Melt My Sam to Stone
Title: Melt My Sam to Stone
Summary: There's a barely-out-of-Hell Sam. There's a routine that needs to be followed. There's a bad day of breathing. And then there's a fucking car alarm. Another prompt from familybiznessbecause even when we don't co-write she is aaaaall over this verse.
Warnings/Spoilers: Post-Hell, mentions of rape, self-injury.
Wordcount: 4,652
Author's Note: Sammyverse. This takes place somewhere between Bittersweet Symphony and Sammy Under Siege, so he's been back for about two weeks. Title is obviously from "Melt My Heart to Stone" by Adele.
Dean figures out how to tell if Sam is awake by the rhythm of the hitches in his breath and the pitch of his whimpering.
He figures out that waiting for Sam to tell him what's okay isn't being thoughtful, it's being completely fucking stressful, because what the fuck, he's expecting Sam's whacked-out brain to have any clue what's going on? He's, what, not only expecting Sam to somehow cling the hell on to whatever the fuck this is (dirty motel bed, dirty middle of nowhere, dirty life--stay with me, buddy, stay with me, you hearing me?), no, he's also thinking, huh, maybe the kid's supposed to hold Dean's little hand and tell him how he's doing? How about he draws you pictures, Dean? Would you like Sam to put together a lesson plan that's tailored to your learning style? Jesus fucking Christ, finding out what's making Sam cry is not Sam's fucking job.
But mostly what he figures out is that crazy Sam is a goddamn sweetheart, and fuck, that's a blow. It just hurts like a shot.
**
They lie together on Sam's bed, on their sides, facing each other. Sam is awake and skimming his fingernails over the sheet. Dean mimics his movements because why the hell not, he doesn't know how to help, and this doesn't seem to be hurting.
A few minutes later, Sam starts wheezing, and he scoots closer to Dean and folds right into his chest.
Dean's you're safe I love you you okay in there do you want something to drink does your chest hurt? pours out of him like water.
Sam whispers in Enochian and his lungs whistle him a lullaby.
**
Routines help. He gets Sam up at the same time everyday and keeps the lights off and the curtains drawn while he helps him through a bath. Sam washes himself (but likes it when Dean washes his hair, so he does, of course) but he doesn't like to be alone, and fuck if Dean is in the mood for it either. Plus shaky wheezy Sammy would probably slip in the dark and crack his head open or some shit, and that's not on the schedule which means it can't happen.
Sam can handle light, sometimes, but not while he's in the bath, not while there's splashing and the leaky faucet and the feel of the water on his skin and the smell of the soap. This is a lot, a fucking lot to ask of Sam, and it's amazing that he keeps his shit together through it as often as he does.
But sometimes he doesn't, and today Dean sits on the bath mat and he can't even see his fucking kid and he can't touch because that's Too Much for today, Too fucking Much, so all he can do is sit here and listen while his little brother sobs like he's being skinned alive, and no, okay, the irony of the fucking situation is not lost on him, he's perfectly aware that Sam is falling apart because he's fucking overloaded, fucking baffled by too many senses while Dean's sitting here fucking desperately imagining what Sam looks like (he's probably got his knees up and that wheeze is sounded muffled so probably he's got his face pushed into them, maybe biting the skin, please stay calm, Sammy, please) and how his skin would feel (hot, on fucking fire, the water's exactly room temperature, Sam, exactly, please breathe) because this is not enough senses, not enough, fucking sitting here uselessly while Sam cries is never going to be okay.
But any noise he makes is going to further shatter the kid, so he just sits here.
(The truth? The truth is that Dean is only doing a marginally better job at keeping their shit--Christ, his shit--together than Sam is. And it's all well and good that he's sitting here uselessly in the dark, Brother of the Year to you, Dean, write a fucking speech, but then at the end of the day it's Dean outside the motel room tearing through a pack of cigarettes with he and Sam on either side of the window, hands pressed together, at the end of the day it's Dean pretending his whiskey is coffee and it's Sam, Sam, who has to live with this.)
(At the end of the day, it's fucking stupid to wish for another pair of hands when half the time your kid won't let you touch him.)
**
But he can't just let him break down in the bath all day. Sam has to eat, so eventually Dean approximates Sam's shoulder and gets a handful of his hair instead. Sam hisses in air like it hurts. Dean can't tell if he's crying anymore.
"Let's get you up, okay?"
"There's shadows in the bottom and if they knew I'd been here before--"
"No shadows, it's too dark, yeah?"
"Too dark," Sam says, softly. "It's too dark."
"C'mon." He gets a hand under each of Sam's elbows and pushes up until Sam's standing. "There we go."
He gets Sam wrapped up in a towel, and out of nowhere Sam's coughing, badly. It makes sense, after an hour of that soaked, miserable crying, but maybe Dean's not used to that yet, okay? Jesus fucking fuck, he's been back for two and a half weeks, stop thinking Dean's a goddamn expert, fuck, fuck. It wasn't like this for him, okay? It just fucking wasn't. He came back with flashbacks and nightmares and fear, with memories. And then here's Sam, messy-eyed, junky-lunged, broken-hearted, same-smile Sam, and he is sad, okay, he is motherfucking sad, and Dean didn't get that one, Dean doesn't know that one, Dean cannot hunt that one.
He helps Sam into sweats and pulls him onto the bed. It's a lot, and Sam whispers about the clothes biting his skin and tucks himself under Dean's arm like he used to when he was little (same fucking body--this is Dean's kid that got tortured, okay? Do you get how fucked up that is? Do you understand that Dean changed his diapers and kissed his scrapes and tugged a bullet out of his shoulder? This is the part where he'd usually say something like "to put it plainly, mine" except let's put it even more the fuck plainly and say that Sam was raped twenty zillion times and Dean's read the websites maybe just as many and he knows damn well that Sam's body is Sam's but no, it doesn't stop him from wanting to gather the kid up in his arms and fucking rubber stamp him with Dean's name like he's a fucking library book--except no, because he isn't fucking going anywhere, no one is checking out Sam--with DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN because...because mine, okay? Because fucking mine.)
(Because a few nights this week Sam has only slept after Dean's whispered "my Sam my Sam my Sam" into his hair for an hour and a half.)
(Because Sam never made any fucking sense before, so why the fuck would he now?)
(Because crazy Sam is a goddamn sweetheart. And Dean can't hunt that.)
**
Dean doesn't push food, because Sam's calmed down some and he's okay where he is right now, head against Dean's shoulder, hands twisted in their shirts. He whispers "helicopter" and "bees under my skin" and "shrunk down for science." Dean asks questions and he answers. It's all the rhythm of a conversation, and if Dean doesn't think too hard he'd almost fucking believe it.
"You can fit more if they're small," Sam says, quietly.
"That makes sense. Still don't know if it's okay, though. Putting my hand on your back, kiddo, just a warning. You good?"
"Fifty or sixty, I think, but I lose count. Counting makes more sense than gripping because of the texture. It's just the texture that's the problem."
He wraps his hand around Sam's ribcage. He's struggling. "God, you're working hard."
"Sometimes you have to flick off some of the white stuff after you peel it, when it doesn't come off clean. You remember, at Bobby's."
"Sure. Your breathing's bad, Sam. Can you handle meds?"
"Handlebars."
"Uh-uh. Stay with me. Meds. You think maybe?"
Sam wheezes out a sigh, this little, frustrated thing, and pushes his face into Dean's side.
"Okay," Dean says, softly, pushing his hand into Sam's hair. "Okay, we'll wait. You keep breathing."
And Sam does, and ten minutes later Dean thinks maybe he's drifted off, maybe he's sleeping, that would be okay, and it would be nice to get this one fucking win today, they really goddamn need one.
And then a car alarm goes off in the parking lot.
A motherfucking car alarm.
Dean can tell, from the first fucking tone, that it's one of those alarms that's going to cycle through different sirens, the one with four different ways to tear through his kid's brain, but right now it only takes one, only takes that first fucking tone, before Sam's gasping awake and burrowing under the covers as far as he fucking can, hands clapped over his ears, every fucking pillow pulled over his head, and Dean's saying, "Okay Sammy shhh shh it's okay it's okay"s that Sam can't fucking hear which is just as well because of how hilariously not okay this is.
Sam's shaking so hard he's vibrating, and by the end of the first cycle he's shoving off all the covers and gagging and Dean's done this more times than he can count, propelled a sick Sam to the bathroom, and he's done this part, too, curling up with him on the floor afterwards and pressing his sleeve to his forehead to absorb the sweat and counting breaths in Sam's ear. Even before all of this shit, when Sam was just a normal psychic kid with normal psychic migraines, a noise, a shock like this, could have him throwing up, okay, so Dean will pretend that's what this is, it's a migraine, they can handle it, it's fine, it's fine.
Except it's not, because Sam's not just throwing up, Sam's pushing away from the toilet in order to dig at the floor like he's trying to get underground and to go, "No no no Dean no make it stop I can't Dean no I can't hear you I" and fuck how is it so fucking loud? Sam's rigid and sick and shaking like a fever and no, okay, fucking no, they cannot handle a car alarm, they do not have the resources for a fucking car alarm, Sam's poor fucking ears, okay, Jesus Christ.
"Sam, stay here." Dean jams him into the corner between the bath and the toilet and cups his chin and kisses his forehead and then he's out of there and he brings his gun because he is mad, okay, and it's like the world fucking knows it because as soon as he steps into the parking lot it stops, and he has no idea what car it was coming from.
There's nothing to hunt.
So, you know. Fucking fantastic.
But it's over. And that's what matters, okay?
He points at his car and mumbles that she better keep an eye on this place from now on ("Your Sam needs that, okay?") and heads back into the room. He locks his gun in the safe and pokes his head into the bathroom. "How we doing in there?"
Sam's sweating and gasping, these big wheezy breaths like he's just won a marathon or recovered from some long illness. "Okay."
"Yeah? You with me?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Let's get you some water. You're a champ, you know that?" He helps Sam to his feet and fills a glass of water. Sam winces and kneads at the bridge of his nose.
"Who the fuck can't handle a car alarm?" Sam says.
"Hey, don't talk like that, all right?" Dean says, which is fucking moronic because what does he want, Sam to go back to his hell psycho babble? (Which is fine, seriously. Dean isn't just saying that. It's fucking fine. It's normal, and it's something, and it's the only way Sam can figure out to talk about anything but what's going on right this fucking minute, and Sam fucking gets to talk about anything he wants. But it still seems counterproductive to tell Sam to shut up, ever.)
"I hate me," Sam says, matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, well, you're crazy, we can't trust your judgment." His nose is bleeding, so Dean grabs it with a handful of tissues before Sam can see. "How do you feel?"
"Dizzy."
"C'mon, back to bed."
Sam lets Dean hold the tissues up to his nose and dab some cool water on his forehead and rub his back and then he takes a neb treatment because he's Dean's favorite thing in the goddamn world, and half an hour later Dean's tucking him into bed (yeah, so the fuck what, Sam's going to bed in the middle of the day, if you have a problem with it go to Hell, hahahahahaha) and whispering how fucking proud he is and the words are still on his tongue when the alarm starts again.
**
Sam is sweating and burning hot, shaking on the floor of the bathroom while Dean holds him in his lap and drapes ice-water soaked washcloths over his shoulders and the back of his neck. It's not doing a fucking thing to cool him off or calm him down, and he's jamming his fingers in his ears so hard that he's coming out with sticky half-dried blood underneath his nails and Sam Sammy no.
"I can get you out of here," Dean whispers. "If you can handle getting to the car, we'll drive so fucking far away."
"Alligators hiss from the top of their mouths, and there are teeth that fit onto shoes and crocodiles have a different number or something but I don't remember, I had so much fucking time to think about it."
"Sammy." He kisses that hot goddamn forehead. "Sammy. Sweetheart."
The alarm changes to the low tone, the grating, angry pulse, ehhh-ehhh-ehhh, and they've figured out by now that this is Sam's least favorite. It comes right after the siren that rises and rises and never goes back down, which means Sam spends each upward swoop breathing tightly through his teeth, clenched into a ball, waiting for the next one to start.
It hits, and he moans and jerks in one rough, full-body tremor, whispers, "Candles made out of fingers," against Dean's neck.
He claws at his ears and at the blood forming makeshift scabs over his temples, Sam, baby, you've got to stop.
"I'm crazy," Sam says, voice breaking. "I'm so fucking crazy."
"You just cling on, okay?"
"Castanets clapping underneath me," Sam says, "I had enough time to think of the word a hundred thousand times," and then he's screaming, "Shut up, shut up! Useless goddamn bitch EVERYONE HATES YOU!" and he slams himself back against the wall.
**
"My brother is sick," he tells the front desk, teeth digging into his lip. "And if you don't find whoever the fuck that car belongs to and get him to stop this shit, how about I'll methodically strip each one down to its fucking frame until we have an answer?"
The manager gives this aggrieved sigh. "Are you sure it isn't yours?"
The Impala doesn't have an alarm. It has Sammy, who once woke up from a dead sleep with a bad feeling when some teenager had a coat hanger halfway into Dean's (other) baby.
Sam is their alarm.
Now he writhes on the bed and whimpers about metal slipped under his skin as the alarm circles and circles.
**
Eventually, it stops, and Sam finally cries: fat, messy tears into Dean's shoulder.
"God, Sammy, I know. You're so fucking strong."
"Is it over?"
"Yeah," Dean says, though fuck if he knows. "It's over."
**
"Please, buddy."
God, it's just like when he was four and he knew mask meant can't breathe and couldn't figure out that can't breathe came first, Sam, damn it, and he'd shake his head until he was sluggish and dizzy and cry until he was blue from the congestion in his lungs and finally, finally he'd be weak enough that he couldn't struggle his way out. John would hold him tightly on his lap, one arm around his waist, the other tight on the mask like he was pushing the medicine into Sam by sheer goddamn will, and Sam would sit still, spent, wheezing with a noise that Dean, young and stupid, kept believing must have been coming from somewhere else, couldn't have been coming out of his little kid's little chest.
(He'd sleep with Sam curled up with him after one of those, his little fists still tight and presses against his chest, this fucking kid who never got to know how to breathe. Dean would--this is so stupid--he'd get on fucking top of the kid, no weight on him, of course not, Sam on his stomach and Dean above him with his elbows on either side of Sam's shoulders, and he'd just cover the kid, shield him, keep him warm, and Sammy would sleep.)
But here they are and Sam his shaking his head and wheezing out, "Sorry, sorry, can't, tastesoundtaste Ican'tbreathe is there smoke in the water?"
"Please?" Dean says, quietly.
(Please? he'd say, back then, to the angels that were watching over them.)
The alarm starts up again and Sam groans, pushes his face into the mattress, and wracks with silent, breathless sobs.
And he can't lie on top of him because Sam was fucking raped and he can't make Sam breathe and he can't make him stop crying but he can make that fucking alarm go away.
"I need you to stay here, okay?"
"My skin will get hard otherwise." God, how is he fucking breathing? "It'll get too thick and I'll be locked away forever, fireworks lighters there aren't any stars here."
"Sammy. Fuck."
"If everything hurt that much why did you try to fix it?"
"What?"
"My head..."
"Okay. I know. I'm going to fucking fix this. I need you to stay here."
Sam sits up, breathing hard and fast. "If everything hurts, why fix it?"
"Sam."
"If you fix it then it's nothing. It's nothing left that's why you have to fill me up." He's looking at Dean all fucking desperate, these wet, lost eyes, and God, Sammy, what do you think Dean's going to do to you?
Dean sweeps him into his arms and the alarm cuts through everything--ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.
"I'll make it stop hurting, Sam. Don't worry."
He's out of the room before it hits him like a sock full of batteries that that was the wrong thing to say.
But it's not until he comes back fucking unsuccessful (shouldn't there be lights going off? Maybe it's not in this parking lot, Jesus, how is it this loud) and Sam is staring down at a deep, gaping cut that stretches from his knee to his ankle, right hand grasping Dean's knife by the blade, blood running down to his wrist, that he realizes exactly how fucking wrong.
"Oh my God."
"Blue and brown," Sam says, softly. "Everything's blue and brown again." He looks up. "Is it over?"
The alarm wails in the background.
"No, Sam. It's not. Fuck. Look at you. Fuck."
"It's never over," Sam says, with a tiny, breathless sigh.
**
Dean pours fucking half a bottle of Benadryl into a cup for Sam to tackle while he stitches his leg (for the love of God go to sleep) and Sam is the world's best kid and sips it steadily and twists his fingers in Dean's hair. He whispers, "Caribou caribou," and Dean can barely hear it over the alarm.
"All done," Dean says, softly. "Let me see your hand?"
Sam pumps a fist a few times and hands it to him. It isn't as bad as it looked. A few stitches should cover it.
"Don't do this," he says, once he's done. "Please."
"I don't remember doing it," Sam says miserably.
"I know." He scoots around to the headboard and sits beside Sam. "Fuck, what a shitty night, huh?"
Sam nods and breathes out slowly as the alarm stops.
"We've got to get you asthma meds, kiddo."
"I know. Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Okay." He's quiet while Dean starts setting up the nebulizer, then he says, quietly, "Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy."
"You know I love you so much, right?"
Dean looks down at the machine and wonders if it'll help him breathe.
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"You are my favorite thing. Please to God stay alive in there."
**
When the alarm starts again, Sam just cries.
"I can't tell if it's going," Sam sobs. "I can't remember what part this is."
He hugs Sam's head to his chest.
"I don't know where I am," Sam whispers, and no, no, that is the last fucking straw.
"We're going, Sam."
**
He packs his baby brother in blankets like he is a fragile package and lets Sammy watch while he gathers their stuff because he knows he'll worry that they left something behind (Sammy worries). Sam hugs the blankets around himself and wheezes in this hideous way that makes Dean want to slaughter himself from tugging his kid away from a nebulizer and an outlet.
"Poor thing," he whispers, hauling Sam up and into his arms. Sam winces as it jostles his leg.
"Getting better," Sam says, quietly. "I always get better, don't worry."
**
Except then they're outside the room and the alarm is louder and Sam...
well, Sam just...
he...
it's like he was fucking attacked, and he's out of Dean's arms and on the ground, how the fuck did that happen, crying out breathlessly and dragging himself back against the wall so he can curl up into the world's smallest scaredest fucking thing and he's clawing his skin fucking out of control scraping himself against the pavement choking out Enochian baby baby and he's desperate, he's hurting, he's going to rip his stitches, this was horrible, Sam hasn't been outside once since his soul came back, since Dean held the shaking, scared thing on his lap, what the fuck were you thinking bringing him out here and he slams his head back against the wall so hard Dean is shocked nothing cracks and he doesn't even think, okay, he doesn't have time to think, he grabs Sam's hand and stretches his arm out and cuts a neat line across his arm, underneath his elbow.
Sam stares at it, still twitching, still breathing hard, but focused.
He covers Sam with his body and kisses the cut to make it fucking better to make this somehow goddamn okay, to make Sam smile.
He does, Jesus Christ.
**
The alarm stops, and Dean turns off the lights and strips the bed of blankets and when he turns around Sam's out of all of his clothes and curled naked on the bed and yeah, whatever, you weird kid. Dean cups the back of his neck and whispers, "You going to sleep?"
An exhausted, heavy nod.
Dean swallows and says, "You know I love you so much, right?"
"I never forget," Sam says, eyes closed. He plays with the cut on his arm and drifts off.
**
Dean wakes up six hours later.
It's still quiet.
His sick kid is still asleep, forcing out breaths that crackle in his lungs.
He looks peaceful.
**
In the bath, in the dark, they carefully rinse the sutures on Sam's leg and hand.
"Why did it help?" Dean says.
"Gave me an excuse to feel something."
"You never, ever need an excuse."
"I'm sick of using 'crazy' for everything. I want to save it for special occasions."
"Birthdays and Bar Mitzvahs."
"Yeah."
"Sam. You never needed an excuse. Way, way pre-Hell you didn't need an excuse."
"Why?"
"Because you're spoiled fucking rotten."
He can hear Sam's smile in his voice, even though the words are serious. "Don't say rotten, okay?"
"Oh. Okay."
"I just don't think I...it feels like I don't like that word."
"You got it."
"We'll figure it out," Sam says, softly.
"Of course we will."
"I'm sorry about everything. My leg. Being a psycho."
"You don't get to apologize for those."
"I'm sorry about being an asshole about taking my meds."
"All right, that I'll accept." But he splashes Sam a little. "You weren't an asshole. You were scared. You make a lot more sense than you think you do, you know?"
"I wish there were a manual."
"Geek."
"Fuck off."
"When this is over we can make an informational video for future Hell-survivors."
"When what's over?"
"I don't know. Recovery."
"Does it end?"
Dean thinks about nightmares, about muscles that snap like baby branches.
"You can slice it open," he says, dragging his fingers over Sam's stitches. "You can see that it's just air inside. That they're just flashbacks. That it isn't real."
"I think I'm broken forever," Sam says.
"Yeah, me too."
"Don't sugarcoat it or anything."
"Please, I've had twenty-eight years with asthmatic you, I know how you handle sugarcoating."
"I just want to be Sam and Dean again."
"Hey. We are."
"You cut my arm yesterday, Dean. That's not us."
"How the fuck is that not us? Who do you think was doing it? Are we not allowed to change, now?"
"We're not allowed to do shit our former selves would hate us for."
"where are you getting these rules? Fuck, is there a manual?"
"I just want something that makes sense. Anything. I'm taking a bath in the fucking dark. Something needs to make sense."
"You need a fucking haircut, Jesus, I'm going to lose a hand in here."
"Do you miss me?"
"Like crazy. Sam?"
"Hmm?"
"I...don't fucking freak out about this, okay?"
"Fucking freaking out is my new thing, I don't know if you've noticed."
"Shut up."
"Mmm."
"I like crazy you. This is the part where you don't fucking freak out. I'm not being an asshole and I'm not lying. I'm not making some judgment call of sane Sam versus crazy Sam. All I'm saying is that crazy you is really fucking affectionate, and you're open, and you try."
"I don't want to be a symbol," Sam says quietly. "I'm not in this to be inspiring."
"Then what are you in this for?"
"You."
Dean was ready for that. "Well, fucking tough, then. You've inspired me since you were a toothless smile and a wet diaper, you stupid damn kid. You fucking feel things."
"It's annoying."
"It's not annoying. It's miserable. For you. It's beautiful to me."
"I want to help you deal with me."
Dean guides Sam's head to his chest and feels his wet hair and his smoggy breathing.
"I don't need help," he says. "Why would I need help? I have my boy."
**
"You have to be my boy too, then," Sam says, while he's getting dressed.
"What? That's not how it works."
"It has to be." He tugs his shirt on.
Dean gets it.
"Okay. But you're still the one who gets babied. Fucking sick kids."
"I miss just being a sick kid."
"I'm totally laughing at the idea you could be anything else with that fucking wheeze."
"Hey." Sam grins. "I'm lots of things."
Yeah.
He's the whole fucking world.
He's louder than a hundred car alarms.
"Come here, sick kid," Dean says. "I'll give you a hug if you scamper."
"My leg hurts."
"Excuses, excuses."
Sam hops onto the bed and crawls until he's tucked against Dean's head.
"Ew, this isn't a hug. This is extended." He wraps his arms around him, Sam Sam Sam Sam.
Sam cuddles into him and sighs and says, "It's getting blue and brown again."
"Yeah?"
"More blue this time."
"I'll be here when you're ready."
Sam snuggles into Dean's shirt. "I know."
Summary: There's a barely-out-of-Hell Sam. There's a routine that needs to be followed. There's a bad day of breathing. And then there's a fucking car alarm. Another prompt from familybiznessbecause even when we don't co-write she is aaaaall over this verse.
Warnings/Spoilers: Post-Hell, mentions of rape, self-injury.
Wordcount: 4,652
Author's Note: Sammyverse. This takes place somewhere between Bittersweet Symphony and Sammy Under Siege, so he's been back for about two weeks. Title is obviously from "Melt My Heart to Stone" by Adele.
Dean figures out how to tell if Sam is awake by the rhythm of the hitches in his breath and the pitch of his whimpering.
He figures out that waiting for Sam to tell him what's okay isn't being thoughtful, it's being completely fucking stressful, because what the fuck, he's expecting Sam's whacked-out brain to have any clue what's going on? He's, what, not only expecting Sam to somehow cling the hell on to whatever the fuck this is (dirty motel bed, dirty middle of nowhere, dirty life--stay with me, buddy, stay with me, you hearing me?), no, he's also thinking, huh, maybe the kid's supposed to hold Dean's little hand and tell him how he's doing? How about he draws you pictures, Dean? Would you like Sam to put together a lesson plan that's tailored to your learning style? Jesus fucking Christ, finding out what's making Sam cry is not Sam's fucking job.
But mostly what he figures out is that crazy Sam is a goddamn sweetheart, and fuck, that's a blow. It just hurts like a shot.
**
They lie together on Sam's bed, on their sides, facing each other. Sam is awake and skimming his fingernails over the sheet. Dean mimics his movements because why the hell not, he doesn't know how to help, and this doesn't seem to be hurting.
A few minutes later, Sam starts wheezing, and he scoots closer to Dean and folds right into his chest.
Dean's you're safe I love you you okay in there do you want something to drink does your chest hurt? pours out of him like water.
Sam whispers in Enochian and his lungs whistle him a lullaby.
**
Routines help. He gets Sam up at the same time everyday and keeps the lights off and the curtains drawn while he helps him through a bath. Sam washes himself (but likes it when Dean washes his hair, so he does, of course) but he doesn't like to be alone, and fuck if Dean is in the mood for it either. Plus shaky wheezy Sammy would probably slip in the dark and crack his head open or some shit, and that's not on the schedule which means it can't happen.
Sam can handle light, sometimes, but not while he's in the bath, not while there's splashing and the leaky faucet and the feel of the water on his skin and the smell of the soap. This is a lot, a fucking lot to ask of Sam, and it's amazing that he keeps his shit together through it as often as he does.
But sometimes he doesn't, and today Dean sits on the bath mat and he can't even see his fucking kid and he can't touch because that's Too Much for today, Too fucking Much, so all he can do is sit here and listen while his little brother sobs like he's being skinned alive, and no, okay, the irony of the fucking situation is not lost on him, he's perfectly aware that Sam is falling apart because he's fucking overloaded, fucking baffled by too many senses while Dean's sitting here fucking desperately imagining what Sam looks like (he's probably got his knees up and that wheeze is sounded muffled so probably he's got his face pushed into them, maybe biting the skin, please stay calm, Sammy, please) and how his skin would feel (hot, on fucking fire, the water's exactly room temperature, Sam, exactly, please breathe) because this is not enough senses, not enough, fucking sitting here uselessly while Sam cries is never going to be okay.
But any noise he makes is going to further shatter the kid, so he just sits here.
(The truth? The truth is that Dean is only doing a marginally better job at keeping their shit--Christ, his shit--together than Sam is. And it's all well and good that he's sitting here uselessly in the dark, Brother of the Year to you, Dean, write a fucking speech, but then at the end of the day it's Dean outside the motel room tearing through a pack of cigarettes with he and Sam on either side of the window, hands pressed together, at the end of the day it's Dean pretending his whiskey is coffee and it's Sam, Sam, who has to live with this.)
(At the end of the day, it's fucking stupid to wish for another pair of hands when half the time your kid won't let you touch him.)
**
But he can't just let him break down in the bath all day. Sam has to eat, so eventually Dean approximates Sam's shoulder and gets a handful of his hair instead. Sam hisses in air like it hurts. Dean can't tell if he's crying anymore.
"Let's get you up, okay?"
"There's shadows in the bottom and if they knew I'd been here before--"
"No shadows, it's too dark, yeah?"
"Too dark," Sam says, softly. "It's too dark."
"C'mon." He gets a hand under each of Sam's elbows and pushes up until Sam's standing. "There we go."
He gets Sam wrapped up in a towel, and out of nowhere Sam's coughing, badly. It makes sense, after an hour of that soaked, miserable crying, but maybe Dean's not used to that yet, okay? Jesus fucking fuck, he's been back for two and a half weeks, stop thinking Dean's a goddamn expert, fuck, fuck. It wasn't like this for him, okay? It just fucking wasn't. He came back with flashbacks and nightmares and fear, with memories. And then here's Sam, messy-eyed, junky-lunged, broken-hearted, same-smile Sam, and he is sad, okay, he is motherfucking sad, and Dean didn't get that one, Dean doesn't know that one, Dean cannot hunt that one.
He helps Sam into sweats and pulls him onto the bed. It's a lot, and Sam whispers about the clothes biting his skin and tucks himself under Dean's arm like he used to when he was little (same fucking body--this is Dean's kid that got tortured, okay? Do you get how fucked up that is? Do you understand that Dean changed his diapers and kissed his scrapes and tugged a bullet out of his shoulder? This is the part where he'd usually say something like "to put it plainly, mine" except let's put it even more the fuck plainly and say that Sam was raped twenty zillion times and Dean's read the websites maybe just as many and he knows damn well that Sam's body is Sam's but no, it doesn't stop him from wanting to gather the kid up in his arms and fucking rubber stamp him with Dean's name like he's a fucking library book--except no, because he isn't fucking going anywhere, no one is checking out Sam--with DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN DEAN because...because mine, okay? Because fucking mine.)
(Because a few nights this week Sam has only slept after Dean's whispered "my Sam my Sam my Sam" into his hair for an hour and a half.)
(Because Sam never made any fucking sense before, so why the fuck would he now?)
(Because crazy Sam is a goddamn sweetheart. And Dean can't hunt that.)
**
Dean doesn't push food, because Sam's calmed down some and he's okay where he is right now, head against Dean's shoulder, hands twisted in their shirts. He whispers "helicopter" and "bees under my skin" and "shrunk down for science." Dean asks questions and he answers. It's all the rhythm of a conversation, and if Dean doesn't think too hard he'd almost fucking believe it.
"You can fit more if they're small," Sam says, quietly.
"That makes sense. Still don't know if it's okay, though. Putting my hand on your back, kiddo, just a warning. You good?"
"Fifty or sixty, I think, but I lose count. Counting makes more sense than gripping because of the texture. It's just the texture that's the problem."
He wraps his hand around Sam's ribcage. He's struggling. "God, you're working hard."
"Sometimes you have to flick off some of the white stuff after you peel it, when it doesn't come off clean. You remember, at Bobby's."
"Sure. Your breathing's bad, Sam. Can you handle meds?"
"Handlebars."
"Uh-uh. Stay with me. Meds. You think maybe?"
Sam wheezes out a sigh, this little, frustrated thing, and pushes his face into Dean's side.
"Okay," Dean says, softly, pushing his hand into Sam's hair. "Okay, we'll wait. You keep breathing."
And Sam does, and ten minutes later Dean thinks maybe he's drifted off, maybe he's sleeping, that would be okay, and it would be nice to get this one fucking win today, they really goddamn need one.
And then a car alarm goes off in the parking lot.
A motherfucking car alarm.
Dean can tell, from the first fucking tone, that it's one of those alarms that's going to cycle through different sirens, the one with four different ways to tear through his kid's brain, but right now it only takes one, only takes that first fucking tone, before Sam's gasping awake and burrowing under the covers as far as he fucking can, hands clapped over his ears, every fucking pillow pulled over his head, and Dean's saying, "Okay Sammy shhh shh it's okay it's okay"s that Sam can't fucking hear which is just as well because of how hilariously not okay this is.
Sam's shaking so hard he's vibrating, and by the end of the first cycle he's shoving off all the covers and gagging and Dean's done this more times than he can count, propelled a sick Sam to the bathroom, and he's done this part, too, curling up with him on the floor afterwards and pressing his sleeve to his forehead to absorb the sweat and counting breaths in Sam's ear. Even before all of this shit, when Sam was just a normal psychic kid with normal psychic migraines, a noise, a shock like this, could have him throwing up, okay, so Dean will pretend that's what this is, it's a migraine, they can handle it, it's fine, it's fine.
Except it's not, because Sam's not just throwing up, Sam's pushing away from the toilet in order to dig at the floor like he's trying to get underground and to go, "No no no Dean no make it stop I can't Dean no I can't hear you I" and fuck how is it so fucking loud? Sam's rigid and sick and shaking like a fever and no, okay, fucking no, they cannot handle a car alarm, they do not have the resources for a fucking car alarm, Sam's poor fucking ears, okay, Jesus Christ.
"Sam, stay here." Dean jams him into the corner between the bath and the toilet and cups his chin and kisses his forehead and then he's out of there and he brings his gun because he is mad, okay, and it's like the world fucking knows it because as soon as he steps into the parking lot it stops, and he has no idea what car it was coming from.
There's nothing to hunt.
So, you know. Fucking fantastic.
But it's over. And that's what matters, okay?
He points at his car and mumbles that she better keep an eye on this place from now on ("Your Sam needs that, okay?") and heads back into the room. He locks his gun in the safe and pokes his head into the bathroom. "How we doing in there?"
Sam's sweating and gasping, these big wheezy breaths like he's just won a marathon or recovered from some long illness. "Okay."
"Yeah? You with me?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Let's get you some water. You're a champ, you know that?" He helps Sam to his feet and fills a glass of water. Sam winces and kneads at the bridge of his nose.
"Who the fuck can't handle a car alarm?" Sam says.
"Hey, don't talk like that, all right?" Dean says, which is fucking moronic because what does he want, Sam to go back to his hell psycho babble? (Which is fine, seriously. Dean isn't just saying that. It's fucking fine. It's normal, and it's something, and it's the only way Sam can figure out to talk about anything but what's going on right this fucking minute, and Sam fucking gets to talk about anything he wants. But it still seems counterproductive to tell Sam to shut up, ever.)
"I hate me," Sam says, matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, well, you're crazy, we can't trust your judgment." His nose is bleeding, so Dean grabs it with a handful of tissues before Sam can see. "How do you feel?"
"Dizzy."
"C'mon, back to bed."
Sam lets Dean hold the tissues up to his nose and dab some cool water on his forehead and rub his back and then he takes a neb treatment because he's Dean's favorite thing in the goddamn world, and half an hour later Dean's tucking him into bed (yeah, so the fuck what, Sam's going to bed in the middle of the day, if you have a problem with it go to Hell, hahahahahaha) and whispering how fucking proud he is and the words are still on his tongue when the alarm starts again.
**
Sam is sweating and burning hot, shaking on the floor of the bathroom while Dean holds him in his lap and drapes ice-water soaked washcloths over his shoulders and the back of his neck. It's not doing a fucking thing to cool him off or calm him down, and he's jamming his fingers in his ears so hard that he's coming out with sticky half-dried blood underneath his nails and Sam Sammy no.
"I can get you out of here," Dean whispers. "If you can handle getting to the car, we'll drive so fucking far away."
"Alligators hiss from the top of their mouths, and there are teeth that fit onto shoes and crocodiles have a different number or something but I don't remember, I had so much fucking time to think about it."
"Sammy." He kisses that hot goddamn forehead. "Sammy. Sweetheart."
The alarm changes to the low tone, the grating, angry pulse, ehhh-ehhh-ehhh, and they've figured out by now that this is Sam's least favorite. It comes right after the siren that rises and rises and never goes back down, which means Sam spends each upward swoop breathing tightly through his teeth, clenched into a ball, waiting for the next one to start.
It hits, and he moans and jerks in one rough, full-body tremor, whispers, "Candles made out of fingers," against Dean's neck.
He claws at his ears and at the blood forming makeshift scabs over his temples, Sam, baby, you've got to stop.
"I'm crazy," Sam says, voice breaking. "I'm so fucking crazy."
"You just cling on, okay?"
"Castanets clapping underneath me," Sam says, "I had enough time to think of the word a hundred thousand times," and then he's screaming, "Shut up, shut up! Useless goddamn bitch EVERYONE HATES YOU!" and he slams himself back against the wall.
**
"My brother is sick," he tells the front desk, teeth digging into his lip. "And if you don't find whoever the fuck that car belongs to and get him to stop this shit, how about I'll methodically strip each one down to its fucking frame until we have an answer?"
The manager gives this aggrieved sigh. "Are you sure it isn't yours?"
The Impala doesn't have an alarm. It has Sammy, who once woke up from a dead sleep with a bad feeling when some teenager had a coat hanger halfway into Dean's (other) baby.
Sam is their alarm.
Now he writhes on the bed and whimpers about metal slipped under his skin as the alarm circles and circles.
**
Eventually, it stops, and Sam finally cries: fat, messy tears into Dean's shoulder.
"God, Sammy, I know. You're so fucking strong."
"Is it over?"
"Yeah," Dean says, though fuck if he knows. "It's over."
**
"Please, buddy."
God, it's just like when he was four and he knew mask meant can't breathe and couldn't figure out that can't breathe came first, Sam, damn it, and he'd shake his head until he was sluggish and dizzy and cry until he was blue from the congestion in his lungs and finally, finally he'd be weak enough that he couldn't struggle his way out. John would hold him tightly on his lap, one arm around his waist, the other tight on the mask like he was pushing the medicine into Sam by sheer goddamn will, and Sam would sit still, spent, wheezing with a noise that Dean, young and stupid, kept believing must have been coming from somewhere else, couldn't have been coming out of his little kid's little chest.
(He'd sleep with Sam curled up with him after one of those, his little fists still tight and presses against his chest, this fucking kid who never got to know how to breathe. Dean would--this is so stupid--he'd get on fucking top of the kid, no weight on him, of course not, Sam on his stomach and Dean above him with his elbows on either side of Sam's shoulders, and he'd just cover the kid, shield him, keep him warm, and Sammy would sleep.)
But here they are and Sam his shaking his head and wheezing out, "Sorry, sorry, can't, tastesoundtaste Ican'tbreathe is there smoke in the water?"
"Please?" Dean says, quietly.
(Please? he'd say, back then, to the angels that were watching over them.)
The alarm starts up again and Sam groans, pushes his face into the mattress, and wracks with silent, breathless sobs.
And he can't lie on top of him because Sam was fucking raped and he can't make Sam breathe and he can't make him stop crying but he can make that fucking alarm go away.
"I need you to stay here, okay?"
"My skin will get hard otherwise." God, how is he fucking breathing? "It'll get too thick and I'll be locked away forever, fireworks lighters there aren't any stars here."
"Sammy. Fuck."
"If everything hurt that much why did you try to fix it?"
"What?"
"My head..."
"Okay. I know. I'm going to fucking fix this. I need you to stay here."
Sam sits up, breathing hard and fast. "If everything hurts, why fix it?"
"Sam."
"If you fix it then it's nothing. It's nothing left that's why you have to fill me up." He's looking at Dean all fucking desperate, these wet, lost eyes, and God, Sammy, what do you think Dean's going to do to you?
Dean sweeps him into his arms and the alarm cuts through everything--ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.
"I'll make it stop hurting, Sam. Don't worry."
He's out of the room before it hits him like a sock full of batteries that that was the wrong thing to say.
But it's not until he comes back fucking unsuccessful (shouldn't there be lights going off? Maybe it's not in this parking lot, Jesus, how is it this loud) and Sam is staring down at a deep, gaping cut that stretches from his knee to his ankle, right hand grasping Dean's knife by the blade, blood running down to his wrist, that he realizes exactly how fucking wrong.
"Oh my God."
"Blue and brown," Sam says, softly. "Everything's blue and brown again." He looks up. "Is it over?"
The alarm wails in the background.
"No, Sam. It's not. Fuck. Look at you. Fuck."
"It's never over," Sam says, with a tiny, breathless sigh.
**
Dean pours fucking half a bottle of Benadryl into a cup for Sam to tackle while he stitches his leg (for the love of God go to sleep) and Sam is the world's best kid and sips it steadily and twists his fingers in Dean's hair. He whispers, "Caribou caribou," and Dean can barely hear it over the alarm.
"All done," Dean says, softly. "Let me see your hand?"
Sam pumps a fist a few times and hands it to him. It isn't as bad as it looked. A few stitches should cover it.
"Don't do this," he says, once he's done. "Please."
"I don't remember doing it," Sam says miserably.
"I know." He scoots around to the headboard and sits beside Sam. "Fuck, what a shitty night, huh?"
Sam nods and breathes out slowly as the alarm stops.
"We've got to get you asthma meds, kiddo."
"I know. Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Okay." He's quiet while Dean starts setting up the nebulizer, then he says, quietly, "Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy."
"You know I love you so much, right?"
Dean looks down at the machine and wonders if it'll help him breathe.
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"You are my favorite thing. Please to God stay alive in there."
**
When the alarm starts again, Sam just cries.
"I can't tell if it's going," Sam sobs. "I can't remember what part this is."
He hugs Sam's head to his chest.
"I don't know where I am," Sam whispers, and no, no, that is the last fucking straw.
"We're going, Sam."
**
He packs his baby brother in blankets like he is a fragile package and lets Sammy watch while he gathers their stuff because he knows he'll worry that they left something behind (Sammy worries). Sam hugs the blankets around himself and wheezes in this hideous way that makes Dean want to slaughter himself from tugging his kid away from a nebulizer and an outlet.
"Poor thing," he whispers, hauling Sam up and into his arms. Sam winces as it jostles his leg.
"Getting better," Sam says, quietly. "I always get better, don't worry."
**
Except then they're outside the room and the alarm is louder and Sam...
well, Sam just...
he...
it's like he was fucking attacked, and he's out of Dean's arms and on the ground, how the fuck did that happen, crying out breathlessly and dragging himself back against the wall so he can curl up into the world's smallest scaredest fucking thing and he's clawing his skin fucking out of control scraping himself against the pavement choking out Enochian baby baby and he's desperate, he's hurting, he's going to rip his stitches, this was horrible, Sam hasn't been outside once since his soul came back, since Dean held the shaking, scared thing on his lap, what the fuck were you thinking bringing him out here and he slams his head back against the wall so hard Dean is shocked nothing cracks and he doesn't even think, okay, he doesn't have time to think, he grabs Sam's hand and stretches his arm out and cuts a neat line across his arm, underneath his elbow.
Sam stares at it, still twitching, still breathing hard, but focused.
He covers Sam with his body and kisses the cut to make it fucking better to make this somehow goddamn okay, to make Sam smile.
He does, Jesus Christ.
**
The alarm stops, and Dean turns off the lights and strips the bed of blankets and when he turns around Sam's out of all of his clothes and curled naked on the bed and yeah, whatever, you weird kid. Dean cups the back of his neck and whispers, "You going to sleep?"
An exhausted, heavy nod.
Dean swallows and says, "You know I love you so much, right?"
"I never forget," Sam says, eyes closed. He plays with the cut on his arm and drifts off.
**
Dean wakes up six hours later.
It's still quiet.
His sick kid is still asleep, forcing out breaths that crackle in his lungs.
He looks peaceful.
**
In the bath, in the dark, they carefully rinse the sutures on Sam's leg and hand.
"Why did it help?" Dean says.
"Gave me an excuse to feel something."
"You never, ever need an excuse."
"I'm sick of using 'crazy' for everything. I want to save it for special occasions."
"Birthdays and Bar Mitzvahs."
"Yeah."
"Sam. You never needed an excuse. Way, way pre-Hell you didn't need an excuse."
"Why?"
"Because you're spoiled fucking rotten."
He can hear Sam's smile in his voice, even though the words are serious. "Don't say rotten, okay?"
"Oh. Okay."
"I just don't think I...it feels like I don't like that word."
"You got it."
"We'll figure it out," Sam says, softly.
"Of course we will."
"I'm sorry about everything. My leg. Being a psycho."
"You don't get to apologize for those."
"I'm sorry about being an asshole about taking my meds."
"All right, that I'll accept." But he splashes Sam a little. "You weren't an asshole. You were scared. You make a lot more sense than you think you do, you know?"
"I wish there were a manual."
"Geek."
"Fuck off."
"When this is over we can make an informational video for future Hell-survivors."
"When what's over?"
"I don't know. Recovery."
"Does it end?"
Dean thinks about nightmares, about muscles that snap like baby branches.
"You can slice it open," he says, dragging his fingers over Sam's stitches. "You can see that it's just air inside. That they're just flashbacks. That it isn't real."
"I think I'm broken forever," Sam says.
"Yeah, me too."
"Don't sugarcoat it or anything."
"Please, I've had twenty-eight years with asthmatic you, I know how you handle sugarcoating."
"I just want to be Sam and Dean again."
"Hey. We are."
"You cut my arm yesterday, Dean. That's not us."
"How the fuck is that not us? Who do you think was doing it? Are we not allowed to change, now?"
"We're not allowed to do shit our former selves would hate us for."
"where are you getting these rules? Fuck, is there a manual?"
"I just want something that makes sense. Anything. I'm taking a bath in the fucking dark. Something needs to make sense."
"You need a fucking haircut, Jesus, I'm going to lose a hand in here."
"Do you miss me?"
"Like crazy. Sam?"
"Hmm?"
"I...don't fucking freak out about this, okay?"
"Fucking freaking out is my new thing, I don't know if you've noticed."
"Shut up."
"Mmm."
"I like crazy you. This is the part where you don't fucking freak out. I'm not being an asshole and I'm not lying. I'm not making some judgment call of sane Sam versus crazy Sam. All I'm saying is that crazy you is really fucking affectionate, and you're open, and you try."
"I don't want to be a symbol," Sam says quietly. "I'm not in this to be inspiring."
"Then what are you in this for?"
"You."
Dean was ready for that. "Well, fucking tough, then. You've inspired me since you were a toothless smile and a wet diaper, you stupid damn kid. You fucking feel things."
"It's annoying."
"It's not annoying. It's miserable. For you. It's beautiful to me."
"I want to help you deal with me."
Dean guides Sam's head to his chest and feels his wet hair and his smoggy breathing.
"I don't need help," he says. "Why would I need help? I have my boy."
**
"You have to be my boy too, then," Sam says, while he's getting dressed.
"What? That's not how it works."
"It has to be." He tugs his shirt on.
Dean gets it.
"Okay. But you're still the one who gets babied. Fucking sick kids."
"I miss just being a sick kid."
"I'm totally laughing at the idea you could be anything else with that fucking wheeze."
"Hey." Sam grins. "I'm lots of things."
Yeah.
He's the whole fucking world.
He's louder than a hundred car alarms.
"Come here, sick kid," Dean says. "I'll give you a hug if you scamper."
"My leg hurts."
"Excuses, excuses."
Sam hops onto the bed and crawls until he's tucked against Dean's head.
"Ew, this isn't a hug. This is extended." He wraps his arms around him, Sam Sam Sam Sam.
Sam cuddles into him and sighs and says, "It's getting blue and brown again."
"Yeah?"
"More blue this time."
"I'll be here when you're ready."
Sam snuggles into Dean's shirt. "I know."