Just Sleep (Tomorrowverse 3)
OOC: A sequel to Sammy Will Be Five Tomorrow and That’s A Good Year, where Sam is reclaimed after nearly five years of being kidnapped by Azazel’s demons; make sure to read those first! This was requested to be continued by two people, so I’m continuing the trend!! Definitely gonna make this a ‘verse when I get home on the masterfic list. Mary’s POV.
WARNINGS: CHILD IN PAIN, CHILD ILLNESS. It’s very sad sometimes m’kay.
Summary: “Just don’t die,” Dean whispers into wet hair, sweaty himself from the furnace that is his baby brother.
Mary has a hard time around John - more specifically, she has a hard time dealing with how completely and utterly unconvinced John is of Sam’s humanity. He’s not a monster, Dean had told them, rocking that tired five-year-old back and forth in his arms, and she believed him. She could feel the relief pouring through her, threatening to overwhelm as she’d stooped down and pulled both Dean and Sam close to her chest; she’d thought yes - yes, he’s not a monster. He’s your brother. He’s home. But even as she had ushered Dean to lay Sam in the bed of one of the cleaner guest rooms in the safehouse, John had receded into a corner to watch the scene with focused, conflicted eyes. One thing Mary could say for certain: she had some kind of love for John, one that hadn’t been broken by their shattered family life, but she would not hesitate to slam the butt of a rifle in his face if he tried to hurt their boy. She sees the logic. Sees why he wants to perform the more hands-on testing. She simply doesn’t care.
“You’re endangering our boy, Mary… This just - isn’t safe for him to be around,” John says, nodding to Dean, who’d fallen asleep beside Sam’s curled little body.
Mary looks up to him, mouth a thin line. Sometimes she can hardly see John anymore, the John she’d fallen for. He smells like gunpowder and liquor more than he does oil and cologne. “Spoken by the man who wanted him to become a hunter? Stop talking about your baby like he’s some creature out in the woods.”
John nearly slams a fist down on the table. Likely doesn’t because it would stir the children, and Mary would have to kick him out of the room entirely then; it wouldn’t be the first time, and she certainly doubts it’d be the last. He’s got nowhere to dispel his pent-up frustration, so he just looks at her and lets that aura plume off his squared shoulders like a forest fire. No, she doesn’t see the man she’d married before the fire; she sees a stranger, a hunter that is just passing through. It’s a sad thing: a reminder that she could never turn back to that life, for fear that it would take what little was left of her. Ignoring him for a moment, she draws the rag up from the cool basin of water, running it over Sammy’s head. His fever is so high, and she’s nearly ready to call a doctor - there surely has to be one that can treat on behalf of a hunter… but she’s nervous to have them see her son and assume the worst.
After all, where there is one John, there are many, many more.
But Missouri had been called. Missouri, she trusts. And she could only pray to God that she would be able to figure out what’s wrong with her baby boy. Because if they had gotten this far just to lose him now… She curls her hand around his, and his fingers flex. He’d only stopped screaming and choking a few hours ago. Blood, he mumbles - whines - hoarsely, sounding young and broken, and it makes her stomach clench with icy lead. John doesn’t move from his isolation, eyeing the boy with that same grim look. “He could be possessed by something… Could be a trap.”
“None of the sigils have bothered him, John. This water is blessed, and his skin didn’t react with silver,” she quickly bites back. “Stop it.”
He does. He stops and wanders to the other side of the bed, sitting in the heavy recliner there and resting his arm along the side of Dean. Away from Sam. Mary knows it’s simply a silent rebuttal, a way of telling her he’s prepared to protect their child, and it makes her want to scream at him. Because so what if Sam isn’t normal? So what if he’s something hunters would try to hunt? He’s theirs. And she’s more than willing to be that hypocrite, to be the one who accepts Sam wholeheartedly, because it was their responsibility to protect him. They failed him. They failed him in too many ways to put to paper, to say out loud. She failed Sam. And John is failing Sam even still.
She hopes he’ll come around. She has no qualms with picking up Dean and Sam and walking through that door without him. She has Ellen and Bill, and that’s all she needs right now: just them, and Dean, and Sammy. Small Sam, who’s shuddering and writhing; she places her pale hand on his belly and feels the pain vibrating through him. His pulse is fast. His hair is drenched. She holds his hand in-between hers and puts his weakly curled fingers against her forehead. “Sammy… It’s okay. It’s okay, we’re going to help you. I promise.”
John looks at her like she’s determined to walk a minefield blindfolded.
Hours later, when Dean’s awakened by Sam’s violent thrashing, Missouri arrives. Mary’s pushing down on Sam’s chest gently to keep him from moving, the veins in her child’s face blackish blue on a translucent face - a glass flies from the table and shatters against the wall, and Sam’s got his face tilted back, mouth open in a near soundless scream as he convulses. It’s too much for Dean, who stands in the corner trying to wipe his tears away, looking like the child he actually is. And Mary isn’t strong enough to stop herself from crying with him, because there’s pain in Sam’s glossy eyes when they roam the area. Looking for something. Not for them, but something. Then he reaches out and latches onto Mary’s arm, sinking his teeth into her wrist in an attempt to break the skin and drink ravenously from her. She pulls away with a row of teeth marks stark against her skin (no), John aims his rifle (no, no, no), and Mary throws herself in front of the keening body with desperation turned cold fury in her eyes (no!).
“Don’t!!”
“Mary, goddammit,” John chokes, tears dripping freely. “He’s suffering and he’s not Sam anymore - you can’t make me watch this! He’s gonna die and try to take you with him, so let me just - ” But a hand shoves John aside, throwing him off balance as he whips around to see Missouri, scowling and sweating, her eyes full of determination and pain.
Dean rushes from the corner to his mother, freckled face red as he holds Sam’s other shoulder for her, trying not to bawl.
“You put that damn gun down now, Winchester,” Missouri commands. She thrusts a finger against John’s chest, enough to bruise, while Mary takes note that her eyes are wet and tired, as if just standing in the roomis a great weight heaped on her own personal gravity. “And you sit down before I make you. You call me down here, have me endure this child’s grief and pain - and you plan to shoot him? Put that thing away so I can help your boy. Unless you plan to put a bullet in his head before I can even see what’s wrong with him? You hunters and your trigger fingers. Sit.”
Everything in John’s posture is defiance, but he sits. Nobody can deny Missouri, Mary thinks. Everyone knows better. When the black woman finally makes her way to them and leans over Sam, she finds him with his eyes rolled back in his head, something misty and black playing at the corners of them. It terrifies Mary, because it’s new and toeing the line of human, but Missouri simply hums as if she’s a doctor checking a heartbeat. Nobody misses the way Sam stills when the psychic presses her palm against his forehead. Tears drip down into the shells of Sam’s ears as he moans.
“You poor, poor little thing. You poor boy. It’s a good thing you called me; he wouldn’t have made it to tomorrow morning on his own strength, at this rate.” Mary tries not to think about that, because it’s too much, this knowledge that she and Dean could have so easily been curled around a cold, empty body. Instead she rubs her eyes and strengthens her resolve while Missouri feels along Sam’s neck, her thumbs brushing against his youthful cheeks. “Fear not, John, this child is completely human. Your boy is starved for a supernatural drug, and he’s suffered without a doubt in my mind to the point where he’ll take some love to get on the right track again, but he’s still just a child. I can read him as clear as anything.”
Mary breathes out, soft and thankful.
Thank you, God.
“Are you gonna fix him?” Dean asks. His expression isn’t quite hopeful, more pleading for a miracle. Mary had seen him praying earlier, too, hands clasped tight at Sam’s bedside. Missouri replies by running a hand over Dean’s hair, a small smile gracing her face. The energy within her son must be incredible, Mary’s mind wanders, if she’s looking tired already.
“I’ll do what I can. I can carry some of that psychic energy, transfer it from him to me… He’s seeing things somethin’ awful, and it’s putting a strain on his little body. I think if we can get him through the next few days and I take a little of that pain away a bit at a time; we could ween him off whatever poison they’ve left burning through him. He needs fluids and to be kept stable, but…”
But it’s manageable.
From there, it’s a difficult night. A difficult few nights, falling into a week. Mary finds very little in the way of sleep, helping Missouri cope with her own sickness while tending to Sam’s as well. Missouri is determined to hush her up and send her back to her son, but Dean’s there with Sam, and he’s good with him. And Mary owes Missouri the world, right now. Owes her whatever she can offer. When the woman realizes Mary isn’t going to listen to reason, she gives in and at least reports that it’s going well. He’ll likely be sickly for a while, because it’s a mark so deep, it’s on his soul; it’s something that will take time to fix, time that they have to be willing to give. And he’ll be angry - angry and bewildered, his world thrown off completely. Mary couldn’t even imagine what it felt like, to be that young and that confused, that exhausted, that thirsty. It has to be hellish.
They’ve taken anything heavy or breakable from the room, leaving Sam with nothing else to throw in his grief and agony (throw with what? with his mind? how?). He takes advantage of Dean’s clingy nature by biting him on the shoulder, but Dean is gentle in the way he reprimands and scolds; he only loses his patience once that Mary sees - but then Sam sobs deep, awful sounds, and Dean’s rushing back over to cuddle close to the overheated body, uttering guilty apologies.
“Just don’t die,” Dean whispers into wet hair, sweaty himself from the furnace that is his baby brother. “Please don’t die. We just got you back, Sammy. Don’t die.” And Sam balls his fists into Dean’s shirt and wriggles until he’s nearly burrowed in Dean’s rib cage. It’s two in the morning the next day when Mary lays her head down and watches Dean sponge Sam again with cold water, that she finally reaches over to still him.
“We’ve already wiped him down, baby. You can rest, okay? Come with us.”
It takes a lot of ushering, but Dean lays down, Sam between the two of them. He stares into Mary’s eyes over the peak of Sam’s wavy brown hair.
“It sucks to be sweaty,” Dean murmurs. “He smells real. Like a real little kid. I don’t want him to die, Mom.”
She reaches out and pulls Dean in close, holds both of her sons. Wrinkling her nose with eyes gleaming, wet but proud, she replies, “He won’t, Dean. He’ll pull through. I know he will. He’s a Winchester and a Campbell, and that means he’s too strong to give up. He was waiting for us to bring him back, Dean… He’s our family. Never forget that. I know it’s - What your father says…”
“He’s wrong,” Dean says simply, nodding. “I know he’s just tryin’ to be a hunter, but he’s wrong. About Sam.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “He’ll understand. He just needs time.”
“Blood…?” Sam croaks between them, halting any words left in their throats. And then to their surprise, the boy shimmies to sit up on shaking arms, his dazed stare drifting between Dean and Mary. They hold their breath, similar eyes watching wide and hopeful as Sam lazily leans against Dean - like he’s wearing heavy weights, his bedhead and pale skin making him a sad little sight - and when he tries to bite Dean’s arm again to suckle at flesh he plans to tear open, Dean gives him a soft little push.
“No, Sammy,” Dean says, ushering Sam to accept a cup of apple juice instead. Sam gulps it all down and curls back up between them, shivering and moaning but calm. Tired. Pliant. She watches him drift off, and then Dean next, then plays with her youngest’s hair. Something like hope fills the empty, once gutted cavity of her chest when she glances down and finds Sam quietly sucking his thumb.
The mattress only dips heavier the next night, when John spoons up behind her (after a long and quiet talk with Missouri that Mary dare not intrude on). He tucks his chin on the top of her head, his beard scratchy and full, the action flooding her mind with memories of a distant world. She misses the days where they would hold each other just out of love instead of necessity, back when things were easy and they shared the burdens in their heads. She misses making sure Dean was fast asleep before slipping under the covers, instead of her seeking John out in an old motel, of giving in for the night and returning home confused and sore and emotionally drained. Maybe things would get better. Maybe now things could change for the better. Maybe…
It’s a tense silence before he finally rumbles, “… M'sorry, Mary.”
‘Sorry’. It doesn’t feel like enough. He pointed a gun at her baby. Their baby. She ought to break his nose.
Instead her eyes flutter shut, hands curling more around Sam.
“Sleep with your family, John,” she murmurs. No judgement for now, no anger. Just… sleep. John closes his eyes and breathes her in, and they all sleep in the bed, their arms curled around each other.
It feels like how it should have always been.
She’s awakened the next morning by the sound of Dean grumbling in his sleep; not unusual, but the sight that she cracks her eyes open to is a new one. Sam’s sitting up beside his brother, shoving at his arm over and over and over, and it’s so much like an annoying little brother that she has to bite her lip and hold her breath. This feels like a moment she can’t afford to let ago, can’t afford to blink at for fear she’ll miss something crucial - something lost that she’s found. Sam’s sweat isn’t ringing the collar of his shirt, and some color’s returned to his face, even with the red blush painted on each cheek; she sees the gears in his head working, working, working. Shoves Dean’s arm again with a high little grunt.
Dean finally rolls over, eyeing his brother for a long moment. Without another word between either of them, he gives Sam a full cup of lukewarm water. Sam drinks until he has to gasp for a breath, and Dean watches. Then Sam lays back down with a wet chin and a shudder, one of his feet tucked around Dean’s splayed leg and his head cushioned on Dean’s arm; Dean smooths a sheet over them. “Just sleep, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, eyelids drooping. “Just sleep.”
Her boys sleep on, and she rubs John’s knuckles lightly, knowing by the squeeze of his fingers alone that he is watching, too.
Maybe it really is a miracle.