Sammy's Tracks Untraceable
Title: Sammy's Tracks Untraceable
Summary: Right after they've settled in post-Hell, a friend (or something) comes to visit.
Wordcount: 4,671
Author's Note: So I'm working on a big Jess-lives and then I stumbled on this the other day. I wrote it almost exactly a year ago and I have no idea why I didn't post it? I guess I didn't like it. It might be because it's pretty thematically redundant but like whatever, Sam has a fever and there are some sentences I like and I have made an executive decision that that's enough. (I have killed an option!) Title's from "Sons and Daughters."
The blessing is that Sam doesn't get sick, truly sick, regular-person-sick, before they have the house. It means Sam can cough as loudly as he wants and that he can wander like a ghost without worrying about bothering anyone. It means their space is deliberate, careful, theirs, and that Sam, in the two weeks they've been here, has developed a semblance of comfort.
The unblessing, obviously, is that Sam's five weeks out of Hell and running a fever.
Obviously that's no good.
But yeah, Dean's finding things to be grateful for, and a big one is that he's pretty sure he caught the fever in a matter of an hour or two after it showed up, because he's developed a habit of checking on his kid a few times through the night. It isn't something he'd thought about until now, because it's not like he sets an alarm and it's definitely not like it's a fucking problem, he just goes to Sam's room and counts breaths for a while and brings him a glass of water and his inhaler if he's lying awake staring at the wall (about half the time) or gently steers him back to bed if he's sleepwalking in circles or just pacing anxiously (sometimes it's hard to tell the difference, but lying down with him for a while tends to calm him down either way).
So Sam probably hasn't been torching with this thing pretty long, but the congested coughs he gives in his sleep make Dean think his body's been quietly preparing this illness for a while now.
Maybe it was waiting until they were kind of settled in.
It's a blessing.
It's important to remember that fucking everything related to Sam is a blessing now.
**
"Hey, Sammy. You okay?" It's probably cruel to ask him before he's really awake, but Dean has a hand on his back and he's stirring and he has to know, okay?
Sam coughs and coughs and nods a little.
"Let me get you up a little and take your temperature, give you something to make you feel a little better. I'll let you sleep forever afterwards, I swear."
Sam keeps nodding and doesn't really seem bothered by any of this. He sits up halfway and cuddles his pillow.
Dean has one of the ear thermometers because Sam likes it better and, well, Dean likes Sam. It clocks the kid in at a hair over 102, which is a relief considering the fevers Sam likes to run, and Dean gives him Tylenol and starts thinking about a clinic visit because that's what you do when your Sam has a fever before he remembers that that's really not an option for his kid's addled damn mind.
It's fine. This is the reason he got a fucking white coat and got online to design a prescription pad, you know? He can go get whatever.
But that's tomorrow. For now he needs to make breathing a little easier and make sure Sam stays calm. He's really sluggish and sleepy right now, but if the fever rises, that won't last.
"C'mere." He leans back on the headboard and guides Sam into his chest, propped up a little to help him breathe. "You want a neb?"
"Nuh-uh." He coughs and coughs, still low and junky while he's not flat. Poor damn kid. Might be bronchitis, might just be a cold hitting his lungs like always. Sounds miserable either way.
Sam's kind of miserable enough, is the thing.
"This okay?" he says quietly, playing with the ends of Sam's hair. "The touching?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. Good. You can go back to sleep."
Sam nods and burrows a little into Dean's side.
"Love you," Dean whispers.
"Feel safe," Sam whispers back (he tends to spring the 'I love you too's on Den at ridiculous and improbable times, when Dean has done nothing to indicate that the too is necessary, you weird kid, Dean was just clipping out some coupons (two weeks and he's a fucking housewife) or emailing Bobby or something). "I won't freak out," he says, with a shiver.
"Don't care if you do."
"Yeah?"
"It's totally fine."
Sam gives this little wheezy sigh, relieved.
The kid's just so exhausted. He just fights so hard.
Another blessing is that Sam eats the next morning and proves again why he's Dean's fucking favorite (although the sad through is that at this point there isn't a competition, but even if there were, uh, ladies and gentleman, may he present Samuel Winchester, 99% human, 1% fuck you, Hell-beaten and fucking adorable, affectionate and out of his damn mind, worries about your nightmares when he can't fucking breathe, look at that smile, Sam fucking Winchester). Eating's rough a lot of days because he's allergy-skittish--uh, hi, almost dying a week and a half ago, what up--and because a lot of food reminds him of the pit still. He's skinny, doctors-at-the-hospital-shook-their-heads skinny, but when he does eat he holds it down well and he's as open as he can be--because he doesn't always fucking know, okay?--about what he can manage to eat today and what he can't. Today toast with jelly is perfect, goooooood sick kid, and Dean brings him a tray in bed like he never, ever got growing up, like he saw Jess bring him once when he was really really wheezy one morning.
The fever's a little lower this morning, a hundred and one and a half, and it makes Sam exhausted before he's been up for an hour. Dean prods him a little, because keeping to routine as much as they can is going to make this so much easier on his kid, who's still dealing with sensory stuff and a bad sense of time, so they do whatever they can to keep days predictable for him. Sam helps as well as he can, shaking his way through the day when he has to and trying to plan his breakdowns at the same time every day. Dean always gives him an hour in the evenings when he's allowed to talk in just Enochian. It's depressing how much it helps him, or it would be if he didn't do it for Sam. Sam is a fucking blessing. (It really is not hard to remember. This shit that should be is not hard. You try struggling with something when at the end of the day your kid fucking adores you.)
Sam eats half his toast and dutifully gets out of bed, knees shaking, and showers. The steam makes him cough, Dean can hear it through the door, but it's a good cough, productive cough.
"What time is he coming?" Sam says, first thing, once he's out, because the other big blessing of the day is that today's the day Bobby's coming to stay with them for the week. It's the first time Sam's seen him since his soul's been back, and the kid's been so fucking excited, cleaning for days, planning out what he and Dean should cook, getting out all the weapons and leaving them lying around fake-casually so Bobby will think they're still Good Old Sam and Dean, how weird is that, come on Sam (Dean puts them right the fuck back because crazy brother and all that, and luckily Sam doesn't seem to mind doing the little dance of away-back-away-back because Dean is very clear about I am putting these away so Sam doesn't think anything's up and disappeared on him) and yeah, Dean realizes that he let his kid work himself to the point of exhaustion (to the point of illness), screw you.
"Hour and a half. You need me to help you pick out clothes, princess?"
"I did date a woman without help from you."
"Yeah, once."
"More than you."
"Let's not compare sex stories, yours are all depressing post-Hell."
Sam chuckles while he gets dressed.
"You doing okay in there, fever-kid? You need the neb, you're fucking growling."
"Yeah."
"Grrrrr."
Another smile from Sammy, but he looks shaky, so Dean flops down on the bed and makes very obvious room under his arm.
Sam tugs on his shirt and immediately fits himself into it.
"Sweet kid."
"Shut up."
Dean's turn to laugh, but he stops when he presses his hand to Sam's forehead because he's very obviously warmer. Probably letting him shower (making him shower) was a bad idea.
Dean nudges the tray towards him. "Try to eat a little more? I'm worried."
"Won't fix me."
"Make you feel better."
"Drug me?"
"Fuck, right." Sam gets antivirals when he's sick, as well as Tamiflu and antibiotics in case it's flu or bacterial and yeah yeah Dean's heard the spiel about over-prescription of antibiotics ten billion times, thank you, loud I'm-everybody's-Mom waitress, but he'd rather have to put the kid on IVs every time he gets a bad chest infection than take the fucking risk that Sam's chest is growing bacterial bronchitis or pneumonia and they don't catch it. Nuh-uh. Drugs for Sam.
He gets up and roots through the first-aid kit and sets the nebulizer down on the tray (this is convenient, should this be a thing?) and mutters "Hold you," as he guides the kid back onto his chest.
"Kay."
He medicates him and rubs his back through the neb treatment, but halfway through Sam's crying a little, fussing at his forehead, trying to fucking fuss at his fever, deep breaths, Sammy.
"You okay?" Dean says, and he's answered with some mouthpiece-stuttered Enochian, aw, Sam. It always comes out when he's scared. Sam's broken brain thinks that's the way to make sure he's understood. It's kind of sad.
"Henricksen would have given us the death penalty," is the next thing he says in English, and what a fucking stressed-out kid.
"Nah, just me. And he came around in the end."
Sam wheezes his way into this very bleak coughing fit, and Dean sticks a hand in his hair and twists and keeps worrying. Please eat some toast, Sam.
But he sucks from the nebulizer instead, also fine, and mumbles Miranda rights in broken English.
It's not sad.
Sam remembers that he has rights.
It's a blessing.
**
The doorbell rings forty-five minutes later, and Sam's so fucking excited, breathing a little better but burning up with fever, so he gets an extra sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and yeah, Dean knows you're not supposed to bundle a fever, thanks so much, he's only done fifty thousand fevers with the kid, but cold is a problem for Sam and he's more worried about shattering the pretty good imitation of calm Sam has happening than he is about ticking the fever up a few fractions of a degree.
Sam goes in for a hug, brave kid, and Dean gives Bobby a look that better convey that we handle Sam gently now, none of those macho back-slapping hugs, please, and Bobby obeys and palms the back of Sam's head with one hand.
It occurs to Dean that this is a big day for Bobby, too, not just Sam.
Bobby really missed this kid.
And then Bobby hugs him, and oh. Oh. Bobby missed him, too.
**
"He's sick," Dean warns him, while Sammy's in the kitchen to grab Bobby a beer and himself another dose of Tylenol. "Running a fever, bad cough. Go easy on him, okay?"
Bobby nods, of course, but in Dean's experience Bobby's definition of "easy on Sam" is "smoke outside instead" and that's really not going to cut it here (plus if he can give up smoking--fuuuuuck, why did he have to think about it--anyone can).
"Sam, I just thought about giving up smoking, bring me a beer too if you like your lungs."
Sam comes back with two beers and perches on the arm rest next to Dean. He hands one can to Bobby, rests the other on Dean's knee. "I like my lungs," he says quietly.
"Me too."
"You two look all settled in," Bobby says. "Furniture and everything."
"Came furnished, but there's some flea market stuff." Dean cracks the beer open. "Sam's good at bargain hunting, finds stuff online for me to check out." Bobby's looking at him, all questions, so Dean scratches a little behind Sam's ear. "He doesn't go out yet. We're working on it. Christ, kid, you are burning up."
"Yeah." He's wheezing again, too.
"Deep breaths."
"Yeah." He's sounding shakier and shakier. Probably letting him go into the kitchen alone was stupid, but stuff like that is usually fine. It's their first fever, you know?
He tells Bobby that, "First fever," while he reaches up and rubs Sam's back, and Bobby frowns and says, "You need drugs?"
"Dean has everything," Sam says. "Dean's prepared. He didn't throw my stuff away when I was gone. Not even my scarf."
"I creepily hid it so I wouldn't have to look at it, though."
"Dean loves me."
"He always says this like people are going to be surprised..."
Bobby laughs a bit, then says, "Who else you been talking to?" and you really don't have any right to sound jealous, Bobby, because Sam does phone calls with you, and do you think those are easy for him?
"Cas mostly. He's made friends with the mail lady. He's good with anyone in small doses. This is...kind of a trial run." More scratching at the back of Sam's head. He leans into it now.
Bobby looks like he's not sure if they should talk about this around Sam, and uh, hi, did he miss twenty-seven years of he and John and he and Cas, and come on, Dean and Bobby discussing Sam's asthma in all it's unglory while the kid's sitting right there? You don't keep things from Sam. Why the fuck would you start now that he's been fucked with?
Sam's wavering on the arm rest, falling asleep a little, and his hands are starting to shake in that headed-towards-a-meltdown way, aw, Sammy, today's been a lot already. He'll be fine, and they can probably nip this at the bud, but he needs a break.
"Dark room?" he says softly, and Sam nods. "All right, Sam's going to grab a nap," Dean says, which is the easiest way to explain that Sam's going to draw the curtains all the way and curl up on his bed and cover his ears and cry some. "Let me get him settled and we'll catch up, okay? I'll show you his garden."
Bobby nods, and as soon as he's down the hall, he hears Bobby start the dishes in the kitchen. Dean left them there on purpose. He left Bobby something to fix.
**
"He thinks I'm crazy," Sam says morosely, as Dean tosses him his inhaler and shoves the thermometer in his ear before he goes.
"You are crazy."
Sam sulks, not in a mad way, just a little brother way.
"You know I adore you, don't even."
"You like that word."
"Adore?"
"Uh-huh."
"I fucking love that word, Dad used to use it, remember?"
"Dad was soooo long ago."
"I know, I have trouble with that too."
"Forty years for you."
"Yep. Long time. Aaaalmost matched it, though."
"Almost, um..."
"Almost thirty-three." It is perfectly fine that Sam stumbled on that, because he's still twenty-seven (he's a hundred and twenty-eight).
"Our age difference is weird now," Sam says.
"It's fucking bizarre."
"You didn't have a birthday down there, yeah? In home-time."
God bless fucking Sammy for calling this home. All hail Sam Winchester. "Nope. Over the summer."
"My birthday."
"Yeah."
"Me..."
"You fell on your twenty-seventh birthday."
"Am I twenty-eight?"
"Who cares?"
"Oh."
"You're younger than me."
"That's important."
"That's really important."
"Even younger now."
"I like that."
"Me too."
"Except for a hundred thousand years." Sam burrows under the covers.
"Yeah. Except for that. Try to get some sleep?"
Sam shakes his head and buries his face in his pillow.
"Oh, excellent, that's good for breathing."
Sam responds in angry Enochian and Dean has to rub his back for a while, even though he knows what Sam really needs is to be left alone right now.
"Caribou," he says. "I'll be close by with Bobby. Stay in bed. I'll check on you in half an hour." Keeping Sam in one place while he has a fever has always been rough, but hopefully the sensory things and the headache he's obviously sporting will help keep him a little bed-ridden today.
"Asthma," Sam says sadly, and Dean wraps his fingers around his inhaler. Sam cuddles it.
"See you soon."
"Feel better, champ," Sam says, while Dean's closing the door.
Just like Dad used to say.
Sam is amazing.
**
Bobby doesn't seem to think so, is the thing. As soon as they're alone, he's immediately all frowny at Dean, asking what his long-term plans are, probably because he saw the counter full of psych meds (Sam takes those himself in the mornings, thanks, those are Sam's, did you not hear the pill boxes rattling around while he was fetching the alcohol he can't drink, thank you and goodnight) and because they can hear Sam sobbing a little and the words coming out aren't English.
It's fine, except it makes Sam upset, so it isn't, and Dean is pretty sure that finding out Uncle Bobby thinks he's a problem isn't going to make him feel any better.
"He's working on it," Dean says. "He's doing great."
And then Bobby opens his mouth and his next words aren't accusatory, really. They're concerned, concentrated.
"How do you do this? What do you do everyday?"
Oh.
What is Dean doing?
"I listen," he says.
Because when your baby tells you, even in these stuttered, vague, half-English explanations, about how he was suffocated and raped and stripped to nothing, 'listen' is an active fucking verb, okay?
Because fuck you, I'm fixing him isn't on the table right now, it's fucking impossible and Sam doesn't fucking want it, but somehow he thinks Bobby won't accept that his crazy kid is more afraid of managing sanity, of being forced to fucking reconcile the shit that happened to him, than he is of having flashbacks to the Cage and waking up screaming from nightmares.
Dean hasn't really thought about the fact that this is hard to understand.
(It's for Sam.)
Dean shows him Sam's garden just to have something to pretend to talk about--the garden's not much, but things are starting to sprout and it's Sam's and that's pretty cool--and then sit down on the porch swing and very obviously do not smoke, but it's okay. Dean's still tuned into Sammy's crying and he wonders if this is how mothers feel, if his mom was ever as attuned to Sam crying as he is now.
Bobby looks worried, but this isn't a cry that needs worrying over, okay? This is an exhausted one, one that might put him right to sleep, so fuck if Dean's going to be interrupting.
(And if you think it doesn't break his heart when his brother's crying any damn way then you are fucked in the head, but Dean has his kid back so since when his his heart ever the issue here?)
"He's sad," Dean says. "Sometimes it just comes down to him being really sad."
"Is he gonna get better, do you think?"
"Oh, no way, he's fucked up forever. We'll just learn to cope more. It's fine." He frowns as Bobby pulls his book out of his pocket. "What's up?"
"Gotta get your opinion on something? You have your daddy's journal?"
"Yeah, inside."
"Need a cross-reference. Tried to finish this up before I left home, but it wasn't happening."
"C'mon."
So they compare John's section on black dogs with Bobby's, and Dean hates to admit that he loves it the same way he loved seeing the weapons the first time Sam dug them out. As exhausting as hunting was, as much as it was never a choice and always them jerked around by fate, as much as it cost him, sometimes Dean misses it probably the same way Sam misses the Cage. It sucked, but it was familiar, and he knew where he stood, and he knew that if he lost something there was always, always the chance of getting it back.
Now that he's living in this normal world, this place without magic, it's so hard to believe that Sam won't just get sick and die and that'll be it.
"Dean?"
He sounds incredibly calm, which for Sam means terrified. Dean closes the book and stands up, and Bobby says, "We've almost finished--"
This is what John, during broken wrists and asthma attacks and the deaths of hunters they didn't know, would call a teachable moment. "Yeah. But Sam needs me. So it's gonna wait."
Bobby follows him to Sam's room, which Dean isn't sure about, but when he walks in and Sam's standing there dripping blood from his forearms down to his hands, yeah, he's a little grateful to have backup.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck bleeding hurt left him
"Shit," Bobby says, and Dean says, "Hey, stay calm. Hey, buddy, what happened?" He grasps his shoulder and guides him back onto the bed. Okay. It's bad, painful, might-need-some-stitches bad, but he hasn't sliced any arteries, the cuts don't look deliberate, and he's not in danger of bleeding out. All blessings.
"I..." Sam gestures towards the wall and blood slides down his thumb. "I turned on the lights hadtogettheneb but the colors in the mirror were brighter and that Sam was slow and I didn't know if I was--" he takes in this huge wheezy breath "--the real Sam or if he was..."
"Okay." Dean rubs back and forth between his shoulders and guides Sam's head to his shoulder. "Okay. That's fine. You're real, you're here with me. Bobby. First-aid kit?"
"D-did you know that decide literally means to kill an option?" Sam chokes out a sob. "I killed him, Dean." Shaky breath. "So much blood."
"I know. Don't look at it." He tilts Sam's chin up. "Here. Look at me. He's not dead. No one's dead. Let me get you cleaned up, then I'll sweep up the glass and get you something for that fever, okay? You poor fucking thing, you want juice?"
Sam nods hard.
"Okay. We'll get you juice. What time is it, two? Yeah, almost. Everyday Italian's on at two, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you can watch that. You want me to watch with you?"
Bobby can entertain his own damn self.
Sam nods hard.
"Okay. Perfect. I'll watch with you."
"So much blood..."
Bobby brings the First-Aid kit and sets up the nebulizer--Sam tells him how, pawing at his tears with the arm Dean isn't holding like he's fucking embarrassed, oh, Sam--while Dean and a pair of tweezers pull glass out of Sam's wrists and hands and wrap him in gauze. He's going to be fine, but this is clearly a bad day and it sucks that he has to do it in front of Bobby. Just the two of them? No big deal. He knows Dean isn't mad.
"Sorry, Bobby," he croaks out.
Dean mumbles, "You're fine, Sammy."
"All the blood," Sam says. "Somuchblood."
"Don't worry about it, kiddo," Bobby says, but then Dean starts on Sam's right arm and pushes the sleeve up and Bobby catches a glimpse of the bandage Sam still has wound above their little incident last week, it's fine, it's nothing, Sam was just out of the hospital, they'd just moved, it was stressful, Dean should have been watching him.
So Bobby should be judging Dean, okay?
Sam talks quietly and Bobby's eyes go wide.
"Is that Enochian?"
"Obviously." Dean wraps his wrist. "He knows some Hebrew too, but some of that's old, from Jess."
Sam nods. "Jessica Moore," he clarifies, to Bobby.
Bobby's expression is guarded. "I know, kid," which is kind of dumb, because he's pretty sure Bobby didn't know Jess's last name, why would he?
"Enochian's the standard now," Dean says. "We're happy when he speaks English. You should have seen him at the hospital two weeks ago, he was the fucking best."
"Just drugged," Sam says, softly.
"Nah, you were great. You're great now, too. Would be way better if you weren't feverish. I know this sucks."
"Stomach hurts."
"You can throw up later. Not now. You deserve a break now. Look at that, didn't even need stitches." He crosses Sam's arms over his chest. "TV and juice. You want soup?"
"Yeah. What if mirror-Sam tries to find me?"
He's going to turn on the fucking TV before Sam gets there, no reflection for him, thanks. "Mirror-Dean will kick his ass."
Sam laughs a little. "I'm so fucking crazy."
"Yeah, but I like you."
"I like you too."
Bobby's looking at Dean like he's said something wrong.
Dean wishes, suddenly and painfully, that he would go.
**
The sad thing is that Sammy doesn't even get to watch his show, because as soon as Dean's set up a nest for him on the couch he skyrockets, of course, past 103, and now he's pacing miserably, pawing at one ear that's of-fucking-course already looking red and swollen, fucking kid and his fucking ear infections, mumbling to himself (in English, Jesus) and driving these hideous coughs into the crook of his arm.
"Sammy. Sit."
"Leave me alone, I've got to do something," Sam says, all bitchy.
"Warm couch, though. Or cool couch, depending how you're feeling. How you feeling?"
"Bite me."
Bobby snorts from the table, where he's bent over John's notebook, and Dean cracks a smile too.
"You're such a fucking kid."
Sam wheezes into a cough fit, and even that sounds pissed off.
"Come on, I know you feel crappy. Come lie down, drink your fucking juice, learn how to cook food you can't eat, you'll fucking love it." He's still coughing. "Hey. You okay?"
Still coughing. Dean gets up and puts a hand on his back, and Sam's immediately leaning into him, all ridiculously asthmatic, resting his forehead on the top of Dean's head to catch his breath.
"No more wandering unless it leads back to bed," Dean says.
"Uh-huh."
"All right. Back in a sec, Bobby, got to try to teach the boy to breathe. He never learns." He pinches Sam's cheek.
**
"You should be with Bobby."
Dean tugs another sweatshirt over Sam's head. "That's not how this works."
Sam winces as the collar goes over his head, hand hovering by his ear. "You're a bad host."
"My co-host has an ear infection, I'm excused. C'mere, I'll put something warm on that."
Sam's shivery and beyond wheezy, and he curls up with his good ear down on Dean's leg and lets Dean hold a warm washcloth over the one that's looking worse by the damn minute, fantastic. God, it fucking figures that the first time he gets sick, he's fucking slammed. Why can't Sam ever just have a fucking cold that's just a cold?
Sam coughs and wheezes and coughs and wheezes.
Because of that, obviously.
"I'm sick of this," Sam says, suddenly, in this broken voice.
"What?"
"I'm sick of wheezing. I'm sick of being sick."
"Oh. Hey. Sam."
"I'm so tired." He's shaking with sobs. "A hundred and sixty-eight goddamn years, I wasn't supposed to have to do this this long."
"I know. I know. Sammy. Breathe." Dean's heart is going like a fucking hummingbird.
"I just want it to be over," Sam says, breathing so fucking hard. "I just need it to be over."
Dean handles his bandages arms gently.
"I know," Dean says, because of course he fucking knows. "But you're going to stay for me, right? For your weakass big brother who doesn't even like when you're in the other room?"
Sam nods hard.
"How stupid is it that I want to say you deserve to live forever?"
Sam squirms. "No no no."
"I know. You deserve to die. Peaceful and safe, with me, and then we get right the fuck up there to go be with Jess forever."
"Promise?"
"Of course. Cas will make sure." He kisses Sam's forehead. "But not for a while, okay? I need you to myself for a little longer. You've got to let me keep you a little."
Sam nods and burrows into his leg.
"Just us for a little while," Sam says quietly.
Dean looks at the door and realizes he really does no give a shit how Bobby's keeping himself busy out there.
"Yeah, Sammy. Just us for a little while. Let's get that fever down."
**
Dean medicates him and sits away and watches Sam shiver and quick-breathe his way to sleep.
He hears Bobby outside on the phone.
Hears him say he's worried about Sam, but Dean insists it's okay.
Dean laughs or cries.
**
(No, of course it's not okay, Bobby.)
(Of course it isn't fucking okay that Sam hurts himself, that he has flashbacks and nightmares, that he can't stand having all his senses at once. Of course it isn't fucking okay. His baby was raped and tortured. How the fuck do you think that's okay? Fucking Jesus, Sam is epic bucket tons of crazy and you think there's any fucking way that could be okay?)
(It is not okay that this is their life. It doesn't make it any better than it's for Sam.)
(Of course it's not okay. It's to Sam.)
**
"I love you," Sam mumbles as he's falling asleep.
And you fucking plow on, okay?
Summary: Right after they've settled in post-Hell, a friend (or something) comes to visit.
Wordcount: 4,671
Author's Note: So I'm working on a big Jess-lives and then I stumbled on this the other day. I wrote it almost exactly a year ago and I have no idea why I didn't post it? I guess I didn't like it. It might be because it's pretty thematically redundant but like whatever, Sam has a fever and there are some sentences I like and I have made an executive decision that that's enough. (I have killed an option!) Title's from "Sons and Daughters."
The blessing is that Sam doesn't get sick, truly sick, regular-person-sick, before they have the house. It means Sam can cough as loudly as he wants and that he can wander like a ghost without worrying about bothering anyone. It means their space is deliberate, careful, theirs, and that Sam, in the two weeks they've been here, has developed a semblance of comfort.
The unblessing, obviously, is that Sam's five weeks out of Hell and running a fever.
Obviously that's no good.
But yeah, Dean's finding things to be grateful for, and a big one is that he's pretty sure he caught the fever in a matter of an hour or two after it showed up, because he's developed a habit of checking on his kid a few times through the night. It isn't something he'd thought about until now, because it's not like he sets an alarm and it's definitely not like it's a fucking problem, he just goes to Sam's room and counts breaths for a while and brings him a glass of water and his inhaler if he's lying awake staring at the wall (about half the time) or gently steers him back to bed if he's sleepwalking in circles or just pacing anxiously (sometimes it's hard to tell the difference, but lying down with him for a while tends to calm him down either way).
So Sam probably hasn't been torching with this thing pretty long, but the congested coughs he gives in his sleep make Dean think his body's been quietly preparing this illness for a while now.
Maybe it was waiting until they were kind of settled in.
It's a blessing.
It's important to remember that fucking everything related to Sam is a blessing now.
**
"Hey, Sammy. You okay?" It's probably cruel to ask him before he's really awake, but Dean has a hand on his back and he's stirring and he has to know, okay?
Sam coughs and coughs and nods a little.
"Let me get you up a little and take your temperature, give you something to make you feel a little better. I'll let you sleep forever afterwards, I swear."
Sam keeps nodding and doesn't really seem bothered by any of this. He sits up halfway and cuddles his pillow.
Dean has one of the ear thermometers because Sam likes it better and, well, Dean likes Sam. It clocks the kid in at a hair over 102, which is a relief considering the fevers Sam likes to run, and Dean gives him Tylenol and starts thinking about a clinic visit because that's what you do when your Sam has a fever before he remembers that that's really not an option for his kid's addled damn mind.
It's fine. This is the reason he got a fucking white coat and got online to design a prescription pad, you know? He can go get whatever.
But that's tomorrow. For now he needs to make breathing a little easier and make sure Sam stays calm. He's really sluggish and sleepy right now, but if the fever rises, that won't last.
"C'mere." He leans back on the headboard and guides Sam into his chest, propped up a little to help him breathe. "You want a neb?"
"Nuh-uh." He coughs and coughs, still low and junky while he's not flat. Poor damn kid. Might be bronchitis, might just be a cold hitting his lungs like always. Sounds miserable either way.
Sam's kind of miserable enough, is the thing.
"This okay?" he says quietly, playing with the ends of Sam's hair. "The touching?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. Good. You can go back to sleep."
Sam nods and burrows a little into Dean's side.
"Love you," Dean whispers.
"Feel safe," Sam whispers back (he tends to spring the 'I love you too's on Den at ridiculous and improbable times, when Dean has done nothing to indicate that the too is necessary, you weird kid, Dean was just clipping out some coupons (two weeks and he's a fucking housewife) or emailing Bobby or something). "I won't freak out," he says, with a shiver.
"Don't care if you do."
"Yeah?"
"It's totally fine."
Sam gives this little wheezy sigh, relieved.
The kid's just so exhausted. He just fights so hard.
Another blessing is that Sam eats the next morning and proves again why he's Dean's fucking favorite (although the sad through is that at this point there isn't a competition, but even if there were, uh, ladies and gentleman, may he present Samuel Winchester, 99% human, 1% fuck you, Hell-beaten and fucking adorable, affectionate and out of his damn mind, worries about your nightmares when he can't fucking breathe, look at that smile, Sam fucking Winchester). Eating's rough a lot of days because he's allergy-skittish--uh, hi, almost dying a week and a half ago, what up--and because a lot of food reminds him of the pit still. He's skinny, doctors-at-the-hospital-shook-their-heads skinny, but when he does eat he holds it down well and he's as open as he can be--because he doesn't always fucking know, okay?--about what he can manage to eat today and what he can't. Today toast with jelly is perfect, goooooood sick kid, and Dean brings him a tray in bed like he never, ever got growing up, like he saw Jess bring him once when he was really really wheezy one morning.
The fever's a little lower this morning, a hundred and one and a half, and it makes Sam exhausted before he's been up for an hour. Dean prods him a little, because keeping to routine as much as they can is going to make this so much easier on his kid, who's still dealing with sensory stuff and a bad sense of time, so they do whatever they can to keep days predictable for him. Sam helps as well as he can, shaking his way through the day when he has to and trying to plan his breakdowns at the same time every day. Dean always gives him an hour in the evenings when he's allowed to talk in just Enochian. It's depressing how much it helps him, or it would be if he didn't do it for Sam. Sam is a fucking blessing. (It really is not hard to remember. This shit that should be is not hard. You try struggling with something when at the end of the day your kid fucking adores you.)
Sam eats half his toast and dutifully gets out of bed, knees shaking, and showers. The steam makes him cough, Dean can hear it through the door, but it's a good cough, productive cough.
"What time is he coming?" Sam says, first thing, once he's out, because the other big blessing of the day is that today's the day Bobby's coming to stay with them for the week. It's the first time Sam's seen him since his soul's been back, and the kid's been so fucking excited, cleaning for days, planning out what he and Dean should cook, getting out all the weapons and leaving them lying around fake-casually so Bobby will think they're still Good Old Sam and Dean, how weird is that, come on Sam (Dean puts them right the fuck back because crazy brother and all that, and luckily Sam doesn't seem to mind doing the little dance of away-back-away-back because Dean is very clear about I am putting these away so Sam doesn't think anything's up and disappeared on him) and yeah, Dean realizes that he let his kid work himself to the point of exhaustion (to the point of illness), screw you.
"Hour and a half. You need me to help you pick out clothes, princess?"
"I did date a woman without help from you."
"Yeah, once."
"More than you."
"Let's not compare sex stories, yours are all depressing post-Hell."
Sam chuckles while he gets dressed.
"You doing okay in there, fever-kid? You need the neb, you're fucking growling."
"Yeah."
"Grrrrr."
Another smile from Sammy, but he looks shaky, so Dean flops down on the bed and makes very obvious room under his arm.
Sam tugs on his shirt and immediately fits himself into it.
"Sweet kid."
"Shut up."
Dean's turn to laugh, but he stops when he presses his hand to Sam's forehead because he's very obviously warmer. Probably letting him shower (making him shower) was a bad idea.
Dean nudges the tray towards him. "Try to eat a little more? I'm worried."
"Won't fix me."
"Make you feel better."
"Drug me?"
"Fuck, right." Sam gets antivirals when he's sick, as well as Tamiflu and antibiotics in case it's flu or bacterial and yeah yeah Dean's heard the spiel about over-prescription of antibiotics ten billion times, thank you, loud I'm-everybody's-Mom waitress, but he'd rather have to put the kid on IVs every time he gets a bad chest infection than take the fucking risk that Sam's chest is growing bacterial bronchitis or pneumonia and they don't catch it. Nuh-uh. Drugs for Sam.
He gets up and roots through the first-aid kit and sets the nebulizer down on the tray (this is convenient, should this be a thing?) and mutters "Hold you," as he guides the kid back onto his chest.
"Kay."
He medicates him and rubs his back through the neb treatment, but halfway through Sam's crying a little, fussing at his forehead, trying to fucking fuss at his fever, deep breaths, Sammy.
"You okay?" Dean says, and he's answered with some mouthpiece-stuttered Enochian, aw, Sam. It always comes out when he's scared. Sam's broken brain thinks that's the way to make sure he's understood. It's kind of sad.
"Henricksen would have given us the death penalty," is the next thing he says in English, and what a fucking stressed-out kid.
"Nah, just me. And he came around in the end."
Sam wheezes his way into this very bleak coughing fit, and Dean sticks a hand in his hair and twists and keeps worrying. Please eat some toast, Sam.
But he sucks from the nebulizer instead, also fine, and mumbles Miranda rights in broken English.
It's not sad.
Sam remembers that he has rights.
It's a blessing.
**
The doorbell rings forty-five minutes later, and Sam's so fucking excited, breathing a little better but burning up with fever, so he gets an extra sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and yeah, Dean knows you're not supposed to bundle a fever, thanks so much, he's only done fifty thousand fevers with the kid, but cold is a problem for Sam and he's more worried about shattering the pretty good imitation of calm Sam has happening than he is about ticking the fever up a few fractions of a degree.
Sam goes in for a hug, brave kid, and Dean gives Bobby a look that better convey that we handle Sam gently now, none of those macho back-slapping hugs, please, and Bobby obeys and palms the back of Sam's head with one hand.
It occurs to Dean that this is a big day for Bobby, too, not just Sam.
Bobby really missed this kid.
And then Bobby hugs him, and oh. Oh. Bobby missed him, too.
**
"He's sick," Dean warns him, while Sammy's in the kitchen to grab Bobby a beer and himself another dose of Tylenol. "Running a fever, bad cough. Go easy on him, okay?"
Bobby nods, of course, but in Dean's experience Bobby's definition of "easy on Sam" is "smoke outside instead" and that's really not going to cut it here (plus if he can give up smoking--fuuuuuck, why did he have to think about it--anyone can).
"Sam, I just thought about giving up smoking, bring me a beer too if you like your lungs."
Sam comes back with two beers and perches on the arm rest next to Dean. He hands one can to Bobby, rests the other on Dean's knee. "I like my lungs," he says quietly.
"Me too."
"You two look all settled in," Bobby says. "Furniture and everything."
"Came furnished, but there's some flea market stuff." Dean cracks the beer open. "Sam's good at bargain hunting, finds stuff online for me to check out." Bobby's looking at him, all questions, so Dean scratches a little behind Sam's ear. "He doesn't go out yet. We're working on it. Christ, kid, you are burning up."
"Yeah." He's wheezing again, too.
"Deep breaths."
"Yeah." He's sounding shakier and shakier. Probably letting him go into the kitchen alone was stupid, but stuff like that is usually fine. It's their first fever, you know?
He tells Bobby that, "First fever," while he reaches up and rubs Sam's back, and Bobby frowns and says, "You need drugs?"
"Dean has everything," Sam says. "Dean's prepared. He didn't throw my stuff away when I was gone. Not even my scarf."
"I creepily hid it so I wouldn't have to look at it, though."
"Dean loves me."
"He always says this like people are going to be surprised..."
Bobby laughs a bit, then says, "Who else you been talking to?" and you really don't have any right to sound jealous, Bobby, because Sam does phone calls with you, and do you think those are easy for him?
"Cas mostly. He's made friends with the mail lady. He's good with anyone in small doses. This is...kind of a trial run." More scratching at the back of Sam's head. He leans into it now.
Bobby looks like he's not sure if they should talk about this around Sam, and uh, hi, did he miss twenty-seven years of he and John and he and Cas, and come on, Dean and Bobby discussing Sam's asthma in all it's unglory while the kid's sitting right there? You don't keep things from Sam. Why the fuck would you start now that he's been fucked with?
Sam's wavering on the arm rest, falling asleep a little, and his hands are starting to shake in that headed-towards-a-meltdown way, aw, Sammy, today's been a lot already. He'll be fine, and they can probably nip this at the bud, but he needs a break.
"Dark room?" he says softly, and Sam nods. "All right, Sam's going to grab a nap," Dean says, which is the easiest way to explain that Sam's going to draw the curtains all the way and curl up on his bed and cover his ears and cry some. "Let me get him settled and we'll catch up, okay? I'll show you his garden."
Bobby nods, and as soon as he's down the hall, he hears Bobby start the dishes in the kitchen. Dean left them there on purpose. He left Bobby something to fix.
**
"He thinks I'm crazy," Sam says morosely, as Dean tosses him his inhaler and shoves the thermometer in his ear before he goes.
"You are crazy."
Sam sulks, not in a mad way, just a little brother way.
"You know I adore you, don't even."
"You like that word."
"Adore?"
"Uh-huh."
"I fucking love that word, Dad used to use it, remember?"
"Dad was soooo long ago."
"I know, I have trouble with that too."
"Forty years for you."
"Yep. Long time. Aaaalmost matched it, though."
"Almost, um..."
"Almost thirty-three." It is perfectly fine that Sam stumbled on that, because he's still twenty-seven (he's a hundred and twenty-eight).
"Our age difference is weird now," Sam says.
"It's fucking bizarre."
"You didn't have a birthday down there, yeah? In home-time."
God bless fucking Sammy for calling this home. All hail Sam Winchester. "Nope. Over the summer."
"My birthday."
"Yeah."
"Me..."
"You fell on your twenty-seventh birthday."
"Am I twenty-eight?"
"Who cares?"
"Oh."
"You're younger than me."
"That's important."
"That's really important."
"Even younger now."
"I like that."
"Me too."
"Except for a hundred thousand years." Sam burrows under the covers.
"Yeah. Except for that. Try to get some sleep?"
Sam shakes his head and buries his face in his pillow.
"Oh, excellent, that's good for breathing."
Sam responds in angry Enochian and Dean has to rub his back for a while, even though he knows what Sam really needs is to be left alone right now.
"Caribou," he says. "I'll be close by with Bobby. Stay in bed. I'll check on you in half an hour." Keeping Sam in one place while he has a fever has always been rough, but hopefully the sensory things and the headache he's obviously sporting will help keep him a little bed-ridden today.
"Asthma," Sam says sadly, and Dean wraps his fingers around his inhaler. Sam cuddles it.
"See you soon."
"Feel better, champ," Sam says, while Dean's closing the door.
Just like Dad used to say.
Sam is amazing.
**
Bobby doesn't seem to think so, is the thing. As soon as they're alone, he's immediately all frowny at Dean, asking what his long-term plans are, probably because he saw the counter full of psych meds (Sam takes those himself in the mornings, thanks, those are Sam's, did you not hear the pill boxes rattling around while he was fetching the alcohol he can't drink, thank you and goodnight) and because they can hear Sam sobbing a little and the words coming out aren't English.
It's fine, except it makes Sam upset, so it isn't, and Dean is pretty sure that finding out Uncle Bobby thinks he's a problem isn't going to make him feel any better.
"He's working on it," Dean says. "He's doing great."
And then Bobby opens his mouth and his next words aren't accusatory, really. They're concerned, concentrated.
"How do you do this? What do you do everyday?"
Oh.
What is Dean doing?
"I listen," he says.
Because when your baby tells you, even in these stuttered, vague, half-English explanations, about how he was suffocated and raped and stripped to nothing, 'listen' is an active fucking verb, okay?
Because fuck you, I'm fixing him isn't on the table right now, it's fucking impossible and Sam doesn't fucking want it, but somehow he thinks Bobby won't accept that his crazy kid is more afraid of managing sanity, of being forced to fucking reconcile the shit that happened to him, than he is of having flashbacks to the Cage and waking up screaming from nightmares.
Dean hasn't really thought about the fact that this is hard to understand.
(It's for Sam.)
Dean shows him Sam's garden just to have something to pretend to talk about--the garden's not much, but things are starting to sprout and it's Sam's and that's pretty cool--and then sit down on the porch swing and very obviously do not smoke, but it's okay. Dean's still tuned into Sammy's crying and he wonders if this is how mothers feel, if his mom was ever as attuned to Sam crying as he is now.
Bobby looks worried, but this isn't a cry that needs worrying over, okay? This is an exhausted one, one that might put him right to sleep, so fuck if Dean's going to be interrupting.
(And if you think it doesn't break his heart when his brother's crying any damn way then you are fucked in the head, but Dean has his kid back so since when his his heart ever the issue here?)
"He's sad," Dean says. "Sometimes it just comes down to him being really sad."
"Is he gonna get better, do you think?"
"Oh, no way, he's fucked up forever. We'll just learn to cope more. It's fine." He frowns as Bobby pulls his book out of his pocket. "What's up?"
"Gotta get your opinion on something? You have your daddy's journal?"
"Yeah, inside."
"Need a cross-reference. Tried to finish this up before I left home, but it wasn't happening."
"C'mon."
So they compare John's section on black dogs with Bobby's, and Dean hates to admit that he loves it the same way he loved seeing the weapons the first time Sam dug them out. As exhausting as hunting was, as much as it was never a choice and always them jerked around by fate, as much as it cost him, sometimes Dean misses it probably the same way Sam misses the Cage. It sucked, but it was familiar, and he knew where he stood, and he knew that if he lost something there was always, always the chance of getting it back.
Now that he's living in this normal world, this place without magic, it's so hard to believe that Sam won't just get sick and die and that'll be it.
"Dean?"
He sounds incredibly calm, which for Sam means terrified. Dean closes the book and stands up, and Bobby says, "We've almost finished--"
This is what John, during broken wrists and asthma attacks and the deaths of hunters they didn't know, would call a teachable moment. "Yeah. But Sam needs me. So it's gonna wait."
Bobby follows him to Sam's room, which Dean isn't sure about, but when he walks in and Sam's standing there dripping blood from his forearms down to his hands, yeah, he's a little grateful to have backup.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck bleeding hurt left him
"Shit," Bobby says, and Dean says, "Hey, stay calm. Hey, buddy, what happened?" He grasps his shoulder and guides him back onto the bed. Okay. It's bad, painful, might-need-some-stitches bad, but he hasn't sliced any arteries, the cuts don't look deliberate, and he's not in danger of bleeding out. All blessings.
"I..." Sam gestures towards the wall and blood slides down his thumb. "I turned on the lights hadtogettheneb but the colors in the mirror were brighter and that Sam was slow and I didn't know if I was--" he takes in this huge wheezy breath "--the real Sam or if he was..."
"Okay." Dean rubs back and forth between his shoulders and guides Sam's head to his shoulder. "Okay. That's fine. You're real, you're here with me. Bobby. First-aid kit?"
"D-did you know that decide literally means to kill an option?" Sam chokes out a sob. "I killed him, Dean." Shaky breath. "So much blood."
"I know. Don't look at it." He tilts Sam's chin up. "Here. Look at me. He's not dead. No one's dead. Let me get you cleaned up, then I'll sweep up the glass and get you something for that fever, okay? You poor fucking thing, you want juice?"
Sam nods hard.
"Okay. We'll get you juice. What time is it, two? Yeah, almost. Everyday Italian's on at two, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you can watch that. You want me to watch with you?"
Bobby can entertain his own damn self.
Sam nods hard.
"Okay. Perfect. I'll watch with you."
"So much blood..."
Bobby brings the First-Aid kit and sets up the nebulizer--Sam tells him how, pawing at his tears with the arm Dean isn't holding like he's fucking embarrassed, oh, Sam--while Dean and a pair of tweezers pull glass out of Sam's wrists and hands and wrap him in gauze. He's going to be fine, but this is clearly a bad day and it sucks that he has to do it in front of Bobby. Just the two of them? No big deal. He knows Dean isn't mad.
"Sorry, Bobby," he croaks out.
Dean mumbles, "You're fine, Sammy."
"All the blood," Sam says. "Somuchblood."
"Don't worry about it, kiddo," Bobby says, but then Dean starts on Sam's right arm and pushes the sleeve up and Bobby catches a glimpse of the bandage Sam still has wound above their little incident last week, it's fine, it's nothing, Sam was just out of the hospital, they'd just moved, it was stressful, Dean should have been watching him.
So Bobby should be judging Dean, okay?
Sam talks quietly and Bobby's eyes go wide.
"Is that Enochian?"
"Obviously." Dean wraps his wrist. "He knows some Hebrew too, but some of that's old, from Jess."
Sam nods. "Jessica Moore," he clarifies, to Bobby.
Bobby's expression is guarded. "I know, kid," which is kind of dumb, because he's pretty sure Bobby didn't know Jess's last name, why would he?
"Enochian's the standard now," Dean says. "We're happy when he speaks English. You should have seen him at the hospital two weeks ago, he was the fucking best."
"Just drugged," Sam says, softly.
"Nah, you were great. You're great now, too. Would be way better if you weren't feverish. I know this sucks."
"Stomach hurts."
"You can throw up later. Not now. You deserve a break now. Look at that, didn't even need stitches." He crosses Sam's arms over his chest. "TV and juice. You want soup?"
"Yeah. What if mirror-Sam tries to find me?"
He's going to turn on the fucking TV before Sam gets there, no reflection for him, thanks. "Mirror-Dean will kick his ass."
Sam laughs a little. "I'm so fucking crazy."
"Yeah, but I like you."
"I like you too."
Bobby's looking at Dean like he's said something wrong.
Dean wishes, suddenly and painfully, that he would go.
**
The sad thing is that Sammy doesn't even get to watch his show, because as soon as Dean's set up a nest for him on the couch he skyrockets, of course, past 103, and now he's pacing miserably, pawing at one ear that's of-fucking-course already looking red and swollen, fucking kid and his fucking ear infections, mumbling to himself (in English, Jesus) and driving these hideous coughs into the crook of his arm.
"Sammy. Sit."
"Leave me alone, I've got to do something," Sam says, all bitchy.
"Warm couch, though. Or cool couch, depending how you're feeling. How you feeling?"
"Bite me."
Bobby snorts from the table, where he's bent over John's notebook, and Dean cracks a smile too.
"You're such a fucking kid."
Sam wheezes into a cough fit, and even that sounds pissed off.
"Come on, I know you feel crappy. Come lie down, drink your fucking juice, learn how to cook food you can't eat, you'll fucking love it." He's still coughing. "Hey. You okay?"
Still coughing. Dean gets up and puts a hand on his back, and Sam's immediately leaning into him, all ridiculously asthmatic, resting his forehead on the top of Dean's head to catch his breath.
"No more wandering unless it leads back to bed," Dean says.
"Uh-huh."
"All right. Back in a sec, Bobby, got to try to teach the boy to breathe. He never learns." He pinches Sam's cheek.
**
"You should be with Bobby."
Dean tugs another sweatshirt over Sam's head. "That's not how this works."
Sam winces as the collar goes over his head, hand hovering by his ear. "You're a bad host."
"My co-host has an ear infection, I'm excused. C'mere, I'll put something warm on that."
Sam's shivery and beyond wheezy, and he curls up with his good ear down on Dean's leg and lets Dean hold a warm washcloth over the one that's looking worse by the damn minute, fantastic. God, it fucking figures that the first time he gets sick, he's fucking slammed. Why can't Sam ever just have a fucking cold that's just a cold?
Sam coughs and wheezes and coughs and wheezes.
Because of that, obviously.
"I'm sick of this," Sam says, suddenly, in this broken voice.
"What?"
"I'm sick of wheezing. I'm sick of being sick."
"Oh. Hey. Sam."
"I'm so tired." He's shaking with sobs. "A hundred and sixty-eight goddamn years, I wasn't supposed to have to do this this long."
"I know. I know. Sammy. Breathe." Dean's heart is going like a fucking hummingbird.
"I just want it to be over," Sam says, breathing so fucking hard. "I just need it to be over."
Dean handles his bandages arms gently.
"I know," Dean says, because of course he fucking knows. "But you're going to stay for me, right? For your weakass big brother who doesn't even like when you're in the other room?"
Sam nods hard.
"How stupid is it that I want to say you deserve to live forever?"
Sam squirms. "No no no."
"I know. You deserve to die. Peaceful and safe, with me, and then we get right the fuck up there to go be with Jess forever."
"Promise?"
"Of course. Cas will make sure." He kisses Sam's forehead. "But not for a while, okay? I need you to myself for a little longer. You've got to let me keep you a little."
Sam nods and burrows into his leg.
"Just us for a little while," Sam says quietly.
Dean looks at the door and realizes he really does no give a shit how Bobby's keeping himself busy out there.
"Yeah, Sammy. Just us for a little while. Let's get that fever down."
**
Dean medicates him and sits away and watches Sam shiver and quick-breathe his way to sleep.
He hears Bobby outside on the phone.
Hears him say he's worried about Sam, but Dean insists it's okay.
Dean laughs or cries.
**
(No, of course it's not okay, Bobby.)
(Of course it isn't fucking okay that Sam hurts himself, that he has flashbacks and nightmares, that he can't stand having all his senses at once. Of course it isn't fucking okay. His baby was raped and tortured. How the fuck do you think that's okay? Fucking Jesus, Sam is epic bucket tons of crazy and you think there's any fucking way that could be okay?)
(It is not okay that this is their life. It doesn't make it any better than it's for Sam.)
(Of course it's not okay. It's to Sam.)
**
"I love you," Sam mumbles as he's falling asleep.
And you fucking plow on, okay?