Because of Houdini, Part Two
PART TWO
When Dean was fifteen he and Dad and Sammy rolled into a little town in central Washington with one of those high schools that still assigned new students a “buddy." Or maybe they just thought Dean needed a buddy, because Dean was a Sick Person and Sick People always needed a hand on the shoulder, a tear in the eye.
Either way, Dean’s “buddy” was a guy named Derek and they were paired together because Derek had CF too-- he always called himself and Dean “CFers,” a term Dean found repulsive because it made it sound like they were part of some whack comic book secret society with decoder rings and shit.
Derek was burly; there was no better word for it. He wore a starter jacket with his last name embroidered across his mountainous shoulders and he was always hitching the fabric forward in a spastic little flinch like he was about to pounce on whoever came near him.
He coughed like he was busting through a brick wall. He jerked Dean around the neck like they were best friends. His mouth ran non-stop with motivational speeches about “staying ahead of the disease” and “you have CF it doesn’t have you” and “you cough too much you should do your PT more often.”
Derek didn’t seem to have bad days like Dean. He was never exhausted, never in pain. He had a vest that vibrated at some ultra speed that loosened up the crap his lungs way better than Dad’s back pounding ever could. He played sports and banged chicks and was gonna live to be a hundred and eighty, or so he said.
“Derek plays sports,” Sam was always saying, “I think it would be good for you. If you played sports.”
“I don’t know what you have against feeding tubes,” Sam was always saying, “Derek has one, and look how big he is.”
Almost four months they were in that town and there was no escaping Derek. Dad thought it would be a good idea for Dean to get to know “someone like him” and that’s when Sammy starting begging to play soccer, so three times a week on Dad’s orders Dean and Derek and Sammy took the bus down to the soccer field.
Dean and Derek would sit in the bleachers, ostensibly watching Sammy practice but Dean could barely pay attention with Derek’s incessant babbling.
“--cause you gotta fight and keep fightin’, know what I’m saying? You gotta get that shit up and out.”
“You watch too much fucking TV,” Dean said.
"You need to work on your attitude. Attitude's what's gonna kill you."
"Shut up." Dean spit fast and long out across the bleachers. "It's your turn."
That was one thing that wasn’t totally fucked up about Derek-- the spitting contests. Using their endless supply of mucus they’d go at it for hours during Sammy's practices, spitting what they were sure were world record distances, working on their aim till they could knock a bluebird off an old lady’s hat from a block away (or so they would have liked to think).
Dean was better and it drove Derek fucking nuts. One day he was trying too hard and the air was cold and maybe he was coming down with something and he ended up coughing until he was sick. He looked so sad puking down between the bleachers that Dean was overcome by a surge of honesty.
“I hate it,” he said. “What we have.”
Derek finished barfing, wiped his face, looked Dean in the eye, turned and launched a ball of snot that sailed in silhouette across the beating sun and down into the soccer field. It outdistanced Dean's spit by five feet, easy.
“You should stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. "You have CF. It doesn't have you."
"Fuck you," Dean replied. And then he jumped down the bleachers and into the field to collect Sammy and that's the last time he ever saw Derek.
He looked him up once, though. Guy died right after graduating high school with honors. Had an article on the front page of the newspaper and everything.
Dean always wanted Sam to understand. Derek got his treatments like clockwork and didn’t have guns to clean or Things to Hunt or People to Save. Derek went into the hospital every three months for “tune-up” whereas Dad counted on Dean to remind him when it was time, and most of the time that meant never, because Dean couldn’t stand laying in a hospital bed thinking about all the people out there who were dying just so he could take a full breath.
He always wanted Sam to understand that he wasn’t weak. That he was maybe even strong. Because Derek did everything right and it wasn't enough.
So now Dean stands outside Sammy’s apartment door and hears gleeful, normal murmuring, his brother’s low tones and the higher-pitched fawning of a girl.
He should turn around and walk away. Leave the poor kid alone. Let him hide and feel safe in his Stanford sanctuary.
But truth is, Dean misses his brother so bad he can feel it heavy on his chest and he knows now that the expression worry yourself sick came from somewhere literal.
That’s sentimental horseshit, though. Dean takes a breath and blames his being here, at Sammy’s door, on a more selfish, more spiteful reason:
He is big and muscled and well-fed and healthy now, or as healthy as he’ll ever be, and this is how he wants Sam to remember him, even if the little bastard slams the door in his face.
So he clears his throat and he pops his collar and he knocks.
****
Sam's still way too drunk, still way too drunk, even though it's been an hour, maybe two, since he playfully sucked the last drop of wine from Jessica's bottom lip.
It's not that he wishes Dean hadn't come. But he wants a pause button. Wants to go lay in bed with Jessica and know that Dean is coming so he can prepare.
More knocking at the door.
"It's probably Nate," Jess says, giggling, "FUCK OFF NATE WE'RE BUSY!"
"Sam?" A deep, growling voice says on the other side of the door. "Sammy?"
"Shit. Oh shit," Sam pushes Jess away and fumbles with the covers, suddenly there's like a thousand yards of duvet tangling around his legs and arms and he can't-- "Just a minute! Just-- just a minute. Shit."
"Sam what the hell?" Jess untangles herself, pulling the covers up around her chest. "Who is it?"
He should tell her. Warn her. But he can't. Because his brother's at the door and he won't stop knocking.
He's blinded by the racing of his own heart, and when he approaches the door it's like his feet aren't touching the ground but not in a good way, not like he's walking on air but like he's about to flying right off the planet's face.
And there stands Dean.
"Hey, Sammy," he says, a cautious smile in his eyes.
"Hey," Sam says.
Dean has gained a massive amount of weight. He's almost normal-sized now, and for a moment Sam's heart flutters with a ridiculous hope, like maybe Dean's going to open his mouth and say "I'm cured!"
"Dean," he says dumbly. "You're huge."
"Yeah. Check it out." Dean pulls up his shirt and points at a small plastic button on the left side of his abdomen. "Feeding tube. I got it about a year ago. Works like magic."
"Dean..." Sam begins, grimacing down at his brother's stomach.
This is a good thing, he reminds himself. CF patients have a hell of a time digesting food and gaining or maintaining weight. Dean should have gotten a feeding tube years ago.
"That's. Dean, that's really--"
Behind him there's a tiny gasp, and he turns and there's Jess standing there in her underwear, looking up at Dean and down at the port and up at Dean and down at the port like she's looking at a ghost.
Because she is looking at a ghost. Fuck.
"Um, Jess?" Sam says, his eyes pleading. "This is my big brother, Dean."
Dean drops his shirt and extends his hand. "Hi."
"Hi." She looks down, notices that she's hardly dressed. "Shit. Shit, just let me get some clothes on," she says, and she flings herself down the hall.
Sam stares at Dean and Dean seems to eat it up, like he's been waiting to present himself to Sam for a long time. He's obviously very proud of the weight he's gained, how his face has filled out some and he's almost kind of handsome. But he looks pale. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and he's swaying ever so slightly.
"You've been sick," Sam says.
Dean's shoulders fall. "I was in the hospital up in Boise for a minute. They cut me loose about a week ago."
"Infection?"
"Yeah. It wasn't too bad. I'm on the upswing."
"Where's Dad?"
"I--"
Dean doesn't have time to answer because Jess pushes Sam out of the way and throws the door open (he hadn't even realized he was holding it open only a crack). She's wearing jeans now and her shirt's on inside-out.
"It's so awesome to finally meet you, Dean"--she casts Sam a little glare-smile--"I've heard so much about you. Come in. Sit down."
She puts her hand on Dean's shoulder and guides him to the sofa.
"I can't believe you're dating my little brother," Dean leers. "You're way out of his league."
Sam has to smile when Jessica's cheeks flush red. "Thank you. Sit."
Dean sits, brings the crook of his elbow to his mouth, suppressing a cough.
"You want some water or something?" Jess asks.
"No, thank you." He beams at her. Then his eyes travel over the room. "Nice place."
"Thanks," Sam and Jess say in unison.
And then they're all smiling ridiculously at one another in awkward, awkward, awkward silence. Sam is in shock. Jess of course has no reference point from which to inquire about Dean. And Dean-- well who knows what Dean's thinking.
"Dad's gone," he says suddenly.
"What?"
"When I checked myself out of the hospital, he was gone."
"What? When was this? How'd you get down here?"
"Dad bought a truck. Left me the Impala. I drove."
"You drove? By yourself?"
Dean looks affronted. "I'm twenty-six, dude. I can drive by myself."
"Where's all your shit?"
"Don't worry about it, Sam. I don't wanna bother you. I just-- I was in the area, I just wanted to come see how you were." Dean moves to stand.
"NO," Jess blurts, rather forcefully. "Stay the night. I'll get you a blanket and pillows."
Dean's eyebrows raise. He looks at Sam.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah. Of course. Stay. You look exhausted."
Dean thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. "I gotta go."
His face goes into the crook of his elbow again and The Cough finally escapes. Dread oozes down Sam's sternum, memories flood back. It's been two years and he's already irritated. But seriously-- sometimes it takes minutes and minutes for Dean to stop coughing.
And it's bad. Sam can tell from how crackling, how sticky it sounds.
"When's the last time someone helped you with PT?" He finds himself demanding.
"I'm fine."
"I don't like how you sound."
"I'm fine, Sammy."
"We can go in the bedroom if you're embarrassed."
Dean looks confused, then glares. Because of course he's not embarrassed. It's as normal as tying his own shoes, to him.
"It's okay," Dean insists, but it's not, because now that he's done coughing he leans back against the sofa and closes his eyes. "I'll just rest for a minute and get out of your hair."
"It's been since you left the hospital, hasn't it? How long ago was that? A week? Two weeks?"
What is unmistakably guilt glints in Dean's eyes. "I can do it myself, Sam. I been fine, getting it up on my own."
"Right. That's fucking great, Dean. That's fucking great. I'll have that carved on your fucking tombstone: 'Here lies Dean Winchester, He Did It Himself.'"
"Jesus, Sam," he hears Jess murmur at his shoulder.
But he ignores that, because he's pissed. "I can't believe Dad left you."
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"You can't just ditch someone like you, Dean. You don't just--"
Wow. The hypocrisy hits hard enough to break him off mid-sentence.
Dean doesn't seem to notice, though. He's looking up at Sam all earnestly, like he's about to cry. "He left me one of those vibrating vests. Gets the stuff up just fine, okay? They're for people who live alone. I'm fine. I'm good. I can take care of myself."
"Which is how you got an infection, I suppose."
"It happens, Sam. All the goddamn pills, we lost an antibiotic somewhere and it fucking happens, okay?"
Yeah, okay.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to put goddamn fucking Dad away for a minute, and him ditching Dean at the hospital, and the fact that his girlfriend is going to skin him fucking alive as soon as they're alone. First things first.
"Let me give you a quick pound, okay? Just for my own piece of mind."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine."
***
So one minute they were laying in bed and the next minute there's lots of bickering and Sam's towering over his presumably dead brother with his hands on his hips all strung out with good-intentioned anger in a way Jess has never seen before. And then Sam's perched on the back of the sofa with the brother between his legs, and he's beating him on either side of his spine with cupped hands.
"What I'm doing is knocking all the shit loose, basically," Sam's telling her, and she's curled up in the easy chair still trying to process Sam's brother is alive and can't do much but nod and plaster a big fake smile on her face.
Sam keeps talking. "He doesn't do this at least twice a day? He can get all sorts of nasty infections. Weeks in the hospital. It's bad."
Dead Brother Dean seems to be strategically avoiding looking at her. He caught her eye once and seemed to sense her discomfort--oh God, if only she could tell him it's not because of his... his whatever. Honestly she can't even remember what it's called. Whatever it is, he's supposed to be dead of it, died a long time ago, a memory too painful for Sam to talk about and God she's going to fucking kill Sam.
Who, by the way, is still talking as he beats a steady rhythm on his brother's back. "It's gonna sound pretty gross when he starts coughing shit up," he's saying with an apologetic slant to his eyebrows, "but he's gotta do it."
It seems like a rude thing to say, especially when the gross cougher in question is sitting right there, but Dean looks at her briefly and nods his head in agreement.
Then he squirms under Sam's steady beating.
"Too hard," he grumbles.
"Sorry," Sam says, though his face clearly states "tough shit." He doesn't slow the speed or let up on how hard he's pounding. "God knows when the last time someone did this for you. I'm sure Dad--"
Dean twists around, catches Sam by his wrists and pulls them nose-to-nose. "I said that's too fucking hard."
He seems strong for a sick guy and fear leaps into Jessica's chest. Sam doesn't seemed fazed, though, except a twitch in his upper lip. The brothers glower at one another for a long moment, face to face, and Jess can't even begin to imagine the conversation that's passing between them.
"If I knew you were gonna be such a dick--" Dean begins, but he's interrupted by a single harsh, painful cough. The sound makes saliva gather in Jessica's mouth and she has to clear her throat in sympathy.
Dean twists around to face front again, mouth disappearing into the cup Sam set out on the coffee table. He huffs and spits and Sam smirks, that self-satisfied smirk he gets on his face when he knows he's right.
"See," he says, resuming the pounding. "I know how hard. How many hours have I spent doing this?"
Dean coughs again in response, this time choking horribly. He makes this sort of desperate-sounding huffing noise, like the crap is stuck and won't come up, and oh god he's gonna choke, he's gonna fucking choke to death in their fucking living room--
But Sam is giggling as he continues to pound. "Something's alive in there, for sure. Up and out, bro. Eviction notice."
Congested hysterical laughing, and then finally Dean makes a half-retching noise, like maybe he's gonna vomit, and spits into the cup.
"Good job," Sam says, like he's proud. But his eyes are slick.
"I've missed your beatings, bro," Dean says breathlessly.
"You remember our safety word?"
This time Dean laugh-coughs so hard he bends forward until his head is practically between his knees. Sam stops pounding and leans forward with him, shaking silently with laughter. He looks over at Jess and she smiles a smile she doesn't quite feel.
Because it's awesome that they're having fun with this. Really. But she still can't believe-- Sam's brother--
"I know he sounds bad, but he'll be fine," Sam says, as if that's what's bothering her.
"No, that's not--I just-- I'm not..." She gives up, learning back in her chair with a sigh.
"I'm-I'm-I'm-" Dean stutters, still choking and laughing, "I-I'm f--fine. R-r-really."
But he sways dangerously when Sam resumes the pounding, and Jessica can see his eyelids beginning to sag.
Sam's laugh-red face goes lax in seriousness. The pounding becomes more of a smoothing motion.
"Alright, dude. I think you've had enough."
"That was like five minutes."
"We'll do you better tomorrow. You're tired."
"I'm not staying, Sam. I'm gonna go look for Dad."
Sam snorts. "Right. You're exhausted and Dad'll still be missing tomorrow."
"I'm fine."
He turns to Jess, still smoothing his hands across Dean's shoulders. "Can you get the blankets off the bed?"
"There's some clean ones in the closet."
"Those smell like mold. He shouldn't use those."
"Sam, I'm not--"
"Let's get your meds and stuff out of the car, Dean."
Dean's face goes dark. He leans away from Sam's touch, batting the arms away. "I told you, Sam. I'm not fucking staying."
"Fine," Sam throws up his arms in surrender, "Leave. But let me do your front first. Just real quick. Lay down here on the couch."
****
So maybe things weren't going like Dean had planned. He's a little disappointed that he let Sam shock and awe him with mother henning, that Sam barely noted how healthy he looks now, how sturdy.
How quick Sam falls back into caregiver mode--it takes him a little off guard.
But it feels good. Because nurses might fuss and fawn and wipe your brow with their soft hands but there's nothing quite like the anger of a loved one who thinks you're not taking care of yourself good enough.
And when Dean feels the familiar, soothing beat of cupped hands on chest, he can't help but close his eyes in ecstasy, let his mind drift.
He's been hand-pounded to get the mucus up one to four times a day since he was a baby. And it's been weeks. He's missed it like a Healthy Person would miss their two front teeth. He's congested but can't remember the last time he could breathe so well.
But goddamn it, he's not gonna stay. He's already scared the shit out of Sam's girlfriend, pretty little thing looks like she's trying her damndest just to keep her head attached, so he'll just rest for awhile, he won't fall asleep...
****
"Never fails, does it, bro?" Sam whispers. He turns his sleeping brother on his side; he's always had trouble breathing flat on his back. He takes his sweet time untying and removing Dean's boots, smoothing the blanket over him, laying a hand on his forehead and the like, because he can feel Jess's eyes boring into the back of his head and he has no idea how he's going to explain.
***
Jess doesn't know what to do with herself. It's like she's watching a movie, her fingertips tingling and everything's shadowed by this weird dissociative feeling like waking up with a really bad hangover.
She's always thought of Sam as a gentle giant: goofy smiles, big feet, floppy hair. But the way he leans over his brother now, turns him on his side like he's had a lot of practice, pets his cheek like he's some delicate thing...
And he is some delicate thing.
Terminal, she thinks, silently mouthing the word. Saying it doesn't make it any easier to process. Dean doesn't look bad. He's not thin. Maybe a little pale, maybe a little congested, like he's just getting over a nasty cold. But the illness-- it's like he wears it, wrapped around himself. It's in the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks, the way he hugs his arms around his body. The way he points his socked toes.
She realizes suddenly that she's standing next to Sam and they're both staring down at Dean like he's some sort of miracle, materialized spontaneously in their in living room.
She had planned to open her mouth and yell and scream and tear Sam a new one, why the fuck did you let me believe your brother was dead? But that seems too loud now. Too harsh. Dean is resting. And that seems to mean something, something different than it would if it were one of their college friends crashed out on the couch.
Instead, when she's able to find her mouth again, she whispers, "So this is Dean."
"Yeah," Sam replies, and his tone is elevated with pride but thin with sadness. "This is Dean."
::::
PART THREE