Blue Skies From Rain Part 4 - Chapter 20

[lovesrain44]

 

He should have waited till they were out of the hospital to tell Sam that they couldn’t be together like that anymore. He should have waited and been patient instead of getting worried and doing a half-assed job, and screwing everything up to the point where he had to start all over again. Putting Sam through Treatment, where they’d messed up his system with full doses of stuff his body simply wasn’t used to anymore.

Dr. Logan had even stopped by in the dining hall, not five minutes before, to talk to Dean and mention that they were going to be keeping a sharp eye on Sam’s meds, and maybe even adjusting some of them, and could Dean keep a lookout for any sudden changes? This made Dean break out in a sweat, making him shiver, because if everyone was watching Sam, it would almost be impossible to get Sam back off the meds. Especially if Sam wasn’t being cooperative, if he decided that doing it Dr. Logan’s way was the best way, and that Dean could shove his plan right up his ass.

Which is what the look that Sam was giving him now said, as he ate his oatmeal with only a little bit of milk and almost no sugar, having pushed Dean away when he tried to doctor it up. Scowling now, brows low over his eyes, head tucked down. He shoveled the oatmeal in, grimly, the spoon held in his tight fist.

They were back to square one, day one. Minute one. And this in spite of the moment yesterday on the couch, when Sam had pulled Dean to him, his green eyes deep and warm, his body curving towards Dean on the couch.

Where Sam had said, I love you, Dean.

The words had spiked into Dean’s heart so hard, so suddenly there and a part of him, to take them out would have meant tearing at his own flesh. He’d not known what to say to Sam, and that had been his next mistake, because afterwards, Sam had withdrawn into himself, not eating lunch, or his supper, not talking much to Dean. And in the room, sleeping in Dean’s bed, yes, but out of habit. He had faced away from Dean, and the bend of his spine and the soft skin on his neck was the only glimpse of Sam that Dean got.

And in the morning, in the line outside the dining hall, Sam had taken his pills, right in front of Dean, like Dean wasn’t even standing in line next to him. Which meant that he had to be feeling like crap right about now. It wasn’t any good to go up and down and then up again with the meds, especially as strong as these were. And maybe that was it, the explanation for at least some of it, Sam felt like crap. And maybe the part of Sam that didn’t feel like he wanted to puke was waiting for Dean to say something in response to yesterday’s comment. But what could he say to that? Sure, I love you, but we’re brothers? No, not at this stage in the game. When he got Sam out, yes, he could tell him the truth, because even if Sam freaked out, and he would, no one would be taking Sam from him. But not now, not in here.

As breakfast ended, and Dean stood up with his tray, he nudged Sam with his fingers, gently, to get Sam to look at him. When Sam did, Dean almost staggered under the weight. Sam’s eyes were empty, and they weren’t looking at Dean, they were looking through him.

“Hey, Sam,” he said, bending close, “we’re done eating, let’s go. It isn’t raining, maybe we’ll get to go outside.”

Sam opened his mouth. “The sky-” he began, and then he stopped.

Dean knew what he was going to say. The sky is too big. Which meant that Sam was overwhelmed, Sam was drowning. It was up to Dean to be calm, to show him out it was done. To take Sam down the path he had taken him on before, only a little faster this time. Sam had one day’s worth of meds in him, and if Dean could convince him to take half and then half and then half, they could maybe leave in three days. Maybe less. If, of course, Dean could get Sam to trust him all over again. Which would mean giving Sam what he needed and wanted, without counting the cost. Even if it was weird for him, and messed him up, if it was what Sam needed, if Sam wanted them fucking in the dark, then it would just have to be. And then after, when they were out of the hospital, Dean could call it off, and tell Sam the truth. But more gently.

Dean nudged Sam again, and tipped his head to show which direction they would be walking. Sam stood up and stuck close to Dean all the way to the counter where they dropped off their trays. Sam had hardly eaten anything, Dean saw, and had only drunk one of the cartons of milk. He’d be feeling like hell come lunchtime, and thirsty besides.

They got into line, and Sam was at his elbow the whole time they walked down the hall. It might have been habit, or the fact that Sam didn’t know anyone else, but it was someplace to start. In fact it was the only place to start.

At the door, as the line clumped to a stop, Greer was handing out jackets, and Dean stepped forward to take two of them. Greer raised his eyebrows as if to ask Dean how it was going, and Dean shrugged. Then Greer turned to someone else as Dean held out the jacket for Sam.

“It’s windy,” he said. “You need help with this?”

After hesitating a second, Sam shook his head no and took the jacket. As he put it on, he rolled his shoulders and fumbled with the zipper. Dean stepped in and gently took the zipper and latched it together, zipping it up Sam’s chest, letting his fingers stay on Sam longer than they needed to.

“Stay close, Sam,” he said. “Don’t get blown away.”

Sam looked at him, his whole body still like he’d forgotten how to move it. His eyes were on Dean, trying to focus, tilted down at the corners, and he reached out one of his hands. It was only a small motion, but Dean caught it and reached out to touched the curve of Sam’s palm with his fingers.

“It’s going to be okay, Sam,” he said. “I promise.”

*

They worked outside in the yard, picking up stones and pebbles from the emerald green lawn. Dean was beginning to suspect that the orderlies went around at night spreading the stones that the patients had picked up the day before. Otherwise, how did the stones get there? They didn’t have legs, and there were always so many of them. This idea supported Sam’s theory that the work was the important part, the therapy, and the results didn’t matter at all.

Beside him, with his shoulders down and his hands hanging at his side as he held the bucket, Sam stood there and watched as Dean picked up the stones. That was okay, it didn’t matter who did the work because it wasn’t real work anyway. What mattered was that Sam wasn’t saying anything, just watching the yard and Dean, through sidelong glances, as if afraid that someone would catch him watching and come down hard. Dean didn’t like Sam being like this, afraid and anxious, and at any second ready to bolt.

If they were anywhere else but where they were, he would have figured that Sam was moping, and sometimes the best thing to do was to leave that alone. At least for a while. In the past, Dean would wait, and then start in on a conversation as if he fully expected Sam to join in. And, eventually, Sam would. Only this Sam was on meds, and was surrounded by orderlies and mental patients. Dean didn’t want to just let Sam mope himself into more Treatment. The orderlies especially were being attentive, so Dean had to pick his words carefully.

He stood up, the wind whisking around the collar of his jacket and down his neck. He dropped his small handful of rocks in the bucket and tugged at his collar, making it stand up.

“I think these are the same rocks from before,” he said. Keeping it casual.

Sam held the bucket in both hands, letting the bucket rest against his thighs. He looked down, his hair falling in his eyes, and he stayed that way so long he seemed to be praying. His mouth was drawn together in a wobbly line. Dean was about to reach out and make sure he’d not zoned out when Sam looked up. His eyes were wet like he wanted to cry but wasn’t going to let himself; crying got you noticed, and that was bad.

Dean watched him take a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure you’re right,” Sam said, his voice toneless. But his eyes held Dean’s as if waiting for a signal, some clue. He wanted something from Dean, maybe even needed it.

Dean was about to answer, to say something about the stones, or the orderlies and their plots to enslave the patients when Sam’s whole body jerked forward. Towards Dean. He was only inches away now, so that whatever he said would be only for Dean’s ears. He felt Sam’s indrawn breath, the skin on his neck prickling.

“I wasn’t sure,” said Sam, softly, very softly, looking at the ground, though Dean could see the shine in his eyes, “if you still wanted me to go with you. So I took my meds, but-if you want me to, I’ll stop. I wasn’t sure, but you keep being nice to me. If you still want me-to go with you, I will.”

Dean felt his eyebrows go up as he got it. Sam was remembering what Dean had said, about leaving Sam behind, and now he needed to be told that that wouldn’t happen. Ever. It sliced through his heart that Sam had believed him, even for a minute, and he stepped in closer, circling Sam’s arm with his fingers, tucking his head towards the hollow of Sam’s neck, so only Sam could hear. He thought about Sam saying, I love you, Dean, only to get Dean’s hollow reply.

“I want you,” Dean said, letting the words mean what they would. “I want you to come with me, okay?” He was close enough to feel the heat from Sam’s skin and he let himself press his mouth close, feeling the rapid pulse of Sam’s heartbeat. Kissed the spot under Sam’s ear, standing right there on the lawn, Sam’s sweat and salt sparking beneath his tongue in that quick second. “I want to get you out of here, so I can have you to myself and we’ll always be together.”

He felt Sam leaning now, leaning into the kiss, saw his eyes closing, and whether what he was saying was a lie or the truth, Sam believed it, needed it, just what Dean was giving him.

“I want us out of here so no one can ever take you from me again. So yeah, stop taking the pills, okay? Half and half and half. Just like before.”

Sam dipped his head now, his bangs falling like a curtain. His shoulders rose and fell as his whole body shuddered and now he was crying. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to hide it from Dean. Fucking meds, messing Sam up, though Dean knew it was his fault, the whole thing, otherwise Sam would never have been in the spot where he ever thought that Dean didn’t-

“Everything alright here?”

Dean looked up. It was Greer, and a little behind him were two other orderlies, standing by in case Sam went off. Dean shifted his body so that he was blocking Sam from their view, and pointed to Sam’s bucket, a useless distraction.

“He’s just tired,” said Dean. “I guess they changed his meds, or something, but he’s just tired.”

And in his mind he was thinking that if they tried to take Sam away, now, this time, that he would fucking kill them. He would take them down, starting with Greer, with his bare hands, even though he knew that in the quick second following that, the other orderlies would have him, and he’d lose Sam anyway. His eyes felt hot as he made himself not tighten up, keeping his hands loose, not fists. Not baring his teeth, not rising on his toes. Not ready. He was outmanned and outgunned, and Sam was the prize he was not willing to risk. He was shaking hard enough though, he knew Greer saw it, and then Sam stepped up, coming in front of Dean. His bucket banged the side of Dean’s leg, the cold, hard metal, waking him up.

Dean watched Sam lift his head and push his shoulders back. It was an effort for him, and it happened too fast for Dean to know what Sam was thinking, only that Sam was putting himself in the line of fire.

“He worries,” said Sam, looking at the orderlies, at Greer, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Like a mother hen.” He curved his mouth in a pout, and actually seemed to glare, and Dean realized what he was doing. In spite of the meds and his own confusion, Sam was rising into the moment, putting himself aside so he could say something to the orderlies to make them back off so that Dean wouldn’t have to kill them. Or whatever it was that Sam thought Dean had been about to do. Dean had to help him.

“So you guys spread the rocks around at night or what?” Dean gestured to the green lawn, and the white fence all around it. “I mean, they don’t just walk in here at night, right? But there’s always more of them.”

Greer smiled, the first, honest smile Dean had seen on him, wide, almost laughing. “Looks like you’re getting better, Dean Doe,” he said. Then he nodded, and walked away, waving the orderlies to go with him.

Dean turned to look at Sam, who was gazing at him with quiet, watchful eyes. Waiting to see if Dean needed anything else, any more rescuing. Dean tipped his head down, and rubbed his eyes, scrubbed at them, and swallowed the thickness in his throat. In spite of everything, Sam had come back to him, and trusted him and saved him from himself, and if that wasn’t love, Dean didn’t know what was.

*

At lunch, Sam took half his pills and spit the other half into his napkin, which he handed to Dean to get rid of. He’d never seen anyone get patted down, but it would probably be a disaster if someone took it in their heads to search him, and then found the pills. Dean was better at this sort of slight of hand thing, and was such a good patient that he wasn’t being watched by everyone.

It would feel better when the meds were out of his system again, but the best part was that Dean didn’t seem to be mad at him and had said yes. Yes, that he wanted Sam, yes, he wanted Sam for himself, out of the hospital. Sam had messed up by taking his pills that morning, but Dean hadn’t yelled, though it had taken Sam most of work therapy to screw up his courage to ask whether Dean still wanted him. And Dean did, he’d said so. Sam ate his lunch, pea soup and cauliflower with pale, pretend orange cheese laced over the top, thinking that there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do now, now that he had Dean back. His Dean.

Who was looking at him now, with that look in his eyes. That look with the concern and the caring behind those sparkles that only wanted to joke around and make Sam laugh. It was easier for Dean to do that, and how hard it must have been for Dean to say yes to Sam, like he had. Without covering it up or pretending it had been something else he’d meant to say. That made Sam feel warm inside, all over, like a blanket tumbling over and over in a dryer, comfortable and easy and soothing.

That’s the way Dean looked now, like there was nothing better that he wanted to do than sit there, with his head tilted to one side, a little dimple curving at the corner of his mouth, watching Sam. Making sure Sam ate, making plans in his head to get him and Sam out of there so they could be together always. Sam knew that the meds made him simple, made him think in little chunks, so understanding that kind of bigger picture was a ways away. But he remember how he felt being off the meds, how he could think and talk and laugh. And how Dean wanted that for him. And that was love, even if Dean hadn’t actually said the words.

He struggled to think of something to say, though his thoughts at the moment were swimming through the residue of meds, and he couldn’t. He was thirsty besides, so he drank both of his cartons of milk, and was wondering where he could get some water, when Dean pushed one of his cartons of milk over to Sam.

“Drink it,” said Dean. “I know you’re thirsty, we’ll make sure we stop at a water fountain.”

Dean looked like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so Sam took the milk and drank it. Then he looked at Dean’s tray, where Dean had hardly eaten anything because he was worried. Sam didn’t want him to be. At least, not so much that he wouldn’t eat.

“I’m going to be okay, Dean,” he said. “We’re going to be okay.” He wanted to reach out to pat Dean’s hand where it was clenching his spoon just a little too tightly. But he didn’t. Orderlies were watching and Dean didn’t like it like that, all showy, showing off, touching with people watching. He liked it quiet and private. In the dark. Sam closed his eyes, remembering.

“Sam?”

Sam opened his eyes, felt himself smile, liking the way his name sounded, the way it felt, when Dean said it. But he didn’t like Dean’s brow all crinkled up with worry

“I’m good,” he said. Then to distract Dean, he asked, “How many days till we-you know.”

“Two, maybe three,” Dean said, understanding him. “I’ll help you keep track, okay? Half and half and half.”

Sam nodded, and followed Dean as he got up and took his tray to the counter. Dean’s tray was mostly full, and Sam, as much as he’d tried, couldn’t eat all his cauliflower. As he dumped the remains in the trash, he realized how long it’d been since he’d worried about getting in trouble for not finishing all of his food. It was much nicer to eat what you wanted and not think about the rules. Because around here, Dean wrote the rules, him and Dean together. Only nobody knew it, and by the time they found out, Sam and Dean would be long gone. He walked next to Dean down the hallway, smiling. Saw Dean looking at him, and tipped his head, still smiling, so that Dean would know everything was alright. Because it was.

*

It took four days. Dean kept a mental count in his head; four days. On the evening of day two, Sam had started getting the shakes, and Dean found out that he’d not done the half and half and half, but that he’d just stopped taking the pills altogether at suppertime. He’d made Sam drink a lot of water, and held his head while he puked in the toilet, and then, pressed against the cold, tile wall, pulled Sam to him, between his legs, petting Sam all over. Sam had been sweaty and hot, his hair sticking to his face, cotton shirt sticking to his neck and arms, heat banking off him everywhere. Dean had been two seconds away from banging on the door to get them to take Sam to the infirmary. Then Sam had burped, right in Dean’s face, a horrible, vomit burp that smelled like medicine. And then he sagged against Dean like a wet rag, all wrung out, soaking with sweat, but relaxed.

“Fuck,” said Sam, muffled against Dean’s chest. “Fuck.”

Fuck was right. Dean had to consider whether to get Sam to take his pills in the morning, and keep tapering off, or whether he should just keep going cold turkey. If Sam throwing up was the worst it could get, then they would be okay. Otherwise, Sam would really end up in the infirmary which, as Dean recalled, wasn’t really equipped for more than sprains or splinters. And there would be doctors, standing over him, evaluating him and testing him. They’d find out about the meds.

“Why’d you do that, Sam?” He stroked Sam’s neck to show he wasn’t mad.

“I had to hurry,” said Sam, simply. “I didn’t want you to leave without me.”

This wrenched at Dean’s heart, but he couldn’t let Sam know. “I won’t go anywhere without you, you get me?” He bent to kiss the top of Sam’s damp head, tasting hair and sweat and medicine. “Ever.”

Sam pushed into Dean’s body, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, seeming to feel at home between his legs, even with the floor being awfully cold and the bathroom smelling like vomit. There was some puke on the floor too, he’d need to clean that up. But first, Sam.

“Bath?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” said Sam. Of course he wouldn’t say no, but even if it was late, and the lights were going to go out soon, he was all gunked up with sweat, and who was Dean to leave him like that if he could help it?

He got them to their feet. Sam was a little shaky, but cooler under Dean’s hand when he ran it along Sam’s forehead, brushing the sticky hair aside. “But brush your teeth first, I ain’t kissing you with vomit teeth.”

This only made Sam smile, tired but smiling. Getting to trust Dean again. Reaching for the washcloth, which only gave him an excuse to lean into Dean.

Dean pulled Sam’s face in his hands and gave him a small kiss anyway.

*

It took two more days for Sam to stop sweating and feeling like he was shaking himself apart from the inside, but that was okay. They were off the meds, finally.

*

The sound of the dryers churned loud in Dean’s ears, and there was something clunking in one of the washers that was starting to give him a headache. The heat didn’t help either. Outside, it had stopped raining for once and the sun was coming in through the windows like it was the first day of summer, and if there was an a/c somewhere in the hospital, it had stopped working. He was sweating huge circles under his armpits, and so was Sam.

But he kept folding towels and tried not to take too many water breaks because Neland was marching around like a diva, waving his hands, using the clipboard as a baton. And he was yelling at Randy, which was fine with Dean, because if anyone needed yelling at, it was Randy. Sam had told him about how Neland was pretty sure most of the guys were faking it so they could have cushy little lives while Neland had to work hard. It had been fun to laugh about it under the covers with Sam, but being in the same room with Neland in a mood was not.

Neland came over to them, clipboard in one fist and Randy’s shirt, still on Randy, in the other. He shoved Randy at them like he was their fault, his and Sam’s. Randy stumbled, his little mouth screwing up for a good rant. Dean watched Neland take a very deep breath, like he was maintaining control with his very last nerve and that wasn’t going to last him very long.

“Randy says,” said Neland, enunciating each word with a click as though he were biting through tin foil. “Randy says he’s pretty sure that manning the phone is giving him cysts on his brain. I told him it wasn’t ever going to do that and then he started to cry.”

Dean tried not to smile, and felt Sam beside him trying to do the same.

“I need one of you to watch the phone while the orderly is on his supper break,” said Neland, “because I can’t hear it over the fucking racket.”

Neland took his job very seriously, that was clear. If the phone rang, and Neland wasn’t nearby, and if there was an emergency where Neland might turn out to be important, then he needed to get that call. Beside him, Sam dipped his head and sniggered into his hand, and hopefully Neland wouldn’t see it. Neland wasn’t a bad guy, just frustrated in his dreams of, apparently, being a maitre de of a laundry room at a swank hotel somewhere.

“Look,” said Neland when neither he nor Sam raised their hand to volunteer. “Just ten minutes each, you can rotate out having to be with Randy, okay?”

Randy looked at Sam with swimmy, hopeful eyes. There was no way Dean wanted Sam to be stuck with Randy at all, let alone for ten minutes, nor did he want the job himself. They weren’t getting paid, so what did Neland expect them to do?

He crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression must have said something like so what, because Neland glared at Randy and gave him a small shake. Randy, although he was quivering like a scared rabbit, was smiling with all the attention. Dean wanted to smack him.

“I can get you treats,” said Neland.

“What kind of treats?” asked Dean. It was kind of funny, Neland being in this position, taking all this time, when all the way across the room the phone could be ringing right now and no one was there to answer it. At the same time he wondered what kind of treats Neland was talking about and where said treats had been all this time.

“Iced brownie or ice cream. Chocolate or vanilla, your pick.”

Dean felt Sam move against him on the words ice cream, and actually got stabbed in the side at the word chocolate, so Dean knew the answer.

“Ice cream,” he said, tipping up his chin. “Piles of it. And chocolate. All chocolate.”

“Fine,” said Neland, then he stuck his thumb back in the direction of the phone. “Sam, you go. And here.”

He shoved Randy at Dean, and walked off with his clipboard, taking Sam with him to show him the phone. He even mimed how to pick it up and talk into it, and Sam nodded, paying close attention. Then Neland left Sam there and made his circuit, his very important circuit, of the laundry room.

Randy smiled at Dean, his mouth wet, and it wasn’t that Randy smelled, he just looked like he did. Dean wanted to back up, but he didn’t. He jerked his chin at Randy to say hello, and turned back to folding towels. He looked over to check on Sam, who was standing by the phone with a funny little smile on his face. And it was funny, Sam, so tall, standing guard over the phone that barely came to his chest. He smiled at Dean, all the way across the laundry room, looking as confident as anything with his new task.

Randy was right at his elbow, talking, distracting him from Sam. “Dr. Logan says that Sam is never going to try and take my pants down, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?” asked Dean. He thought about Sam and the feeling that had come over him when Sam’s mouth had covered his cock, sucking, all that moisture and heat, and his stomach shivered. He had what Randy wanted; he had more than Randy would ever have. He had Sam. Even though, yeah-damnit.

“I might want him to, I might really want him to,” Randy added, practically panting with it. “But he’s not going to.” He poked at the towel Dean was now folding, messing it up so that Dean had to start all over again. “No matter how much I want him to, even if I want it really, really bad.”

“Cold day in hell, Randy,” said Dean. He looked over at Sam and shook his head, knowing that Sam understood what Randy was yammering about. He didn’t quite have the heart, or the guts, to be frank, to explain to Randy just exactly who Sam was doing that to. His stomach did a pleasant roll as he thought of this, and if he was flushed, well, the heat of the laundry room was there to explain it.

“I mean, he’s got such big hands, and-”

Dean took the liberty of giving Randy a good jab with an elbow to the ribs. “Just fold, Randy, ‘cause we’re not talking about it anymore.”

“Oh,” said Randy. He looked up at Dean, eyes going a little wide as if suddenly realizing who he was with. “Okay.” Randy started folding, and it was as easy as that. Randy just wanted to someone to boss him around, was all. Well, he was in the right place. Dean could boss him around all day.

*

After ten minutes, they changed places, with Sam and Randy folding towels, and Dean standing by the phone. It was ridiculous, really, because Dean realized he couldn’t remember the phone ever ringing in the laundry room. Okay, maybe it had once or twice, but Neland had heard it then just fine. It must make him feel important having someone on the phones, like they were a call center, and the hub of everything that mattered. Which might be true, if the hospital supplied all the clean towels for every hotel in Peoria. Pretty important stuff.

Dean knew he was distracting himself from his real worry, his eyes on Sam’s dark head as he bent over his quota of towels, Randy, of all people, at his side. Randy wasn’t touching Sam, or standing too close, but he was jabbering away, as though Sam were his oldest friend, his closest confidant. Dean could see that he was waving his hands about, telling some riveting story, and it took Dean a minute, but he realized that Randy was flirting with Sam. Actually putting himself out there to be charming and witty, so that Sam would like him enough so that Randy might actually get some pants-down action later.

When Sam looked over at Dean to roll his eyes, exaggerated, Dean knew he was alright, and it was okay not to worry for a bit. Dean could just relax and hang out by the phone, so he did. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. He let his eyes roam over the laundry room, seeing details he’d never noticed before, how worn the floor was, and how the dust from the dryers had built up in the corners of the windows. How the edges of the fake wood folding tables had been patched with clear tape. How the wire baskets that the patients used to cart wet towels from washer to dryer wobbled. This was Neland’s little fiefdom, alight, but Dean didn’t envy him, not one bit.

Neland came over to wash his hands at the sink near Dean and the open doorway. Dean stood with his back to the door, letting the cool hallway air wash over him.

“Any calls?” asked Neland as he dried his hands on a clean towel.

“Nope,” said Dean. Neland knew this, obviously, or Dean would have called him over.

Then Neland reached beneath the sink for a little bottle of lotion, which he put on his hands, twisting them over and over like a fussy nun. When he was finished, he put the bottle back and marched off, clipboard in hand, but Dean found himself looking at the bottle.

It was the plain, unscented, generic lotion that was always below the sink. And it took Dean a minute to realize what he was thinking, or that he’d come to this decision long before he’d been standing by the phone. Him and Sam, it was practically a done deal. Sam had stopped taking his pills, they both were clean, and when he left the hospital, Sam was going with him. Dean didn’t even question that. But there were little pockets of darkness when Sam looked at him, memories of something he’d asked for, and maybe he’d forgotten he’d asked for it, but it might make the difference when it actually came time. Sam needed complete confidence so he wouldn’t hesitate when it came time to step out with Dean under a very big sky. And Dean needed to give it to him.

Dean moved away from the phone to wash his hands. Keeping it casual, he dried his hands on the towel and then bent under the sink to grab the bottle. The only place to put it was beneath the waistband of his underwear, and luckily it wasn’t a big bottle, or the elastic wouldn’t have held it and his shirt wouldn’t have covered the bulge.

When he turned around, Neland was there, glowering.

“What are you doing? Did the phone ring?”

“Just washing my hands, boss,” Dean said, showing Neland his clean palms.

Just then, Neland’s eyes snapped to a point over Dean’s shoulders at the orderly who’d just come in, bringing the crisp smell of the corridor into the warm fug of the laundry room.

“Jesus, Edgerton,” said Neland, his voice cracking with importance. “Do you think this place runs itself?”

Dean moved away, back to the folding tables where Sam and Randy were going at it, a race, apparently, to see who could fold more towels. He stood there a moment, watching. Trust Sam to be nice like that, making friends with a loser, just because. Just like he’d been his whole life, like his old self. Which meant that Sam was ready. Dean couldn’t put it off any longer, them making a break for it. But first, Sam. Dean needed to give Sam what Sam wanted, and it was all for Sam and not a delay, no, not at all.

He came up behind Sam and tapped him gently on the shoulder. Sam turned, bangs plastered against his forehead with sweat, but smiling, his eyes lighting up as he saw Dean.

Between them, Randy looked at both of them, pouting, looking like he was ready to start stomping his feet and holding his breath, and all because he didn’t have Sam’s full and undivided attention.

Dean couldn’t help it. He looked down at Randy and moved a little closer to Sam, marking his territory without laying a finger on Sam. It was stupid, he had more than this stupid pathetic inmate in a state-run mental institution, in comparison he had everything. He had a life waiting for him, he had Sam. But, still. It needed being said. And Dean got to say it. Just this once.

“Jealous much?” he asked. Smirking. Sam shook his head, trying not to smile because he, of course, disapproved of this kind of thing, Sam-I-Am, who was kind to all, the meek and the small, and didn’t like meanness, no, not at all.

Randy’s pout grew huge, but the chime for supper rang and Neland came to take Randy away, and Dean didn’t have to deal with it. Neither did Sam.

As they got in line in the nicely cool hallway, Randy was in line ahead of them, talking to another patient like his fit over Sam had never been. Sam bumped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder as they waited for the line to get moving.

“You’re mean,” he said. “Mean.”

“I know,” said Dean. “But that’s how you like me.”

The line started moving, and a cool breeze wafted over them as they moved away from the laundry room.

“Chocolate ice cream,” said Sam. And Dean knew he didn’t really mind about Randy, which was good because Randy was just a freak.

“Yeah,” said Dean. He checked the bottle of lotion beneath his waistband, touching the side of it with his fingers, and took a deep breath. It was going to be okay. All of it.

Chapter 20 cont.

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post