When It's Time
Title: When It's Time
Author familybizness
Word Count: 1238
Summary: Sam's back from Hell, but it's hard to see how this is going to get any better.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, brief mention of torture
There are two pill boxes in a small safe on top of the refrigerator.
The pills inside them aren’t for asthma.
Dean set them up on Day Four, the day Sam locked himself in the closet because he needed dark, wouldn’t let Dean in and screamed when he heard Dean trying to pick the lock, and when he finally opened the door he’d cut the fuck out of his wrists with his fucking fingernails.
Probably he wasn’t trying to kill himself, but the thing is, Sam doesn’t really talk these days.
And it’s not like Dean’s all that attached to being alive at this point (he knows he’ll be with Sam, he knows Jess is on the other side, so what are they staying for? Bobby?) but that’s not something that’s going to be decided by Sammy alone in the dark.
“You tell me when it’s time,” he says, and shows his brother the pills, and Sam nods all damn gratefully, fuck.
***
“Zorge,” Sam says, which is the only thing he’s said in three days (today is Day Seventeen) and Dean has no idea what it means. He says it all pleading, begging, and yeah, of course you can have a zorge or whatever, Sammy, you can have anything, but Dean doesn’t know what that is.
“Can you eat something?” he asks, tucking Sam under his arm. Thank god, thank god Sammy wants touch. Dean didn’t after Hell, and he still fucking doesn’t unless your name is Sam Winchester, but Sammy can’t talk to him, so thank fucking god they still have this.
Sam eyes the plate.
“Just rice,” Dean says. “It’ll be easy. No taste. Nothing weird. No way youre allergic. We gotta get something in your stomach, kid.”
Sam tenses. Okay, that was a little graphic.
Dean still doesn’t know what happened to Sam (there are a few things he remembers from his five minutes or whatever in the cage, but he is trying so fucking hard not to think about those things), but he knows what happened to him in Hell.
Hands in his stomach. Pulling out organs. Snapping his ribs.
So…yeah.
He spoons up some rice and brings it to Sam’s lips and Sam lets himself be fed, and Dean’s thinking they’ve won a round, but then Sam’s spitting and crying and gagging and screaming “zorge zorge zorge” all at the same time.
“Okay okay okay -“ Dean shoves the bowl away and grabs the back of Sam’s neck. Sammy is so fucking fucked up and Sammy can’t eat anything and he’s not going to sit here and watch his brother starve, that’s not how this fucking ends, no.
He rubs Sam’s back until he quiets and says, “is it time?”
The pause lasts a few seconds or several lifetimes.
Sam shakes his head.
Not yet.
***
On Day Ten Sam had this insane reaction to a damn milkshake. It was the most fucked up thing - well, it was probably the least fucked up thing, really, but it was fucked up, okay? Sam got over his allergy to dairy when he was four.
It took three EpiPens to stabilize him, and he gasped and scream/wheeze/cried in Dean’s arms, and Dean swallowed and knew he couldn’t take his brother to the hospital, not now, not when his body had apparently forgotten everything it ever knew about protecting itself and there are germs there, and knew they couldn’t afford another reaction like that one. This isn’t going to be decided by a fucking milkshake.
So for the past seven days Sam’s been living on saltines and chicken broth and losing weight like he’s deflating or something. The rice was supposed to be this big breakthrough.
He scrapes the rest of it into the trash can.
Sam doesn’t stop crying until it’s out of the room.
***
On Day Two - Day fucking Two - he called Bobby and told him how Sam wouldn’t come out of the closet and wouldn’t stop shaking and wouldn’t speak or acknowledge Dean’s presence, and Bobby said it might be kinder to just let him go, Son and Dean hung up on him because that’s not going to be decided by fucking Bobby and Dean’s not his fucking son.
He doesn’t call Bobby anymore.
***
On Day Twenty the liquor runs out and he can’t leave Sam, so he paces and grinds his teeth and on Day Twenty-One he can’t keep food down. He curls up on the bed beside Sam and wraps his arms around the trash bucket and shakes so damn hard. He’s too hot and too cold and hearing things that aren’t real can’t be real and there are hands on him, and a voice says “okay, Dean, it’s okay, I gotcha.”
That can’t be real.
Sammy feeds him warm broth from a spoon - Sammy cooked? and scratches at his hairline gently and says “I love you, big brother. You’re fine. We’re fine.”
And then he pushes his forehead against Dean’s, (that hurts, Sammy), and whispers, “time?” and fuck, he doesn’t even care if he lives or dies, as long as he’s with Sam, so he’s not going to decide this, and he shakes his head over and over.
That night, Cas shows up with a bag full of bottles and Dean drinks until the world goes back to normal.
***
Cas brought Sam back (Day Zero) and left on Day One, and in all that time they haven’t seen or heard from him, and that’s actually just fine with Dean because Cas left Sam in the cage and fuck Cas, nothing’s ever going to make that right (except Cas got Sam out, got them both out, it would be fucking awesome if Dean could pin down his feelings about the guy.)
“Where’ve you been?” he says, aggressive, standing between the angel and his shivering little brother.
“You told me to stay away.”
“I tell you all kinds of shit. You never listen. What’s different now? Suddenly you give a shit what I think? Fuck you, Cas.”
“Zorge,” Sam whimpers.
Cas crosses the room so fast Dean completely misses it and can’t stop it and his hands are on Sam, unacceptable, but then Cas answers Sam, they’re talking, they’re having a fucking conversation.
Sammy.
“What’s he saying?” Dean breathes.
Cas doesn’t look at him. “He’s asking you to be gentle. To be patient. He’s here. He’s asking you to wait.”
God, Dean’s little brother.
Sam looks from Dean to Cas and back. “Not time,” he says, soft, trembling, sure.
Dean sits on the bed and pulls Sam’s head onto his shoulder, broken little brother. “Not time yet, Sammy.”
***
There are two pill boxes in a safe on top of the refrigerator.
They’re plan B.
Plan A is crackers and broth, angels who translate Enochian and bring whiskey and then go away because having them around is too hard, giving Bobby another chance, American Ninja Warrior TV marathons and petting Sammy’s hair and saying his name until he smiles and says Dean on Day Forty-One, and that’s the day Dean stops counting.
He keeps the pills. Just in case.
Author familybizness
Word Count: 1238
Summary: Sam's back from Hell, but it's hard to see how this is going to get any better.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, brief mention of torture
There are two pill boxes in a small safe on top of the refrigerator.
The pills inside them aren’t for asthma.
Dean set them up on Day Four, the day Sam locked himself in the closet because he needed dark, wouldn’t let Dean in and screamed when he heard Dean trying to pick the lock, and when he finally opened the door he’d cut the fuck out of his wrists with his fucking fingernails.
Probably he wasn’t trying to kill himself, but the thing is, Sam doesn’t really talk these days.
And it’s not like Dean’s all that attached to being alive at this point (he knows he’ll be with Sam, he knows Jess is on the other side, so what are they staying for? Bobby?) but that’s not something that’s going to be decided by Sammy alone in the dark.
“You tell me when it’s time,” he says, and shows his brother the pills, and Sam nods all damn gratefully, fuck.
***
“Zorge,” Sam says, which is the only thing he’s said in three days (today is Day Seventeen) and Dean has no idea what it means. He says it all pleading, begging, and yeah, of course you can have a zorge or whatever, Sammy, you can have anything, but Dean doesn’t know what that is.
“Can you eat something?” he asks, tucking Sam under his arm. Thank god, thank god Sammy wants touch. Dean didn’t after Hell, and he still fucking doesn’t unless your name is Sam Winchester, but Sammy can’t talk to him, so thank fucking god they still have this.
Sam eyes the plate.
“Just rice,” Dean says. “It’ll be easy. No taste. Nothing weird. No way youre allergic. We gotta get something in your stomach, kid.”
Sam tenses. Okay, that was a little graphic.
Dean still doesn’t know what happened to Sam (there are a few things he remembers from his five minutes or whatever in the cage, but he is trying so fucking hard not to think about those things), but he knows what happened to him in Hell.
Hands in his stomach. Pulling out organs. Snapping his ribs.
So…yeah.
He spoons up some rice and brings it to Sam’s lips and Sam lets himself be fed, and Dean’s thinking they’ve won a round, but then Sam’s spitting and crying and gagging and screaming “zorge zorge zorge” all at the same time.
“Okay okay okay -“ Dean shoves the bowl away and grabs the back of Sam’s neck. Sammy is so fucking fucked up and Sammy can’t eat anything and he’s not going to sit here and watch his brother starve, that’s not how this fucking ends, no.
He rubs Sam’s back until he quiets and says, “is it time?”
The pause lasts a few seconds or several lifetimes.
Sam shakes his head.
Not yet.
***
On Day Ten Sam had this insane reaction to a damn milkshake. It was the most fucked up thing - well, it was probably the least fucked up thing, really, but it was fucked up, okay? Sam got over his allergy to dairy when he was four.
It took three EpiPens to stabilize him, and he gasped and scream/wheeze/cried in Dean’s arms, and Dean swallowed and knew he couldn’t take his brother to the hospital, not now, not when his body had apparently forgotten everything it ever knew about protecting itself and there are germs there, and knew they couldn’t afford another reaction like that one. This isn’t going to be decided by a fucking milkshake.
So for the past seven days Sam’s been living on saltines and chicken broth and losing weight like he’s deflating or something. The rice was supposed to be this big breakthrough.
He scrapes the rest of it into the trash can.
Sam doesn’t stop crying until it’s out of the room.
***
On Day Two - Day fucking Two - he called Bobby and told him how Sam wouldn’t come out of the closet and wouldn’t stop shaking and wouldn’t speak or acknowledge Dean’s presence, and Bobby said it might be kinder to just let him go, Son and Dean hung up on him because that’s not going to be decided by fucking Bobby and Dean’s not his fucking son.
He doesn’t call Bobby anymore.
***
On Day Twenty the liquor runs out and he can’t leave Sam, so he paces and grinds his teeth and on Day Twenty-One he can’t keep food down. He curls up on the bed beside Sam and wraps his arms around the trash bucket and shakes so damn hard. He’s too hot and too cold and hearing things that aren’t real can’t be real and there are hands on him, and a voice says “okay, Dean, it’s okay, I gotcha.”
That can’t be real.
Sammy feeds him warm broth from a spoon - Sammy cooked? and scratches at his hairline gently and says “I love you, big brother. You’re fine. We’re fine.”
And then he pushes his forehead against Dean’s, (that hurts, Sammy), and whispers, “time?” and fuck, he doesn’t even care if he lives or dies, as long as he’s with Sam, so he’s not going to decide this, and he shakes his head over and over.
That night, Cas shows up with a bag full of bottles and Dean drinks until the world goes back to normal.
***
Cas brought Sam back (Day Zero) and left on Day One, and in all that time they haven’t seen or heard from him, and that’s actually just fine with Dean because Cas left Sam in the cage and fuck Cas, nothing’s ever going to make that right (except Cas got Sam out, got them both out, it would be fucking awesome if Dean could pin down his feelings about the guy.)
“Where’ve you been?” he says, aggressive, standing between the angel and his shivering little brother.
“You told me to stay away.”
“I tell you all kinds of shit. You never listen. What’s different now? Suddenly you give a shit what I think? Fuck you, Cas.”
“Zorge,” Sam whimpers.
Cas crosses the room so fast Dean completely misses it and can’t stop it and his hands are on Sam, unacceptable, but then Cas answers Sam, they’re talking, they’re having a fucking conversation.
Sammy.
“What’s he saying?” Dean breathes.
Cas doesn’t look at him. “He’s asking you to be gentle. To be patient. He’s here. He’s asking you to wait.”
God, Dean’s little brother.
Sam looks from Dean to Cas and back. “Not time,” he says, soft, trembling, sure.
Dean sits on the bed and pulls Sam’s head onto his shoulder, broken little brother. “Not time yet, Sammy.”
***
There are two pill boxes in a safe on top of the refrigerator.
They’re plan B.
Plan A is crackers and broth, angels who translate Enochian and bring whiskey and then go away because having them around is too hard, giving Bobby another chance, American Ninja Warrior TV marathons and petting Sammy’s hair and saying his name until he smiles and says Dean on Day Forty-One, and that’s the day Dean stops counting.
He keeps the pills. Just in case.