Blue Skies From Rain Part 4 - Chapter 17
It was good to get inside out of the rain, even if Randy kept insisting that Sam was bumping into him on purpose. Even if the smell of wet socks and sneakers smelled more like wet dog, wet old dog, than just damp cotton. Even if lunch was lame meatloaf with stewed tomatoes and mashed potatoes that were more chunks of ice than anything else. He tried another mouthful. Yes, definitely chunks of ice. The rolls were soggy as well. Dean’s stomach growled. With no meds-well, that was that then. He’d been without pills for a few days. Sam, attempting to scrape the tomatoes off the meatloaf with the edge of his spoon, wasn’t faring much better.
“When was your last pill?” he asked.
Sam didn’t look up, glowering at a spot of red he couldn’t quite budge. “Two days ago.”
They were clean. They had to be clean because Dean knew he was getting less able to resist Sam.
“So, okay,” Dean said, taking some milk. “I have this idea. I want to get out of here, you wanna come?”
He’d expected Sam to jump up and shout hurray or something, but Sam just wrinkled his brow and picked around the onions in the meatloaf, his mouth frowning as he tried to eat the remains of his picking. “Out of the dining hall?” He looked up at Dean now, and then longingly at Dean’s roll, which although soggy, wasn’t burned like Sam’s was. Dean handed it over to him.
“No, I mean, out of here. This place. Wouldn’t you like to be on the open road? We could get the car, and continue on our road trip. What do you say?”
“The car’s in an impound lot in Joliet, you said,”
“Yeah, so we’ll get it.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever, Sam, look, do you want to come?” He lowered his voice as he reached out to touch Sam’s arm, making his voice a little sweet. “I want you to.”
Now Sam looked at him, all of his attention on Dean, and not on the food, or the noise around them, or anything else. Looking only at Dean with eyes, beneath the sprawl of dark bangs, that were beautiful and bright and full of surprise.
“Come with you?”
“Yeah.” Dean’s heart was starting to tighten at the thought that Sam might not want to come with him. The idea had not actually occurred to him; he’d not made a Plan B for that. So he added, “Please?”
“Out of here,” Sam said. “With you.” Dean watched him twist his fingers around the spoon, the skin under his eyes starting to twitch. “Am I better?”
“Well,” said Dean, wishing he’d anticipated this. “You still have amnesia, but I think you’re better now. And together we’ll find someone who knows us, knows you and me.”
Still Sam hesitated, as if there was an actual doorway in front of him, and stepping across the threshold was pushing it; here was where everything was known and, even if confining, safe. Out there, with Dean, it was a wild world.
“We’ll be together, I promise.” He pulled out all the stops because he had to. “You’re my Sam, and I’ll take care of you. We’ll take care of each other.”
That made Sam’s head dip down, a bashful little slide of his mouth as he tried not to smile. “Okay,” he said, to his hands, not really talking to Dean. “We’ll go through that window, right?”
“You bet,” said Dean. Having got that part over, he felt a little better, and thought about taking a bite of meatloaf. “I just need some heavy duty paper clips and we are all set.” Give him a paper clip and he could get out of anywhere, just anywhere.
*
After lunch, the rain let up. The orderlies had a discussion over the lists and the clipboards, and Sam and Dean were taken with the group outside to work on the rock wall. Greer and another orderly handed out shovels for some of the men to start laying a line of drainage gravel alongside the edge of the plastic fence. It seemed strange to give a bunch of loonies something as heavy and potentially dangerous as a shovel, but then he looked around and realized that guys like Randy and Bellows didn’t have shovels. They were only picking up rocks and trash. Dean made sure him and Sam got a shovel; shoveling would make a nice change from the constant bend and throw of picking up trash or stray rocks. Besides, it would allow them to be a little apart from the group, and he needed to tell Sam something. No time like now.
They shoveled a load of gravel into the wheelbarrow and Sam wanted to push it, so Dean let him, and carried both of the shovels. They got to the furthest line of the fence where the line of gravel stopped and the fence canted south. The sun kept trying with feeble thrusts to come through the clouds, but the fence cut the wind, so even though it was chilly, it was nicer than being inside, nice to be moving. Nice to be out here with Sam, plus the semi-privacy made the perfect opportunity to tell Sam what he had to tell him. Hopefully Sam would understand.
“Hey, Sam,” said Dean.
“Yeah?” Sam didn’t look up from his shoveling, just tossed his hair back from his eyes with a flick and gauged where the gravel should go with his eyes. Frowning.
“So, when we’re out of here, we’re going to have to stop.” Dean kept his voice even and firm, so Sam would know he meant business.
“Stop what?”
Taking a breath, Dean chewed on the inside of his mouth for a minute. “Stop what we’re doing, you know?”
“Stop-” Sam stopped. He leaned on his shovel and looked at Dean. “Stop shoveling gravel? But we just started.”
“No, I mean-” Now Dean stopped too, his posture echoing Sam’s. “No, I mean stop, you know, at night. We can’t do that anymore.”
It took Sam a moment to figure it out, but he did, his eyebrows flew up. Dean was glad he didn’t have to speak the actual words aloud, it would have made it so much worse.
“Don’t they allow that, out there?”
“Um, no, it’s not that, it’s just that, out there, we like girls. Most men like girls.”
“Maybe,” said Sam. He was staring at Dean hard now. “I remember some girls. Not their names, but their faces. I liked them. I liked them a lot. But I like you now. In fact I-”
“Shut up, Sam.” It had gone too far, it really had. Dean knew exactly what Sam was going to say, what he was prepared to say, and it was the last thing Dean wanted to hear. Sam was one of those romantics, all soft and gullible, taking kisses for promises, and touches as tokens. It was just like him to imagine that everything he and Dean had been doing meant that-anger sparked hot in his gut. “When we leave, we’re done, okay? No more.”
“But, Dean-” Sam spread his hands, still holding the shovel. His mouth was open, soft, his eyes were wide and glittering with hurt. The wind tossed his hair in his eyes, and he wiped it away, blinking fast. “I like doing that with you, I like being like that with you. And I know you do too, so why should we stop?”
Dean felt the fury come up like someone had slapped him in the face. It was just like Sam to want what he wanted, and he had always gotten his way; he was spoiled, expecting that Dean would give it to him, just because he wanted it. He stepped forward, jaw coming out, hands fists. He was shaking, and down deep inside he knew that none of this was Sam’s fault, not really. But he shoved that thought down hard, because if it wasn’t Sam’s fault, and if Sam was right-
He knew, right then and there, that he’d been living in a grey dream world, touching Sam and being with Sam and convincing himself that it was okay because it was for Sam. The djinn had started it by messing with their heads, but Dean knew he had only himself to blame for the mess he’d created. He had to stop it.
“But I don’t like it, okay? You just don’t get it, do you.” He leaned his shovel against the wheelbarrow and moved closed to give Sam a little push, his fingers poking into Sam’s shoulders, and he watched as Sam’s whole face went white. Sam’s shoulders rolled forward, and Sam was looking at him as if he, Dean, were dangerous and unpredictable.
“You keep asking and you won’t take no for an answer-” Dean gave another shove, this time with the heel of his palms, making Sam stumble backwards.
Sam’s face was tense with lines of panic, pupils huge, the sweat bright along his forehead as his mouth worked to get the words out. “But you said-you said-”
You said okay. Never without your permission and you said okay.
That’s what Sam was thinking, Dean could see it as clearly as if had been written on Sam’s face, on his body, now shaking as Sam’s hands gripped the handle of his shovel. He swallowed and took a breath, and tried to stand up straight and look Dean in the eye, but he was casting glances around, just like he expected someone or something to jump out of the shadows at him. Dean knew it would take only one more push to send Sam tumbling over the edge. But Sam had to understand that Dean did not want it. Dean had never wanted any of it, it had all been for Sam. Always. Right? Right?
“I don’t want to leave,” said Sam. His eyes had tears in them, sparkling and unshed. “Maybe I want to stay here with you, if leaving means-”
“I’m leaving, you’re coming with me, that’s it. Discussion over. You got that?”
Sam looked like Dean had smashed him in the face. Hard.
“No,” said Sam. “No. Please, Dean, no.”
“You come with me or I’ll leave you here. Then you can find somebody else to-”
Sam’s face went white, the color of iced paper, and as he opened his mouth, the tears streaked like hot mercury down his face. Dean watched as Sam’s whole body tightened up, and weeks of gentle, low discussions and sweet touches and nights spent breathing slow, crumbled away.
Dean’d just fucked it all up beyond repair, he knew, seeing Sam’s expression, like someone had torn out his heart, but it was for the best. If not now, when? Later? On the road? That would be playing into Sam’s fantasies that this thing, this thing between them could last. Would last. When it absolutely shouldn’t. It needed to stop before they left here, so that Dean could leave it behind him. Leave it at the hospital. Leave everything he’d done to Sam in here. Everything he’d let Sam do to him. Done. In the dust. If there’d been a gas pedal beneath his foot, he would have stepped on it. Instead he stood there and glared at Sam; he had to make the words stick, even though he wanted to take them back, because he’d just threatened Sam with his very worst fear, the one thing that Dean promised he’d never do: that Dean would leave him.
Sam lurched forward, stumbling on the wet grass, reaching for Dean. He still had the shovel in his hand, and as he slipped, it whapped Dean in the head, making him see stars, sending a heated sting into his skull. But Sam he didn’t seem to realize this, and grabbed at Dean’s jacket, his arms flailing, whapping him in the jaw, still holding the shovel.
A second later, Dean realized that Sam wasn’t flailing, he was hitting, on purpose. That Sam was mad enough to freak out and start hurting, not having any other better way to deal. Dean raised his arms to protect his head, and felt the shovel handle hit him smack in his rib. Saw Sam’s teeth bare like he was going to bite, felt the punch to his jaw. He tasted salt in his mouth, and heard the blood roaring in his ears as he held up his arms to break the next blow, aimed at his head, that sent him tumbling to the ground.
He tried kicking out, kicking himself mentally, should have seen it coming, Sam, just coming off meds, reverting in a heartbeat. Faster than that. Lashing out, using the shovel handle like a quarterstaff, expressing the boiling anger the only way that made sense to him. The next blow across Dean’s thigh didn’t matter; he wanted to scream in frustration. A second later, Greer was there wrestling the shovel away from Sam as someone pulled Dean across the grass, away from Sam, streaking his pants with mud.
“This has gotten out of hand,” said Greer. “That boy-” he started, but then he stopped, concentrating on trying to hold on to Sam, Sam who looked like he wanted to do nothing more than murder Dean, teeth bared, growling, foam lining his lips. “Anybody got-?” Greer never finished what he was asking for, another orderly ran out, ran across the grass to Sam, using a blow to fell him to his knees. Sam snarled as he tumbled at Dean’s feet, dark hair falling across his eyes.
Sam reached for Dean, and Dean struggled to move away as Sam’s hands landed on him, brief, hard, fingers digging in to Dean’s arm. As they pulled Sam off, Dean curled into a ball on the wet grass, watching them as they cuffed Sam and stabbed him with something to get him calm. Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head, but he managed to keep his face pointed to where Dean was, sightless, mouth open. Panting. Mouth turning down as the aggression melted, as if he’d just realized what was happening.
“Don’t leave me,” Sam said, as they started hauling him off. “Dean, please, please, don’t leave me-”
Dean buried his head in his hands, wet grass poking up into his face, and tried not to hear the words that were breaking his heart.
They dragged Sam off, kicking and pleading, calling for Dean, Dean, Dean, but all Dean could do was lay there in the grass, panting, feeling the drops from the sky across the back of his neck, not questioning why everything tasted bitter. It was the right thing to do, of course it was, Sam had to know sooner or later. It was all black and white to Dean now, but he sucked big time at the gentle talk, instead he’d made Sam come apart. Dean wanted Sam to give up something that he wanted, that made him feel better. Dean tried to push up with his hands, but something in his ribs screamed at him, and his left thigh gave a big, jagged throb and gave up on him.
Greer was there, pulling him up. “Can you stand. Can you walk? How many fingers can you see?”
“Just the one that says fuck you,” said Dean, biting back a wave of nasty white that ran up his neck.
“Knock it off Dean. Edgerton, get him to the Infirmary, I’ll get these men inside before it rains. Again.”
“I have a splinter,” said Randy, coming up, holding his own hand in a death grip, so tightly that all his fingers were white. He looked at Dean like he wanted to cry. “I need to go, too.”
“Alright, you-take them both, and I’ll get word to Dr. Logan about this mess, okay?”
*
The infirmary was a cold place on the first floor, way behind the main gates that separated the ward from the hospital’s public offices. Edgerton did paperwork on a clipboard while Dr. Silvers, according to his name badge, led Dean and Randy to a metal table.
With one look at Randy, the doctor had him wait in a chair by the little table, signed the papers, and waved Edgerton off. He was an older man with white hair and a little hitch in his step, but didn’t look at all concerned to be locked alone in a room with two crazy men. Not even one who, when he looked in the first real mirror he’d seen in ages, saw blood everywhere. Dean looked away, at the doctor.
Dr. Silvers motioned Dean to take a seat on the table. Dean heaved himself up, wet clothes sticking to him, hoping his ribs were just bruised not broken. Wondering where the hell Sam was. Hating himself because he was an asshole, and not sure which had been the worst thing he’d done, either leading Sam on or stopping him.
“You let someone get the jump on you, I see,” Dr. Silvers said, washing his hands. He put on a pair of thin rubber gloves. “Though you look like a fellow who can handle himself, so I’d say…”
He let his voice trail off as he walked up to Dean, reaching out with steady hands to touch Dean’s forehead and tip his head to the side. “I’d say….you didn’t fight back, did you. Well, that’s the nobler thing to do of course….” His voice trailed off again.
“Just patch me up, okay?” said Dean. “And some aspirin, if you got ‘em.” Though he probably didn’t deserve even that for what he’d done. What he’d spent time planning and weeks doing, and taking only seconds to ruin everything.
“Let me finish,” said the doctor, like Dean had interrupted him. He waved his hand over Dean. “Anywhere else but the obvious here?”
“Uh,” said Dean.
“Take your shirt off, please.”
Dean struggled with his wet shirt, until the doctor gave him a hand, and then he stood there, touching Dean along his side. Dean didn’t look down. He didn’t want to see the marks of Sam’s anger.
“Sam was going to jump on him,” said Randy, wiggling. “I could see it.”
“He got me with a shovel handle,” said Dean, making a report. “Ribs, thigh, head. That’s it.”
“Your lip is bleeding.”
Dean licked them. “The shovel handle got me,” he said. Then at the doctor’s raised eyebrows, he added. “But not very hard. Can I get some aspirin?”
“Something for that. Ice.” The doctor made a note on his clipboard and then looked at Randy. “You’re next, so don’t be going anywhere.”
Randy wiggled, pleased with the attention, and watched as the doctor stepped into the little alcove. Dean could hear the ice rattling, felt Randy looking at him.
“He was going to do it to you,” said Randy, whispering. “He was going to take off your clothes and fuck you right there on the grass-”
Dean turned, snarling, his ribs feeling like they were biting each other. His head pounded. “You shut your fucking cakehole or I will shut it for you.”
He didn’t want to think that even if Randy got the details wrong, the argument had been about that. Not wanting to admit that yes, Sam had wanted it, and that the idea was now firmly planted in his own head, and, maybe, not all that unwanted. Sam had had his hands all over Dean. Dean’d liked it. Had wanted more. But he couldn’t let himself have it again, not ever. It was wrong and he was right to stop it. But not like this, not by tearing Sam down to the bone, stripping him of every strength, all the trust he’d had in Dean, that kept him safe.
Oh, Sam.
Dean kept himself from sinking his head into his hands, wanting to sooth the headache and unproductive thoughts, but not wanting Randy to see him slip.
The doctor came back and handed Dean some pills and a cup of water. Dean slammed the pills back, eager, sucking back the water, crushing the cup in his hand. The doctor took the cup and threw it away. “Here’s the ice.”
Dean took the plastic bag and put it against the side of his head where the throb was the strongest.
Before Dean could say anything else, the doctor turned to Randy and tsked tsked over an invisible splinter, slathering on antibiotic ointment like Randy’s skin would fall off and wither if he didn’t. Then he slapped on a big, pink bandage, and gave Randy a hearty pat on the arm.
“Time to go, Randy, see you next week.”
Edgerton came in and took Randy away.
“That’s a hard beating,” said Dr. Silvers. He was pulling off the plastic examination gloves and turned to throw them in the trash. Then he washed his hands as he talked to himself. “Shovel handles are heavy things,” he said. “In the wrong, or right hands….”
Dr. Silvers filled out paperwork on his clipboard. Dean looked down. The clipboard had sheets of paper stuck under the clip, and on those pieces of paper were-
Dean stopped and took a breath, quick, between his teeth.
Paper clips.
“Could I have-” he stopped, then held out the half melted bag of ice. “Could I have some more ice, please?” Even though he’d messed everything up, and would have to sweet talk Sam into leaving with him all over again, the plan was still the plan. And for the plan, he needed paperclips. His heartbeat sped up so fast, he was sure Dr. Silvers would be able to tell.
But Dr. Silvers nodded and as he got up, he laid the clipboard down on the metal stool. Dean grabbed five paperclips while Dr. Silvers in the alcove getting more ice, and he bent down to slip them to his thin socks. Dr. Silvers came back, and Dean scratched his leg as he sat up, reaching with one hand to grab the bag of ice and slap it upside his head. Scowling to hide the thumping of his heart. He and Sam were getting the hell out of there. Even if Sam now hated him.
“You’re a little worse for wear,” Dr. Silvers said. “I think I’ll keep you here for observation.”
He grabbed the clipboard and sat back down, flipping through the pages, making sure he’d updated his notes.
Dean waited, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He watched Dr. Silvers looking at the space where the paperclips had been. But Dr. Silvers didn’t say anything. Maybe he was too busy mulling the situation over in his mind.
“Come on then, let’s get you settled.” The doctor stood up and reached for the phone.
Dean only listened with half an ear as the doctor talked to someone about a night nurse. Then the doctor got up and motioned for Dean to follow him as he unlocked a door to a little room with two white beds, and white sheets. The sun was going down and security lights poured through the window, which, naturally, had bars along the window. The homey touch was added to by the lack of curtains. Each bed had a little metal nightstand next to it, with a little lamp and a bible.
“It’s not fancy, we send our really bad cases to the main hospital in Peoria,” said Dr. Silvers, “but it’s good in a pinch. The nurse will be here in a minute to help you change into some dry clothes. You’ll want to get some rest, and if you need anything, just ring the buzzer. And Dean?”
“Huh?”
“Your friend is going to be in Treatment all night,” said Dr. Silver. “In the morning he’ll be better.”
Dean wanted nothing more than to tell the doctor to go fuck himself, but then, he’d be in hot water and then how the hell were they supposed to get out?
He could only glare at the doctor as he left, and then at the male nurse who came in and fussed over Dean, and got him pajamas and watched while he brushed his teeth and who was too blind to notice when Dean bent to slip the paperclips from his socks to his underwear, clipping them along the elastic. They were cold, very cold against his skin, but they might be their only way out.
He got in the bed, not responding to the nurse’s comment about how he’d be just outside the door if Dean needed anything. He lay his head back on the pillow. He could feel the cool lines of the paperclips against his skin, but he didn’t let himself reach down to make sure they were still there. Even if there was no camera in the room, there was still the nurse who might be in at any moment to check on his patient.
Dean stared at the darkness of the ceiling, blinking away the heat in his eyes. He’d hurt Sam, down deep inside, where Sam was most vulnerable, most in need of care. Dean knew that, and still he’d gone in there, ripping and shredding, undoing all his hard work. Undoing all the kisses and hugs and the closeness and the touching, oh, my God, the touching. All that touching, which had a purpose, a real purpose, to help them get out, wiped out, just like that. Just by telling Sam no and I’ll leave you. That was the most damning thing of all.
He turned on his side, feeling the rustle of sheets against his skin, thinking that the pillow was fluffier than the one in their room. The room that neither him or Sam would be sleeping in tonight. Sam who was in Treatment-
Shit.
Dean sat up, slamming his feet against the cold linoleum floor, letting the warmth of the blankets fall away. The bed was comfortable and soft in comparison to the one in their room, not to mention in comparison to the Treatment table. Where Sam was, all alone and trussed up and pumped full of something to keep him docile and still. Screaming in the dark, feeling betrayed because Dean had been unable to keep it in his pants from the get go, had been unable to be nice and kind and touch Sam without touching him. He wasn’t the best brother, he was the worst brother, the worst friend. And he didn’t deserve this bed.
He stood up and looked at the floor that gleamed in the light from the window. Acidy claws tore at him in his gut, the thought of Sam, hurt and not understanding why Dean had been so nice and then, suddenly, so mean, because Sam had wanted only to kiss Dean on the mouth, and snuggle close as they both fell asleep. Wanted only to be with Dean, and was now all alone, thinking that Dean had betrayed him, like he’d thought in the beginning, that Dean was only waiting for his moment to turn on Sam. And Dean had proved Sam exactly right.
Dean tore the blanket from the bed and spread it on the floor. He didn’t deserve a pillow, no, but if he didn’t have the blanket, he’d be too cold to fall asleep. And he needed to fall asleep so he could black out the image of Sam’s face, eyes wide with shock, mouth pulled down tight as it tried not to quiver. As Sam tried not to cry. Just before he’d tried to kill Dean. Or, at the very least, tear him up pretty bad. Not that Dean hadn’t deserved it. He had, oh, he had. And he deserved worse. But what could be worse than having Sam hate him? Nothing. Not even letting Sam fuck him.
He knelt down on the blanket, thinking that if he knew any prayers, this would be the time for them. But as he lay down on his side, ribs screaming at him, thigh bunching in protest, and cradled his head on his arm, his only prayer was Sam. Sam’s sweet face, green eyes blinking in the morning light, wanting a kiss. Was that so bad? A kiss? If only Dean had left it that. If only he’d been able to.
He closed his eyes and thought about how they would escape, him and Sam. About how it would be with the full sky overhead. And how the rain would feel on their bare skins as they walked in the darkness.
Chapter 18
Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post