Fic: Give You Everything I've Got
Title: Give You Everything I’ve Got
Summary: Things don’t always go smoothly.
Verse: Supernatural
Fandom: Frayed 'verse. Other fics are here.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and Hell trauma
Wordcount: 4155
Thank you to my awesome beta tarotgal for reading through this and offering wise words of wisdom.
Dean misses being Hector Aframian.
Kris Warren, D. Mahogov, Siegfried Houdini, all the others. He misses the money that came with that endless string of identities, the cards that paid for one motel room after another and cheap diner food in sleepy towns.
Now all he’s got is a couple of very legitimate credit cards with the name Dean Winchester printed across the front, and he’s coming dangerously close to maxing out all of them. The rent’s due in a week, and Dean’s already asked Bobby for help more than he’d care to admit. So he’s just going to be eating ramen for a while, hoping Sam won’t notice. If it’s a choice between taking care of Sam or taking care of himself… well, it’s not a choice.
Besides, Sam’s not likely to notice much of anything. He’d been sick for the past three days, and colds are rough on Sam even under the best possible conditions. But this one just has him completely worn out.
“No, I don’t want it,” Sam grumbles, pressing his face into the couch cushions.
Worn out and cranky, to be exact.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pleads. “It’s supposed to make you feel better.” He holds out the little medicine cup, bright orange DayQuil filled nearly to the brim.
Sam shakes his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Nooo…. Makes me feel… itchy.”
Huh. That’s a new one. Dean wonders if it’s possible to be allergic to DayQuil. “Itchy how?”
“Inside me, everything shaking,” Sam mumbles, voice thick with congestion. “Like… like my skin wants to come off.” He scratches roughly at his arms for a moment before settling back down, long legs stretched out so they’re almost hanging off the couch.
Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. “Okay. No DayQuil, then,” Dean acquiesces and sets the cup down on the end table, as Sam coughs painfully into his pillow, body spasming with the effort. “If you won’t try the medicine, how about some veggie broth, huh? Nice and warm, maybe it’ll help that cough?” He sits carefully on the edge of the couch, near Sam’s legs, and reaches out to rub his brother’s back.
Sam, who normally takes comfort in Dean’s touch, squirms away, whining, “Your hand’s too cold.”
“Sorry.” Dean pulls his hand back and stands up. “I’m gonna go heat up some of that broth, see if you like that.” He rubs a hand over his mouth in frustration, watching Sam for a moment as he fidgets restlessly on the couch, before he heads back into the kitchen.
“hh’NXSHHH!” He hears Sam sneeze behind him, followed by the sound of Sam’s feet kicking on the couch cushions in agitation, trying in vain to make his broken body feel better.
It’s all Dean wants, too.
* * *
Sam doesn’t want the broth.
Or the toast Dean fixes for him, because it’s too crunchy.
Or his favorite patchwork quilt, because he can feel all of the stitches scratching against his skin.
Dean can actually feel himself losing patience with Sam with each new complaint. His muscles get just a little more tense, his tone of voice a little more clipped and harsh.
“What about tea? You like tea.”
“Mmmngh,” Sam mumbles before sneezing harshly into his pillow again. “heh’ENXHSSHH! huh’ETTTCH!”
“Sam. Tea or not?” Dean demands, standing on the edge of the living room with his arms folded across his chest. The quilt is lying in a heap on the floor, and the coffee table and end tables are becoming increasingly littered with all the things Sam didn’t want, things that are costing Dean precious dollars though he’ll never tell his brother that.
Sam is quiet for several agonizing moments, twisting his hair between his fingers and staring at the floor. Dean is about to just forget about the damn tea, retreat to his own room, and leave his brother to fend for himself, when Sam finally answers, voice tight, “Tea …and honey?”
“You got it,” Dean answers, trying to make himself not sound too annoyed, and returns to the kitchen again.
In the living room, Sam sneezes and coughs and whispers apologies to people who don’t exist.
* * *
“Goddammit, Sam! I don’t know what you want me to do!” Dean shouts, storming out of the room, Sam’s mug of tea spilled all down the front of his shirt. He angrily tugs it over his head as he stomps across the apartment, back to his own fucking room to get another fucking shirt.
“I am done, okay?!” he shouts. “I’m fucking done! I’m sick of this bullshit!”
He slams a hand against his half-open bedroom door so it swings open and ricochets off the wall, and throws his shirt to the ground with an angry growl.
“Give me one goddamn day… just one…”
All he wants is one day where it isn’t so obvious that they’re just barely hanging on. Where his brother isn’t dependent on him for every single thing. Where having enough money to pay the rent doesn’t conflict with having enough money to stock the fridge. Where he can just go and be the same Dean Winchester he’d always pretended he was - cocky swagger and devilish grin and enough charm to make the prettiest girl in the room instantly fall for him. But he isn’t that Dean now.
Now, he’s just angry and tired and poor, and he wants this day to be over so they can deal with the next.
He tugs open the middle drawer of his dresser to get a new shirt, and the cheap plastic handle comes off in his hand. Stifling a very unmanly scream of pure frustration, he pries the drawer the rest of the way open, and congratulates himself when he doesn’t tear it out and throw it across the room. With his luck, he’d only end up breaking something else, and then he’d have that to look forward to fixing tomorrow, too.
He pulls on a clean t-shirt and thumps his head against the wall, letting out an exhausted sigh. This day really can’t get any worse.
From the other end of the hallway comes the sound of a door slamming, and it only takes Dean a second to realize that the sound is too heavy to be anything but the front door.
“Shit!”
Dean scrambles out of his bedroom and down the hall, nearly careening into furniture as he races to the door. By the time he rips it open and rushes into the outer hallway, it’s quiet.
Sam is gone.
* * *
The sky is big and dark, and the wind tugs at his clothes, but he has to keep running. Has to get out. Dean is not Dean. It’s all a lie. He should never have believed it.
Deep, deep inside he knows. Even if he runs, he won’t get out. Won’t escape forever. But he’s human, and he tries.
Stupid boy, you will never understand, will you? You’re here, with us. You made your choice.
He runs down quiet streets, away from lights, away from people. Needs to get away.
There’s a pounding pain in his head every time his feet hit the ground. Lucifer driving stakes through his skull, just to see what will happen.
“What do you think, Michael? Is there a brain in there at all?”
Michael took pity on him, swept him up and whisked him away, said soft words to make him calm, pulled the metal pieces out one by one by one.
Sam stops running, leaning against a brick wall - rough, too rough, and hurts his hand - to cough, gasping after all the running. Everything hurts, and he feels achy and full, like his head has been held underwater for too long. But this place is quiet, walls and no bright lights and just him by himself.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?”
Someone’s here.
Dean calls him “buddy,” but Dean’s not here. Dean is a lie. Dean didn’t fall with him, has never been here.
Only… only Michael is safe. Sometimes. Lucifer is cruel, and Adam is hurt, but sometimes Michael helps.
“You need some help?”
Sam coughs again, head snapping up to look. Everything goes blurry for a second and he shakes his head to make it right. There are two people, dressed in black and blue, heavy boots stomping on the ground towards him, lights flashing in a dizzying rhythm behind them. He wants to run, but he already knows he can’t get away. Nowhere to go. He drags a hand through his hair, pulling, and makes a noise, low in his throat.
Shhh, Sammy, don’t talk.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
One of the men is moving towards him, and he backs into the wall, rough bricks and sharp metal fence trapping him.
“No, I… ‘m not s’posed to…” he whispers, trying not to look at them, trying to find a way out.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Can you tell me your name? Huh?”
The voice is soft, and that’s wrong. Supposed to be angry. Supposed to hurt. Maybe… maybe this isn’t…
“Sam,” he makes his mouth say, but no noise comes out.
“What was that?” the man repeats, shining a light up at him.
No, too bright!
He puts up his hands, blocking his face, pressing his body into the wall. “I don’t know… I don’t know…” A tear slips down his cheek, wet and salty and itching, and he tugs the neck of his t-shirt up to scrub it away.
“Hudson, check the missing persons report, will ya?” The man turns, looking at the other. Sam wants to hide, wants to curl up and be small, but the ground is cold and hurts and he can’t make it better. Already his bare feet on the ground hurt, tiny pebbles making holes in his skin, burrowing in like a thousand tiny bugs. “You live around here? Hey, buddy, you hearing me? Do you live around here?”
Pay attention, Sam. If you don’t listen, if you don’t behave, you will be hurt. He knows it will happen, has happened before.
He pulls at the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his hands, trying to make everything real. See that, Sammy? Feel that? It’s okay, you’re here I promise you’re safe-- no you idiot child you will never understand!
Someone makes a noise, sounds like crying. It might be him. “…My… my brother…” he whispers. He needs help, it’s too hard by himself. There’s too much he doesn’t know.
“You looking for your brother?” the man says. “What’s his name?”
I asked you a question, Sam. Fire or knives? You decide. I’m feeling generous.
“…M-Michael…” He needs Michael, needs to be safe. He’ll never be safe, but maybe… maybe just for a little while.
But then he remembers. When Michael got bored, he drove the stakes into Adam instead, made Sam watch and listen and learn the consequences of what happened when he begged for an end to the pain. Sam can still hear Lucifer laughing while Adam screams.
Michael isn’t safe, either.
* * *
“Sammy!” Dean shouts, looking frantically down empty streets for any sign of his brother. This is not good. This is really not good.
He’s already run down their street, with no sign of Sam anywhere. And it’s just a random Tuesday night, already dark, and there’s nobody outside. Nobody to tell him whether his brother had raced by, panicked and frightened and sick.
Oh god, oh god.
Dean thinks back to that horrible week, years ago, when Sam had disappeared for a week before ending up in Wisconsin, possessed by Meg. He feels the same fear, the same panic bubbling up inside him now, only this time it’s a thousand times worse.
“Come on, kiddo, where would you be?” he whispers to himself, stopping at the corner of the street. He looks left, then right, but there’s nothing except for one car driving further down the road before it turns and is out of sight.
Still no Sam.
He tries to think of where Sam would go, where he’d seek comfort. Sometimes, on good days, they go for walks. But it’s not exactly a small town, and they don’t always take the same route.
Dean sighs, running a hand distractedly through his hair, and takes a fifty-fifty chance. He heads left, in the direction of the grocery store. To the right are more houses, and a path that goes through the park and the woods nearby, but the woods are dark and creepy at night, and Sam’s gotta be looking for safety.
He wants to call someone, ask for help, but he can’t think of where to start. Bobby wouldn’t be any help - he’s hundreds of miles away. Cas hasn’t answered in a long time, had said something about a civil war going on in Heaven last time they saw each other.
Dean is on his own.
He shivers as a cool breeze blows past him. It had been a warm day, but with the sun down, the temperature is starting to drop. Sam had only been wearing sweats and a t-shirt when he ran out of the house. Dean curses himself for not thinking to bring a hoodie, or a blanket, or something. But then, there are a lot of things he should have thought of.
He continues down the street, scanning to the left and right down every driveway, side yard, and alley on the block. Nothing. Not a damn sign of his brother anywhere.
“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, racking his brain for ideas.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He reaches into his pocket to call 911, and only comes up with a couple of quarters and a balled-up receipt.
Shit. His phone is in his jacket pocket, hanging so conveniently on the back of a chair in the dining room, doing him absolutely no good.
The only thing he can do is keep running. For twenty minutes, he runs down every street, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Every second he doesn’t find Sam feels like another second closer to losing him completely, and he can’t do that again.
He’s starting to think he’s made a mistake coming this way and should double back and head the other way. But then he reaches the end of a block, and further down the road he sees a parked cop car, blue and white lights flashing slowly. He turns the corner and heads in that direction. No way Sam would go near those obnoxiously flashing lights, especially with how overwhelmed he must be, but at least the cops might be able to help him search for his brother.
As he jogs closer to the car, slowing down to catch his breath, he sees an officer standing near the car, radio in his hand. “Hey! Excuse me!” Dean calls, waving to get his attention.
The cop turns his head, looks over at him, and Dean is about to speak when he hears a familiar panicked whine. He peers past the car, down the alley it’s parked in front of, and feels a sudden wave of relief through his body.
There he is. God, there he is.
“Sammy!” he shouts, moving to get closer. “Are you okay?”
“Sir? Do you know him?” the officer next to the car asks, taking a step in front of Dean to block his way.
Dean stops, tries to catch his breath. “He’s my- he’s my brother. Is he okay?”
But even at this distance, he can see that Sam is, very clearly, not okay. He’s got his hands up by his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, shiny tracks on his face illuminated in the flashing lights.
“Are you Michael?” one of the cops asks.
Dean stops dead in his tracks. “What?”
“He said he was looking for his brother, Michael.”
Not good. So not good. “Shit,” Dean swears under his breath. “No. No, I’m Dean. His-his other brother. Let me see him.” The cops back away, and Dean carefully steps toward Sam. He reaches out a hand to touch him, and Sam jerks back with a sharp cry, the back of his head thumping against the brick wall.
“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay,” Dean tries, hands held up in front of his chest. “Sammy, it’s me. I’m here.”
“No,” Sam begs. “No, please, don’t-“
Dean’s gotta get a handle on the situation, and fast. Especially with the two cops standing right there, in much closer proximity than he’d like. He turns back to them for just a second, not wanting to take his eyes off his brother. “Could you shut the lights off? You’re scaring him,” he asks, and he must sound desperate, because one immediately turns and heads back towards the car, while the other cop stands there, watching him.
Dean ignores him, turning back to Sam.
“Buddy, can you hear me?” he says softly. “It’s me. It’s Dean. I’m here.”
The lights from the car shut off, and the alleyway gets a little darker, illuminated only by the lights out in the street.
Sam coughs roughly, rocking a little on his feet, fingers still twisting through his hair as he tries to soothe himself. “Dean…” he whispers.
“Yeah, Sammy, it’s okay.” Dean takes a step closer, movements slow and fluid like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “I’m here,” he repeats.
“Dean,” Sam repeats around a raspy breath. “I know Dean…”
He takes a step closer, waits for a reaction. Sam doesn’t move, still breathing heavily and fidgeting where he stands. Dean tries again, reaches out a hand, and when it makes contact with Sam’s shoulder, Sam flinches but doesn’t retreat. “That’s good, Sammy. Hey, you’re doing so good.” He pulls Sam closer, so their foreheads are touching and continues to whisper quiet, soothing words.
“I was… I couldn’t find…” Sam mumbles, shaking his head. “You were… I don’t know… sometimes, sometimes Michael helps, and I…”
Dean reaches a hand up to the back of Sam’s neck, fingers working in little circles against Sam’s skin. The kid is radiating heat, even more than he had been a couple of hours ago. “Shhh. Sammy, Michael’s not here,” he says softly, so the cops can’t hear him. “Neither of them are here.”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s for a fraction of a second, hopeful, before he looks away. “Adam?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, Adam’s not here.”
“Because I couldn’t-“
Dean cuts him off. “Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam. You did everything you could.” Sam talks about Adam all the time, but bringing him up when he’s this agitated is not going to end well. He tries to redirect his brother’s attention. If he wants to get Sam home, he needs him focused. “Just you and me here, okay? Can I take you back home?”
Sam looks unsure, backing away a little. “I don’t know…” he murmurs. “I… I’m supposed to stay. Don’t go looking for me.”
“You got out, Sam. You’re home,” Dean tries to reassure him. “You’re real. I’m real. Look.” Dean holds out his hand for Sam to inspect, to give him something to focus on. Sam presses his fingers against Dean’s, turns his brother’s hand over in his, inspecting the lines of his palm, the freckles just visible on his skin in the dull light. “We’re both here, right?”
Sam blinks and nods, sniffling softly. “Think so…”
“Good,” Dean answers. He wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, guiding him slowly out of the corner and towards the street. “Hey, did you know there are asteroids named after The Beatles?” Dean says with a smile, trying to keep him grounded.
“John, Paul, George, and Ringo,” Sam whispers, before instinctively turning to the side, burying a sneeze into his shoulder. “hh’NTCHSHH!”
Dean digs around in the pockets of his jeans, comes up with a wrinkled hankie, and hands it to his brother. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go home, okay?”
As they make their way out of the alley, Dean sees the two cops still standing there on the street. They look a little apprehensive, like they’re trying to figure out exactly what Sam’s problem is, probably trying to remember some disability sensitivity video they watched in a stuffy police training room.
“It’s okay, I got him,” Dean assures them, keeping an arm around Sam, both to reassure him and to keep him from running off. He reaches into his back pocket, digs out his wallet and shows the cops his license and Sam’s ID, side by side in their little plastic windows. “See? He’s my brother, he lives with me. Just got a little freaked out and ran out of the house, but he’ll be okay.”
The older of the two leans forward to take a look, flashlight playing across the glossy plastic. Beside Dean, Sam scrunches his eyes closed and shakes his head, startled by the sudden light. He’s still twitchy, probably from a combination of his cold and being so overstimulated, and Dean makes a mental note to make the apartment as dark and calm as possible as soon as they get back.
After scrutinizing the IDs to make sure Dean’s really telling the truth - because who else would willingly take a panicked, sniffly, clearly not-all-there, six-foot-four guy home? - the cop nods and takes a step back. “You need a ride?” he offers.
Dean briefly considers it, taking in Sam’s still bare feet and the way his brother is shivering a little in his arms, despite the fever. But that’s just too much unfamiliarity to have Sam deal with, especially when he’s finally starting to calm down.
“Nah, we’re good. Thanks, though,” he refuses politely, giving a nod to the two men before steering Sam out of the alley.
He takes Sam down the sidewalk, back in the direction of their building, but stops after a minute when he notices that Sam is wincing with every step. “Hang on, hang on,” he says quietly, pulling Sam gently to a stop. Dean reaches down and undoes his own shoelaces, pulling the boots off his feet, followed by his socks. “Lemme see your feet, Sammy,” he says, bending down to slide his socks onto Sam’s feet, brushing pebbles and debris off the soles of his feet before he does. His shoes aren’t going to fit on Sam’s ginormous feet, he already knows that, but at least this will help a little. “That feel better?” he asks.
Sam takes a couple of experimental steps and then nods, staring at his toes as he wiggles them inside the socks. “Mmhmm,” he murmurs.
“Good.” Dean slides his feet back into his boots, ignoring the roughness of the leather against his bare skin, and motions for Sam to keep walking.
They continue down the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes, Sam muffling an occasional sneeze into the hankie he’s still clutching, until he asks in a hesitant, unsure voice, “You’re… you’re really Dean?”
“I’m really Dean,” Dean confirms, looking over at his brother. “Did I scare you, back at home?”
Sam doesn’t answer, but when Dean looks over, he can see the tension in Sam’s jaw, the unshed tears in his eyes. God, Dean hopes he hasn’t screwed this up too badly to fix.
“Sammy?” he says softly.
Sam sniffs and rubs at his nose, fingertips wiping away the tears still in his eyes. “Yeah?”
Dean tries to choose his words carefully, tries to make it come out right. He takes a deep breath and continues. “You gotta understand something, okay? I’m not a saint. Far from it. But… I’m trying my best, okay? I’m trying. And I’m not… I’m not always gonna be perfect. I’m not always gonna get it on the first try.”
“I know,” Sam answers. “I just… I get confused. And I…” He shrugs, unable to find the words. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
“It wasn’t you, man,” Dean says immediately, stopping and turning to face his brother. “Sammy, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t think that for a second, okay?” Dean runs a hand over his face, takes a breath, before he looks back up into Sam’s apprehensive eyes. “Sam. I’ve been looking after you my whole life. ‘S my job, right? Trying to take care of you. And this is just… this is the one thing I can’t fix. And I wish I could.”
Sam stares at him, gives him that familiar puppy dog look, and for a second he’s exactly like the old Sam again. “But you try, though,” he says earnestly.
He’s still the same Sam.
“Yeah, I try.”
Dean turns and starts walking again, waiting for a second until Sam is walking alongside him.
“…We’re gonna be okay, right?” Dean asks, and he’s not just talking about tonight.
But Sam understands. Sam knows more than he thinks he does. “Yeah,” he answers. “We will.”
Summary: Things don’t always go smoothly.
Verse: Supernatural
Fandom: Frayed 'verse. Other fics are here.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and Hell trauma
Wordcount: 4155
Thank you to my awesome beta tarotgal for reading through this and offering wise words of wisdom.
Dean misses being Hector Aframian.
Kris Warren, D. Mahogov, Siegfried Houdini, all the others. He misses the money that came with that endless string of identities, the cards that paid for one motel room after another and cheap diner food in sleepy towns.
Now all he’s got is a couple of very legitimate credit cards with the name Dean Winchester printed across the front, and he’s coming dangerously close to maxing out all of them. The rent’s due in a week, and Dean’s already asked Bobby for help more than he’d care to admit. So he’s just going to be eating ramen for a while, hoping Sam won’t notice. If it’s a choice between taking care of Sam or taking care of himself… well, it’s not a choice.
Besides, Sam’s not likely to notice much of anything. He’d been sick for the past three days, and colds are rough on Sam even under the best possible conditions. But this one just has him completely worn out.
“No, I don’t want it,” Sam grumbles, pressing his face into the couch cushions.
Worn out and cranky, to be exact.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean pleads. “It’s supposed to make you feel better.” He holds out the little medicine cup, bright orange DayQuil filled nearly to the brim.
Sam shakes his head, dark hair obscuring his face. “Nooo…. Makes me feel… itchy.”
Huh. That’s a new one. Dean wonders if it’s possible to be allergic to DayQuil. “Itchy how?”
“Inside me, everything shaking,” Sam mumbles, voice thick with congestion. “Like… like my skin wants to come off.” He scratches roughly at his arms for a moment before settling back down, long legs stretched out so they’re almost hanging off the couch.
Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. “Okay. No DayQuil, then,” Dean acquiesces and sets the cup down on the end table, as Sam coughs painfully into his pillow, body spasming with the effort. “If you won’t try the medicine, how about some veggie broth, huh? Nice and warm, maybe it’ll help that cough?” He sits carefully on the edge of the couch, near Sam’s legs, and reaches out to rub his brother’s back.
Sam, who normally takes comfort in Dean’s touch, squirms away, whining, “Your hand’s too cold.”
“Sorry.” Dean pulls his hand back and stands up. “I’m gonna go heat up some of that broth, see if you like that.” He rubs a hand over his mouth in frustration, watching Sam for a moment as he fidgets restlessly on the couch, before he heads back into the kitchen.
“hh’NXSHHH!” He hears Sam sneeze behind him, followed by the sound of Sam’s feet kicking on the couch cushions in agitation, trying in vain to make his broken body feel better.
It’s all Dean wants, too.
* * *
Sam doesn’t want the broth.
Or the toast Dean fixes for him, because it’s too crunchy.
Or his favorite patchwork quilt, because he can feel all of the stitches scratching against his skin.
Dean can actually feel himself losing patience with Sam with each new complaint. His muscles get just a little more tense, his tone of voice a little more clipped and harsh.
“What about tea? You like tea.”
“Mmmngh,” Sam mumbles before sneezing harshly into his pillow again. “heh’ENXHSSHH! huh’ETTTCH!”
“Sam. Tea or not?” Dean demands, standing on the edge of the living room with his arms folded across his chest. The quilt is lying in a heap on the floor, and the coffee table and end tables are becoming increasingly littered with all the things Sam didn’t want, things that are costing Dean precious dollars though he’ll never tell his brother that.
Sam is quiet for several agonizing moments, twisting his hair between his fingers and staring at the floor. Dean is about to just forget about the damn tea, retreat to his own room, and leave his brother to fend for himself, when Sam finally answers, voice tight, “Tea …and honey?”
“You got it,” Dean answers, trying to make himself not sound too annoyed, and returns to the kitchen again.
In the living room, Sam sneezes and coughs and whispers apologies to people who don’t exist.
* * *
“Goddammit, Sam! I don’t know what you want me to do!” Dean shouts, storming out of the room, Sam’s mug of tea spilled all down the front of his shirt. He angrily tugs it over his head as he stomps across the apartment, back to his own fucking room to get another fucking shirt.
“I am done, okay?!” he shouts. “I’m fucking done! I’m sick of this bullshit!”
He slams a hand against his half-open bedroom door so it swings open and ricochets off the wall, and throws his shirt to the ground with an angry growl.
“Give me one goddamn day… just one…”
All he wants is one day where it isn’t so obvious that they’re just barely hanging on. Where his brother isn’t dependent on him for every single thing. Where having enough money to pay the rent doesn’t conflict with having enough money to stock the fridge. Where he can just go and be the same Dean Winchester he’d always pretended he was - cocky swagger and devilish grin and enough charm to make the prettiest girl in the room instantly fall for him. But he isn’t that Dean now.
Now, he’s just angry and tired and poor, and he wants this day to be over so they can deal with the next.
He tugs open the middle drawer of his dresser to get a new shirt, and the cheap plastic handle comes off in his hand. Stifling a very unmanly scream of pure frustration, he pries the drawer the rest of the way open, and congratulates himself when he doesn’t tear it out and throw it across the room. With his luck, he’d only end up breaking something else, and then he’d have that to look forward to fixing tomorrow, too.
He pulls on a clean t-shirt and thumps his head against the wall, letting out an exhausted sigh. This day really can’t get any worse.
From the other end of the hallway comes the sound of a door slamming, and it only takes Dean a second to realize that the sound is too heavy to be anything but the front door.
“Shit!”
Dean scrambles out of his bedroom and down the hall, nearly careening into furniture as he races to the door. By the time he rips it open and rushes into the outer hallway, it’s quiet.
Sam is gone.
* * *
The sky is big and dark, and the wind tugs at his clothes, but he has to keep running. Has to get out. Dean is not Dean. It’s all a lie. He should never have believed it.
Deep, deep inside he knows. Even if he runs, he won’t get out. Won’t escape forever. But he’s human, and he tries.
Stupid boy, you will never understand, will you? You’re here, with us. You made your choice.
He runs down quiet streets, away from lights, away from people. Needs to get away.
There’s a pounding pain in his head every time his feet hit the ground. Lucifer driving stakes through his skull, just to see what will happen.
“What do you think, Michael? Is there a brain in there at all?”
Michael took pity on him, swept him up and whisked him away, said soft words to make him calm, pulled the metal pieces out one by one by one.
Sam stops running, leaning against a brick wall - rough, too rough, and hurts his hand - to cough, gasping after all the running. Everything hurts, and he feels achy and full, like his head has been held underwater for too long. But this place is quiet, walls and no bright lights and just him by himself.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?”
Someone’s here.
Dean calls him “buddy,” but Dean’s not here. Dean is a lie. Dean didn’t fall with him, has never been here.
Only… only Michael is safe. Sometimes. Lucifer is cruel, and Adam is hurt, but sometimes Michael helps.
“You need some help?”
Sam coughs again, head snapping up to look. Everything goes blurry for a second and he shakes his head to make it right. There are two people, dressed in black and blue, heavy boots stomping on the ground towards him, lights flashing in a dizzying rhythm behind them. He wants to run, but he already knows he can’t get away. Nowhere to go. He drags a hand through his hair, pulling, and makes a noise, low in his throat.
Shhh, Sammy, don’t talk.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
One of the men is moving towards him, and he backs into the wall, rough bricks and sharp metal fence trapping him.
“No, I… ‘m not s’posed to…” he whispers, trying not to look at them, trying to find a way out.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Can you tell me your name? Huh?”
The voice is soft, and that’s wrong. Supposed to be angry. Supposed to hurt. Maybe… maybe this isn’t…
“Sam,” he makes his mouth say, but no noise comes out.
“What was that?” the man repeats, shining a light up at him.
No, too bright!
He puts up his hands, blocking his face, pressing his body into the wall. “I don’t know… I don’t know…” A tear slips down his cheek, wet and salty and itching, and he tugs the neck of his t-shirt up to scrub it away.
“Hudson, check the missing persons report, will ya?” The man turns, looking at the other. Sam wants to hide, wants to curl up and be small, but the ground is cold and hurts and he can’t make it better. Already his bare feet on the ground hurt, tiny pebbles making holes in his skin, burrowing in like a thousand tiny bugs. “You live around here? Hey, buddy, you hearing me? Do you live around here?”
Pay attention, Sam. If you don’t listen, if you don’t behave, you will be hurt. He knows it will happen, has happened before.
He pulls at the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his hands, trying to make everything real. See that, Sammy? Feel that? It’s okay, you’re here I promise you’re safe-- no you idiot child you will never understand!
Someone makes a noise, sounds like crying. It might be him. “…My… my brother…” he whispers. He needs help, it’s too hard by himself. There’s too much he doesn’t know.
“You looking for your brother?” the man says. “What’s his name?”
I asked you a question, Sam. Fire or knives? You decide. I’m feeling generous.
“…M-Michael…” He needs Michael, needs to be safe. He’ll never be safe, but maybe… maybe just for a little while.
But then he remembers. When Michael got bored, he drove the stakes into Adam instead, made Sam watch and listen and learn the consequences of what happened when he begged for an end to the pain. Sam can still hear Lucifer laughing while Adam screams.
Michael isn’t safe, either.
* * *
“Sammy!” Dean shouts, looking frantically down empty streets for any sign of his brother. This is not good. This is really not good.
He’s already run down their street, with no sign of Sam anywhere. And it’s just a random Tuesday night, already dark, and there’s nobody outside. Nobody to tell him whether his brother had raced by, panicked and frightened and sick.
Oh god, oh god.
Dean thinks back to that horrible week, years ago, when Sam had disappeared for a week before ending up in Wisconsin, possessed by Meg. He feels the same fear, the same panic bubbling up inside him now, only this time it’s a thousand times worse.
“Come on, kiddo, where would you be?” he whispers to himself, stopping at the corner of the street. He looks left, then right, but there’s nothing except for one car driving further down the road before it turns and is out of sight.
Still no Sam.
He tries to think of where Sam would go, where he’d seek comfort. Sometimes, on good days, they go for walks. But it’s not exactly a small town, and they don’t always take the same route.
Dean sighs, running a hand distractedly through his hair, and takes a fifty-fifty chance. He heads left, in the direction of the grocery store. To the right are more houses, and a path that goes through the park and the woods nearby, but the woods are dark and creepy at night, and Sam’s gotta be looking for safety.
He wants to call someone, ask for help, but he can’t think of where to start. Bobby wouldn’t be any help - he’s hundreds of miles away. Cas hasn’t answered in a long time, had said something about a civil war going on in Heaven last time they saw each other.
Dean is on his own.
He shivers as a cool breeze blows past him. It had been a warm day, but with the sun down, the temperature is starting to drop. Sam had only been wearing sweats and a t-shirt when he ran out of the house. Dean curses himself for not thinking to bring a hoodie, or a blanket, or something. But then, there are a lot of things he should have thought of.
He continues down the street, scanning to the left and right down every driveway, side yard, and alley on the block. Nothing. Not a damn sign of his brother anywhere.
“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, racking his brain for ideas.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He reaches into his pocket to call 911, and only comes up with a couple of quarters and a balled-up receipt.
Shit. His phone is in his jacket pocket, hanging so conveniently on the back of a chair in the dining room, doing him absolutely no good.
The only thing he can do is keep running. For twenty minutes, he runs down every street, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Every second he doesn’t find Sam feels like another second closer to losing him completely, and he can’t do that again.
He’s starting to think he’s made a mistake coming this way and should double back and head the other way. But then he reaches the end of a block, and further down the road he sees a parked cop car, blue and white lights flashing slowly. He turns the corner and heads in that direction. No way Sam would go near those obnoxiously flashing lights, especially with how overwhelmed he must be, but at least the cops might be able to help him search for his brother.
As he jogs closer to the car, slowing down to catch his breath, he sees an officer standing near the car, radio in his hand. “Hey! Excuse me!” Dean calls, waving to get his attention.
The cop turns his head, looks over at him, and Dean is about to speak when he hears a familiar panicked whine. He peers past the car, down the alley it’s parked in front of, and feels a sudden wave of relief through his body.
There he is. God, there he is.
“Sammy!” he shouts, moving to get closer. “Are you okay?”
“Sir? Do you know him?” the officer next to the car asks, taking a step in front of Dean to block his way.
Dean stops, tries to catch his breath. “He’s my- he’s my brother. Is he okay?”
But even at this distance, he can see that Sam is, very clearly, not okay. He’s got his hands up by his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, shiny tracks on his face illuminated in the flashing lights.
“Are you Michael?” one of the cops asks.
Dean stops dead in his tracks. “What?”
“He said he was looking for his brother, Michael.”
Not good. So not good. “Shit,” Dean swears under his breath. “No. No, I’m Dean. His-his other brother. Let me see him.” The cops back away, and Dean carefully steps toward Sam. He reaches out a hand to touch him, and Sam jerks back with a sharp cry, the back of his head thumping against the brick wall.
“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay,” Dean tries, hands held up in front of his chest. “Sammy, it’s me. I’m here.”
“No,” Sam begs. “No, please, don’t-“
Dean’s gotta get a handle on the situation, and fast. Especially with the two cops standing right there, in much closer proximity than he’d like. He turns back to them for just a second, not wanting to take his eyes off his brother. “Could you shut the lights off? You’re scaring him,” he asks, and he must sound desperate, because one immediately turns and heads back towards the car, while the other cop stands there, watching him.
Dean ignores him, turning back to Sam.
“Buddy, can you hear me?” he says softly. “It’s me. It’s Dean. I’m here.”
The lights from the car shut off, and the alleyway gets a little darker, illuminated only by the lights out in the street.
Sam coughs roughly, rocking a little on his feet, fingers still twisting through his hair as he tries to soothe himself. “Dean…” he whispers.
“Yeah, Sammy, it’s okay.” Dean takes a step closer, movements slow and fluid like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “I’m here,” he repeats.
“Dean,” Sam repeats around a raspy breath. “I know Dean…”
He takes a step closer, waits for a reaction. Sam doesn’t move, still breathing heavily and fidgeting where he stands. Dean tries again, reaches out a hand, and when it makes contact with Sam’s shoulder, Sam flinches but doesn’t retreat. “That’s good, Sammy. Hey, you’re doing so good.” He pulls Sam closer, so their foreheads are touching and continues to whisper quiet, soothing words.
“I was… I couldn’t find…” Sam mumbles, shaking his head. “You were… I don’t know… sometimes, sometimes Michael helps, and I…”
Dean reaches a hand up to the back of Sam’s neck, fingers working in little circles against Sam’s skin. The kid is radiating heat, even more than he had been a couple of hours ago. “Shhh. Sammy, Michael’s not here,” he says softly, so the cops can’t hear him. “Neither of them are here.”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s for a fraction of a second, hopeful, before he looks away. “Adam?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, Adam’s not here.”
“Because I couldn’t-“
Dean cuts him off. “Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam. You did everything you could.” Sam talks about Adam all the time, but bringing him up when he’s this agitated is not going to end well. He tries to redirect his brother’s attention. If he wants to get Sam home, he needs him focused. “Just you and me here, okay? Can I take you back home?”
Sam looks unsure, backing away a little. “I don’t know…” he murmurs. “I… I’m supposed to stay. Don’t go looking for me.”
“You got out, Sam. You’re home,” Dean tries to reassure him. “You’re real. I’m real. Look.” Dean holds out his hand for Sam to inspect, to give him something to focus on. Sam presses his fingers against Dean’s, turns his brother’s hand over in his, inspecting the lines of his palm, the freckles just visible on his skin in the dull light. “We’re both here, right?”
Sam blinks and nods, sniffling softly. “Think so…”
“Good,” Dean answers. He wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, guiding him slowly out of the corner and towards the street. “Hey, did you know there are asteroids named after The Beatles?” Dean says with a smile, trying to keep him grounded.
“John, Paul, George, and Ringo,” Sam whispers, before instinctively turning to the side, burying a sneeze into his shoulder. “hh’NTCHSHH!”
Dean digs around in the pockets of his jeans, comes up with a wrinkled hankie, and hands it to his brother. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go home, okay?”
As they make their way out of the alley, Dean sees the two cops still standing there on the street. They look a little apprehensive, like they’re trying to figure out exactly what Sam’s problem is, probably trying to remember some disability sensitivity video they watched in a stuffy police training room.
“It’s okay, I got him,” Dean assures them, keeping an arm around Sam, both to reassure him and to keep him from running off. He reaches into his back pocket, digs out his wallet and shows the cops his license and Sam’s ID, side by side in their little plastic windows. “See? He’s my brother, he lives with me. Just got a little freaked out and ran out of the house, but he’ll be okay.”
The older of the two leans forward to take a look, flashlight playing across the glossy plastic. Beside Dean, Sam scrunches his eyes closed and shakes his head, startled by the sudden light. He’s still twitchy, probably from a combination of his cold and being so overstimulated, and Dean makes a mental note to make the apartment as dark and calm as possible as soon as they get back.
After scrutinizing the IDs to make sure Dean’s really telling the truth - because who else would willingly take a panicked, sniffly, clearly not-all-there, six-foot-four guy home? - the cop nods and takes a step back. “You need a ride?” he offers.
Dean briefly considers it, taking in Sam’s still bare feet and the way his brother is shivering a little in his arms, despite the fever. But that’s just too much unfamiliarity to have Sam deal with, especially when he’s finally starting to calm down.
“Nah, we’re good. Thanks, though,” he refuses politely, giving a nod to the two men before steering Sam out of the alley.
He takes Sam down the sidewalk, back in the direction of their building, but stops after a minute when he notices that Sam is wincing with every step. “Hang on, hang on,” he says quietly, pulling Sam gently to a stop. Dean reaches down and undoes his own shoelaces, pulling the boots off his feet, followed by his socks. “Lemme see your feet, Sammy,” he says, bending down to slide his socks onto Sam’s feet, brushing pebbles and debris off the soles of his feet before he does. His shoes aren’t going to fit on Sam’s ginormous feet, he already knows that, but at least this will help a little. “That feel better?” he asks.
Sam takes a couple of experimental steps and then nods, staring at his toes as he wiggles them inside the socks. “Mmhmm,” he murmurs.
“Good.” Dean slides his feet back into his boots, ignoring the roughness of the leather against his bare skin, and motions for Sam to keep walking.
They continue down the sidewalk in silence for a few minutes, Sam muffling an occasional sneeze into the hankie he’s still clutching, until he asks in a hesitant, unsure voice, “You’re… you’re really Dean?”
“I’m really Dean,” Dean confirms, looking over at his brother. “Did I scare you, back at home?”
Sam doesn’t answer, but when Dean looks over, he can see the tension in Sam’s jaw, the unshed tears in his eyes. God, Dean hopes he hasn’t screwed this up too badly to fix.
“Sammy?” he says softly.
Sam sniffs and rubs at his nose, fingertips wiping away the tears still in his eyes. “Yeah?”
Dean tries to choose his words carefully, tries to make it come out right. He takes a deep breath and continues. “You gotta understand something, okay? I’m not a saint. Far from it. But… I’m trying my best, okay? I’m trying. And I’m not… I’m not always gonna be perfect. I’m not always gonna get it on the first try.”
“I know,” Sam answers. “I just… I get confused. And I…” He shrugs, unable to find the words. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
“It wasn’t you, man,” Dean says immediately, stopping and turning to face his brother. “Sammy, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t think that for a second, okay?” Dean runs a hand over his face, takes a breath, before he looks back up into Sam’s apprehensive eyes. “Sam. I’ve been looking after you my whole life. ‘S my job, right? Trying to take care of you. And this is just… this is the one thing I can’t fix. And I wish I could.”
Sam stares at him, gives him that familiar puppy dog look, and for a second he’s exactly like the old Sam again. “But you try, though,” he says earnestly.
He’s still the same Sam.
“Yeah, I try.”
Dean turns and starts walking again, waiting for a second until Sam is walking alongside him.
“…We’re gonna be okay, right?” Dean asks, and he’s not just talking about tonight.
But Sam understands. Sam knows more than he thinks he does. “Yeah,” he answers. “We will.”