Occam's Razor Part 7
John doesn't sleep because he's working a job.
Dean thinks of those precious few weeks at Bobby's--the sense of comfort and safety and home and how hard he'd worked to get Sam back from that terrible darkness they'd spent those lonely few days in. It had taken awhile, but Sam had recovered, at least enough that he was functioning and not completely unhappy. But all the tricks he'd used to get his brother back weren't possible with their father's iron rule on their schedule. And even if he had apologized, he didn't seem to grasp the extent or severity of Sam's...condition.
For their first few days on the road, Sam had done good--he ate what he managed at Bobby's, slept in a bed of his own, stuck close to Dean but wasn't welded to him.
But it didn't last.
And as much as he wanted to throw the blame on John for pushing too hard too fast, this went deeper. Suddenly Sammy avoided anything he couldn't eat with his hands--and he ate far less. His nightmares returned and, worse yet, he hardly seemed aware that he was crying out in the night. He stopped reading, something he'd always done voraciously, and began lapsing back into long periods of silence.
New symptoms began to manifest too--Sam rubbed his temples as if his head ached, started when he saw his reflection, occasionally rubbed at his neck as if his throat hurt.
So Dean didn't sleep. Anytime his brother jolted, or whimpered, or made small, gasping breaths, he wanted to go to him, wake him, soothe him as he'd been free to do at Bobby's. But their father had always been insistent, even when Sam was a baby, that he be able to sleep on his own (although before their Dad began leaving them for longer and longer periods of time, the boys often ended up crammed together by necessity) and Dean wasn't sure he could brave the distaste and disapproval his father would cast his way if he moved to comfort his brother in the night.
Dean relaxed his shoulders.
Sam gasped.
Dean counted ghouls and gravestones.
Sam sobbed.
Dean thought about how warm the blankets were, how soft the pillows.
Sam moaned.
John called, "Sammy, it's a dream."
Dean's gut rolled.
When Sam jolted awake once more, whimpering and flailing weakly against the blankets, Dean had had enough. He tossed the covers aside, patted across the floor, and slid into bed behind his brother.
"Easy, Sammy," he whispered. Sam's hand instantly clamped onto his arm and held tight. "Take it easy there, bud. I gotcha."
"Dean," John called. Sam shivered. Dean drew him tighter.
"You're safe, Sam."
"Go on back to bed now," John ordered. Dean ignored him.
"C'mon, kiddo. Don't check out on me again. I'm not leaving you, so don't you dare leave me."
"Can--" his voice hitched, whispered and scratchy, "can you...stay?"
"Sure." He hooked the covers over them both. "M'right here. We're all right."
"Dean," their father said. Dean leaned his chin on top of his brother's hair and began to hum. Against him he felt Sam's silent, wracking sobs, and squeezed him lightly.
"S'okay Sammy," he murmured. "Just like at Bobby's. You just hang on, and I'll look after us. Nothing's getting through. Y'hear?"
"You--won't--" Sam's chest hitched. "You won't...let me hurt you, right?"
"No way. Nothing's hurting us."
"Even--even if you have to--"
"Nothing, Sam." His brother shook beneath him. "Make you a deal? You close your eyes, and I'll sing a request."
"How about...don't?"
"C'mon--girly as you want."
"I want you to stop singing. Forever."
"You're getting Zep if you don't pick."
Sam leaned back against his brother and shut his eyes. "Zep's...all right," he mumbled. Dean smiled and leaned over him again, humming softly.
Sammy relaxed against him, his breathing evening out, exhaustion--emotional and physical--winning over. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the small, warm body against his own, remembering his brother just a few weeks earlier telling him, I want to be normal and he thinking, God, Sammy, that's all I want for you too. To be safe and happy. God, I'd give anything to know you were safe and happy.
"You boys are too old for this." John was standing over him, but talking low enough not to disturb Sam. Dean set his jaw.
"You weren't there, Dad. It wasn't Sammy. He was so scared he couldn't speak."
"It's hard to see what he saw. But he's on his feet now."
Dean drew a slow breath. "Dad...did you know what this would do to him?"
John frowned. "Julian told me what he told you. That he could get a look at it."
"He said he wasn't sure. That he'd have to try and see."
"We gotta do what it takes to end this. For all of us."
Dean turned away, swallowed hard, and tucked his brother's hair completely beneath his chin. From Sam's breathing, Dean knew he was awake. Quiet, still, but the rise and fall of his chest was slightly more shallow. Dean silently hoped his father wouldn't say anything Sam could load as ammo or that would push him further into his silences.
"Dad," he said softly, "Sam needs to feel safe in order to talk. Okay?"
His father's eyes narrowed. "He told you."
"What?"
"He told you what he saw."
Sam stiffened under his arm. Dean tightened his grip. "It took almost a week to--"
"You tell me. If he won't, then you will."
Sam locked beneath him. Dean closed his eyes. "No."
"Sorry?"
"No. You need to hear it from Sam. And he needs to trust you to talk."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Dean took a deep breath, feeling Sam shiver beneath him, "Sam didn't talk...for days. And all I wanted...all Bobby wanted, was to give him a place that was safe. We've got to give him that again."
"You're saying I don't?"
"Yes!" Sam pushed slightly against him, and Dean went on. "Dad, he thought we'd kill him. You've got to tell him he's wrong. You've got to tell him what you know and let us help. Please, Dad, I--" his voice cracked. "I miss Sammy...as he was. We can help him. But you've got to step up."
"You watch it." Dean felt his own body tense, held Sam closer. Wished Sam would sleep. "Dean, what your brother saw, it's the only--"
"You've got to ask Sam."
“I’m asking you.”
Dean's gut wrenched. Never in his life had he felt so torn between his family: if he gave in to his father, he'd lose Sam; if he gave in to Sam, he'd lose his father. And between the two of them, all he could think was: what had happened, really happened, that he couldn't reconcile them?
"Dad...whatever it is Sammy tells me...and you tell me...that's sacred. Do you get that? He wouldn't speak, I'd never just...just...tell what he said. We've got to--"
"For God's sake, Dean, we're hunting the thing that killed your mother! There is nothing, nothing, more important. It's worth everything. You understand?"
Dean took a deep, slow breath. "No."
John glowered. "Excuse me?"
"No, Dad--it's not--" his voice cracked, "it's not worth Sam!" John jerked back as if struck. "Not to me," Dean continued. "And not to Mom either."
John hovered by the bed for a moment more, than slowly retreated back to the table. He was gone come dawn.
***
For the first time in his life, Dean was thrilled his father was gone.
Alone with Sam, Dean relaunched his full-throttle campaign to create a safe, stable environment. He went out early for breakfast and talked cheerily while Sam rose and washed up, and then they'd spar and go for a run. After showering, they'd go out for lunch, and then spend time in town--sometimes at the movies, sometimes in a bookstore or a library, sometimes watching a local baseball or football game. In the late afternoon Dean gave Sam mini-lessons on the weapons, and they'd target shoot. Then dinner--which, more often than not, consisted of Dean hunting down something more liquid than solid and practically force-feeding Sam--before they settled in for the evening. Dean let Sammy pick what they watched and kept the mood light and easy, and himself close. The heavy talks were for the middle of the night when Sam woke panicked, and between the tears, the dark, and Dean's soft voice, he was able to piece together some of his pain and let Dean help carry it.
But unlike at Bobby's, Sam didn't improve.
His eating regressed right back to barely anything, and no amount of coaxing could get him to try. He sat at the foot of the bed the way he'd sat on the hood of the old Mazda: still, silent, and unresponsive.
With their dad gone, Dean started sharing Sam's bed again, finding it calmed the nightmares a bit, even if his brother wasn't recovering otherwise. And, when he did wake in terror, Dean was right there, ready to help.
He warred with the little voice, growing louder, that Sam was lost to him.
***
Dad gone. Mom gone. Dean gone.
Cold cold cold.
Sam could see puffs of his own breath in the dark now. He slept on his side, gripping the mattress, because then, at least, when the flames started, they were less likely to wake him.
Dean was bunking with him again, as he had when Sam had first lost language. He'd readjusted their routine, found shakes and soups and juices that went down his resistant throat with ease. He'd snuck them into more movies in the past few weeks than they'd seen in the past few years.
Sam didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't any use. That half the time he could only guess at what people said to him. That the other half, letters were nothing but glittering gold wards.
That he'd miss him, he'd miss him so much, when their Dad ended it and his deformed soul was cast down to hell.
The third night their dad was gone, Sam woke sobbing, fists clutched in his pillow, choking on the memory of something evil falling between his lips. Dean rolled over and yanked him close.
"Shhhh," Dean breathed into his brother's hair. "Easy, bud."
"Dad hates me," he wept.
"No, Sam--"
"He'll kill me. He's going to find a way to kill me."
"No, kiddo, he's gone off on a hunt, like he always does."
"Julian told him there was something in my mind. He knows I'm not human."
"He doesn't know anything. He's--not good with this stuff."
"He's the best," Sam said bitterly. "You've always said so. Nothing gets past him."
Dean released him and rubbed his arm. "Sammy--he gave you over to that psychic. And now you're hurting and--"
"And he doesn't care. He thinks less of me for hurting and not giving up what I saw."
"That's not true."
"I was awake, Dean. I heard him." Sam rolled away, wiping his eyes, shaking. Dean followed, stubborn as ever.
"Listen to me. We will find a way to make this better."
"I want to be normal," he sobbed. "I want to stay in the same place every night. I want you to take me to baseball games and I want you to go to college and I want to go to college. I want us to be safe."
Dean's hand was steady and warm and slow, moving up and down his back. "I know, kiddo," he murmured. "If I could give you that, I would."
Of course he would. Dean would give him anything--money, clothes off his back, his time, his life. Sam so badly wanted to be a good brother, and he was nothing these days but a clinging, weak mess. It was a constant one step forward, two steps back, and Sam didn't know how to get ahead. As hard as Dean worked, and as much as Sam followed, he kept seeing the nursery, kept losing track of his voice, of words, of time. Kept seeing yellow eyes on perfectly normal men.
Kept feeling his throat burn.
Kept hearing his parents scream.
"What's wrong with me?" Sam whispered.
"I don't know, Sam, but we'll figure it out. Okay? Me and Dad and Bobby, we will figure it out and we'll fix it. Just hang on," he rubbed his back once more. "Hang on for me, Sammy."
Sam buried his face in the pillow. "I want to be a good brother. A good son."
"You are." Dean lay behind him, pulling him in. Sam didn't resist. "Remember the story Bobby told us? I was...five or six. You were just talking. And I had some flu or bug, and you spent a good hour pushing a giant book up the steps. It kept falling back down and you kept going after it. You got it all the way from the living room to the guest room, and then you moved a chair and got the book and you on that, and then onto the bed, and then you yanked the book on top of you and spent a good ten minutes doing what Bobby swears was the baby version of cursing while you tried to get out from under it. And then you sat next to me and babbled nonsense and turned the pages like you were reading to me." Sam laughs through his tears. He can hear Dean smile. "You'd wave your hands and everything, just like you were telling me a story. You couldn't even really talk, and you were trying to help me feel better. You're not evil, or a monster, or anything bad, Sammy. Whatever is happening is happening because that psychic did something to your head. That's all. And we'll fix it, and we'll be fine."
Sam shivered. Then touched his brother's hand. Dean squeezed him lightly. "Hang on for me, kiddo," he murmured. "I'll take care of us."
They shouldn't have left you alone with me, Sam thought, feeling his throat begin to burn, head begin to ache. You shouldn't be here alone with me. I might kill you one day.
Kill me first.
***
Dean waited until his brother was in a relaxed sleep before gently prying himself away. He changed as fast as possible, threw on his coat, shoved his feet into shoes, and was already dialing Bobby as he slipped out the door.
It took three tries before the hunter answered, growling a "Yeah," that only sounded mildly human.
"Bobby, it's Dean."
"Dean?" Immediately, he sounded twice as awake. "It's good to hear from you, son, but it's awful late. What's going on?"
"It's Sam. Bobby, he--he was doing okay, at first. But..."
"Now he's worse than ever."
Dean's stomach dropped. Bobby wasn't guessing--he knew. "I've got to know. What did you find on Julian's witnesses?"
Bobby paused. Dean heard papers shuffling. "Nothing you're gonna like."
"Tell me everything."
"Like I told your old man. Changed his name a dozen or so years ago. His family's real old money--railroads, steel owners, CEOs, the works. Best boarding schools in the U.S. and Europe, Ivy-League degrees, I.Q. off the charts, hell of a reputation as a psychic."
"What's the B-side?"
"Dean--"
"Bobby!" Dean told himself his palms were sweating from pressing the phone so tight. His knees were shaking from the late-night breeze.
"This...Julian seems to be able to get answers out of his witnesses, but a whole lot of them don't do so well afterward."
"Meaning?"
"Dean--"
"Don't talk down to me! I'm not a goddamn kid! Sam is my responsibility, and I've got to know what to do here!"
"I don't think there's anything you can do."
"Don't say that."
"Look--I've been doing some digging. Some of his witnesses have responded very well to certain medications. I say we find a good facility, I'll forge the insurance, and--"
"Whoa whoa whoa--no one's sticking my brother in some loony bin."
"Not a 'loony bin,' a treatment facility. We'll find the best there is--"
"No one's locking up my brother."
"Dean, this is beyond what you or me or your old man know how to deal with."
"This happened because of some supernatural investigation, now you're telling me standard, normal psychology is going to fix-up my brother better than we can?"
"All I'm saying--"
"I know what you're saying, and I'm saying no! Find something else. We always find something else."
"Son, we've got to cut this off before it gets so bad Sam can't respond to anything."
"Then you hit the books and get back to me."
"This tone of yours ain't getting you nowhere."
"Please, Bobby." Dean resisted the urge to slam his fist into the door. "You're all I've got."
"And I don't want to be saying this to you anymore than you want to be hearing it. But it's the truth, Dean."
"Please. Please just...look again. Make some calls. Give me names and numbers. Anything. Please."
Bobby sighed. "All right," he said softly. "You remember what I told you when your Daddy came to get you."
"I do."
"Hang tight."
"We will."
Dean hit 'end' and stood there, shivering, trying to readjust his game face before going back to check on Sammy.
And then John Winchester stepped out of the dark.
***
John was tired--bone-weary, the sign of a successful hunt. He'd pulled the Impala around the back of the motel, gathered his weapons, doubled-checked he had his journals, and circled around to the low-lit area of rooms, only to hear Dean's anxious voice. He'd hesitated, catching enough to realize his eldest was talking to Bobby Singer, and that the concern was clearly over Sam. As it always was. Dean was an excellent caretaker--that much John could admit. Even when it stung.
Right now, it stung a lot--had sent him back out into the field with a vengeance. He couldn't bear seeing his children suffer. And to think that, maybe, he'd put this before Sam...that Dean was a better father...
John shook it off. He'd saved lives tonight. He'd save more. He'd saved his boys and he would ensure they'd be saved for the rest of their natural lives by preparing them. That was his role. Dean could fill in any emotional gaps for Sammy. And Dean was like his father--no emotional gaps to be seen.
He waited until the call was over before crossing into the light and heading toward their room. His eldest started, hand immediately going to the pistol John knew he always kept.
"Dean," he said, keeping his voice steady. His son's hands dropped to his side. "Sammy all right?"
His son's face twisted in a way John had never seen. And then, before he could comprehend what was happening, Dean launched himself at him, raised fist sailing by his face as John quickly ducked and caught his wrist.
"You did this!" Dean shouted, trying to turn and swing again. John dropped his duffel and slammed his son into the motel door, pinning his arm behind his back.
"At ease!" he barked. Dean's free hand fisted and fought to strike at him while his body writhed against his hold.
"Everything you put on me--protect Sam, watch out for Sam--and you let that bastard tear him apart! He might never be the same, do you hear me?" Dean surged savagely in his hold. "He may never be the same!"
"Calm down," John growled, pushing Dean harder into the door. "Calm down," he repeated, softer. "Dean, tell me what happened and we'll figure it out."
"No! You tell me, Dad--what did you let that sonofabitch do to him?"
"You know what."
"No, I don't! Sammy is--"
From behind the door, Sam screamed. John instantly released Dean, who had the key in and the door kicked open before John could grab his duffel. He glanced briefly at the salt-line--needed retouching--before racing across the room to his sons.
Dean was perched on the bed furthest from the door, gripping his brother's shoulders, calling his name. Sam continued to scream. His feet kicked, his arms flailed, but it was weak, almost hopeless. He writhed and whimpered, strange, high-pitched, childish sounds John hadn't heard in over a decade. Dean yanked him upright and gripped tight, but still Sam wailed and fought and sobbed.
"Sammy, Sammy it's okay, it's okay, we got you--" Dean pleaded, struggling to hold his brother.
"Sam--son--" John tried, but Sam just screamed louder. Dean caught both his brother's arms and yanked him close, rocking slowly and hushing him until the screams stopped and the tears started. "Easy, Sammy, easy, easy," he murmured. "We got you. I got you." Sam flailed weakly, clutching at his brother's shirt. Dean pressed him close and breathed into his hair. "Shhh, Sammy. It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. We'll fix it," Dean's voice broke as he adjusted his grip on his brother, "I'll fix it," he whispered.
John fought against the wave of feeling that came when Sammy stilled in his brother's arms, cuddling against him as he had as a baby. He refused to admit he felt envy, hurt, or neglect--ridiculous feelings, brought on by his youngest's ridiculous hero-worship of his elder brother. It was natural for Sam to cling to Dean, after all he'd taught them. Nothing wrong with letting his surprisingly weak and sensitive eldest deal with his equally weak and sensitive youngest. That's what he made them for, right?
Right?
Watching his boys--Dean murmuring, Sam weeping--he felt a slow dread build in his stomach. Dean had sacrificed his pride for Sammy. Sammy had sacrificed his pride for the cause. And now John would have to sacrifice his pride for them both.
He stepped out the door and scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he hit "M."
Next
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI
Dean thinks of those precious few weeks at Bobby's--the sense of comfort and safety and home and how hard he'd worked to get Sam back from that terrible darkness they'd spent those lonely few days in. It had taken awhile, but Sam had recovered, at least enough that he was functioning and not completely unhappy. But all the tricks he'd used to get his brother back weren't possible with their father's iron rule on their schedule. And even if he had apologized, he didn't seem to grasp the extent or severity of Sam's...condition.
For their first few days on the road, Sam had done good--he ate what he managed at Bobby's, slept in a bed of his own, stuck close to Dean but wasn't welded to him.
But it didn't last.
And as much as he wanted to throw the blame on John for pushing too hard too fast, this went deeper. Suddenly Sammy avoided anything he couldn't eat with his hands--and he ate far less. His nightmares returned and, worse yet, he hardly seemed aware that he was crying out in the night. He stopped reading, something he'd always done voraciously, and began lapsing back into long periods of silence.
New symptoms began to manifest too--Sam rubbed his temples as if his head ached, started when he saw his reflection, occasionally rubbed at his neck as if his throat hurt.
So Dean didn't sleep. Anytime his brother jolted, or whimpered, or made small, gasping breaths, he wanted to go to him, wake him, soothe him as he'd been free to do at Bobby's. But their father had always been insistent, even when Sam was a baby, that he be able to sleep on his own (although before their Dad began leaving them for longer and longer periods of time, the boys often ended up crammed together by necessity) and Dean wasn't sure he could brave the distaste and disapproval his father would cast his way if he moved to comfort his brother in the night.
Dean relaxed his shoulders.
Sam gasped.
Dean counted ghouls and gravestones.
Sam sobbed.
Dean thought about how warm the blankets were, how soft the pillows.
Sam moaned.
John called, "Sammy, it's a dream."
Dean's gut rolled.
When Sam jolted awake once more, whimpering and flailing weakly against the blankets, Dean had had enough. He tossed the covers aside, patted across the floor, and slid into bed behind his brother.
"Easy, Sammy," he whispered. Sam's hand instantly clamped onto his arm and held tight. "Take it easy there, bud. I gotcha."
"Dean," John called. Sam shivered. Dean drew him tighter.
"You're safe, Sam."
"Go on back to bed now," John ordered. Dean ignored him.
"C'mon, kiddo. Don't check out on me again. I'm not leaving you, so don't you dare leave me."
"Can--" his voice hitched, whispered and scratchy, "can you...stay?"
"Sure." He hooked the covers over them both. "M'right here. We're all right."
"Dean," their father said. Dean leaned his chin on top of his brother's hair and began to hum. Against him he felt Sam's silent, wracking sobs, and squeezed him lightly.
"S'okay Sammy," he murmured. "Just like at Bobby's. You just hang on, and I'll look after us. Nothing's getting through. Y'hear?"
"You--won't--" Sam's chest hitched. "You won't...let me hurt you, right?"
"No way. Nothing's hurting us."
"Even--even if you have to--"
"Nothing, Sam." His brother shook beneath him. "Make you a deal? You close your eyes, and I'll sing a request."
"How about...don't?"
"C'mon--girly as you want."
"I want you to stop singing. Forever."
"You're getting Zep if you don't pick."
Sam leaned back against his brother and shut his eyes. "Zep's...all right," he mumbled. Dean smiled and leaned over him again, humming softly.
Sammy relaxed against him, his breathing evening out, exhaustion--emotional and physical--winning over. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the small, warm body against his own, remembering his brother just a few weeks earlier telling him, I want to be normal and he thinking, God, Sammy, that's all I want for you too. To be safe and happy. God, I'd give anything to know you were safe and happy.
"You boys are too old for this." John was standing over him, but talking low enough not to disturb Sam. Dean set his jaw.
"You weren't there, Dad. It wasn't Sammy. He was so scared he couldn't speak."
"It's hard to see what he saw. But he's on his feet now."
Dean drew a slow breath. "Dad...did you know what this would do to him?"
John frowned. "Julian told me what he told you. That he could get a look at it."
"He said he wasn't sure. That he'd have to try and see."
"We gotta do what it takes to end this. For all of us."
Dean turned away, swallowed hard, and tucked his brother's hair completely beneath his chin. From Sam's breathing, Dean knew he was awake. Quiet, still, but the rise and fall of his chest was slightly more shallow. Dean silently hoped his father wouldn't say anything Sam could load as ammo or that would push him further into his silences.
"Dad," he said softly, "Sam needs to feel safe in order to talk. Okay?"
His father's eyes narrowed. "He told you."
"What?"
"He told you what he saw."
Sam stiffened under his arm. Dean tightened his grip. "It took almost a week to--"
"You tell me. If he won't, then you will."
Sam locked beneath him. Dean closed his eyes. "No."
"Sorry?"
"No. You need to hear it from Sam. And he needs to trust you to talk."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Dean took a deep breath, feeling Sam shiver beneath him, "Sam didn't talk...for days. And all I wanted...all Bobby wanted, was to give him a place that was safe. We've got to give him that again."
"You're saying I don't?"
"Yes!" Sam pushed slightly against him, and Dean went on. "Dad, he thought we'd kill him. You've got to tell him he's wrong. You've got to tell him what you know and let us help. Please, Dad, I--" his voice cracked. "I miss Sammy...as he was. We can help him. But you've got to step up."
"You watch it." Dean felt his own body tense, held Sam closer. Wished Sam would sleep. "Dean, what your brother saw, it's the only--"
"You've got to ask Sam."
“I’m asking you.”
Dean's gut wrenched. Never in his life had he felt so torn between his family: if he gave in to his father, he'd lose Sam; if he gave in to Sam, he'd lose his father. And between the two of them, all he could think was: what had happened, really happened, that he couldn't reconcile them?
"Dad...whatever it is Sammy tells me...and you tell me...that's sacred. Do you get that? He wouldn't speak, I'd never just...just...tell what he said. We've got to--"
"For God's sake, Dean, we're hunting the thing that killed your mother! There is nothing, nothing, more important. It's worth everything. You understand?"
Dean took a deep, slow breath. "No."
John glowered. "Excuse me?"
"No, Dad--it's not--" his voice cracked, "it's not worth Sam!" John jerked back as if struck. "Not to me," Dean continued. "And not to Mom either."
John hovered by the bed for a moment more, than slowly retreated back to the table. He was gone come dawn.
***
For the first time in his life, Dean was thrilled his father was gone.
Alone with Sam, Dean relaunched his full-throttle campaign to create a safe, stable environment. He went out early for breakfast and talked cheerily while Sam rose and washed up, and then they'd spar and go for a run. After showering, they'd go out for lunch, and then spend time in town--sometimes at the movies, sometimes in a bookstore or a library, sometimes watching a local baseball or football game. In the late afternoon Dean gave Sam mini-lessons on the weapons, and they'd target shoot. Then dinner--which, more often than not, consisted of Dean hunting down something more liquid than solid and practically force-feeding Sam--before they settled in for the evening. Dean let Sammy pick what they watched and kept the mood light and easy, and himself close. The heavy talks were for the middle of the night when Sam woke panicked, and between the tears, the dark, and Dean's soft voice, he was able to piece together some of his pain and let Dean help carry it.
But unlike at Bobby's, Sam didn't improve.
His eating regressed right back to barely anything, and no amount of coaxing could get him to try. He sat at the foot of the bed the way he'd sat on the hood of the old Mazda: still, silent, and unresponsive.
With their dad gone, Dean started sharing Sam's bed again, finding it calmed the nightmares a bit, even if his brother wasn't recovering otherwise. And, when he did wake in terror, Dean was right there, ready to help.
He warred with the little voice, growing louder, that Sam was lost to him.
***
Dad gone. Mom gone. Dean gone.
Cold cold cold.
Sam could see puffs of his own breath in the dark now. He slept on his side, gripping the mattress, because then, at least, when the flames started, they were less likely to wake him.
Dean was bunking with him again, as he had when Sam had first lost language. He'd readjusted their routine, found shakes and soups and juices that went down his resistant throat with ease. He'd snuck them into more movies in the past few weeks than they'd seen in the past few years.
Sam didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't any use. That half the time he could only guess at what people said to him. That the other half, letters were nothing but glittering gold wards.
That he'd miss him, he'd miss him so much, when their Dad ended it and his deformed soul was cast down to hell.
The third night their dad was gone, Sam woke sobbing, fists clutched in his pillow, choking on the memory of something evil falling between his lips. Dean rolled over and yanked him close.
"Shhhh," Dean breathed into his brother's hair. "Easy, bud."
"Dad hates me," he wept.
"No, Sam--"
"He'll kill me. He's going to find a way to kill me."
"No, kiddo, he's gone off on a hunt, like he always does."
"Julian told him there was something in my mind. He knows I'm not human."
"He doesn't know anything. He's--not good with this stuff."
"He's the best," Sam said bitterly. "You've always said so. Nothing gets past him."
Dean released him and rubbed his arm. "Sammy--he gave you over to that psychic. And now you're hurting and--"
"And he doesn't care. He thinks less of me for hurting and not giving up what I saw."
"That's not true."
"I was awake, Dean. I heard him." Sam rolled away, wiping his eyes, shaking. Dean followed, stubborn as ever.
"Listen to me. We will find a way to make this better."
"I want to be normal," he sobbed. "I want to stay in the same place every night. I want you to take me to baseball games and I want you to go to college and I want to go to college. I want us to be safe."
Dean's hand was steady and warm and slow, moving up and down his back. "I know, kiddo," he murmured. "If I could give you that, I would."
Of course he would. Dean would give him anything--money, clothes off his back, his time, his life. Sam so badly wanted to be a good brother, and he was nothing these days but a clinging, weak mess. It was a constant one step forward, two steps back, and Sam didn't know how to get ahead. As hard as Dean worked, and as much as Sam followed, he kept seeing the nursery, kept losing track of his voice, of words, of time. Kept seeing yellow eyes on perfectly normal men.
Kept feeling his throat burn.
Kept hearing his parents scream.
"What's wrong with me?" Sam whispered.
"I don't know, Sam, but we'll figure it out. Okay? Me and Dad and Bobby, we will figure it out and we'll fix it. Just hang on," he rubbed his back once more. "Hang on for me, Sammy."
Sam buried his face in the pillow. "I want to be a good brother. A good son."
"You are." Dean lay behind him, pulling him in. Sam didn't resist. "Remember the story Bobby told us? I was...five or six. You were just talking. And I had some flu or bug, and you spent a good hour pushing a giant book up the steps. It kept falling back down and you kept going after it. You got it all the way from the living room to the guest room, and then you moved a chair and got the book and you on that, and then onto the bed, and then you yanked the book on top of you and spent a good ten minutes doing what Bobby swears was the baby version of cursing while you tried to get out from under it. And then you sat next to me and babbled nonsense and turned the pages like you were reading to me." Sam laughs through his tears. He can hear Dean smile. "You'd wave your hands and everything, just like you were telling me a story. You couldn't even really talk, and you were trying to help me feel better. You're not evil, or a monster, or anything bad, Sammy. Whatever is happening is happening because that psychic did something to your head. That's all. And we'll fix it, and we'll be fine."
Sam shivered. Then touched his brother's hand. Dean squeezed him lightly. "Hang on for me, kiddo," he murmured. "I'll take care of us."
They shouldn't have left you alone with me, Sam thought, feeling his throat begin to burn, head begin to ache. You shouldn't be here alone with me. I might kill you one day.
Kill me first.
***
Dean waited until his brother was in a relaxed sleep before gently prying himself away. He changed as fast as possible, threw on his coat, shoved his feet into shoes, and was already dialing Bobby as he slipped out the door.
It took three tries before the hunter answered, growling a "Yeah," that only sounded mildly human.
"Bobby, it's Dean."
"Dean?" Immediately, he sounded twice as awake. "It's good to hear from you, son, but it's awful late. What's going on?"
"It's Sam. Bobby, he--he was doing okay, at first. But..."
"Now he's worse than ever."
Dean's stomach dropped. Bobby wasn't guessing--he knew. "I've got to know. What did you find on Julian's witnesses?"
Bobby paused. Dean heard papers shuffling. "Nothing you're gonna like."
"Tell me everything."
"Like I told your old man. Changed his name a dozen or so years ago. His family's real old money--railroads, steel owners, CEOs, the works. Best boarding schools in the U.S. and Europe, Ivy-League degrees, I.Q. off the charts, hell of a reputation as a psychic."
"What's the B-side?"
"Dean--"
"Bobby!" Dean told himself his palms were sweating from pressing the phone so tight. His knees were shaking from the late-night breeze.
"This...Julian seems to be able to get answers out of his witnesses, but a whole lot of them don't do so well afterward."
"Meaning?"
"Dean--"
"Don't talk down to me! I'm not a goddamn kid! Sam is my responsibility, and I've got to know what to do here!"
"I don't think there's anything you can do."
"Don't say that."
"Look--I've been doing some digging. Some of his witnesses have responded very well to certain medications. I say we find a good facility, I'll forge the insurance, and--"
"Whoa whoa whoa--no one's sticking my brother in some loony bin."
"Not a 'loony bin,' a treatment facility. We'll find the best there is--"
"No one's locking up my brother."
"Dean, this is beyond what you or me or your old man know how to deal with."
"This happened because of some supernatural investigation, now you're telling me standard, normal psychology is going to fix-up my brother better than we can?"
"All I'm saying--"
"I know what you're saying, and I'm saying no! Find something else. We always find something else."
"Son, we've got to cut this off before it gets so bad Sam can't respond to anything."
"Then you hit the books and get back to me."
"This tone of yours ain't getting you nowhere."
"Please, Bobby." Dean resisted the urge to slam his fist into the door. "You're all I've got."
"And I don't want to be saying this to you anymore than you want to be hearing it. But it's the truth, Dean."
"Please. Please just...look again. Make some calls. Give me names and numbers. Anything. Please."
Bobby sighed. "All right," he said softly. "You remember what I told you when your Daddy came to get you."
"I do."
"Hang tight."
"We will."
Dean hit 'end' and stood there, shivering, trying to readjust his game face before going back to check on Sammy.
And then John Winchester stepped out of the dark.
***
John was tired--bone-weary, the sign of a successful hunt. He'd pulled the Impala around the back of the motel, gathered his weapons, doubled-checked he had his journals, and circled around to the low-lit area of rooms, only to hear Dean's anxious voice. He'd hesitated, catching enough to realize his eldest was talking to Bobby Singer, and that the concern was clearly over Sam. As it always was. Dean was an excellent caretaker--that much John could admit. Even when it stung.
Right now, it stung a lot--had sent him back out into the field with a vengeance. He couldn't bear seeing his children suffer. And to think that, maybe, he'd put this before Sam...that Dean was a better father...
John shook it off. He'd saved lives tonight. He'd save more. He'd saved his boys and he would ensure they'd be saved for the rest of their natural lives by preparing them. That was his role. Dean could fill in any emotional gaps for Sammy. And Dean was like his father--no emotional gaps to be seen.
He waited until the call was over before crossing into the light and heading toward their room. His eldest started, hand immediately going to the pistol John knew he always kept.
"Dean," he said, keeping his voice steady. His son's hands dropped to his side. "Sammy all right?"
His son's face twisted in a way John had never seen. And then, before he could comprehend what was happening, Dean launched himself at him, raised fist sailing by his face as John quickly ducked and caught his wrist.
"You did this!" Dean shouted, trying to turn and swing again. John dropped his duffel and slammed his son into the motel door, pinning his arm behind his back.
"At ease!" he barked. Dean's free hand fisted and fought to strike at him while his body writhed against his hold.
"Everything you put on me--protect Sam, watch out for Sam--and you let that bastard tear him apart! He might never be the same, do you hear me?" Dean surged savagely in his hold. "He may never be the same!"
"Calm down," John growled, pushing Dean harder into the door. "Calm down," he repeated, softer. "Dean, tell me what happened and we'll figure it out."
"No! You tell me, Dad--what did you let that sonofabitch do to him?"
"You know what."
"No, I don't! Sammy is--"
From behind the door, Sam screamed. John instantly released Dean, who had the key in and the door kicked open before John could grab his duffel. He glanced briefly at the salt-line--needed retouching--before racing across the room to his sons.
Dean was perched on the bed furthest from the door, gripping his brother's shoulders, calling his name. Sam continued to scream. His feet kicked, his arms flailed, but it was weak, almost hopeless. He writhed and whimpered, strange, high-pitched, childish sounds John hadn't heard in over a decade. Dean yanked him upright and gripped tight, but still Sam wailed and fought and sobbed.
"Sammy, Sammy it's okay, it's okay, we got you--" Dean pleaded, struggling to hold his brother.
"Sam--son--" John tried, but Sam just screamed louder. Dean caught both his brother's arms and yanked him close, rocking slowly and hushing him until the screams stopped and the tears started. "Easy, Sammy, easy, easy," he murmured. "We got you. I got you." Sam flailed weakly, clutching at his brother's shirt. Dean pressed him close and breathed into his hair. "Shhh, Sammy. It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. We'll fix it," Dean's voice broke as he adjusted his grip on his brother, "I'll fix it," he whispered.
John fought against the wave of feeling that came when Sammy stilled in his brother's arms, cuddling against him as he had as a baby. He refused to admit he felt envy, hurt, or neglect--ridiculous feelings, brought on by his youngest's ridiculous hero-worship of his elder brother. It was natural for Sam to cling to Dean, after all he'd taught them. Nothing wrong with letting his surprisingly weak and sensitive eldest deal with his equally weak and sensitive youngest. That's what he made them for, right?
Right?
Watching his boys--Dean murmuring, Sam weeping--he felt a slow dread build in his stomach. Dean had sacrificed his pride for Sammy. Sammy had sacrificed his pride for the cause. And now John would have to sacrifice his pride for them both.
He stepped out the door and scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he hit "M."
Next
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI