Simon Says
It was one of Sam’s bad days.
Cas had thought he was prepared for it, but seeing the first-hand affects always destroyed his preparation and threatened to shatter his calm façade. Sam was pale and thin and shaking and damp-eyed and anything but the strong, calm, sharp young man he’d first met. Alan had told them he hadn’t been out of bed in two days, and it was clear from his dirty hair that he hadn’t been showering either. It lodged all potential comforting words in Cas aching throat to see someone who had once been so bright and smart and sharp be so weak and vulnerable.
Dean, of course, slapped on his big-brother mask and went to work coaxing Sam out of bed with a “rise and shine, lazy-ass.” He kept up a stream of chatter as he helped him dress and marched him down to the shared bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.
Cas took the time to change Sam’s sheets and gather his laundry. He unpacked the bag of clean and folded shirts and sweats and boxers and deposited them in his drawers. He dusted off the dresser and made sure all the pictures were straight. He couldn’t do much for the cold tile floor, or the fake-cheerful walls, or the carefully sealed windows: they felt like home to him. He saw them more than he saw his own bedroom.
But, doctor aside, he could be a good friend. He could fix up the bed and bring changes of clothes and permitted toiletries and pretend that none of this hurt. Dean had showed him the way, and it was a path he’d readily follow.
“...telling you, Sammy. I’ve never seen a movie with him I didn’t like. I’m pre-ordering my DVD. Day you bust out of here, we’re watching.”
“He’s like...five foot eleven,” Sam grumbled.
“You can be short and badass.”
“He was Marky Mark, Dean. You used to say if I watched his videos my eyes would bleed. I was actually scared of MTV for awhile.”
Cas smiled. “I see your brother is telling you about our trip to the movies.”
“You made Cas go?”
“I’m not going to the movies by myself!”
“It’s alright,” Cas smiled at Sam. “I slept right through it.”
“Yeah. Great date-night,” Dean said sarcastically. Sam took a seat on his bed and seemed to wilt. Dean grinned, as if he hadn’t noticed, and thumped him on the shoulder. “So, what do you say? Up for a walk? Did you eat yet?”
“I can’t, Dean,” Sam’s face fell, and he moved to get back into bed. Dean instantly leaned over him and pinned the bedspread to the mattress so his younger brother couldn’t burrow under it.
“We talked to Alan, dude. You started skipping groups again.”
“I-” Sam, unable to free the blanket, clenched his hands. “It’s...it’s hard. I don’t...I never feel good.”
“Remember what they told you,” Cas said gently, moving to lay what he hoped was a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The more you do, the better you feel.”
“Not here. They drag up everything-they want me to share it all with strangers! It’s...creepy and weird and voyeuristic. And it’s not fair. They twist it to make it seem like it’s somehow Jess and Madison’s fault, or that Dad preprogrammed me. It’s no one’s fault but mine.”
“Sammy,” Dean sighed and dropped to the mattress beside him. “You’ve got to give yourself a break here, man. I appreciate that you want to take responsibility and all, but you had all sorts of stuff working against you.”
“I’m the one who did those things.”
“I’m not denying it. But I’m saying you had a lot of reasons, and it’s alright to be mad about them. You can be angry at Dad and me-”
Sam’s hand shot out and grabbed his brother’s shirt. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t blame you.”
“You can. You don’t have to carry all this alone.”
“I don’t. I’m not. I haven’t said anything about you, Dean. Just good things. Don’t be mad.”
“Bro, I’m not.”
“I don’t-I don’t want you to go thinking-in case anything-”
“Sammy, listen to me. Nothing is going to happen. I’m not mad, you’re not mad. Alright?” he gently patted his brother’s back. “C’mon, let’s get some lunch.”
“No. I can’t-”
Three sharp knocks came at the door. “Hey! Sorry to interrupt.” A short, smiling boy with dark hair and a ridiculously too-big overshirt stood in the doorway holding a clipboard. “I’m here for...Sam, right?” Sam nodded. “So, now that you’re a MS2 you get to do the fun stuff. Tonight’s movie night. We got Gladiator on high-def. I’m here to find out what kind of Pop-Tarts you like.” He flipped through a couple pages on his clipboard. “We got Cherry, Strawberry-which c’mon, we know they’re the same-S’mores, and Apple-Cinnamon. You can put your order in now but I’m telling you, if you want the S’mores get there early, because they’ll get eaten whether you’ve got dibs or not. I can try and save you some, unless you want one of the red guys. No one likes Apple-cinnamon, right?” he smiled.
“Who’re you?” Dean said.
“Oh-sorry. Andy.” He stuck out a hand. Dean looked from Sam, to Cas, and back again before taking it.
“And you’re the...what, the fun committee?”
“Fun Recruiter.” Andy shook Dean’s hand enthusiastically. “Turns out we’re allowed to do more stuff than they say in the brochures or whatever, but no one organizes it. I just got us our first Snack Out at Red Lobster. Some of the girls wanted Starbucks, but I overruled it. Back when I was using, I used to smoke this huge water-bong I have, and then I’d do a line or two and go get their lobster nachos and jumbo coconut shrimp. One time-” the smile abruptly fell off his face. “Wow...everyone here looks like they want to cry or kill me. Except you,” he said, turning to Dean. “You are full-on committed to killing me. You’re just trying to decide how.”
“My brother’s fighting the side-effects of withdrawal, and you come in here talking about getting high and doing coke. Let’s say I’m not thinking we’re going to be friends,” Dean snapped.
“Sorry.” Andy offered a sheepish smile. “We’re in a weird bubble in here. Everyone talks about it.”
“Why will there be Pop-Tarts at a movie night?” Cas asked, hoping to break the tension.
“Because some meth-head said he found popcorn ‘triggering.’ Because God knows popcorn is the natural gateway to methamphetamines. So we’re getting Pop-Tarts. It was that or pudding cups.” He clicked his pen open. “So, what’s your preference?”
Sam considered. “Are you the Andy that got in trouble yesterday?”
“Oh...yeah. Kinda. By the way, sorry, I should have said this first, but if you have criminal charges pending you can’t go to Snack-Out. But I could bring you something back on the next run.”
“Dude,” Dean snapped, indignant. “Did your Mom give you bad Kool-Aid as a kid?” Sam and Cas tensed, but Andy just smiled.
“It’s boring in here, man. Not to mention depressing as hell. It’s meeting after meeting after meeting hearing horror stories. I came in here to keep my grad school scholarship. I feel like a giant asshole hearing some of these guys talk. Of course, some of them are giant assholes.”
“Some kid said you made fun of him relapsing,” Sam said slowly.
“Who, Ansem? Not to tell you who your friends should be, but that guy is bad news. Spends ten minutes going on about ‘his story,’ and how well he was doing until ‘his disease’ made him relapse. ‘My disease made me steal, my disease made me use, my disease made me beat my Mom and sister. That jerk hit is Mom and his sister he’s talking like none of it was his fault. So I said, ‘we’re not here to conduct an exorcism, bro. This wasn’t some Linda Blair shit. You did those things.’ Well, that did it. I broke the rules of Fight Club.”
Dean had gone very, very still. Sam looked close to tears. Andy looked between them and frowned.
“Great. Now you want to kill me again.”
“No,” Sam said softly. “What you say is true.”
“Oh-hell, man, listen. I-I heard you talk about your brother. It’s not the same.”
“How’s that?” Dean said carefully.
“We had this crazy ‘drama therapist’ come. And she was making us all roleplay. And Sam was supposed to play this girl’s older brother, who’d she’d stolen from, and she was supposed to practice apologizing. We’re not two seconds into it and Sam drops into his seat and just...loses it. We’re talking like, Meryl Streep level. A bunch of us thought he was just...super in character or something at first. And then he starts talking about this ‘Dan’ guy, who it turns out is his older brother, and starts the original girl crying. By the end we were all sobbing, I swear to God. That drama lady was so friggin’ proud of herself. But I thought that Sam guy-soon as he’s up for it, I’m getting him to movie night.” Andy smiled, and this time it didn’t seem all that strange to Cas, but warm-maybe a bit over-eager to prove himself as a good guy-with a genuine compassion and intelligence that he appreciated, and hoped Dean would. “I’m not taking no for an answer, buddy. You spend way too much time on your own. So I’m coming to get you tonight at 8:30, and we can go up and fight for the S’mores Pop-Tarts. Okay?”
Sam was quiet. Then, without looking up, he said, softly, “I like the Cherry ones.”
Dean looked over Sam’s head to beam at Cas.
“Great!” Andy marked his clipboard. “I’ll swing by when it’s time, okay? And I’ll make sure we get the good couch. It was nice talking to you.” He turned to Dean. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Bobby,” Dean said easily. Andy grinned and turned to Cas.
“And you’re-
“Cas.”
“Great. Sorry if I...for, y’know...” he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Have a good day. See you tonight, Sam.”
Dean shook his head, a smirk on his face. “I kinda like that guy.”
“Why did you lie about your name?” Cas asked.
“Didn’t want to embarrass him.”
“You?” Sam said, a small smile on his face.
“Okay, so, I didn’t want to embarrass you either.”
The younger Winchester looked at the floor. “Too late,” he mumbled. Dean put a hand on his brother’s back and rubbed lightly with his thumb.
“You don’t have to apologize to me anymore,” he murmured. “You want to talk about it, we’ll talk about it. But I don’t want to hear you say your disease was nothing but your own evil actions or any of that BS. You and me and Cas are in this together.”
Sam’s eyes were filled. “Thanks.” He glanced at Cas. “Both of you.”
“Attaboy.” Dean thumped his brother’s shoulder. “Now, enough of this. I’m starving. Cas will buy us lunch.”
“How generous,” Cas said sarcastically, but he smiled. Sam looked at him, to his brother, and then back at the floor.
“I could use a Gatorade,” he admitted. And Cas would have worked a dozen back-to-back shifts and paid for hundreds of bottles of that awful, fake fruit punch if it meant that the Winchesters could keep smiling.