We Three Kings 1/3
Then it was Dean. Then Sam. Then Dean calling about Sam. Then Sam calling sobbing for Dean.
Cas just lived with it. So when the phone rang on his night off, rolled over into the empty space where Dean's body should be--his boyfriend had taken to passing out on the couch since he'd been going to bed sober--he had it in hand, receiver enroute to his ear, before he’d even fully awakened.
"It's Cas," he mumbled.
Heavy, desperate breathing, a gulping, hitching swallow--Sam. "Cas, I--I need--"
"I'll get him." He rolled out of bed, feet cold on the hardwood floor.
"I'm--sorry, Cas, I didn't want to wake you. I know I--"
"Easy, Sam. Deep and easy, like we practiced, huh?" He padded down the hall, drifting toward the blue light indicating the TV was still on. "Are you somewhere safe?"
Sam's breathing sped up. "I need help," he sobbed, and Cas felt a familiar ache in his chest.
"Okay," he said, softening his voice. "Don't worry. I'll put Dean on, you tell him where you are, what you need, and we'll be on our way. Sam, are you safe?"
"I'm at Rosemount."
Oh. No. Rosemount meant one thing: relapse. "Okay. Let me get Dean."
"It's not what you--Cas, I didn't--please believe me, I--no one believes me, Cas--"
"We trust you," Cas said firmly. He hated how good at lying he'd gotten. It helped that his boyfriend would have made a great sociopath, if it weren’t for the bouts of crippling guilt and grief and worry. "Here, let me get him."
Cas pressed the mouthpiece into his shoulder and shook his unconscious boyfriend’s shoulder. "Dean. Dean."
"Um." Dean swiped at his hand. "Lay off."
"It's Sam."
"Sam?"
"On the phone."
"Phone?" He opened his eyes and squinted at the television's light. "Jesus--what time is it?"
"Just after one."
"And--shit." He snatched the cordless and bolted upright. "Sammy?"
Cas had long ago been able to judge what level of crisis Sam was calling with based on the level of calm in Dean's face--the more stoic his boyfriend became, the deeper shit Sam was laying on him.
"Hey, hey, hey! Calm down," Dean said firmly. "You're safe?" His eyes flicked to Cas as he mouthed 'Rosemount.' Cas just nodded. "Sammy, what--okay. Calm--" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Sammy, listen to me. I can't understand you. I want you to breathe, and speak slow. We'll figure it out, okay? I'm not gonna get mad." He waited a few more beats. "It was--what?" Cas reached out and laid a calm, steady hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Alright, alright. Listen--I'm on my way. They draw blood yet?" A beat. "Good. You just sit tight, I'll be there in a few." Another beat. "Sammy--deep breaths. Let me get there and we'll figure it out. You stay put you hear? I'll have my phone on." He waited again. "Attaboy. Be there soon." He hit end. "Rosemount," he said like a curse.
"I didn't ask what he took."
"He said nothing, not on purpose. I couldn't tell what he said after that."
"C'mon," Cas got to his feet. "I'm driving."
"You don't need to."
"It's raining. I know how you drive."
Dean sighed and stared toward the phone. "He's been eight months clean, Cas. I thought--"
Cas stepped forward and gripped his boyfriend's arms. "We don't know what happened," he said firmly, "and even if he slipped," Dean winced, "he got himself straight to the clinic and called. That's miles from where we were this time last year."
"I just...want him to be okay." Dean's breath hitched. Cas pulled him in and rested their foreheads together. "Better than okay. I want him to--be happy."
"Y'know, I think he wants the same for you?" Cas said gently. He kissed Dean's cheek. "C'mon. Let's get to him, figure out what we've got."
"Cas--"
"I believe pants are required in all public places these days."
"You're not driving my car."
Cas just grinned and took the stairs two at a time.
"Goddamnit, you are not driving my car!"
"Shotgun shuts his mouth!"
"You--" Dean pounded up the stairs after him, "Goddamnit!"
Then
Cas met Dean Winchester when he drove in on two flat tires to John & Jay's auto mechanics. He'd done three shifts in a row and was still wearing his scrubs, standing dazedly by his car as the eternally patient mechanic asked what the problem was, when his last oil change was, and when the car had to be re-inspected.
"Dude...you need a nice beer, a good lay, and about twenty hours sleep. Not necessarily in that order."
"I told four people someone they loved was going to die today," Cas had said, still dazed, "and I was so tired I didn't even care."
Dean stopped and stared at him, then reached for his cellphone and made a quick call. Cas leaned against his car's window and felt the earth spin. He wanted to sleep for a month.
"Got a cab on its way. Car's got to stay here. She needs a tune up." He laid a gentle hand on the hood. "Don't you, baby? Daddy saving lives is no reason to ignore you."
"I've got auto-insurance."
"Congratulations. My next call won't have to be to the police."
Cas was too tired to figure out what he meant. He collapsed into the cab and woke up in front of his apartment--no memory of giving the cabbie his address. Or the twenty-bucks (eight dollar tip) to get him home. It was only when he returned, two days later, that he discovered Dean had run his plates on the police scanner in the back and done it all.
"Don't worry," he told Cas when he picked up his car--two new tires, fresh oil, new fan-belt, souped-up brake-lines, "she's still chugging. Good to get on a doctor's good side," he said with a wink.
Cas knew the practical side of time. He knew the normal pulse rates from infants to the elderly. He knew the amount of electricity to feed a dying heart, the amount of oxygen to pump into a defective lung, the amount of countless drugs to bolster countless immune systems. He could say them half-asleep and bone-weary, as he so often felt in the darkest hours of his shifts.
With Dean, none of it seemed to matter. It took Cas a week to ask him for a beer. It took less than two hours for him to fall in love.
Now
"I should've made him come live with us."
Cas guided Dean's beloved Impala toward Rosemount at a slow and steady pace that he knew only drove Dean's agitated nerves toward their breaking point. He'd long ago stopped telling him that smashing the car into a ditch or a tree would do nothing for Sam's fragile sanity, and instead learned to deal with Dean's increasing agitation by braking completely at every stop sign and intersection, demonstrating by example that there would be no helping Sam if Dean didn’t look out for himself.
"I mean it...he shouldn't be living with a bunch of ex-junkies. They're just going to drive each other crazy moaning about how they can't have what they want. It's enabling."
"Dean, you remember what Missouri said?"
"Fuck Missouri. She hated me the second I walked in the room."
"We have to let Sam make his own choices."
"He's at Rosemount, Cas! He wouldn't be at Rosemount if he'd been with us!"
"You don't know that."
"You sound like her."
"She's been an addiction counselor for thirty some years, Dean. I trust her. Sam trusts her." Cas took a deep breath and braked completely, ignoring his boyfriend’s low growl. "Besides, Sam's the one who opted for the halfway house. She said he was ready to move on, remember?"
"Which is why he should have moved in with us."
"He didn't want you to feel responsible for monitoring him," Cas said gently. "It was a gracious, appreciative gesture, Dean. Don't make him question it."
"It's my job to monitor him!"
"It's not. Sam needs to monitor himself. Re-learn to take care of himself. Remember?"
Dean set his jaw and stared straight ahead. "Who the hell's side are you on?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Really, Cas. I'm the one whose name's on the lease next to yours. I'm the one you're fucking. Who you supposedly 'love'."
Cas took a slow, deep breath. "And all the times you made clear to Sam that you love him, and are on his side, while making him face something he didn't want to...that just gets washed away between us?"
"It's not the same."
"It's exactly the same." He braked for a red light, the rain glittering gold and red in the drops on the windshield. "Sam can't rely on you to be his conscious. He needs to have faith in himself, in his own strength. More importantly--he needs you to have faith in him."
Dean's eyes glowed green in the "go" light. "He's at Rosemount," he managed, voice cracking.
"So we go, we talk to him. Find out what happened. Let him talk, and listen."
"Goddamnit, Cas, I have always listened! I have done everything--talking, not talking, listening, making notes, reading, researching, Al-Anon, Nar-anon--" his breath hitched. Cas lay a hand on his boyfriend's thigh.
"He's your brother," he said softly. "But I love him too."
Dean didn't answer. Cas spotted the sign for Rosemount and set his blinker.
"I'm on your side first," Cas murmured. "Always. But the man I fell in love doesn’t always do the easy thing when protecting those he loves. I want to do the same."
Dean didn’t answer, but a moment later his hand covered the one Cas had laid on his thigh and pressed gently. Cas didn't miss the light hitch in his breath--so much like Sam's, but unlike Sam's, rarely, if ever surfacing.
"Thanks," Dean managed. Cas smiled and pulled into the Rosemount Clinic’s parking lot.
Then
When Cas met Sam, the younger Winchester had been a junior in college, brilliant and beaming and with one of the most beautiful women Cas had ever seen latched onto his arm. Sam was so different from his brother it was amazing to think they'd grown up in the same house, let alone as close as they were. Dean had made no secret of the fact that he hadn’t liked school, though he’d tested extremely well and proved to have a high IQ. He’d also been unapologetic of the fact he’d dropped out at sixteen and earned his GED two years later. He’d spoken of it without shame, but certainly without pride.
But when he spoke of Sam...he’d glow. He bragged shamelessly about his little brother’s off-the- charts SAT scores, his 4.0 average, the incomparable scholarships, his dreams of becoming a lawyer. And Sam looked shy, uncomfortable with the praise, but when Dean was looking elsewhere would stare at his brother with the kind of pure hero-worship kids usually outgrew around the time they learned Santa Claus was a farce.
It took one meeting with both Winchesters for Cas to realize that being in love with Dean meant accepting Sam as his new little brother. He didn't need the history he later got, with time (their mother dying far too young, their father's alcoholism and long absences going God knows where to do God knows what, Sam being beaten almost to death the night he received his full ride to college, Dean being beaten nearly to death three, four, maybe five times since he could remember all while desperately trying to distract their father from Sam), to realize that Dean was not the Dean he loved without Sam, and Sam was not the sweet, gentle, whip-smart young-man he'd grown into without Dean. Given his own family's tendency to launch an all-out war the second the slightest difference of opinion arose, watching Sam and Dean bicker and tease and even raise their voices, only to end up slouched on the couch drinking beer and laughing over some game or stupid sci-fi flick, made him ache for his own brothers.
Sometimes, late, after a few beers and a lot of laughing, Sam would fall asleep and sink past his perch on the couch to land on Dean's shoulder, and Dean would lean his cheek on Sam's dark hair and smile slightly at the TV, and it wasn't hard to imagine the kids they were, and love all the more the complicated, determined, loyal men they'd become.
Cas loved them both, loved the life they created, free of questions and judgments, free of fights and swearing and slamming doors, free of booze and bounced checks. And then, snug and spooned around Dean, the phone rang at three AM, and Sam was half-mad on the other end, telling them that his home had burned down and his beautiful girlfriend was dead.
Now
The clinic was overly-heated, although all the patients--Cas forced himself not to think junkies--were huddled in coats and hoodies and, some, even blankets. Waiting on methadone, bloodwork, or a ride to their next hit. Cas didn't care. All he cared about was the impossibly tall boy in the corner, head on his knees, brown hoodie well past its expiration date, rocking and shaking and looking impossibly young for his twenty-four years.
Dean sank into a chair beside his brother and brushed a hand over his hair. "Hey, Sammy," he murmured.
"Hey Dean," Sam's voice drifted up from his huddle.
"Sorry if we were slow to get here. Cas drove."
Sam raised his red, teary eyes. His face was a pale and exhausted and drawn as Cas had seen it after the immediate withdrawal, and he had to draw a breath to steady himself before offering Sam a smile.
"You've been in a car with him when he's worried. The speedometer climbs and climbs..."
Sam offered a weak smile before a shiver gripped him. Dean's hand continued to pet his brother's hair.
"They take blood?" Sam nodded. "Urine?" Sam nodded again. "Results?"
"Pending."
Cas crouched in front of Sam and laid a reassuring his hand on his knee. Dean leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "What happened, Sammy?" he murmured.
Sam rubbed his eyes on his sweatshirt. "I came home around eight," he said slowly. "I was tired...went upstairs to read and fell asleep. Woke up at eleven and I was starving. Went downstairs and pulled some chicken out of the fridge, but it tasted like shit." He glanced around nervously, as if cursing would prove his weakness or addiction. Dean continued to smooth his hair. "I dumped a bunch of salt on it. Couldn't taste it, so I added more." His breath hitched, and his chin hit his knees again. Cas rubbed his thumb lightly over the top of his friend's shin. "I was so damn stupid..."
"They'd mixed it in the shaker?" Cas asked calmly. Sam closed his eyes as a tear slipped from underneath.
"Said they were prepping when the house-leader walked in early. Dumped their stash in the salt as a cover." His breath hitched harshly. "I swear I didn't know until I started to feel it. I made myself puke...drank water...but it was too late. I got straight here, but no one believed me." His jaw clenched, hard. "They want to put me back in lock-down. I can't...I can't...I've got a job. I got a job, Dean," he pleaded, grabbing his brother's wrist. Dean nodded slowly. "I was...I was clean. I thought I was just...eating a bad dinner..." his voice cracked and his face disappeared beneath his hands. Cas glanced to his boyfriend and recognized, all too clearly, the look of guilt: Sam lied, yes. Sam had lied about money, about his whereabouts, about his friends, and about the drugs he took. But Sam had lied with defiance, nastiness, and confidence. This--the shaking, the sobbing, the defeat--was no lie.
Leave it to Dean to feel guilty for doubting a brother who'd lied too many times to count because, for once, he was telling the truth.
"You did the right thing coming here once you knew," Cas soothed. "And calling us."
"They want to lock me up." Sam's eyes were huge, damp, brown. "Please don't let them lock me up. I didn't do it on purpose. I just want an extra bit of valium. I threw it up, I swear. I just...Cas, I need valium."
Cas rubbed his friend's knee. "Let me go see," he soothed. He stood and made toward the nurses' window, letting Sam sag into Dean, clutch at his shirt the few times he did when he was sick and battling the sickness, cuddling against his brother like he was a child once more. Dean leaned forward, an arm around his shoulders, lips moving in words to soft to hear, words meant only and always only, for Sam.
Cas stepped behind the nurse's station and flashed his credentials. "Sam Winchester's bloodwork/urinalysis. Is it ready?'
The nurse shook her head. "Doctor, with all due respect..."
"I'd like to see it as soon as it's done."
"It could be until tomorrow--"
"If that's true, than Mr. Winchester doesn't need to return to a locked-down facility. Correct?"
The nurses exchange glances that would look judgmental to anyone else. To him, it just looks tired--wondering-if-one-less-patient-makes-a-difference-tired. As someone who works equally marathon shifts, he hears what she's saying. Hears that she, and her friends, have families-children, aging mothers, boyfriends or husbands, sisters and brothers, who demand their time, their unconditional love and attention and financial support-while here they sit, behind the desk while addict after addict, men and women who have made their bed a million times and rolled happily in it, filter in and challenge every tiny bit of compassion they've ever had.
He feels their exhaustion in his chest, in his knees, in his eyes, in the slump of the shoulders of the man he loves as he attempts to sooth the involuntary shakes of his addict brother.
"Give us an hour," one says, and leans over her keyboard. And he hears her tired resentment that she still feels compassion.
He returns to Sam--shivering, teary, pale, Sam--and Dean, the strong, stoic, equally exhausted man he loves.
"Shhh," Dean murmurs, breathing into his brother's hair. And Cas remembers.
Then
Dean and Cas bolted out of the Impala and raced to Sam's side. Sam, who stared up at the flames beating at the apartment's facade, who rocks in their arms but doesn't really see them. Sam, who lets them answer his questions and drive him to their apartment and tuck him into their guest bed, all while they sooth and murmur, trying to bolster the young man, trying to remind him of the days they spent laughing and warm and together.
Sam came home in tears.
Then reeking of booze, smoke, pot.
Then with dilated pupils, swaying on his feet.
And then, not at all.
Sometimes for days.
And then, finally, when the school put him on academic probation, Sam dropped out.
Oddly enough, the time away seemed to do him good. He got a job at a bookstore, something low stress, but with full benefits. He stopped staying out to insane hours and his pupils remained normal, although Dean told Cas privately that he wished Sam wouldn’t drink so much. He could hardly accuse him when his own glass was almost always full and besides, Sam began handing them a rent check, although neither of them had ever asked for it.;
Then John Winchester drove his truck into a semi, full of two-fifths of whiskey and a ten-pack of beer.
Dean drank himself to sleep for weeks.
Sam lay in the guestroom crying and crying and alone.
Cas held his unconscious boyfriend and tried not to cry as his adopted little brother wept through the wall. For the first time, he began to wonder if he’d leapt off a sinking ship, only to land in a sea he couldn’t possibly swim.
Now
A counselor approached. Sam stiffened, a shaky hand tangling in his brother’s coat. Cas laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Sam Winchester?” she asked. Sam nodded. “I’m with the Outpatient program. I’ve reviewed your file, and your chart. You’ve tested positive for some fairly strong heroine derivatives, indicating you’ve ingested a fairly pure version. Given your history, I’d suggest we sign you back into inpatient to monitor the pending withdrawal.”
“The dose was diluted,” Dean said, daring her to challenge him.
“Yes, but given his history with drugs and alcohol abuse, and considering he’s on some high doses of psychotropic medication, a short period of withdrawal is to be expected, and it’s best if it’s done under a doctor’s supervision. And, of course, out of the way of any available supply.”
Sam let out a deep, gut-wrenching sob. Dean moved in, pulling him close as his brother reached up and clutched at him desperately.
"Please don't send me away," Sam sobbed. "Dean, please. I'm so sorry. Don't send me away."
"Shh," Dean murmured, " No one's locking you up. No one's sending you away."
"I didn't mean to," Sam pleaded, clutching his brother. "I was clean."
"I know you were. I'm not mad." Dean stroked softly over Sam’s dark head.
“May I have a word with you?” Cas asked. The counselor nodded, leading him slightly down the hall. “Listen,” he began, “he’s worked really, really hard-“
“I understand that. I also know how common relapse is. Especially for someone with his history.”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“Addicts will say all kinds of things to stay within access of their supply.”
“He’s not lying.”
The counselor sighed. “Sir...I’ve been in this business a long, long time. Patients aren’t the only ones who can be in denial. No one wants to believe someone they love is lying, but-“
“He’s not. Believe me. ”
“Fine. Let’s say he’s not. He still needs to be under medical supervision while he combats this. We’ll contact his primary therapist and psychiatrist. He’ll have group and support available.”
“He needs his brother.”
“I’ll give you a visiting schedule.”
Cas looked away, than drew a slow breath. “Would it count against his progress if we took him home?”
“Sir, I can’t allow him, in good conscious, to leave without a doctor’s supervision-“
“I’m a doctor.” Her eyebrows rose. “I can present you with my full credentials. I would like to know if it would count against him to undergo withdrawal under my supervision instead of the program’s?”
She sighed. “We can’t force anyone to sign in. In fact, we discourage it. If a patient doesn’t want recovery, we can’t give it to them.”
“He wants it. I want to help give it to him.”
She gives a sharp nod. “I can see that. But I have to acknowledge this was against my recommendation. It won’t count against him, but it won’t endear him either.”
“I just want him to have options.”
“Then present your credentials and you can obtain his charts.”
Cas takes a deep breath as she walks off. He can’t fault her for her quick, sharp voice, or her disbelief-he knows firsthand how slippery addicts can be. And he knows how it sounds that he’s willing to vouch for one.
But he also knows Sam and Dean. And he’s willing to risk himself for them.
He approaches the brothers slowly. Sam is shaking, swiping frantically at his eyes, nodding at Dean’s soft murmurs.
"Sam," Cas said gently. "Listen. I've looked over your chart. What you'll go through will be unpleasant, but it's not dangerous. If you'd like," he said, turning his eyes to meet his boyfriend's, "you can come home with us. We'll get you through it."
Dean smiled slightly as Sam turned his big, damp, puppy-dog eyes to Cas. "With you? But..."
"Just a day or two, and this'll be out of your system. We'll look after you."
"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean murmured, petting his head. Sam's bottom lip shook.
"I...can't. I...it's not your...fault." He sat up, wiping his eyes, trying hard to look brave. "No. I should sign in and--" his voice hitched.
"Sam, you don't have to," Cas soothed. "It's just as hard for us to know you're hurting. We'd like to have you home, to look after you. I'll monitor all your vitals and meds. We'll pass the time quickly."
Sam’s wide brown eyes looked up at him, then to his brother. Dean smiled.
“How ‘bout it?” he asked cheerfully.
“I-” Sam looked from the nurse to his brother to Cas. “But-”
“There’s nothing here that we can’t do for you,” Cas said. Sam met his eyes, and Cas could read the unspoken why? in them. “Won’t it help to be with us?”
Sam leaned a little harder into his brother, and nods.
Then
The alcohol disappears. Beer, wine, whiskey: whatever it is, it doesn't last between the Winchesters.
Sam begins to reek of pot. Dean passes out on their bed before nightfall. Cas does his best to check their pulses through the night, terrified they'd stop breathing at the same time.
"Cas," Gabe tells him, "bro, I love you, but you can't save everyone. Even you said that."
That night, Cas pushes himself against Dean’s back, holds him close, and says gently, “My brother Gabriel thinks you and Sam are going down a road I won’t be able to stop. I’m beginning to think that that might be true.”
Dean stiffens completely. The next morning, he’s out of bed before any of them, makes breakfast, packs Cas a lunch, and has dinner ready for all of them. He throws himself back into work, tends to Sam, and makes love with Cas on their nights off.
Sam's pupils stay dilated, but then he meets Madison, and suddenly the empty table is complete and they're laughing again, eating dinners, watching bad TV, Sam talking about finishing his degree. He and Dean talk about taking a vacation, taking time for just the two of them, maybe even getting papers to make everything they shared official. Cas felt a whole new sense of peace, proof that he had judged the Winchester right, that they were capable of weathering the bad times and enjoying the good.
Then the phone rings, near 3:00 a.m., he and Dean tangled, naked and together.
Madison'd been shot in the back of the head in a random mugging.
Sam slit his wrists with so many drugs in his system the lab wouldn’t be able to sort them.
Dean cried all the way to the emergency room.
Now
Cas sets up the pull-out couch.
Dean guided his trembling brother forward, coaxed him on his back, even as he wouldn't release his elder's brother's shirt.
"We got you," Dean murmured. Cas retreated to the kitchen to grab supplies. He could Dean's voice, low and gruff, interspersed with Sam's gasps and hitches of pain. He returned to find Dean removing Sam's shoes and hoodie, pulling the blankets around his brother before sinking beside him.
"Dean," Sam gasped. "It's getting worse."
"Cas?"
"Here." Cas plugged in a heat pad and passed a glass of lukewarm water over to Dean. "Little sips, Sam."
"I--I need valium."
"Not for four more hours."
"Cas--" Cas stuck his quick-temp thermometer in Sam's ear and hit the button.
"You're not getting any more until it's time, Sam."
Sam let out a garbled cry and rolled, balling up tight. Dean quickly grabbed his brother's shoulders and squeezed.
"Easy, easy--you gonna be sick?"
Sam let out a guttural moan of pain as his body began to wrack. Dean looked wide-eyed at Cas, who cranked the heat pad up to ten and slid his hands into the curled ball of Sam to gently press it against his friend's stomach.
"It's normal," he assured Dean. Sam's hand flew out and grasped Dean's shirt, fisting him closer.
"Help me," he sobbed.
"M'right here," Dean murmured, resting a hand on his brother's face. "It's gonna pass, Sammy. You remember."
"Can't--can't do it again." He spasmed once more, drawing Dean down further. "Can't, I can't, please, need--" he gagged, choked, "Dean, help me!"
"I'm here, I'm here," Dean's eyes were damp as he stretched out on his side, letting his brother curl into him. "I gotcha. You're not alone this round."
"I need--something--Cas--please--"
Cas adjusted the heatpad and wiped Sam's sweaty brow with a warm washcloth. "I know it hurts, but it won't get nearly as bad as before. If we do it together, one straight shot, you come out clean. No methadone withdrawal, no attacks coming down from Valium. Few hours with us and you wake up good as new."
Sam whimpered, drew up his arms, and curled against his brother’s hip. Dean eased onto the sofa bed, an arm around his back, murmuring “okay, alright, it’s okay, it’s alright,” over and over and over.
“It’s not fair,” Sam sobbed, sounding so young Cas’ heart threatens to break.
“I know it’s not, bud,” Dean murmured. “I know.”
Next
Cas just lived with it. So when the phone rang on his night off, rolled over into the empty space where Dean's body should be--his boyfriend had taken to passing out on the couch since he'd been going to bed sober--he had it in hand, receiver enroute to his ear, before he’d even fully awakened.
"It's Cas," he mumbled.
Heavy, desperate breathing, a gulping, hitching swallow--Sam. "Cas, I--I need--"
"I'll get him." He rolled out of bed, feet cold on the hardwood floor.
"I'm--sorry, Cas, I didn't want to wake you. I know I--"
"Easy, Sam. Deep and easy, like we practiced, huh?" He padded down the hall, drifting toward the blue light indicating the TV was still on. "Are you somewhere safe?"
Sam's breathing sped up. "I need help," he sobbed, and Cas felt a familiar ache in his chest.
"Okay," he said, softening his voice. "Don't worry. I'll put Dean on, you tell him where you are, what you need, and we'll be on our way. Sam, are you safe?"
"I'm at Rosemount."
Oh. No. Rosemount meant one thing: relapse. "Okay. Let me get Dean."
"It's not what you--Cas, I didn't--please believe me, I--no one believes me, Cas--"
"We trust you," Cas said firmly. He hated how good at lying he'd gotten. It helped that his boyfriend would have made a great sociopath, if it weren’t for the bouts of crippling guilt and grief and worry. "Here, let me get him."
Cas pressed the mouthpiece into his shoulder and shook his unconscious boyfriend’s shoulder. "Dean. Dean."
"Um." Dean swiped at his hand. "Lay off."
"It's Sam."
"Sam?"
"On the phone."
"Phone?" He opened his eyes and squinted at the television's light. "Jesus--what time is it?"
"Just after one."
"And--shit." He snatched the cordless and bolted upright. "Sammy?"
Cas had long ago been able to judge what level of crisis Sam was calling with based on the level of calm in Dean's face--the more stoic his boyfriend became, the deeper shit Sam was laying on him.
"Hey, hey, hey! Calm down," Dean said firmly. "You're safe?" His eyes flicked to Cas as he mouthed 'Rosemount.' Cas just nodded. "Sammy, what--okay. Calm--" He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Sammy, listen to me. I can't understand you. I want you to breathe, and speak slow. We'll figure it out, okay? I'm not gonna get mad." He waited a few more beats. "It was--what?" Cas reached out and laid a calm, steady hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Alright, alright. Listen--I'm on my way. They draw blood yet?" A beat. "Good. You just sit tight, I'll be there in a few." Another beat. "Sammy--deep breaths. Let me get there and we'll figure it out. You stay put you hear? I'll have my phone on." He waited again. "Attaboy. Be there soon." He hit end. "Rosemount," he said like a curse.
"I didn't ask what he took."
"He said nothing, not on purpose. I couldn't tell what he said after that."
"C'mon," Cas got to his feet. "I'm driving."
"You don't need to."
"It's raining. I know how you drive."
Dean sighed and stared toward the phone. "He's been eight months clean, Cas. I thought--"
Cas stepped forward and gripped his boyfriend's arms. "We don't know what happened," he said firmly, "and even if he slipped," Dean winced, "he got himself straight to the clinic and called. That's miles from where we were this time last year."
"I just...want him to be okay." Dean's breath hitched. Cas pulled him in and rested their foreheads together. "Better than okay. I want him to--be happy."
"Y'know, I think he wants the same for you?" Cas said gently. He kissed Dean's cheek. "C'mon. Let's get to him, figure out what we've got."
"Cas--"
"I believe pants are required in all public places these days."
"You're not driving my car."
Cas just grinned and took the stairs two at a time.
"Goddamnit, you are not driving my car!"
"Shotgun shuts his mouth!"
"You--" Dean pounded up the stairs after him, "Goddamnit!"
Then
Cas met Dean Winchester when he drove in on two flat tires to John & Jay's auto mechanics. He'd done three shifts in a row and was still wearing his scrubs, standing dazedly by his car as the eternally patient mechanic asked what the problem was, when his last oil change was, and when the car had to be re-inspected.
"Dude...you need a nice beer, a good lay, and about twenty hours sleep. Not necessarily in that order."
"I told four people someone they loved was going to die today," Cas had said, still dazed, "and I was so tired I didn't even care."
Dean stopped and stared at him, then reached for his cellphone and made a quick call. Cas leaned against his car's window and felt the earth spin. He wanted to sleep for a month.
"Got a cab on its way. Car's got to stay here. She needs a tune up." He laid a gentle hand on the hood. "Don't you, baby? Daddy saving lives is no reason to ignore you."
"I've got auto-insurance."
"Congratulations. My next call won't have to be to the police."
Cas was too tired to figure out what he meant. He collapsed into the cab and woke up in front of his apartment--no memory of giving the cabbie his address. Or the twenty-bucks (eight dollar tip) to get him home. It was only when he returned, two days later, that he discovered Dean had run his plates on the police scanner in the back and done it all.
"Don't worry," he told Cas when he picked up his car--two new tires, fresh oil, new fan-belt, souped-up brake-lines, "she's still chugging. Good to get on a doctor's good side," he said with a wink.
Cas knew the practical side of time. He knew the normal pulse rates from infants to the elderly. He knew the amount of electricity to feed a dying heart, the amount of oxygen to pump into a defective lung, the amount of countless drugs to bolster countless immune systems. He could say them half-asleep and bone-weary, as he so often felt in the darkest hours of his shifts.
With Dean, none of it seemed to matter. It took Cas a week to ask him for a beer. It took less than two hours for him to fall in love.
Now
"I should've made him come live with us."
Cas guided Dean's beloved Impala toward Rosemount at a slow and steady pace that he knew only drove Dean's agitated nerves toward their breaking point. He'd long ago stopped telling him that smashing the car into a ditch or a tree would do nothing for Sam's fragile sanity, and instead learned to deal with Dean's increasing agitation by braking completely at every stop sign and intersection, demonstrating by example that there would be no helping Sam if Dean didn’t look out for himself.
"I mean it...he shouldn't be living with a bunch of ex-junkies. They're just going to drive each other crazy moaning about how they can't have what they want. It's enabling."
"Dean, you remember what Missouri said?"
"Fuck Missouri. She hated me the second I walked in the room."
"We have to let Sam make his own choices."
"He's at Rosemount, Cas! He wouldn't be at Rosemount if he'd been with us!"
"You don't know that."
"You sound like her."
"She's been an addiction counselor for thirty some years, Dean. I trust her. Sam trusts her." Cas took a deep breath and braked completely, ignoring his boyfriend’s low growl. "Besides, Sam's the one who opted for the halfway house. She said he was ready to move on, remember?"
"Which is why he should have moved in with us."
"He didn't want you to feel responsible for monitoring him," Cas said gently. "It was a gracious, appreciative gesture, Dean. Don't make him question it."
"It's my job to monitor him!"
"It's not. Sam needs to monitor himself. Re-learn to take care of himself. Remember?"
Dean set his jaw and stared straight ahead. "Who the hell's side are you on?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Really, Cas. I'm the one whose name's on the lease next to yours. I'm the one you're fucking. Who you supposedly 'love'."
Cas took a slow, deep breath. "And all the times you made clear to Sam that you love him, and are on his side, while making him face something he didn't want to...that just gets washed away between us?"
"It's not the same."
"It's exactly the same." He braked for a red light, the rain glittering gold and red in the drops on the windshield. "Sam can't rely on you to be his conscious. He needs to have faith in himself, in his own strength. More importantly--he needs you to have faith in him."
Dean's eyes glowed green in the "go" light. "He's at Rosemount," he managed, voice cracking.
"So we go, we talk to him. Find out what happened. Let him talk, and listen."
"Goddamnit, Cas, I have always listened! I have done everything--talking, not talking, listening, making notes, reading, researching, Al-Anon, Nar-anon--" his breath hitched. Cas lay a hand on his boyfriend's thigh.
"He's your brother," he said softly. "But I love him too."
Dean didn't answer. Cas spotted the sign for Rosemount and set his blinker.
"I'm on your side first," Cas murmured. "Always. But the man I fell in love doesn’t always do the easy thing when protecting those he loves. I want to do the same."
Dean didn’t answer, but a moment later his hand covered the one Cas had laid on his thigh and pressed gently. Cas didn't miss the light hitch in his breath--so much like Sam's, but unlike Sam's, rarely, if ever surfacing.
"Thanks," Dean managed. Cas smiled and pulled into the Rosemount Clinic’s parking lot.
Then
When Cas met Sam, the younger Winchester had been a junior in college, brilliant and beaming and with one of the most beautiful women Cas had ever seen latched onto his arm. Sam was so different from his brother it was amazing to think they'd grown up in the same house, let alone as close as they were. Dean had made no secret of the fact that he hadn’t liked school, though he’d tested extremely well and proved to have a high IQ. He’d also been unapologetic of the fact he’d dropped out at sixteen and earned his GED two years later. He’d spoken of it without shame, but certainly without pride.
But when he spoke of Sam...he’d glow. He bragged shamelessly about his little brother’s off-the- charts SAT scores, his 4.0 average, the incomparable scholarships, his dreams of becoming a lawyer. And Sam looked shy, uncomfortable with the praise, but when Dean was looking elsewhere would stare at his brother with the kind of pure hero-worship kids usually outgrew around the time they learned Santa Claus was a farce.
It took one meeting with both Winchesters for Cas to realize that being in love with Dean meant accepting Sam as his new little brother. He didn't need the history he later got, with time (their mother dying far too young, their father's alcoholism and long absences going God knows where to do God knows what, Sam being beaten almost to death the night he received his full ride to college, Dean being beaten nearly to death three, four, maybe five times since he could remember all while desperately trying to distract their father from Sam), to realize that Dean was not the Dean he loved without Sam, and Sam was not the sweet, gentle, whip-smart young-man he'd grown into without Dean. Given his own family's tendency to launch an all-out war the second the slightest difference of opinion arose, watching Sam and Dean bicker and tease and even raise their voices, only to end up slouched on the couch drinking beer and laughing over some game or stupid sci-fi flick, made him ache for his own brothers.
Sometimes, late, after a few beers and a lot of laughing, Sam would fall asleep and sink past his perch on the couch to land on Dean's shoulder, and Dean would lean his cheek on Sam's dark hair and smile slightly at the TV, and it wasn't hard to imagine the kids they were, and love all the more the complicated, determined, loyal men they'd become.
Cas loved them both, loved the life they created, free of questions and judgments, free of fights and swearing and slamming doors, free of booze and bounced checks. And then, snug and spooned around Dean, the phone rang at three AM, and Sam was half-mad on the other end, telling them that his home had burned down and his beautiful girlfriend was dead.
Now
The clinic was overly-heated, although all the patients--Cas forced himself not to think junkies--were huddled in coats and hoodies and, some, even blankets. Waiting on methadone, bloodwork, or a ride to their next hit. Cas didn't care. All he cared about was the impossibly tall boy in the corner, head on his knees, brown hoodie well past its expiration date, rocking and shaking and looking impossibly young for his twenty-four years.
Dean sank into a chair beside his brother and brushed a hand over his hair. "Hey, Sammy," he murmured.
"Hey Dean," Sam's voice drifted up from his huddle.
"Sorry if we were slow to get here. Cas drove."
Sam raised his red, teary eyes. His face was a pale and exhausted and drawn as Cas had seen it after the immediate withdrawal, and he had to draw a breath to steady himself before offering Sam a smile.
"You've been in a car with him when he's worried. The speedometer climbs and climbs..."
Sam offered a weak smile before a shiver gripped him. Dean's hand continued to pet his brother's hair.
"They take blood?" Sam nodded. "Urine?" Sam nodded again. "Results?"
"Pending."
Cas crouched in front of Sam and laid a reassuring his hand on his knee. Dean leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. "What happened, Sammy?" he murmured.
Sam rubbed his eyes on his sweatshirt. "I came home around eight," he said slowly. "I was tired...went upstairs to read and fell asleep. Woke up at eleven and I was starving. Went downstairs and pulled some chicken out of the fridge, but it tasted like shit." He glanced around nervously, as if cursing would prove his weakness or addiction. Dean continued to smooth his hair. "I dumped a bunch of salt on it. Couldn't taste it, so I added more." His breath hitched, and his chin hit his knees again. Cas rubbed his thumb lightly over the top of his friend's shin. "I was so damn stupid..."
"They'd mixed it in the shaker?" Cas asked calmly. Sam closed his eyes as a tear slipped from underneath.
"Said they were prepping when the house-leader walked in early. Dumped their stash in the salt as a cover." His breath hitched harshly. "I swear I didn't know until I started to feel it. I made myself puke...drank water...but it was too late. I got straight here, but no one believed me." His jaw clenched, hard. "They want to put me back in lock-down. I can't...I can't...I've got a job. I got a job, Dean," he pleaded, grabbing his brother's wrist. Dean nodded slowly. "I was...I was clean. I thought I was just...eating a bad dinner..." his voice cracked and his face disappeared beneath his hands. Cas glanced to his boyfriend and recognized, all too clearly, the look of guilt: Sam lied, yes. Sam had lied about money, about his whereabouts, about his friends, and about the drugs he took. But Sam had lied with defiance, nastiness, and confidence. This--the shaking, the sobbing, the defeat--was no lie.
Leave it to Dean to feel guilty for doubting a brother who'd lied too many times to count because, for once, he was telling the truth.
"You did the right thing coming here once you knew," Cas soothed. "And calling us."
"They want to lock me up." Sam's eyes were huge, damp, brown. "Please don't let them lock me up. I didn't do it on purpose. I just want an extra bit of valium. I threw it up, I swear. I just...Cas, I need valium."
Cas rubbed his friend's knee. "Let me go see," he soothed. He stood and made toward the nurses' window, letting Sam sag into Dean, clutch at his shirt the few times he did when he was sick and battling the sickness, cuddling against his brother like he was a child once more. Dean leaned forward, an arm around his shoulders, lips moving in words to soft to hear, words meant only and always only, for Sam.
Cas stepped behind the nurse's station and flashed his credentials. "Sam Winchester's bloodwork/urinalysis. Is it ready?'
The nurse shook her head. "Doctor, with all due respect..."
"I'd like to see it as soon as it's done."
"It could be until tomorrow--"
"If that's true, than Mr. Winchester doesn't need to return to a locked-down facility. Correct?"
The nurses exchange glances that would look judgmental to anyone else. To him, it just looks tired--wondering-if-one-less-patient-makes-a-difference-tired. As someone who works equally marathon shifts, he hears what she's saying. Hears that she, and her friends, have families-children, aging mothers, boyfriends or husbands, sisters and brothers, who demand their time, their unconditional love and attention and financial support-while here they sit, behind the desk while addict after addict, men and women who have made their bed a million times and rolled happily in it, filter in and challenge every tiny bit of compassion they've ever had.
He feels their exhaustion in his chest, in his knees, in his eyes, in the slump of the shoulders of the man he loves as he attempts to sooth the involuntary shakes of his addict brother.
"Give us an hour," one says, and leans over her keyboard. And he hears her tired resentment that she still feels compassion.
He returns to Sam--shivering, teary, pale, Sam--and Dean, the strong, stoic, equally exhausted man he loves.
"Shhh," Dean murmurs, breathing into his brother's hair. And Cas remembers.
Then
Dean and Cas bolted out of the Impala and raced to Sam's side. Sam, who stared up at the flames beating at the apartment's facade, who rocks in their arms but doesn't really see them. Sam, who lets them answer his questions and drive him to their apartment and tuck him into their guest bed, all while they sooth and murmur, trying to bolster the young man, trying to remind him of the days they spent laughing and warm and together.
Sam came home in tears.
Then reeking of booze, smoke, pot.
Then with dilated pupils, swaying on his feet.
And then, not at all.
Sometimes for days.
And then, finally, when the school put him on academic probation, Sam dropped out.
Oddly enough, the time away seemed to do him good. He got a job at a bookstore, something low stress, but with full benefits. He stopped staying out to insane hours and his pupils remained normal, although Dean told Cas privately that he wished Sam wouldn’t drink so much. He could hardly accuse him when his own glass was almost always full and besides, Sam began handing them a rent check, although neither of them had ever asked for it.;
Then John Winchester drove his truck into a semi, full of two-fifths of whiskey and a ten-pack of beer.
Dean drank himself to sleep for weeks.
Sam lay in the guestroom crying and crying and alone.
Cas held his unconscious boyfriend and tried not to cry as his adopted little brother wept through the wall. For the first time, he began to wonder if he’d leapt off a sinking ship, only to land in a sea he couldn’t possibly swim.
Now
A counselor approached. Sam stiffened, a shaky hand tangling in his brother’s coat. Cas laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Sam Winchester?” she asked. Sam nodded. “I’m with the Outpatient program. I’ve reviewed your file, and your chart. You’ve tested positive for some fairly strong heroine derivatives, indicating you’ve ingested a fairly pure version. Given your history, I’d suggest we sign you back into inpatient to monitor the pending withdrawal.”
“The dose was diluted,” Dean said, daring her to challenge him.
“Yes, but given his history with drugs and alcohol abuse, and considering he’s on some high doses of psychotropic medication, a short period of withdrawal is to be expected, and it’s best if it’s done under a doctor’s supervision. And, of course, out of the way of any available supply.”
Sam let out a deep, gut-wrenching sob. Dean moved in, pulling him close as his brother reached up and clutched at him desperately.
"Please don't send me away," Sam sobbed. "Dean, please. I'm so sorry. Don't send me away."
"Shh," Dean murmured, " No one's locking you up. No one's sending you away."
"I didn't mean to," Sam pleaded, clutching his brother. "I was clean."
"I know you were. I'm not mad." Dean stroked softly over Sam’s dark head.
“May I have a word with you?” Cas asked. The counselor nodded, leading him slightly down the hall. “Listen,” he began, “he’s worked really, really hard-“
“I understand that. I also know how common relapse is. Especially for someone with his history.”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“Addicts will say all kinds of things to stay within access of their supply.”
“He’s not lying.”
The counselor sighed. “Sir...I’ve been in this business a long, long time. Patients aren’t the only ones who can be in denial. No one wants to believe someone they love is lying, but-“
“He’s not. Believe me. ”
“Fine. Let’s say he’s not. He still needs to be under medical supervision while he combats this. We’ll contact his primary therapist and psychiatrist. He’ll have group and support available.”
“He needs his brother.”
“I’ll give you a visiting schedule.”
Cas looked away, than drew a slow breath. “Would it count against his progress if we took him home?”
“Sir, I can’t allow him, in good conscious, to leave without a doctor’s supervision-“
“I’m a doctor.” Her eyebrows rose. “I can present you with my full credentials. I would like to know if it would count against him to undergo withdrawal under my supervision instead of the program’s?”
She sighed. “We can’t force anyone to sign in. In fact, we discourage it. If a patient doesn’t want recovery, we can’t give it to them.”
“He wants it. I want to help give it to him.”
She gives a sharp nod. “I can see that. But I have to acknowledge this was against my recommendation. It won’t count against him, but it won’t endear him either.”
“I just want him to have options.”
“Then present your credentials and you can obtain his charts.”
Cas takes a deep breath as she walks off. He can’t fault her for her quick, sharp voice, or her disbelief-he knows firsthand how slippery addicts can be. And he knows how it sounds that he’s willing to vouch for one.
But he also knows Sam and Dean. And he’s willing to risk himself for them.
He approaches the brothers slowly. Sam is shaking, swiping frantically at his eyes, nodding at Dean’s soft murmurs.
"Sam," Cas said gently. "Listen. I've looked over your chart. What you'll go through will be unpleasant, but it's not dangerous. If you'd like," he said, turning his eyes to meet his boyfriend's, "you can come home with us. We'll get you through it."
Dean smiled slightly as Sam turned his big, damp, puppy-dog eyes to Cas. "With you? But..."
"Just a day or two, and this'll be out of your system. We'll look after you."
"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean murmured, petting his head. Sam's bottom lip shook.
"I...can't. I...it's not your...fault." He sat up, wiping his eyes, trying hard to look brave. "No. I should sign in and--" his voice hitched.
"Sam, you don't have to," Cas soothed. "It's just as hard for us to know you're hurting. We'd like to have you home, to look after you. I'll monitor all your vitals and meds. We'll pass the time quickly."
Sam’s wide brown eyes looked up at him, then to his brother. Dean smiled.
“How ‘bout it?” he asked cheerfully.
“I-” Sam looked from the nurse to his brother to Cas. “But-”
“There’s nothing here that we can’t do for you,” Cas said. Sam met his eyes, and Cas could read the unspoken why? in them. “Won’t it help to be with us?”
Sam leaned a little harder into his brother, and nods.
Then
The alcohol disappears. Beer, wine, whiskey: whatever it is, it doesn't last between the Winchesters.
Sam begins to reek of pot. Dean passes out on their bed before nightfall. Cas does his best to check their pulses through the night, terrified they'd stop breathing at the same time.
"Cas," Gabe tells him, "bro, I love you, but you can't save everyone. Even you said that."
That night, Cas pushes himself against Dean’s back, holds him close, and says gently, “My brother Gabriel thinks you and Sam are going down a road I won’t be able to stop. I’m beginning to think that that might be true.”
Dean stiffens completely. The next morning, he’s out of bed before any of them, makes breakfast, packs Cas a lunch, and has dinner ready for all of them. He throws himself back into work, tends to Sam, and makes love with Cas on their nights off.
Sam's pupils stay dilated, but then he meets Madison, and suddenly the empty table is complete and they're laughing again, eating dinners, watching bad TV, Sam talking about finishing his degree. He and Dean talk about taking a vacation, taking time for just the two of them, maybe even getting papers to make everything they shared official. Cas felt a whole new sense of peace, proof that he had judged the Winchester right, that they were capable of weathering the bad times and enjoying the good.
Then the phone rings, near 3:00 a.m., he and Dean tangled, naked and together.
Madison'd been shot in the back of the head in a random mugging.
Sam slit his wrists with so many drugs in his system the lab wouldn’t be able to sort them.
Dean cried all the way to the emergency room.
Now
Cas sets up the pull-out couch.
Dean guided his trembling brother forward, coaxed him on his back, even as he wouldn't release his elder's brother's shirt.
"We got you," Dean murmured. Cas retreated to the kitchen to grab supplies. He could Dean's voice, low and gruff, interspersed with Sam's gasps and hitches of pain. He returned to find Dean removing Sam's shoes and hoodie, pulling the blankets around his brother before sinking beside him.
"Dean," Sam gasped. "It's getting worse."
"Cas?"
"Here." Cas plugged in a heat pad and passed a glass of lukewarm water over to Dean. "Little sips, Sam."
"I--I need valium."
"Not for four more hours."
"Cas--" Cas stuck his quick-temp thermometer in Sam's ear and hit the button.
"You're not getting any more until it's time, Sam."
Sam let out a garbled cry and rolled, balling up tight. Dean quickly grabbed his brother's shoulders and squeezed.
"Easy, easy--you gonna be sick?"
Sam let out a guttural moan of pain as his body began to wrack. Dean looked wide-eyed at Cas, who cranked the heat pad up to ten and slid his hands into the curled ball of Sam to gently press it against his friend's stomach.
"It's normal," he assured Dean. Sam's hand flew out and grasped Dean's shirt, fisting him closer.
"Help me," he sobbed.
"M'right here," Dean murmured, resting a hand on his brother's face. "It's gonna pass, Sammy. You remember."
"Can't--can't do it again." He spasmed once more, drawing Dean down further. "Can't, I can't, please, need--" he gagged, choked, "Dean, help me!"
"I'm here, I'm here," Dean's eyes were damp as he stretched out on his side, letting his brother curl into him. "I gotcha. You're not alone this round."
"I need--something--Cas--please--"
Cas adjusted the heatpad and wiped Sam's sweaty brow with a warm washcloth. "I know it hurts, but it won't get nearly as bad as before. If we do it together, one straight shot, you come out clean. No methadone withdrawal, no attacks coming down from Valium. Few hours with us and you wake up good as new."
Sam whimpered, drew up his arms, and curled against his brother’s hip. Dean eased onto the sofa bed, an arm around his back, murmuring “okay, alright, it’s okay, it’s alright,” over and over and over.
“It’s not fair,” Sam sobbed, sounding so young Cas’ heart threatens to break.
“I know it’s not, bud,” Dean murmured. “I know.”
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