs his eye. "Egg."
"I'm thinking that too. That was too intense for something with peanuts touched my food. Don't rub."
"I'm not allergic to egg," Sam says, all upset and big-eyed and ugh, Sam.
"Here's the thing." He puts the cup down. It's still too hot. "You were when you were little. Outgrew it when you were two or three. So your body got used to it, but we took you to some doctor who said you had to keep eating it or you might lose your tolerance again. Well, guess who didn't eat egg for a zillion years?" He plays with Sam's hair. "It's okay. We'll avoid it until your body's ready to try again. It's fine." It's going to make eating so much harder. Fuck.
"I can't come back for tests," Sam says, "I can't handle it," and God, when Sam's all calm like this, so incredibly fucking honest and clear, how the fuck are you not supposed to be crazy about this kid?
"I know. We're going to do what we have to do tonight, just get everything out of the way. And it's going to be total fucking shit but then it's all over, buddy. Can you just hold on a few more hours?"
Sam wheezes out a sigh and nods a little, eyes closed.
"Drugs helping? You're staying with me more than you were."
"Yeah. I don't know." He rolls onto his back. "I think I'm in fucking shock or something."
"I'd believe it."
"Brain's just freaked out."
"As soon as we get home, I promise, dark room and blankets. Cover you up."
Sam pinches the skin between his eyes. "Shit."
"Oh. Hey. What's wrong?"
"Just..." He gestures uselessly. "I'm hungry."
"Hey. Okay. Don't worry. I'll find you something safe."
Sam shakes his head.
"Sammy. You're going to have to eat."
"What if I react?"
"You won't."
"What if I die?"
"Sam, you won't."
"I can't go back there. I can't I can't I can't."
"Calm down." He cups his hand around Sam's jaw. "Please calm down."
"He'll take me back grab me he said if I ever left him then all the blades of grass would be his fingers and they would pull me back down down down."
Okay, so grass is going to be a problem. Good to know.
Except right now his shaking little brother in a hospital bed, this, this is a problem.
"Sammy. Kiddo. Even if you did die--hey hey hey no freaking out. Listen to me. Even if you did die, there's no fucking way you'd go back to the cage. You don't get that?"
"Grab me by the ankles and pull." Sam's feet jerk at the bottom of the bed.
"Shh shh shh. Sam. Someday when we die, a billion and a half years from now, we're going up to sit in Heaven with Jess and count clouds and drink some sort of God-sanctioned alcohol forever and ever. You know that. We've seen that."
Sam shakes his head. "I'm bad."
"No."
"I started the apocalypse."
"Sam."
"Part demon."
"Hey. Sam. Look at me."
"F-fucked more times by Lucifer than Jess, y'know?"
God. Dean needs to be able to handle this, fucking has to be, but Jesus fucking God is it easier to focus on what Sam needs here and now and not try to think about why.
It's fine that Sam's having sensory issues.
It is so not fine (it is Not Okay) that his Sammy was locked down and couldn't sense a goddamn thing for the six months his soul was still down there and his body wasn't (torture by sensory deprivation starts at fifteen minutes, like the hallucinations. Dean's looked it up. Dean did not want to look it up).
It's fine that Sam is fucked up. It's fine that he has to take his long showers and sleep curled up and that he wakes up crying and holding his knees and feeling like a cliche.
It is so not fine that someone fucked with Sammy.
It is so, so, sososososo not fine that someone raped Sammy.
"You're going to be the strongest fucking thing in Heaven," Dean says. "Nobody's ever dealt with this much. No one's fuckingever gone through this much. We're going to get up there and they're going to bow at your fucking feet."
"No."
"King Sam. The best fucking Sam."
Sam sniffles into his pillow and shakes his head.
Dean wraps his hand around his shoulder. "Let me get you something to eat."
"O-okay."
"God, I can't believe how well you're keeping it together. I am so fucking proud."
**
What that means, of course, is that when Dean gets back from interrogating the cafeteria ladies and reading all the ingredients and finally, finally choosing something safe for Sam, he comes back to the loud broken-legged teenager and his even louder friend and one empty bed.
So the answer is no, he couldn't hang on a few more hours.
Sammy. No. No no no, where are you?
**
Dean has to repeat it's for Sammy it's for Sammy it's for Sammy in his head like a fucking mantra before he can force himself to ask the loud twins if they've seen his brother.
He must look as wrung out as he feels, because neither of them gives him any shit.
"I just got back from getting coffee and Tyler's been asleep," the friend says. "We haven't seen him. Maybe they took him for tests or something?"
They wouldn't. They know he's a mess. "Okay. Um. Thank you, I guess."
He shrugs.
Dean sweeps the bathroom and the hallway but there's no sign of his kid and fuck fuck this is bad. He literally collides with a nurse who was in there earlier, and he says, "Do you know where my brother is?"
"He's missing?" She nods for him to follow her to the nurse's station, where she fishes out his chart and leafs through it. "Yeah, he should be in his room. He's not scheduled for anything but blood tests."
Right. The blood tests Dean was going to try to beg their way out of. Scratch tests on his arms for allergies are one thing. Taking actual blood is a whole 'nother ballgame.
"When are those?" Dean says. "The other nurse told me two o'clock."
She frowns and looks down at the chart. "They ran them half an hour ago. Results should be back soon."
No.
No.
"Can I get that doctor's name, please?"
**
He finds the doctor who did it and practically runs her into a fucking corner, and then she has to go and be all nice and tell her exactly what happened, about how his Sammy held his arm out and hid his face in his other hand and didn't ask for him.
Oh, God, Sammy.
**
He just doesn't know where he'd be. He doesn't fucking know well enough, if Sam would look for somewhere bright or somewhere dark or somewhere hot or cold, if he's trying to comfort or torture himself and what each of those would even require at this point because he doesn't understand Sam's head, okay? He doesn't fucking know, and he's trying so goddamn hard, but his poor fucking kid, his fucking blood, and the reaction might not be finished and who's to say he's still connected to his IV, that he's still even in the fucking building, oh God oh God oh God.
He's not ready for this. He's just not fucking ready for this, and he spent the entire year Sammy was gone telling himself that whatever condition Sam was in, he could handle it, he could put his arms all the way around whatever kind of psychosis Sam dragged up with him and hold it tight and keep it safe and covered and okay, and he's trying, okay, he's fucking trying, but no, this is not sunshine and rainbows and fucking hypo-allergenic puppies, this is Hell inside his kid's head and if you think for one fucking second that the Magic That Is Sam and Dean can somehow make that something cuddly and metaphorical and surmountable then you are fucked in the goddamn head, because crazy Sam is adorable and crazy Sam is sweet and crazy Sam is frustratingly, unavoidably Sam but crazy Sam is fucking miserable and that always, always comes first and Dean doesn't know what to do, Dean is flying fucking blind, okay, this was not his Hell and this was not his baby and what he really wants is a second Sam, a sane Sam, who could help him with this Sam, because this Sam is fucked up and Dean doesn't know when the fuck he's supposed to stop trying to glue Sam back together and just take the broken boy and love him exactly the hell he is and Dean is fucking up and Sam is gone, fuck, he's gone, and Dean is paralyzed and this is Not Not Not Not Okay.
And, once again, here he is thinking that as long as Sam is here, everything is fine, nothing else will matter, and one of the nurses who's been sweeping the hospital tells him that she found Sam in the morgue.
"Oh, no, he's fine, sweetheart, no no no, oh, honey, he's just a little scared, just sitting there," and she's apologizing for scaring him as if there's anything she can say that will make it any better that Dean's scared kid has curled up cold and alone with the dead.
**
He's wedged in a corner, arms locked around his head. The IV is long gone and it's just Sam and this thin hospital gown and this frozen, silent room.
They listened when Dean told them that no fucking way was Sam to be ambushed, so there's a nurse waiting outside the door but Dean gets to go in alone.
And all of a sudden, the fact that he has no idea what he's doing kind of ceases to matter, because it's not a series of rules, here. It's not a list Dean needs to memorize. It's not something he needs to understand. There is no code to crack.
Because, like, hold your fire, it's just Sam, you know?
They are the goddamn Magic That Is Sam and Dean.
It's still just Sam.
So Dean can bitch and moan all he wants, but the truth is, this sucks sometimes, but it is never, ever hard.
It's for Sam.
**
He sits down carefully about a foot away from him, and he says, softly, "Must have been the coldest place you could find, huh?"
"Had to be cold to stop the bleeding," he says, teeth chattering, head still ducked.
"You just checked out, huh? Let her take your blood and then freaked out when you realized what happened?"
Sam nods, then says in this miserable voice, "I couldn't figure it out in time."
"It's okay, Sammy."
"Things are slower here, because it's cold."
"God, your breathing. Oh, kiddo, you sound awful."
He heaves out this horrible breath and loosens the fucking choke hold he has on his head. "I had to get away."
"From what?"
"Everything."
"From me?" Dean's not hurt, what do you think this is, he's just trying to get the kid to talk.
Sam nods.
"Tell me why."
"In case you didn't come back."
"I was getting you food. I got you orange juice, Sam."
He coughs, this sick deep rattle. "Remember when we went on the field trip and they said if you get lost come meet at the front by the woolly mammoth?"
"You didn't believe in woolly mammoths."
"Yeah. But they said."
"I remember."
"Well, what happens if you can't find the woolly mammoth? Then where do you go?"
"You can go to the front desk and ask."
"My front desk is empty. There's fucking no one running this place."
"Deep breaths, okay?"
"I'm not panicking." He drops his head into his hands. "I just think that it's good to have some other place to go. Especially when you're bleeding."
Dean's stomach hurts. "You're supposed to come to me, Sam."
"I think you're my woolly mammoth," Sam says, and fuck, he sounds so sad. "You're the first thing I see when I come in."
Dean nods and reaches over to play with his hair.
Sam lets him. "But what if I walk in and you're not there?"
"Then you're in the wrong place, I think."
"I've got to get out of this place." Sam rocks. He's trying to soothe himself. "There's no one at the front desk and it's empty rocks and hot hands."
"This has been such an enormously horrible day for you. Can I get you to stand up?"
Sam looks at him, finally. "Go home?"
"Yeah. Let's go home."
**
By the time they've left the hospital the Klonopin's mostly worn off, so Dean has a folder full of test results, an engine breaking every damn speed limit, and a miserable, shaky kid in his passenger seat.
The second they're back at the motel, he shuts off all the lights and draws the curtains and guides Sam to his bed.
"You're so fucking great," he says, helping Sam get the scratchy hospital gown so, so far away from him. "You did so well, Sammy."
"We weren't ready for that," Sam whispers.
And yeah, they really, really weren't, and it's going to take them a while to bounce back from it. Dean gets that. It's okay.
Because Sam's back and safe, dark room, big headphones, cool sheets and warm blankets. He's sleeping hard, splayed out on his back, breaths only catching a little in his chest.
Dean reads test results from the light of his phone and wonders how the fuck he's going to get Sam to eat.
**
He can't, for a while, because Sam crashes and Sam crashes hard. He won't get out of bed the next morning, no matter how many times Dean tells him that a shower to wash off the hospital will make him feel so much better. He stays still and whimpers when Dean moves around and babbles in Enochian, forehead pressed to the mattress. When he sleeps, Dean steps out on the walkway and smokes cigarette after cigarette and finally gives in and calls to Cas.
He doesn't say anything for a while, just smokes and watches the angel watching him.
"How are you?" Cas eventually asks.
"Crashing. He's crashed, I'm crashing. I don't know what the fuck to do."
"Tell me what happened," Cas says, so Dean does, from the bathroom floor to the waiting room to the loud teenagers to the sedatives to the blood tests to the morgue.
"I seriously don't get how the fuck he survived it. He was a fucking mess, but I've honestly been looking at this kid's fucking Hell-trauma and been worried it might actually fucking kill him. But he didn't hurt himself. He didn't even stop breathing, and that's a fucking Sam extra-curricular activity."
"You're surprised."
"I just miss Sam, Cas. I just really fucking miss him."
"Tell him that."
"What?"
**
"Tell him. Doesn't Sam like to talk?"
**
It's evening, and Sam hasn't budged. Dean holds cool washcloths to Sam's eyes and lets him cry into them.
"I miss you, buddy."
Sam nods desperately and gulps down a few breaths.
"And I'm not going to let anything take you again."
Sam sobs or laughs and says, "I can't even get out of bed."
**
But he does get out of bed.
It takes three days before he's up for anything but a Dean-supported trip to the bathroom and the occasional glass of water, and by the time he's up and sitting on top of the covers instead of curled up underneath (which counts, okay?) he's lost weight he didn't have to spare in the first place and he's got this constant, painful wheeze from the layer of dust settled over everything that fuck if Dean's going to stir up while Sam's in the room.
So, you know. This sucks.
Dean gets Sam applesauce and saltines and all the stuff he ate after bad reactions as a kid, when everything else seemed so scary (to him and John, not to Sammy. Sammy was always brave).
Sam picks at it.
"You've got to be so hungry," Dean says. "Please eat."
Sam holds onto his own feet, squeezes them in his hands.
He eats four saltines and three spoonfuls of applesauce and Dean feels like singing.
"You are so incredible."
And then Sam goes and says, "Thank you for being patient with me," and God, Sam, God, what the fuck else is Dean supposed to be?
But then he's sneezing and wheezing and rubbing his eyes and is convinced, fucking convinced, that it's from the food, and Dean gives him Benadryl because it's not worth having him freak out. "It's the dust, kiddo. That's all it is. Can I get you to take a shower, and I'll clean up while you're in there?"
Sam nods a little.
"Sit down on the side if you get lightheaded. Promise?"
"Yeah."
He helps Sam out of bed and breathes in quickly when Sam wraps him in a hug.
They don't do a lot of hugging standing up. Usually it all stems from back rubs when Sam's lying down and sleeping on top of each other in exhausted heaps after a nightmare or an asthma attack.
He forgets how big Sam is.
"You're so gentle with me," Sam says. But he's the one holding Dean like he might break.
"I can't let you get hurt again." The words are out before Dean can stop them. "If it's you or the whole fucking world, that's fine with me, the world can go screw itself. You are no one's fucking sacrifice."
"Okay."
**
Dean was an idiot and didn't think about the shower being too loud, but now he's dusting with a piece of newspaper and listen to Sam openly sob in the bathroom and holy shit, this newspaper.
This house for rent.
This fucking house for rent.
He calls Bobby to "talk about Sam" and mentions the house "in passing" and tries to swallow pride and fucking shame (that mantra: it's for Sam it's for Sam it's for Sam) when Bobby offers them money and a cosign.
And then he hauls his brother out of the shower and tells him the world is on their side for once.
**
It's a four hour drive, and Sam is struggling. He's got a headache from hunger and from the sun flashing through the trees, and headaches are very much Not Okay, so he's working hard to keep it together. Dean plugs Sam into some headphones and plays that stupid Dean-screened music and is careful, so fucking careful, about touching, because he's a little overwhelmed.
Diners are a no-go, people are a no-go, so he leaves Sam in the car ("shhh, nothing will happen, look, doors are locked, just hold your gun, I'll be right back") and comes back with bananas and chicken soup (protein, Jesus) and Swedish fish, fucking bucketloads of Swedish fish.
Sam eats while they drive. He's nervous, talking in nonsense, but that's okay. They're almost there.
**
It's this tiny house, blue siding, windows, a little patch of dirt where he'll be making a garden for Sam once the outside isn't so scary. He parks right by the door so Sam doesn't have to walk in the grass that's supposed to wrap around his ankles and pull him back to Hell, fuck.
"You need dark after all that?" Dean says. "We can explore more later if you want to rest."
Sam shakes his head and gestures towards the couch. "Light," he says, eventually. He's been losing words for the past hour or so. He's really tired.
"No problem. Can you manage a neb? You're pretty wheezy."
Sam thinks and shakes his head. "Inhaler, though."
"Good enough. Take it and come lie down."
Sam lies back with his head on Dean's lap and looks up at the skylight.
"You like that?"
Sam nods. "Sometimes."
"Your room doesn't have it. Your room can get really dark."
"Lights?"
"Yeah, it has lights. Hey, guess what, there's a windchime outside if you want to put it up. How girly is that shit? We can put it up and take it down whenever you want."
"Sounds nice."
"We're in control, kiddo."
He nods yes when Dean asks if the TV's okay. Dean keeps the volume low and they watch the cooking channel because it's Sam's favorite and maybe it'll make him hungry. It works.
He unpacks groceries and makes a plate for Sam--turkey slices, peaches, corn flakes, real meals can wait--but when he brings it back to the living room Sam is gone.
Dean doesn't panic--the car's still here, Sam was doing well, this is fine--until he calls Sam and sweeps the house and doesn't find him. And fuck, it's raining a little, just drizzling, but Sam could probably hear it through the skylight and that probably freaked him out. Fuck. Kid needs a fucking leash (not really, has there ever been a worse idea than binding up a fucking rape survivor? No? Okay).
He checks the car through the window again, just to make sure, and then he sees his little brother sitting in the grass.
Holy shit, Sammy.
He brings the plate outside and sits next to him. He half expects the kid to be totally checked out, but no, he's doing okay, face tilted up to the sky, hands tightly fisting the grass.
"You are ridiculous, you know that?"
Sam smiles at him.
"Doing okay?"
Another nod. "You could bring me in and dry me off and fix it and I wouldn't have to go back."
"You could dry yourself off, too."
Sam thinks about it and nods a little.
"God, you're so fucking brave."
He looks at the plate. "Share?"
"Share."
They balance the plate between them and eat turkey slices and peaches and cornflakes and knock bare feet together in the grass.
Welcome home, Sam.