Our quaking bones part 3.2: Sparks and their fires
Title: Sparks and their fires (Ch 2)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: gen, sam/dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: ~3800
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Set mostly during Faith. Dean makes an unpleasant discovery; angst and eventual schmoop ensue.
Chapter 1 ~ Masterpost
In early January they watch the sun set over Lake Erie. It's freezing cold; the kind of deep chill that cuts right through Dean's jacket as soon as the air hits it, but the hood of the car is warm on the backs of his knees and Sam's like a furnace where he's pressed up shoulder to toe beside him.
Dean curves his lips and puffs out two perfect rings of the condensation on his breath. Sam tries to mimic him and fails miserably and laughs, actually laughs, sudden and uninhibited. He cuts it short after an instant like he's startled himself, but when Dean glances over his eyes are still bright and almost hopeful.
The sun passes behind a cluster of wispy clouds above the horizon and the sky goes theatrically gaudy, lighting up in oranges and purples and dramatic dark grays.
"Ain't that a thing," Dean says, nudging Sam with his shoulder.
Sam clears his throat like he doesn't quite trust his voice. "Sure is pretty," he agrees.
Everything- settles. It's not perfect, but it's better than Dean's had in years: Sam, the road, the flame of the hunt beneath them. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's Sam screaming in his sleep and waking up choking on smoke that isn't there. Sometimes it's defeating, the wild goose chase they're on, feels like they're running through sand until Dean's knees ache. But sometimes it's good, sometimes it's happy.
They map out constellations above a dry cornfield off of an Iowa road with a number and no name.
In Indiana, Dean makes Sam laugh out loud, and can't stop smiling until his cheeks ache.
They hunt a rawhead outside Kansas City, and everything goes south.
When Dean gets back from the hospital Sam is a mess, sleepless and shifty and chewing at his fingernails like he's trying to bite them off. Dean teases and cajoles and tries to get him to lighten up a little, but it's frustratingly futile.
"Have you slept at all?" he asks once, when he wakes up to find Sam sitting still glued to his computer screen.
"Got a couple hours yesterday," Sam says, not looking up.
A prickle of worry runs through Dean.
"You gotta get some rest, man," he says, and it comes out a little plaintive. Sam doesn't seem to notice.
"I'll sleep when this is fixed," he says roughly.
"Sammy-" Dean starts, but Sam does turn to look at him then, and there's something naked and terrifying in his expression.
"Don't," he says, voice raw.
Dean doesn't.
It comes on sudden, no warning at all. Sam's hunched over the desk, one leg jiggling vigorously up and down like he's had too much caffeine, entirely absorbed in whatever he's reading. Dean's lying on the bed, ostensibly resting, staring for equal intervals at the ceiling and at Sam's back.
Dean closes his eyes for ten seconds, maybe, out of boredom more than any tiredness. There's a thump, and Dean's eyes fly open and Sam's chair is empty.
It takes him far too long to heave himself up off the bed, keeping up a sustained string of profanity fitted in around Sam's name as he does; Sammy, shit, shit, fuck, Sam; I fucking knew this was going to happen, god fucking damnit, Sammy, shit, fuck, Sam, fuck.
By the time he gets over to Sam the seizure's going full force, convulsions wringing through him like he's a puppet whose strings are being toyed with. It's all Dean can do to kick the chair out of reach and wedge himself between Sam and the bed as a human shield between his thrashing brother and the hardwood. He takes several smacks for his trouble.
Two minutes in, it hasn't eased up at all, and Dean is starting to get nervous. At two minutes thirty, he pulls out his phone and flips it open. At three minutes, he keys in 9-1-1 and sets it carefully down within reach. His heart is pounding heavy with dread.
By three and a half minutes, though, it's slowing, first steadily and then all at once. One last tremor runs through Sam and then he's still. Four minutes, seven seconds. Dean drops his head back against the footboard and allows himself a few shaky breaths.
When he's got Sam over onto his side and as comfortable as he can, Dean settles down to wait. He tracks Sam's breathing meticulously, grateful for each miraculous rise and fall of his shoulder beneath Dean's hand.
Sam doesn't wake up right afterwards like he often does, but Dean doesn't let himself get too worked up about it. He's still, and he's breathing, and Dean is counting his blessings. The worst is past; now they've just got to lay low a couple days and recuperate before they get back on the road. Or- whatever.
At the thirty minute mark, Dean's urgent need to piss overrides his determination to stay put until Sam wakes up, and he eases himself to his feet.
He plants one hand against the wall as he shakes and drops his head, feeling a little dizzy. Rinsing his hands, he leans forward and inspects the dark circles under his eyes. Twin reminders: his clock is ticking, and whatever he might tell Sam, he's not ready to go yet.
Sam's not ready for him to go yet, and there's what makes all the difference. Sam may or may not have just triggered a seizure because of how shittily he's been taking care of himself since Dean got sick. When he's back on his feet, he and Dean are going to have a Talk.
Dean glances down at the counter when he goes for the hand towel, and his gaze snags on Sam's medicine bag. Battered pink plastic peeks out from underneath the toothbrush and razor. With a little huh of amused delight, Dean pulls it out.
It's a pill organizer, cheap and shabby with use, the one Dean bought Sam when he was twelve and wanted to be trusted to keep track of them himself. He remembers picking it out, digging through a sale bucket of blue and green ones for the flash of pink and purple near the bottom.
"Sorry, Sammy," he'd said, presenting him with it later, "I really tried, but they were all out of the unicorn ones."
Dean can picture the exact shade of Sam's cheeks. "Shut up," he'd grumbled, snatching it from Dean, but he'd been smiling nonetheless.
And he'd kept it, all this time. Dean pictures the case sitting on the vanity of the little apartment that had been Sam's home, wonders idly if Jess ever offered to buy him a new one, one that had all its letters still.
Up to his elbows in reminiscence, Dean almost misses what's staring him in the face: the last empty slot in the organizer is Tuesday evening's.
It's Thursday.
Three missed doses- Dean's vision blurs at the thought of what could have happened.
He's through the door before he even realizes he's moved, heart thundering with the kind of anger that chases relief.
"What the hell are you playing at?" he demands, brandishing the pill case. "Do I need to remind you what happens when you go cold turkey on anti-epileptics, huh?"
The tablets rattle accusingly in their compartments.
"Huh?" he repeats. "What the fuck, Sam? You're already killing yourself, and I'm not even dead yet!"
The impact of what he's saying hits Dean belatedly, and he stops, breathing hard.
He isn't sure if Sam woke while he was in the bathroom, or if it was the bursting through the door yelling that did it, but he's up now. He's sitting curled against the supports of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest like they're his last defense. It takes Dean a few seconds to recognize the low, constant noises Sam's making as words, strung too closely together to be entirely coherent, like they're tripping out of his mouth: sorry, angry, Dean, why are you yelling, didn't mean to, I don't know, sorry, too loud, too loud.
Dean feels like he's going to be sick.
He stumbles back, the ache in his chest gone suddenly sharp and stabbing. A surge of panic washes over him: can't die now, not before I fix this, and he catches himself with one hand against the wall, trying to match his breathing to his racing pulse.
Worse than any other part of the twisted situation is Sam surging clumsily to his feet in Dean's peripherals, dismayed little cry of "Dean!" as he starts towards him.
The pain under Dean's sternum fades to something more manageable as if responding to his prayer, and he straightens up just as Sam's hands land frantic on his biceps.
"I'm okay," he assures him, fingers catching in Sam's sleeve. "I'm fine, Sam."
"I just want you to be okay," Sam says brokenly, like he hasn't heard a word. "Why are you so angry?"
Dean holds up the pill case. "You can't stop taking these, Sam," he says. "You understand me? No matter what happens to me, you can't let this slip."
"I don't want you to be angry," Sam says, distressed.
He hasn't' been this muddled after one of the seizures for a long time. Dean wills himself to put his issues aside until Sam's right again, but the urgency he's feeling is hard to kick.
"Come on," he says, grabbing Sam by the back of his shirt and steering him towards the bathroom.
He shakes the last missed dose into his palm, hands Sam the pills and the plastic cup by the sink. Sam stares at them like they're something entirely foreign. Trying to be patient, Dean takes the cup, fills it, and presses it back into Sam's hand.
"Take the pills," he prompts.
Thankfully, Sam offers no argument. Dean watches carefully, tracking the bob of Sam's swallow like he might try to fake it. He takes the empty cup back, when it seems like Sam has no intention of putting it down.
"You want any more water?" he asks.
Sam shakes his head. He's pulled one of his sleeves halfway over his hand, worrying it against his palm like an anxious child.
"Why are you angry at me?" he asks again.
Dean sighs. "I'm not angry, Sammy. You scared me, that's all."
Sam wriggles one shoulder, trying to pull his sleeve down farther.
"Here, quit it," Dean says, tugging the sleeve out of his fingers. "You're going to pull a hole in that."
Sam releases it, but his fingertips still knead compulsively against his palm.
"Come on," Dean says after a minute, "let's get back in there. I'm sorry I interrupted your rest, okay?"
Sam drops his chin against his chest, glancing up nervously at Dean. "Are you angry with me?" he asks in a small voice.
Dean catches himself before he sighs again or shows any sign of exasperation. "I'm not angry at you," he says again, speaking as clearly and calmly as he can. He wraps one hand around Sam's shoulder and leads him back out of the bathroom.
Sam comes to a stop in front of the beds, and when Dean turns to see what he's doing, he's still got his head tipped down almost petulantly.
"Are you leaving?" he asks, and then, in a rush, "I don't want you to leave."
It tugs at something in Dean's chest, and he can't stop smiling a little. "I'm not going anywhere, buddy," he promises, and then, when Sam doesn't look quite convinced, he adds, "I could use a lie-down myself. Or so someone keeps telling me."
Dean can tell Sam doesn't quite get the rib, but he seems satisfied all the same. When Dean starts moving again, he realizes Sam's caught the hem of his shirt between his fingers like he might slip away; and there's that little tug in his chest again. He fights the sudden urge to say something silly: I missed you, Sammy; I missed this; I'd never leave you, you know that. He'd probably get away with it, too, the way Sam is right now.
"Come on," he says instead, guiding him around the bed.
It doesn't take long for Sam to fall asleep again, lying on his stomach next to Dean, one hand still curled in his shirt.
Dean doesn't feel remotely tired. Now, with Sam no longer awake and distracting him, he's slipped back into dark thoughts. The constant, throbbing pain in his chest is more apparent with every breath he takes. He's dying-- he's going to die, and Sam's losing it, and who's going to make sure he doesn't--
Dean sucks in a breath, cutting the thought short. He knows perfectly well who's going to have to keep an eye on Sam if he can't. Carefully extricating himself from his brother, Dean slips off the bed and to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he makes his way to the door.
Outside, he sits heavily down on one of the car stops, elbows braced against his knees. He presses the phone against his lips for a minute, not quite praying, but more than hoping. Then he flips it open and finds the number he's looking for.
He doesn't pick up. Of course he doesn't pick up.
Dean slaps the phone shut before his father's tinny recorded voice has finished the first word. A panicky frustration needles through him like a physical thing, leaving him prickling uncomfortably all over. He's spent so much time lately trying to get Sam to back off their dad that he's ignored his own resentment, and he's startled to find how deep it runs. He swears quietly, allows himself a kick at the concrete stop when he's on his feet again. Then he takes a deep breath, rights himself, and heads back inside.
Sam's not in bed.
He tears around the corner from the bathroom when Dean opens the door, looking almost crazed, clutching his medicine bag in both hands. He stares wild-eyed at Dean for a few seconds like he can't quite believe he's there, and Dean's too startled to react immediately, or do anything more than stare back at him, wondering what exactly he's missed.
"I thought you left," Sam says wretchedly, face crumpling.
"Jesus, Sam, I was only outside about five seconds," Dean says, still feeling somewhat stunned.
Sam's dropped the medicine bag to one side, pulling up his other arm so he can hide his face in the crook of his elbow. "I woke up and you were gone," he says, voice muffled against his sleeve. "I didn't know where you were, I thought-" his voice hitches.
Dean hadn't even considered it. It hadn't even registered, hadn't counted as leaving in his head.
He starts toward Sam, stabilizing himself with a hand against the wall. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean to scare you," he says. He reaches for the medicine bag. "What're you doing with this?" he asks cautiously, tweaking it a little.
"I thought you were gone, I had to-" he sucks in a quick, shaky breath- "find you, I just needed to get-" his voice breaks again, and god, what is Dean doing wrong that they always end up here?
"-get my p-pills, so you wouldn't be m-mad at me, I had to-"
"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay, Sammy, I'm here, okay?" Dean steps closer as he talks, takes the medicine bag from Sam and replaces it with his hand. "I just stepped out for a sec. I wasn't leaving, I promised you, right?"
Sam nods from behind his arm, squeezing Dean's fingers. The response gives the impression of a desperate attempt to regain composure. Dean doesn't call him on it.
"You feeling okay?" He asks after a few seconds, and gets another nod. "You remember what happened?"
"Did I h-have another se-seizure?" he asks, like he knows the answer. "You were m-mad."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, mentally kicking himself. "You weren't taking care of yourself, Sammy," he says carefully. "And I just- freaked out for a second. I'm really sorry I yelled at you, okay? I'm not mad, it just scared me."
There's a growing buzz in Dean's knees and behind his ears, and he knows he's not going to last much longer on his feet. Trying to be subtle about it, he releases Sam's hand and backs up until he can sink down on the edge of the bed.
Of course Sam notices: he drops the arm that's covering his face in an instant, eyes latching onto Dean.
"Are you okay?" he asks at once.
Dean braces his hands on either side of him so he can scoot back towards the headboard. "Sure I am," he says breezily. "Come on." He pats the space beside him, picking up the TV remote. "Let's see what kind of crap's on at this time of day."
There's that determination back in Sam's face. He swallows and stays put.
"I'm not tired," Sam says stubbornly. "I gotta find something to-" stop you dying. He doesn't finish the sentence.
"I didn't say you had to sleep," Dean counters. "I'm just making you give that big brain of yours a rest and come watch something dumb with me and the rest of the laugh track."
Sam's expression doesn't change.
"Look, I'm not telling you you have to stop, okay?" Dean says, more seriously. "But I need you to take a break, just for a little bit. Would you just humor me? Please?"
It does the trick. Sam walks over, if a little more slowly than necessary, and climbs up onto the bed beside him.
"You got any druthers?" Dean asks, hitting the power button. Sam shakes his head.
"I'm going to fix this," he says, adamant, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap. "I'm going to make you better."
Dean turns to look at him, contemplating him for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly.
Sam's head jumps up like he's surprised. "Okay?" he repeats.
"Okay," Dean affirms, turning back to the remote like they've just taken a moment to discuss the weather.
Sam's breath goes out quick and a little shaky beside him. "Thanks, Dean," he says, almost fervently.
Dean lets it hang in the air between them for a minute before moving along.
"Hey, polar bears, Sammy, whatcha think? That looks right up your alley."
It's a documentary about the Arctic, narrated by one of those Richard Attenborough types with a British accent and a voice so soothing that it makes Dean feel like a little kid again. He's half hoping it'll put Sam to sleep-- hell, he's well on his way there himself-- but Sam's apparently wide awake, fidgeting with one of the loops on his jeans. At one point he pulls a hand up to his forehead and rubs vigorously enough at his temples to pique Dean's concern.
"You good?" he asks.
Sam doesn't take his hand off his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Just- feel weird."
"Weird weird?" Dean asks. "Or normal weird?"
Sam huffs out a little chuckle that edges on hysteria, then goes silent for a moment, like he's holding himself back. "Just usual- after stuff," he says.
Dean considers it for a minute. "What's it like?" he asks finally.
"What?"
"What's it feel like?"
Sam takes his hand off his eyes, looking curiously over at Dean. "The seizures?" he asks.
"No, like- now. The after stuff," Dean clarifies.
"Oh." Sam looks back at his lap, expression thoughtful. "Like-" he stops, makes a face. "It's hard to explain."
"You don't have to," Dean tells him.
"No, I'm not-" he stops again, apparently discombobulated. "It's like- everything's too big. And too loud, but not, you know, loud, more like- too big in your ears."
Dean keeps quiet, fascinated.
"Sometimes it's like the last thing I heard just keeps going, like an echo, you know? It just gets bigger and bigger until I hear something else." He glances over at Dean briefly, and then back away, like he's divulging something embarrassing. "Everything feels off. Kinda like when you get really nostalgic, you know? Only instead of remembering it's like everything's unfamiliar, and no matter how long I look at things, or try to know them, I can't- I can't." Sam's words are evening out, gaining confidence. "I just wish I could- block everything out, but then if I fall asleep it's even worse when I wake up, it's- I don't know anything at first. I just want it to stop."
He stops, abruptly. The silence stretches out between them for a minute, strung taut like a physical thing. The question on Dean's tongue feels heavy, cumbersome, and he finds himself oddly hesitant to voice it.
"Am I?" he asks finally, clumsy.
The confusion is evident in Sam's expression. "Are you what?"
Dean shrugs a little. "Unfamiliar," he elaborates, and why does this feel so important?
"Oh. No!" The response is surprisingly vehement. "You're not- you've never-" Sam stops, like he can't find the words, but he's still shaking his head. "I always know you," he says. "You're the only thing that's not- all wrong."
Any other time Dean might have teased him for his choice of words. Wiggled his eyebrows a little, at least. Right now, though, he's all warm and fuzzy inside, and oh, sue him, if Sam gets to get all emotional and say dumb chick stuff like that so does he.
"C'mere, then," he says. He loops an arm around Sam's neck and pulls his head down to his chest, rubbing his knuckles against his scalp. Sam squeals a little, grabbing at Dean's arm around his neck, but he's laughing.
"Ack- Dean! Cut it out!"
Dean lets up on him, but he leaves his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam doesn't pull away, just scoots down until he's stretched out comfortably, head resting on Dean's chest.
"The polar bear, Ursus maritimus, takes its scientific name from the latin for sea bear, but is known by many different names to the many cultures it has touched. He is Nanuk to the Inuit, Isbjorn in Scandinavia, Tornassuk in Greenland…"
Sam's head is a reassuring weight directly above the Dean's battered heart. His arm presses into Dean's side with every breath he takes, a gentle rhythm that instills a kind of primal comfort in Dean. This is who he is, this is them, alive, and damned if he's going to give it up that easy.
They'll figure this out. Somehow, they always do.
Masterpost
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: gen, sam/dean
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: ~3800
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: Set mostly during Faith. Dean makes an unpleasant discovery; angst and eventual schmoop ensue.
Chapter 1 ~ Masterpost
In early January they watch the sun set over Lake Erie. It's freezing cold; the kind of deep chill that cuts right through Dean's jacket as soon as the air hits it, but the hood of the car is warm on the backs of his knees and Sam's like a furnace where he's pressed up shoulder to toe beside him.
Dean curves his lips and puffs out two perfect rings of the condensation on his breath. Sam tries to mimic him and fails miserably and laughs, actually laughs, sudden and uninhibited. He cuts it short after an instant like he's startled himself, but when Dean glances over his eyes are still bright and almost hopeful.
The sun passes behind a cluster of wispy clouds above the horizon and the sky goes theatrically gaudy, lighting up in oranges and purples and dramatic dark grays.
"Ain't that a thing," Dean says, nudging Sam with his shoulder.
Sam clears his throat like he doesn't quite trust his voice. "Sure is pretty," he agrees.
Everything- settles. It's not perfect, but it's better than Dean's had in years: Sam, the road, the flame of the hunt beneath them. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's Sam screaming in his sleep and waking up choking on smoke that isn't there. Sometimes it's defeating, the wild goose chase they're on, feels like they're running through sand until Dean's knees ache. But sometimes it's good, sometimes it's happy.
They map out constellations above a dry cornfield off of an Iowa road with a number and no name.
In Indiana, Dean makes Sam laugh out loud, and can't stop smiling until his cheeks ache.
They hunt a rawhead outside Kansas City, and everything goes south.
When Dean gets back from the hospital Sam is a mess, sleepless and shifty and chewing at his fingernails like he's trying to bite them off. Dean teases and cajoles and tries to get him to lighten up a little, but it's frustratingly futile.
"Have you slept at all?" he asks once, when he wakes up to find Sam sitting still glued to his computer screen.
"Got a couple hours yesterday," Sam says, not looking up.
A prickle of worry runs through Dean.
"You gotta get some rest, man," he says, and it comes out a little plaintive. Sam doesn't seem to notice.
"I'll sleep when this is fixed," he says roughly.
"Sammy-" Dean starts, but Sam does turn to look at him then, and there's something naked and terrifying in his expression.
"Don't," he says, voice raw.
Dean doesn't.
It comes on sudden, no warning at all. Sam's hunched over the desk, one leg jiggling vigorously up and down like he's had too much caffeine, entirely absorbed in whatever he's reading. Dean's lying on the bed, ostensibly resting, staring for equal intervals at the ceiling and at Sam's back.
Dean closes his eyes for ten seconds, maybe, out of boredom more than any tiredness. There's a thump, and Dean's eyes fly open and Sam's chair is empty.
It takes him far too long to heave himself up off the bed, keeping up a sustained string of profanity fitted in around Sam's name as he does; Sammy, shit, shit, fuck, Sam; I fucking knew this was going to happen, god fucking damnit, Sammy, shit, fuck, Sam, fuck.
By the time he gets over to Sam the seizure's going full force, convulsions wringing through him like he's a puppet whose strings are being toyed with. It's all Dean can do to kick the chair out of reach and wedge himself between Sam and the bed as a human shield between his thrashing brother and the hardwood. He takes several smacks for his trouble.
Two minutes in, it hasn't eased up at all, and Dean is starting to get nervous. At two minutes thirty, he pulls out his phone and flips it open. At three minutes, he keys in 9-1-1 and sets it carefully down within reach. His heart is pounding heavy with dread.
By three and a half minutes, though, it's slowing, first steadily and then all at once. One last tremor runs through Sam and then he's still. Four minutes, seven seconds. Dean drops his head back against the footboard and allows himself a few shaky breaths.
When he's got Sam over onto his side and as comfortable as he can, Dean settles down to wait. He tracks Sam's breathing meticulously, grateful for each miraculous rise and fall of his shoulder beneath Dean's hand.
Sam doesn't wake up right afterwards like he often does, but Dean doesn't let himself get too worked up about it. He's still, and he's breathing, and Dean is counting his blessings. The worst is past; now they've just got to lay low a couple days and recuperate before they get back on the road. Or- whatever.
At the thirty minute mark, Dean's urgent need to piss overrides his determination to stay put until Sam wakes up, and he eases himself to his feet.
He plants one hand against the wall as he shakes and drops his head, feeling a little dizzy. Rinsing his hands, he leans forward and inspects the dark circles under his eyes. Twin reminders: his clock is ticking, and whatever he might tell Sam, he's not ready to go yet.
Sam's not ready for him to go yet, and there's what makes all the difference. Sam may or may not have just triggered a seizure because of how shittily he's been taking care of himself since Dean got sick. When he's back on his feet, he and Dean are going to have a Talk.
Dean glances down at the counter when he goes for the hand towel, and his gaze snags on Sam's medicine bag. Battered pink plastic peeks out from underneath the toothbrush and razor. With a little huh of amused delight, Dean pulls it out.
It's a pill organizer, cheap and shabby with use, the one Dean bought Sam when he was twelve and wanted to be trusted to keep track of them himself. He remembers picking it out, digging through a sale bucket of blue and green ones for the flash of pink and purple near the bottom.
"Sorry, Sammy," he'd said, presenting him with it later, "I really tried, but they were all out of the unicorn ones."
Dean can picture the exact shade of Sam's cheeks. "Shut up," he'd grumbled, snatching it from Dean, but he'd been smiling nonetheless.
And he'd kept it, all this time. Dean pictures the case sitting on the vanity of the little apartment that had been Sam's home, wonders idly if Jess ever offered to buy him a new one, one that had all its letters still.
Up to his elbows in reminiscence, Dean almost misses what's staring him in the face: the last empty slot in the organizer is Tuesday evening's.
It's Thursday.
Three missed doses- Dean's vision blurs at the thought of what could have happened.
He's through the door before he even realizes he's moved, heart thundering with the kind of anger that chases relief.
"What the hell are you playing at?" he demands, brandishing the pill case. "Do I need to remind you what happens when you go cold turkey on anti-epileptics, huh?"
The tablets rattle accusingly in their compartments.
"Huh?" he repeats. "What the fuck, Sam? You're already killing yourself, and I'm not even dead yet!"
The impact of what he's saying hits Dean belatedly, and he stops, breathing hard.
He isn't sure if Sam woke while he was in the bathroom, or if it was the bursting through the door yelling that did it, but he's up now. He's sitting curled against the supports of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest like they're his last defense. It takes Dean a few seconds to recognize the low, constant noises Sam's making as words, strung too closely together to be entirely coherent, like they're tripping out of his mouth: sorry, angry, Dean, why are you yelling, didn't mean to, I don't know, sorry, too loud, too loud.
Dean feels like he's going to be sick.
He stumbles back, the ache in his chest gone suddenly sharp and stabbing. A surge of panic washes over him: can't die now, not before I fix this, and he catches himself with one hand against the wall, trying to match his breathing to his racing pulse.
Worse than any other part of the twisted situation is Sam surging clumsily to his feet in Dean's peripherals, dismayed little cry of "Dean!" as he starts towards him.
The pain under Dean's sternum fades to something more manageable as if responding to his prayer, and he straightens up just as Sam's hands land frantic on his biceps.
"I'm okay," he assures him, fingers catching in Sam's sleeve. "I'm fine, Sam."
"I just want you to be okay," Sam says brokenly, like he hasn't heard a word. "Why are you so angry?"
Dean holds up the pill case. "You can't stop taking these, Sam," he says. "You understand me? No matter what happens to me, you can't let this slip."
"I don't want you to be angry," Sam says, distressed.
He hasn't' been this muddled after one of the seizures for a long time. Dean wills himself to put his issues aside until Sam's right again, but the urgency he's feeling is hard to kick.
"Come on," he says, grabbing Sam by the back of his shirt and steering him towards the bathroom.
He shakes the last missed dose into his palm, hands Sam the pills and the plastic cup by the sink. Sam stares at them like they're something entirely foreign. Trying to be patient, Dean takes the cup, fills it, and presses it back into Sam's hand.
"Take the pills," he prompts.
Thankfully, Sam offers no argument. Dean watches carefully, tracking the bob of Sam's swallow like he might try to fake it. He takes the empty cup back, when it seems like Sam has no intention of putting it down.
"You want any more water?" he asks.
Sam shakes his head. He's pulled one of his sleeves halfway over his hand, worrying it against his palm like an anxious child.
"Why are you angry at me?" he asks again.
Dean sighs. "I'm not angry, Sammy. You scared me, that's all."
Sam wriggles one shoulder, trying to pull his sleeve down farther.
"Here, quit it," Dean says, tugging the sleeve out of his fingers. "You're going to pull a hole in that."
Sam releases it, but his fingertips still knead compulsively against his palm.
"Come on," Dean says after a minute, "let's get back in there. I'm sorry I interrupted your rest, okay?"
Sam drops his chin against his chest, glancing up nervously at Dean. "Are you angry with me?" he asks in a small voice.
Dean catches himself before he sighs again or shows any sign of exasperation. "I'm not angry at you," he says again, speaking as clearly and calmly as he can. He wraps one hand around Sam's shoulder and leads him back out of the bathroom.
Sam comes to a stop in front of the beds, and when Dean turns to see what he's doing, he's still got his head tipped down almost petulantly.
"Are you leaving?" he asks, and then, in a rush, "I don't want you to leave."
It tugs at something in Dean's chest, and he can't stop smiling a little. "I'm not going anywhere, buddy," he promises, and then, when Sam doesn't look quite convinced, he adds, "I could use a lie-down myself. Or so someone keeps telling me."
Dean can tell Sam doesn't quite get the rib, but he seems satisfied all the same. When Dean starts moving again, he realizes Sam's caught the hem of his shirt between his fingers like he might slip away; and there's that little tug in his chest again. He fights the sudden urge to say something silly: I missed you, Sammy; I missed this; I'd never leave you, you know that. He'd probably get away with it, too, the way Sam is right now.
"Come on," he says instead, guiding him around the bed.
It doesn't take long for Sam to fall asleep again, lying on his stomach next to Dean, one hand still curled in his shirt.
Dean doesn't feel remotely tired. Now, with Sam no longer awake and distracting him, he's slipped back into dark thoughts. The constant, throbbing pain in his chest is more apparent with every breath he takes. He's dying-- he's going to die, and Sam's losing it, and who's going to make sure he doesn't--
Dean sucks in a breath, cutting the thought short. He knows perfectly well who's going to have to keep an eye on Sam if he can't. Carefully extricating himself from his brother, Dean slips off the bed and to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he makes his way to the door.
Outside, he sits heavily down on one of the car stops, elbows braced against his knees. He presses the phone against his lips for a minute, not quite praying, but more than hoping. Then he flips it open and finds the number he's looking for.
He doesn't pick up. Of course he doesn't pick up.
Dean slaps the phone shut before his father's tinny recorded voice has finished the first word. A panicky frustration needles through him like a physical thing, leaving him prickling uncomfortably all over. He's spent so much time lately trying to get Sam to back off their dad that he's ignored his own resentment, and he's startled to find how deep it runs. He swears quietly, allows himself a kick at the concrete stop when he's on his feet again. Then he takes a deep breath, rights himself, and heads back inside.
Sam's not in bed.
He tears around the corner from the bathroom when Dean opens the door, looking almost crazed, clutching his medicine bag in both hands. He stares wild-eyed at Dean for a few seconds like he can't quite believe he's there, and Dean's too startled to react immediately, or do anything more than stare back at him, wondering what exactly he's missed.
"I thought you left," Sam says wretchedly, face crumpling.
"Jesus, Sam, I was only outside about five seconds," Dean says, still feeling somewhat stunned.
Sam's dropped the medicine bag to one side, pulling up his other arm so he can hide his face in the crook of his elbow. "I woke up and you were gone," he says, voice muffled against his sleeve. "I didn't know where you were, I thought-" his voice hitches.
Dean hadn't even considered it. It hadn't even registered, hadn't counted as leaving in his head.
He starts toward Sam, stabilizing himself with a hand against the wall. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't mean to scare you," he says. He reaches for the medicine bag. "What're you doing with this?" he asks cautiously, tweaking it a little.
"I thought you were gone, I had to-" he sucks in a quick, shaky breath- "find you, I just needed to get-" his voice breaks again, and god, what is Dean doing wrong that they always end up here?
"-get my p-pills, so you wouldn't be m-mad at me, I had to-"
"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay, Sammy, I'm here, okay?" Dean steps closer as he talks, takes the medicine bag from Sam and replaces it with his hand. "I just stepped out for a sec. I wasn't leaving, I promised you, right?"
Sam nods from behind his arm, squeezing Dean's fingers. The response gives the impression of a desperate attempt to regain composure. Dean doesn't call him on it.
"You feeling okay?" He asks after a few seconds, and gets another nod. "You remember what happened?"
"Did I h-have another se-seizure?" he asks, like he knows the answer. "You were m-mad."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, mentally kicking himself. "You weren't taking care of yourself, Sammy," he says carefully. "And I just- freaked out for a second. I'm really sorry I yelled at you, okay? I'm not mad, it just scared me."
There's a growing buzz in Dean's knees and behind his ears, and he knows he's not going to last much longer on his feet. Trying to be subtle about it, he releases Sam's hand and backs up until he can sink down on the edge of the bed.
Of course Sam notices: he drops the arm that's covering his face in an instant, eyes latching onto Dean.
"Are you okay?" he asks at once.
Dean braces his hands on either side of him so he can scoot back towards the headboard. "Sure I am," he says breezily. "Come on." He pats the space beside him, picking up the TV remote. "Let's see what kind of crap's on at this time of day."
There's that determination back in Sam's face. He swallows and stays put.
"I'm not tired," Sam says stubbornly. "I gotta find something to-" stop you dying. He doesn't finish the sentence.
"I didn't say you had to sleep," Dean counters. "I'm just making you give that big brain of yours a rest and come watch something dumb with me and the rest of the laugh track."
Sam's expression doesn't change.
"Look, I'm not telling you you have to stop, okay?" Dean says, more seriously. "But I need you to take a break, just for a little bit. Would you just humor me? Please?"
It does the trick. Sam walks over, if a little more slowly than necessary, and climbs up onto the bed beside him.
"You got any druthers?" Dean asks, hitting the power button. Sam shakes his head.
"I'm going to fix this," he says, adamant, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap. "I'm going to make you better."
Dean turns to look at him, contemplating him for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly.
Sam's head jumps up like he's surprised. "Okay?" he repeats.
"Okay," Dean affirms, turning back to the remote like they've just taken a moment to discuss the weather.
Sam's breath goes out quick and a little shaky beside him. "Thanks, Dean," he says, almost fervently.
Dean lets it hang in the air between them for a minute before moving along.
"Hey, polar bears, Sammy, whatcha think? That looks right up your alley."
It's a documentary about the Arctic, narrated by one of those Richard Attenborough types with a British accent and a voice so soothing that it makes Dean feel like a little kid again. He's half hoping it'll put Sam to sleep-- hell, he's well on his way there himself-- but Sam's apparently wide awake, fidgeting with one of the loops on his jeans. At one point he pulls a hand up to his forehead and rubs vigorously enough at his temples to pique Dean's concern.
"You good?" he asks.
Sam doesn't take his hand off his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Just- feel weird."
"Weird weird?" Dean asks. "Or normal weird?"
Sam huffs out a little chuckle that edges on hysteria, then goes silent for a moment, like he's holding himself back. "Just usual- after stuff," he says.
Dean considers it for a minute. "What's it like?" he asks finally.
"What?"
"What's it feel like?"
Sam takes his hand off his eyes, looking curiously over at Dean. "The seizures?" he asks.
"No, like- now. The after stuff," Dean clarifies.
"Oh." Sam looks back at his lap, expression thoughtful. "Like-" he stops, makes a face. "It's hard to explain."
"You don't have to," Dean tells him.
"No, I'm not-" he stops again, apparently discombobulated. "It's like- everything's too big. And too loud, but not, you know, loud, more like- too big in your ears."
Dean keeps quiet, fascinated.
"Sometimes it's like the last thing I heard just keeps going, like an echo, you know? It just gets bigger and bigger until I hear something else." He glances over at Dean briefly, and then back away, like he's divulging something embarrassing. "Everything feels off. Kinda like when you get really nostalgic, you know? Only instead of remembering it's like everything's unfamiliar, and no matter how long I look at things, or try to know them, I can't- I can't." Sam's words are evening out, gaining confidence. "I just wish I could- block everything out, but then if I fall asleep it's even worse when I wake up, it's- I don't know anything at first. I just want it to stop."
He stops, abruptly. The silence stretches out between them for a minute, strung taut like a physical thing. The question on Dean's tongue feels heavy, cumbersome, and he finds himself oddly hesitant to voice it.
"Am I?" he asks finally, clumsy.
The confusion is evident in Sam's expression. "Are you what?"
Dean shrugs a little. "Unfamiliar," he elaborates, and why does this feel so important?
"Oh. No!" The response is surprisingly vehement. "You're not- you've never-" Sam stops, like he can't find the words, but he's still shaking his head. "I always know you," he says. "You're the only thing that's not- all wrong."
Any other time Dean might have teased him for his choice of words. Wiggled his eyebrows a little, at least. Right now, though, he's all warm and fuzzy inside, and oh, sue him, if Sam gets to get all emotional and say dumb chick stuff like that so does he.
"C'mere, then," he says. He loops an arm around Sam's neck and pulls his head down to his chest, rubbing his knuckles against his scalp. Sam squeals a little, grabbing at Dean's arm around his neck, but he's laughing.
"Ack- Dean! Cut it out!"
Dean lets up on him, but he leaves his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam doesn't pull away, just scoots down until he's stretched out comfortably, head resting on Dean's chest.
"The polar bear, Ursus maritimus, takes its scientific name from the latin for sea bear, but is known by many different names to the many cultures it has touched. He is Nanuk to the Inuit, Isbjorn in Scandinavia, Tornassuk in Greenland…"
Sam's head is a reassuring weight directly above the Dean's battered heart. His arm presses into Dean's side with every breath he takes, a gentle rhythm that instills a kind of primal comfort in Dean. This is who he is, this is them, alive, and damned if he's going to give it up that easy.
They'll figure this out. Somehow, they always do.
Masterpost