Swallow Me Whole
Title: Swallow Me Whole
Summary: Sam turned Ruby away after Dean went to Hell and found something to help him sleep.
Word Count: 4907
Author's Note: Prompt: Sam is an addict or alcoholic after Dean goes to Hell or Purtgatory. This is part of the Sam-centric reader's prompts on FF.net. Warnings for drug addiction and drug abuse.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean is there. He smiles, Sam smiles. It's the first time Sam has seen him whole, no hellfire swallowing him, no screaming, no raw wounds. Dean is whole. And Sam can't help smiling.
"I've missed you," Sam says, he hears his own words rolling and twisting their way out of his mouth. Dean frowns and for a second Sam is afraid the fire might come after all. But there is none. There's a light behind Dean's head and Sam finally understands. "You're an angel. You're free."
The creases in the perfect skin of Dean's forehead deepen and he looks away from Sam. "Bobby, I think he's sick," Dean says. Or Sam thinks he says it, he's not entirely sure, he's not much sure of anything these days. He doesn't mind.
"I prayed," Sam tells Dean, he thinks Dean ought to know, "I prayed for you. I always prayed. I think it worked."
Dean isn't smiling and Sam is confused. He wonders if Dean heard him, he tells him again. But Dean isn't looking at him, he's looking away again, talking to someone over Sam's shoulder. "Bobby, help me get him up."
There are hands on him, then the room is moving and Sam is suddenly aware of his own weight. He feels so heavy like there is lead in his bones.
Dean says, "God, he's so skinny." Sam laughs a little because it makes no sense. Sam is the heaviest thing there is, heavier than a hell gate. His head is the heaviest, heavy, heavy, heavy. He feels it tip back but someone catches him and he's facing Dean again.
Sam reaches out, presses his fingers to Dean's cheek. He's always wondered what angels look like, what they feel like. He never thought they'd be so ordinary. So beautifully ordinary. Dean's skin is warm and bright and Sam wishes his could swallow it up like his little white-blue pills.
"He feels too warm, Bobby," Dean says, looking back over Sam's shoulder. "Should we take him to a hospital?"
Sam wants to close his eyes, wants to curl up warm in the angel's embrace and sleep forever. Somehow, Sam doesn't think Dean would let him, so he keeps looking at him, keeps admiring his light. Then there's the flicker of a shadow over Dean's shoulder. Sam tries to warn him but his words come out mangled.
The room fills with bright light and Sam is blind.
*
He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering against cold glass. He can see raindrops clinging to it, catching lights, red, yellow, green like rubies, ambers and emeralds. He watches the colours change, watches then slide down and away.
It's dark outside. The sky is creeping into bruised blues, turning black as the first stars make their appearance. Everything is so beautiful. He could sleep forever.
"Sammy?"
He knows that voice. Dean is here. Dean is supposed to be in Hell.
Sam turns his head to the side. His brother's face is looking at him hopefully and Sam knows what he wants, he knows what Hell wants from him. He claws at him. Maybe he can cast the demon out, he would do it with his bare hands if he had to, if that's what would save Dean. He feels himself swerve to the side, shoulder banging into the bejewelled glass. He can't feel the ground moving beneath him anymore. Only then does it occur to him that he doesn't know where he is.
He was in the motel room, wasn't he?
"Sammy, calm down!" it's Dean's voice, Dean's face, but Dean is in Hell, Dean is dead. Sam lashes out, hits him in the face, Not-Dean grunts. "Damn it, Sam! Do I have to clock you out?"
Words aren't working anymore. Sam is too far gone, he knows he is, but he never usually cares. He just swipes and cries. The world is wrong, bending in a strange shape. Not-Dean grabs his arms, holds him still, he feels cold air at his back then someone is leaning forward, holding his face.
"Bobby?" Sam asks, because he can't be sure, but he knows that baseball cap, he knows those eyes.
"It's me, son," Bobby says, he looks away from Sam, turns to Not-Dean, "What's going on?"
"I don't know," Not-Dean exclaims, he sounds scared, for a demon. "He woke up and he just freaked out on me. You sure we shouldn't go to the hospital?"
"We'll go to my place first," Bobby says, "See if we can't sort this ourselves." He stops and turns to Sam, "You with me, son?"
Sam thinks he's with him. He might not be, he's not with anything much these days, but that's how he likes it. But he's more concerned about the demon dressed up in his brother's skin, Bobby should be too, he tries to tell him. Words still aren't working.
"It's Dean, Sam," Bobby says. He must be able to translate Sam's tongue-tired language. "It's really him. I checked. It's Dean. He's alive."
It takes a moment for all of that to filter through. Sam does the math in his head. Dean plus alive equals… something. It equals something good. He looks away from Bobby, sees Dean. He trusts Bobby, Bobby knows a lot of things. Bobby knows that this is Dean.
Sam pushes himself up. Dean backs away a little, there are scratches on his face, but Sam leans forward, tips forward, into Dean's arms.
He wishes he could sleep there forever.
*
The world is clearer in the morning. Sam recognises the dark wood furniture of Bobby's spare room and tries to remember how he got there. Dean. Dean is alive.
Dean is alive.
He spent the past four months wishing for this but now it's so hard to accept. After everything Sam has done to forget and Dean is just suddenly back, alive and breathing. It's a little hard to believe. He begins to wonder if his mind is playing tricks on him again, as it has done so frequently for the past four months.
He rolls over. There's a glass of water on the nightstand and Sam gulps it all down in one go. His head still feels heavy on his shoulders and when he sits up straight he almost goes crashing back down again. He uses the wall to guide his way out into the hallway, then grips the banister tight on his way down the stairs.
He can hear talking in the kitchen but he can't really make out the words. He can smell coffee but it makes his stomach turn and he finds himself lurching back up the stairs and he's on his knees, chucking up bile into the toilet.
He feels like crap.
"You look like crap."
Dean is standing in the doorway, there's another glass of water in his hand. He watches as Sam gulps it all down.
"You should drink slower or you might be hurling again," he advises once Sam puts the glass down on the tiled floor. Then, he asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Shitty," Sam admits.
"We found you in Illinois," Dean says, "What were you doing there?"
Sam can't think of a good reason so he lies, "Hunting."
"Not in the state you're in," Dean says, "You're lucky we got there when we did, you were sick as a dog."
"Must be flu," Sam says, he can't look Dean in the eye when he speaks.
"Must have been," Dean agrees, "We'll get some fluids in you, let you rest, then you'll be as good as new."
"Yeah," Sam mumbles, as if it will be that simple. He finds his hand creeping towards his chest, as it does when he's feeling particularly nervous. His fingers find the amulet, all sharp angles against his skin. He tugs it off and holds it out to Dean.
"This is yours," he says. Dean's eyes widen at the sight of it, like he thought he'd never see it again. Maybe he did think that. Then again, Sam thought he'd never see his brother again. Dean takes it and puts around his neck. It looks so much better against his chest than it does against Sam's.
*
He doesn't know what time it is. He sleeps so much he can't remember when he was last awake, truly awake. But he wakes up with painful knots in his stomach that threaten to rise up into his throat. The bed sheet is sticking to his skin, glued on by his sweat. He finds himself stumbling through the dark, only barely getting to the bathroom.
Some of his vomit misses the toilet bowl but he doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed. His hands are shaking as he tries to get himself upright. The light flicks on, it's piercing and sharp, invading his vision, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed.
"Aw jeez," he can hear Dean moan. Then there's shuffling, a hand on his shoulder, "Come on, back to bed, little brother."
Dean helps him back to the room, stumbling and slipping the whole way with him.
*
He can't sleep after that, the pain in his stomach is so bad. The shakes are worse; he can barely get a grip on the glass of water Dean hands him. Dean frowns and palms his head, says something about making soup. Sam twists away and tries to keep his insides in him.
He waits until Dean has left the room before he reaches for his bag. It has been lying at the end of his bed since they got there, staring at him, waiting for him. He struggles with the zip, almost cries because he can't get it open. When he does, finds the orange bottle where he left it, he feels so much relief that he feels guilty. But it's only short lived as he wrestles the cap off. There are three little pills lying at the bottom.
Sam swallows them all.
By the time Dean comes back, steaming bowl in hand, Sam is flying high. He laughs and talks with Dean, finishes all the soup. Dean smiles and remarks that Sam must be getting better, that some water and good food has done him good. Sam just smiles, feels himself dreaming while he's awake, then he falls into a deep, blissful sleep. He wonders why he went so long without.
*
It doesn't last. He's so high up, brushing his fingers against the clouds, then he's tumbling back down, ready snap his spine on the ground. There are moments when he wonders if he's still alive. Maybe he's a revenant. Maybe he's a junkie.
Dean is worried, he asks if Sam is sick again. Sam just nods, it's better than the truth. Bobby watches him from his desk, Sam can feel his eyes on him. He hears him talking to Dean. They're talking about him, he knows it.
They'll make him stop. He can't let that happen. He needs more. He needs the pills to function so Bobby and Dean stop asking questions. He gets Dean to drive him to the clinic, tells him it might be an infection. He tells the doctor he can't sleep.
"Have you ever taken Halcion?" she asks.
"No," Sam says. He holds his shaking hands between his knees. She doesn't notice and scribbles down a prescription for ten days. It's not enough, but it'll have to do.
She makes sure to tell him about the dangers of Halcion, he can't take more than he's prescribed. If he has any side effects he has to come back right away. Sam smiles at her and leaves. He smiles all the way to the pharmacy. He grins when the orange bottle is in his hand.
*
"The antibiotics not working?" Dean asks over breakfast.
Sam can feel Bobby's eyes on him. He tries to ignore him. "Maybe they'll kick in later," Sam says.
"You still look crappy," Dean says, he shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee.
Sam stares down at his full plate of eggs and bacon. The sight of it makes him feel nauseous. He stands up.
"Where are you going?" Dean asks.
"To get some air," Sam tells him and he hurries out the door. He snakes his way through the cars, finds a secluded spot at the back of the yard and he fishes the pill bottle from his pocket, swallows down a couple.
"So this is what you've been up to?" there's a woman standing a couple of feet away. She's small, dark, beautiful like nightshade. She looks at him, then to the bottle in his hand, and raises an eyebrow.
"What do you want, Ruby?" Sam asks tiredly.
"I want you to get off your lazy ass and do something about Lilith," She says.
"What makes you think I'm not doing something about her?" Sam retorts.
Ruby snorts. "Oh, please! Just look at you. You couldn't walk a straight line right now, could you?"
Sam doesn't bother denying it. He looks at his feet.
"So you're too good for demonic powers but you're not too good to chug down on happy pills?" she asks, "What would Dean think?"
"Like you care what he'd think," Sam spits.
She pauses, her face grows soft. "You're going to kill yourself, the way you're going," she says, she almost sounds concerned. Sam shrugs.
"Maybe," he says.
"You're fucked up, you know that, right?"
"Better than anyone."
She nods. Then she looks up at him and smiles. "If it's a high you want; I can get you one better than anything you could imagine."
"No thanks," Sam shakes his head.
She frowns. "If it's not about the high then what is it about?"
Sam cocks his head to the side, studies her. Her new body is pretty, he remembers in the beginning when she wouldn't leave him alone, she even found an empty vessel to make him happy. He steps forwards, brushes a hand through her hair, it's soft and shiny but he can smell the unholy taint in it, the lingering tinge of Hell's deepest pit.
"Talk to me, Sammy," she whispers. He leans forward and kisses her. She's wild and fiery, the taste of her. He would swallow it all if he had the energy. If he wouldn't rather swallow his little white-blue pills. He pulls back and she gazes up at him. "Tell me, Sam," she says.
Sam tells her. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"
*
It's a week later and Sam hasn't come down once, he made sure of it. He sleeps a lot of the time, and when he doesn't he flies. But each day it's harder to reach the right height, he needs more to get there. But it's okay, he can get more if he has to.
He sees things in the corner of his eye. Blonde curls and silk night gowns. He smells cookies baking, he smells leather and shaving cream. He talks to them sometimes and he feels less alone. Then he hears scuttling, lights flickering, and he makes sure to check the salt lines as often as he can.
He wakes up that morning with Jess' arms around him. She's gone by the time he opens his eyes. He showers, dresses, makes his way downstairs. Bobby and Dean are at the table. They don't look up at him, don't make greeting. Sam doesn't pay much notice as he slips into his seat.
Then there are hands on his shoulders, holding his still as Dean pries his eyes open.
"What the fuck!" Sam yelps, "Get off me!"
"Yeah, his pupils are blown," Dean says, but he's not speaking to Sam. The grip on his shoulders doesn't lessen as Sam struggles. Dean grabs his face, forces him to look at him.
"What are you on, Sammy?" he asks, too calm.
"What the fuck are you on?" Sam growls, "Are you nuts? Let me go!"
"Not until you tell us," Dean says sharply, "How long, Sammy?"
"Have you gone insane?" Sam growls.
Dean shakes his head, eyes closed. He opens them at looks at Sam. "Tell me."
"Fuck you," Sam spits.
"So you won't mind if I look through your stuff?" Dean asks. Sam feels himself tense up, tries to grab at Dean's jacket as he heads for the door but his arm is way off. Dean pauses and stares at him.
"Do you even realise how messed up you are?" he asks, "Can you even hear yourself talking?"
"What are you on about?"
"You're slurring, Sam," Dean snaps, "You've been stumbling around like you're drunk for days. Sometimes I talk to you and I don't even think you're home. Sometimes you don't even seem to remember things you've said or stuff you've done."
Sam snorts, looks away.
"You met Cas two days ago when he showed up in the yard," Dean says, "You talked to him. An hour after he'd left you asked me about him, you said you wanted to meet him."
"You went into town with me for supplies last week," Bobby added, gripping Sam's shoulders tighter, "When we got back you asked me when I went to the store."
Sam doesn't know what to say. He doesn't remember meeting Cas. He was high when he met an angel. Ruby must have been right about him. He is messed up. He's demonic. The blood in his veins in unclean.
"Sam, are you listening?" Dean asks, he sounds like he's been talking for a while. He gazes at Sam then scowls, turns away. He's heading for the stairs, he's going to find them, he's going to take them away. Sam wrestles out of Bobby's grip, pushes the man roughly back, and runs after Dean. He lunges on him outside the bedroom door, tries to scramble for his bag.
But his muscles aren't cooperating. He feels sluggish and loose and Dean easily pins him down. He waits for Bobby to take his place before heading over to Sam's side of the room. He pulls out the drawers, checks under the mattress, under the loose floorboard. He looks in the bag last and finds the orange bottle. He stares at it for a moment and shakes his head, then holds it out for Bobby to see.
"This mean anything to you?"
Sam feels the weight shift on his back. It would be a perfect opportunity to overthrow him but he's too tired. He feels himself becoming drowsier.
"Balls!" Bobby curses.
"What? What is it?" Dean asks.
"That's Halcion. Triazolam. It's a benzodiazepine. A seriously potent sedative."
"Shit, Sammy," Dean breathes.
"It's highly addictive, banned in some countries," Bobby goes on, Sam can feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. He wishes he could tell them that this was the better option. It was this or going with Ruby. They should be thankful.
Dean crouches down, looks at Sam. "Why?" he asks. Sam wishes he could stop staring at the bottle in Dean's hand.
"I just need one," he whispers into the carpet, "Just one. Then I'll stop. I swear."
"God," Dean mutters. Then he gets to his feet, Sam listens to his footsteps, hears the bathroom door creak open.
"No," Sam says, then he begins to panic, "No! Don't!"
He hears the toilet flush, thinks of his little white-blue pills being sucked away, and he cries.
*
He's a prisoner. They've locked the door, barred the window. He doesn't remember them doing that, maybe he was asleep. He wishes he could sleep now. It's been a day without the pills and he just wants to sleep.
He glares at the tray on the bedside table. The bread must be going stale by now. He's not hungry. He doesn't think he'll ever be hungry again. He wedges himself onto the floor at the end of the bed and watches the door. He thinks of ways he could get out. There's nothing in the room to pick the lock with, Bobby and Dean had made sure of that. Maybe the next time someone comes in he can make his escape. He can get away. He can find more.
He hears footsteps and he creeps over to the door, slides up against the wall. He waits for it to open then lunges forwards but someone catches his arm in an iron-tight grip. The man squints at him like he's some puzzle to be solved, then he pulls Sam over to the bed and pushes him down. Sam doesn't think he has the energy to fight anymore, he sighs tiredly.
Sam looks at him. He looks like some kind of office worker in his suit and tie, the tan trench coat over the top hangs over his hunched shoulders. He's so normal, but there's something not… human about him. Sam supposes this must be Castiel.
"Sam, it's nice to see you again," Cas says, he releases his grip and takes Sam's hand in his, "The boy with the demon blood, I hear you don't remember our first meeting."
Sam winces, but he doesn't know if it's the pain of his words or just the tremors that have been plaguing him so much recently.
"Can you fix him or what?" Dean demands from the doorway. Cas seems to ignore him, just stares at Sam.
"I cannot fix this," he says, "It is not within my power, nor within my orders."
"What the hell does that mean?" Dean growls impatiently.
"It means I cannot help him," Cas says like he's repeating it to a child. Then he's gone.
*
Bobby helps him bathe. It would be humiliating if he hadn't already vomited all over himself only minutes earlier. The water is hot and the bathroom is steaming but still he shakes like it's minus one hundred.
He sits there, shivering, as Bobby drags the sponge over his back, squeezes it over his head to soak his hair. He's so gently, so careful, but he doesn't say a word.
"You're disappointed," Sam says, more like chokes because he's been falling to pieces for days and his voice was one of the first things to go, "You can say it."
"Yeah, I'm disappointed," Bobby admits. Sam shivers. "But I'm also sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Sam shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry for."
"I should have been there after… after your brother was gone," Bobby says. He's towelling Sam's hair dry now; Sam squeezes his eyes closed as an ache builds in his head. He wants to tell Bobby that he wanted to be gone, and if Bobby couldn't find him, it was Sam's fault. Bobby sighs and says,"Why don't you come on down for dinner once you're dry and dressed?"
Sam shrugs. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore. He just wants to sleep.
He lets Bobby dry him, he's too weak to do it himself, he's too tired to care about standing naked in the bathroom in front of Bobby. He has to lean most of his weight on him as they make their way downstairs. He's already sweating through his clean pyjamas; he's still shaking hard enough that he can barely put his feet straight.
Dean looks up from the kitchen table where he's sipping at a glass of whiskey. He quickly puts it down when he sees Sam. Sam looks away and tries to concentrate on sitting down.
Dean clears his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Like death warmed over," Sam replies bluntly. He stares at the table.
"Well, at least you're not on that crap anymore," Dean says, "Once you're clean and good, we'll get on stopping the seals from breaking."
"Sounds great," Sam mumbles. His headache worsens and he presses a hand to his eyes.
"Sammy?"
"I'm fine," Sam insists, but his words aren't coming out right, they sound heavy and limp. "I'm fine," he tries again. The room doesn't smell right either, it's sharp in his nostrils and he wants to gag but his whole body is not his anymore. He tips to the side and the floor is rising, rising, rising…
*
He knows he's in hospital before he opens his eyes. He knows the smells and sounds of it better than he'd like to. It doesn't frighten him, to know he's there, but the thing in his throat, coming out of his mouth, does. He jolts and tries to pull it away. Someone grabs his hand.
"Don't," Dean says, he looks tired, worn out like Sam is, "You weren't breathing so well. They put a tube in."
Sam frowns at him, glances around the room.
"You started seizing," Dean tells him, "You were close to falling into a coma."
Sam stares, hopes he can get across how sorry he is.
"It's our fault," Dean says, "Shouldn't have made you go cold turkey."
Sam shrugs as best he can.
"Don't be like that," Dean snaps, but there's no bite to his words, "Stop not caring. You need to care, the world is coming down on us and I need you to care. Please."
Sam shifts his hand onto Dean's, tries to squeeze it reassuringly. He listens to the ventilator push air into his lungs. It's strange to let something breathe for you, to give up something you've been doing your whole life. He would gag if he had the energy.
"They want to check you into rehab," Dean says suddenly. He looks at Sam carefully. "They can't do it unless you say you want to."
Sam quickly looks away and he hears Dean sigh. "Please, Sam," he says, "You need to be better again. I can't do this without you."
He doesn't know why Dean is asking him this when he can't even say yes or no. Sam closes his eyes and finds that he can sleep after all.
*
The place is white and clean. The staff smile a lot. The patients shake and whine and scratch at their arms. Sam doesn't belong here. His steps falter as he follows the doctor. Bobby and Dean grab his shoulders, steer him straight, he lets them.
He shares a room with a crack addict, he's skinny and twitchy, his eyes move around a lot and he accuses Sam of staring. Sam stares on purpose to freak him out and finds too much satisfaction from it. Bobby and Dean visit when they can, which isn't a lot of the time with the impending apocalypse and all. Sam feels guilty. He can't sleep.
He watches the news in the rec room. People have been found dead all over the country with their chests ripped open. It's a seal, he knows that much. Ruby tells him so when she sneaks into his room in a brand new body. She's a redhead this time.
"Come on, Sam, you need to go after the hell bitch," she says, she always says the same things before she gets bored and disappears again.
Sam spends a lot of his time lying in bed and wishing for sleep. It's normal, says his doctor, for someone to suffer from insomnia when they go through withdrawal from sedatives. Sam thinks it's some kind of fucked up joke. She frowns and writes something down when he tells her so.
She tells him things will get better, in time.
Sam doesn't believe her.
But she is right and Sam is wrong and he can't even bring himself to feel bitter about it. His head becomes clearer, his body becomes stronger, he gains weight, he doesn't shake anymore. He still thinks about the blue-white pills, he still dreams of them, he still wants them. But he doesn't need them.
And Dean doesn't stop smiling the whole ride back to Bobby's after they check him out of the centre. And Sam can't help but smile with him, even with the end of days on the horizon, at least they won this fight.
Summary: Sam turned Ruby away after Dean went to Hell and found something to help him sleep.
Word Count: 4907
Author's Note: Prompt: Sam is an addict or alcoholic after Dean goes to Hell or Purtgatory. This is part of the Sam-centric reader's prompts on FF.net. Warnings for drug addiction and drug abuse.
When Sam opens his eyes, Dean is there. He smiles, Sam smiles. It's the first time Sam has seen him whole, no hellfire swallowing him, no screaming, no raw wounds. Dean is whole. And Sam can't help smiling.
"I've missed you," Sam says, he hears his own words rolling and twisting their way out of his mouth. Dean frowns and for a second Sam is afraid the fire might come after all. But there is none. There's a light behind Dean's head and Sam finally understands. "You're an angel. You're free."
The creases in the perfect skin of Dean's forehead deepen and he looks away from Sam. "Bobby, I think he's sick," Dean says. Or Sam thinks he says it, he's not entirely sure, he's not much sure of anything these days. He doesn't mind.
"I prayed," Sam tells Dean, he thinks Dean ought to know, "I prayed for you. I always prayed. I think it worked."
Dean isn't smiling and Sam is confused. He wonders if Dean heard him, he tells him again. But Dean isn't looking at him, he's looking away again, talking to someone over Sam's shoulder. "Bobby, help me get him up."
There are hands on him, then the room is moving and Sam is suddenly aware of his own weight. He feels so heavy like there is lead in his bones.
Dean says, "God, he's so skinny." Sam laughs a little because it makes no sense. Sam is the heaviest thing there is, heavier than a hell gate. His head is the heaviest, heavy, heavy, heavy. He feels it tip back but someone catches him and he's facing Dean again.
Sam reaches out, presses his fingers to Dean's cheek. He's always wondered what angels look like, what they feel like. He never thought they'd be so ordinary. So beautifully ordinary. Dean's skin is warm and bright and Sam wishes his could swallow it up like his little white-blue pills.
"He feels too warm, Bobby," Dean says, looking back over Sam's shoulder. "Should we take him to a hospital?"
Sam wants to close his eyes, wants to curl up warm in the angel's embrace and sleep forever. Somehow, Sam doesn't think Dean would let him, so he keeps looking at him, keeps admiring his light. Then there's the flicker of a shadow over Dean's shoulder. Sam tries to warn him but his words come out mangled.
The room fills with bright light and Sam is blind.
*
He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering against cold glass. He can see raindrops clinging to it, catching lights, red, yellow, green like rubies, ambers and emeralds. He watches the colours change, watches then slide down and away.
It's dark outside. The sky is creeping into bruised blues, turning black as the first stars make their appearance. Everything is so beautiful. He could sleep forever.
"Sammy?"
He knows that voice. Dean is here. Dean is supposed to be in Hell.
Sam turns his head to the side. His brother's face is looking at him hopefully and Sam knows what he wants, he knows what Hell wants from him. He claws at him. Maybe he can cast the demon out, he would do it with his bare hands if he had to, if that's what would save Dean. He feels himself swerve to the side, shoulder banging into the bejewelled glass. He can't feel the ground moving beneath him anymore. Only then does it occur to him that he doesn't know where he is.
He was in the motel room, wasn't he?
"Sammy, calm down!" it's Dean's voice, Dean's face, but Dean is in Hell, Dean is dead. Sam lashes out, hits him in the face, Not-Dean grunts. "Damn it, Sam! Do I have to clock you out?"
Words aren't working anymore. Sam is too far gone, he knows he is, but he never usually cares. He just swipes and cries. The world is wrong, bending in a strange shape. Not-Dean grabs his arms, holds him still, he feels cold air at his back then someone is leaning forward, holding his face.
"Bobby?" Sam asks, because he can't be sure, but he knows that baseball cap, he knows those eyes.
"It's me, son," Bobby says, he looks away from Sam, turns to Not-Dean, "What's going on?"
"I don't know," Not-Dean exclaims, he sounds scared, for a demon. "He woke up and he just freaked out on me. You sure we shouldn't go to the hospital?"
"We'll go to my place first," Bobby says, "See if we can't sort this ourselves." He stops and turns to Sam, "You with me, son?"
Sam thinks he's with him. He might not be, he's not with anything much these days, but that's how he likes it. But he's more concerned about the demon dressed up in his brother's skin, Bobby should be too, he tries to tell him. Words still aren't working.
"It's Dean, Sam," Bobby says. He must be able to translate Sam's tongue-tired language. "It's really him. I checked. It's Dean. He's alive."
It takes a moment for all of that to filter through. Sam does the math in his head. Dean plus alive equals… something. It equals something good. He looks away from Bobby, sees Dean. He trusts Bobby, Bobby knows a lot of things. Bobby knows that this is Dean.
Sam pushes himself up. Dean backs away a little, there are scratches on his face, but Sam leans forward, tips forward, into Dean's arms.
He wishes he could sleep there forever.
*
The world is clearer in the morning. Sam recognises the dark wood furniture of Bobby's spare room and tries to remember how he got there. Dean. Dean is alive.
Dean is alive.
He spent the past four months wishing for this but now it's so hard to accept. After everything Sam has done to forget and Dean is just suddenly back, alive and breathing. It's a little hard to believe. He begins to wonder if his mind is playing tricks on him again, as it has done so frequently for the past four months.
He rolls over. There's a glass of water on the nightstand and Sam gulps it all down in one go. His head still feels heavy on his shoulders and when he sits up straight he almost goes crashing back down again. He uses the wall to guide his way out into the hallway, then grips the banister tight on his way down the stairs.
He can hear talking in the kitchen but he can't really make out the words. He can smell coffee but it makes his stomach turn and he finds himself lurching back up the stairs and he's on his knees, chucking up bile into the toilet.
He feels like crap.
"You look like crap."
Dean is standing in the doorway, there's another glass of water in his hand. He watches as Sam gulps it all down.
"You should drink slower or you might be hurling again," he advises once Sam puts the glass down on the tiled floor. Then, he asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Shitty," Sam admits.
"We found you in Illinois," Dean says, "What were you doing there?"
Sam can't think of a good reason so he lies, "Hunting."
"Not in the state you're in," Dean says, "You're lucky we got there when we did, you were sick as a dog."
"Must be flu," Sam says, he can't look Dean in the eye when he speaks.
"Must have been," Dean agrees, "We'll get some fluids in you, let you rest, then you'll be as good as new."
"Yeah," Sam mumbles, as if it will be that simple. He finds his hand creeping towards his chest, as it does when he's feeling particularly nervous. His fingers find the amulet, all sharp angles against his skin. He tugs it off and holds it out to Dean.
"This is yours," he says. Dean's eyes widen at the sight of it, like he thought he'd never see it again. Maybe he did think that. Then again, Sam thought he'd never see his brother again. Dean takes it and puts around his neck. It looks so much better against his chest than it does against Sam's.
*
He doesn't know what time it is. He sleeps so much he can't remember when he was last awake, truly awake. But he wakes up with painful knots in his stomach that threaten to rise up into his throat. The bed sheet is sticking to his skin, glued on by his sweat. He finds himself stumbling through the dark, only barely getting to the bathroom.
Some of his vomit misses the toilet bowl but he doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed. His hands are shaking as he tries to get himself upright. The light flicks on, it's piercing and sharp, invading his vision, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed.
"Aw jeez," he can hear Dean moan. Then there's shuffling, a hand on his shoulder, "Come on, back to bed, little brother."
Dean helps him back to the room, stumbling and slipping the whole way with him.
*
He can't sleep after that, the pain in his stomach is so bad. The shakes are worse; he can barely get a grip on the glass of water Dean hands him. Dean frowns and palms his head, says something about making soup. Sam twists away and tries to keep his insides in him.
He waits until Dean has left the room before he reaches for his bag. It has been lying at the end of his bed since they got there, staring at him, waiting for him. He struggles with the zip, almost cries because he can't get it open. When he does, finds the orange bottle where he left it, he feels so much relief that he feels guilty. But it's only short lived as he wrestles the cap off. There are three little pills lying at the bottom.
Sam swallows them all.
By the time Dean comes back, steaming bowl in hand, Sam is flying high. He laughs and talks with Dean, finishes all the soup. Dean smiles and remarks that Sam must be getting better, that some water and good food has done him good. Sam just smiles, feels himself dreaming while he's awake, then he falls into a deep, blissful sleep. He wonders why he went so long without.
*
It doesn't last. He's so high up, brushing his fingers against the clouds, then he's tumbling back down, ready snap his spine on the ground. There are moments when he wonders if he's still alive. Maybe he's a revenant. Maybe he's a junkie.
Dean is worried, he asks if Sam is sick again. Sam just nods, it's better than the truth. Bobby watches him from his desk, Sam can feel his eyes on him. He hears him talking to Dean. They're talking about him, he knows it.
They'll make him stop. He can't let that happen. He needs more. He needs the pills to function so Bobby and Dean stop asking questions. He gets Dean to drive him to the clinic, tells him it might be an infection. He tells the doctor he can't sleep.
"Have you ever taken Halcion?" she asks.
"No," Sam says. He holds his shaking hands between his knees. She doesn't notice and scribbles down a prescription for ten days. It's not enough, but it'll have to do.
She makes sure to tell him about the dangers of Halcion, he can't take more than he's prescribed. If he has any side effects he has to come back right away. Sam smiles at her and leaves. He smiles all the way to the pharmacy. He grins when the orange bottle is in his hand.
*
"The antibiotics not working?" Dean asks over breakfast.
Sam can feel Bobby's eyes on him. He tries to ignore him. "Maybe they'll kick in later," Sam says.
"You still look crappy," Dean says, he shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee.
Sam stares down at his full plate of eggs and bacon. The sight of it makes him feel nauseous. He stands up.
"Where are you going?" Dean asks.
"To get some air," Sam tells him and he hurries out the door. He snakes his way through the cars, finds a secluded spot at the back of the yard and he fishes the pill bottle from his pocket, swallows down a couple.
"So this is what you've been up to?" there's a woman standing a couple of feet away. She's small, dark, beautiful like nightshade. She looks at him, then to the bottle in his hand, and raises an eyebrow.
"What do you want, Ruby?" Sam asks tiredly.
"I want you to get off your lazy ass and do something about Lilith," She says.
"What makes you think I'm not doing something about her?" Sam retorts.
Ruby snorts. "Oh, please! Just look at you. You couldn't walk a straight line right now, could you?"
Sam doesn't bother denying it. He looks at his feet.
"So you're too good for demonic powers but you're not too good to chug down on happy pills?" she asks, "What would Dean think?"
"Like you care what he'd think," Sam spits.
She pauses, her face grows soft. "You're going to kill yourself, the way you're going," she says, she almost sounds concerned. Sam shrugs.
"Maybe," he says.
"You're fucked up, you know that, right?"
"Better than anyone."
She nods. Then she looks up at him and smiles. "If it's a high you want; I can get you one better than anything you could imagine."
"No thanks," Sam shakes his head.
She frowns. "If it's not about the high then what is it about?"
Sam cocks his head to the side, studies her. Her new body is pretty, he remembers in the beginning when she wouldn't leave him alone, she even found an empty vessel to make him happy. He steps forwards, brushes a hand through her hair, it's soft and shiny but he can smell the unholy taint in it, the lingering tinge of Hell's deepest pit.
"Talk to me, Sammy," she whispers. He leans forward and kisses her. She's wild and fiery, the taste of her. He would swallow it all if he had the energy. If he wouldn't rather swallow his little white-blue pills. He pulls back and she gazes up at him. "Tell me, Sam," she says.
Sam tells her. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"
*
It's a week later and Sam hasn't come down once, he made sure of it. He sleeps a lot of the time, and when he doesn't he flies. But each day it's harder to reach the right height, he needs more to get there. But it's okay, he can get more if he has to.
He sees things in the corner of his eye. Blonde curls and silk night gowns. He smells cookies baking, he smells leather and shaving cream. He talks to them sometimes and he feels less alone. Then he hears scuttling, lights flickering, and he makes sure to check the salt lines as often as he can.
He wakes up that morning with Jess' arms around him. She's gone by the time he opens his eyes. He showers, dresses, makes his way downstairs. Bobby and Dean are at the table. They don't look up at him, don't make greeting. Sam doesn't pay much notice as he slips into his seat.
Then there are hands on his shoulders, holding his still as Dean pries his eyes open.
"What the fuck!" Sam yelps, "Get off me!"
"Yeah, his pupils are blown," Dean says, but he's not speaking to Sam. The grip on his shoulders doesn't lessen as Sam struggles. Dean grabs his face, forces him to look at him.
"What are you on, Sammy?" he asks, too calm.
"What the fuck are you on?" Sam growls, "Are you nuts? Let me go!"
"Not until you tell us," Dean says sharply, "How long, Sammy?"
"Have you gone insane?" Sam growls.
Dean shakes his head, eyes closed. He opens them at looks at Sam. "Tell me."
"Fuck you," Sam spits.
"So you won't mind if I look through your stuff?" Dean asks. Sam feels himself tense up, tries to grab at Dean's jacket as he heads for the door but his arm is way off. Dean pauses and stares at him.
"Do you even realise how messed up you are?" he asks, "Can you even hear yourself talking?"
"What are you on about?"
"You're slurring, Sam," Dean snaps, "You've been stumbling around like you're drunk for days. Sometimes I talk to you and I don't even think you're home. Sometimes you don't even seem to remember things you've said or stuff you've done."
Sam snorts, looks away.
"You met Cas two days ago when he showed up in the yard," Dean says, "You talked to him. An hour after he'd left you asked me about him, you said you wanted to meet him."
"You went into town with me for supplies last week," Bobby added, gripping Sam's shoulders tighter, "When we got back you asked me when I went to the store."
Sam doesn't know what to say. He doesn't remember meeting Cas. He was high when he met an angel. Ruby must have been right about him. He is messed up. He's demonic. The blood in his veins in unclean.
"Sam, are you listening?" Dean asks, he sounds like he's been talking for a while. He gazes at Sam then scowls, turns away. He's heading for the stairs, he's going to find them, he's going to take them away. Sam wrestles out of Bobby's grip, pushes the man roughly back, and runs after Dean. He lunges on him outside the bedroom door, tries to scramble for his bag.
But his muscles aren't cooperating. He feels sluggish and loose and Dean easily pins him down. He waits for Bobby to take his place before heading over to Sam's side of the room. He pulls out the drawers, checks under the mattress, under the loose floorboard. He looks in the bag last and finds the orange bottle. He stares at it for a moment and shakes his head, then holds it out for Bobby to see.
"This mean anything to you?"
Sam feels the weight shift on his back. It would be a perfect opportunity to overthrow him but he's too tired. He feels himself becoming drowsier.
"Balls!" Bobby curses.
"What? What is it?" Dean asks.
"That's Halcion. Triazolam. It's a benzodiazepine. A seriously potent sedative."
"Shit, Sammy," Dean breathes.
"It's highly addictive, banned in some countries," Bobby goes on, Sam can feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. He wishes he could tell them that this was the better option. It was this or going with Ruby. They should be thankful.
Dean crouches down, looks at Sam. "Why?" he asks. Sam wishes he could stop staring at the bottle in Dean's hand.
"I just need one," he whispers into the carpet, "Just one. Then I'll stop. I swear."
"God," Dean mutters. Then he gets to his feet, Sam listens to his footsteps, hears the bathroom door creak open.
"No," Sam says, then he begins to panic, "No! Don't!"
He hears the toilet flush, thinks of his little white-blue pills being sucked away, and he cries.
*
He's a prisoner. They've locked the door, barred the window. He doesn't remember them doing that, maybe he was asleep. He wishes he could sleep now. It's been a day without the pills and he just wants to sleep.
He glares at the tray on the bedside table. The bread must be going stale by now. He's not hungry. He doesn't think he'll ever be hungry again. He wedges himself onto the floor at the end of the bed and watches the door. He thinks of ways he could get out. There's nothing in the room to pick the lock with, Bobby and Dean had made sure of that. Maybe the next time someone comes in he can make his escape. He can get away. He can find more.
He hears footsteps and he creeps over to the door, slides up against the wall. He waits for it to open then lunges forwards but someone catches his arm in an iron-tight grip. The man squints at him like he's some puzzle to be solved, then he pulls Sam over to the bed and pushes him down. Sam doesn't think he has the energy to fight anymore, he sighs tiredly.
Sam looks at him. He looks like some kind of office worker in his suit and tie, the tan trench coat over the top hangs over his hunched shoulders. He's so normal, but there's something not… human about him. Sam supposes this must be Castiel.
"Sam, it's nice to see you again," Cas says, he releases his grip and takes Sam's hand in his, "The boy with the demon blood, I hear you don't remember our first meeting."
Sam winces, but he doesn't know if it's the pain of his words or just the tremors that have been plaguing him so much recently.
"Can you fix him or what?" Dean demands from the doorway. Cas seems to ignore him, just stares at Sam.
"I cannot fix this," he says, "It is not within my power, nor within my orders."
"What the hell does that mean?" Dean growls impatiently.
"It means I cannot help him," Cas says like he's repeating it to a child. Then he's gone.
*
Bobby helps him bathe. It would be humiliating if he hadn't already vomited all over himself only minutes earlier. The water is hot and the bathroom is steaming but still he shakes like it's minus one hundred.
He sits there, shivering, as Bobby drags the sponge over his back, squeezes it over his head to soak his hair. He's so gently, so careful, but he doesn't say a word.
"You're disappointed," Sam says, more like chokes because he's been falling to pieces for days and his voice was one of the first things to go, "You can say it."
"Yeah, I'm disappointed," Bobby admits. Sam shivers. "But I'm also sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Sam shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry for."
"I should have been there after… after your brother was gone," Bobby says. He's towelling Sam's hair dry now; Sam squeezes his eyes closed as an ache builds in his head. He wants to tell Bobby that he wanted to be gone, and if Bobby couldn't find him, it was Sam's fault. Bobby sighs and says,"Why don't you come on down for dinner once you're dry and dressed?"
Sam shrugs. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore. He just wants to sleep.
He lets Bobby dry him, he's too weak to do it himself, he's too tired to care about standing naked in the bathroom in front of Bobby. He has to lean most of his weight on him as they make their way downstairs. He's already sweating through his clean pyjamas; he's still shaking hard enough that he can barely put his feet straight.
Dean looks up from the kitchen table where he's sipping at a glass of whiskey. He quickly puts it down when he sees Sam. Sam looks away and tries to concentrate on sitting down.
Dean clears his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Like death warmed over," Sam replies bluntly. He stares at the table.
"Well, at least you're not on that crap anymore," Dean says, "Once you're clean and good, we'll get on stopping the seals from breaking."
"Sounds great," Sam mumbles. His headache worsens and he presses a hand to his eyes.
"Sammy?"
"I'm fine," Sam insists, but his words aren't coming out right, they sound heavy and limp. "I'm fine," he tries again. The room doesn't smell right either, it's sharp in his nostrils and he wants to gag but his whole body is not his anymore. He tips to the side and the floor is rising, rising, rising…
*
He knows he's in hospital before he opens his eyes. He knows the smells and sounds of it better than he'd like to. It doesn't frighten him, to know he's there, but the thing in his throat, coming out of his mouth, does. He jolts and tries to pull it away. Someone grabs his hand.
"Don't," Dean says, he looks tired, worn out like Sam is, "You weren't breathing so well. They put a tube in."
Sam frowns at him, glances around the room.
"You started seizing," Dean tells him, "You were close to falling into a coma."
Sam stares, hopes he can get across how sorry he is.
"It's our fault," Dean says, "Shouldn't have made you go cold turkey."
Sam shrugs as best he can.
"Don't be like that," Dean snaps, but there's no bite to his words, "Stop not caring. You need to care, the world is coming down on us and I need you to care. Please."
Sam shifts his hand onto Dean's, tries to squeeze it reassuringly. He listens to the ventilator push air into his lungs. It's strange to let something breathe for you, to give up something you've been doing your whole life. He would gag if he had the energy.
"They want to check you into rehab," Dean says suddenly. He looks at Sam carefully. "They can't do it unless you say you want to."
Sam quickly looks away and he hears Dean sigh. "Please, Sam," he says, "You need to be better again. I can't do this without you."
He doesn't know why Dean is asking him this when he can't even say yes or no. Sam closes his eyes and finds that he can sleep after all.
*
The place is white and clean. The staff smile a lot. The patients shake and whine and scratch at their arms. Sam doesn't belong here. His steps falter as he follows the doctor. Bobby and Dean grab his shoulders, steer him straight, he lets them.
He shares a room with a crack addict, he's skinny and twitchy, his eyes move around a lot and he accuses Sam of staring. Sam stares on purpose to freak him out and finds too much satisfaction from it. Bobby and Dean visit when they can, which isn't a lot of the time with the impending apocalypse and all. Sam feels guilty. He can't sleep.
He watches the news in the rec room. People have been found dead all over the country with their chests ripped open. It's a seal, he knows that much. Ruby tells him so when she sneaks into his room in a brand new body. She's a redhead this time.
"Come on, Sam, you need to go after the hell bitch," she says, she always says the same things before she gets bored and disappears again.
Sam spends a lot of his time lying in bed and wishing for sleep. It's normal, says his doctor, for someone to suffer from insomnia when they go through withdrawal from sedatives. Sam thinks it's some kind of fucked up joke. She frowns and writes something down when he tells her so.
She tells him things will get better, in time.
Sam doesn't believe her.
But she is right and Sam is wrong and he can't even bring himself to feel bitter about it. His head becomes clearer, his body becomes stronger, he gains weight, he doesn't shake anymore. He still thinks about the blue-white pills, he still dreams of them, he still wants them. But he doesn't need them.
And Dean doesn't stop smiling the whole ride back to Bobby's after they check him out of the centre. And Sam can't help but smile with him, even with the end of days on the horizon, at least they won this fight.