Blue Skies From Rain Part 2 - Chapter 5

[lovesrain44]

 

In the morning when he woke up, seconds before the first chime, he looked over and Sam was there. Alive. Asleep. His face was turned a little towards the wall and he was sleeping on his back, which he didn’t normally do. Unless he was awake and staring at the ceiling in preparation for blasting Dean with one argument or another. Dean knew he wouldn’t even might that conversation or any for that matter. If Sam wanted to talk, Dean would listen.

He felt good, in spite of the lack of response from Sam the night before. He would get a plan together and get them both out of the loony bin. After that, as to where they would go, what did it matter? As long as he and Sam were together, and once they got the Impala back, everywhere was theirs.

The chime sounded and Dean slid out of bed and shuffled his way to the bathroom. Passing by Sam’s bed, he resisted the impulse to tweak the big toe on Sam’s foot that was just peeking out from under the covers. The bed was that much too short, but that was nothing new, but this Sam might have a different reaction from the Sam he knew and it might get out of control fast, and it was just too early for that.

Dean took a leak and brushed his teeth and was ready at the door when the orderly came by with the disposable razors.

“We need two,” Dean said, holding out his hand.

For a second the orderly looked at him and then Dean moved out of the way. He took at look at Sam, who was just sitting up, groggy but glaring.

“Mmmm,” said the orderly. “Someone didn’t update the list, but I’ll give you two and expect to pick up two.” He handed Dean two disposable razors then muttered as he wrote something down. “Better get a move on,” he said, directing his words at Sam as he turned away. Then he shut the door and was gone.

Sam got up and Dean tried to back out of the way but he hit the edge of the dresser. Sam grabbed one of the razors and marched into the bathroom like he owned it, and had there been a door he would have slammed it.

Dean got his clothes for the day and went back to his bed to get dressed, giving Sam what privacy and space he could. But there was something hard and clenched in his stomach that there hadn’t been only seconds before. This was a Sam who didn’t know him. That Sam might dislike him, might even hate him, had not been on his list of how things might go. Dean found that his hands were shaking as he did up his cotton pants and slipped on the cotton shirt. He was shivering and he didn’t think it was from the cold.

Sam came out of the bathroom fresh shaven, looking very young. Dean knew he was staring but he couldn’t help it. He watched as Sam laid the used razor on the dresser where the orderly would find it. His mouth opened and he heard himself asking, almost for levity, anything to break the tension, “You’d think they wouldn’t give razors to crazy people, huh?”

“I’m not crazy,” said Sam, snapping as he got dressed. “I’m depressed and I have amnesia, but I am not crazy.”

He stood up, looking at Dean and Dean knew that look even if Sam didn’t know it. It was the look that dared Dean to disagree with him because it was an argument that Dean would lose. Dean gave it up and went into the bathroom to shave as fast as he could.

Dean didn’t know if Sam had been given his meals in his room or what, but he was decidedly edgy when an orderly came by to open the door, and they walked out into the corridor to get in line. As they walked, Dean realized that Sam was behind him, close to the wall, almost like he thought he could become invisible if he stayed behind Dean.

Breakfast wasn’t much better. As Dean tried to sink into the pattern of his day, still enjoying the shock and the pleasure every time he laid eyes on Sam, Sam was keeping to the wall, and watching the corridor nervously. When they got to the dining hall, he followed Dean as far as the end of the food line, then tried to walk away. Dean had enough.

“We’re supposed to stay together, Sam,” he said. He didn’t want to let Sam out of his sight.

Sam scowled at him. As they stood in line and got their pills, Sam kept scowling, but he carried his tray and walked where Dean walked. Sat down at the table where Dean sat down and started to eat. He was a little twitchy, eyes darting as he seemed to be looking for something or someone. Dean tried hard not to stare. And was gratified to see, out of the corner of his eye, that Sam was picking around the white bits in his scrambled eggs. Just like always.

Suddenly Sam looked up, fingers twisted around his fork. He was white around the mouth and his eyes glittered, unpleasant and dark.

“You’re spying on me,” Sam said. “You’re going to tell on me.”

“What?” asked Dean. “What’s to tell?” Obviously he could add paranoid to list of what was wrong with Sam. Whatever pills Sam was on, they weren’t doing him any good.

Sam stabbed his eggs with his fork and covered his face with his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair like he wanted to rip it out. “I’m supposed to eat everything. Even these.” He jabbed at the egg white with his finger.

That made more sense and it was something he could do something about. Dean waved his hand over his own tray and opened his own mouth to explain. But Sam beat him to it.

“When I got meals in my room, I had to eat everything or they would write me up. That’s bad; it goes on my record. It means Treatment, it-”

“Hang on a sec. In your old room, right?”

Sam nodded, his head, eyes wide and round as he scanned the room, looking for someone else who might be spying on him.

“Well, you’re not in your old room now. We’re in the dining hall and look. Look at this bacon.” Dean held it up, a grey and wobbling strip of fat. “It looks like undercooked brain. I ain’t eating that.” He flung the bacon back on the tray and scrunched the paper napkin between his fingers to get the scum off.

“If I don’t eat everything,” said Sam, slowly and carefully as if he was explaining the situation to someone who was actually crazy. “I’ll be down for more Treatment.”

Sam was so sure of this that Dean knew it would be a waste of air and energy to try and convince him otherwise. So he tried a different tact.

“Look, now how about this. Eat what you want, and put what you don’t want on my tray. I’ll be the one to throw food away, not you.”

“But-”

Dean waved Sam off with a fork, liking the familiar feeling of an argument over breakfast, even if it was becoming more apparent that looking out for Sam in this place would be more complicated than what he was used to. “Different dining hall, different ward.” At Sam’s puzzled look, he added, talking past his food, “Different rules. You see?”

“Why?” asked Sam. “Why would you do that?

Of all the questions Sam might ask, this was easy. And hard. He couldn’t say, because we’re brothers, or explain what his personal prime directive had been since the age of four. He couldn’t say all the things he felt to this Sam, just as he couldn’t say them to the other Sam. He just couldn’t. So he said, instead, “We look out for each other. Always have.”

There was an expression in Sam’s eyes now, something that said he wanted to believe Dean very much, but couldn’t quite. Whether on purpose or not, this place had done a number on Sam.

“Okay, like last night,” said Dean, taking a swig of his milk.

“Last night?”

“Yeah. When you weren’t all the way in bed when the stupid chime went off.”

“Uh,” said Sam, wiggling in his chair in a way that told Dean just how nervous he was about that.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, okay? Ever. It’s just between you and me.”

“What if you get into trouble, what if they find out.” It was obvious that Sam thought the place was all-seeing, all-powerful.

“Look. It’s stupid. Your foot was on the floor for two seconds. The chime told you to go to bed and you did. You were following the rules and that’s what matters. Even if they’re stupid rules.”

Maybe this made Sam more comfortable, Dean didn’t know. But it did shut him up as he started poking at his eggs, nibbling away at the edges, inhaling his milk and toast. Picking at the applesauce. Then he looked at the bacon.

“Underfried brains?” At the edge of his voice was the beginnings of sarcasm.

“Yep,” said Dean, smiling. It felt good to smile. It had been a long time.

They ate in silence; Dean kept an unobtrusive eye as Sam picked through his eggs and thought about the other ward where Sam used to be and where he’d apparently been taught to be fearful. To which his response had been anger and almost uncontrollable violence that only got him more medicated and sanctioned for Treatment.

Dean had only been inside a loony bin to question civilians. Otherwise, everything he knew about these kinds of places came from movies and TV. He was starting to think it wouldn’t be half of enough.

When Sam finished eating, he caught Dean’s eye, which was new. It made Dean feel better, maybe he was doing the right thing if Sam was looking at him with purpose. And without glaring. Then he watched as Sam pushed his tray, along with the cold bacon and picked over eggs, towards him. He looked like he expected Dean to refuse, so Dean made a showing of taking Sam’s tray and scraping it on his own until it looked like Sam was the good one and Dean the fussy eater. Then he stood up and motioned towards the counter where you were supposed to leave your dirty dishes.

When Dean tipped the contents of his tray into the garbage, he thought that Sam looked a little nervous, clenching his hands into fists, scanning the dining hall with his eyes in case anyone was watching. But when Greer strolled by doing his usual rounds, Sam seemed to jump out of his skin. He shifted closer to Dean, much closer than he had before, twitching his shoulder like he wanted to move behind Dean to press himself against the wall. As Greer kept walking, Dean could see Sam was sweating, black splotches growing under his arms.

“He ever do anything to you?” Dean asked, thinking Greer was the least likely person to abuse patients, especially in a place like this. But you never knew.

Sam shook his head, but the twitching, slow way he did it could mean a no, Greer never had, or no, Sam couldn’t talk about it. Or any of a hundred reasons Dean didn’t want to force out of him till he was read.

So he reached out, wanting to touch Sam on the arm, pulling back at the last minute, not wanting Sam to freak out again.

“C’mon, try not to worry about it. Here’s the line.”

They got into line, single file, though Sam now edged up like he was trying to walk right next to Dean. Dean didn’t have the heart to push him back, and nobody called Sam out on it, so it seemed okay, and Sam seemed the better for it. And Dean kept reminding himself that this routine was new for Sam, instead of expecting him to adapt as Sam normally would. He would have to be patient.

Which was fine advice until they got to the laundry room. The second they got there, Sam’s whole body tightened up like someone had pulled a string through the top of his head. Dean wouldn’t have noticed if he’d not been watching. He had to realize that the confident, people-savvy Sam that he’d know was, if not completely gone, then buried. Dean couldn’t figure out if it was the noise or the warmth or the smell of soap and bleach that bothered Sam, all of which seemed comforting to Dean.

As they went through the door, everyone in the room turned to look; Dean gave Sam a little nudge with his shoulder, and stood close by as Neland came over to them.

“Sam Doe,” Neland said with a nasty smile. “I’m supposed to give you one more chance. Your only saving grace is that the dryer was only a little dented.”

Dean wondered what that was about as Sam hung his head, his fingers pulling at the legs of his cotton pants. Dean made himself count to ten, waited till Neland had his moment/

“Alright,” said Neland as he pointed to the sink. “Wash your hands first and then you’re folding towels till I say different.”

“C’mon,” said Dean. He tugged on Sam’s shirtsleeve, trying not to mind when Sam jerked his arm out of reach. “We’ll wash our hands and fold towels, it’ll be easy.”

“I know how to fold towels,” said Sam, irritated as if Dean had accused him of being slow and special. They washed their hands as Sam stuck out his chin and glared at the soap.

“Okay,” said Dean, softly. He dried his hands and led the way to the folding table, noting that for all Sam was snapping, he was following Dean.

Dean nodded his head and turned to the pile of towels. “Okay,” he said again. Some things could not be rushed, it seemed, so he started folding towels and watched Sam out of the corner of his eyes as he started folding towels, too. It was familiar, those movements. Sam was not a tosser of towels, he was neat and didn’t mind folding them or hanging them up when he was done using them. At least that hadn’t changed.

Although instead of going all zen with the towels, every few minutes Sam came to a jerky stop. He would become very still and scan the room, looking for predators, and all the while his fingers would twist in the towel, folding in the wrinkles rather than the other way around. Any second, Neland was going to come over and scold Sam, which would then prove out his fears and probably send him all bat shit. Dean had just gotten Sam back, he didn’t want him to get dragged off.

“Sam,” he said, leaning up close, but not too close. “What’s up?”

For a second Sam only stared at him, white around the mouth again.

“Look,” said Dean. He stopped folding towels and turned towards Sam. Felt Sam hesitate before he stepped a little bit away. He was irritated that Sam was afraid of him. “We look after each other, okay? We always have. Even in here.” He made himself stop. Only time and a leap of faith would get Sam to open up to him. Just like with a little kid, you couldn’t make them like you. He would just have to wait.

Dean dipped his head low below the line of Sam’s hunched shoulders so he could look up into Sam’s eyes. Sam’s mouth worked, and then he tipped his head like he was pointing, something they both had done many times, Dean just hoped he wasn’t reading the wrong signal. So Dean looked.

Across the room was a guy who was staring at them. Dean didn’t recognize him at all but he seemed to know Sam.

“That’s the guy,” said Sam, like his throat was clogged with dust. “The one who I-”

“What?” asked Dean. “The one you what?”

Sam’s mouth pulled in a frown and his chin wobbled, but he kept his eyes on Dean as though he’d been instructed to always tell the truth, even if it hurt.

“He-he scared me one day. I think I tried to stuff him in the dryer. I put him in there and pushed the button. He-well, that was bad. I got Treatment and now no one likes me. They’re scared.”

“That guy?” Dean almost laughed out loud. The guy was pretty big: that Sam had gotten him all the way into a dryer, and they were big dryers, was amazing. The guy looked pretty pissed off about it still, and Dean wondered what had set Sam off. Something the guy had said maybe. Even a movement in the wrong direction would have done it, if Sam was on edge at all.

Except now Sam was white like he thought the guy was going to come over and Sam was going to have to decide between getting beat up or stuffing the guy in the dyer again and getting more Treatment. For a second, he wanted to try and convince Sam that the orderlies were watching and that it wasn’t going to get that far, but there wasn’t enough time for that. So he stepped round Sam and put himself between Sam and the rest of the room.

Before Sam could open his mouth to object, Dean said, “There. Now he’ll have to go through me first.” Saving that guy from Sam, saving Sam from himself, it was all the same to him.

Sam didn’t answer him and they continued that way, folding towels in silence. For the first time he could remember, Dean didn’t like laundry duty so very much, and maybe that was because Sam didn’t like it.

*

After lunch, after the pills and the meal of pizza squares and carrot rounds, they got into a line that took them to one of the doors to the outside. They stopped in a group as the orderlies handed out the light jackets, bunching up in the usual muddle until the doors opened, and then they went outside into the bright breezy air that threatened rain.

It would be lawn duty, Dean knew, or something equally simple, but Sam’s eyes were huge as they stepped across the threshold and over the sidewalk to get to the grass. His mouth was open as he stared around him, like he’d never been outside before, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth, at least as much as Sam could remember. He stuck to Dean like a burr, as if he’d almost forgotten he didn’t quite like Dean, because now, Dean was the only familiar thing. Dean got that, he did, and he let Sam stick close, if it made him feel better. Even if it was so close that they were almost tripping over each other.

The orderlies started them working, but instead of picking up trash, they’d collected rocks. Not big ones, just the little ones, picking them up along the wall and in the lawn, and moving them to the wheelbarrow. Once there’d been an old stone wall, deemed too low to be of use to the hospital, and it was being torn down to be replaced by a tall plastic fence. A lot of the big rocks had already been taken away, which left the medium and little rocks scattered along the fence line and dotting the lawn. There was a long gap where the rock wall had been, and below that, the lawn sloped away to the flat brush, and just a little beyond, through the bare trees, Dean could see the river.

Dean was glad it was Greer standing guard there. Had it been anyone else, he would have been tempted to take off running then and there, dragging Sam behind him. But if he took Sam from his meds too quickly, Sam would go into withdrawal, and that would be bad. It would be bad for Dean too. So he couldn’t, shouldn’t. Greer helped him not do that. He had to find the right time to start the conversation about meds with Sam, though Sam seemed devoted to doing everything the doctors told him. He wanted to get better, believed the hospital was the place for that.

So no running away. In the meantime, they picked up rocks. Even though the rock part was pretty boring, Dean could see the therapy in the work itself. Even the guy he recognized as the one who’d been bashing his arms against the open door seemed soothed by it. There was a rhythm, and he could get inside of that. With Sam by his side, and a bright day, well, everything else he could figure out later.

It felt good to be moving in fresh air, bending and stretching his legs, feeling the breeze, seeing it in Sam’s hair, even though Sam seemed distracted by something known only to him. Sam was sticking close, his motions a little jittery, like his body was refusing to be soothed by the rhythm. If they’d just kept at it, it might have worked somehow, but then Sam had to go to the bathroom and when Greer pointed to an orderly to escort him, Sam shook his head.

“I want Dean to take me,” he said, his first words since the morning. Dean could see how hard he was concentrating on not saying something weird. “The doctor said if I stayed with Dean-”

Which isn’t what the doctor had said at all. But that’s how Sam was interpreting it, Dean could see that. Sam looked at Greer and Greer looked back, eyes level, expression neutral.

“Well, Dean?” asked Greer.

It was hard to tell what Greer wanted. “I don’t mind taking him,” said Dean. It wouldn’t be much different than when Sam was little and he’d had to take him; only now Sam was big.

“Talk him through it,” said Greer. “Build up his confidence. Okay?”

Build up his confidence? It was the kind of thing Dad used to say, wanting Dean to be there, but not wanting him to hold Sam’s hand. It was weird, though, to hear it from another man’s lips. He looked at Sam, who had that wide eyed look again, the one that said he had no idea what was coming next.

So Dean tipped his head in the direction of the building, trying to put the most relaxed expression on his face that he could. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Someone will meet you at the door, and he’ll give you three minutes before he takes over. Got that, Dean?”

“Yeah,” said Dean. He was fine. Sam was not.

“C’mon, Sam,” he said. “I need to go, too. We can go, um, together.” It was what girls did, at the movies, or wherever, the whole flock of them standing up to go together, as if they couldn’t possibly manage on their own. Or, what was more likely, they couldn’t stand to not take advantage to talk their fool heads off away from the men. As if they’d not been talking nonstop already.

Sam followed him across the lawn as the sun and the shadows chased each other across the grass. The pavement was wet, their sneakers squelched when they stepped on it, and Sam was right at his elbow, breathing down Dean’s neck, stealing his sunlight.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s-” he heard Sam lick his lips as they reached the door. The orderly looked at Greer and let them in, pointing the way towards the nearest restroom. When they got to that door, and went in, Sam tried again. “There’s too much sky out there, it was like a big blue hand coming down.”

Too much sky?

Dean stood in front of a urinal and unzipped his fly. Saw Sam watching him, and paused.

“Hey,” Dean said, “pee already.”

He didn’t mean to hurt Sam’s feelings, but it was easy to see that he had. With hunched shoulders, Sam stepped up to the urinal right next to Dean’s, ignoring the every-other-one rule like it was written with invisible ink. Which it kind of was. Then he had to listen to Sam pee like a racehorse, feel Sam’s elbow as he tucked himself in, feel the heat of Sam’s skin as he did it. Feel Sam’s eyes on him as he too zipped up. Stumble over Sam’s feet as he walked too close as he followed Dean to the row of sinks.

“Hey, Sam,” he said, pushing into Sam’s ribs with his elbow. “Give a man some breathing room here.”

As they started to wash their hands, he could see Sam’s eyes reflected in the dull mirror, a real mirror, not a metal one, with a rim of polished metal for safety. Sam held his shoulders tightly in towards his chest, his lower lip pulled into his teeth, and he looked like he couldn’t figure out whether to be mad or hurt. It was a tie, each way, and Dean realized he’d done the very wrong thing. Again.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he started, “It’s just that I-”

The door opened and in walked the orderly from the door to the outside. “You boys having trouble? Do I need to get Greer?”

“Just finishing up,” said Dean, pulling Sam’s hands into the hot water. Sam held very still while Dean soaped them and washed them, his fingers twining with Sam’s; he could feel the tremble there. They wiped their hands on the paper towels and allowed themselves to be escorted back outside by the scowling orderly. Greer saw them and waved them on, and Dean hoped that the orderly wouldn’t tell Greer that they’d been lollygagging.

He touched Sam on the arm, and jerked his chin, walking faster to show Sam how it was done. Sam leaned in, like he was telling Dean a secret.

“It’s a very big blue hand and it has lightning bolts in it. Like they’re tattooed into his skin.”

“Whose skin?” A comment like that to anyone else wouldn’t make any sense at all, might sound crazy, but Dean knew what Sam was talking about. He just hoped no one else was listening because this was exactly the thing Sam wasn’t supposed to do. The freaky thing was, it meant that Sam was remembering parts of what had happened to them. And if he remembered that, what else was he remembering? Maybe all kinds of things that the hospital had dismissed as being outright crazy. Which made sense; the hunter’s lifestyle wasn’t exactly sane.

“Whose skin, Sam?”

As they neared Greer, Sam shut his mouth in a firm line, and as Dean glanced over, Sam shook his head. The strain showed in the line of his jaw and the way he eyed Greer like the other man might bite him. But Greer just pointed at the layer of stones, and nodded at them.

“A few more trips, and then it’s supper time, okay boys? Everyone warm enough? Bellows, did you rip your pants on purpose?” With powerful strides, Greer was off in Bellows' direction, whoever that was, and once more Dean bemoaned their fate at landing in a well-run place where nothing got past the orderlies and nothing was beneath their notice. Nothing was too small a detail to take care of. The orderlies actually cared. He and Sam were so screwed.

Sam bent to pick up a rock about the size of his palm, his fingers curling around it as he held it out to Dean. “It’s like this,” he said, breathing out through his mouth. “The hand comes and curls around me like this.”

“What hand?” asked Dean, the skin around his skull prickling.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it.” Sam snapped his mouth shut, and walked the rock over to the skid where they were being loaded to be dragged away. Dean followed him with only one rock in his hand, getting a good glaring at by the orderly standing by for being so lazy.

“Can you think about it?” asked Dean. If Sam could think about it, then he could remember more and more; that’s how he would get better. “And tell me later?”

This made Sam stand still, tripping Dean up with his big feet, hands at his sides, head tilted sideways. “Why?” In his eyes was a wary dullness, like he thought Dean meant to make him talk for his own gain. That when Sam did talk, it would mean more Treatment, because talk about the blue man was what concerned Dr. Logan most. Among other things, which she’d declined to tell Dean about.

He tugged on the sleeve of Sam’s jacket and got him to start picking up more rocks by doing it himself. Keeping their hands busy, so it didn’t look like they were slackers. So they wouldn’t stick out.

“We’re roommates, right?” he said, his fingers curling in the grass as he bent forward. “Your blue man, he-he sounds familiar.” It wasn’t a lie at all, that was the best part. He could feel Sam’s neck snap as he looked at Dean and stood up, rocks in each hand, mud falling through his fingers.

“He does?”

“Yeah, look. This is a good place, but sometimes, you gotta talk to someone who’s not going to tell you what to think, or what you’re thinking is wrong.”

“Who-who would do that?” Sam looked around, at the orderlies, tending to their charges, at Greer, who was sending Bellows and his ripped pants inside. Then he looked at Dean.

“That’d be me,” said Dean.

*

As they came inside for the sock ritual, Dean knew that what Sam had been talking about had been the djinn, there was no way the blue man could be anyone else. He wasn’t surprised that Dr. Logan felt that the blue man was the source of obsession because it was. The only problem was that the doctor was treating Sam for something she felt was a fantasy, when it wasn’t. You couldn’t treat amnesia with pills and you couldn’t make something that was real go away by drugging it away. Or maybe you could. His experience with antipsychotic drugs was limited and while he knew Sam inside and out, he was way in over his head.

The only thing he knew was that this was real; the djinn had planted false memories, this time bad instead of good, where each had been sure, or in Sam’s case, was sure, that the other one had died. It was making Sam crazy; Dean didn’t know whether to feel bad that he’d made a recovery from it while Sam had not. Did that mean that Sam loved him more, if he was better and Sam wasn’t?

The sock ritual pulled him out of his less than productive thoughts. The doorway and the hallway were jammed as usual, the smell of damp socks and wet feet was strong and close, and the muddle of bodies was chaos. The worst part was Sam, his Sam, who could normally handle strangers better than he could his own family, now, was in a panic.

It had started off slow, Dean realized, and had grown unnoticed. Only when he realized that Sam had pressed his back to the wall to get out of everyone’s way and was not moving did it kind of make sense. Sam was trying to avoid trouble and in a narrow space packed with lots of potential sources, he’d gone very still. Lips white. Eyes round and wide and staring. It a New York second, some orderly was going to notice and the experiment would be over before it began. Dean would lose contact with Sam and that would be bad, very bad indeed.

“Sam,” he said. He stepped closer. “Sam.”

He grabbed two pairs of socks from the orderly who was passing them out.

“Here. Put these on.” He handed one of the pairs to Sam, who looked like he could barely hold them. Then Dean moved his body between Sam and the rest of the crowed as much as he could. The look on Sam’s face flickered form white-mouth panic to furrow-browed confusion. He looked at Dean almost like he didn’t know him.

Dean did what he’d done the night before. He took a deep breath and started messing with his shoes and socks to show Sam how it was done. He took off his sneakers, and then he bent over to pull off his socks. He hoped his acting natural would make Sam feel more comfortable, especially if he wasn’t staring at Sam like he realized he was creating a habit of doing. He kept his body close to Sam’s, kept it between him and the crowd.

“C’mon, Sam,” he said low.

Something must have clicked in Sam’s head because he started to copy Dean’s movements. He bent low and slipped off his sneakers, then took off his wet socks and put on dry ones, then put his sneakers on again. When Dean allowed himself to look again, the whiteness around Sam’s mouth was fading, and by the time the line was forming for supper, Sam was ready. There were beads of sweat along his hairline, but he was ready.

“Stay close, okay?”

This was unnecessary. Sam stuck close like a burr, his elbows bumping Dean’s, his breath on Dean’s arm. Dean kept himself steady, let Sam stay close, practically rubbing up against him as they walked. Which seemed to help; Sam’s panic notched down and they were able to present calm faces to the pill lady.

“Hello, Dean Doe,” she said, giving him a little smile. “How’s your new friend?” She pointed the end of her pen at Sam. “Sam Doe?”

Without waiting for an answer, she checked the list and handed them each their cup of pills and water to wash it down with.

Dean took a look at Sam’s pills again, before Sam tossed them back and swallowed them all with one gulp of water. There’d been more there than Dean had to take, all different colors, and that again was the problem. They were pumping Sam full of crap he didn’t need. Hell, they were pumping him full of crap he didn’t need. His memory was fine, he knew who he was, didn’t need any of it.

It made him want to start running, right then and there, to yank Sam out of line and get them the hell out of there. But he couldn’t quit cold turkey, and neither could Sam, not after weeks and weeks on the stuff. He had to stay calm; he took a deep breath and watched Sam take his pills. Just watched, though it was making him tight and strung all over to not do anything. They would have to start weaning themselves off, so that when they found a way out, they could just go, and not worry about it. The hardest part would be taking the time to get Sam to trust him to start doing that, get him to not be so fearful that he did everything the hospital told him to do.

They got their trays and sat down, and Dean felt the weight of the day slam into him. He was used to looking out for Sam, but this went beyond that. He took a breath, and told himself that it wouldn’t be long before he got Sam back to himself. In the meantime, he was on duty. He picked up his fork, and looked at Sam to make sure he did the same.

Supper was spaghetti and salad and cottage cheese. Inevitably, there were chunks of tomato in the sauce, which Sam was staring at in dismay.

“Just give ‘em to me,” said Dean, opening his carton of milk, saying what he’d said a thousand times before. Dad had believed in boys eating what they were given, and since typically this involved ordering food in a restaurant, it meant that you could get want you wanted. And that meant you could tell them to leave the tomatoes or whatever off. Uncle Bobby had known and had taken the time to deal with Sam’s finicky palate: no tomatoes, scrambled eggs only, strawberries but not cherries, and so on. Pastor Jim, not so much. The usual result of which had been a battle of wills between Dad and Sam, and a very distressed Pastor Jim, who’d always been totally willing to change or remove the offending dish.

“Seriously,” said Dean, pointing with his fork, wanting to avoid putting Sam into another funk it might take him hours to pull out of. “Hand over the tomato shits.”

Sam’s mouth opened, confusion warring with that gleam of paranoia. “How did you-how did you know I called them that?”

“I told you,” said Dean, trying not to sigh with exasperation. “We’re friends. Good friends. That’s all. Years and years of knowing each other. Now, hand ‘em over.”

Which Sam did, picking the pieces out one by one, a marmish pout on his mouth. The pile of stewed tomatoes looked totally unappetizing as he flicked them on to Dean’s tray and looked at them like that, but Dean wasn’t going to say anything to set Sam off. He ate Sam’s tomatoes and his own, making sure that Sam ate something of his supper. He wished he had another carton of milk. Wished he knew more about psychology; this was his brother, of course, and that was something, but he was in way over his head.

Chapter 6

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post