The Festival of Weeks
Count off seven weeks from the time you begin to put the sickle to the standing grain. --Deuteronomy 16:9
Sam was in lock-down for twelve-days.
That was twelve-days of no visitors, no phone calls, no e-mails. Twelve days of sweating and screaming and sneezing and scratching, nurses helping him eat and bathe and use the bathroom, doctors monitoring his vitals and issuing restraints, when necessary.
Twelve days Cas had to deal with Dean. Sober.
While he didn’t want his partner to redevelop a dependence on alcohol, he rather wished he hadn’t gone cold turkey. Dean was frantic with worry: reading everything he could find on withdrawal, studying up on medications and treatment plans and alternative medicines. When he read that making small changes to an environment was helpful, he dragged Cas to Home Depot and they stocked up on paint-Dean had researched color theory, and chose a soothing sage green with white trim for the guest room. They went to Target and bought a new bedspread-white, with bits of yellow and pale blue, because Dean and had read that when combined with greens, it created an air of relaxation in a bedroom-towels, and framed Dean’s collection of vintage rock posters in their living room. They rearranged the furniture in the living room, dining room, and guest room. And, when Dean read that yellow was a color associated with anxiety, he insisted they repaint the downstairs bathroom, and return the dark blue blanket they’d bought for Rosemount with a dark green, because dark blue had been noted to invoke depression.
They bought Sam new clothes. New shoes. New boxers and undershirts. They bought him books and magazines and movies. They bought frames and had pictures printed to fill them. They bought a new cellphone.
Cas couldn’t say he agreed with the ancient ideas of color theory, and he wondered if all their new purchases would enable Sam’s ongoing co-dependence on his brother to fix his mistakes, rather than support Sam’s recovery, but he knew Dean was desperate to feel he was actively participating in his brother’s treatment, so he quietly paid with the debit card linked to his trust, although Dean insisted on splitting the bill.
In the meantime, Cas pleaded with Anna and Peter, and together the pair graciously accommodated all his shift requests so he was off work the same time as Dean. When they weren’t working on home improvement projects, he took Dean to the movies, or to diners, or for dinner, or even just sat by his side while Dean drove out of the city and let the Impala guide them up and down roads they'd never explored.
And, to Dean’s credit, he did try, at least every other day, to ask Cas how he was feeling. He’d been trying, so hard, since his recent vow of sobriety, to be more appreciative and supportive, but Cas knew his boyfriend’s emotions were already well beyond their limits, and he deftly hid his own fears and shifted the conversation back to Dean’s.
And then Rosemount called and said Sam had been moved and placed on bed rest, but was cleared for visitors, and they did nothing but lay awake holding each other, watching the night pass, waiting for the morning their little family could reunite.
***
Dean packed up all their new supplies in laundry baskets and timed the drive to Rosemount so they were striding through the doors at the exact moment visiting hours began. They waited patiently while the nurses searched each and every item for anything labeled contraband, and then gave the okay for them to head upstairs.
They passed Alan on their way down the hall. He greeted them somberly, told them Sam had been a model patient, but was refusing to leave his bed, and had been having terrible nightmares that had disturbed his neighbors. They’d indicated that the nurses’ were to check him more frequently at night, and were working to get him on medication that would help ease the immediate symptoms, and the ongoing anxiety and depression.
“It’s gonna take some time,” he assured them. “On average, medication can take about five to seven weeks to kick in. It’s even tougher with those coming off bio-chemical altering substances.” At Dean’s devastated face, he softened his voice. “Sam’s been asking for you. I know it’ll help a great deal that you’re here. Just try and be patient, alright? I’m organizing his schedule, and you’ll meet his primary therapist soon. She’ll handle your family sessions as well. Try and keep things light, okay?”
“Thank you, Doctor Montgomery,” Cas said. He’d decided it would be helpful to refer to the doctor by his full title, thus showing he respected him as a colleague and wasn’t going to raise any feathers about Alan’s treatment plans for Sam.
“If you have questions, you can call me. I’ll probably be in the beginning of your sessions from time to time. Physically, though, I promise you Sam’s on the mend. Anytime you want to see his charts, Dr. Morgan, I can make those available, pending Sam’s permission.” He smiled warmly. “And please, both of you, call me Alan. Sam does. It’s best if everyone here is on a first name basis.”
“Thank you, Alan,” Cas said, at the same time a voice bellowed from down the hall, “Dr. Al! Bring it in, bro!” Alan gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Please don’t ever call me that,” he said, before turning and snapping “Ash, get the hell off my ward!”
“I got a new Alpha and Omega!”
Dean and Cas left the banter and made it the rest of the way down the hall. Sam’s room had a number outside, as well as a handwritten placard that said “Welcome, Sam!” And had been signed by seemingly everyone on the floor. This floor was strictly male: the women were housed one floor up, and visitation was forbidden between the floors. Groups that mingled the sexes were held on the third floor, where the offices of the therapists and doctors were located, and attempting to engage in a romantic or sexual actively qualified the participants for expulsion. This was a place for help and healing, the literature explained, not a place for Adam the cocaine fiend met Eve the crackwhore.
At least, that was how Dean had explained it. Rosemount, of course, had issued a far kinder, and more politically correct explanation.
Sam’s room was small, with a slightly larger than a single bed, a dresser, mirror, and nightstand. Sam had his back to the door, and was curled up in tight little S, seeming far smaller than his twenty-six years.
“Hey Sammy,” Dean said with forced cheerfulness. “Calvary’s here, bro.”
Dean and Cas set down their baskets. Dean produced the brand new blanket he’d bought especially for treatment-he’d already declared it would be disposed of afterward, part of his environmental correction campaign-one that was green plaid, thick, soft, and amazingly warm.
“Wait ‘till you try this out,” Dean said, draping it over his brother’s shivering frame. “Cas was practically rolling around it in like an overgrown cat.”
“Don’t listen to him, Sam,” Cas said. “The sounds he made when he touched it would be rated R.”
“It’s awesome. And it’s some sort of micro-green-hippie developed technology, or no birds or Chinese died in making it.”
“Dean.”
“It’s not racist!”
Sam just blinked at his brother. He was very pale, very thin, and clearly still ill. His hands shook as he pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Dean did all his usual tricks--teased, tangled his fingers in his brother’s hair, fussed with the blankets, bitched about customers at the garage. Sam just stared at the wall. "Dean," he finally managed, his voice strained and hoarse. "I can't get warm."
Cas was stunned by his boyfriend's response: he kicked off his boots, yanked back the covers, and stretched himself out alongside his brother. Sam nestled his head under his chin and began to cry, weak, exhausted tears. Dean just hushed him and stroked his hair.
"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered.
"I'm sorry--"
"Shhhh," Dean leaned his chin on top of his brother's head and began to hum the chorus of "smoke on the water."
Cas wasn’t sure what to do. So he busied himself unpacking the magazines Dean had bought, the rock mix tapes he’d recorded himself, the junk food, and books. He unpacked the sweats and jeans and shirts, toothpaste and toothbrushes and shaving cream, although Alan had told them they were forbidden razors. He lined up the framed photos of the three of them, one of Mary Winchester, and one Cas had taken, of Sam fast asleep with his mouth slightly ajar, slumped on the sofa, head on Dean's shoulder while Dean flipped off Cas and the camera.
All the while, Sam cried quietly, and Dean hummed. When Cas finished unpacking, he circled around the bed and perched awkwardly on the edge, laying a hand on top of Sam’s army of blankets. He laid a gentle hand on his forehead-testing his temperature-than his throat-checking his pulse-before giving him a light pat on the back. Sam's breath hitched and a tear slid down his cheek.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” Sam said.
“I know, buddy. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” Dean rubbed Sam’s back, up through his sweaty, greasy tangles of overgrown brown hair.“We gotcha. We’re gonna get you back on your feet. Get you fixed up and healthy and ready to come home.”
“Don’t hate me,” Sam pleaded, switching mantras. “Please, don’t hate me. Please, don’t-”
“Stop it,” Dean scolded, shaking him lightly. “Stop it. C’mon. Try and get some sleep. Alan said you haven’t been getting much sleep.”
“I’m too cold. It hurts. It-I-I didn’t know if you were alright. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
A muscle in Dean’s jaw jolted. “Damnit, Sam. I told you, I’m not giving up on you!”
“No, Dean, not like that. You could have been in an accident. You could have been shot or-or the electricity in your house could have gone and you could have burned. You could-could be going home and a truck-a truck will hit you. And-and I won’t, I won’t get to say goodbye. Dean-”
“God, Sammy, please. I need you to stop mourning me when I’m right here.” Dean yanked him close. “And I’m not leaving you. Not leaving, Sammy. Not dying or walking off or drinking myself sick anymore. I’m here and I’ve gotcha, and that’s all you gotta think about. C’mon, bro. Sleep,” Dean pushed his lips near Sam’s temple and stroked his hair. “Please sleep, Sammy. Please sleep, buddy. We’re all safe here. Just relax and sleep.” Dean pulled him closer, whispered softer. “Don’t worry. I gotcha. I’ll be here, the whole time. Okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
Cas said what he’d been able to say when Sam had lost Jess: “We’ll help you. We love you, Sam.”
“I’m-”
“Yeah,” Dean soothed, taking over Sam’s mantra. “Yeah, Sam We’re gonna. We do. This is the worst of it. You’re off the street, out of lock-down.” He coaxed Sam’s head under his chin. “C’mon, bud. Y’gotta trust me this round. Just like you used to.”
“I do! Dean-” Sam’s voice broke and he pushed close to his brother. “I’m so sorry. Please-”
“Sammy-please.” Dean’s hand moved in his hair. “Listen to me. Clean slate-I forgive you, you forgive me. We do this together. Huh? We’ve done everything else together, we do this too.” He pulled Sam’s forehead close to his own and stroked his head. “You and me, bud. Okay?”
Just like then, there wasn’t much Cas could do, but rub Sam’s back and let Dean whisper away. And, when Sam’s sobs finally died out, and Dean was quiet, petting his brother, lids dropping closed, he sat close to them both, keeping watch, ready to wake them if their troubles plagued their dreams.
***
Cas could tell Alan didn’t want to chase them off. Cas also knew rules were rules, and Sam would never get better if they didn’t follow them. Even if it hurt. It would never hurt him, after all, as much as it would hurt the Winchesters.
Sam and Dean had been napping, curled up together like baby twins, or newborn puppies. Sam had his floppy brown head nestled under Dean’s chin, and Dean his his arms draped loosely around his brother’s slim frame. Cas knew Dean would slug him if he were awake for those “bile-barfing” analogies of two men who could be very tough when called for, but were just sad, frightened children at heart, retreating back into the shelter of each other, where acceptance and safety and comfort could always be found.
Cas hated having to wake them. Hated even more, that when he did, Sam’s eyes slid open, and he stared at Cas with devastation and confusion and betrayal, before burrowing closer to his sleeping older brother and closing them tight, wincing, as if hoping to force himself back into sleep, into the safety of Dean’s presence.
Dean grumbled and shifted, causing Sam to whimper, causing Dean’s arm to tighten. Cas’ eyes stung, and he didn’t think he could bear to tell them they had to separate. He sat, quietly, an ill feeling in his stomach, when a nurse came in and shook Sam awake, smiling and gently telling him he needed to take his meds and eat something, and that visiting hours were ending soon, and his primary therapist would be by to have her first session with him.
Sam replied by rolling over and pushing harder into Dean, who’d woken up during the explanation and was working on disentangling himself from his brother, patting his chest and head reassuringly as he did.
"I'll be back tomorrow, bud, okay?" Dean said, when he was fully off the mattress.
Sam, who’d lain there limp and silent, suddenly shot upright and gripped his brother's shirt, pulling him close to press his face into his stomach. Dean's eyes widened. "Sammy?"
"Don't," he whispered, yanking his brother closer. "Don't...don't go."
Dean's face fell. "I've got to, kiddo. You know that."
"I--" Sam's voice broke. "I want to go home."
Cas' own heart nearly broke. He couldn’t imagine what his boyfriend feels. Dean stroked his brother's hair gently.
"Soon, buddy," he murmured. "Before you know it even, okay? I know it's hard. It's hard on me too. But if you don't do this you won't feel better. I know you want to feel better."
"I miss you," Sam sobbed. "I'm so sorry--"
Dean hushed him and spends another minute petting his head. Then he takes his brother's face in his hands, pries him away, and briefly pulls their foreheads together. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Okay? You get some sleep." Sam nods, clutching Dean's wrists. Dean gently pulls himself away. "Lie down," he soothes, and guides his brother onto the pillows, tucking him in under his new blanket, murmuring nonsense Cas can't understand. He smoothes Sam's hair, smiles and pats him reassuringly. "First thing tomorrow, babe. Okay?"
Cas' own throat is swollen.
Somehow, Dean waits until they're in bed before he cries.
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