Blue Skies From Rain Part 2 - Chapter 7

[lovesrain44]

 

The morning felt rushed, like they were already late for something, and Sam’s head ached. He wanted some aspirin and a hot shower, but neither were to be had, even though in his other life before the hospital it seemed it would have been simple, so simple, to get these things and to take ten minutes under the hot water to ease the ache away. But no, as they brushed their teeth, the orderly was at the door already with their razors, and Dean was hopping on one foot to put on his socks, and the chime sounded and they had shave fast and then they had to go. As they got into the line, Sam felt breathless. He stuck close to Dean and tried to breathe slow.

They made their way down the chilly corridor, where the sun was coming through in fits and starts, which meant it was going to be another rainy day. When they got to the dining hall, they waited in another line for pills. Dean went first, being friends with the pill lady, talking to her and pretending he liked her. Oh, maybe he did like her, but Sam didn’t think so. He might have been smiling at her, giving her little flashes of his teeth, but it wasn’t the way he smiled at Sam at all. No, it was totally different.

Then when it was Sam’s turn, Dean waited by his side while the lady gave him his paper cup of pills and his paper cup of water and watched him as he tossed back the pills and washed them down.

“Quite a number you got there, Sam,” said Dean. “Jeeze, what is that stuff?”

The pills lady wrote something down on her clipboard, and then said to Dean, “He’s got the same as you, except for the yellow one, Flupentixol. He needs extra meds for his anxiety.” She looked at Dean like Sam wasn’t even there. “Paranoid.”

Dean nodded, the skin around his eyes tight, and Sam realized that Dean actually didn’t like her very much, but he didn’t know why. “Hey,” Dean said to her, “aren’t we all?”

No, Dean definitely didn’t like her. His voice was friendly, but he turned away from her as soon as he was done talking to her, tugging on Sam’s sleeve to get him to stay close as they stood in the line for food.

“Huh,” said Dean. “Oatmeal.” He turned his head to look at Sam as if waiting for something. His hands grabbed two trays and he handed one to Sam.

“Do I like oatmeal?” asked Sam.

“You tell me.”

Sam let the lady in the hairnet give him oatmeal and orange slices and some sausage. She slammed this on his tray. He moved along the counter and looked at the cartons of milk and just as he was about to reach for one, Dean took two of them and put them on Sam’s tray. He put two on his own tray as well. As they walked to an empty table, close to the wall, Dean said, “Trust me.”

They sat down together, close, and Sam scanned the dining hall for Dr. Logan or Dr. Baylor, who would surely be upset about the extra milk. There were a few orderlies wandering around, the bristle-haired guy, Greer, among them, but other than the clatter of plates, and the static of the overhead lights, it was fairly quiet.

Dean started doing something to his oatmeal. He grabbed for the sugar canister and poured the sugar into his bowl. Then he opened a carton of milk and poured that in there as well. Then he stirred everything with a spoon. Sam watched as he ate it slowly, almost sighing to himself. It looked pretty soupy, but then, with all that sugar, it would be sweet as well. Sam made his up the same way, pouring half the carton of milk and giving it a good stir.

“Don’t forget the sugar,” said Dean, pushing the canister towards him.

Sam poured it on, and then took a bite. It was almost too sweet and thin, watered down and cooled by the milk. But his mouth liked it, and his stomach did too, making an odd, contended gurgle as the oatmeal hit it. He nodded at Dean.

“This is good,” he said. He didn’t feel as surprised as he felt he probably ought to, but the ritual of it and Dean’s satisfied slurping felt like it connected with the part of him that remembered everything he’d forgotten. And that if he could get beyond the buzzing in his brain, he could get there. “Amnesia sucks,” he said, taking another bite.

“Yeah,” said Dean.

“You have amnesia too, right?”

“Yeah,” said Dean again. He took up one of the sausage links with his fingers and started chewing at the end, mouth open. “A little bit.”

It sparked in Sam’s head like a little explosion, and parts of him warred with being offended, the other parts remembered this too, that his brother used to sit there and chew and talk with his mouth open. Obnoxiously, on purpose, just to piss Sam off. Two worlds colliding in his head, confusing him, and he shoved his oatmeal away.

“Hey,” said Dean. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the oatmeal?”

There he was again, being nice, watching Sam, making sure everything was okay. Trying to fix it when it was not.

“I like the oatmeal just fine,” he said. He picked up his spoon and started to pull his bowl towards him. It was stupid to get upset just because he remembered something about his brother. It was good to remember these things. Dr. Logan said so.

Across the dining hall, Sam could see Dr. Baylor come in, clipboard in hand, dressed in his white lab coat. He froze with his spoon just above the bowl.

“What?” asked Dean, following where Sam’s eyes were looking.

Dr. Baylor skipped ahead in line and was getting some coffee. Then he stopped to talk to the lady in the hairnet behind the counter.

“You really don’t like them do you, the doctors,” said Dean.

Sam struggled to pull his attention away. The doctors were there to help him, and Dr. Baylor had a nice smile. Sometimes. But when Sam had an outburst or broke a rule, or the one time when he tried to bite Dr. Baylor, then the smile went away and Sam got into trouble. He preferred to stay as far away from Dr. Baylor as possible.

“Hey,” Dean said to Sam. “Hey!” Louder now, to get Sam’s attention. “He’s gone now, take a deep breath.”

Sam looked at him, startled. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice smacking of defensiveness. “I’m fine.”

Then he looked up, feeling as though he had been running and had just now pulled himself up. “He scares me,” said Sam, feeling a little daring for admitting this. Dr. Baylor had so much power and he had none. Neither did Dean.

“Oh?” asked Dean. “Well, me too.”

That was a nice thing to say, even if it was a lie because Sam didn’t think Dean was afraid of anything. But he was exhausted by being worked up, the coil in his chest wound up and then sprung and then wound up and sprung again all in the space of ten minutes. He struggled to eat his oatmeal and his orange slices, concentrating on not throwing up, or on wanting to run screaming down the hall.

Dean continued to chew with his mouth open, making a mess as he ate his oranges. Then with a contented burp, he finished the milk in one carton and started in on the other. Sam copied him, letting the motion of doing what Dean did soak over him like echoes from a quiet, dark place where nobody shouted or pushed or told him that he was uncooperative as they took off his clothes and soaked him with icy water.

The chime sounded.

“You with me, Sam?” asked Dean.

“I-” Sam stood up as Dean stood up, following him to the counter with their trays to place them in the slot, their silverware in the metal bowl of soapy water. “I have a headache.” He didn’t want to complain, Dean never complained, and besides, all complaining ever did was get him more Treatment.

They were getting in line to go somewhere else, Sam didn’t know where, and Dean reached up to touch the back of his neck. He did it so fast, Sam didn’t have time to be startled or pull away. His strong fingers squeezed together and then released. Then again. And by the time he thought of it, thought of smacking Dean to make him stop, Dean’s fingers had loosened something in his neck, and his head didn’t ache so badly.

“Better?” Dean asked, his hand dropping away. The line started moving down the hall, and Sam realized that he did feel a little better. He thought about Dean’s fingers, how warm they’d been, firm, pushing just where they needed to. He realized his mouth was open and that he was staring at Dean, but by that time, they’d arrived at the laundry room, and the roar of the dryers meant that he didn’t have to say anything to explain himself.

As they washed their hands, Neland came over with his clipboard and checked them off his list.

“You can load dryers today,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He took them to the huge upright washers that were already turning with soapy grey water sloshing against the glass. One of the dryers was spinning to a stop, and a green light went on.

“When that green light comes on, you can open the washer, but not before. It won’t open if the red light’s on, anyway. Put the towels in this cart, and then roll the cart to the next dryer that’s free. If there are no free dryers, you’ll have to wait, you can fold towels. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

Then he left them. One of the other patients, Sam didn’t recognize him, was loading a washer with towels and soap. He looked pretty competent there doing what was for a mental patient a fairly complicated task. But then, yesterday, they’d been relegated to folding towels only, him and Dean, so maybe this was a step up. A kind of lunatic promotion.

“Looks like we got a raise,” said Dean, smirking. Which meant that he’d been thinking along the same lines as Sam. Like he’d known what Sam was thinking. Still, it didn’t feel as weird as it might have done, and Sam felt comfortable to be in the warm room, with Dean, the rain falling outside the windows, and the roar of the dryers cutting out the buzz in his head.

They spent the morning loading dryers, pulling the wet, sopping mass of towels from the washers and trundling the carts over to the nearest dryer. The cycle had a rhythm that was comforting, Sam felt the coil in his chest ease as they worked. Being beside Dean, working, was safe, no one was watching him, no one thought he was out of line or inflexible.

When they took a little water break, Dean made sure he drank the whole glass, and then drank one himself, ignoring Neland as he scowled. Maybe he always looked like that. At any rate, Dean didn’t seem to be bothered, so Sam didn’t let himself be bothered either.

They worked until lunchtime, which in addition to the usual pills, was baloney sandwiches and lukewarm chicken soup. When Sam balked at eating, Dean coaxed him into it, leading the way by eating everything on his tray, showing Sam how it was done. Then, after they turned in their trays, and got into line, Greer came along and took them towards one of the doors that led outside. Everyone got a jacket, and as they went outside, Sam could see why. It had stopped raining, but there was a brisk wind, and the damp air was chilly. He missed the laundry room, and wanted to be back there, but Greer was giving instructions, and Sam made himself pay attention.

“If you see anything that doesn’t look like grass, it’s a weed. Pull it. Partner up, get a bucket, put the weeds in there” He pointed to a large bin by the fence. “We’ll compost them.”

Sam looked across the green lawn, with the white fence along the river line and around the edges, and the neat rows of trees along the fence. The skies boiled a fine, filmy grey overhead. He thought he knew what composting was, but realized, as well, that there were chemicals that would kill weeds but not the grass, and that this was yet another example of forced labor. Dr. Logan called it work therapy, but Sam was still pretty sure it was illegal somehow.

As Dean came back from getting a bucket, his pants wet up to his ankles, Sam said, “This is illegal, you realize, all this weed pulling.”

Dean just laughed. His cheeks were already pink from the wind, his hair speckled with damp, but he bent and pulled weeds and put them in the bucket and smiled at Sam. It was almost dizzying, really, the lights in his eyes.

“If we see any dandelions, we can make a wish,” Dean said.

Sam knew this, had a memory of doing it on a hot summer day, watching the frail seeds float away bravely on the breeze. But what had he made a wish for? He couldn’t remember. He spotted one in the grass and even though it was half gone, he pulled it carefully and held it out for Dean.

“What would you wish for?” he asked, handing it over.

Dean took it and blew. The little white seeds pelted away in the breeze to be carried off to who knew where. There weren’t probably enough of the seeds to make a real wish, but Dean looked pleased with himself anyhow. “To be out of here,” he said.

Sam thought about this. “You have to get better first,” he said. Wondering how it would be to be alone in this place without Dean.

“Oh, I will,” said Dean.

Across the grass, Greer was coming towards them. “This isn’t stand around therapy, gentlemen,” he said, waving his hand to demonstrate that everyone else was working but Sam and Dean. “This is work therapy, so get to it.”

Just as Sam felt himself tightening up, Greer walked to the wheelbarrow where everyone was to dump their weeds and where one of the patients was shoving something into his mouth. “Bellows, don’t eat that!”

Dean looked at Sam and laughed. Sam almost felt himself laughing in return. Almost.

*

As they walked down the corridor from the Day room, it occurred to Dean that Sam was staring to trust him in spite of the fact that Dean had been the source of him getting a Treatment that could have been avoided, had Dean been smarter. But Sam did seem to trust him. Was looking at him, his face still, with dark green eyes somewhat dulled by the drugs, but aware. Although now, with Greer nearby, leading them down the hallway, and the sound of the chime alerting them to bedtime, Sam wasn’t as talkative as he’d been before.

As Dean stopped at the door to their room, he felt Sam slip between him and the wall, hunkering down as if that would help him, and Dean looked up and saw Dr. Logan approaching with Dr. Baylor. Both of them looked calm, but Sam was shaking behind him now, and when Dean looked, Sam’s hands were clenched on the legs of his pants so hard that Dean thought he could hear the sound of cloth tearing.

Dean moved his hand, and touched the back of Sam’s hand with his fingers, stroking slowly, the way he used to do when Sam and Dad would argue. Dean would reach down and touch Sam’s leg, not that it would stop him, but it seemed to bring him back to the reality of the table, in the restaurant or diner or wherever; he couldn’t take sides, but it seemed to help when Sam looked like he was about to lose it. Not that it had solved any argument, but Dean needed to do it. And Sam had responded to the touch.

Like he did now. He was still crouched behind Dean, but his breathing was slower. It must be freaking him out pretty badly that there were two doctors at one time.

“Dean, Sam,” said Dr. Logan. Then she turned to Greer. “Everything going well?”

Greer nodded, and said, “They’ve both been much more productive and cooperative since you teamed them up, I’d say.”

Dr. Logan looked at Dr. Baylor. “Sam will be in Group, if this keeps up. No talk about the blue man, right Dean?”

Dean nodded. Sam had been too busy for anything but good behavior, the most productive of thoughts, you bet.

“Of course it’s too soon to see how our experiment will play out,” said Dr. Logan. “But I’d say this is a good start.”

Dean nodded again. He wished they would just go away, couldn’t they see how they were upsetting Sam?

Dr. Baylor was looking at Sam, his eyes going up to accommodate Sam’s height. “Group will be a good experience, I think,” he said, his eyes flicking to Dean. “We’re learning to be flexible, aren’t we, Sam?”

He felt Sam shift behind him, and remembered that Sam hated to be referred to as part of a we; some teacher or social worker must have used it on him long ago with a too-bright smile and with no warmth whatsoever. Dean stepped back on his heel so his hip was brushing against Sam, his hand on Sam’s thigh.

“Every day and every way,” said Dean, remembering some line from some old movie.

“Very good,” said Dr. Logan. She looked so pleased with herself that Dean wanted to smack her. “I think Sam will remember how unproductive his talk about imaginary creatures is, and how it leads to Treatment.”

Sam’s whole body jerked at that, making him move forward to step on Dean’s heel. Dean grit his teeth and pretended it was a smile.

The regular orderly waited a minute as Greer and the doctors walked down the hall, then he gave them their pills to take and unlocked the door. Dean went into the bathroom to get some water.

When he came out, Sam was wedged in the narrow space between the beds. As Dean came closer, Sam pressed himself against the wall like a very large and terrified rabbit. The space was so narrow that he was at an angle. His skin was pale, eyes squinted halfway as though he were in pain. Dean watched as the front of Sam’s cotton pants darkened in long, loopy circles, and Dean realized that Sam was pissing himself. The insides of Sam’s legs darkened too, as a puddle formed beneath his slip-on sneakers.

Sam’s hair was damp against his neck as he shuddered and pressed himself harder into the pale wall, the glare of the lighting fixture making hollow dark spaces of his face. Dean could hear his brother’s teeth clicking together as the sharp smell of pee thickened the air. Sam was obviously two seconds away from shitting himself as well.

“Sam,” he said, determined not to repeat the cause for another freak out that would result in Sam getting dragged away for more Treatment.

“You were going to tell them,” said Sam, the quivers in his voice leaving ghostly echoes in Dean’s ears. Sam’s eyes flickered between Dean and the wall.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean started, but Sam rushed out his words like Dean hadn’t said anything.

“No, admit it, you were going to tell them.” His mouth was tight, teeth bared.

“I wasn’t,” said Dean. It felt almost worthless to say this because Sam was rigid suddenly, like he was choking on his tongue, like the memories were bashing against the back of his head sharp enough to blind. Dean knew the feeling. Could see the sheen of sweat Sam left on the wall as he ground his forehead against it. Sam clutched his pant leg and grunted like he wanted to say something about it.

“I didn’t tell,” said Dean. “And I won’t tell. Ever. Not in a million years.”

Then Sam looked at him. Eyes dark like somebody had used a cigarette to burn through his skull. His shorn hair stuck up with sweat. Dean wondered why on earth someone had felt it necessary to cut Sam’s hair like that. At least they’d not shaved him bald, but it made him look young. So young. Dean stifled the impulse to card his fingers through it to push it off Sam’s hot forehead.

As he looked at Sam, Dean realized that the room had gone quiet, and that Sam wasn’t looking at him. Was more apt to banging his head against the wall like that guy in the game room, Bellows. It was up to Dean. If Sam wasn’t filling the silence with his never-ending stream of opinions, theories, and emo babble, then Dean would have to.

“Look,” said Dean, not wanting to think how unnerved he was by Sam’s glare, the silence, the lack of words. “I won’t tell, I said I wouldn’t. You’re my roommate, plus you’re my-” H was about to say brother but that wasn’t fly. Not in here. He didn’t want to set Sam off. “My Sam.” He finished. Hoping it didn’t sound as lame to Sam as it did to him.

To his surprise, Sam’s shoulders came down a bit, mouth curled in a confused wriggle. His sneakers squished in the puddle. “I’m your Sam?”

“Uh,” said Dean. “It’s strange when you put it like that, but yeah, you’re my buddy Sam. We’re friends. You and I were on a road trip, and something happened.”

“Were we friends?” Sam asked.

His mouth opened and he wanted to say it. Badly. But he didn’t. Couldn’t, or Sam would go off again.

We were more than friends. We were brothers. We knew each other’s soul, inside and out. We were all we needed.

It was something he’d never thought before. Not in so many words. He was a little taken aback by the force of it.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Remember, I told you that. We were very good friends. I was, uh…doing an errand for my dad, and asked if you wanted to come. You said yes. So we started driving.”

“How did we end up here?”

For being in the loony bin, Sam was still a stickler for details.

Dean shrugged now, taking a step closer. “I don’t remember. I’m like you, I’ve got chunks missing from my head. And they keep changing my meds.”

Looking at his feet now, Sam nodded, contemplating the floor as he tapped one of his toes in the puddle of urine.

“I get that way when they change my meds, too,” Sam said, as if answering a question. “Sometimes. But I’m going to get better. That’s what they said.”

“In Group?” Dean asked, trying to imagine the likes of Randy Pointy Fingers dealing with Sam’s excitable nature, the flashpaper shifts in behavior.

“I don’t have Group,” said Sam, his teeth starting to chatter again. “I have Treatment.”

It sounded worse when Sam said it like that, with the dark belltones behind his voice.

“And one time after Treatment,” said Sam, his voice lowering to a whisper. “I had an accident.”

Dean felt part of himself pull away from this. San hadn’t had an accident since Dean and Dad had managed to wean him out of training pants.

Sam sniffed, nostrils curling like he could smell himself, his eyes sparking like he was on the verge of tears. “In the morning,” he said, “when they bring clean clothes, they’re going to know. And that’s bad. They didn’t like it the last time I did it.”

“Um,” Dean managed, trying to wrap his mind around it. How the hell he was going to fix this? It was a whole lot more intimate than just living in each other’s pockets 24/7. “Um.”

Looking up at him through dark lashes, Sam looked far younger than even twelve.

“Here,” Dean said, shrugging his shoulders back. He felt the big brother mantle he’d worn so often for so many years, slip over him. “Step out of that, and then take off your shoes.”

Sam’s expression had drawn together, like he thought Dean was trying to trick him.

“We’ll wash everything,” he said. “Well, rinse it out at least. In the morning, it might be wrinkled but it won’t look like-” He stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. It won’t look like you pissed yourself. Like a kid.

“You can do that?” asked Sam, not moving.

Currents of something warm pushed up through Dean’s chest. Sam on the ground crying because the chain of the bicycle he’d borrowed from the kid next door had fallen off, and Sam had only been riding for a minute. Whether he was more worried about the kid or not getting his fair share had never been clear. The look on his face, the smile in his eyes as Dean said he could put the chain back on in two seconds or less. And Sam’s amazed you can do that?

“Yeah,” he said. “C’mon now. Lights go out at some point here, and I don’t want to be bumping into walls.”

“There’s light always coming through the window,” said Sam, loftily. “You won’t bump into anything.”

Not afraid of the dark, then, at least. That was a good thing. Dean waved Sam closer to him, and Sam complied, leaving a narrow trail of pee that shimmered as he walked. “Take those off,” he said. “Bathroom, okay? We’ll do it in there.”

Sam’s mouth was tight with worry.

“I promise,” said Dean. “It’s not a big deal and I really won’t tell. I know what they’re like when you mess up. I won’t let them get you.”

Sam nodded, and moved, smelling even stronger as he came closer, and as he did, he looked away. At the floor. At his hands. Anywhere but Dean. Dean knew that if he had been soaked in his own pee, he would have been the same way.

The bathroom was long and narrow, the heavy, old fashioned tub sitting on top of a long pedestal that was probably there so the orderly on duty wouldn’t have to stoop if he had to help someone with a bath. Which probably wasn’t a bad idea.

Still not looking at Dean, Sam peeled himself out of his clothes. Everything was cotton, and soaked through, except for the stiff t-shirt, which still smelled like Sam’s sweat. That was familiar at least. As was the smell of Sam’s piss; there’d been plenty of times Dean had been second in the bathroom, or stood side by side with Sam at a public urinal.

Sam put everything in the sink, shoes and all, and turned to Dean, naked as the dawn, eyes still askance, his hair glued to his forehead in short spikes.

“I’m sticky,” said Sam, and Dean nodded. Sam’s knobby knees were very familiar. He could see the streaks on Sam’s thighs, the way his pubic hair was stuck to his skin, trailing across his penis. Dean sighed and looked at the bar of soap, the two thin washcloths and towels. Everything would have to be rinsed out, but he could wipe the floor down once he was done with Sam and no one would be wiser come the morning.

“Okay. I’ll run the tub.” He felt Sam moving at his side. “Don’t get in till I get it right, okay. Remember-” he stopped himself, wanting to tell the story, but not wanting Sam to get all riled up again. When Sam had been four, he’d jumped into the tub before Dean had set the temperature and had run shrieking to Dad, naked, from the bathroom. Only the fact that the water had still been cold, rather than scalding, had saved Dean from landing in deep trouble.

“I like it hot,” said Sam. Of course he did. Sam was forever hopping in the shower first, using all the hot water, and never mind that most motels had at least ten rooms, Sam managed to use the hot water for each and every one.

Dean ran the tub full of the hottest water he could manage, which was barely more than warm, but it would have to do. Behind him, Sam shifted from foot to foot. Dean didn’t blame him, or tell him to stop. The floor was like ice and there was a current of chill air coming from somewhere. He turned off the taps and tested the water one more time with his hand. Not hot enough to boil spaghetti, like Sam liked it, but warm enough. He shook his hand out.

“In,” he said. Like he’d said a thousand times since Sam was little.

Sam got in the tub, sloshing water everywhere, like he always did, and whatever was all torqued up in Dean’s chest loosened a little. It was just Sam; he could handle this. He reached for the bar of soap and one of the washcloths and held them out, resting his wrist on the edge of the tub.

Shaking his head, Sam shoved Dean’s hand away; the soap flopped in the water. “I can’t have the soap,” he said.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I eat it.”

Dean’s mouth fell open, as Sam continued. “It doesn’t taste very good. It bubbles and stings. What I’d really like is chalk to eat, but they won’t give me that.”

Dean felt his eyebrows flying up to his forehead. Sam used to like to eat weird stuff when he was a kid, anything white. Paper, salt, snow, sugar. Dad had said it would wear off, and it did, eventually. Sam still liked to chew ice, but that was normal.

“Get me the soap, Sam,” he said, looking at the curve of Sam’s shoulder as he hunched in the water. At the way Sam’s damp hair curled against his neck, tucking up beneath his ears. All familiar.

“No, I’m not supposed to touch it.”

“Sam.”

“I’m not supposed to touch it.”

“What’re you, three?’

“No,” said Sam. “I’m being good so I can get better.”

That chin was out, mulish, and there was no moving it. Dean heaved in a breath and reached into the tub, closing his eyes as the side of his hand brushed against Sam’s submerged thigh.

“Just-just don’t move, okay?”

Sam nodded, and Dean managed to find the soap on the first swipe of his fingers along the bottom of the tub, towards the edge. Then he started scrubbing away, using the soap and the washcloth alternately. He got the back of Sam’s neck, his back, anywhere he could see and reach. Everything else, every other part of Sam could just soak itself clean. He made Sam duck his head and rinsed the soap out of his hair. Then he reached for the plug and pulled it.

“Out,” he said, just like he had a thousand times since Sam was little.

Sam was obedient, and whether his meds had kicked in or the water had made him sleepy, either was as possible as the other. But it made Sam compliant as Dean rubbed him down with one of the towels. Then he directed his brother to the bed.

“Change into your p.j.’s so you don’t get cold.” Sam started walking away. “And don’t step in the pee.”

Dean rinsed out Sam’s boxers and pants and the shirt and the sneakers in the tub while the tap ran cold. After wringing everything out, he draped the clothes around the bathroom where hopefully they would dry enough to fool the morning orderly. If they didn’t have an obvious odor or stain, then it might work. He’d hate to see Sam in another Treatment session if he could help it.

He took both towels and wiped the floor, on his hands and knees while Sam watched from the bed with big eyes. By the time Dean rinsed those out and spread them on the towel rack, he could hear the warning chime for lights out. He was exhausted, like part of him had been drained away with the heat of the tub, and if he didn’t lie down, he was going to fall down. The meds had kicked in long ago, it was a wonder his eyes were still open.

Even though he’d been warned, when the lights went out, he was still startled, standing there at the edge of the bed. He changed into his p.j.’s in the dark and kicked off his shoes and toed them out of the way under the bed. He heard Sam moving.

“I’m cold,” said Sam.

It was a voice he knew, just as he realized that Sam was now sitting on his bed. Even though Sam had been taken over by whatever had taken his memory, even though Sam was by turns a scary, dangerous or compliant mental patient, he was still Sam. Still his little brother. Wanting comfort.

“Okay,” said Dean. He reached for the blanket from Sam’s bed. They could share both blankets and be warmer that way.

He settled in beside Sam, fluffing the blankets over them both, memories of so many nights sharing a bed easing his muscles into a familiar pattern. And, just as familiar, Sam’s knee in his side. It was good to lay back and feel Sam beside him, although he felt more numb than grateful; the damn drugs ran a continuous filter over his whole system.

“Scoot,” he said. “You’re too big to sprawl like that.”

Sam complied with a huff. Then in the silence, he turned on his side towards Dean. He seemed to be thinking as he looked at Dean a minute, then he said, “Before I was big, I was little.”

Dean turned his head. Sam’s eyes were open and shimmering in the light from the high narrow window. “What?”

He watched Sam blink. “Before I was big, I was little,” he said. “But then I got too big to hold. My brother said so.”

It took Dean a good long minute to figure out what Sam was talking about. It was something about Dean. Sam was talking about him. But what was the memory? When had he said this. Hearing the ache in Sam’s voice, it seemed a cold thing to have done, even if it might have been awkward if a sixteen-year old Sam still wanted hugs.

“Uh.”

The dark head tipped itself forward on the pillow until it was resting against Dean’s shoulder. A little damp, still, tickling him, but that was nothing. He had Sam, if not completely aware, then definitely alive, and sometimes kicking.

Having Sam at his side was as familiar as yesterday, and yet. Yet thinking he was dead for what had felt like forever, coming out of the floundering darkness to find that it wasn’t so felt new. Like being born. Over and over, each time he looked at Sam, turning his head in the slanted light from the window.

“I miss him,” said Sam, dipped down, his lips moving against Dean’s skin. “I can’t get over missing him. It’s why I can’t get better.”

Dean felt the shiver move through him. Sam’s breath felt like a kiss, and the break and reach of Sam’s voice crackled like glass. He would fix this. He could fix this, now that he had Sam. But right now it felt like he’d be trying to pull Sam out of a deep well with no rope.

He had to get them off the drugs and find a way out of there, past the bars on the windows and the locks on the doors. But the window in their room was too narrow to get out of and too high to reach anyway. He’d have to figure out a way to get past all those attentive doctors and orderlies. It figured that the place they’d ended up in wouldn’t be one of those slip-shod state-run mental institutions. No. They had to find the only place in the state of Illinois, maybe even the whole country, where the staff had only the best intentions towards the patients. And that included not letting them go until the hospital felt they were ready. It was the worst of all possible worlds.

Sam shifted beside him, as if feeling the tenseness in Dean’s body. Dean rolled his shoulders to try and shake it off and circled his arm across Sam.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

There was a heft of Sam’s chest and a sigh. “Thanks for helping me,” he said, pausing like he wanted to say something else. But all he said was, “Thanks.”

Chapter 8

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post